I woke up at eleven today - the latest I have woken up in a really long time, even though I went to bed sober and early last night. I woke up after having a really bizarre dream about riding a scary five floor tall escalator with my mom that just dropped you off in the middle of the sky and you sort of had to jump down to saftey. It was very weird and I don't really even want to begin to think about possible ways to read that dream - I don't think there is one positive way to do so that would comfort me. I noticed the sky when I woke up from this dream, how beautiful it looked outside and thought whatever, I've slept too much of the day away but it is a lovely day and I am going to make the most of it.
I logged on to my e-mail to see that there was a new Friendster message from Matt. Ahh!, is what I yelled. And I was so scared to read it, wondered if I should wait until tonight, but nervously clicked ahead to Friendster, shaking with frieght about what he would say, and then officially started this otherwise lovely day by reading this:
Umm...I will respond by asking you to not
come in contact with me in any way ,especially
in public. That is all since anything else I
would have to say would feed your need for
negative attention.
Matt
Ouch. Right to the gut. And for some stupid reason, I then took a shower listening to Morrissey. The other day, Peter called me an emotional exhibitionist. And he is right. This can be Example A. And I do have some sick "need for negative attention." It is no lie. A very spot-on critique, in fact. Morrissey had to go. I put in Tribe Called Quest danced around to them before putting in the Beatles, and seeing this happy day, and resolving to myself to not do these pleas for negative attention anymore, to say Fuck You to people who don't like me instead of throwing myself at them. And about being an emotional exhibitionist - that is so intertwined with a hunger for negative attention - this is so intertwined with that, this right here - I want your sympathy, your pity - I am going to try to correct that too, starting now. Let's call this a temporary hiatus until I learn to live better. I will be lonely for a while, but I usually am anyways. Maybe I will write about other things this way, like I am always resolving to. See you later first person.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
1. Yesterday, on my lunch break, I turned on my phone and right away, it started ringing. A number I did not recognize. I answered it. Some Latino male from [incomprehensible orginization name] telling me that they had kept my application on file for the peer mentor/internship position and were wondering if I was still interested. Imagine if someone called you and said these same things to you, because I don't remember applying for whatever internship this was, was not even sure what orginization this was - and was beyond confused. I am sorry, I said, What orginization is this? Escasomething Dominicasomething. Oh, okay, I said, not wanting to sound like I had no clue what I applied for, and told him, that no, at this point in time, I was too busy with other things to intern there. I still am not sure what that was, but if I cannot remember, obviously, I did not want to volunteer there too bad. I think that must have been from my I need to volunteer somewhere phase, where I was about to volunteer at Housing Works, but then did so at Lamda Legal, which lasted for two weeks?
2. This morning, after taking a leisurely shower and dancing around in my bathroom, singing along really loudly to some Michael Jackson mix CD Dara has, I heard a pounding on the door. Clad in a towel, since my clothes were in my room down the hall, I answered the door very embarrased and it was the burly dad of the household below along with a burly surveyor to do an estimate on how much their house is worth. Great. Michael Jackson is still squealing in the background. I throw on some clothes and let the guy come in poke and around our apartment and take notes.
3. Summer is coming and I might have a nervous breakdown. Honestly. And only because of those fucking ice cream trucks. I was reading on my couch a short while ago reading, and could not concentrate, could only hear that never ending irritatingly chipper ice cream truck music. The stupid trucks park all over my neighborhood for hours at a time and play that looped chipper sample over and over again. It is all I can think about - how much I hate that noise. I remember reading some item in the NY Post about an old man who sued them last summer because of mental suffering or something. It puts so many people on edge. The worst type of public nuissance. What if all stores were allowed to blare the same sample over and over again all day long into the street. People would smash their fucking windows in. I get violent fantasies about torching those motherfucking ice cream trucks. And there is nothing you can do about this distracting, grating noise - nothing but clench your teeth in impotent rage and try to tune it out, try to focus on the book you are reading, but finally giving up, shutting your windows and blasting music - but yet still hearing that inescapable noise in the quieter parts of songs and in the silence between songs. I seriously need to get a pair of earplugs if I am to survive this summer.
2. This morning, after taking a leisurely shower and dancing around in my bathroom, singing along really loudly to some Michael Jackson mix CD Dara has, I heard a pounding on the door. Clad in a towel, since my clothes were in my room down the hall, I answered the door very embarrased and it was the burly dad of the household below along with a burly surveyor to do an estimate on how much their house is worth. Great. Michael Jackson is still squealing in the background. I throw on some clothes and let the guy come in poke and around our apartment and take notes.
3. Summer is coming and I might have a nervous breakdown. Honestly. And only because of those fucking ice cream trucks. I was reading on my couch a short while ago reading, and could not concentrate, could only hear that never ending irritatingly chipper ice cream truck music. The stupid trucks park all over my neighborhood for hours at a time and play that looped chipper sample over and over again. It is all I can think about - how much I hate that noise. I remember reading some item in the NY Post about an old man who sued them last summer because of mental suffering or something. It puts so many people on edge. The worst type of public nuissance. What if all stores were allowed to blare the same sample over and over again all day long into the street. People would smash their fucking windows in. I get violent fantasies about torching those motherfucking ice cream trucks. And there is nothing you can do about this distracting, grating noise - nothing but clench your teeth in impotent rage and try to tune it out, try to focus on the book you are reading, but finally giving up, shutting your windows and blasting music - but yet still hearing that inescapable noise in the quieter parts of songs and in the silence between songs. I seriously need to get a pair of earplugs if I am to survive this summer.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Yesterday, following Niki's good advice, I took Matt's number out of my phone. This should hopefully prevent any future drunken calling of him. Now, I just hope I don't run in to him for a long while so I don't have to hide out of shame.
It is a gray, rainy day - and I don't know if I have ever thought a gray day looked so beautiful, but honestly, I say this out of sheer joy, not any maudlin sense of depression - today, its grayness, and its mist of rain is fucking lovely. The relections in the puddles outside my building, the sound of soft rain through our open windows - these things wow me.
It is a gray, rainy day - and I don't know if I have ever thought a gray day looked so beautiful, but honestly, I say this out of sheer joy, not any maudlin sense of depression - today, its grayness, and its mist of rain is fucking lovely. The relections in the puddles outside my building, the sound of soft rain through our open windows - these things wow me.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Dear friends, I do not think many of you are aware of exactly how drunk I was when I composed that last entry, or maybe you had some clue by the large number of spelling and grammer mistakes. It's a story with many twists and turns, and why I feel the need to share my humiliation I don't know. I am American. This is the internet. What else am I going to do? Write a song about my dream of horses? Ha!
I was having a really good night, attending the Deitch openings with Joe who I haven't seen in a week and a half because his family's been in town. So there was lots of catching up, looking at pretty good art, and then hanging out in front of the Wooster Street space marvelling at how bright it still was at 7:30. And then I see the two figures when they are too close, right next to us, and I had sort of forgot that one day I would run into Matt. I just assumed that it would probably be at our neighborhood homo bar. Kevin and Matt are both really friendly, asked if we had seen Matt's work next door, and said they had to get some wine and went to get it. Joe and I left to go next door to look at Matt's two watercolor pieces of shantytowns in the show, really two very boring pieces that were shockingly selling for 600 and 800 - and later in the night, the gallery owner told Matt that lots of people seemed interested in his stuff, which sort of blew me away. Anyways at this gallery, after looking at Matt's stuff, I wanted to go back to the last gallery, maybe to talk to Matt and Kevin, and Joe says he is going to hang out in that gallery and try to find PBRs, even though they were out of them. I think he knew he was leaving and did not want to tell me for whatever reason that I let him know was fucking rude to leave me alone in SoHo having to talk to Matt and Kevin.
So yeah, back outside the gallery, I talk to Matt and Kevin about something or other. But as I am approaching them, Kevin tells Matt who is talking to two other people, "You should stop talking now." And I sighed and said, "About what? About the dog?" Kevin and I laughed, Matt seemed a little ill at ease. I talked to them about something or other. What the hell did I talk to them about? I talked to them a couple more times throughout the evening, while I hunted for Joe, wondering where he was. I at some point talked to just Matt and something said referenced the dog in passing, and I asked because I am way drunk by this time. I have bruises I don't know how I got - that is how drunk I was. And so I ask him if the dog was really the only reason. And he did that Matt shocked huff of my name, "Charlie!" said real fast in shock. And I pressed him again because I was really curious, I had him cornered and I was drunk. Laughing, he said, "Do you want me to reconsider?" And laughing is so cruel sometimes even if is done out of nervousness or the humor of the situation, it sounds derisive when you are on the recieving end of it. And then more blurs, I tried to find Joe once more, called Peter, told him what a maniac I was being, and then left, walking past Matt yet again on my way to the subway.
I get on the subway, way too drunk and way too sad to even notice what I am doing. And I look at the station names we are stopping at, places I had never heard of - and quickly I look at the map, trying to figure out where I am heading. I can't even figure out which line I am on, what are these names we are passing? I want to ask someone what line this is, where I am going, but I don't because I am too embarrased to ask which line I am on. I finally figure it out and see that I can walk a block to the JMZ at the next stop and take that to Brooklyn. I get off at the stop in the very bottom of Manhattan, wander around down by Wall Street trying to find the JMZ, get directions from quite a few police officers, since police are the only people who are on the streets in the financial district after business hours. Lost and lonely, thinking back to my interactions with Matt - I decide I am going to leave him a message. I did not even think that someone might pick up the phone. This is drunk thinking. Someone picked up the phone, I don't think I was Matt, and I said "No, no, I want to leave a message. I 'll call back." I called back, and the person picked up again, and I tried to explain how I wanted to leave a message and Matt grabbed the phone saying, "Charlie, you're talking to me! What do you want to say?" And what did I say, what did I want to say, what was I doing?
Eventually the phone got passed off to Kevin who was pretty cruel while Matt laughed in the background. I said, Fuck the JMZ and walked the thirty or so blocks up to 14th Street to catch the L, feeling miserable and knowing that it was all my fault, that if I had some self-control, I would not be feeling like a total idiot right now, and could possibly be thinking of how gracefully and cooly I acted seeing Matt for the first time, could have patted myself on the back. But I was not thinking this on that long walk. No, no, no, I was not. I was also cursing Joe for leaving me there alone to my own bad devices.
I got off at Bedford, ate some pizza, and then walked home, finally getting a hold of Joe, finding out that he just left without calling me, without saying good-bye, and told him how mean that was, told him about all the stupid things I did that evening. And then just talking about them, I wanted to talk to Matt again - yes, drunk thinking at its worst - I get off the phone with Joe quickly and call Matt and tell him that blah blah blah, and if you ever want to make out, you should let me know. He sounded surprised, of course, and was like, Um, yeah. This was around twelve. I passed out in my bed shortly after this, luckily to drunk to stay awake and brood about my stupidity. This is the good thing about getting really smashed, cause when you do really stupid stuff, which you always do when you are really smashed, instead of thinking about them long into the morning, your silly actions, you instead pass out drunk in your bed, or if you're lucky, someone else's.
Shortly after three this morning, I was woke up by Matt calling me. I was asleep, still drunk, and very confused. I answered it, and he said he was going to Metropolitian. He was some place loud and could not hear me, but he just kept saying Metropolitian. I lied in bed, really tired, weighing this option. Should I get dressed and go down to Metropolitian in the hopes that Matt is actually going to make it out there? I did not. Sleep seemed too nice an option, but I was glad to fall asleep with my self-esteem not as competely smashed as it was the first time I went to bed. However, I woke up this morning, regretting not going to Metropolitian, because dude, I want sex. I want sex with Matt. And if that had happened last night, I would be a very happy boy today. Or would I? Would I, intead, be racked with guilt?
And then I remember that stupid Frienster message, and had to send one apoligizing for being an ass. Again free unlimited booze = no self control on my part = bad news = embarrasment. Simple math.
Other things learned in the night: Kevin and Matt were indeed scared of Niki and her overzealous writing to them about their apartment. And remember how I am reading The Alexandria Quartet because it is Kevin's favorite book - well it is not. I was like, "Guess what I'm reading?" And I told him, and there was a blank look on his face. And I reminded him that when we met for pancakes he told me it was his favorite book. And he said, No, no it's not. He was reading it at the time, is what he claims he said. I remember differently. He never even finsihed Justine - the first novel in the series. The book suddenly lost a lot of its appeal. This must mean something. What? I am not sure.
I was having a really good night, attending the Deitch openings with Joe who I haven't seen in a week and a half because his family's been in town. So there was lots of catching up, looking at pretty good art, and then hanging out in front of the Wooster Street space marvelling at how bright it still was at 7:30. And then I see the two figures when they are too close, right next to us, and I had sort of forgot that one day I would run into Matt. I just assumed that it would probably be at our neighborhood homo bar. Kevin and Matt are both really friendly, asked if we had seen Matt's work next door, and said they had to get some wine and went to get it. Joe and I left to go next door to look at Matt's two watercolor pieces of shantytowns in the show, really two very boring pieces that were shockingly selling for 600 and 800 - and later in the night, the gallery owner told Matt that lots of people seemed interested in his stuff, which sort of blew me away. Anyways at this gallery, after looking at Matt's stuff, I wanted to go back to the last gallery, maybe to talk to Matt and Kevin, and Joe says he is going to hang out in that gallery and try to find PBRs, even though they were out of them. I think he knew he was leaving and did not want to tell me for whatever reason that I let him know was fucking rude to leave me alone in SoHo having to talk to Matt and Kevin.
So yeah, back outside the gallery, I talk to Matt and Kevin about something or other. But as I am approaching them, Kevin tells Matt who is talking to two other people, "You should stop talking now." And I sighed and said, "About what? About the dog?" Kevin and I laughed, Matt seemed a little ill at ease. I talked to them about something or other. What the hell did I talk to them about? I talked to them a couple more times throughout the evening, while I hunted for Joe, wondering where he was. I at some point talked to just Matt and something said referenced the dog in passing, and I asked because I am way drunk by this time. I have bruises I don't know how I got - that is how drunk I was. And so I ask him if the dog was really the only reason. And he did that Matt shocked huff of my name, "Charlie!" said real fast in shock. And I pressed him again because I was really curious, I had him cornered and I was drunk. Laughing, he said, "Do you want me to reconsider?" And laughing is so cruel sometimes even if is done out of nervousness or the humor of the situation, it sounds derisive when you are on the recieving end of it. And then more blurs, I tried to find Joe once more, called Peter, told him what a maniac I was being, and then left, walking past Matt yet again on my way to the subway.
I get on the subway, way too drunk and way too sad to even notice what I am doing. And I look at the station names we are stopping at, places I had never heard of - and quickly I look at the map, trying to figure out where I am heading. I can't even figure out which line I am on, what are these names we are passing? I want to ask someone what line this is, where I am going, but I don't because I am too embarrased to ask which line I am on. I finally figure it out and see that I can walk a block to the JMZ at the next stop and take that to Brooklyn. I get off at the stop in the very bottom of Manhattan, wander around down by Wall Street trying to find the JMZ, get directions from quite a few police officers, since police are the only people who are on the streets in the financial district after business hours. Lost and lonely, thinking back to my interactions with Matt - I decide I am going to leave him a message. I did not even think that someone might pick up the phone. This is drunk thinking. Someone picked up the phone, I don't think I was Matt, and I said "No, no, I want to leave a message. I 'll call back." I called back, and the person picked up again, and I tried to explain how I wanted to leave a message and Matt grabbed the phone saying, "Charlie, you're talking to me! What do you want to say?" And what did I say, what did I want to say, what was I doing?
Eventually the phone got passed off to Kevin who was pretty cruel while Matt laughed in the background. I said, Fuck the JMZ and walked the thirty or so blocks up to 14th Street to catch the L, feeling miserable and knowing that it was all my fault, that if I had some self-control, I would not be feeling like a total idiot right now, and could possibly be thinking of how gracefully and cooly I acted seeing Matt for the first time, could have patted myself on the back. But I was not thinking this on that long walk. No, no, no, I was not. I was also cursing Joe for leaving me there alone to my own bad devices.
I got off at Bedford, ate some pizza, and then walked home, finally getting a hold of Joe, finding out that he just left without calling me, without saying good-bye, and told him how mean that was, told him about all the stupid things I did that evening. And then just talking about them, I wanted to talk to Matt again - yes, drunk thinking at its worst - I get off the phone with Joe quickly and call Matt and tell him that blah blah blah, and if you ever want to make out, you should let me know. He sounded surprised, of course, and was like, Um, yeah. This was around twelve. I passed out in my bed shortly after this, luckily to drunk to stay awake and brood about my stupidity. This is the good thing about getting really smashed, cause when you do really stupid stuff, which you always do when you are really smashed, instead of thinking about them long into the morning, your silly actions, you instead pass out drunk in your bed, or if you're lucky, someone else's.
Shortly after three this morning, I was woke up by Matt calling me. I was asleep, still drunk, and very confused. I answered it, and he said he was going to Metropolitian. He was some place loud and could not hear me, but he just kept saying Metropolitian. I lied in bed, really tired, weighing this option. Should I get dressed and go down to Metropolitian in the hopes that Matt is actually going to make it out there? I did not. Sleep seemed too nice an option, but I was glad to fall asleep with my self-esteem not as competely smashed as it was the first time I went to bed. However, I woke up this morning, regretting not going to Metropolitian, because dude, I want sex. I want sex with Matt. And if that had happened last night, I would be a very happy boy today. Or would I? Would I, intead, be racked with guilt?
And then I remember that stupid Frienster message, and had to send one apoligizing for being an ass. Again free unlimited booze = no self control on my part = bad news = embarrasment. Simple math.
Other things learned in the night: Kevin and Matt were indeed scared of Niki and her overzealous writing to them about their apartment. And remember how I am reading The Alexandria Quartet because it is Kevin's favorite book - well it is not. I was like, "Guess what I'm reading?" And I told him, and there was a blank look on his face. And I reminded him that when we met for pancakes he told me it was his favorite book. And he said, No, no it's not. He was reading it at the time, is what he claims he said. I remember differently. He never even finsihed Justine - the first novel in the series. The book suddenly lost a lot of its appeal. This must mean something. What? I am not sure.
Saturday, April 24, 2004
Gee, what really is there to say? I just ate a slice of bbq chicken pizza and could tell you more about my night except I very well might cry. I went to galleries in SoHo with Joe, mainly the Deitch Projects spaces, got thoroughly trashed, and eventually ran into Kevin and Matt - Matt, who asked me if I saw his stuff at the gallery next door - did not, went and examined the two pieces, which were selling for 600 and 800, and felt like the worst possible shit imaginable seeing and ex's mediocre art selling for so much.
Later in the evening, after he basically blew me off for making too big a deal out of God knows what - after I approched him and Kevin and Kevin said, "You should stop talking now." And I asked him what he should stop talking about - was it the dog? And it was. I tried to ask him if the dog was it - the only reason - and irratably, he said yes. Did he want me to reconsider, he asked as if I had asked him to sipp piss. I eventually ran away - Joe had ditched me - and later on - lost in downtown NY, I called him, hoping to get his machine. I told him this and called back - this time getting Kevin who laughed at me, and told me I just wanted to sound cute, and that Matt did not like me - and all the while Matt was laughing heartily in the background, and I really wanted to throw myself in front of traffic - I have never felt like such a piece of shit in all my life. And so yes, why, oh why, did I just send this to Matt:
dear matt:
si, is what nora said.
and yes, yes - i should not be writing you - this
is uncalled for, especially after the strong
signals, so strong, of tonight with you asking
me, "reconsider?" and then laughing heartily
while i talked to kevin on your phone.
so yes, why am i writing you? i don't know.
horny? very possibly. but yes, yes. nora and
james know. maybe i had been waiting to run in
to you, and yes, maybe i still do like you - yes,
yes, all wrong - i know - fuck notions of right
and wrong. i get excited when i see you - saw
you tonight - and if you ever want to make out,
you should call me (917-XXX-XXXX). yes, your art
sucks big fat balls, was the worst pieces in that
show, of the night - but i still like you -
desire to suck those lousy balls - and if you
ever change your mind - yes, you should contact
me. basically, this is what i would have said on
your machine. now i have had some pizza and am a
little less loquacious - am more hesitant - but
you get the idea, i am sure you do, you are
slighly intelligent - and yes, yes yes.
charlie
Later in the evening, after he basically blew me off for making too big a deal out of God knows what - after I approched him and Kevin and Kevin said, "You should stop talking now." And I asked him what he should stop talking about - was it the dog? And it was. I tried to ask him if the dog was it - the only reason - and irratably, he said yes. Did he want me to reconsider, he asked as if I had asked him to sipp piss. I eventually ran away - Joe had ditched me - and later on - lost in downtown NY, I called him, hoping to get his machine. I told him this and called back - this time getting Kevin who laughed at me, and told me I just wanted to sound cute, and that Matt did not like me - and all the while Matt was laughing heartily in the background, and I really wanted to throw myself in front of traffic - I have never felt like such a piece of shit in all my life. And so yes, why, oh why, did I just send this to Matt:
dear matt:
si, is what nora said.
and yes, yes - i should not be writing you - this
is uncalled for, especially after the strong
signals, so strong, of tonight with you asking
me, "reconsider?" and then laughing heartily
while i talked to kevin on your phone.
so yes, why am i writing you? i don't know.
horny? very possibly. but yes, yes. nora and
james know. maybe i had been waiting to run in
to you, and yes, maybe i still do like you - yes,
yes, all wrong - i know - fuck notions of right
and wrong. i get excited when i see you - saw
you tonight - and if you ever want to make out,
you should call me (917-XXX-XXXX). yes, your art
sucks big fat balls, was the worst pieces in that
show, of the night - but i still like you -
desire to suck those lousy balls - and if you
ever change your mind - yes, you should contact
me. basically, this is what i would have said on
your machine. now i have had some pizza and am a
little less loquacious - am more hesitant - but
you get the idea, i am sure you do, you are
slighly intelligent - and yes, yes yes.
charlie
Even though it was just yesterday that I resolved to myself, Never, never again will I drink coffee, just a short fifteen minutes ago, probably less than twenty-four hours after I made that resolution to myself, I was drinking coffee. However, it was only one cup - and I am going to try to limit myself to just one cup a day, as opposed to the usual three or four.
I could not give it up cold turkey. I had a raging headache that I knew was from the lack of coffee, and sure enough, as soon as I had that cup, headache gone.
Right now, I am reading the first novel in Lawrence Durrell's The Alexandria Quartet, Justine. I alternately like and dislike it, both usually for the same reason - the tone that ex-pat literature tends to take, an outrageous self-absorption with one's own social circle in an alien setting. There are obviously problems of how the Other is regarded, which I try to ignore, try to remind myself that I don't have to stomach everything the narrator says, and that bad politics does not a bad book make. This after reading Lionel Trilling's essay, "Hemingway and his Critics," which reminded me of this point that I sometimes make secondary to concerns of the politics of a novel:
One almost wishes to say to an author like Hemingway, "You have no duty, no responsibility. Literature, in a political sense, is not in the least important. Wherever the sword is drawn it is mightier than the pen. Whatever you can do as a man, you can win no wars as an artist."
Very obviously this would not be the whole truth, yet saying it might counteract the crude and literal theory of art to which, in varying measure, we have all been training ourselves for a decade. We have concieved the artist to be a man perpetually on the spot, who must always report to us his precise moral and political latitude and longitude. Not that for a moment we would consider shaping our own political ideas by his; but we who of course turn for political guidance to newspapers, theorists, or historians, create the fiction that thousands--not, to be sure, ourselves--are waiting on the influence of the creative artist, and we stand by to see if he is leading us as he properly should. We consider then that we have exalted the importance of art, and perhaps we have. But in doing so we have forgotten how complex and subtle art is and, if it is to be "used," how very difficult it is to use it. (14)
While it is very easy to see Harold Bloom making the same argument, something that makes me hesitant about embracing this totally, Trilling is so thoughtful and deliberate in what he says. Lately, I have really come under the sway of Trilling and his mode of literary criticism. He writes really lovely essays that from criticisms of specific works sprawl out and make these really intelligent observations about life, society, and art's relationship to both. And now I see what people are mourning when they are complaining about the absence of something from current literary criticism. So much of it is incredibly banal and couched in academic parlance to hide that fact. Maybe this is just because I read a book of essays about Portnoy's Complaint, not one of which was not terribly flawed.
But anyways, even though the narrator does make the occaisonal comment about the Orient to induce cringes, there are remarkable instances of beauty in this book. In ex-pat lit, you see this loneliness in a vibrant society that is human loneliness magnified to a greater and more visible extent. These characters are the gay kids in the country, the punks in the suburbs - they don't fit into their surroundings (or they choose not to be viewing themselves as distinct from these Others), and go about creating their own community. And so there are some really touching moments when they talk about love or engage in it.
And really, can I let you in on a little secret and let you know the reason I started to read this book in the first place? It is because many moons ago, when I first met Kevin he told me that The Alexandria Quartet was his favorite book, and I had not heard of it and was a little embarrased by that, as I usually am when I am not familiar with books someone is talking about. And more often than not, when it is someone I think is cool and/or intelligent, I will usually end up eventually picking up this book just to erase my unfamiliarity with it. But also, I really like reading the favorite books of boys I have or have had crushes on. Sean's favorite writer was Raymond Carver, who I then read, and then came to love, and came to like Sean all the more because he liked this writer. And with this book, during those poetic meditations on human relations, I think that wow, this is what Kevin said was his favorite book, he read these same pages and liked them. And maybe the book is sort of re-sparking an interest in Kevin, as if he wrote the book himself. And yes, this is silly, to feel like you know what type of person someone is better after reading their favorite book, but hey, when did I ever claim to not be silly?
I could not give it up cold turkey. I had a raging headache that I knew was from the lack of coffee, and sure enough, as soon as I had that cup, headache gone.
Right now, I am reading the first novel in Lawrence Durrell's The Alexandria Quartet, Justine. I alternately like and dislike it, both usually for the same reason - the tone that ex-pat literature tends to take, an outrageous self-absorption with one's own social circle in an alien setting. There are obviously problems of how the Other is regarded, which I try to ignore, try to remind myself that I don't have to stomach everything the narrator says, and that bad politics does not a bad book make. This after reading Lionel Trilling's essay, "Hemingway and his Critics," which reminded me of this point that I sometimes make secondary to concerns of the politics of a novel:
One almost wishes to say to an author like Hemingway, "You have no duty, no responsibility. Literature, in a political sense, is not in the least important. Wherever the sword is drawn it is mightier than the pen. Whatever you can do as a man, you can win no wars as an artist."
Very obviously this would not be the whole truth, yet saying it might counteract the crude and literal theory of art to which, in varying measure, we have all been training ourselves for a decade. We have concieved the artist to be a man perpetually on the spot, who must always report to us his precise moral and political latitude and longitude. Not that for a moment we would consider shaping our own political ideas by his; but we who of course turn for political guidance to newspapers, theorists, or historians, create the fiction that thousands--not, to be sure, ourselves--are waiting on the influence of the creative artist, and we stand by to see if he is leading us as he properly should. We consider then that we have exalted the importance of art, and perhaps we have. But in doing so we have forgotten how complex and subtle art is and, if it is to be "used," how very difficult it is to use it. (14)
While it is very easy to see Harold Bloom making the same argument, something that makes me hesitant about embracing this totally, Trilling is so thoughtful and deliberate in what he says. Lately, I have really come under the sway of Trilling and his mode of literary criticism. He writes really lovely essays that from criticisms of specific works sprawl out and make these really intelligent observations about life, society, and art's relationship to both. And now I see what people are mourning when they are complaining about the absence of something from current literary criticism. So much of it is incredibly banal and couched in academic parlance to hide that fact. Maybe this is just because I read a book of essays about Portnoy's Complaint, not one of which was not terribly flawed.
But anyways, even though the narrator does make the occaisonal comment about the Orient to induce cringes, there are remarkable instances of beauty in this book. In ex-pat lit, you see this loneliness in a vibrant society that is human loneliness magnified to a greater and more visible extent. These characters are the gay kids in the country, the punks in the suburbs - they don't fit into their surroundings (or they choose not to be viewing themselves as distinct from these Others), and go about creating their own community. And so there are some really touching moments when they talk about love or engage in it.
And really, can I let you in on a little secret and let you know the reason I started to read this book in the first place? It is because many moons ago, when I first met Kevin he told me that The Alexandria Quartet was his favorite book, and I had not heard of it and was a little embarrased by that, as I usually am when I am not familiar with books someone is talking about. And more often than not, when it is someone I think is cool and/or intelligent, I will usually end up eventually picking up this book just to erase my unfamiliarity with it. But also, I really like reading the favorite books of boys I have or have had crushes on. Sean's favorite writer was Raymond Carver, who I then read, and then came to love, and came to like Sean all the more because he liked this writer. And with this book, during those poetic meditations on human relations, I think that wow, this is what Kevin said was his favorite book, he read these same pages and liked them. And maybe the book is sort of re-sparking an interest in Kevin, as if he wrote the book himself. And yes, this is silly, to feel like you know what type of person someone is better after reading their favorite book, but hey, when did I ever claim to not be silly?
Friday, April 23, 2004
So last night, I went to Metropolitian with Peter, hung out on the patio, drinking beer, talking about wanting to go places other than Brooklyn, and looking up to see the beautiful grapevine that hangs over the patio start to sprout flowers. I started to gush to Peter about how I had talked to my crush, Evan, the day before. Then we go inside to get more beer and who is at the bar, shimmering in sparkly eye shadow? None other then the just discussed Evan, a boy who I have never seen out at bars, let alone my neighborhood homo bar. I was more than a little excited and gushed to Evan about God knows what.
While talking with him, I found out some really sad news though. Yesterday, one of my favorite co-workers, Jessica, was fired. I was sad and said soemthing like this, "Oh, that's really sad - she was my favorite person there." And Evan said something similiar and then scratched it, saying except for me, of course. And oh my god, I am so obsessed with this boy. But, Jessica. This breaks my heart - she was a short five days from being unionized - and moments like this, I really hate the Strand. Last time at work, one of the managers, MS, kept telling the other managers how they needed to write more employees up. This is also the same anti-union manager, who has been trying to convince people that it is because of the union and people's feeling of job security that merit raises aren't given out anymore. Er, what? I so want to punch this little man. I have yet to learn the circumstances of Jessica's firing, but I feel like this little imp must have been involved. I really don't feel like inflicting violence on people often, but this person is so deserving of it, and violence seems like such a nice fantasy when you are stuck in a powerless position (i.e. being his subordinate) and can't tell the person what a fucking douchebag they are and how stupid their facial hair looks. And yes, I did just say douchebag.
But, back to Evan and nice crush fantasies. When he was leaving, I talked to him some more, this time about what homo bars he frequents - and told him he should go to the Cock with me on Monday, and he said yeah and seemed excited. I am going to make this boy my friend. I am so excited. I heart new gay male friends. I crotch Evan. And that is a Jessica phrase - that is why I will miss her. I once asked her if she hearted a boy, and she said, No, I crotch him. How fucking cool! But yes, even though I had a shitty morning and day yesterday, due to nothing so much as my own lethargy, my night turned out all right - I read lots of The Waves, saw Kill Bill v.2, almost finished The Waves but then went out and got hammered and talked to a boy that makes me giddy.
While talking with him, I found out some really sad news though. Yesterday, one of my favorite co-workers, Jessica, was fired. I was sad and said soemthing like this, "Oh, that's really sad - she was my favorite person there." And Evan said something similiar and then scratched it, saying except for me, of course. And oh my god, I am so obsessed with this boy. But, Jessica. This breaks my heart - she was a short five days from being unionized - and moments like this, I really hate the Strand. Last time at work, one of the managers, MS, kept telling the other managers how they needed to write more employees up. This is also the same anti-union manager, who has been trying to convince people that it is because of the union and people's feeling of job security that merit raises aren't given out anymore. Er, what? I so want to punch this little man. I have yet to learn the circumstances of Jessica's firing, but I feel like this little imp must have been involved. I really don't feel like inflicting violence on people often, but this person is so deserving of it, and violence seems like such a nice fantasy when you are stuck in a powerless position (i.e. being his subordinate) and can't tell the person what a fucking douchebag they are and how stupid their facial hair looks. And yes, I did just say douchebag.
But, back to Evan and nice crush fantasies. When he was leaving, I talked to him some more, this time about what homo bars he frequents - and told him he should go to the Cock with me on Monday, and he said yeah and seemed excited. I am going to make this boy my friend. I am so excited. I heart new gay male friends. I crotch Evan. And that is a Jessica phrase - that is why I will miss her. I once asked her if she hearted a boy, and she said, No, I crotch him. How fucking cool! But yes, even though I had a shitty morning and day yesterday, due to nothing so much as my own lethargy, my night turned out all right - I read lots of The Waves, saw Kill Bill v.2, almost finished The Waves but then went out and got hammered and talked to a boy that makes me giddy.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
some lines from whitman
I left work early this evening so I could come home and watch The OC, and watch it I did, curled up on my couch, a cliche, stuffing my face with chinese food and sighing in sympathy as Seth Coen was dumped for some petty reason.
I don't think Screech counts, but this is one of the first instances on the television I've seen where there is such a sensitive guy that you are supposed to feel sympathy with - that is actually cool. So Seth Coen sat there on his bed at the end of the show listening to really sappy indie rock and I think a sympathetic "Oh" may even have left my lips.
Today at work, I talked, finally, to the crush who may or may not have been mentioned in here, and if he hasn't then that is a shame. His name is Evan. He has red hair. He is strikingly beautiful. I can only think of one more beautiful boy in this city. And this is a city filled with them so that is saying a lot. He has an outrageously blue pair of eyes and he is so skinny, dresses really sharp - tonight, he was wearing a pinstripe jacket, a partially unbuttoned shirt with a loose tie, and a pair of brown pants. I saw the little orange hairs on his chest while we were talking tonight in the poetry aisle. I was basically staring into space, killing time, and he appeared asking me if I had seen a book by Rene Char. I hadn't. But I asked him about this poet. He told me about him and then we talked about others. He really likes French poets. I laughed at this because it is eating chinese food while watching sappy teen shows - it is cliche. Basically, I've never read any of the people he's loves, nor has he read the people I love save Whitman and Stevens. It was so cute, talking to my crush about poetry of all things.
And my god, his voice - I think it may be the most beautiful thing about him. Lately, I am realizing I have a fetish for beautiful slightly femme voices, or just voices that crisply accent each syllable they say. And each time he was talking, I kept on trying to figure out whose voice his sounded like, and really, I am not sure if it is anyone specific - it just be some of these same patterns of speech that some gay males have. He sounds a bit like David from Mirror Mirror. And nothing is ever going to come of this crush. The Strand rumor mill told me he has a boyfriend and I am so fine with that - it makes this such a pressure-free, pure crush - not wanting anything, just to gaze and peek at him from across the store and occaionally to talk to him, and feel that giddiness. Because there is something so satisfying about that. The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,/ To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,/ You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.
And I am like Whitman, a voyeur if you want to make it crass, but I just love feeling that there is something so beautiful, something so lovely, and that it is human like I, and to feel the giddiness that life can be so magical, that the sight of something, another person, can stir these things in me.
I don't think Screech counts, but this is one of the first instances on the television I've seen where there is such a sensitive guy that you are supposed to feel sympathy with - that is actually cool. So Seth Coen sat there on his bed at the end of the show listening to really sappy indie rock and I think a sympathetic "Oh" may even have left my lips.
Today at work, I talked, finally, to the crush who may or may not have been mentioned in here, and if he hasn't then that is a shame. His name is Evan. He has red hair. He is strikingly beautiful. I can only think of one more beautiful boy in this city. And this is a city filled with them so that is saying a lot. He has an outrageously blue pair of eyes and he is so skinny, dresses really sharp - tonight, he was wearing a pinstripe jacket, a partially unbuttoned shirt with a loose tie, and a pair of brown pants. I saw the little orange hairs on his chest while we were talking tonight in the poetry aisle. I was basically staring into space, killing time, and he appeared asking me if I had seen a book by Rene Char. I hadn't. But I asked him about this poet. He told me about him and then we talked about others. He really likes French poets. I laughed at this because it is eating chinese food while watching sappy teen shows - it is cliche. Basically, I've never read any of the people he's loves, nor has he read the people I love save Whitman and Stevens. It was so cute, talking to my crush about poetry of all things.
And my god, his voice - I think it may be the most beautiful thing about him. Lately, I am realizing I have a fetish for beautiful slightly femme voices, or just voices that crisply accent each syllable they say. And each time he was talking, I kept on trying to figure out whose voice his sounded like, and really, I am not sure if it is anyone specific - it just be some of these same patterns of speech that some gay males have. He sounds a bit like David from Mirror Mirror. And nothing is ever going to come of this crush. The Strand rumor mill told me he has a boyfriend and I am so fine with that - it makes this such a pressure-free, pure crush - not wanting anything, just to gaze and peek at him from across the store and occaionally to talk to him, and feel that giddiness. Because there is something so satisfying about that. The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,/ To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,/ You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.
And I am like Whitman, a voyeur if you want to make it crass, but I just love feeling that there is something so beautiful, something so lovely, and that it is human like I, and to feel the giddiness that life can be so magical, that the sight of something, another person, can stir these things in me.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
jumping through hoops
Walgreens called me yesterday after I dropped off my prescription. They need my doctor to call Aetna and expaling why it is medically necessary and pre-authorize the prescription. So this morning, I made calls to Walgreens and my doctor. I am still waiting to see how that goes.
I called Hunter today since I have not heard from them to check on the status of my application. There is a hold on my application. Oy, here we again. Doesn't this sound familiar? But wait, it gets better. The reason for the hold this time around is not because they don't know how to evaluate my transcript without grades, but because appearantly, unbeknownst to me, I attended four classes at Hunter in the Spring of 2002 and have not paid tuition for that semster. Well that is just great, considering I don't even think I stepped foot in the state of New York in the year 2002. I was utterly shocked when the admissions woman told me this. Then, I remembered that abandoned plan to go to school to Hunter that semster through National Student Exchange but deciding not to months before and taking that semester off. So then I had to talk to about four different offices, Registrar, Bursar, someone else, and then finally a helpful woman with a clue who explained to me that I was going to have to get the History and English departments to say that I was not in the classes that Hunter is trying to charge me for.
Then she collects those official letters that I still have to get them to write for me, mind you, and sends them to the Bursar, who then does something, who then sends that info along to the Registrar, who then does something, who then sends that along to Admissions, who then lets me into school - a process that the helpful woman estimated would take four to six weeks. So this Thursday, I plan on making as ass out of myself to the English and History departments at the school I hope to attend this fall, trying to explain to them this situation, and trying to get them to write these letters. But the good news is that the woman told me that I would be admitted after all this was taken care of - that all I needed to do was fill out a readmit form since appearantly I was already a Hunter student. Yeah, how about "The Swan", eh? Is that show sad or what?
I just ate a whole bag of M and M's.
I called Hunter today since I have not heard from them to check on the status of my application. There is a hold on my application. Oy, here we again. Doesn't this sound familiar? But wait, it gets better. The reason for the hold this time around is not because they don't know how to evaluate my transcript without grades, but because appearantly, unbeknownst to me, I attended four classes at Hunter in the Spring of 2002 and have not paid tuition for that semster. Well that is just great, considering I don't even think I stepped foot in the state of New York in the year 2002. I was utterly shocked when the admissions woman told me this. Then, I remembered that abandoned plan to go to school to Hunter that semster through National Student Exchange but deciding not to months before and taking that semester off. So then I had to talk to about four different offices, Registrar, Bursar, someone else, and then finally a helpful woman with a clue who explained to me that I was going to have to get the History and English departments to say that I was not in the classes that Hunter is trying to charge me for.
Then she collects those official letters that I still have to get them to write for me, mind you, and sends them to the Bursar, who then does something, who then sends that info along to the Registrar, who then does something, who then sends that along to Admissions, who then lets me into school - a process that the helpful woman estimated would take four to six weeks. So this Thursday, I plan on making as ass out of myself to the English and History departments at the school I hope to attend this fall, trying to explain to them this situation, and trying to get them to write these letters. But the good news is that the woman told me that I would be admitted after all this was taken care of - that all I needed to do was fill out a readmit form since appearantly I was already a Hunter student. Yeah, how about "The Swan", eh? Is that show sad or what?
I just ate a whole bag of M and M's.
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