Saturday, September 15, 2007

I wandered the Natural History Museum by myself yesterday, there for an hour depressed that my friends were nowhere to be found, feeling lonely and depressed, the massive whale, normally able to thrill me so much, did little to mitigate the self-pitying mood. I decided to walk to MoMA. On the way there, there was an injured horse on 59th Street, looking terrible and in pain, and that was unbearable to look at, was almost the thing that pushed me over the edge. My life and scenes from Anna Karenina were starting to blur. I felt like Vronsky at the races, everything falling apart.

At MoMA, in the fairly terrible "What is Painting?" show, there was one very pleasurable thing, a Philip Pearlstein painting. I love Pealstein's work so much. His figurative paintings of middle-aged naked bodies are so sad and beautiful, so real in a way that many other things seem to not be. I stood in front of that painting for a very long time, pondering the two naked bodies, both female, and thought about this flesh we carry, that carries us, and the thing inside it pondering its container. Pearlstein's bedroom scenes of ennui grow on me more and more each time I see them.

Tonight, I had some man come over to my house. He spit on me, gagged me with his cock, called me names, slapped me, and in those moments, I felt most good, most happy, was able to not think about the things I have been thinking about for the past couple of days. There is no time to feel self-pity with a dick down your throat, making you gag, tears starting to well up in your eyes. There is only that thing, that moment you are currently in, no past, no future, just this now, this intense physical feeling. It felt so great then. But it ended, I was drenched in semen, literally dripping it from my hair, and this man reminded me that we had had sex a couple of years ago, and then we were back. The present was no longer just that; it had associations of the past with the recollection of the encounter with this man before; and there were thoughts to the future, to the semen all over everything I had just washed, to it all over my self and to how I needed to take a shower to be clean of it, thoughts to a future self, a clean one.

No comments:

Post a Comment