Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
After Dark
At the Armory show, there is this installation of a very long bookshelf, the books on it arranged alphabetically, all the books part of the same "After Dark" series, the name of a various city and then the words "After Dark," sometimes real ridiculous cities that you would not imagine to be included in such a series. I am now wishing that I had asked the people in this particular booth more questions about the work, as now that I am googling it, I am unable to find out answers to particular questions I am having about the work and the books. The work is by Richard Prince, something I did not know when I first encountered it and was so drawn to it. I am glad I did not know that, as the name has a lot of baggage and I've never been able to really get into his work before and so probably would have dismissed this "After Dark" piece as another work I didn't really get from this big name artist. However, there is something quite beautiful about this piece, all of these individual books with absurd captions on the front cover, a fake library, an imagined one.
One such caption for a city I can't remember, perhaps "Bangalore After Dark," went something like this (a game of telephone happening here with me not remembering the caption at all, only its punchline): "The student became deeply uncomfortable and asked the professor to repeat his statement. 'The sun and life will die out in a billion years.' The student breathed a sigh of relief and said, "You're really had me worried. I thought you said a million years.'"
I am seeing in some basic googling now that Prince did a series of paintings based on these paperback After Dark books that he had been collecting about various cities. My question however is about the books in the piece. They all seem manufactured for this particular work, the captions too absurd, the price of the paperbacks too low for the new condition of the books. I have so many questions about this work that will probably always go unanswered now, the likelihood of me returning to the Armory show this weekend very slim. And so my reading of this, the associations I am attaching to it, may be wrong. These may be found objects arranged on a bookshelf, not the imagined, fanciful series that really touches me.
There are some really striking works in the exhibition, but I got the same feeling I get every year going to this show, and after about an hour of looking at work I became less and less receptive to the things, gave each piece less and less time to make an impression on me before I moved on the next booth, the next gallery, the next works of art. From there, I went to the Scope art fair, and now feel thoroughly exhausted with visual art for a while, especially with having attended the Whitney Biennial a week ago. I have seen some nice things, have a feel for what certain artists are doing, have some new names of people to look for in group shows, and that is it. I was with a boy today and that is probably more what I will remember about this day in some distant future day, walking around these covered piers with Jacob and looking at things, and sharing the only empty chair in the cafe area so we could try to sit and drink a coffee.
I saw this other boy I used to sleep with there, also this young boy, also 20 I believe. I saw him in the Peres Projects booth (typical) where Terrence Koh had a couple pieces. He was with some other boy and was slightly cunty, perhaps for good reason, perhaps I was an asshole to him some time ago. I thought about age briefly, about boys, about paths crossing, and then said "nice seeing you," the politest way of escaping a situation, starting to roll the credits.
Nice seeing you.
One such caption for a city I can't remember, perhaps "Bangalore After Dark," went something like this (a game of telephone happening here with me not remembering the caption at all, only its punchline): "The student became deeply uncomfortable and asked the professor to repeat his statement. 'The sun and life will die out in a billion years.' The student breathed a sigh of relief and said, "You're really had me worried. I thought you said a million years.'"
I am seeing in some basic googling now that Prince did a series of paintings based on these paperback After Dark books that he had been collecting about various cities. My question however is about the books in the piece. They all seem manufactured for this particular work, the captions too absurd, the price of the paperbacks too low for the new condition of the books. I have so many questions about this work that will probably always go unanswered now, the likelihood of me returning to the Armory show this weekend very slim. And so my reading of this, the associations I am attaching to it, may be wrong. These may be found objects arranged on a bookshelf, not the imagined, fanciful series that really touches me.
There are some really striking works in the exhibition, but I got the same feeling I get every year going to this show, and after about an hour of looking at work I became less and less receptive to the things, gave each piece less and less time to make an impression on me before I moved on the next booth, the next gallery, the next works of art. From there, I went to the Scope art fair, and now feel thoroughly exhausted with visual art for a while, especially with having attended the Whitney Biennial a week ago. I have seen some nice things, have a feel for what certain artists are doing, have some new names of people to look for in group shows, and that is it. I was with a boy today and that is probably more what I will remember about this day in some distant future day, walking around these covered piers with Jacob and looking at things, and sharing the only empty chair in the cafe area so we could try to sit and drink a coffee.
I saw this other boy I used to sleep with there, also this young boy, also 20 I believe. I saw him in the Peres Projects booth (typical) where Terrence Koh had a couple pieces. He was with some other boy and was slightly cunty, perhaps for good reason, perhaps I was an asshole to him some time ago. I thought about age briefly, about boys, about paths crossing, and then said "nice seeing you," the politest way of escaping a situation, starting to roll the credits.
Nice seeing you.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Perhaps if you don't want to have a melancholy morning, picking at emotional scabs over a cup of coffee, it is best not to put on The XX first thing. Perhaps I was mopey before I put on the music and that's why I put it on - I'm not sure at this point now. I do know that now I am questioning many of my life's decisions, thinking of what I could do to rearrange my life that would ease this sadness I feel.
There is a problem right now preventing me from even going into these problems, and that is the public nature of this diary, that more and more people will mention to me that they have read it, people I never mentioned it to. Normally, this is fine by me and something I take as a compliment of sorts that there are people that read this thing, however there are certain people that tell me this and the knowledge of which makes me quite uncomfortable, people that would otherwise be subjects on this site, boys I am sleeping with, boys I have romantic attachments with, boys I did. Diego tells me he doesn't read this site but has on occasion mentioned something I wrote on here, always doing so with a long story about how his ex read it and so it was in his history or something. Jacob told me that he found the site a couple months ago but told me he would not read it if I didn't want him to. And so there is that agreement that I should be able to continue to be honest without fear of hurting someone's feelings, that these people are not actually reading this thing, but I would not be being honest were I to say that I actually believed that would occur - I know would still read the diary of someone I was seeing if it was online. And so that is why the entries for the past couple months, my time seeing Jacob, have been sparse and coming every couple weeks or so, that the things I would actually like to talk about, my feelings toward being in a relationship, my feelings toward this boy, would have an adverse effect on that relationship with that boy, would somehow alter the terms of it, him knowing everywhere I was coming from, the whole story, which probably should be good, should be okay, but romance seems to be built upon shadows, things out of reach, doubts. To throw it all under flood lights removes some of the mystique, the fog and shadows.
But maybe that's okay, maybe that's what I want right now, maybe I am going to lie and say that these people told me they are not going to read this and I believe them, that it's okay to write honestly about them. Thursday night, I told Jacob I needed more space, more time to myself, time to read, write, and see my friends. That was the first night that we didn't spend the night together in nearly two months. I didn't sleep with him on Friday and didn't do so last night, hung out with him in the day, got off with him, saw a play with him, and then told him I wanted to read, slept by myself. It was really nice. I am increasingly unsure and yet also more sure of the things I want. I couldn't perhaps put them in actual terms of words, say that I want x and y to be happy, but can say that I don't necessarily want z in my life.
He is young, 20, and I find myself more aware of that age gap these days. He is also incredibly nice and sweet and fun and dirty, this lovely combination of qualities. But I don't know what it is I want. I know that when I hang out with Diego, I do feel a little crazy toward him still, know that I did try to sleep with him Thursday at Mattachine and failed as he ditched me to go home with some other boy, know that I left some crazy voicemails and text messages afterwards, know that I felt like shit most of Friday. I do know that when I go out and encounter some men (normally older men), I find myself feeling a bit woozy and getting that reckless crush feeling where I want to end up in their bed and have them make me coffee the next morning. I also like sleeping by myself, reading a book of short stories (this Justin Taylor book still) and thinking about my life, feeling perhaps real sad and being okay with that, embracing that, and not feeling like I had to entertain someone. So basically, I am not sure where things with this boy are headed. I do know that I am intentionally trying to take steps back, to establish space and see if that is what I actually want.
I am spending a lot of time on Kayak these days, really wanting to purchase plane tickets somewhere, to feel like I had a date to look forward to, a time I would be somewhere new.
There is a problem right now preventing me from even going into these problems, and that is the public nature of this diary, that more and more people will mention to me that they have read it, people I never mentioned it to. Normally, this is fine by me and something I take as a compliment of sorts that there are people that read this thing, however there are certain people that tell me this and the knowledge of which makes me quite uncomfortable, people that would otherwise be subjects on this site, boys I am sleeping with, boys I have romantic attachments with, boys I did. Diego tells me he doesn't read this site but has on occasion mentioned something I wrote on here, always doing so with a long story about how his ex read it and so it was in his history or something. Jacob told me that he found the site a couple months ago but told me he would not read it if I didn't want him to. And so there is that agreement that I should be able to continue to be honest without fear of hurting someone's feelings, that these people are not actually reading this thing, but I would not be being honest were I to say that I actually believed that would occur - I know would still read the diary of someone I was seeing if it was online. And so that is why the entries for the past couple months, my time seeing Jacob, have been sparse and coming every couple weeks or so, that the things I would actually like to talk about, my feelings toward being in a relationship, my feelings toward this boy, would have an adverse effect on that relationship with that boy, would somehow alter the terms of it, him knowing everywhere I was coming from, the whole story, which probably should be good, should be okay, but romance seems to be built upon shadows, things out of reach, doubts. To throw it all under flood lights removes some of the mystique, the fog and shadows.
But maybe that's okay, maybe that's what I want right now, maybe I am going to lie and say that these people told me they are not going to read this and I believe them, that it's okay to write honestly about them. Thursday night, I told Jacob I needed more space, more time to myself, time to read, write, and see my friends. That was the first night that we didn't spend the night together in nearly two months. I didn't sleep with him on Friday and didn't do so last night, hung out with him in the day, got off with him, saw a play with him, and then told him I wanted to read, slept by myself. It was really nice. I am increasingly unsure and yet also more sure of the things I want. I couldn't perhaps put them in actual terms of words, say that I want x and y to be happy, but can say that I don't necessarily want z in my life.
He is young, 20, and I find myself more aware of that age gap these days. He is also incredibly nice and sweet and fun and dirty, this lovely combination of qualities. But I don't know what it is I want. I know that when I hang out with Diego, I do feel a little crazy toward him still, know that I did try to sleep with him Thursday at Mattachine and failed as he ditched me to go home with some other boy, know that I left some crazy voicemails and text messages afterwards, know that I felt like shit most of Friday. I do know that when I go out and encounter some men (normally older men), I find myself feeling a bit woozy and getting that reckless crush feeling where I want to end up in their bed and have them make me coffee the next morning. I also like sleeping by myself, reading a book of short stories (this Justin Taylor book still) and thinking about my life, feeling perhaps real sad and being okay with that, embracing that, and not feeling like I had to entertain someone. So basically, I am not sure where things with this boy are headed. I do know that I am intentionally trying to take steps back, to establish space and see if that is what I actually want.
I am spending a lot of time on Kayak these days, really wanting to purchase plane tickets somewhere, to feel like I had a date to look forward to, a time I would be somewhere new.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
valentine's day
I am feeling New York in a way that I haven't in a long while. I am preparing for winter's end, starting to come out of this self-imposed hibernation, a hibernation brought on my discomfort in cold weather, my reluctance to try to assemble decent looking outfits amid layers and layers, my desire instead to get stoned on my couch and watch movies and British tv shows and cuddle with this cute thing, Jacob, who is at my house every evening. But I am climbing out of that exile, embracing the cold now that I know there are not too many more weeks of it, that we are in the waning phase of winter.
There are all these things happening. There always are in this city. It's just a matter of knowing about them, creating them, or someone telling you about them, someone putting you on someone's list that you may or may not know, but whom you will certainly make it sound like you know when you say really confidently to the doorperson that you are on Geordon's list. And so Friday night, I skipped a long line of people in the cold and went and saw this singer that, for reasons I am not entirely sure of, I adore, Little Boots. Jacob was doing a photoshoot and hanging out with his friends and I was on my own for a night and it felt real nice to lose my mind and float from conversation to the open bar, to conversation, to the dance floor to dance whatever song I really liked that just came on, to conversation, to push my way through the crowd to get close to Little Boots and hear her sing "New In Town," accompanying herself on the keyboard. I was a bit stoned and certainly a bit caffeinated and quite a bit drunk and feeling real, real in love with the ways of this city and how, given a little craftiness, one can have so much fun for free in this town.
Diego knows the Bana people and so from there, we headed to the Financial District and all got into that party without trouble and without charge. Soon after checking my clothes, there was a glass of vodka next to me in the hot tub and I was going down on Diego, was getting head from strangers. Lots of vodka and cigarettes were consumed, animated conversations were had, and brief, fleeting moments of sexual contact with people I may or may not ever see again occurred. There was a moment when the four of us were all smoking in the smoking room, seated on chairs next to each other, and I felt so insanely happy to be friends with these people and to be able to share these moments and to be alive right now, felt so fucking lucky and happy, and I told them this, propelled by the honesty and sentimentality that alcohol will often provoke in people, myself especially. I love them. I love these moments that I am lucky enough to have.
Yesterday, I was walking around Bushwick, the streets and sidewalks in this neighborhood not very well shoveled, large patches of ice and snow on sidewalks, the going a bit slow so you don't fall on your ass, and because of that, because of the hangover I was in yesterday, and because of the soundtrack I was listening to on my headphones, the Florence and the Machines album, I found myself overcome, so fucking overcome with the life I am living, was going at a slow enough pace physically to contemplate the landscape of this neighborhood and of my life as of late, the snowbanks, dirty, were holding in the glare of the sun, reflecting the afternoon sun, the glow so beautiful, making this industrial landscape seem real magical and my stroll through it epically cinematic. I was walking back to my house, large bags of groceries on my shoulder, happy that I was able to do this, to feed myself and sustain myself, and have a house, and great friends and this really amazing boyfriend, and to live in this town right now. And yes, there are things that I want to be doing, that I am not doing, there are friendships that are not perfect, relationships that aren't, and I could focus on those things, could detail them for you and for myself, could go on and on, but I don't want to because that's not how my mind is working these past few days. Let me tell you the song that I am listening to over and over, the song that made me download the Florence and the Machines album. It is their song, "Dog Days are Over." And I really suggest that you listen to it. I have been living in this song, playing it on repeat while I take long showers and feel really in sync with the singer, feel like I am her and these are my words, an anthem, a hymn. It's so fucking empowering to scream that the dog days are over, that the dog days are over, and that you can't carry it with you if you want to survive.
I am feeling really moved these days, real alive if I haven't said that already, but I know I have. I could surely scan up a couple of paragraphs and see that I did say so, but you can't carry it with you if you want to survive. I am focusing on the things that I have, the good things, the people who make me happy, and I am doing well. It's crazy that I am still learning such rudimentary techniques to achieve happiness at this age of 28, that I didn't know these things earlier, or didn't abide by them, thought I could change the rules I was told, that they didn't apply to me.
And last night, Jacob and I drank some cocktails at my house, listened to songs, and tried to watch "Drag Race," though my wonky internet connection did not want to cooperate with that agenda. Diego joined us for booze and conversation and then we went to Bouquot 2012 at Shea Stadium, a few blocks from my house, walked down these poorly shoveled streets of Bushwick, slipping in patches, however not one of us falling.
We waited in the line going up the stairwell and once inside I stashed my jacket underneath a bench and slowly began to lose my mind. The decorations were fantastic. The atmosphere was. Jacob remarked that it looked like a party they would go to on "Skins," and the analogy was real apt, perfect almost. I was stoned and drunk and began to dance and dance and didn't stop until three something, sweaty, but not tired, but knowing that Jacob had to be at work early. It was the most fun I have had dancing in months. I cannot think of the last time I have been to such a fun party, filled with people I love, all these various social circles overlapping at this space, this booty, dancehall rave music making me able to dance in an expressive crazy way that felt new. It wasn't the same music that I dance to all the time, that I have moves to, that there is an easy way to dance to. It was fun and I really did at times feel transported by dancing around and around, catching glimpses of faces of people I knew also dancing like crazy people, our paths briefly intersecting with a shared smile. A really good dance party is one of the best feelings in the world and this was that.
I bought Justin Taylor's Everything Here is the Best Thing Ever today and read the first story in the collection on my way home. So far, so fucking great. The mood and the style of writing are everything I desire in fiction. There was an "Oh Shit" moment though while reading it. I felt like this person maybe beat me to something, this Justin Taylor. That the tone is really similar to my attempts at fiction and worse is that he captures the awkwardness of being a young adult in Florida, a subject I have always dreamed about tackling, my life and community of being a college student in Sarasota, Florida. This first story, in six or so pages, captures that mood so fucking perfectly and I imagine if you lived in that town with me, you would probably really enjoy this book, or maybe just the first story. Maybe I should continue to read more of the book before I attempt to discourse on what the book does or does not do and whether you will or will not enjoy it.
And tonight, because it doesn't end, I am going to make dinner for Jacob when he gets off work and then go to some Butt party to see the amazing House of Ladosha perform and probably dance like a maniac again. And tomorrow, it takes a pause, work begins again. I have these goals for this week that I am really going to try to do, going to try to not be a piece of shit, and do these things, make myself an even happier person, take to heart these lessons I have been learning lately.
There are all these things happening. There always are in this city. It's just a matter of knowing about them, creating them, or someone telling you about them, someone putting you on someone's list that you may or may not know, but whom you will certainly make it sound like you know when you say really confidently to the doorperson that you are on Geordon's list. And so Friday night, I skipped a long line of people in the cold and went and saw this singer that, for reasons I am not entirely sure of, I adore, Little Boots. Jacob was doing a photoshoot and hanging out with his friends and I was on my own for a night and it felt real nice to lose my mind and float from conversation to the open bar, to conversation, to the dance floor to dance whatever song I really liked that just came on, to conversation, to push my way through the crowd to get close to Little Boots and hear her sing "New In Town," accompanying herself on the keyboard. I was a bit stoned and certainly a bit caffeinated and quite a bit drunk and feeling real, real in love with the ways of this city and how, given a little craftiness, one can have so much fun for free in this town.
Diego knows the Bana people and so from there, we headed to the Financial District and all got into that party without trouble and without charge. Soon after checking my clothes, there was a glass of vodka next to me in the hot tub and I was going down on Diego, was getting head from strangers. Lots of vodka and cigarettes were consumed, animated conversations were had, and brief, fleeting moments of sexual contact with people I may or may not ever see again occurred. There was a moment when the four of us were all smoking in the smoking room, seated on chairs next to each other, and I felt so insanely happy to be friends with these people and to be able to share these moments and to be alive right now, felt so fucking lucky and happy, and I told them this, propelled by the honesty and sentimentality that alcohol will often provoke in people, myself especially. I love them. I love these moments that I am lucky enough to have.
Yesterday, I was walking around Bushwick, the streets and sidewalks in this neighborhood not very well shoveled, large patches of ice and snow on sidewalks, the going a bit slow so you don't fall on your ass, and because of that, because of the hangover I was in yesterday, and because of the soundtrack I was listening to on my headphones, the Florence and the Machines album, I found myself overcome, so fucking overcome with the life I am living, was going at a slow enough pace physically to contemplate the landscape of this neighborhood and of my life as of late, the snowbanks, dirty, were holding in the glare of the sun, reflecting the afternoon sun, the glow so beautiful, making this industrial landscape seem real magical and my stroll through it epically cinematic. I was walking back to my house, large bags of groceries on my shoulder, happy that I was able to do this, to feed myself and sustain myself, and have a house, and great friends and this really amazing boyfriend, and to live in this town right now. And yes, there are things that I want to be doing, that I am not doing, there are friendships that are not perfect, relationships that aren't, and I could focus on those things, could detail them for you and for myself, could go on and on, but I don't want to because that's not how my mind is working these past few days. Let me tell you the song that I am listening to over and over, the song that made me download the Florence and the Machines album. It is their song, "Dog Days are Over." And I really suggest that you listen to it. I have been living in this song, playing it on repeat while I take long showers and feel really in sync with the singer, feel like I am her and these are my words, an anthem, a hymn. It's so fucking empowering to scream that the dog days are over, that the dog days are over, and that you can't carry it with you if you want to survive.
I am feeling really moved these days, real alive if I haven't said that already, but I know I have. I could surely scan up a couple of paragraphs and see that I did say so, but you can't carry it with you if you want to survive. I am focusing on the things that I have, the good things, the people who make me happy, and I am doing well. It's crazy that I am still learning such rudimentary techniques to achieve happiness at this age of 28, that I didn't know these things earlier, or didn't abide by them, thought I could change the rules I was told, that they didn't apply to me.
And last night, Jacob and I drank some cocktails at my house, listened to songs, and tried to watch "Drag Race," though my wonky internet connection did not want to cooperate with that agenda. Diego joined us for booze and conversation and then we went to Bouquot 2012 at Shea Stadium, a few blocks from my house, walked down these poorly shoveled streets of Bushwick, slipping in patches, however not one of us falling.
We waited in the line going up the stairwell and once inside I stashed my jacket underneath a bench and slowly began to lose my mind. The decorations were fantastic. The atmosphere was. Jacob remarked that it looked like a party they would go to on "Skins," and the analogy was real apt, perfect almost. I was stoned and drunk and began to dance and dance and didn't stop until three something, sweaty, but not tired, but knowing that Jacob had to be at work early. It was the most fun I have had dancing in months. I cannot think of the last time I have been to such a fun party, filled with people I love, all these various social circles overlapping at this space, this booty, dancehall rave music making me able to dance in an expressive crazy way that felt new. It wasn't the same music that I dance to all the time, that I have moves to, that there is an easy way to dance to. It was fun and I really did at times feel transported by dancing around and around, catching glimpses of faces of people I knew also dancing like crazy people, our paths briefly intersecting with a shared smile. A really good dance party is one of the best feelings in the world and this was that.
I bought Justin Taylor's Everything Here is the Best Thing Ever today and read the first story in the collection on my way home. So far, so fucking great. The mood and the style of writing are everything I desire in fiction. There was an "Oh Shit" moment though while reading it. I felt like this person maybe beat me to something, this Justin Taylor. That the tone is really similar to my attempts at fiction and worse is that he captures the awkwardness of being a young adult in Florida, a subject I have always dreamed about tackling, my life and community of being a college student in Sarasota, Florida. This first story, in six or so pages, captures that mood so fucking perfectly and I imagine if you lived in that town with me, you would probably really enjoy this book, or maybe just the first story. Maybe I should continue to read more of the book before I attempt to discourse on what the book does or does not do and whether you will or will not enjoy it.
And tonight, because it doesn't end, I am going to make dinner for Jacob when he gets off work and then go to some Butt party to see the amazing House of Ladosha perform and probably dance like a maniac again. And tomorrow, it takes a pause, work begins again. I have these goals for this week that I am really going to try to do, going to try to not be a piece of shit, and do these things, make myself an even happier person, take to heart these lessons I have been learning lately.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Self imposed five minute time limit here to write things because I have to go pick up tickets to see "In the Heights" tonight. Thinking about sexual frustration and violence and serial killers. This morning, I started to fuck Jacob. He was hurting and said he had to shit. A while later, I was holding his dick in my hands and telling him how I wanted it inside of me, it yet to be, us playing this same role night after night. He said soon. I wanted it then. We messed around, dry humped, and I asked when he would fuck me. He said Two weeks. I lost interest, became a bit mean, was annoyed, and thought about lots of things that made me sad. I thought about topping and bottoming and how this role of being a top is not a role I am entirely comfortable with, a role I have never had to play before for a sustained period of time, a role I had only played in sex work situations really before, never having fucked Diego. And so I was thinking about role reversal and what I had signed myself up for, whether it was what I wanted, became really unsure, and pulled away as Jacob dug his stubbly chin into my neck, it not feeling good, me feeling uncomfortable and unsure of lots of things. I hopped out of my bed, got dressed, made coffee, and didn't really talk to him for a while, played around online. I eventually sat next to him on the couch and we looked at each other for a long time, he asking me why I was mad, me saying I wasn't, me not being entirely truthful. We looked at each other some more and I asked him what he was thinking. And he told me he was feeling insecure, that he hadn't fucked anyone in a few months, and liked me and was insecure about it. And my coldness melted to some extent and I again saw this adorable little thing and we talked, which is probably what I should have done in the first place rather than shutting down. We made out on my couch and he left for work.
Five minutes is up.
However, serial killers. So I watched this A&E Biography of John Wayne Gacy on YouTube after he left and really got to thinking about violence and sexual frustration and wanted to work this subject a great deal, my brain consumed by thoughts of Gacy and Dahmer today, these two epic gay serial killers and the reasons behind it seemingly some sort of sexual repression and frustration. And there is a subject here with a lot to parse out and I am trying to do so, really into thoughts of these two right now and broader analogies about sexuality.
But I have to get dressed. We have already exceeded our time limit.
Five minutes is up.
However, serial killers. So I watched this A&E Biography of John Wayne Gacy on YouTube after he left and really got to thinking about violence and sexual frustration and wanted to work this subject a great deal, my brain consumed by thoughts of Gacy and Dahmer today, these two epic gay serial killers and the reasons behind it seemingly some sort of sexual repression and frustration. And there is a subject here with a lot to parse out and I am trying to do so, really into thoughts of these two right now and broader analogies about sexuality.
But I have to get dressed. We have already exceeded our time limit.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
the state of our union
It was at some point after President Obama had talked about health care. I am not exactly sure at what moment it was that the two of us tuned out, tuned more into each other. We had split a bottle of wine with dinner and were consuming more while watching the State of the Union. We had started to lie in each other's arms to make ourselves more comfortable. That turned into kissing. That turned into Jacob taking his dick out of his underwear. That turned into me sucking his dick. The humor in that we were beginning to have sex on my couch while this address was unfolding several feet from us on my television was not lost on either one of us, slight giggles accompanying the sex early on before the speech and Obama and a room full of people half standing and applauding and half sitting in their seats faded into the background, became less and less on my mind, the only thing for periods that began to stretch longer and longer this sexy boy and our two bodies together and our hunger.
I got my lube and we started to fuck on the couch, Obama's head looking out at us, an American flag behind him. At some moment when my dick slipped out of Jacob, I used the opportunity to get up and get poppers and to turn on the webcam, used the opportunity to push things further, to make the contrast more absurd. High on poppers, drunk on wine, and insanely attracted to this person's body, I gave myself more and more to my appetites. There was a moment when I heard Obama forcefully declare an imminent end to Don't Ask, Don't Tell. I paused and commented on the importance of his saying that during the speech. Some talking heads commented on the proceedings, a Republican governor in Virginia gave a speech, and the same talking heads again came on to discuss the evening. I was vaguely aware of these things. We came. I said, "U-S-A! U-S-A!"
He fell asleep on my couch and I used the opportunity to read more of this Patti Smith book I am reading. Eventually his snoring distracted me enough from reading and my own desire for sleep became stronger that I called his name until he awoke, until he climbed up in to my bed with me. This morning, I left for work, his body still stretched out in my bed. We kissed goodbye. I have been waking up early and going to work for this past month with a nice body still in my bed, Jacob, and I have been in such great moods because of it, smiling as I lock my door behind me, as I walk to the subway, as I take it to work, happy because of this person and his presence in my life.
I got my lube and we started to fuck on the couch, Obama's head looking out at us, an American flag behind him. At some moment when my dick slipped out of Jacob, I used the opportunity to get up and get poppers and to turn on the webcam, used the opportunity to push things further, to make the contrast more absurd. High on poppers, drunk on wine, and insanely attracted to this person's body, I gave myself more and more to my appetites. There was a moment when I heard Obama forcefully declare an imminent end to Don't Ask, Don't Tell. I paused and commented on the importance of his saying that during the speech. Some talking heads commented on the proceedings, a Republican governor in Virginia gave a speech, and the same talking heads again came on to discuss the evening. I was vaguely aware of these things. We came. I said, "U-S-A! U-S-A!"
He fell asleep on my couch and I used the opportunity to read more of this Patti Smith book I am reading. Eventually his snoring distracted me enough from reading and my own desire for sleep became stronger that I called his name until he awoke, until he climbed up in to my bed with me. This morning, I left for work, his body still stretched out in my bed. We kissed goodbye. I have been waking up early and going to work for this past month with a nice body still in my bed, Jacob, and I have been in such great moods because of it, smiling as I lock my door behind me, as I walk to the subway, as I take it to work, happy because of this person and his presence in my life.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Dark Side of the Moon
I have been thinking a lot today about this work I heard Dan Fishback read last evening at Dixon Place. The work talked about what it means for him, born in 1981, the same year as the AIDS crisis began, to grow up gay in the shadow of this thing, in the wreckage of this thing. It was an insanely beautiful piece and really moved me a great deal. To see someone work with such big themes in such successful ways, someone working the theme of being born in 1981, the year also of my own birth, really made me want to get my shit together and take writing more seriously, that there are really great things to be written, to attempt to say, and to witness one of my peers articulate things so well and in such a lovely fashion really made me want to spend more time in front of my laptop (and not on Facebook).
I sat next to Diego in the space, had gone with him to happy hour earlier at the Stonewall, where some young kid had proudly showed off the staples in his head to me while I was alone at the bar and awaiting Diego's company. The kid was real young looking and was sort of bragging about this "design," telling me in too flip a fashion that his boyfriend had broke a glass over his head the other evening at Barracuda and he had to get staples in his head at the emergency room. I eyed the clock behind the bar out of the corner of my eye, wondering where Diego was, wondering why this person was so crazy, wondering where I was.
The work that Dan read talked about a lost generation of gays, things and people and a culture lost. It talked about awkward adolescent moments of sex. It talked about Catwoman and Madonna and gays being persecuted currently around the world. After the reading ended, I gave Diego a gigantic hug, pulled him close to me, and wanted to feel connected, knew that I was connected to this person, that I cared so much about him, and wanted to make this known, so gave him a hug, shared a moment physically to somehow convey the impression left on us by the reading.
I had another drink in the lobby of the place, walked with Diego to Parkside Lounge and left there quickly, not really wanting to be there and walked up to Erica's house, bought some whiskey along the way, and thought about this life I am living.
I have Pandora on and "Nada Personal" is playing right now. I am losing the focus I had intended to bring to this thing, distracted by this song, by my hunger, by the fact that Jacob is coming over very shortly and that I told him I would make him dinner and that really I should get to that project, the project of feeding our bodies rather than this thing, this Internet thing. But this feeds something in me also, less easily identifiable a hunger than the one that food sates, but a hunger still.
I was cleaning my bathroom earlier this evening and there was a Virgin Mary trinket from a necklace that was here when I moved into the apartment and I had too much guilt then to throw it away, thought it a bad omen to do so. Raised Catholic and the thought of sin and sacrilege still present, some idea of consequences, of the sacred. Today, I decided though that I didn't purchase the thing, that I didn't need to hold on to it, and tossed it in the garbage.
A couple weeks ago, my aunt, my dad's sister, mailed me a box of things of his. She asked me not to throw it away if I didn't want the stuff, to send it back. They were cheap and tacky knick-knacks, a couple of religious necklaces. I left the box underneath my bed for a couple weeks, really not wanting any of it and not wanting to mail it back to my aunt who would have been real offended and even more sure that I was out to piss all over the memory of her brother, who she has some religious devotion to in her own aging state now. I threw the box away, wanted it out of my house, out of my space, that to even store these items somewhere buried in a back corner would have some energy in this space that I didn't want. If it was a Pink Floyd album or something else of his that I remember of him, I would have kept it, but they were these maudlin items that I could only imagine him buying when very near death from lung cancer and wanting to somehow atone for a life of sin. I don't carry things with me. I am trying not to. I let them go, set them on curbs on trash days. I am trying to travel light.
I sat next to Diego in the space, had gone with him to happy hour earlier at the Stonewall, where some young kid had proudly showed off the staples in his head to me while I was alone at the bar and awaiting Diego's company. The kid was real young looking and was sort of bragging about this "design," telling me in too flip a fashion that his boyfriend had broke a glass over his head the other evening at Barracuda and he had to get staples in his head at the emergency room. I eyed the clock behind the bar out of the corner of my eye, wondering where Diego was, wondering why this person was so crazy, wondering where I was.
The work that Dan read talked about a lost generation of gays, things and people and a culture lost. It talked about awkward adolescent moments of sex. It talked about Catwoman and Madonna and gays being persecuted currently around the world. After the reading ended, I gave Diego a gigantic hug, pulled him close to me, and wanted to feel connected, knew that I was connected to this person, that I cared so much about him, and wanted to make this known, so gave him a hug, shared a moment physically to somehow convey the impression left on us by the reading.
I had another drink in the lobby of the place, walked with Diego to Parkside Lounge and left there quickly, not really wanting to be there and walked up to Erica's house, bought some whiskey along the way, and thought about this life I am living.
I have Pandora on and "Nada Personal" is playing right now. I am losing the focus I had intended to bring to this thing, distracted by this song, by my hunger, by the fact that Jacob is coming over very shortly and that I told him I would make him dinner and that really I should get to that project, the project of feeding our bodies rather than this thing, this Internet thing. But this feeds something in me also, less easily identifiable a hunger than the one that food sates, but a hunger still.
I was cleaning my bathroom earlier this evening and there was a Virgin Mary trinket from a necklace that was here when I moved into the apartment and I had too much guilt then to throw it away, thought it a bad omen to do so. Raised Catholic and the thought of sin and sacrilege still present, some idea of consequences, of the sacred. Today, I decided though that I didn't purchase the thing, that I didn't need to hold on to it, and tossed it in the garbage.
A couple weeks ago, my aunt, my dad's sister, mailed me a box of things of his. She asked me not to throw it away if I didn't want the stuff, to send it back. They were cheap and tacky knick-knacks, a couple of religious necklaces. I left the box underneath my bed for a couple weeks, really not wanting any of it and not wanting to mail it back to my aunt who would have been real offended and even more sure that I was out to piss all over the memory of her brother, who she has some religious devotion to in her own aging state now. I threw the box away, wanted it out of my house, out of my space, that to even store these items somewhere buried in a back corner would have some energy in this space that I didn't want. If it was a Pink Floyd album or something else of his that I remember of him, I would have kept it, but they were these maudlin items that I could only imagine him buying when very near death from lung cancer and wanting to somehow atone for a life of sin. I don't carry things with me. I am trying not to. I let them go, set them on curbs on trash days. I am trying to travel light.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Just Kids
Patti Smith came on stage along with her interviewer. Patti sat down in her chair and as the interviewer was asking the first question, Patti plucked one of the small flowers from the vase between them and took a quick whiff of it. It was a throwaway gesture that I am not sure many people caught, especially as the event was insanely packed and the sight lines were fairly terrible where we were standing, but I caught the moment of magic and was already enraptured with this woman. I am reading her memoir of her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe right now, Just Kids, am quite in love with the book and the New York it describes and the relationship it describes, the way these two people lived, how they both pushed each other, and how they both loved each other and encouraged one another to become artists. It is an amazing story and to hear her talk about it tonight at Barnes and Noble's was also amazing.
There is a portion of the interview in which they talked about Patti's relationship with bookstores and how she worked at a fair number of them and her process of applying to work at them, what bookstores mean, what they did mean, and what an important job a bookseller is, what a romantic job it is. She worked at Scribner's, at Brentano's, at Argosy, and at the Strand, those first two both extinct now. She also mentioned how she tried numerous times to get a job at Gotham Book Mart, also now gone. That this discussion was happening in a Barnes and Nobles wasn't really remarked upon but was a depressing thought that did cross my own mind, imagining all these elegant, dusty bookstores weighted with history and with the touch and care of the booksellers who stocked particular books and pushed certain titles. Patti Smith described the old Scribner's bookstore in really elegiac terms, mentioning as the sad punchline that it is now a Sephora. I got really swept away in this discussion, having a similar experience of arriving in New York, spending my first two years working at the Strand and being lost all day long and night in the world of literature, of this thing holding supreme importance in my life. Now, sadly, it's role has been minimized to something maybe not even at hobby level, my actual time spent reading or thinking about literature so little these days and I thought about my time spent on the other side of Union Square for those two years and what an amazing time that was, how satisfied I was to look at books all day and talk to people about them all day and hear what they were reading and to tell them things I loved. I really did live in a world peopled mostly by dead women and men for a couple years and it was such a joy, something I miss now when I spend my days answering phones and giving wake up calls and counting laundry and doing fairly brainless, fairly soulless tasks. The difference is that I am making way more money now, but maybe that doesn't matter, maybe it does. I am not sure. Maybe the question is one more of time management and my own laziness. Maybe there is no question. Maybe just instead it was an observation, a rumination on what time and life means, and thinking to times that have passed me by now, thinking of these new moments I live in and what they mean. Biography Bookshop on Bleecker Street is closing tomorrow, a fixture on that block for decades. It is moving down the block to a new location under a different name, but was forced to move because of an insane increase in rent. And we have lost so many already and so to hear Patti Smith talk about this old culture of New York bookstores really did make me envious of a time that I am seeing the last gasps of now.
Her approach to life is really inspiring. She smelled that flower during the beginning of her interview, is taking the time to see these things and appreciate them, to recognize the beauty. There are constant connections and ghosts present and she is in love with old poets, Rimbaud and Blake especially. She even played some songs tonight, which I wasn't expecting at all, and which made me insanely giddy, patting Jacob's arms really fast to try to convey my happiness without screaming about it in the crowded bookstore, not shouting "Holy Fuck! Holy Fuck! Holy Fuck" like I wanted to, my patting of him arm some silent way of trying to convey that. She closed the evening by performing "Because the Night," prefacing it with a bit of the song's backstory and how Robert Mapplethorpe was really happy for her when it did so well and remarked slightly jealousy that she had become famous first. I felt really privy to some secrets listening to her talk and by reading this book.
When the event was over, we streamed out on to the street and met up with some of Jacob's friends. They were young, his age. He is young and most times I am unaware of this but to see him in their company made me feel a bit awkward, feeling slightly old. I had Patti Smith on my mind and the girls were wearing heels and talking about where to buy coke. One of them shook my hand really politely and unnaturally like you do when you are meeting an older adult or someone interviewing you, not a natural hello that you would direct to a peer, and I felt way too weird and uncomfortable to continue hanging out with them, to go eat with them. I told them I was still under Patti's spell and wanted to go read more of her, which I did. I came home, ordered some pizza, drank some beer, listened to Patti Smith on my computer, and read this depressing news about the election in Massachusetts.
And I could let it get me down, I could spend too much of my energy feeling demoralized that a fairly liberal state voted this way, that health care reform is now in jeopardy when it was so close to happening, and I am going to try not to. It's not going to change anything and it is a distraction. Instead I am going to read about these two kids starting out in the world, committing themselves to art, and will continue to be inspired by the book to keep reading, to keep dreaming, and to write, to create things, not only written things, tangible things, but also beautiful friendships, mystic connections, beauty, just to fucking live my life like one, like I am going to die (which I am) and to make the most of this thing.
There is a portion of the interview in which they talked about Patti's relationship with bookstores and how she worked at a fair number of them and her process of applying to work at them, what bookstores mean, what they did mean, and what an important job a bookseller is, what a romantic job it is. She worked at Scribner's, at Brentano's, at Argosy, and at the Strand, those first two both extinct now. She also mentioned how she tried numerous times to get a job at Gotham Book Mart, also now gone. That this discussion was happening in a Barnes and Nobles wasn't really remarked upon but was a depressing thought that did cross my own mind, imagining all these elegant, dusty bookstores weighted with history and with the touch and care of the booksellers who stocked particular books and pushed certain titles. Patti Smith described the old Scribner's bookstore in really elegiac terms, mentioning as the sad punchline that it is now a Sephora. I got really swept away in this discussion, having a similar experience of arriving in New York, spending my first two years working at the Strand and being lost all day long and night in the world of literature, of this thing holding supreme importance in my life. Now, sadly, it's role has been minimized to something maybe not even at hobby level, my actual time spent reading or thinking about literature so little these days and I thought about my time spent on the other side of Union Square for those two years and what an amazing time that was, how satisfied I was to look at books all day and talk to people about them all day and hear what they were reading and to tell them things I loved. I really did live in a world peopled mostly by dead women and men for a couple years and it was such a joy, something I miss now when I spend my days answering phones and giving wake up calls and counting laundry and doing fairly brainless, fairly soulless tasks. The difference is that I am making way more money now, but maybe that doesn't matter, maybe it does. I am not sure. Maybe the question is one more of time management and my own laziness. Maybe there is no question. Maybe just instead it was an observation, a rumination on what time and life means, and thinking to times that have passed me by now, thinking of these new moments I live in and what they mean. Biography Bookshop on Bleecker Street is closing tomorrow, a fixture on that block for decades. It is moving down the block to a new location under a different name, but was forced to move because of an insane increase in rent. And we have lost so many already and so to hear Patti Smith talk about this old culture of New York bookstores really did make me envious of a time that I am seeing the last gasps of now.
Her approach to life is really inspiring. She smelled that flower during the beginning of her interview, is taking the time to see these things and appreciate them, to recognize the beauty. There are constant connections and ghosts present and she is in love with old poets, Rimbaud and Blake especially. She even played some songs tonight, which I wasn't expecting at all, and which made me insanely giddy, patting Jacob's arms really fast to try to convey my happiness without screaming about it in the crowded bookstore, not shouting "Holy Fuck! Holy Fuck! Holy Fuck" like I wanted to, my patting of him arm some silent way of trying to convey that. She closed the evening by performing "Because the Night," prefacing it with a bit of the song's backstory and how Robert Mapplethorpe was really happy for her when it did so well and remarked slightly jealousy that she had become famous first. I felt really privy to some secrets listening to her talk and by reading this book.
When the event was over, we streamed out on to the street and met up with some of Jacob's friends. They were young, his age. He is young and most times I am unaware of this but to see him in their company made me feel a bit awkward, feeling slightly old. I had Patti Smith on my mind and the girls were wearing heels and talking about where to buy coke. One of them shook my hand really politely and unnaturally like you do when you are meeting an older adult or someone interviewing you, not a natural hello that you would direct to a peer, and I felt way too weird and uncomfortable to continue hanging out with them, to go eat with them. I told them I was still under Patti's spell and wanted to go read more of her, which I did. I came home, ordered some pizza, drank some beer, listened to Patti Smith on my computer, and read this depressing news about the election in Massachusetts.
And I could let it get me down, I could spend too much of my energy feeling demoralized that a fairly liberal state voted this way, that health care reform is now in jeopardy when it was so close to happening, and I am going to try not to. It's not going to change anything and it is a distraction. Instead I am going to read about these two kids starting out in the world, committing themselves to art, and will continue to be inspired by the book to keep reading, to keep dreaming, and to write, to create things, not only written things, tangible things, but also beautiful friendships, mystic connections, beauty, just to fucking live my life like one, like I am going to die (which I am) and to make the most of this thing.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Keys
The key cutting machine makes this distinctive noise, metal being cut, keys being shaped to a lock, shaped to match a key that opens one. The keys being made yesterday were made to fit the locks of my apartment building's doors. I was getting them made for Jacob and was thinking about my life a fair amount, about this person who I was getting these made for, and about how happy I have been lately, the noise of the tools cutting metal allowing me to lose myself in thought for a short while in this store. This person has spent every night at my house since Christmas and I felt bad that he has had to wake up with me with darkness still out my windows as I left for work so I could lock up my house. Now he can sleep in past me and lock up whenever he leaves.
My boss was fired a few days ago and her desk next to mine now sits empty, it a bit weird to think that she and her often annoying presence will no longer be there each day to exasperate and occasionally entertain me. My job is changing, the fun now less present, things a bit more strict, and I am thinking that I need to really begin to take seriously my life and what I hope to do with it.
I had this dream a couple nights ago, after she was fired and while I was asleep in bed next to Jacob, that I was still working in this same job in a couple of years and that it had become my life, that I no longer had interest in art or even mild aspirations to be an artist, but rather was content in this job because it paid well and each day ate a footlong sandwich from Subway and got stoned and watched stuff on Netflix. It was a nightmare of what my life could very easily become, something that it is in fact now.
I had this dream on the same day that my co-worker came in to work with a sub from Subway, something he does every day, on the day he talked about how he only would be working there for another year, long enough to pay off all his debt, and then he could do things he cared about, in his case acting. In the year that we have been working there, I have seen several actors who all were going on auditions when we first started working there, when the hotel first opened, all for the most part stop and who rarely talk about that anymore. I don't want the comforts of a bourgeois life to sap me of any dreams I still have. And there are some.
The constant presence of Jacob in my life these days could also be a distraction from that, much in the way work is, something that eats up my time and in which I cannot be solitary, cannot type away on my computer thoughts about him, about human bodies, or about what it is that is happening with my time here on this little planet. He has just started school again though and so hopefully some balance can happen. I don't know. I know that I do love sitting next to him on my couch, cuddling with him, getting really stoned with him, and watching Skins on my computer, often turning my attention from the screen to look at his face and how fucking cute he is.
I have gone to the bookstore twice this week and both times left without a book. I am looking for something. I don't know what. I need a book to jump out at me, for our eyes to meet and there to be some spark, and the things I have been picking up at used bookstores haven't been doing it. I am going to try again though tomorrow because I really need some good sentences in my life, a narrative to propel my own stalled one.
My boss was fired a few days ago and her desk next to mine now sits empty, it a bit weird to think that she and her often annoying presence will no longer be there each day to exasperate and occasionally entertain me. My job is changing, the fun now less present, things a bit more strict, and I am thinking that I need to really begin to take seriously my life and what I hope to do with it.
I had this dream a couple nights ago, after she was fired and while I was asleep in bed next to Jacob, that I was still working in this same job in a couple of years and that it had become my life, that I no longer had interest in art or even mild aspirations to be an artist, but rather was content in this job because it paid well and each day ate a footlong sandwich from Subway and got stoned and watched stuff on Netflix. It was a nightmare of what my life could very easily become, something that it is in fact now.
I had this dream on the same day that my co-worker came in to work with a sub from Subway, something he does every day, on the day he talked about how he only would be working there for another year, long enough to pay off all his debt, and then he could do things he cared about, in his case acting. In the year that we have been working there, I have seen several actors who all were going on auditions when we first started working there, when the hotel first opened, all for the most part stop and who rarely talk about that anymore. I don't want the comforts of a bourgeois life to sap me of any dreams I still have. And there are some.
The constant presence of Jacob in my life these days could also be a distraction from that, much in the way work is, something that eats up my time and in which I cannot be solitary, cannot type away on my computer thoughts about him, about human bodies, or about what it is that is happening with my time here on this little planet. He has just started school again though and so hopefully some balance can happen. I don't know. I know that I do love sitting next to him on my couch, cuddling with him, getting really stoned with him, and watching Skins on my computer, often turning my attention from the screen to look at his face and how fucking cute he is.
I have gone to the bookstore twice this week and both times left without a book. I am looking for something. I don't know what. I need a book to jump out at me, for our eyes to meet and there to be some spark, and the things I have been picking up at used bookstores haven't been doing it. I am going to try again though tomorrow because I really need some good sentences in my life, a narrative to propel my own stalled one.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
In the Bauhaus show at MoMA, there is this set of tables that nest in each other, one's dimensions slightly smaller than the next. I think there are four total. Each has a different color glass tabletop. The work is by Josef Albers and his fascination with colors and squares is something that for reasons I still am unable to pinpoint years after first seeing an "Homage to the Square" painting make me really happy, strikes a chord in me, something really understated and powerful in the painting series. One of my imaginary projects that I have been envisioning for a while is an Homage to Homage to the Square, detailing my reactions to encountering one of the prints in various art museums I have visited and diaristic impressions of my time in that city and what that painting's particular color choices said to me about my own life at that time. An item on my to-do list now is to find a biography of Albers to read. I found myself excitedly drawn to any object in this show that he was responsible for.
There is the issue of timing and things have converged or enough time has passed, enough casual impressions have been made of Albers, that they are starting to register, that they did in a big way, and I am now want to know everything about this person and their art, to learn more about them.
I was at the museum yesterday with Jacob. And with this person too, things converged, the timing was right in my life, maybe in his, and I find myself in this lovely situation now where I spend every night with this person and cannot get my fill of him. We kissed briefly throughout the museum, the kisses curt and to the point, fleeting, too many people and families nearby. At some point, I pulled him into the single-stall family bathroom and made out with him for a long time, giggled, happy to have escaped the camera-happy tourists everywhere, the crowds, to be with this cute person.
There is more to be said and yet I can't say it, have to get going to meet this person somewhere on the island of Manhattan. I woke up this morning between him and Diego in my bed. I woke up really happy. I have been waking up happy and sleeping good every night for weeks, this boy's presence really making life pretty great right now. I bought some new towels, a coat rack for my door, some candles, some paring knifes, and some magnets - things to make me feel more like I live in a home. I put on a face mask tonight, lit candles, and listened to Fleetwood Mac. I recalled friends and past living situations, namely Cypress Circle. I am feeling really fucking happy and comfortable these days in a similar fashion. I want to get at this, to trace things and show diagrams, to dig and get at things, to hold them close and up to my nose, but time, the theme I started with, is again pushing me one way, out the door and to meet a person.
There is the issue of timing and things have converged or enough time has passed, enough casual impressions have been made of Albers, that they are starting to register, that they did in a big way, and I am now want to know everything about this person and their art, to learn more about them.
I was at the museum yesterday with Jacob. And with this person too, things converged, the timing was right in my life, maybe in his, and I find myself in this lovely situation now where I spend every night with this person and cannot get my fill of him. We kissed briefly throughout the museum, the kisses curt and to the point, fleeting, too many people and families nearby. At some point, I pulled him into the single-stall family bathroom and made out with him for a long time, giggled, happy to have escaped the camera-happy tourists everywhere, the crowds, to be with this cute person.
There is more to be said and yet I can't say it, have to get going to meet this person somewhere on the island of Manhattan. I woke up this morning between him and Diego in my bed. I woke up really happy. I have been waking up happy and sleeping good every night for weeks, this boy's presence really making life pretty great right now. I bought some new towels, a coat rack for my door, some candles, some paring knifes, and some magnets - things to make me feel more like I live in a home. I put on a face mask tonight, lit candles, and listened to Fleetwood Mac. I recalled friends and past living situations, namely Cypress Circle. I am feeling really fucking happy and comfortable these days in a similar fashion. I want to get at this, to trace things and show diagrams, to dig and get at things, to hold them close and up to my nose, but time, the theme I started with, is again pushing me one way, out the door and to meet a person.
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