My phone has a hangover, but at least appears to be working now. Last night, it was raging drunk, me having not properly put the cap on a bottle of whiskey I was carrying in my bag, the whiskey pouring all over my bag and its contents while I was sitting in the steam room and the pool at a hotel in Times Square with some friends. Eventually we were kicked out, not being guests of the hotel and all, and it was then that I realized I had killed my phone, the thing, expensive toy, not working at all. It is working now; I, in some ways, am also.
Diego came over to my house last night. I met him at the subway and I saw him in a way I haven't in a while, saw him. We were sitting on my bed, drinking Coors Light, listening to Al Green, sounds of the Olympics coming through that noise from the living room, Niki out there watching tiny girls throw themselves around on balance beams. We were having a lovely conversation, both talking about our lives as of late, the thoughts in our heads, and feelings of anxiety and malaise. He has recently cut off his very distinctive hair and without it I see his face more, see the person, fragile and cute thing, revealed in facial expressions, bright smiles, cute eyes. And I don't know what he was talking about when I interrupted him, saying that sometimes I forget how much I appreciate people. I apologized for not having appreciated him recently, telling him that I do a great deal.
I realized so many things while he was over here last night and made lots of resolutions that I am really going to try to hold to. He eventually passed out in my bed and I turned out the lights and curled up against him, feeling sane, tethered to this world in a way I haven't felt lately. He is so fucking beautiful and it is so absurd how one can forget some things while distracted by others, that, yes, okay, so some people don't want you, but you can't sweat those things, have to say fuck it, to drop those concerns, and work toward building connections with the people that do, not forgoing those people just because they are thought of as a given. And before he passed out, we talked about this a bit, talked about human relationships and what they mean and what it means to end something, about the past and continuing those ties. This was all broad talk of course, encapsulating relationships with fathers, with lovers, would-be lovers, and friends. We talked about sincerity and good intentions, him mentioning how the Dalia Llama said that that was all you needed to do, to have those things in your dealings with people.
I am about to head down to Chinatown and to catch a bus there for DC. I didn't wake up early enough to catch the early morning ones, will get there after the museums have closed, won't be able to touch the moon rock in the lobby of the Air and Space Museum, won't be able to wander through the National Gallery, and that is okay. I will bring a book with me and will get lots of reading done and surely will think more about these things, about this subject of life. A bus ride always bring forth such thoughts anyways, heading toward the town I grew up near, riding down roads driven down so many times to the houses of aunts, uncles, and concerts, life, its present forms and recalled ghosts of earlier forms colliding, all being evoked somehow with the speed, the 70 some miles an hour, and the blurred roadside scenery, its blurriness somehow causing other things in your mind to blur, to cross subjects and memories with a speed equal to those spinning wheels of the bus.
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