american nights

For the first time since that terrible New Year's Eve of a couple years ago, I got a psychic reading, this time at the Marc Jacobs Arabian Nights party in the Rainbow Room, a weird setting, loud and distracting, to get a tarot card reading in, but also for that reason, for having to silence that out, to focus my attention and lean in close to hear, a good setting. Plus there was the night skyline of Manhattan to look out onto as this reading was being done. She told me things that I found to be true, or things just vague enough to have broad applications to my life, telling me that there had been changes in the past three months in a close relationship, that I am thinking about moving to somewhere closer to nature (or to live with someone closer to nature, she said), that I am going to get a new job or move after the new year, that I am nearing the end of a nine year cycle (as I will turn 27 in June), and that until that point, for the next six months, I am going to be processing a lot of things and cleaning my emotional house, and that after that point, I am going to fall in love. I enjoyed this reading a lot. There had already been some whiskeys consumed by this point, allowing me to enjoy it even more, to approach it earnestly.

The party was amazing. So much money must have been spent on it. There was the space itself, which must have cost some change, then the full open bar, the buffets, and then all these performers - tarot card readers, sword swallowers, and dancers galore. Everyone was dressed in really amazing, extravagent, and sexy costumes. So many sexy costumes, man oh man. I talked to some store people that I had never talked to and they were really nice. I talked to Adrian and made out with him. I exchanged numbers with this one boy, and who by the time I finally got home had already found me on myspace and written me, and these interactions were nice, were pleasant, and yet were like a lot of my interactions with boys lately, in that they are nice and pleasant, that there are boys that like me and that I exchange numbers with, maybe make out with, but that things never seem to go far beyond that, that I am not giddy enough over these boys to muster the will to hang out with them. But I am thinking about calling some of these boys up that I have met recently and trying to make giddiness.

Later in the evening, Gabriel and I tried to sneak Ben in, which proved quite difficult, but which we did finally succeed in doing, however the process resulted in Gabriel not being allowed back in. So the three of us left there and went to the Kiki and Herb afterparty, were there for a bit, it feeling weird to see all these often seen homos in the swank setting of the National Arts Club. Things seemed more appropriate when the party migrated to Nowhere. I drank more there, hit on more boys, exchanged some bjs with people, and then despite seeming successes with boys went home alone. The last time I slept with a boy, spent the night with one, was weeks ago, was Diego. Right now, I couldn't say what it is that I want, but last night, walking home alone, the thing was to not be walking home alone that I wanted, to not know that I would be sleeping alone.

Last night, after changing out of my nutcracker outfit and getting off work, I went to meet Ben at a house party somewhere on Bleecker street. It was a Jewish party. It was a gay party. There were bottles of booze all over the place, some snacks, and some cute boys, some very cute boys scattered around. Just about every person I talked to made some reference to Jewishness, asked if I was Jewish. The Jew envy I used to have a few years ago would briefly resurface with these questions.

There was this boy in a scarf, always the boys in scarves, that I was attracted to. His name was Eric. Ben, him, and I peed together, squeezing past some religious singing to get into the bathroom. The boy was pee shy. I touched his penis slightly and watched it react, rise a bit. Both Ben and I were hitting on this boy and that made me feel slightly uncomfortable - feelings of competitiveness, insecurity, etc. I started talking to this other boy, Adam, who was very attractive, who shined in his eyes, and who I was having a lovely conversation with before some crazy person stepped between us to start talking to me about spirals. Adam escaped the spiral conversation and I wasn't so lucky, was stuck for a while trying to be polite and listen, meanwhile silently cursing this speaker for ruining the interaction, something sweet and intelligent, that I had been desiring for the past week or so.

I found myself making out with some boy, a yoga instructor, because he wanted to and I thought I needed something that could be got from making out with a stranger, some feeling of desirability. I did so for a bit before I realized it wasn't what I wanted and pulled away from his lips. And there in front of me were Ben and Eric making out, which was a bit of a discouraging sight, though if I were a better human, free of pettiness, envy, and jealousy [cue Joni Mitchell's "All I Want," which addresses this theme perhaps better than any other song], then I would be happy to see my friend happy.

It was time to flee. Yoga instructor was very confused that I was leaving, gave me his card. I wrote my number on some slip of paper found in my bag and gave it to Adam. It was drizzling as I left the party. I tried unsucessfully to read The New Yorker on the train ride home; various predictable strains of thought instead kept on distracting me.

first snowfall

There is an inch, maybe more, of snow on the ground, and the snow continues to fall. It is a beautiful sight, the first snowfall always is, as are normally the second, third, fourth, and fifth ones, but this one is particularly beautiful for its unexpectedness. I had not been paying attention to the weather and was unaware this was to occur and to wake up this morning, look out my window, and see white on roofs, on window ledges, on car roofs, on streets, was such a pleasantly shocking sight.

I haven't been writing here or elsewhere in a long time, haven't been doing so with the same zeal even when I have. I have been going through some changes, am still going through them, and have been unable to write about them because they aren't so much consciously set changes as things that events, time, and perhaps the stars are setting for me, and I am slowly trying to resituate myself in a way that enables happiness and a sense of meaning.

[Redacted]

I am reading Yukio Mishima's Confessions of a Mask right now and it is helping to see some things, to see situations I find myself in and to wonder what ideal situations would be, and also, since ideal situations so rarely occur, how I could find space for happiness in situations that are attainable. The book details the early stages of recognizing homosexuality so well. The main character's experiences and the contours of his frustrated desires are something that I recognize so well. It is always a pleasure to come across experiences that you had forgotten about, the pleasure of watching that tough boy in your gym class for instance, and to come across them written about so intelligently and well! The book, also, is making me excited about reading, and, what I believe its corrolary is when you are really excited about a text, writing.

Though I was just an hour away, that distance was still enough of one, a distance, for me to feel some perspective, to step back and think about the way that I have been living my life in New York, how I would like to be, and the space between those two. I rode the train there in the final hours of daylight, watching the sky slowly change colors over the meadows of New Jersey, over the stretches of decaying industrial infrastructure, over older towns like Newark and Elizabeth. I got a lot of reading done on this train ride, but one of the things I read, one that stands out in my mind and that colored not only this train ride but the trip that followed, was a piece by John Updike about snapshot photography in the stunningly excellent year-end fiction issue of The New Yorker.

This Updike piece looking at the history of snapshots, of how they became "visual trophies," obviously borrows a lot, forthrightly so, from Susan Sontag's On Photography, but it's a book I haven't read in a while, and so all those connections between the desire to capture images and the fear of death were all brought to the surface of my imagination as I looked out on a gorgeous sky and wanted to somehow document it, wanted to have a record that this moment did exist, this moment of overwhelming beauty, but it was the knowledge that this was a sky that would soon be lost, that soon it would be totally dark, that led to the simaltaneous feeling of joy (knowing that I was/am witness to a transitory moment of grace) and sadness (knowing that the moment is transitory, that they all are, that everything is so short-lived).

My mother picked me up from the train station and we rode to her house under a then purple sky. I ate lots of food there, most of it probably not good for me, read some, and watched several movies. During The Simpsons Movie I found myself crying midway through it, terribly upset by Marge's decision to leave Homer, terribly upset for Homer, terribly upset because human beings can do things and push away people they care about.

I had a lot my mind when I sat down to write this. I am distracted though by a terrible discovery.

This is my new job. This is me at my new job with friends:



I really love this job right now and you should stop by on weekends and pose with me and make me love it even more.

Life is good, so good, and it is this despite obstacles to its goodness. I slept with a really sexy boy last night. I kissed a boy in the store today and he gave me his number. I have a new confidence and luck with boys that just keeps snowballing into more luck, and this thing is providing me much happiness, so many new nice interactions. Niki, who, despite two major fights with, I considered a good friend, has proved otherwise this morning, telling me I needed to move out of the apartment because she was pissed off at me that I wasn't here early to help her clean, because I came home at ten am instead of eight am because I had sex again this morning with a boy I am really attracted to (God forbid), though what she was really pissed off about is also too obviously guessed at. It is such stupid bullshit and would make me so mad if I hadn't dealt with stupid bullshit created by this person for years already, and maybe it is time to sever ties for good and move out like she demanded.

But there is this job and boys and friends and life and I am so happy.

There were some events this weekend, on Friday and Saturday, that made me feel a bit pathetic, a bit undesirable. The usual sorts of things - trying to hit on boys and failing. There was one really spectacular failure at Metropolitan on Friday night. And so this is the background, the need, very strong at this point, for some sort of validation. And last night, I sought it and got it.

I went to this slutty party for the MIX festival at Boysroom and encountered quite a few crushes, made out with all of them and more. It was nice to be hit on by lots of cute boys, though displays perhaps a lack of a strong emotional constitution on my own part in deriving satisfaction, gratification, from the attention of others. I told four boys there that I wanted to hang out with them soon, and if I actually went about this could have a full week ahead of me, but probably won't, got the thing I needed at that point, some validation and some sexual release, washed away thoughts of other things, insecurities.

Today, I was going to try to get back to past places and did not do so, am going to again say tomorrow, tomorrow, and maybe one of these tomorrows will hold to these resolutions, objectives, set the night before.

I just sat through a bunch of queer short films and it was a really nice experience. In between the two screening events I went to this evening, I found out that I am going to be the nutcracker still, that I do have a job to look forward to, for a month at least, and that I can postpone for a little while longer worries about employment and making money.

During the second event, which was curated by Butt Magazine, there were so many amazing films shown. My favorite though (unsurprisingly) was "ITSOFOMO" by David Wojnarowicz. Wojnarowicz is one of my heroes and one of my artistic idols and to get to hear him saying things with a white-hot intensity was electrifying. I want to go back and reread Close to the Knives. I wish I had not sold my copy of the book, that I still had it, and could reread it tonight. It was so good, so urgent, so passionate, and it made me want to approach things as intensely, to start making art as if these are end times (and maybe they are) and remove this idea that there is a lifetime to make great art, to do so now. I am so excited in a way I haven't been in a while.

I then fooled around with this angelic looking boy that I am really attracted to. He told me my penis was perfect as he sucked it. I went down on him. And the entire thing was nice, totally physical, and sweet in a way distinct from most other random sexual encounters. I stopped it because I was leaving and because we were on a chair in the back of the lobby area, pretty exposed. Again we said that we should hook up soon - vague intentions and plans to have a threesome with his boyfriend sometime.

Then, excited about all of these things, about the idea of creation and of life, I came here, home. I am satisfied in the right ways and so hungry, so unsatisfied, in the right ways.

I talk a lot about my love of sunshine, but both today and yesterday were so beautiful for their lack of it, for their greys, for their heavy skies pregnant with associations and memories. These are such beautiful fall days, kind of wet, gray skies, leaves on the ground, even better looking when they are wet and on the ground, the colorful leaves still on the trees, and the skies again. I was walking to my bank today in the rain, a light rain, and that sky, how low it looked and how long it stretched made me feel very safe, made me feel like I was 14 and on my way home from school.

I don't know what my future holds and in this weather those thoughts are pushed out by comforting thoughts of my past, of living under similar skies.

There is the need for a job, for income, a very pressing need, and still doubt about whether or not I will get to do this nutcracker job. There is concern about my lack of artisitic productivity. There is concern about this apartment and slight thoughts toward a new one since now Niki is the one eager to move. There are feelings of loneliness and wondering how to go about making connections with people worth doing so with. But there is nothing to do about that right now, or at least not too much that can be done right now, too little time today for such concerns. I am going to take my copy of King Lear and ride the train to go a screening at the MIX festival. There is always tomorrow. I tell myself this every day and keep pushing that tomorrow further and further out though.

How does one recover from a terrible day? My normal method of hanging out with close friends and having fun was prevented as most close friends were occupied doing fun things, going to MoMa or going on dates. My method of dealing with terrible days if often a variation of this practice, of doing something fun to put the root causes of that terrible feeling out of mind, to wash away any negative feelings or thoughts with fun, with happiness (of a sort). I wonder if this is the best practice, if not instead I should be wallowing in that negative feeling, wrestling it and coming to terms with it, dealing with the things that make me feel a certain way and changing things about my life to prevent that terrible feeling from (re)occuring.

I did not try this new approach this evening. Instead, getting home from work, from a terrible temp assignment, I masturbated for about half an hour. That was the first exhale. Then I had a beer. Second exhale. It was shallow breathing though. I then put on some Tina and Ike and had myself a dance party and that felt really good, danced to "Nutbush City Limits" a couple of times. Then I bought some cigarettes, ate some yummy greens and cheese, drank some more beer, and watched a movie. I am feeling better. There is still stuff inside that I think I may need to dance out later, may need to put Tina and Ike back on the stereo.

And the really frustrating thing is I am not even sure why today dug under my skin so bad, why I was ready to cry on the train ride home. I was working in the pantry in the executive offices of a really big development company. Basically I was responsible for stocking various fridges with snacks and sodas for rich developers and cleaning up their messes. Their offices were high up at Columbus Circle, overlooking Central Park. I decided I hated it within ten minutes, felt really low doing this, more so than doing sex work, that this was demeaning work, picking up plates from conference rooms. And boring! So fucking boring! Standing around a kitchen with nothing to do most of the day, trying to look occupied when executives came into the kitchen and looked at me like what I was, the help. It was terrible and made me feel terrible with each slowly, ever so slowly, passing minute.

So on my lunch break, I called up my temp agency to tell them that I couldn't do this job tomorrow, that they had to get someone else to do it, that it was making me feel terrible, and was something that I did not want to be doing, that I did not want to work with food. It was a kind of terrible feeling up until this point, the manageable type, where I had my freedom to look forward to the next day. Temp Lady, however, tells me that she does not appreciate this at all, that she is annoyed with me, and that if I cannot do her this favor of working there this week then she may not have me be the nutcracker - this job that pays $25 an hour and which I am (or maybe was) really excited about - that she did me a big favor by giving me first dibs on that job and that she could find plenty of other people that would want to do it. I apologized a lot and offered to do the job one more day if she was unable to find someone, but that I could not finish out the week there, that I hated it and it made me crazy. The conversation ended with her saying that I didn't need to go in tomorrow and left unresolved whether or not I am still going to be the nutcracker.

So at that point, with my future plans for work thrown into question and with still four more hours to go at that terrible job, I really sunk fast into feeling like shit. Those four hours were torture, were mind-boggingly unbearable, and at so many points I was ready to either dash into the bathroom to cry or to just grab my bag and run for the elevators. Today, I hated New York so much and gave serious thought to running away. Neil Young is playing right now (about ten exhales) and that too is making me want to move, move to a place where I could play this more often and where it would seem appropriate to the pace of things, to the mood.

But a reason not to move, and not neccesarily a good thing for the future of Bushwick, but the best moment to my day was going to Associated and seeing not only parmesan cheese finally stocked there, but also feta, - sweet, lovely feta. I took it home with me and, at home, me, the feta, and some greens made some sweet, sweet love as my Coors Light looked on jealously.

I was supposed to hang out with this boy tonight but I canceled that date because I was feeling a bit sick still. Instead of sitting at home writing and watching movies while consuming warm liquids like I had planned, I trekked up to Hell's Kitchen where I saw this man for money. He was this musclely dude and before we had sex he smoked a bunch of crystal, which amazingly I had never actually seen anyone do, and it was fascinating and a bit depressing, depressing because as soon as I saw the person I thought to myself that he looked like a methhead. It was depressing to watch this and yet I drank a beer as I watched it, and yes some thoughts did cross my mind about where lines are and whether those lines are based upon anything other than social acceptability, drinking now a fairly acceptable practice for a few centuries (discounting that brief Prohibition era), and my drug a drug still the same.

He sucked my dick for a while, lifting me while doing so, me really turned on by holding on to his back and feeling that mass of muscles there, his biceps, a type of body I am not used to at all. Then I started to fuck him and he came probably within a minute of me doing so, disappointing me because I was really enjoying the sex and wanted it to last longer. I jerked myself off, made some awkward post-sex chit chat, and then headed back home.

At home, a message from that boy asking if I was sure that I didn't want to hang out. I told him to come over. We watched Coffey on my couch and the conversation was a bit awkward, lacking steam. He is a nice boy, cute, and reminds me a bit of early John Cusack. For these reasons, I should like him. For these reasons, I don't.

After the movie, a great movie by the way, we laid in my bed and I tried to sleep, not really wanting to have sex, being a bit sick and also spent from just having sex with some other dude. My attempts to just sleep next to each other though were foiled by touching and kissing on his part, a turning of the tables from how it usually is when I sleep with people, me normally being the pawer at someone else's backside. Eventually I gave in, or horniness did, and we fooled around a bit and jerked off. He went to the bathroom afterward to clean himself up and started talking about all the bug bites on him. I got out of bed to see and, true enough, his back was covered in all these swelling bug bites, very clearly from my bed. It was pretty embarrassing. I didn't have any bug bites but he had so many. And so maybe he was bitten by bedbugs and maybe by fleas, but certainly not by anything anyone wants a stranger to be bitten by in their bed. Rather than get eaten totally, he left, deciding to go home. He asked me to walk him to the subway station, a bit of a rough walk, and I knew that this was why he had asked me to walk him, and it was that, that softness, that lack of edge, that niceness, that prevents me from being able to get smitten with him. I got dressed and at 3:30 in the a.m. walked him there, not pointing out how I would have to make the same walk back by myself, not really caring, excited about my bed to myself.

In that period before we started to fool around and where I really did try to fall asleep, we talked about Coffey and it was a pleasant conversation, the question being asked by me to him why it was that movies like Coffey are so enjoyable, movies in which one person alone kicks ass, kicks the asses of about thirty people. He responded that we like them so much because we wish things worked that way, wanted them to.