from a letter from Saul Bellow to Arno Karlen on 8/17/61 that is in this week's New Yorker:

Everyone is writing "Ulysses" all day long, within himself, and when we speak we speak sentences out of an inward context - only the tip of the iceberg appearing above the surface. So that you heard only the clause beginning with "but," and not what preceded it.

What I should have said to you about being a writer would have gone something like this: One has the choice now of coming before the world as a writer or actually being one. The Mailers and the Angries are dissatisfied with what you call the rapping on the cell wall, and they have decided to make a public appearance in the writer's role.

420

Woke up late and exchanged some emails with my bosses at work about transferring to another department, to working in events, which may be less money, which may be less steady, but which would also be more fun, less early morning weekend shifts, and which would also be a change and an escape from the office I have been in for a year and a half now. We'll see what happens with this when I go in to work again on Friday, slightly worried about it, but also feeling quite liberated now that I have put it out there that I no longer want to work in my department. There is more and I would like to talk about it, but let's leave it at that as talking about work subjects on the www is never good form and can only have bad consequences.

Next subject. Today is beautiful and after these emails were sent out, I smoked a bowl because it is a certain day and went out to do some errands and to go to the gym. I got on the elliptical machine at the gym and got really into it in my stoned state and watched absolutely horrified an episode of "16 and Pregnant" on MTV and really began to wonder about where society was headed. I tried to lift some weights after that but found that a bit too taxing and requiring more focus than I was capable of mustering.

I went into the steam room, which was lacking in actual steam. Faces became more and more visible, features did. The few of us kept on looking to the temperature regulator that controls when more steam will come on. We all wanted to hide ourselves, to be shrouded in mist, freed from seeing each other, seeing ourselves. We wanted to be shapeless. An older man with werewolf toenails pressed desperately against the temperature regulator hoping to make the steam come on. People were too sad looking in the light of the steam room and it just felt like a bacteria trap with its lukewarm temperature. There had been this really sexy guy seated next to me and that he became more and more visible was not a problem. His back reminded me of Taylor Lautner, perhaps an association inspired by the old man's werewolf-like toenails. He was about my age and seemed too much of a peer, too nice somehow, for me to be overtly sexual with him.

I moved to the sauna because I wanted some heat and to relax. He moved as well and was soon seated next to me. It was the two of us alone in there and we kept on shyly looking out of the corners of our eyes but wouldn't let our eyes meet. I wanted to start chatting him up but I was stoned and it seemed like the most difficult and unnatural thing in the world. He left. Some older man came in and sat across from me with legs wide open so I could see his hard dick underneath his towel. I smiled. He started touching himself. I did as well. Taylor Lautner came back and touched himself. The guy across from me left to go to the steamroom with some other sexy daddy, leaving me alone again with this cute guy. He walked over to me, rewrapping his towel, huge beautiful boner for me to see. He made some motions with his eyes for me to follow him into the steamroom. I did. It was crowded. I ended up sitting between him and werewolf toenails who was jerking off and looking at me real hungry and I wanted him to look elsewhere. His gaze made me too self-conscious, made me think of him rather than Taylor Lautner next to me. I couldn't deal, was too stoned, and had spent far too long in these heated rooms already. I took a shower, put La Roux on my headphones, ate a big burger across the street, and made my way home, unsure about a lot but really quite happy about regardless. I am moving in with Jacob in June. We are not sure if we are going to stay in my apartment or find a new one. I have to wait and see how things go with my job this week, make sure I still have one at the end of this week. But I am feeling freer and freer. My rent is going to be cut in half. I am going to live with this boy I am in love with. I am going to be working less and hopefully working a more fun job. I am going to go the beach a lot this summer. I am going to try to get my bike ready for summer bike rides tonight. I am listening to La Roux again, having downloaded her as well as the new LCD Soundsystem and Caribou, am really into all this beautiful dance music, really want to dance tonight, but don't know of any place to do so, and know of some fun dance parties the next two nights so am thinking I should maybe just store my dancing desire for those parties.

A muted red streak running horizontal across one stretch of the sky, day's last explosion of color, the firework show over until tomorrow, dusk settling it, darkness pulling up the covers, getting comfy. Two twin steeples silhouetted in the distance, a church I have walked past before. Foregrounded against the not yet totally dark sky are dark diagonal lines of factory machinery at cement plants nearby, beautiful looking. There are some trees with black, leafless limbs, spring still in its early stages, that look so gorgeous, almost heartbreakingly so, against the sky edging its way between day and night. These scenes really take my breath away, dusk always the most beautiful part of the day for me, how absolutely delicate and fragile and flimsy the light is, how in not even ten minutes this little hint of light in the sky will be gone, this magical barely lit feeling, and the luminescence of otherwise ordinary objects will be over. This beauty really pushes me to the edge, swells me with feeling, and the feeling breaks my heart sometimes, more often warms it, but the reason for both effects is the same - some knowledge of the temporal nature of things, of how transient beauty and life and all of it is - the quickness with which light shifts and in turn shifts the way things are perceived, how for a span of minutes certain objects will absolutely glow, will bounce off the skyline, how briefly this lasts and how quickly it passes.

These were the thoughts I was thinking moments ago as I walked to the bodega to find something to appease the gods of my very finicky stomach. This volcano is spitting out most offerings, accepting few. I purchased some pasta per my doctor's suggestion today, telling her I was getting real sick of eating Triscuits, but how it was the only thing my body could stomach eating. Since Friday, I have barely left my apartment save for brief trips to the store to get food or stomach medicine or today's trip to the doctor, and perhaps that might also be why this glimpse of dusk impacted me so much on this walk, why I found it so outrageously beautiful. I'm not sure what is wrong with my stomach, the doctor didn't really know for sure either, but since it seems to be fading, she suggested just waiting it out, which I am fine with. I've eaten more food today than I have in the past four and I've actually taken some solid poops today; I am feeling better. Because I go to a gay health clinic, they suggested that it was either from either eating something or from rimming someone. I told them it was from eating something, that I haven't rimmed anyone in months.

The one benefit to being sick is that I have really been enjoying movies in a way I have not been able to do at home in a while. At home, I am normally to willing to be distracted by the numerous devices around me - my fridge, my phone, my computer - and don't totally get absorbed in what I am watching. But over the last few days, I have barely even had the energy to watch something on my tv, and so when I did, I certainly had no energy or desire to be looking at things online at the same time or texting someone or looking at Grindr. I can't wait for my stomach to normalize again though, to be able to have an appetite and eat whatever I want, and go out and enjoy the day and not need to be close by my toilet. I want to take shits and not look at their consistency, their lack of it, and wonder about the state of my stomach, looking for clues in toilet bowls.

The sky is dark now, has been so for a while. I have set water to boil and will see if my stomach will accept this offering of pasta.

Yesterday, I was sitting on the Christopher Street Pier with Jacob. We were drinking vodka and taking in the unseasonal but very welcome ninety degree weather, lying out there shirtless, me with a book I wasn't reading, and the two of us looking at all the sexy men around us, talking about living together, about our trip to Milwaukee, about dogs. Looking at all these cut bodies, I was aware of my stoner/winter schlubiness and resolved to join a gym on Friday, payday. Today, I left work early because it is so boring there and was so nice outside today, was the last of these insanely hot days before we go back to normal spring weather. I went out to the pier again, ran into a couple people I knew, and did not read from my book again, too distracted with the sights around me, with the daydreams in my head. I left there, bought some running shoes, and rejoined the gym I used to belong to. It is expensive, but I know I'll go there. It's close to my work and full of sexy men and a naughty steamroom. The steamroom is incentive for me to go there, a treat for working out. I ran and lifted some weights and then went to go sit in the steamroom. Immediately, this guy scooted several feet over to sit next to me, starting jerking off next to me and looking at me. I scooted over away from him a bit but he kept on staring and I was trying my best not to look at him, to cut off this interaction by being cold and distant, hopefully making this creep move on. After a few minutes, I looked over to the side to try to steal a glance at him and saw that he was actually sexy and younger than I thought. This changed things. I looked at him, looked at him stroking his dick, smiled. He scooted closer. I started jerking off as well. He began to jerk me off as I stared at and touched his muscley body. One of the guys that works in the locker room came in to collect the towels strewn about. Both of us quickly covered ourselves. There was a boner poking out from beneath my towel. First day back at the gym and already slutting it up in the steamroom, not what I had planned on doing. I left the steamroom, showered, and saw Bob in front of the sinks. He gave me a knowing look. He knew that I left the gym floor a long, long time before and had clearly spent that time cruising the steamroom. I put Niki Minaj on my headphones and walked toward the subway, feeling really, really good.

Easter

It is Easter. I was raised Catholic and so this day has a lot of symbolism for me. I am not always aware of when it is going to happen, a week ago was asked to dinner for Easter by my mom and I had to tell her I had no clue when that was and she told me it was a week from then, what is now today, and I said yes, and today I ate dinner with my family at some really stiff steakhouse in Midtown. I worked today and would occasionally get glimpses of people lying out in their swimsuits along the Westside Highway from some of the room windows. I got a little bummed, more than a little, having to be in this job, any job really on such a beautiful day, a weekend day too, having to work bringing me down, and thoughts about how I needed to remove that feeling from my life, had to get a new job where I would not have to be there at 7 am in the mornings on such a lovely Sunday when I should be one of those people out on the Westside Highway lying around shirtless, soaking up this amazing spring day that we were privy to today, the blossoms energetic and popping all over these streets. People showing skin and these buds showing their blossoms - spring - and since I have become a little more involved with the Radical Faeries, the idea of Easter, of its pagan origins, this celebration of rebirth and new things that Christianity had to anthropomorphize in the resurrected body of Jesus, here it is again on this city streets, there it is in my bed.

And so there is the desire as well to bloom again, to renew the things latent in me suppressed for whatever reasons, be they seasonal, economic necessity of having to work, or otherwise. Jacob fucked me last night, Easter morning technically. It was the first time he had fucked me and it meant a lot to me. I had wanted it to happen for a while, did not like these clearly defined sexual roles that had been established, am not used to being the top role in a relationship, really wanted him to fuck me, to be thrown around, taken down. And for whatever reasons, my fickle asshole, my often weird feeling bowels, or just the circumstance of habit, it had yet to occur, was becoming a thing that I was aware of, that it was a barrier we would have to one day cros, and it happened naturally. And it was really nice to get fucked by this boy that I am loving more and more. I became happy that the roles were more fluid, more balanced, before had been about worried that it was a sexual dynamic based on size and age. It is Easter. I had dinner with my family today. I did not tell them that my boyfriend that I am trying to get to move in with me fucked me for the first time since we have been seeing each other and how insanely happy it made me. This is what I would have liked to talk about at dinner, how my asshole still felt pleasure at being stretched out last night, yesterday the first time I had been fucked in many, many months, how there at that table we were eating at, boring steakhouse with terrible art on the walls and way too dim lighting, that I was thinking of a dick in my ass, of a boy I love, and of renewal, of things happening, blooming, of change.

Fun in the Sun

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A Well Made Bed

The guy's apartment was in one of those massive apartment complexes on West End Avenue. I thought that I had been there before. Something about the place looked familiar, however he did not. The apartment was like that of lot of old people's. Things were neat, wooden furniture seemed too polished, everything in its place, nothing lying around, no mess of papers, framed photographs on side tables. I really had the sense that I had been in that apartment before but sometimes things just look that way, like some place you have been before. But also I wondered if maybe I have not been in so many random apartments of men at this point that I may not even remember people. Had I maybe seen this man years ago and blurred his face together with that of so many other random men? I wasn't sure. He was quite old, had stitches down the front of his chest like he had had heart surgery recently. He was bald and had really nice eyes, really soft and flabby skin, loose, and yet real pleasant to touch. He sucked my dick and kissed my feet in a way that made me look at them like they were really beautiful, made me kind of see what he saw. We kissed. It was nice. I came home.

I've reason to believe that we all will be received in Graceland

Last evening, I booked a return flight home from Memphis in early May. I am going to Graceland. I am incredibly excited about this. Many years ago, I used to be quite into Paul Simon, especially the Graceland album. Whenever I would listen to its title track, I would have elaborate road trip fantasies about driving to this place and listening to this song on the way there. I still love Paul Simon and this album and this song. I do not like Vampire Weekend, not at all, find them a bit offensive. Yet, Paul Simon, I don't find this way, find sincere and beautiful and touching. And so I would listen to this track, often skipping it back to the beginning as soon as it ended and had all these fantasies about Graceland, about driving there, making some pilgrimage to the place, much like the one described in the song.

When thinking of Elvis, I also think of the Gillian Welch song, "Elvis Presley Blues," think about the lines, "Just a country boy that combed his hair/Put on a shirt his mother made and went on the air/and shook it like a chorus girl." When thinking about Elvis, I find myself more often thinking of these other objects, songs and things written about him, about what he means, what he meant, rather than the things he made. And though they are spectacular when you listen to them, amazing often, it is more likely that I think of this Gillian Welch song or this Paul Simon one or the writings of Greil Marcus.

But the circumstances that led to this trip are particular. There were some issues of timing, there was the likelihood that I would have a car, there was the encouragement of a friend who wanted to go to Graceland. Jacob and I are going to Milwaukee at the end of April, are being flown out to that beer-producing city by some John. I wanted to go to Beltane this year, wanted to see some people, wanted to be in the woods. The timing was such that to make it there in the morning, it would have made most sense to drive there from Milwaukee. I also wanted an excuse to rent a car and drive some hundreds of miles through this country. And so since we would already have the car, it seemed to make equal sense (as much sense as any thing makes when logic is already questionable, already discarded) to drive to Memphis afterwards and see Graceland. And so Bob, the one encouraging the trip to Graceland, and Diego, the one encouraging us to go to Short Mountain, are going to be part of this Tennessee road trip. Return tickets have been booked from Memphis. A car has been reserved. And four gays are going to go pay homage to Elvis after spending some time in the woods with the radical faeries after Jacob and I spend some time in Milwaukee with some rich dude. Each leg of this trip seems comical, absurd, and amazing. I can't wait.

I called in sick to work today, am actually sick, and should be doing things like writing and working on my resume and applying for jobs, but instead am here writing in my diary and watching Elvis videos on YouTube, watching Brent Everett videos on any porn site I can find them on, jerking off, eating Stacey's pita chips.

_____________________________

A couple days ago, Jacob and I went to a hotel room near Times Square. The man got on his knees as soon as we entered the room. We undressed and he started sucking our cocks. He said he wanted to eat our cum, wanted to drink our piss, wanted anything we would give him. I didn't know what the desperate "wanted anything" referred to but I had some thoughts about its specific meanings, also some thoughts about the vague poetry of the request. While he was sucking Jacob's dick, I began to fuck Jacob. He told us in a hungry voice that he wanted to lick my dick and Jacob's asshole when I pulled out, that he wanted me to cum in his mouth, hunger and desperation and horniness in everything he said, it a bit repulsive.

I pulled out of Jacob and there was some shit on the head of my penis - normal and not disgusting. Hungry Man, however, said he wanted to eat it. Rolling with the punches, trying to, I stuck my dick in his mouth even though it grossed me out a bit to watch. He started to make exaggerated sounds of pleasure, the smell wafted its way up to my nose. I started to dry heave, each moan from him, him talking about shit, me smelling it, making my stomach very unsettled. I kept on trying to turn my head up, to escape the smell and sight but his noises kept my brain focused on what was going on and I kept on nearly puking. He asked if I was okay and I told him that the smell of shit made me nauseous. He told me I could go rinse off. I went into the bathroom, ran the water, and started to dry heave into the sink, caught my breath, cupped cold water in my hands, splashed it on my face, drank from my cupped hands, the cold water feeling so good against my sore insides which had been suppressing the act of vomiting. I came in his mouth, fed him more, and we got dressed and left.

__________________________________________

I bought the Ungame recently off eBay. I have not yet played it, have been trying to have people over to do so, but find myself not home often, find myself busy doing things, getting drunk, dancing, seeing things. I have suggested to Jacob that he move in with me since he has been sleeping here every night for months now. He seems like he wants to but has commitments to his current lease and current roommate. I have started to say the word love on occasion with this person. I need to start eating healthier. I need to buy some running shoes. There are other things I need to do surely, but those seem like easy places to start.

Bananas

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.