Yea Gay Pride! Here in Paris, we were safe from all the wedding dresses. Because we're living under a regime that's something like Thatcher or Reagan twenty years too late. And weddings seem out of the question. But people needed a party. We were at the Bastille, where the march ended up, when Act-Up Paris (yes, they're having trouble, but they still exist) tried to stop the government party's homo delegation from entering onto the square. They sat down and started screaming at them, booing them. That was refreshing. Even though S, our companion for the day, and for a fair portion of the night, thought there had to be a question of tolerance. I scoffed. Yeah, but tolerance for the UMP?
I was in my leather. Even tho it was darn hot whenever the sun came out. Magnet for cameras. I mean. It could have also been the fact that there were three of us. People seem to like to look at that. Four actually. Because S has a friend from Quebec. That he met up with, too. Who kept taking pictures of us. We would march. Throw an arm around whomever of us happened to be beside us at that moment. S's friend broke away to go to the movies at some point. And then we were three. And every once in a while we'd stop. And stroke each other's nipples. Chatting all the while. One nice little three-way kiss. On the bridge on the way to the Bastille. S is really very handsome. You remember him. He's the one who emerged with T² and W² when we were waiting for them at the Cox. He and T had chatted that morning and decided we should meet up to march. Good idea. Because I'm really very proud of that. Of the sex we've already had. The chats we've had since then. The sex we ended up having last night. The fact that it emerges from everyday sexual rhythms that are syncopated by drinks. And conversation. And art. The fact that S knows T² and W². And a couple of other friends and acquaintances. We don't have a refined political stance to be affirmed. Just living. Just living and showing that we are. I'll be happy to throw myself behind whatever worthwhile political push/agenda comes along. But while waiting for that. I'm going to work on just living and showing that we are.
Which last night ended up involving the police. After the march. We were pooped. Went to a café. Sat with S. Chatting. More than we had before. Then. At ten to eight. T's phone rings. A neighbor had noticed someone suspicious in our apartment. Had called the police. Who had stopped the burglar with two of our computers, our two ipods, and a pair of Adidas. So went to the police station. To file a complaint. Poor guy. Junky. Must have really needed a fix to climb into our 6th floor window like he did. Apparently from the outside. The neighbor was witness. Very straightforward process. Three hour or so interlude at the police station. S had said to call him. That we'd get a bite to eat. If things didn't take too long at the police station. At 11 pm. We emerge from the métro. S waiting for us. Homemade pesto at home. Wanna come? S came. More chatting. Longing for San Francisco. S. He has an A. Long-term. Getting to know A through S. All S says about their time together. A should have gone to San Francisco. 17 years ago. But met S. Canceled San Francisco. They went there together a few years ago. Loved it. The spaces. The weather. Some sighing. Talking about it all. Before T went to the bathroom. And S jumped on me. And we loved and fucked into the night. Lovely gay pride, really. Just living.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Years ago, I used to hike at a city park that I did not know what a gay cruising spot. I found out the Saturday afternoon that this guy parked his van directly behind my car, preventing me from backing out, forcing me to leave my car and walk to his driver's side window. Luckily for me, I packed a knife - worried more about being mugged than sexually accosted. I asked him to move his vehicle. He asked me what my hurry was and I was 'awful cute.'
He moved his van.
Well, it's a good thing he packs his knife. 'Cos that's obviously what you need to pull out when someone tells you you're "awful cute." Lol. Poor guy didn't know how 'awful' was the 'cute' he was looking to play with.
He moved his van.
Well, it's a good thing he packs his knife. 'Cos that's obviously what you need to pull out when someone tells you you're "awful cute." Lol. Poor guy didn't know how 'awful' was the 'cute' he was looking to play with.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
snapdragon
the snap dragon was a very simple thing. we came back from a walk and were passing thru the back gate into the garden behind the pool. there was a beautiful red flower in the midst of all the sprays of green and breathless purple. oh, isn't that beautiful, look at that.
do you know why they are called snapdragons?
the demonstration of what they can do made me laugh. you put your fingers to either side of it and press gently, and it looks like a dragon's mouth opening and closing.
i laughed with delight and, i think, squealed. did you know that? i giggled at C. NO! and we were both like, ooooh...!
C. said something a minute later when we explained to S. after she asked what we were yelping about like, it doesn't take much to make us happy.
i was really happy. increased sensitivity to the mug in my hand, my skin and the sheen of sweat drying in the breeze on the small of my back the music starting in my head, the red of the flower, the quality of the air, the way the sun was on the deck, malcolm winding his way thru our legs. flexibility and constitution. a will. the saving grace of an unenviable position, that we move forward and backwards in time. the last time i'd seen a snapdragon was in san francisco, about to go into a diner for breakfast. i noticed them in such a way that it's a defining moment in my life, they covered the street and a mythical, paradigmatic history (of place, and who i was there) ended. so in a sense, something that had sort of a psychopompic function, between the bright, foggy western morning and a early june day in the east, i kind of learned the techniques of living. of noticing. my artistic and poetic capacities. but this had a heart. eschatological time. this ended time—into presence.
do you see how this relates to what we've been going back and forth about? if you do that's great because it alludes me. like, my mother sent me a picture of a butterfly, and i thought of you. you were watching a butterfly one day in Paris.
The last night S. was here, before she left for Beirut (and omg i was seriously considering just telling Dad that she was going to ireland. tsuris! also, i might be a bad jew and using that incorrectly.) I've kind of been a very technical, fascinating, marvelous and weird person since that night. She leaned her body into me and brought her mouth to my ear. all the fantasies and hard play and she just said i was in you. i was fucking you.
hours later we curled up on the couch, it was a hot night and the windows were open. we sat in the dark. the humidity made me calm and it felt like you were breathing water. our voices were quiet and rusty. heat like that, you feel sedated and predatory. you've hunted. and prayed.
I found everything inside the room soaked, as if were, in Bliss - the Bliss of Satchidananda. I saw a wicked man in front of the Kali temple, but in him also I saw the Power of the Divine Mother vibrating.
That was why I fed a cat with the food that was to be offered to the Divine Mother. I clearly perceived that the Divine Mother Herself had become everything - even the cat. The manager of the temple garden wrote to Mathur Babu saying that I was feeding the cat with the offering intended for the Divine Mother. But Mathur Babu had insight into the state of my mind. He wrote back to the manager: "Let him do whatever he likes. You must not say anything to him. (p. 345)
To my Divine Mother I prayed only for pure love. I offered flowers at Her Lotus Feet and prayed to Her: "Mother, here is Thy virtue, here it Thy vice. Take them both and grant me only pure love for Thee. Here is Thy knowledge, here is Thy ignorance, take them both and grant me only pure love for Thee. Here is Thy purity, here is Thy impurity. Take them both, Mother, and grant me only pure love for Thee. Here is Thy dharma, here is Thy adharma. Take them both, Mother, and grant me only pure love for Thee." (pp.138-139) Sri Ramakrishna
the re-reading of genet right now is hilarious. you can imagine. ;)
do you know why they are called snapdragons?
the demonstration of what they can do made me laugh. you put your fingers to either side of it and press gently, and it looks like a dragon's mouth opening and closing.
i laughed with delight and, i think, squealed. did you know that? i giggled at C. NO! and we were both like, ooooh...!
C. said something a minute later when we explained to S. after she asked what we were yelping about like, it doesn't take much to make us happy.
i was really happy. increased sensitivity to the mug in my hand, my skin and the sheen of sweat drying in the breeze on the small of my back the music starting in my head, the red of the flower, the quality of the air, the way the sun was on the deck, malcolm winding his way thru our legs. flexibility and constitution. a will. the saving grace of an unenviable position, that we move forward and backwards in time. the last time i'd seen a snapdragon was in san francisco, about to go into a diner for breakfast. i noticed them in such a way that it's a defining moment in my life, they covered the street and a mythical, paradigmatic history (of place, and who i was there) ended. so in a sense, something that had sort of a psychopompic function, between the bright, foggy western morning and a early june day in the east, i kind of learned the techniques of living. of noticing. my artistic and poetic capacities. but this had a heart. eschatological time. this ended time—into presence.
do you see how this relates to what we've been going back and forth about? if you do that's great because it alludes me. like, my mother sent me a picture of a butterfly, and i thought of you. you were watching a butterfly one day in Paris.
The last night S. was here, before she left for Beirut (and omg i was seriously considering just telling Dad that she was going to ireland. tsuris! also, i might be a bad jew and using that incorrectly.) I've kind of been a very technical, fascinating, marvelous and weird person since that night. She leaned her body into me and brought her mouth to my ear. all the fantasies and hard play and she just said i was in you. i was fucking you.
hours later we curled up on the couch, it was a hot night and the windows were open. we sat in the dark. the humidity made me calm and it felt like you were breathing water. our voices were quiet and rusty. heat like that, you feel sedated and predatory. you've hunted. and prayed.
I found everything inside the room soaked, as if were, in Bliss - the Bliss of Satchidananda. I saw a wicked man in front of the Kali temple, but in him also I saw the Power of the Divine Mother vibrating.
That was why I fed a cat with the food that was to be offered to the Divine Mother. I clearly perceived that the Divine Mother Herself had become everything - even the cat. The manager of the temple garden wrote to Mathur Babu saying that I was feeding the cat with the offering intended for the Divine Mother. But Mathur Babu had insight into the state of my mind. He wrote back to the manager: "Let him do whatever he likes. You must not say anything to him. (p. 345)
To my Divine Mother I prayed only for pure love. I offered flowers at Her Lotus Feet and prayed to Her: "Mother, here is Thy virtue, here it Thy vice. Take them both and grant me only pure love for Thee. Here is Thy knowledge, here is Thy ignorance, take them both and grant me only pure love for Thee. Here is Thy purity, here is Thy impurity. Take them both, Mother, and grant me only pure love for Thee. Here is Thy dharma, here is Thy adharma. Take them both, Mother, and grant me only pure love for Thee." (pp.138-139) Sri Ramakrishna
the re-reading of genet right now is hilarious. you can imagine. ;)
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Floating
So. You know some of this. Because I have trouble not talking about it. I can't not not talk about it. That's a step away from the irreperable. Says Agamben. If I'm remembering correctly, you enter the irreperable when you can not not do something. And so you do it in a certain way. The ethically, politically right way. Agamben is a little full of himself. But I think he might be right.
T and I have had this thing with B. I think it will have been irreperable. And I think it will be a major friendship. For all of us. For each of us. And precisely in that fluctuation between the all and the each. Will lie whatever greatness it will have. We're currently working through a snag. That has to do with the desire for possession. B, I think, kept his in check. Because. For him. I am T's. And he might have wanted. Me to be his. For all intents and purposes. I am T's. Because of the force of history. Because of what just happened in Berlin. Because I wrote about it. Because we have and will continue to meet our need for each other. But. There is this thing. About triangulation. That unmoors possession. That can also exacerbate the desire for it. Even when it is what is impossible. Possession. Which isn't to say that it doesn't happen all the time. Like you said. "what i didn't say was she was inside me." That'll happen quite unbeknownst to us. And then all of a sudden you find someone there.
Sunday night we were unmoored. Hercules and Love Affair was in town. B was on the cusp of a love affair with M. Who was there. And is really very very sexy. B fretted about it with us. Put his head on my shoulder. We still had the crazy and beautiful idea. That we were going to go on vacation in Croatia. Loll in the sun. Read cook and talk. Swim. It's not going to happen. Now that the desire for possession has reared its monstrous head. The desire for possession. For something we will never entirely have. Someone else. That desire is monstrous. It shows us up for what we are. Weak beautiful humans who want nothing more than to be more than what our weakness, beauty and humanity make of us. Maybe I'm going over the top. Saying all this. But. Something about that triangular situation. Shows us up for the monsters we are. And. If you're like me and a little worked over by it. Which you are even if you don't admit it to yourself. And if you're lucky enough to come across the right wonderful people to explore it with. Triangulation demands that we do something else with our monstrosity. Besides just letting it overtake us. Something like showing it for what it is. And loving it.
We were on our way on Sunday night. Dancing!! Nomi was twirling around in a dress lined with fringes. B, the next day: "I want a dress with fringes. To turn around and around and around in." It all felt fragile. And collective. Full of rhythm. New. And nice. There was something floating in between us. Putting us just beyond ourselves. Right beside ourselves and each other. And then. The next day. I wanted details about B and M's night. I asked for it. And said so when it made my stomach churn. It was my desire for possession rearing its head. Just after its having become unmoored. And that's what was strange about it. We'd just gotten to this wonderful floating, undetermined, unmoored stage. And nothing seemed scary. Or wrong. It all just felt real. As real as was the bile that started rolling in my tummy when I realized I was jealous. Me! And I told him to have fun. To take advantage of it. And I told him that it hurt me to say so. And I had to let go of what had only just barely begun to start floating between the three of us just the night before. That was hard. Monday was a shitty night. Plus? T was in Milan. At least I had Joan as Police Woman for company.
Tuesday was rough. B and I cried. Or reported tears. In skype. We find this amazing rhythm in our skype conversations every once in a while. Tuesday was one of those times. He gave me just what I needed to hear. At that moment. Which was his desire to possess me. At the very moment he was relinquishing acting on it. He hadn't said so before. It's been said. It is consecrated. It is impossible. And it is going to be the basis for whatever is destined to come between us in the future. That's ambiguous and I think it's right. Things like this come between us. They're the stumbling blocks that make us who we are. That feed desires, pains and joys. That become who we are as we become what our existence makes of us. And what we make of our existence.
I fretted over the fact that this entry didn't have a conclusion. Duh. Things are just getting started. I'm a whore for grace. And? I'm a whore for beginnings, too. Especially ones strong enough to become something else. Something else. You know. Out of this world. And keeping us in it here and now.
T and I have had this thing with B. I think it will have been irreperable. And I think it will be a major friendship. For all of us. For each of us. And precisely in that fluctuation between the all and the each. Will lie whatever greatness it will have. We're currently working through a snag. That has to do with the desire for possession. B, I think, kept his in check. Because. For him. I am T's. And he might have wanted. Me to be his. For all intents and purposes. I am T's. Because of the force of history. Because of what just happened in Berlin. Because I wrote about it. Because we have and will continue to meet our need for each other. But. There is this thing. About triangulation. That unmoors possession. That can also exacerbate the desire for it. Even when it is what is impossible. Possession. Which isn't to say that it doesn't happen all the time. Like you said. "what i didn't say was she was inside me." That'll happen quite unbeknownst to us. And then all of a sudden you find someone there.
Sunday night we were unmoored. Hercules and Love Affair was in town. B was on the cusp of a love affair with M. Who was there. And is really very very sexy. B fretted about it with us. Put his head on my shoulder. We still had the crazy and beautiful idea. That we were going to go on vacation in Croatia. Loll in the sun. Read cook and talk. Swim. It's not going to happen. Now that the desire for possession has reared its monstrous head. The desire for possession. For something we will never entirely have. Someone else. That desire is monstrous. It shows us up for what we are. Weak beautiful humans who want nothing more than to be more than what our weakness, beauty and humanity make of us. Maybe I'm going over the top. Saying all this. But. Something about that triangular situation. Shows us up for the monsters we are. And. If you're like me and a little worked over by it. Which you are even if you don't admit it to yourself. And if you're lucky enough to come across the right wonderful people to explore it with. Triangulation demands that we do something else with our monstrosity. Besides just letting it overtake us. Something like showing it for what it is. And loving it.
We were on our way on Sunday night. Dancing!! Nomi was twirling around in a dress lined with fringes. B, the next day: "I want a dress with fringes. To turn around and around and around in." It all felt fragile. And collective. Full of rhythm. New. And nice. There was something floating in between us. Putting us just beyond ourselves. Right beside ourselves and each other. And then. The next day. I wanted details about B and M's night. I asked for it. And said so when it made my stomach churn. It was my desire for possession rearing its head. Just after its having become unmoored. And that's what was strange about it. We'd just gotten to this wonderful floating, undetermined, unmoored stage. And nothing seemed scary. Or wrong. It all just felt real. As real as was the bile that started rolling in my tummy when I realized I was jealous. Me! And I told him to have fun. To take advantage of it. And I told him that it hurt me to say so. And I had to let go of what had only just barely begun to start floating between the three of us just the night before. That was hard. Monday was a shitty night. Plus? T was in Milan. At least I had Joan as Police Woman for company.
Tuesday was rough. B and I cried. Or reported tears. In skype. We find this amazing rhythm in our skype conversations every once in a while. Tuesday was one of those times. He gave me just what I needed to hear. At that moment. Which was his desire to possess me. At the very moment he was relinquishing acting on it. He hadn't said so before. It's been said. It is consecrated. It is impossible. And it is going to be the basis for whatever is destined to come between us in the future. That's ambiguous and I think it's right. Things like this come between us. They're the stumbling blocks that make us who we are. That feed desires, pains and joys. That become who we are as we become what our existence makes of us. And what we make of our existence.
I fretted over the fact that this entry didn't have a conclusion. Duh. Things are just getting started. I'm a whore for grace. And? I'm a whore for beginnings, too. Especially ones strong enough to become something else. Something else. You know. Out of this world. And keeping us in it here and now.
Friday, June 6, 2008
(edit) yes because he never did a thing like that before
and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas 2 glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
Molly Bloom's Soliloquy
Ulysses by James Joyce
you live through your heart's desire. i can't own the power and magic of this world, and yes it is always available. it's taken me approximately 3 years of conscious necessary thresholds to reach a deep unconsciousness that really isn't so vast and untenable—for example, i used to watch a fire burn, and glowing red coals, those riders that came out of the trees, a medicine show and dream. i sparked in and out of satori sitting on docks overlooking the ocean, a string on a maze that really was just a path; and i don't really know anyone. no one does, and that's kind of great. what a relief. i don't know anything not even my own mind. and i keep saying yes. it turns out my own true nature is tenderness. i told you about that session, briefly in an email, i think. what really just happened was the full force of the wave of anxiety and fear and memories just broke finally, and i was verbalizing the shit out of it as it was happening. it's like a fever breaking and then practical things need to happen. i need to bathe and get some clothes and some soap. and my skull happens to be gone and my brain is exposed. but s. was sitting next to me and the way it happened was gentle, nothing by proxy. just that it is real, and you can't argue with reality.
and i had a moment with s. like that. you say it so well "Knowing how to make do with a letting be: letting oneself be faced with truth, letting it shine on its own. Whether with truth or sanctity. Knowing how to allow the coming not of its shine, which comes from it alone, but the opening that allows you to discern it. Knowing how to make an opening for it, and knowing just how much this knowledge is out of our control."
i can't say it was the first, there have been so many, and this was a benediction. and there will be others, moments. a life.
turns out, i blundered onto the right path anyways,
to find the origin,
trace back to the manifestations.
when you recognize the children
and find the mother.
you will be free of sorrow
tao te ching
isn't it nice to know that no matter who's singing what song, you can hear.
i called my shrink to ask her for a refill. she asked me how i was doing on the meds. i was like, fine! you know? it's good! except i'm having a little trouble with short-term memory. like, i will take a pill and then a half a minute later seriously not remember if i did. she was intrigued. let's google that because that's a new one. i waited while she typed it in. oh here we go. "med x and med y attenuated the cognitive deficits observed in depressive rats." we giggled. "that's not you. that has nothing to do with the medicine." you're not depressive, a little sociopathic. "barking mad". we both started laughing uncontrollably. i can't believe you said that in the first session, that was uncalled for. who said that to you and who made you believe that? i knew i shouldn't have told her about how i can move the world with the very power of my mind. some things are best left to fiction. i still would like some help with the wrack lines of the sea that blow up during a storm, and signs of resourcefullness. i think that's where sex comes in, as if it needed any opening to begin with, the ecology of it's sounds and eddies. flowers that fringe the shore, colors not seen from the beach. true madness might be thinking you know how to read the wild liquid coursing through someone else's body at the first.
"i loved your story about the snapdragons" she said, when she was getting off the phone.
i never told you the story about the snapdragons.
"no, but you will."
and you know what she was talking about? peace, unlooked for. i just spellchecked this and james joyce can't spell.
"The dark corners emptying out"
I haven't stopped listening to B"P"B. "I know that missing you/ Has just begun." Love that one. Still loving "plenty of what's missing." You know. Rhythm. But in particular. The one I'm thinking I should write about here. I wish it didn't start with the way he found his hands on "mountain girl." Though I suppose I can accept it as a little bit of straight kitsch. The woman singing still has enough magic left in her to "make a one like you swoon." I know how she feels. But I've never had a song in my head sing sex so well. Maybe Missy Eliot of a certain period. But I'm loving. "Oh take it Oh take me Oh take it so easy Oh make it Oh make me Oh kneel down and please me Oh lady oh boy Show how you want me And do it so everyone sees me. We have a new leaf to show the world..." I love it how the "me" that he sings everyone should see comes in as a kind of graceful supplement. I'm a whore for grace. I haven't forgotten. I mean the song's called "So Everyone." It just so happens that all of that yearning and moaning is for giving visibility to a certain "me." A me who is the product of all that yearning and moaning. I've been waiting around for someone to see me like that for a while. In writing about Berlin I quit waiting for it to just happen. Started yearning and moaning in a different light.
That title is a citation. I've been rereading me in that different light. Different yet again rereading it. But finding irreparable things. We tend these days to be so afraid. Of irreparable things. Indelible. Written down. Things like. Some nodal points. A ritual for T and me. To have him realize how much I need him. We took our pill and clanked our beers together to staying together. For that night. And for longer, too. Maybe, though, being with us made him want to go find his someone else. How long can I keep on waking? They were there and so were we and then the next day I was there and they were, too. Something about how we were there. That renewed how we're going to be elsewhere. Like here. And here I am having written. Seeing stars. A kinda constellation. Turns out the New World's in the Old. Or it's in both. It's a new relation to old codes. Already as mourning.
So there's a rhythm I was consecrating. Like I said like a week ago now. And then there's T and me. Consecrating ourselves as us thanks to the gazes, various body parts and words of a whole bunch of others next to whom we just end up. We don't need a piece of paper from the city hall. We do need each other. And we do need for a whole lot of others to see that need. Like you. Like anyone else as incomparable as you are. As we are. To see us as we are. Here and there. Around. Beside each other. Beside ourselves. A description of the situation could go on forever.
I seem to have a little more patience than you do for the whole marriage thing. I mean. For real. Fuck the cake. But there might be something to do with all this extravagant and misspent desire for consecration. Because the problem is that so many of us persist in thinking that the consecration we need comes from the State. I've been meaning to quote this thing I read. I read it, I think, while I was writing on Berlin. A little thing Jean-Luc Nancy wrote about "The Sacred." Today, in addition to blogging, I'm trying to reorganize the piles of books and papers and things that have been accumulating for six months. I've just found this thing by Nancy again as a result. It's funny. Because T and I went out for lunch. Just after not sleeping so much after hearing that Dad had passed away. Descended one last time down those stairs at the place that is now my mother's big house. She said that to me while I was there. "Somebody should write something about all those stairs have seen." Maybe I will. Maybe I already am. So T and I were eating. I hadn't cried yet. And then at some point over the course of the meal. I realized that we had made love. The night before. Working out the aftermath of Berlin. Celebrating the departure of the thing that had been weighing on us for so long. And while coming. We'd looked each other in the eyes. I think I was on top. And I think we were watching each other meet our need for each other. Eating lunch with him. I remembered that. Because sitting next to us were two people I'm convinced run the journal that ran the little piece by Jean-Luc Nancy. And in that piece, if I give a rough translation, Nancy says that "in essence, the sacred or the saint encounters us... Each time, through whatever precise form (a gaze, a tonality, a rhythm or a contact, something confused or clear), it has the force of an encounter: that which cannot be avoided. Someone in the street, or else one of those people I see every day, can force the encounter on me. Or else a tree, or the movement and pace of a phrase... We call "art" -- but the word leaves a lot to be desired -- a gesture that, par excellence, consecrates. The art of pleasing, or of living, the art of delighting or of growing old, the art of singing or drawing. It's not only a question of knowing how to do it: it's a question of knowing how to make do with something that doesn't let itself be done. With what doesn't allow itself to happen... Knowing how to make do with a letting be: letting oneself be faced with truth, letting it shine on its own. Whether with truth or sanctity. Knowing how to allow the coming not of its shine, which comes from it alone, but the opening that allows you to discern it. Knowing how to make an opening for it, and knowing just how much this knowledge is out of our control." Seeing those people beside me. Remembering something I'd understood from Nancy's phrases. Having written about Berlin. Coming while looking into T's eyes. Surviving the death of my father. The tears started coming. Lol. The ipod gods have put Janis Joplin on right now. "If you want me. Cry baby."
That title is a citation. I've been rereading me in that different light. Different yet again rereading it. But finding irreparable things. We tend these days to be so afraid. Of irreparable things. Indelible. Written down. Things like. Some nodal points. A ritual for T and me. To have him realize how much I need him. We took our pill and clanked our beers together to staying together. For that night. And for longer, too. Maybe, though, being with us made him want to go find his someone else. How long can I keep on waking? They were there and so were we and then the next day I was there and they were, too. Something about how we were there. That renewed how we're going to be elsewhere. Like here. And here I am having written. Seeing stars. A kinda constellation. Turns out the New World's in the Old. Or it's in both. It's a new relation to old codes. Already as mourning.
So there's a rhythm I was consecrating. Like I said like a week ago now. And then there's T and me. Consecrating ourselves as us thanks to the gazes, various body parts and words of a whole bunch of others next to whom we just end up. We don't need a piece of paper from the city hall. We do need each other. And we do need for a whole lot of others to see that need. Like you. Like anyone else as incomparable as you are. As we are. To see us as we are. Here and there. Around. Beside each other. Beside ourselves. A description of the situation could go on forever.
I seem to have a little more patience than you do for the whole marriage thing. I mean. For real. Fuck the cake. But there might be something to do with all this extravagant and misspent desire for consecration. Because the problem is that so many of us persist in thinking that the consecration we need comes from the State. I've been meaning to quote this thing I read. I read it, I think, while I was writing on Berlin. A little thing Jean-Luc Nancy wrote about "The Sacred." Today, in addition to blogging, I'm trying to reorganize the piles of books and papers and things that have been accumulating for six months. I've just found this thing by Nancy again as a result. It's funny. Because T and I went out for lunch. Just after not sleeping so much after hearing that Dad had passed away. Descended one last time down those stairs at the place that is now my mother's big house. She said that to me while I was there. "Somebody should write something about all those stairs have seen." Maybe I will. Maybe I already am. So T and I were eating. I hadn't cried yet. And then at some point over the course of the meal. I realized that we had made love. The night before. Working out the aftermath of Berlin. Celebrating the departure of the thing that had been weighing on us for so long. And while coming. We'd looked each other in the eyes. I think I was on top. And I think we were watching each other meet our need for each other. Eating lunch with him. I remembered that. Because sitting next to us were two people I'm convinced run the journal that ran the little piece by Jean-Luc Nancy. And in that piece, if I give a rough translation, Nancy says that "in essence, the sacred or the saint encounters us... Each time, through whatever precise form (a gaze, a tonality, a rhythm or a contact, something confused or clear), it has the force of an encounter: that which cannot be avoided. Someone in the street, or else one of those people I see every day, can force the encounter on me. Or else a tree, or the movement and pace of a phrase... We call "art" -- but the word leaves a lot to be desired -- a gesture that, par excellence, consecrates. The art of pleasing, or of living, the art of delighting or of growing old, the art of singing or drawing. It's not only a question of knowing how to do it: it's a question of knowing how to make do with something that doesn't let itself be done. With what doesn't allow itself to happen... Knowing how to make do with a letting be: letting oneself be faced with truth, letting it shine on its own. Whether with truth or sanctity. Knowing how to allow the coming not of its shine, which comes from it alone, but the opening that allows you to discern it. Knowing how to make an opening for it, and knowing just how much this knowledge is out of our control." Seeing those people beside me. Remembering something I'd understood from Nancy's phrases. Having written about Berlin. Coming while looking into T's eyes. Surviving the death of my father. The tears started coming. Lol. The ipod gods have put Janis Joplin on right now. "If you want me. Cry baby."
Thursday, June 5, 2008
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