Friday, April 18, 2008
A Proximate Hello
So I just slept in S's bed where you sometimes sleep. Like before waking up to talk with me about Grief Lessons. As if that moment could ever be repeated. On the couch next to the one I'm sitting on now. The dogs and cats you so often caress are around. It's nice to be so proximate and say hello. You must be at work and our rhythms are differently in sync. And tonight? We get to eat dinner together.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
from this broken hill
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will
i read that as rage of light. of course i did. skipped over this one because i was so excited about rufus' chelsea hotel #2. I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel, you were talking so brave and so sweet, giving me head on the unmade bed, while the limousines wait in the street. Those were the reasons and that was New York...
I will sing to you
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
for from joy all beings have come, by joy they all live, and unto joy they all return. sit quietly behind your wooden door; spring will come again.
My honey, my little baby, my honey, my star. wanna build a chamber around the moon?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
"Just One Star"
So another funny thing is that song you've just posted. It comes up a lot on my ipod. Because if you click on "Antony And The Johnsons" and not "Antony & the Johnsons," which is obviously a different group for my silly ipod, and also not just "Antony" all alone, which gives you special access to two songs by Antony, one by our friend Mr. C that sometimes makes me think of you because it's called "If It Be Your Will" and another that's footage of Antony singing "Rapture" on a film set that I had a very indirect nudge or two in orchestrating. So if you do click on "Antony And The Johnsons" and then click on "All Tracks" (or whatever it is in English b/c my pod speaks French to me) and then go to the album version of "Rapture," after that you get to fall "Deeper than Love," and then you get to hear tribute to "Divine" ("and I'll swallow their shit laughing on my bed of hay/ And I hold your big fat heart in my hand!..."), before "burning... I'm on fire" in "Blue Angel," followed by a brief and very sweet sojourn with a wicked witch whose loneliness is too lovely to leave beside the "Lake" that I found on a compilation. And then you get to that song. Which comes up again three songs later. Because I have both the EP and album version of it. Which is lucky. You'll understand once you get to the end of this entry.
I am scared of that middle place, too. And these days I've even been scared of that interlude he does, well, right smack dab in the middle of that song. When he lets his moans be song. Look at his mouth in that video! It's as crazy as the crying he does at the beginning. Which crying is disastrous, of course, and shows just how attuned he is to the disaster we're living through. That's the big "we" there. Not just you and me. Because the tears stop him, he wipes his eyes, and then he allows that break to modulate his infinitely porous voice through the rest of his line. And all the way to the end where he smiles big and talks about the crystal formations he's putting in the air through his piano keys and thanks everybody for the great time he's had. Fuck me, I love him.
But I've been particularly scared of that middle place he seems to sing his way through with his wide open mouth and pounding piano before I even saw him singing it on our blog. One can't help but imagine it must sound something like that. That middle place. Or at least be as terribly strange. Here, I do, though, come across something that consoles me. Which hurts, too, weirdly. Consolation, I mean. My mother was beside my father when he died. She helped him down the stairs as he was having his stroke. She laid him down at the foot of the stairs. Asked him if he wanted a pillow. Got him one and called the neighbor. Who put a cold compress on his burning forehead. So I've been told. Mom told me she was beside herself.With my father lying on the rug. Not knowing what to do. That was between 2:15 and 2:30 Paris time on the afternoon of Friday April 4. That she was telling me this story. And when she got to the part about being beside herself. I had to speak through tears and remind her. "Mom! You might have been beside yourself but you were beside him, too!" It was important to me to insist. I was rediscovering a moment I'd written and published about. If I say too much, I become immediately googlable. But suffice it to say that it'll be something like my academic Antony moment. Won't go there again, I don't think, in academic writing. Who knows though. One of the things I'm proudest of is a silly hyphen. That's not as easy to google. "She does—live on," I wrote about a character in a novel who finds herself consoled by somebody beside her who's also beside himself. That's consideration for you. I think a fairly precise definition of it. And the hyphen, to my mind, puts that sentence beside itself. With a catastrophic break in the middle that is the condition of "her" survival.
If you're listening to Antony And The Johnsons on my ipod. And if he hasn't already put you so far beside yourself that you have to push the pause key at the bottom of the wheel. You get a really beautiful song called "Frankenstein" that seems to be all about falling into the monster's arms and getting confused about whose arms are holding whom. And just after that. If you're me last Friday. The day after returning to Paris after leaving your father's casket at his grave. You got a song that I hadn't noticed. Hadn't really heard. Until last Friday. Sitting in the Luxembourg Gardens waiting for T who was bringing pastry and coming to sit beside me by the Marie de Medici fountain. Because it was a gorgeous, chilly, early-Spring day out. And I was in the neighborhood. And T works not far. And because I wanted to sit beside someone who's been so amazing about allowing himself to be beside himself beside me so many times. It's not always easy. Consideration doesn't happen every day. Especially if you're a couple. So waiting for T. And enjoying the weather. And the pause I was allowing myself. The luxury that can also come with mourning. A little beside myself because of the circumstances. And listening to Antony sing. Which so clearly puts him beside himself. Literally, too, since it's a recording. "Just One Star."
"I am just one star caught in the shine
My friends, my mama loves me, but it's not enough
I wanted to be more, more than I could bear
I am just one star born of grace and soon to die
But if I can just learn how to love then I could live
My honey, my little baby, my honey"
I am scared of that middle place, too. And these days I've even been scared of that interlude he does, well, right smack dab in the middle of that song. When he lets his moans be song. Look at his mouth in that video! It's as crazy as the crying he does at the beginning. Which crying is disastrous, of course, and shows just how attuned he is to the disaster we're living through. That's the big "we" there. Not just you and me. Because the tears stop him, he wipes his eyes, and then he allows that break to modulate his infinitely porous voice through the rest of his line. And all the way to the end where he smiles big and talks about the crystal formations he's putting in the air through his piano keys and thanks everybody for the great time he's had. Fuck me, I love him.
But I've been particularly scared of that middle place he seems to sing his way through with his wide open mouth and pounding piano before I even saw him singing it on our blog. One can't help but imagine it must sound something like that. That middle place. Or at least be as terribly strange. Here, I do, though, come across something that consoles me. Which hurts, too, weirdly. Consolation, I mean. My mother was beside my father when he died. She helped him down the stairs as he was having his stroke. She laid him down at the foot of the stairs. Asked him if he wanted a pillow. Got him one and called the neighbor. Who put a cold compress on his burning forehead. So I've been told. Mom told me she was beside herself.With my father lying on the rug. Not knowing what to do. That was between 2:15 and 2:30 Paris time on the afternoon of Friday April 4. That she was telling me this story. And when she got to the part about being beside herself. I had to speak through tears and remind her. "Mom! You might have been beside yourself but you were beside him, too!" It was important to me to insist. I was rediscovering a moment I'd written and published about. If I say too much, I become immediately googlable. But suffice it to say that it'll be something like my academic Antony moment. Won't go there again, I don't think, in academic writing. Who knows though. One of the things I'm proudest of is a silly hyphen. That's not as easy to google. "She does—live on," I wrote about a character in a novel who finds herself consoled by somebody beside her who's also beside himself. That's consideration for you. I think a fairly precise definition of it. And the hyphen, to my mind, puts that sentence beside itself. With a catastrophic break in the middle that is the condition of "her" survival.
If you're listening to Antony And The Johnsons on my ipod. And if he hasn't already put you so far beside yourself that you have to push the pause key at the bottom of the wheel. You get a really beautiful song called "Frankenstein" that seems to be all about falling into the monster's arms and getting confused about whose arms are holding whom. And just after that. If you're me last Friday. The day after returning to Paris after leaving your father's casket at his grave. You got a song that I hadn't noticed. Hadn't really heard. Until last Friday. Sitting in the Luxembourg Gardens waiting for T who was bringing pastry and coming to sit beside me by the Marie de Medici fountain. Because it was a gorgeous, chilly, early-Spring day out. And I was in the neighborhood. And T works not far. And because I wanted to sit beside someone who's been so amazing about allowing himself to be beside himself beside me so many times. It's not always easy. Consideration doesn't happen every day. Especially if you're a couple. So waiting for T. And enjoying the weather. And the pause I was allowing myself. The luxury that can also come with mourning. A little beside myself because of the circumstances. And listening to Antony sing. Which so clearly puts him beside himself. Literally, too, since it's a recording. "Just One Star."
"I am just one star caught in the shine
My friends, my mama loves me, but it's not enough
I wanted to be more, more than I could bear
I am just one star born of grace and soon to die
But if I can just learn how to love then I could live
My honey, my little baby, my honey"
Monday, April 14, 2008
“oh i’m scared of the middle place, between light and nowhere,”
when antony gets halfway through the line “oh i’m scared of the middle place, between light and nowhere,” he stops to cry.
it’s the most upsetting thing ever filmed—worse than if tom waits started weeping while singing the opening of train song: “well I broke down in east st. louis, on the kansas city line…i fell down at the derby, and now the night’s black as a crow. it was a train that took me away from here, but a train can’t bring me home.”
max abelson
Sunday, April 13, 2008
here we are
things get really sharp in the days after. you know who came for you and who didn't. you know who was scared and who wasn't. you know love and you know what the trees look like after years of distortion. and all of it matters and some of it doesn't. there's nothing like it, the few weeks, months after a death. it just is. there's some high comedy in there too (you find out exactly how everyone hopes for what comes after, what god will do or not do, how safe they will be, and some of those flower arrangements, i mean wow. and now is not the time for ecclesiastes or maybe you're giving me that new age book, why? how helpless we are to insist we know what we're talking about, no matter what the pleiadians transmit) and this is consideration and we do have a word like your french one in english: sidereal, as in sidereal time.
people appear to be under the impression that a person writes about death or whatever in order to set it right, or make it make sense thru what means you have at hand. that's human. more often then not, it's a song that comes to you like antony, or the way the pear trees look in the light at dusk, when ashes are committed to the river. i'm speaking from experience. we walked thru the hospital to a morgue room and identified his body. there is nothing like that. there is nothing to describe it. he was gone, and his features had assumed the death mask. and the howl that came out of me was primitive and silent. my mother who had gone so far in the hour before, who was not there except as grief, came back and witnessed me. watched me with inexorable pity and love. we were looking at each other as i collapsed. and that's all there was to it. it was just a moment, probably no more than a few minutes. i think it was the clearest, truest moment of my life. and you know, it's not. it won't be, it wasn't. there was nothing to make anything radically better. and that is consideration.
i found out about j's death on NPR. no that's not right. k. called me because she had heard, and i turned on the radio, walked to the bathroom, stepped in the shower and experienced the worst headache of my life. it was blinding. i think i passed out. and then crawled into bed, still wet and shivered. i remember thinking, i thought i had this down. i wasn't thinking about d. i was thinking about all the funerals i stopped going to in san francisco, there were too many, and i didn't want death like that even if it cemented a community, even if it was paying your respects, it was too much and i turned to writing and my life. and then it dawned on me that i had heard it on the radio and i was raging. the mid-morning light cut thru my eyes like a razor and i did throw up. and then i slept. and i think i woke up, i'm sure of it, feeling like i didn't have anything to live for. what's the point. it's exhausting. love doesn't stop death.
i recovered from that very quickly and got angry again. she died 3000 miles away with only 4 people who'd known about her choice to go off chemo and who knew enough to honor her wishes and not tell people. it didn't really happen until a few years later. when her voice started coming back. her letters, notes, encouragement, her laugh, even the brand of cigarettes she smoked. d. i saw in lucid dreams all the time for awhile, until i performed what prayers i could, and then he went away and didn't disturb me in that strangely impotent and invasive way, i really felt like i was impeding his passage, and did what i could to release him. but who knows, i probably needed to feel important to him, like i could help. but here were concrete things happening, that i needed to listen to. i mean really? look at what's in front of you, look around, everyone you love cares and loves as deeply as she did, they don't fuck around with truth, they hold to their humanity and hearts and they fail and they fight and circle themselves like the rock of mecca no matter what obstacles there are, and total doubt and despair isn't helpful on any level, unless it is, maybe in those moments after coming so hard and being so close to inconsciousness, to un-self, no selfishness. even for a moment. here are all your fantasies, they are true. here's all the music, here's all the care. here are assurances of her and of god. and fuck if i wasn't honoring that and making her death into a small thing. everything you have written down, the creatures and the kids and the trees, that was all there to begin with inthe days after, all those awesome and bright and horrifying moments. those really sad places and feelings, keep writing it down, go as far out as you want, i wish i had. i wish i had. she kind of kicked my ass, which was nice of her. start doing your work, the real work with real people and relax, she said. and then she lit a cigarette. she said, now you aight, lady? because i have others to tend to.
you and i had this talk when we were sitting on the couch having morning coffee. i asked you what book you had, and you handed me "grief lessons". well, you know what happened after that. and what we have and have not talked about. and i guess i'm telling you all of this because that conversation does not end, whatever form it takes, whoever it's with. your father, your tenderness, and your savagery, the lighter that didn't work on your walk. you don't learn anything from this, but i think you do fight for passions and some laughter. even with all the falling things, there's the song. there's no alternative, and no consolation. and here we are, and here love is.
it's an interesting thing too, that someone saying "i'm sorry." is actually the best thing anyone can say. it's perfect. i was on the fence about it before d's death. because i'd never experienced a death and i thought it was lame, i mean people saying that. but that's not so.
"The year of grace 1654.
Monday, 23 November, feast of Saint Clement. . .
From about half-past ten in the evening
until about half-past midnight.
FIRE
The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob.
Not of the philosophers and wise.
Certitude, joy, certainty, feeling, joy, peace."
Pascal
i'm sorry.
people appear to be under the impression that a person writes about death or whatever in order to set it right, or make it make sense thru what means you have at hand. that's human. more often then not, it's a song that comes to you like antony, or the way the pear trees look in the light at dusk, when ashes are committed to the river. i'm speaking from experience. we walked thru the hospital to a morgue room and identified his body. there is nothing like that. there is nothing to describe it. he was gone, and his features had assumed the death mask. and the howl that came out of me was primitive and silent. my mother who had gone so far in the hour before, who was not there except as grief, came back and witnessed me. watched me with inexorable pity and love. we were looking at each other as i collapsed. and that's all there was to it. it was just a moment, probably no more than a few minutes. i think it was the clearest, truest moment of my life. and you know, it's not. it won't be, it wasn't. there was nothing to make anything radically better. and that is consideration.
i found out about j's death on NPR. no that's not right. k. called me because she had heard, and i turned on the radio, walked to the bathroom, stepped in the shower and experienced the worst headache of my life. it was blinding. i think i passed out. and then crawled into bed, still wet and shivered. i remember thinking, i thought i had this down. i wasn't thinking about d. i was thinking about all the funerals i stopped going to in san francisco, there were too many, and i didn't want death like that even if it cemented a community, even if it was paying your respects, it was too much and i turned to writing and my life. and then it dawned on me that i had heard it on the radio and i was raging. the mid-morning light cut thru my eyes like a razor and i did throw up. and then i slept. and i think i woke up, i'm sure of it, feeling like i didn't have anything to live for. what's the point. it's exhausting. love doesn't stop death.
i recovered from that very quickly and got angry again. she died 3000 miles away with only 4 people who'd known about her choice to go off chemo and who knew enough to honor her wishes and not tell people. it didn't really happen until a few years later. when her voice started coming back. her letters, notes, encouragement, her laugh, even the brand of cigarettes she smoked. d. i saw in lucid dreams all the time for awhile, until i performed what prayers i could, and then he went away and didn't disturb me in that strangely impotent and invasive way, i really felt like i was impeding his passage, and did what i could to release him. but who knows, i probably needed to feel important to him, like i could help. but here were concrete things happening, that i needed to listen to. i mean really? look at what's in front of you, look around, everyone you love cares and loves as deeply as she did, they don't fuck around with truth, they hold to their humanity and hearts and they fail and they fight and circle themselves like the rock of mecca no matter what obstacles there are, and total doubt and despair isn't helpful on any level, unless it is, maybe in those moments after coming so hard and being so close to inconsciousness, to un-self, no selfishness. even for a moment. here are all your fantasies, they are true. here's all the music, here's all the care. here are assurances of her and of god. and fuck if i wasn't honoring that and making her death into a small thing. everything you have written down, the creatures and the kids and the trees, that was all there to begin with inthe days after, all those awesome and bright and horrifying moments. those really sad places and feelings, keep writing it down, go as far out as you want, i wish i had. i wish i had. she kind of kicked my ass, which was nice of her. start doing your work, the real work with real people and relax, she said. and then she lit a cigarette. she said, now you aight, lady? because i have others to tend to.
you and i had this talk when we were sitting on the couch having morning coffee. i asked you what book you had, and you handed me "grief lessons". well, you know what happened after that. and what we have and have not talked about. and i guess i'm telling you all of this because that conversation does not end, whatever form it takes, whoever it's with. your father, your tenderness, and your savagery, the lighter that didn't work on your walk. you don't learn anything from this, but i think you do fight for passions and some laughter. even with all the falling things, there's the song. there's no alternative, and no consolation. and here we are, and here love is.
it's an interesting thing too, that someone saying "i'm sorry." is actually the best thing anyone can say. it's perfect. i was on the fence about it before d's death. because i'd never experienced a death and i thought it was lame, i mean people saying that. but that's not so.
"The year of grace 1654.
Monday, 23 November, feast of Saint Clement. . .
From about half-past ten in the evening
until about half-past midnight.
FIRE
The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob.
Not of the philosophers and wise.
Certitude, joy, certainty, feeling, joy, peace."
Pascal
i'm sorry.
Creatures and Cherry Blossoms
So one funny thing about all this which is not at all funny. I mean besides your style in telling it. And I also mean funny as in weird, not funny haha. So one funny thing is that Mom and Dad (two names that work something like letters do according to Roland Barthes, "treasures of the symbol" and magical fairies and all that), well, they got a little dog a little over a month ago now. She's a year old, and it looks like she's going to stay little. I'm terrible when it comes to breeds, so I'm not going to be able to tell you exactly what breed she is. But she's damn cute. Even T, who's not a big dog person, couldn't help but be into her. I mean she's like one of my parents' last projects together, and she runs around the kitchen and den because she's not allowed into the rest of the house yet. And she leaps up onto the sofa and nestles right behind your neck. There's a picture of her doing just that over Dad's shoulder. If she's feeling frisky she licks your ear and makes you go aqmdlkqflkmdfj when she does that. Which was a nice unavoidable kind of thing to have happen in between bouts of tears. Turns out that the day of my father's funeral she was scheduled to be spayed. Which was weird timing, but also good timing since that was the day the house was really filled with people. And my brother-in-law took her in early and went and picked her up at the end of the day when the house had mostly emptied out. Just close friends of my Mom's and of the family who it was nice to see around. Not so much because I like them in particular, but because it seemed to indicate that Mom would have people around when she's going to need them. And among those people there was my aunt. My Mom's sister. T and I call her my ex-lesbian aunt. Because she used to live with a woman when she lived in California. And now she's married. But she never really came out. Even once there was also me. And now she's married to this real jerk that nobody likes. I don't even think she does. Like him, I mean. When I once mentioned her in analysis, the voice behind my head protested. "EX-lesbienne !!!" my shrink, who's a lesbienne, said. As if that were not possible. She's also probably got an alcohol problem. Like her father. Which tends to make Mom crazy. Anyway, at the moment, and it's a moment that's lasted for a little while now, there's a woman that's living with her and her husband. Which is a weird scene. Because everybody knows that she's living with her but she has no named function and in spite of that my aunt brought her over the night after the funeral and after the dog got spayed. My aunt's friend works in a vet's office. Which is how she met my aunt. Long story. Weird southern Gothic. Because my aunt's husband that nobody likes ended up killing their two dogs. Left them in a hot car. And my aunt ended up bonding with this woman at the vet clinic. When she brought them in. Maybe a year or so ago. But this friend of my aunt's made my Mom mad the day of my father's funeral because she overrode the vet's orders and fed the dog a little bit even though we'd been told she wasn't supposed to eat. And she went back to her place to get a cone for her head. This is the funny not haha but weird part. Because it, too, involves a cone around a creature's head. She said the dog was nibbling on her stitches and that she wasn't supposed to. And so she put a cone around her head. My youngest sister took it off fairly promptly. And watched her to make sure she wasn't licking her stitches too much. Even though she also had her two five-month-old twins to be looking after. When I wasn't. Looking after them, I mean. Because I went whole-hog on the whole Uncle routine. Throwing them into the air. Tickling their necks. Making them smile. Singing them songs. Letting the boy suck my thumb while he made nonsense sounds that no doubt made a lot of sense to him. Thank goodness for all of these creatures. And a big get well soon to you and yours.
Oh, and the cherry blossoms. On the way to the cemetery. Everything in bloom on a beautiful warm spring day. Warm enough for the blossoms already ready to make their way down. Blowing in the wind and falling to the ground. I in the car. With lots of my family. Humming in my corner of the car. Watching blossoms fall to the ground. "Eyes are falling/ Lips are falling/ Hair is falling to the ground/ Slowly softly/ Falling falling/ Down in silence to the ground/ All the world is falling, falling/ All the blue/ From me and you/ Teardrops falling to the ground/ Teardrops/ I'm talking 'bout your teardrops // For instance/ Oh, my momma/ She's been falling/ falling down for quite some time/ And oh my poppa/ He's been falling/ Falling down for quite some time..." I don't know how I'd have survived up to now without Antony.
Later that day. After singing the song all day long in my head. And not getting the lyrics quite right. I took a walk with the ipod. Down to the football stadium that's like a 10 minute walk away. Site of adolescent angst. And wandering from home. Had to ask a scary looking group of three for a light. Because mine, of course, ran out of juice right there that very moment that I had left the foyer to smoke and think and walk and be alone. Settling into Suzanne. Looking at houses that were the backdrop for so much alienation. And then the football stadium. Walking all the way around it. With Antony on repeat. "Is this the rapture?... Oh my father/ Who art in heaven... " If it is. The rapture I mean. It might just be what it is. And I might just need to breathe in deeply and watch and write falling things down. You know, like stars that have fallen to earth. Needing consideration. Because you can say that in English. Consideration. It's the sideration I was looking to be able to say in English. With the "with" of the "con-." The tenderness of consideration and the savagery of the stars nestled in the word. "Is this the rapture?..."
Oh, and the cherry blossoms. On the way to the cemetery. Everything in bloom on a beautiful warm spring day. Warm enough for the blossoms already ready to make their way down. Blowing in the wind and falling to the ground. I in the car. With lots of my family. Humming in my corner of the car. Watching blossoms fall to the ground. "Eyes are falling/ Lips are falling/ Hair is falling to the ground/ Slowly softly/ Falling falling/ Down in silence to the ground/ All the world is falling, falling/ All the blue/ From me and you/ Teardrops falling to the ground/ Teardrops/ I'm talking 'bout your teardrops // For instance/ Oh, my momma/ She's been falling/ falling down for quite some time/ And oh my poppa/ He's been falling/ Falling down for quite some time..." I don't know how I'd have survived up to now without Antony.
Later that day. After singing the song all day long in my head. And not getting the lyrics quite right. I took a walk with the ipod. Down to the football stadium that's like a 10 minute walk away. Site of adolescent angst. And wandering from home. Had to ask a scary looking group of three for a light. Because mine, of course, ran out of juice right there that very moment that I had left the foyer to smoke and think and walk and be alone. Settling into Suzanne. Looking at houses that were the backdrop for so much alienation. And then the football stadium. Walking all the way around it. With Antony on repeat. "Is this the rapture?... Oh my father/ Who art in heaven... " If it is. The rapture I mean. It might just be what it is. And I might just need to breathe in deeply and watch and write falling things down. You know, like stars that have fallen to earth. Needing consideration. Because you can say that in English. Consideration. It's the sideration I was looking to be able to say in English. With the "with" of the "con-." The tenderness of consideration and the savagery of the stars nestled in the word. "Is this the rapture?..."
Saturday, April 12, 2008
kitty valium
plan awesome worked. i enjoyed that bottle of wine very much. o. and i snuggled on the couch with a blanket and some crackers and cheese and drinks. he was more flipped out then i was, initially, if that's possible. before i took him from an ex. he'd had very bizarrely hectic and horrific things happen to him so he's incredibly sensitive to any changes. he's kind of more like a shepherd dog, he wrangles and vocalizes and needs a job and safety. i was worried about him, because it's been like, 9 years of being with t, and this is the first time they were separated. when i came home, he jumped in the cat carrier, and then he wandered around looking for t in all the places that t usually is. then he settled on my chest and fell asleep, exhausted. the kind of sleep that's quite as normal in it's trust as he was in his confusion. i stroked his nose, and between his eyes, up into the top of his head, behind his ears. he moved softly and sighed. trust and pleasure is kind of amazing.
that was a few hours. and there was a storm last night, an incredible one. gorgeous. the lights were low in the apartment and the music was lovely. i thought about t in the lab, probably in a cage, like he'd been when i met him as a kitten. i hope he wasn't scared. more likely drugged out of his mind so the thunder sounded like a mama cat's heart.
a weird phenomenon of my building, lightning hits the top of the roof and crackles down the side, so that happened a couple of times. the surge was sort of incredible.
anyways, the AMC just called. i'm gonna go see my beautiful friend.
update!: in the cab over we were listening to NPR. i don't know what show it was but my pity and stress and drama queen explosion was interrupted by "are you there god? it's me margaret." srsly. the host was reading from that book. BWAaHAHAH hAHHAHhHAhasdfghjkl;'
then, at the emergency room:
ooh! a ferret!
dogs are awesome. even if they are sick they have to play with each other.
ooh! kitty valium!
they brought him out and he had one of those cones around his neck and like catheter bags all over and i just bawled. the tech was, what the hell? and said, he's uncomfortable. and i was all WELL, CLEARLY CAPTAIN OBVIOUS. so we went back to the west side and i was singing to him, and he was knocking his head against my leg trying to rub it with his head. there are at least 4 cab drivers in this city who think that they had a lunatic in their car, and they are right.
so now he's at my vet and he has to keep the thing in him for 36 hours counting from yesterday when i brought him in initially, and probs won't be home until tomorrow night. o. is chilling and i'm going to go for a run in the park. i hate running but i feel like it would be good. all the plum and cherry blossoms are out!
i told my brother what happened and about the catheter in t's penis for 36 hours and i was like kitty valium is the least of what i hope they gave him he could have all my percoset for fuck's sake jesus and g. was like omg it's good they have him, probably the longer the better so you don't have to see what he's going through. you can imagine he's in a little meadow with flowers. and i said, chasing butterflies! and he said. look at that butterfly! it's blue.
that was a few hours. and there was a storm last night, an incredible one. gorgeous. the lights were low in the apartment and the music was lovely. i thought about t in the lab, probably in a cage, like he'd been when i met him as a kitten. i hope he wasn't scared. more likely drugged out of his mind so the thunder sounded like a mama cat's heart.
a weird phenomenon of my building, lightning hits the top of the roof and crackles down the side, so that happened a couple of times. the surge was sort of incredible.
anyways, the AMC just called. i'm gonna go see my beautiful friend.
update!: in the cab over we were listening to NPR. i don't know what show it was but my pity and stress and drama queen explosion was interrupted by "are you there god? it's me margaret." srsly. the host was reading from that book. BWAaHAHAH hAHHAHhHAhasdfghjkl;'
then, at the emergency room:
ooh! a ferret!
dogs are awesome. even if they are sick they have to play with each other.
ooh! kitty valium!
they brought him out and he had one of those cones around his neck and like catheter bags all over and i just bawled. the tech was, what the hell? and said, he's uncomfortable. and i was all WELL, CLEARLY CAPTAIN OBVIOUS. so we went back to the west side and i was singing to him, and he was knocking his head against my leg trying to rub it with his head. there are at least 4 cab drivers in this city who think that they had a lunatic in their car, and they are right.
so now he's at my vet and he has to keep the thing in him for 36 hours counting from yesterday when i brought him in initially, and probs won't be home until tomorrow night. o. is chilling and i'm going to go for a run in the park. i hate running but i feel like it would be good. all the plum and cherry blossoms are out!
i told my brother what happened and about the catheter in t's penis for 36 hours and i was like kitty valium is the least of what i hope they gave him he could have all my percoset for fuck's sake jesus and g. was like omg it's good they have him, probably the longer the better so you don't have to see what he's going through. you can imagine he's in a little meadow with flowers. and i said, chasing butterflies! and he said. look at that butterfly! it's blue.
Friday, April 11, 2008
in the landscape of spring there is neither better or worse
hi w. i just spent the last week in hospitals for one love and another. s. is fine after really a couple of years of worry and stress. but god. those first few seconds of consultation after and right before the physician starts speaking. you read a face. anyways, we know what it is now and it can be handled. i think she liked the morphine (i sure did!). she was cute. i almost grabbed the cab driver by the collar and said make sure she gets home, but she insisted i go back to work. i think i shouldn't have either tuesday or the last two days.
tonight i was forced to leave my cat, t, at the animal medical center/emergency room over on 62nd and FDR overnight. he almost died: that's what the vet said and then she said something about potassium levels and i said IS HE ALRIGHT and that startled her out of whatever clinical coma and she said OH YES and became human. horrible. over 2 days he just deteriorated so fast, i was in at one vet one morning and he was bouncing around and charming everyone then it turned the next day and he was deadweight and growling, in a lot of pain. apparently blockages happen like that, really fast. so i threw us both in a cab. the cab driver had a pet goat back in bangladesh so we talked about that and what goat's milk taste like and he let me have a cig. i do not like emergency rooms, who does. then, i hated the vet on principle in the emergency room when she said i had to leave him there for the night after she grabbed him away from me, but you have to be nice because they are taking care of your baby, and there's nothing that you can do otherwise because, clearly, you are not a fucking vet. they want to keep him all catheterised and blood work and whatnot for 3 days but i am going to transfer him back to my vet who i called on the pager. you're supposed to only do that in dire circumstances so i did it. i had a slice of pizza on my walk home, and almost threw up. low fog so far east. everybody is alright after this long few days.
there was one night at dick's when we first met, now closed and a wine bar (jesus god i hope not?), we had some such conversation about writing, death and love. and i think, exposure. we always do in one way or another. none of this, all this goddamn care, i guess, is reducible to body chemistry. how about that? we will see each other next week xoxo ps. j. sent this poem back. now i'm going to get shit drunk and drink the rest of this wine.
tonight i was forced to leave my cat, t, at the animal medical center/emergency room over on 62nd and FDR overnight. he almost died: that's what the vet said and then she said something about potassium levels and i said IS HE ALRIGHT and that startled her out of whatever clinical coma and she said OH YES and became human. horrible. over 2 days he just deteriorated so fast, i was in at one vet one morning and he was bouncing around and charming everyone then it turned the next day and he was deadweight and growling, in a lot of pain. apparently blockages happen like that, really fast. so i threw us both in a cab. the cab driver had a pet goat back in bangladesh so we talked about that and what goat's milk taste like and he let me have a cig. i do not like emergency rooms, who does. then, i hated the vet on principle in the emergency room when she said i had to leave him there for the night after she grabbed him away from me, but you have to be nice because they are taking care of your baby, and there's nothing that you can do otherwise because, clearly, you are not a fucking vet. they want to keep him all catheterised and blood work and whatnot for 3 days but i am going to transfer him back to my vet who i called on the pager. you're supposed to only do that in dire circumstances so i did it. i had a slice of pizza on my walk home, and almost threw up. low fog so far east. everybody is alright after this long few days.
there was one night at dick's when we first met, now closed and a wine bar (jesus god i hope not?), we had some such conversation about writing, death and love. and i think, exposure. we always do in one way or another. none of this, all this goddamn care, i guess, is reducible to body chemistry. how about that? we will see each other next week xoxo ps. j. sent this poem back. now i'm going to get shit drunk and drink the rest of this wine.
Afterthoughts.
I mean that title literally. Like when did it get the connotation of "regret." Because, really, I don't have many. Just thoughts after things. Like I'm writing after my father's funeral. And am now back in Paris. Sun's out, though we just had a proverbial April shower. I've survived the trip back to the place where my strangeness was first sheltered, and even apparently somehow encouraged, and we have buried my father. At least I think so. As T noted shortly after the graveside part of services, it's a little weird to leave with the casket propped up on its strange metallic scaffolding kinda thing. That must have struck him because within the last year I was beside him for the cremation of his grandmother's body. One had the option of watching the cremation happen on a video screen. We didn't take it. But there were reliable witnesses who told us it had happened.
Everything was of course super intense. Intensified, too, by the fact that my father had left each of us, his three children, a letter, sometimes two. Apparently one for my Mom as well. She said the letters to us were better, though. But she might just need to reread hers. Mine left me a little cold when I read it the night after the funeral. I mean it was nice then, too, but didn't do anything like what it did when I read it over T's shoulder the next day on the plane to Paris. When it made me cry, and left me wondering why he couldn't say some of the things in the letter while he was alive. Because I was waiting for him to say something like what he wrote to be read after he'd gone. Maybe it's to keep me hurting. In a good way.
He'd also left a letter to be read at his services. By one of his law partners. Who did so and somehow only choked up at the end. Though he did say, as part of his preface, that he hadn't been able to read it without crying up until then. It's funny to think of my Dad as a drama queen. But he had that side to him. A side my mother referred to as "maudlin" over the course of the days leading up to the funeral. There was that. And lots of other things, too.
One of the things I might be working out here over the next entries won't come as a surprise to you. How can I make my name match up with the kinds of things I've just written? My name, it turns out, when it's not Suzanne or some other avatar, is his. And kindness was something that his "Farewell Address" insisted on several times. With Biblical citations and everything. And kindness, I think, marks some of the tone I found to strike in the entries about Berlin. So there's that link. I'll be working on others. And, who knows, maybe I'll figure out a way to be able to sign the things. Or some interesting way around it that makes sense for me. And for my memories of him. And all he's left me with. Which is a lot. And heavy and interesting and light and spacious. Tender. And a little savage, too.
Everything was of course super intense. Intensified, too, by the fact that my father had left each of us, his three children, a letter, sometimes two. Apparently one for my Mom as well. She said the letters to us were better, though. But she might just need to reread hers. Mine left me a little cold when I read it the night after the funeral. I mean it was nice then, too, but didn't do anything like what it did when I read it over T's shoulder the next day on the plane to Paris. When it made me cry, and left me wondering why he couldn't say some of the things in the letter while he was alive. Because I was waiting for him to say something like what he wrote to be read after he'd gone. Maybe it's to keep me hurting. In a good way.
He'd also left a letter to be read at his services. By one of his law partners. Who did so and somehow only choked up at the end. Though he did say, as part of his preface, that he hadn't been able to read it without crying up until then. It's funny to think of my Dad as a drama queen. But he had that side to him. A side my mother referred to as "maudlin" over the course of the days leading up to the funeral. There was that. And lots of other things, too.
One of the things I might be working out here over the next entries won't come as a surprise to you. How can I make my name match up with the kinds of things I've just written? My name, it turns out, when it's not Suzanne or some other avatar, is his. And kindness was something that his "Farewell Address" insisted on several times. With Biblical citations and everything. And kindness, I think, marks some of the tone I found to strike in the entries about Berlin. So there's that link. I'll be working on others. And, who knows, maybe I'll figure out a way to be able to sign the things. Or some interesting way around it that makes sense for me. And for my memories of him. And all he's left me with. Which is a lot. And heavy and interesting and light and spacious. Tender. And a little savage, too.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
until the day is done
autoerotic is this great project my friend j started. i just clicked through it again. pretty. The definiton of erotica is not limited to striking a pose in front of the lens and pushing a button. An elbow, a wrist, the way clothes can hang on the hips, all of these examples – and many more – are entirely valid definitons of erotica. Don’t be afraid to explore and, more importantly, enjoy the process. ooh. i was just wandering around my bookshelf and found this, and callas is on. just opened up the book, perfect for what we've been talking about. guess why it's wonderful. What's really funny is i almost took "the grail legend" off the shelf. i'm so glad i didn't. it was that or "kissing god goodbye".
It's About You: On the Beach
You have
two hands absolutely lean and clean
to let go the gold
the silver flat or plain rock
sand
but hold the purple pieces
atom articles
that glorify a color
yours is orange
oranges are like you love
a promising
a calm skin and a juice
inside
a juice
a running from the desert
Lord
see how you run
YOUR BODY IS A LONG BLACK WING
YOUR BODY IS A LONG BLACK WING
june jordan
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Barkis was willing. I love you. Nancy.
"Bach had a habit of imbedding mystic numbers in his compositions; these ones happen to correspond to the ones nature imbeds in its own. But this coincidence was the least of the qualities that made this music Ressler's best metaphor for the living gene... Superimposed over those first four triplet rungs, a diversionary tune that, with grace notes, contains twenty tones. Two halves of the aria, each sixteen, bars, both scored to repeat, totalling sixty-four measures.... two copies twist around one another with helical precision... I listened to these miniatures for a year, pulled out of them the most marvelous genetic analogies. But at the end, the music refused to reduce, and it hurt worse than before."
(cut and paste from whatever i could find on the web from "the gold-bug variations")
i'm not sure about the muse's potentially violence producing endurance to say or unsay (did it hurt? where are you going, without me?). but you're right, in the song suzanne just makes you understand what the river is saying, and jesus' less conflicted place as a sailor. and oranges. that's enough. that and mr. c could sit there and smile. and then end up in the chelsea hotel with janis joplin and produce that whole other song. i'm thinking that was his thing. and some people write about angels descending firescapes dressed in workman's overalls, because that's what they saw and it flows in that transcendant american lineage, and life, in some way, is fought for.
weirdly, a little later, we're having dinner right around the corner from the old loft. we moved from the townhouse on 11th to this place on jane street. that was where i'd come back to for approximately 8 years starting in the early 90's and through my stepfather's death. i go to a very specific place in that area now, mostly florent, but i just realized that i avoid the entire place if i can. and i say weird or uncanny because the night before he died we had a not too often dinner with all of us. i mean, i usually saw them once or twice a week, at least but not all of us together like that. me, my brother, my stepfather and my mother, his kids at the big chinese place that's right on hudson (i'm wondering right now if it's still there. i'll check.) My stepfather came rushing in excited to say that he had figured it out and it came down to this, a dialectic between intellectualism and anti intellectualism. sounds stupid! he exclaimed. ridiculous! but 40 years of piecing it together and that's it! it covers everything! it's only apparently contradictory. the realists against the nominalists, like philosophy: the idealists against the materialists and so forth, but we have no grasp on relationship, or our language doesn't... are you mediocre or are you a fanatic, are you a mystic or a sensualist? degradation is only associated with subjective shame. not everything is allegory and symbolism. and there is limitations on human energy. i think at that point i ordered some orange beef with chestnuts and it had come and other things had come, and someone got a diet coke and the dumplings were good. i do remember we also talked about the klee show that was up at MOMA. and time. and paradox. free will vs. determined. to be honest, in my more crystal visions and totem animal moments i believe that he had entered the way. or at least he was in that almost incredible place of total acceptance.
he did another thing that was uncharacteristic at the end of the night. he gave us all hugs, slapped us on the back. he always gave his son a great big hug. P. has autism, so my stepfather bypassed the social constructs he maintained to give his son a huge beautiful hug everytime they saw each other, and that night he extended that to all of us. okay! he said we're okay! and he laughed his great laugh. the next morning he died of a heart aneurysm within 20 minutes. he was young, just 66. i think he travelled and thought a little like wittgenstein, who he loved and admired, and he wanted a less conflicted relationship with the world and especially his mother, who committed suicide and caused his sister to kill herself before she did. he was an insomniac and a wanderer. i think i told you? but i would go into florent all cracked out from a night of dancing or sex or whatever at 4 or 5 in the morning and there he would be, reading. i'd come over and sit with him and he'd order me a chocolate milkshake, or an egg cream. and we'd talk. he got a big kick out of my tranny friends. no one wants to be different, no one wants to really be a coherent self. he could be really mean too, it must be said. he told me that i was alienated. isn't that mean? but i kind of agreed. he was probably after a nondestructive jouissance and he loved the radical shattering, like anyone else. wow, i love him.
so. he's gone. and that's my whole rambling point. you have this long conversation with someone, all parties are right and wrong, a significant conversation (itself in the language of natural love, just and unjust), they show you things, rivers, consciousness, fear (i'm thinking of the yeats poem) faith, questions. and he did not want to die. where did you go, david. without us.
(cut and paste from whatever i could find on the web from "the gold-bug variations")
i'm not sure about the muse's potentially violence producing endurance to say or unsay (did it hurt? where are you going, without me?). but you're right, in the song suzanne just makes you understand what the river is saying, and jesus' less conflicted place as a sailor. and oranges. that's enough. that and mr. c could sit there and smile. and then end up in the chelsea hotel with janis joplin and produce that whole other song. i'm thinking that was his thing. and some people write about angels descending firescapes dressed in workman's overalls, because that's what they saw and it flows in that transcendant american lineage, and life, in some way, is fought for.
weirdly, a little later, we're having dinner right around the corner from the old loft. we moved from the townhouse on 11th to this place on jane street. that was where i'd come back to for approximately 8 years starting in the early 90's and through my stepfather's death. i go to a very specific place in that area now, mostly florent, but i just realized that i avoid the entire place if i can. and i say weird or uncanny because the night before he died we had a not too often dinner with all of us. i mean, i usually saw them once or twice a week, at least but not all of us together like that. me, my brother, my stepfather and my mother, his kids at the big chinese place that's right on hudson (i'm wondering right now if it's still there. i'll check.) My stepfather came rushing in excited to say that he had figured it out and it came down to this, a dialectic between intellectualism and anti intellectualism. sounds stupid! he exclaimed. ridiculous! but 40 years of piecing it together and that's it! it covers everything! it's only apparently contradictory. the realists against the nominalists, like philosophy: the idealists against the materialists and so forth, but we have no grasp on relationship, or our language doesn't... are you mediocre or are you a fanatic, are you a mystic or a sensualist? degradation is only associated with subjective shame. not everything is allegory and symbolism. and there is limitations on human energy. i think at that point i ordered some orange beef with chestnuts and it had come and other things had come, and someone got a diet coke and the dumplings were good. i do remember we also talked about the klee show that was up at MOMA. and time. and paradox. free will vs. determined. to be honest, in my more crystal visions and totem animal moments i believe that he had entered the way. or at least he was in that almost incredible place of total acceptance.
he did another thing that was uncharacteristic at the end of the night. he gave us all hugs, slapped us on the back. he always gave his son a great big hug. P. has autism, so my stepfather bypassed the social constructs he maintained to give his son a huge beautiful hug everytime they saw each other, and that night he extended that to all of us. okay! he said we're okay! and he laughed his great laugh. the next morning he died of a heart aneurysm within 20 minutes. he was young, just 66. i think he travelled and thought a little like wittgenstein, who he loved and admired, and he wanted a less conflicted relationship with the world and especially his mother, who committed suicide and caused his sister to kill herself before she did. he was an insomniac and a wanderer. i think i told you? but i would go into florent all cracked out from a night of dancing or sex or whatever at 4 or 5 in the morning and there he would be, reading. i'd come over and sit with him and he'd order me a chocolate milkshake, or an egg cream. and we'd talk. he got a big kick out of my tranny friends. no one wants to be different, no one wants to really be a coherent self. he could be really mean too, it must be said. he told me that i was alienated. isn't that mean? but i kind of agreed. he was probably after a nondestructive jouissance and he loved the radical shattering, like anyone else. wow, i love him.
so. he's gone. and that's my whole rambling point. you have this long conversation with someone, all parties are right and wrong, a significant conversation (itself in the language of natural love, just and unjust), they show you things, rivers, consciousness, fear (i'm thinking of the yeats poem) faith, questions. and he did not want to die. where did you go, david. without us.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Talking Muse
OK. Suzanne here. Maybe. Because the thing is. Can a muse talk? And if so, what happens to the song? Does the song need a mute muse to get sung in the first place? Are there possibilities for counterpoint? I'm sure there's loads of great lit crit to read on all that. Maybe I will. In the song, Suzanne just makes you understand what the river's saying. Only Jesus talks in that song. I mean besides the one telling "you" what it's like spending the night with her. I regret referring to her as a bag-lady. That's Wikipedia's fault, but I replicated it. So now it's my bad, too.
Suzanne doesn't talk in the song. But I did just find this 1998 interview. Apparently there were chats. "I felt his presence really being with me." And. "I would always light a candle and serve tea and it would be quiet for several minutes, then we would speak." And. "He became a big star after the song was launched." And, when the interviewer says that it's sad that that made them move apart, Suzanne says, "I agree and I believe it’s material forces at hand that do this to many the greatest of lovers." After that line, at least, she apparently "(laughs)." This one's harder to swallow. If you're superstitious. And if you have limited tolerance for human interest stories. She talks about sculptor Armand Vaillancourt. "We accomplished many things while we were together. Traveling, having fun." You know, "the bohemian life" of the 60's that Suzanne is, in this storyline, pursuing against all odds, idealistic soul that she is, from the car she lives in at Venice Beach. Because she broke her back, she had to give up dancing. Professionally. She still participates in a drum circle every week, though. And according to one of her friends, "Suzanne is one of these rare souls who is actually sincere and cares about life and people and sees the world in terms of beauty." Seems, to CBC news at least, that she bears as little a grudge as is humanly possible. Though I'm sure "les rousseurs amères de l'amour" scorch her gullet every once in a while. Like any one still loving. Meaning, to my slant of mind, anyone still living. It'd be interesting to know more about how she deals with it. Apparently she's writing a memoir. It's a private thing she said she was living with Mr. C. "It was," she says, "kind of strange to have it blossom into this famous song that everyone was singing." Her shelter by the water giving many listening shelter in a song. Strange.
There's always a risk. With these kinds of things. Of taking things personally. It's come up in analysis. I'm still a student of Bersani's. Apparently. Because I keep talking about him. Not obsessively. But he comes up. Like when he says that sex is great. Even though nobody likes it. Until the persons are posed. That's when the war starts. ("Is the Rectum a Grave?") Stretched out on the couch. Found myself dreaming. Fantasizing. Of persons posed alongside arms. Weapons laid down. With mountains and music and hatred and nation and all of the other things you had me reading Allen laying down. Persons siderated, as we should be able to say in English, into earthly stars. Talking muses. Being there with tea and oranges. Or beer and leather. Or carbonara and wine. Or, really, whatever. So long as it's on offer. With consideration.
All of this because it's been working me over. It's not the only thing. My father died during my night. Early early morning phone call. So I. Stateside sooner than expected. But? Will be coming back. Back to the States. As expected. Unless something else unexpected. Comes up between now and then. Strange. Been thinking about this starry explosion. Already as mourning. Here I am with more mourning. But when I get to New York. I said so to my shrink. I know I'll be bien entouré. Meaning. Literally. Well surrounded. Some kind of home.
Suzanne doesn't talk in the song. But I did just find this 1998 interview. Apparently there were chats. "I felt his presence really being with me." And. "I would always light a candle and serve tea and it would be quiet for several minutes, then we would speak." And. "He became a big star after the song was launched." And, when the interviewer says that it's sad that that made them move apart, Suzanne says, "I agree and I believe it’s material forces at hand that do this to many the greatest of lovers." After that line, at least, she apparently "(laughs)." This one's harder to swallow. If you're superstitious. And if you have limited tolerance for human interest stories. She talks about sculptor Armand Vaillancourt. "We accomplished many things while we were together. Traveling, having fun." You know, "the bohemian life" of the 60's that Suzanne is, in this storyline, pursuing against all odds, idealistic soul that she is, from the car she lives in at Venice Beach. Because she broke her back, she had to give up dancing. Professionally. She still participates in a drum circle every week, though. And according to one of her friends, "Suzanne is one of these rare souls who is actually sincere and cares about life and people and sees the world in terms of beauty." Seems, to CBC news at least, that she bears as little a grudge as is humanly possible. Though I'm sure "les rousseurs amères de l'amour" scorch her gullet every once in a while. Like any one still loving. Meaning, to my slant of mind, anyone still living. It'd be interesting to know more about how she deals with it. Apparently she's writing a memoir. It's a private thing she said she was living with Mr. C. "It was," she says, "kind of strange to have it blossom into this famous song that everyone was singing." Her shelter by the water giving many listening shelter in a song. Strange.
There's always a risk. With these kinds of things. Of taking things personally. It's come up in analysis. I'm still a student of Bersani's. Apparently. Because I keep talking about him. Not obsessively. But he comes up. Like when he says that sex is great. Even though nobody likes it. Until the persons are posed. That's when the war starts. ("Is the Rectum a Grave?") Stretched out on the couch. Found myself dreaming. Fantasizing. Of persons posed alongside arms. Weapons laid down. With mountains and music and hatred and nation and all of the other things you had me reading Allen laying down. Persons siderated, as we should be able to say in English, into earthly stars. Talking muses. Being there with tea and oranges. Or beer and leather. Or carbonara and wine. Or, really, whatever. So long as it's on offer. With consideration.
All of this because it's been working me over. It's not the only thing. My father died during my night. Early early morning phone call. So I. Stateside sooner than expected. But? Will be coming back. Back to the States. As expected. Unless something else unexpected. Comes up between now and then. Strange. Been thinking about this starry explosion. Already as mourning. Here I am with more mourning. But when I get to New York. I said so to my shrink. I know I'll be bien entouré. Meaning. Literally. Well surrounded. Some kind of home.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Laughing my way to bed...
Yee haw. I don't know how you do it. Writing with that much sustained energy that makes me start smiling at the beginning of a sentence, quickly breaks me into giggles, and rolls me into a many a chortle by the end of the entry. Thank you very much for the recognition of the huge donut I just spun in our here parking lot calling myself Suzanne. I mean really. Jesus IS in that song. He was a sailor. And? Suzanne is a crazy bag-lady, wife of sculptor friend. Saw Mr C once or twice in concert. Maybe this is all common knowledge, but I had to look it up on Wikipedia. I might not be able to handle it. But it was the best I could find and I was desperate for sumthin'. Some name to be to you. Po! Hang in there. I'm just holding out the mirror. "Cause this is thriller..."
STILL BUSY
just one thing, suzanne (and by the way VERY IMPRESSIVE. as one who has multiple personalities and many disorders and whole swaths of her life mapped out by various lyrics, that was flat out the best namecall i can ever remember. awesome. i'm serious. that was like a triple 580 back ollie off the pitch, brosef. or whatever. i'm totally jealous. JESUS IS IN THAT SONG.) ok, you know how when you are making an awesome mixtape # 6 for a friend and you totally have a great mellow (Jeff Tweedy, that one Blind Faith song, all thru Callas and then that unbelievably dark and strangely life affirming portishead because you know we are all roaming blackly and hilariously thru this world together) but not a bum trip train (not a uhm i think sigur ros actually fucks up my mood in ways i can't articulate even though it's calling me home WHEREVER THAT IS vibe), more like a rainy day and wine and creativity is awesome and ooh art projects! coalescing going on and you're flipping thru your library and all of a sudden you're all zOMG FUCK MICHAEL JACKSON I LOVE MICHAEL JACKSON THRILLER?
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Mutschmann's
There's only one more night to Berlin. Just over a week ago now. Then I promise I'll shut up about it. As a chronicle. A map of constellations. Just one more night. A night that began with the day T made his way back to Paris. Got a text from him on the plane. Saying he'd almost started crying. While waiting for the bus. Before even getting to the airport. Something about how we were there. That renewed how we're going to be elsewhere. Like here. He went back early to go on another trip. For work. No pleasure. Even though he got some even there. At the risk of pleasure. Gets hard to circumscribe. Even now, I experience slight hesitation. Writing before. I might hesitate getting started. And then I'd be in. Siderated. It should be a word in English. Sidéré. Greatly surprised. Except the stars are in there in French. In the word. In the 16th century, it meant influenced by the stars. In the 18th, you know, the Enlightenment, they invented a noun, sidération, to mean the sudden annihilation of vital capacities, in a state of apparent death, under the effect of an intense emotional shock. Now it basically means struck dumb. Which is how any I gets when it gets writing. "Mine" included. And here I am having written. Seeing stars.
So T sends the text message from the plane. I text back. "Don't be sad. I found the guy with the grosse Schlange on line." That seemed to reassure him a bit. Meanwhile. I alone in Berlin. Also found T² and W² on line. They had the same program for the night. Prinzknecht, a neighborhood bar, kinda like the Pilsner in San Francisco, big enough to become a general HQ for festive events. They do a lot of turn over. Must make their year, and make it pretty good, out of several different weekends of big German parties. One of the bartenders: he's also the poster boy for the leather store down the street. So Prinzknecht. And then Mutschmann's. We've been to Berlin Easter three times now. Always Sunday at the Mutschmann's. Last year I had big irretrievable philosophico-political thoughts about why we'd had so much pleasure. Surplus value. World economy. Fetish. Something about our moment in world history. Berlin's newly anchored market economy. All of us there knowing it's not real, but still. Feeling like it is. See? Irretrievable. Before T did me good in a booth downstairs.
This year. Lots of beers at the Prinzknecht flying solo. But chatting with the Frenchies. Or toasting one or two from afar. Waiting to see when T² and W² would walk in. They'd said around 10. I got there, as I said I would, earlier. Ended up standing towards the front of the bar. Chatting with a leather dude I see around Paris a lot. Met him in Berlin. At Snaxx. Could it have been just last year? Nope. Actually the year before. T has just now confirmed it. While he's reading about Snaxx on-line. No on-line access during his work trip. Lol. That's funny. That we're still hovering so concretely around Snaxx. Actually, this guy I was standing next to inaugurated the all-the-way-up-over-my-hiney zipper there. And we were chatting with another leather dude. From Antwerp. Who works in London. Chatting. But watching the door. For when T² and W² would walk in. They did. And I shortly followed. To the other side of the bar. Right up against the bar. Which meant several heave-ho's from time to time when some of the bigger bears would have to push past us to get to the potty. Or to another beer. Or to another bear. Chatty chatty. Auf Deutsch! Grosse Schlange! I said 11. To the guy with the grosse Schlange. Or 11:30. Which it shortly was. So off again, solo, into the night.
Not far. Just down the street. Handy. Early enough so there wasn't a line. Space of the Mutschmann's? Easy for once. Walk in. Big big bar in middle of space to right. With pool table to the other side of it. Much smaller bar straight on through. With stairwell leading to basement. With landing for chilling. One step down into darkness. Line of4 or 5 slings along right wall of darkspace. Big platform in middle of darkspace. As big as the bar upstairs, probably. Booths behind that. And a couple of dark corners round about back to the landing. So. Walk in. Walk around. Surprise! No grosse Schlange. But J. California J from Friday night. Well-past his goal of 20-30 German cocks by that point. No doubt. By the pool table. Chatty chatty. How's it going. How often do you get back to the states. More often now, I say. That my father's sick. I get his empathy. Know he heard me. Even if he's forgotten. Didn't stop him being excited. "Do you have a condom?" He asks me. While unzipping my zipper. We know where that goes. Did me good right there at the brightly lit pool table. I rattled the empty bottles and everything. Nice. No need for German Schlange. When I got done right by T's California thing. Friend of my good sex-buddy R. A kinda constellation. That helps you make out the other stars.
More beer. Cruising around. Running into a couple of Frenchies. Another J. Recent sex-buddy. Responsible for the shaved state of my torso and elsewhere. Nice encounter. See you soon in Paris. Still, at this point, citing the German Schlange. Then standing at bar. Cruising. Sorta. Waiting again. T²'s T-shirt. Pinch his butt. Poor thing. Too many beers. Beeline for the bathroom. W² in line checking coat. Then the three of us again at the bar. Then the two of us. T² likes to watch. Even in the dark. So the W's stand at the bar. T² coming and going. Kissing W². Lots and lots. Spilling beer at some point, reeling. Paying for beer spilled. T²'s had his fill of watching. Your place or mine chat. Theirs.
Out into the world. Cold world. Taxi-cab. Immediate. Whisking us to their hotel. Up the stairs into their room. Smoking something on the balcony. How can it already be 4:30? Hazy. Lots of beers. Lots of tenderness. Lots of doing good. Attention. To their longevity. Doing my best. To help it continue. Witness. To lots of love. Doing what I can. To show them what I get from it. That is to say. Not much sleep. But tender sleep what there was. In between them. Before waking. Check-out day. Rendez-vous for brunch. Café More. Like they named it for me. Reservation for 12:30. Confusion. Where am I? How to get back "home?" Maps. We're right at the fold of the map. So map not much help. Right and right again straight to train. No need for a map. Just a couple of words. Confusion. Bright sun. Me in all my leathers. Exhaustion, too, no doubt. Wrong platform. Switch platforms. On the way. Poster for Tillmans. "Lighter." Knowing. Suddenly. Exactly what I'd be doing with my extra day in Berlin.
10:45. "Home." Shower. Breakfast. With C and L. Chatty. German. Evaluation of parties. Snaxx too much for C. Understanding. But I like too much. On my way to the shower. L says, Time for bed? Nein, I answer. I can sleep in Paris. Shower. Comfy clothes. Fetishes by the wayside for brunch. Café More. I like too much. And I like More, too. My on-line profile. For a while now. Reads "Ready for more." Didn't mean the café until Easter Monday. Now means that, too. Long brunch. Nibbling at theirs. Drinking coffee. Looking at the boys. Thinking I might have ended up with others. But enjoying comfort of the click of parallel lines. On the banquette with T². W² across from us. What do you do. How long have you lived there. Where will you go on vacation. Paris. When? And that one's cute. And, oh, him, too. I think he's from Paris. Quiet. Tired quiet. Easy quiet.
Some kind of home. Out on the streets. For a walk. Stop at a building. Just look at that staircase. The streets of Berlin. On Easter Monday. So quiet and empty. Not like Paris. Wondering how. Knowing so little of each other. We could have so little need for talk. To keep us this comfortable. They pick up their bags. At their hotel. Call a cab. Kisses goodbye. See you in Paris in May.
Back home. Stretch out to rest. No sleep coming. Watch a little of the "New World." Terrence Mallick. DVD. I brought with me. Love that movie. Turns out the New World's in the Old. Or it's in both. It's a new relation to old codes. Too much for my state of exhaustion. Back out for dinner. And one or two last beers. Cross paths with P. Friend from Paris. Signing for an apartment in Berlin. The next morning. If all goes well. Apparently all did. Chatting. Evaluating space at Snaxx. Him telling me of other nights at the Berghain. Other than Snaxx. Me wondering. "Fucking the Remains" party at the Scheune. He's not going anywhere. But here or back to bed. Me saying, what the hell. Walking out the door. To the Scheune. Just can't quite get my head around it. Walking away from it. Thinking I have other things. Besides fucking. Like writing. Beside fucking. To do with the remains. Just missing bus. To take me back to the apartment. Waiting, therefore. 10 more minutes. On a cold stone pedestal. In the cold Berlin night. Relieved. At the idea and then the reality. Of a good night's sleep.
Good night's sleep. Next day writing you. "Quick Missive from Berlin." Going to Wolfgang Tillmans. Hail. Sun. Snow. Constellations. In the sky. On the earth. In the world. Fucked-up cosmos. There I am sidéré among them. Looking at pictures at an exhibit. Reflected in them. Literally. Incidentally. Barthes! Posthumous publication. Sad sad journal. Of tricks met and missed and desired. Incidents. Like me. And different.
So T sends the text message from the plane. I text back. "Don't be sad. I found the guy with the grosse Schlange on line." That seemed to reassure him a bit. Meanwhile. I alone in Berlin. Also found T² and W² on line. They had the same program for the night. Prinzknecht, a neighborhood bar, kinda like the Pilsner in San Francisco, big enough to become a general HQ for festive events. They do a lot of turn over. Must make their year, and make it pretty good, out of several different weekends of big German parties. One of the bartenders: he's also the poster boy for the leather store down the street. So Prinzknecht. And then Mutschmann's. We've been to Berlin Easter three times now. Always Sunday at the Mutschmann's. Last year I had big irretrievable philosophico-political thoughts about why we'd had so much pleasure. Surplus value. World economy. Fetish. Something about our moment in world history. Berlin's newly anchored market economy. All of us there knowing it's not real, but still. Feeling like it is. See? Irretrievable. Before T did me good in a booth downstairs.
This year. Lots of beers at the Prinzknecht flying solo. But chatting with the Frenchies. Or toasting one or two from afar. Waiting to see when T² and W² would walk in. They'd said around 10. I got there, as I said I would, earlier. Ended up standing towards the front of the bar. Chatting with a leather dude I see around Paris a lot. Met him in Berlin. At Snaxx. Could it have been just last year? Nope. Actually the year before. T has just now confirmed it. While he's reading about Snaxx on-line. No on-line access during his work trip. Lol. That's funny. That we're still hovering so concretely around Snaxx. Actually, this guy I was standing next to inaugurated the all-the-way-up-over-my-hiney zipper there. And we were chatting with another leather dude. From Antwerp. Who works in London. Chatting. But watching the door. For when T² and W² would walk in. They did. And I shortly followed. To the other side of the bar. Right up against the bar. Which meant several heave-ho's from time to time when some of the bigger bears would have to push past us to get to the potty. Or to another beer. Or to another bear. Chatty chatty. Auf Deutsch! Grosse Schlange! I said 11. To the guy with the grosse Schlange. Or 11:30. Which it shortly was. So off again, solo, into the night.
Not far. Just down the street. Handy. Early enough so there wasn't a line. Space of the Mutschmann's? Easy for once. Walk in. Big big bar in middle of space to right. With pool table to the other side of it. Much smaller bar straight on through. With stairwell leading to basement. With landing for chilling. One step down into darkness. Line of4 or 5 slings along right wall of darkspace. Big platform in middle of darkspace. As big as the bar upstairs, probably. Booths behind that. And a couple of dark corners round about back to the landing. So. Walk in. Walk around. Surprise! No grosse Schlange. But J. California J from Friday night. Well-past his goal of 20-30 German cocks by that point. No doubt. By the pool table. Chatty chatty. How's it going. How often do you get back to the states. More often now, I say. That my father's sick. I get his empathy. Know he heard me. Even if he's forgotten. Didn't stop him being excited. "Do you have a condom?" He asks me. While unzipping my zipper. We know where that goes. Did me good right there at the brightly lit pool table. I rattled the empty bottles and everything. Nice. No need for German Schlange. When I got done right by T's California thing. Friend of my good sex-buddy R. A kinda constellation. That helps you make out the other stars.
More beer. Cruising around. Running into a couple of Frenchies. Another J. Recent sex-buddy. Responsible for the shaved state of my torso and elsewhere. Nice encounter. See you soon in Paris. Still, at this point, citing the German Schlange. Then standing at bar. Cruising. Sorta. Waiting again. T²'s T-shirt. Pinch his butt. Poor thing. Too many beers. Beeline for the bathroom. W² in line checking coat. Then the three of us again at the bar. Then the two of us. T² likes to watch. Even in the dark. So the W's stand at the bar. T² coming and going. Kissing W². Lots and lots. Spilling beer at some point, reeling. Paying for beer spilled. T²'s had his fill of watching. Your place or mine chat. Theirs.
Out into the world. Cold world. Taxi-cab. Immediate. Whisking us to their hotel. Up the stairs into their room. Smoking something on the balcony. How can it already be 4:30? Hazy. Lots of beers. Lots of tenderness. Lots of doing good. Attention. To their longevity. Doing my best. To help it continue. Witness. To lots of love. Doing what I can. To show them what I get from it. That is to say. Not much sleep. But tender sleep what there was. In between them. Before waking. Check-out day. Rendez-vous for brunch. Café More. Like they named it for me. Reservation for 12:30. Confusion. Where am I? How to get back "home?" Maps. We're right at the fold of the map. So map not much help. Right and right again straight to train. No need for a map. Just a couple of words. Confusion. Bright sun. Me in all my leathers. Exhaustion, too, no doubt. Wrong platform. Switch platforms. On the way. Poster for Tillmans. "Lighter." Knowing. Suddenly. Exactly what I'd be doing with my extra day in Berlin.
10:45. "Home." Shower. Breakfast. With C and L. Chatty. German. Evaluation of parties. Snaxx too much for C. Understanding. But I like too much. On my way to the shower. L says, Time for bed? Nein, I answer. I can sleep in Paris. Shower. Comfy clothes. Fetishes by the wayside for brunch. Café More. I like too much. And I like More, too. My on-line profile. For a while now. Reads "Ready for more." Didn't mean the café until Easter Monday. Now means that, too. Long brunch. Nibbling at theirs. Drinking coffee. Looking at the boys. Thinking I might have ended up with others. But enjoying comfort of the click of parallel lines. On the banquette with T². W² across from us. What do you do. How long have you lived there. Where will you go on vacation. Paris. When? And that one's cute. And, oh, him, too. I think he's from Paris. Quiet. Tired quiet. Easy quiet.
Some kind of home. Out on the streets. For a walk. Stop at a building. Just look at that staircase. The streets of Berlin. On Easter Monday. So quiet and empty. Not like Paris. Wondering how. Knowing so little of each other. We could have so little need for talk. To keep us this comfortable. They pick up their bags. At their hotel. Call a cab. Kisses goodbye. See you in Paris in May.
Back home. Stretch out to rest. No sleep coming. Watch a little of the "New World." Terrence Mallick. DVD. I brought with me. Love that movie. Turns out the New World's in the Old. Or it's in both. It's a new relation to old codes. Too much for my state of exhaustion. Back out for dinner. And one or two last beers. Cross paths with P. Friend from Paris. Signing for an apartment in Berlin. The next morning. If all goes well. Apparently all did. Chatting. Evaluating space at Snaxx. Him telling me of other nights at the Berghain. Other than Snaxx. Me wondering. "Fucking the Remains" party at the Scheune. He's not going anywhere. But here or back to bed. Me saying, what the hell. Walking out the door. To the Scheune. Just can't quite get my head around it. Walking away from it. Thinking I have other things. Besides fucking. Like writing. Beside fucking. To do with the remains. Just missing bus. To take me back to the apartment. Waiting, therefore. 10 more minutes. On a cold stone pedestal. In the cold Berlin night. Relieved. At the idea and then the reality. Of a good night's sleep.
Good night's sleep. Next day writing you. "Quick Missive from Berlin." Going to Wolfgang Tillmans. Hail. Sun. Snow. Constellations. In the sky. On the earth. In the world. Fucked-up cosmos. There I am sidéré among them. Looking at pictures at an exhibit. Reflected in them. Literally. Incidentally. Barthes! Posthumous publication. Sad sad journal. Of tricks met and missed and desired. Incidents. Like me. And different.
Our Lady of the Harbour
And the sun pours down like honeyHi. Nice to meet you. My name for now, for here, and at the risk of grandiosity, is Suzanne. There are other reasons, too. Like home is the place where strangeness finds itself shelter. And: "you know that she's half crazy /But that's why you want to be there." And: "just when you mean to tell her / That you have no love to give her / Then she gets you on her wavelength / And she lets the river answer." And: "And you want to travel with her /And you want to travel blind /And you know that you can trust her /For she's touched your perfect body with her mind."
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
But you know the song. XXOO.
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