Saturday, August 31, 2013
I should mention though that I have curtains on my windows.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
It was tacky, but knowingly so - this beautiful and celebratory embrace of all that constitutes life in America in the early 21st Century. You had her coming out in some demented mouseketeer get-up, a defiant fuck you to her Disney past. She continued this theme later in the performance when she started dancing with Robin Thicke, the mouse swimsuit stripped off, but a large white foam finger very reminiscent of Mickey Mouse’s large gloved white hands now on her person, a hand she groped both Thicke and herself with. It was wonderful. Also wonderful was the fact that she put to rest the critique put forth by liberals with too much time on their hands that the song, “Blurred Lines,” was a rape anthem. You had Miley Cyrus take control of the song from Thicke, that the song was not about an intoxicated woman that a guy could take advantage of (that it never was), but that instead you saw it for what it was, this fun pop song about people getting loose, getting messy, and that not being a problem.
Miley owned that stage and did her thing and I love the fact that the whole crowd at Barclays Center and that the whole Internet watching the thing online in clips and gifs were all aghast, horrified at this woman not seeming to care what society or conventions dictate as appropriate behavior for a young woman. Get it, girl.
These thoughts somehow bled into thoughts of Chris Crocker, probably because I watched his YouTube commentary video of the Miley performance. I lay awake, unable to sleep, thinking about how much I love Chris Crocker. His emotional exhbiitionism is something I can relate so much to. I have this diary, which is a smaller scale version of his video exhibitionism through YouTube and Vine. I think there is something so admirable in how he puts himself out there tirelessly.
These thoughts circled around and around, spiraling up toward some very broad insights about what life is about and what America is about, and it all seemed very profound to me at the time. I was going to write them down, but I was already in bed and I was already only going to get a couple of hours of sleep. And so I masturbated instead (really though, it might have been the same thing), knowing it would help me fall asleep.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
I drank more beers there. Though I was pretty far gone during this show, I do remember being against the stage and pressing my face into Hunx's crotch. After the show, when he walked past me uttering some compliment, I began to chat with him. He told me some other compliments. I told him some. I asked him to make out with me. I gave him a giant hug. I told him about how I saw him play a show ten years ago and kissed him then. I probably seemed batshit crazy. I might have been.
Andy and I walked to Metropolitan and I gushed the entire way there about my brief interaction with Hunx and how sexy I think he is. I only stayed at Metro for a short while, drank half a beer before leaving to go home, drinking all day having taken its toll on my body, on my mind.
My knees hurt so much from that show last night. The stage is just a little more than knee high at Death by Audio and so I kept on getting pressed against the stage by the excited Hunx fans, kept on collapsing over the stage, my knees banging against this stage for the whole show.
I want to find a stream of the VMAs to watch online and order a burrito and talk about life with you.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
It's a full moon. On my way home from school, doing a roundabout loop back from Dumbo, on the L train back from Broadway Junction, I was on the train with a lot of rowdy young, tattooed teens. They made me nervous. They were young and very impressed with their own badassness. I got off the train and walked past all my neighbors, out on their stoops like they are every night, smoking cigarettes, seemingly without end, drinking from beers discreetly, sitting in lawn chairs partially blocking the narrow sidewalk, talking into the night, their voices, the chatter, hugs, a form of connection, in this vast, terrifying world.
I bought a roast beef sandwich from the deli. A cop pushed his way past me while I was waiting in line. It was a little forceful, his push, but I am not really going to call out a police officer for bumping into me. You know?
School is going really well. It is keeping me very busy. I have had no real social life as of late. I go to work and go to school and do some homework and get a couple hours of sleep and then repeat it again and again. I have hung out with Jacob a bit the last week. It has been nice. Sometimes though I look at him and see the person I was so in love with when I was with him. Sometimes I hold that look, enjoy that feeling, dangerous though it may be. Other times, I find something else to look at, the piles of chairs all awkwardly stacked in one corner of a restaurant, a poorly utilized space.
Last week, I was a mess, felt like the person prone to disaster and reckless decisions that I was in my early twenties. It's nice to be sitting here and listening to Washed Out while drinking wine and not be overwhelmed with a sense of shame from recent behavior. You know?
And if you don't like feeling shame then don't do things that will make you shameful. Simple advice that I am learning to follow more and more as I get older in this world and both do less shameful things and as I also broaden more and more my conception of what is not shameful - at some point, in my eighties I hope, it will encompass all, that there will be no such thing as shame - I will lob shit in the direction of people I find contemptible, I will jerk off with less restriction than I do now, wherever, whenever, and I will shout obscene invective at stationary objects.
But as is, I was raised Catholic. And so I like atoning, these rituals of cleansing. I need to dirty myself, so I can feel shame every now and then, can go through these rituals, confess to you here, to you in that confessional booth, can say what I am going to do to change, how many Hail Marys and Our Fathers I will say, and I will leave feeling clean, a weight lifted off of me. It's this push and pull. It's the slap; I like feeling something in bed. I need to be roughed up sometimes, feel the physical, the spiritual force of things. I cross myself and head toward bed.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
I came home, I ate a burrito, I smoked some weed, and then Justin and I had a very fun night together.
Monday, August 12, 2013
There is homework to do. The guy who makes sandwiches at my local deli seems like he hates me less and less each time I go there. Life is absolutely absurd, by the way. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though maybe have it be just a little less absurd if it meant I still had my phone.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
It was easy, was mostly fun. There was that thrill that is always there in these cases, the erotics of money, of power, of desire, of these things intersecting. He came and I pulled out. I was going to jerk myself off but when I saw the condom on my dick, I knew I could not just rip it off and toss it to the ground. It was totally covered in shit. I went into the bathroom to take it off, gently pulled it off, trying not to get this person’s shit on my fingers, tried not to gag while doing so.
I took a shower to rinse myself off. He had really nice plush towels. We talked about the paintings on his walls as I got dressed. He had a nice collection of art. We talked about Brooklyn, about rich people, about what New York is becoming.
I left his apartment, walked to the subway and I continued this conversation about New York with myself. I thought about how great and how not great this city is, thought about how I always seem to manage though, thought about how the house might not always win, or how maybe they do but that they let me win enough for it to not feel that way.
At home, I ordered a burrito, drank some Modelos, and listened to the Robin Thicke album on repeat for hours while I spent a Friday night in, happily doing homework, thinking about this city, about life, about human bodies.
Monday, August 5, 2013
I heard someone call me faggot on Saturday night in the East Village as I was walking from one party where I had done a bit of coke and talked to cute boys to another house in the East Village where I was planning to do some Adderall.
"What did you say?" I flew back around and got in this guy's face and was ready to kill him. There is a lot of anger in me. I didn't stand up for myself enough in elementary school, enough in middle school, enough in high school, enough in earlier parts of my life. There were too many moments in my life where I allowed people to call me a faggot, to be hateful, to marginalize me, to diminish me. Those days are over and I am taking that bottled anger of never saying anything in those moments and putting them into these moments, particularly when I am a bit drunk and a little high and feeling alive and happy.
His friends apologized for him and we eventually went on our way, on to do some Adderall and talk about boys, pop music, and apartments, to be (in a word) faggots. I danced throughout the night in Brooklyn, talked to people, marveled at the beauty of certain people, imagined what it would be to have sex with them, tried to plot out the necessary steps in my mind that would allow that to happen, what charming thing I would need to say, and then I danced some more, saying things and not saying things. Endless dancing. We left as the cops came in to break up the party. The sun was coming up.
I slept most of the day yesterday or spent it hungover either in bed or on my couch looking at various social media platforms on my phone, knowing that there was a sunny world outside, a world encompassing beaches, parks, pools, and barbecues. I ordered a burrito and a taco and continued to look at my phone, knowing that all of those places lacked something as comfortable as the couch I was then reclined on.
Last evening, a bit more alive after eating and resting all day, I went over to the place Jacob is staying at and hung out with him. There is an amazing view from the apartment he is house-sitting at. It's up on the 17th or 18th floor and it has sweeping views of Manhattan. We drank wine, watched the sun throw light in cool ways across brick buildings until the sun and the light it cast against buildings both eventually faded, until we had to put on a lamp. We watched twerking videos. We watched Xtube videos. I sucked his dick, kissed his body. It felt really nice, was a release I needed. The combination of work and school occupying pretty much all of my time leaves little time for the pursuit of boys, for the pursuit of skin, of people to touch and feel things with.
I wandered through North Chelsea afterward, taking photos of 7-11s. I came home and I wrote a country song that I am performing tonight for a class. Belle and Sebastian is blasting on my stereo, one particular song on repeat, "The Boy With the Arab Strap," and I don't know what anything means, don't know if it does any good to even pose the question asking what this life or this interaction or this comment means, that I am learning it is often more worthwhile to just drink some coffee (or wine, depending on the time of day), blast that song you like, and put one foot in front of the other, to live your fucking life.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
I have listened to Fleetwood Mac countless times and yet somehow had never heard "Sugar Daddy." I had surely heard it since I have played the album that it's on many, many times. Somehow though the song never hit me, never registered as the beautiful thing that it is. I had never heard it.
Now, I have.
The song is penned by Christine McVie and she sings the vocals on it as well. This is probably how I came to overlook this song for so many years. In Fleetwood Mac's catalog of songs, I had mainly been drawn to the songs in which Stevie Nicks sings the vocals, enchanted like so many other people by the spell that Stevie Nicks is able to cast through her songs. But this song is so fantastic and the stuff that McVie does with her voice may be really subtle, but when you take the time to listen to what she is doing, there is so much emotion that she is pouring out into the world through this song, so much vulnerability on display.
A hard part of me softens and drips toward the floor when she sings, "All that I want is someone to take care of me. I'm not asking for much, just a little sympathy."
The song works so perfectly and has had me under its spells for the last two days. I played it on repeat the whole time I was commuting around the city yesterday, played it as I was going to work, as I was going to school, as I was traveling home on that journey back from school late at night that always takes way too long.
And, yes, I can relate to the song in its distinction between the man that gives you money and the man that gives you love, but that theme of the song barely even registers for me. What I hear instead is how in love she is with the person who gives her loving: "Cause I've got you baby, and you give me all the love I need. Yes, you give me all the love I need."
I miss that. I miss feeling that way, having someone to feel that way about, having someone give you all the love you need, being able to say that, being satisfied and full and feeling like you have someone in this world. I started crying on the train home last night listening to this song, but in the best way possible. I was overcome with emotion, which is a fantastic thing - you couldn't ask for more than that. Sure, yes, you could ask for those emotions to be the ones in which you are loved and love, but even the emotions where you feel melancholy while longing for such a state are great things - proof that you are alive still, that you are experiencing a heightened form of emotional awareness, that you are actively present in this world.
The song ends and I play it right back again. I do this until I get to my destination. I am trying to get somewhere, to get places. The music helps.