While we're singing. Or loving people singing. Such sad songs. OMG. Like, what? Antony seems to be singing that we need to huddle together and weep for everything we're getting ready to lose. The lady's on slow fire. It sure is beautiful. And it sure bores a hole into my belly. Especially with the middle images. Sheer attention. To what the singer's getting ready to leave. Did I say this little EP is coming out for my birthday? I like that. Coincidence.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
concerts
yes, i like beer again.
i'm sort of pissed right now, too. a few days ago i sat down to write a story. first, i curled up on the couch and cried. just because. you know, writing. and second, thomas edison decided to come by. besides not thinking that's fair, and that i've just about had enough of bullshit energies having their way with me, (okay now i'm giggling, but it is fucking rude) it's my story after all, like, basically i get it. the gears have shifted again. we're in the midpoint of hell and chaos. no one needs tom edison to shout that shit at them. so there's this thing of awakening. maybe. that's how i feel about that. i don't feel about it. go back to the search for a domestic source of natural rubber...
so i like beer again, but specifically, i like beer with a cigarette on a certain sun-warmed rock in the late afternoon after i'd danced in the cold water, my eyes as empty and green as outer space, heel to toe like a hindu god. scarred and shiny. there's nothing more deliberate than a river.
none of this is "ideas". someone once yelled that at me. that love to me was a sheer filament of ideas, only. what do you say to that? what the fuck are you talking about? is about all i could manage. i thought that was pretty good. there's something sweet in there, i absolutely guarantee you, something real sweet. a thrill of gratitude actually flooded my chest.
a feeling had me. big silence, big firs, ferns patterned in sunlight beneath.
malcolm came over and snuffled my ear. i think all this is possible. this peak instability; the entire system takes on an avalanche of emergent properties. i think that's what i could pore over, again and again, in all these ideas made flesh. all these words. it happens. several acres of old growth. let me tell you why. the temperature during the course of the day was tremendous. no humidity, but deep fire. i broke into a sweat only about 20 feet out from the porch. i'm sure this can happen anywhere, it does in fact. danger, magic, and happy endings. both malcolm and i got hurt that day. he stumbled over some barbed wire, just a nick, and i scrambled on a rock and skinned myself. the half-bright way a puppy feel pain. so we sat by the river, instead. the air smelled of crushed sage and cold water. it's not a mistake of the imagination. and i don't feel one way or another about it. and this heat. it wasn't a drought heat, that crazy dry, almost lifeless temperature. this was the burning ocean of life, of woods, and earth.
and it was my mind that interested me. it had edged into glory. and it was quiet there. s. and i did shrooms up there a couple of years ago. whoa now i'm coming with you and i'm coming with you. oh feel me i'm coming. Patti Smith has started to sing that song again. we were at one concert where she finished and said, "oh i haven't done that one in a long time. i really like it again." it's a great song. anyways, we had fantastic sex, hypnagogic fucking is kind of awesome, patterns and auras and whatnot, edging into other kingdoms, principalities, i'm absolutely sure that linguistic and intervening ages were invented right then. and then we sort of rolled over and watched malcolm. his fur was gorgeous, you know that amber color he is? oh my god. his being-ness was all concerts and autumn breezes and sun, his color was himself, initiatory life pulsed in him, in total fidelity to him. so beautiful, i mean it was so good. i just cried. we lay on the bed with him and watched the light turn from mid-afternoon to dusk. we filled that day so sweetly.
if awakening is anything it might be close to apocalypse. i mean, closer to what the root word is, which is revelation, to reveal. and i guess, i can't find the definition, but people have used awakening. to illuminate. maybe disclosure, not sure. certainly prophecy.
and there are moments when that doesn't apply at all. it means fidelity to reality, the real. and sometimes the mind and heart comply, and sometimes not. that's up to you. a mercenary, a soldier. either way, stay in the light. living proof. i am your answer i am living.
i'm sort of pissed right now, too. a few days ago i sat down to write a story. first, i curled up on the couch and cried. just because. you know, writing. and second, thomas edison decided to come by. besides not thinking that's fair, and that i've just about had enough of bullshit energies having their way with me, (okay now i'm giggling, but it is fucking rude) it's my story after all, like, basically i get it. the gears have shifted again. we're in the midpoint of hell and chaos. no one needs tom edison to shout that shit at them. so there's this thing of awakening. maybe. that's how i feel about that. i don't feel about it. go back to the search for a domestic source of natural rubber...
so i like beer again, but specifically, i like beer with a cigarette on a certain sun-warmed rock in the late afternoon after i'd danced in the cold water, my eyes as empty and green as outer space, heel to toe like a hindu god. scarred and shiny. there's nothing more deliberate than a river.
none of this is "ideas". someone once yelled that at me. that love to me was a sheer filament of ideas, only. what do you say to that? what the fuck are you talking about? is about all i could manage. i thought that was pretty good. there's something sweet in there, i absolutely guarantee you, something real sweet. a thrill of gratitude actually flooded my chest.
a feeling had me. big silence, big firs, ferns patterned in sunlight beneath.
malcolm came over and snuffled my ear. i think all this is possible. this peak instability; the entire system takes on an avalanche of emergent properties. i think that's what i could pore over, again and again, in all these ideas made flesh. all these words. it happens. several acres of old growth. let me tell you why. the temperature during the course of the day was tremendous. no humidity, but deep fire. i broke into a sweat only about 20 feet out from the porch. i'm sure this can happen anywhere, it does in fact. danger, magic, and happy endings. both malcolm and i got hurt that day. he stumbled over some barbed wire, just a nick, and i scrambled on a rock and skinned myself. the half-bright way a puppy feel pain. so we sat by the river, instead. the air smelled of crushed sage and cold water. it's not a mistake of the imagination. and i don't feel one way or another about it. and this heat. it wasn't a drought heat, that crazy dry, almost lifeless temperature. this was the burning ocean of life, of woods, and earth.
and it was my mind that interested me. it had edged into glory. and it was quiet there. s. and i did shrooms up there a couple of years ago. whoa now i'm coming with you and i'm coming with you. oh feel me i'm coming. Patti Smith has started to sing that song again. we were at one concert where she finished and said, "oh i haven't done that one in a long time. i really like it again." it's a great song. anyways, we had fantastic sex, hypnagogic fucking is kind of awesome, patterns and auras and whatnot, edging into other kingdoms, principalities, i'm absolutely sure that linguistic and intervening ages were invented right then. and then we sort of rolled over and watched malcolm. his fur was gorgeous, you know that amber color he is? oh my god. his being-ness was all concerts and autumn breezes and sun, his color was himself, initiatory life pulsed in him, in total fidelity to him. so beautiful, i mean it was so good. i just cried. we lay on the bed with him and watched the light turn from mid-afternoon to dusk. we filled that day so sweetly.
if awakening is anything it might be close to apocalypse. i mean, closer to what the root word is, which is revelation, to reveal. and i guess, i can't find the definition, but people have used awakening. to illuminate. maybe disclosure, not sure. certainly prophecy.
and there are moments when that doesn't apply at all. it means fidelity to reality, the real. and sometimes the mind and heart comply, and sometimes not. that's up to you. a mercenary, a soldier. either way, stay in the light. living proof. i am your answer i am living.
And while we're singing...
"Laugh. In the face of death under masthead.
Hold your breath through late breaking disasters.
Next to news of the trite.
And the codes. And the feelings that mean to be global.
Like c**e in the nose of the nobles. Keeps it alight.
And the wrath. And the riots. And the races on fire.
And the music for tanks with no red lights in sight.
Got you cryin'. Cryin'. Oh whyin'. Oh my my my.
Gold. Is another word for culture.
Leads to fattening. Of the vultures.
Till this bird can barely fly.
And Mary and David smoke dung in the trenches.
While Zion’s behavior never gets mentioned.
The writings. On your wall. And the blood on the cradle.
And the ashes you wade through. Got you callin' God's name in vain.
Leave the damned to damn it all!
's got you cryin'. Cryin'. Oh whyin'. Oh my my my.
Broken rose. Coloured glasses. Can't see for the thorns.
And you just can't stand no more!
What a clumsy kind of low. Time to take the wheel and the road.
From the masters. Take this car. Drive it straight into the wall.
Build it back up from the floor.
And stop our cryin'. Cryin'. Oh whyin'. Oh my my my.
Our cryin'. Our cryin'. Our cryin'. Still you try, try, try."
--TV on the Radio (enjambments mine)
And then there's this one, which somehow seems apropos here:
"Faceless fall. From this. Life and ah.
If you can't. See the stars.
You've probably gone too far.
Like the voice that cried.
On the lonesome tide.
Like the wave was the only love it ever saw.
"What's this dying for"?
Asks the Stork that soars. With the Owl.
High above. Canyons mighty walls.
Owl said "Death's a door, That love walks through.
In and out. In and out. Back and forth. Back and forth".
Turn from the fear. Of the storms that might be.
Oh let it free. That caged on fire thing.
Oh hold its hands. It'll feel like lightening.
Oh in your arms safe from the storms.
Sky bends. The moon's dress's slung low, slung low.
Dogstar taught a dance. It goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes.
Arms out. Knees bend. The motion flows.
Like the soft. Open petals. Of a Jessica Rose.
So Sirius. So it falls apart? Just reveals the perfect nothing.
Of everything you are. Of everything we are!
Candle of life. Lights the blights and bruises.
Oh lay it down. In the night. Let it soothe this.
Oh hold its hands. And we'll know what truth is.
Oh in its arms safe from the storms."
Still TV on the Radio. Enjambments still mine. I was liking this just hearing it. I'm loving it reading and listening to it.
Hold your breath through late breaking disasters.
Next to news of the trite.
And the codes. And the feelings that mean to be global.
Like c**e in the nose of the nobles. Keeps it alight.
And the wrath. And the riots. And the races on fire.
And the music for tanks with no red lights in sight.
Got you cryin'. Cryin'. Oh whyin'. Oh my my my.
Gold. Is another word for culture.
Leads to fattening. Of the vultures.
Till this bird can barely fly.
And Mary and David smoke dung in the trenches.
While Zion’s behavior never gets mentioned.
The writings. On your wall. And the blood on the cradle.
And the ashes you wade through. Got you callin' God's name in vain.
Leave the damned to damn it all!
's got you cryin'. Cryin'. Oh whyin'. Oh my my my.
Broken rose. Coloured glasses. Can't see for the thorns.
And you just can't stand no more!
What a clumsy kind of low. Time to take the wheel and the road.
From the masters. Take this car. Drive it straight into the wall.
Build it back up from the floor.
And stop our cryin'. Cryin'. Oh whyin'. Oh my my my.
Our cryin'. Our cryin'. Our cryin'. Still you try, try, try."
--TV on the Radio (enjambments mine)
And then there's this one, which somehow seems apropos here:
"Faceless fall. From this. Life and ah.
If you can't. See the stars.
You've probably gone too far.
Like the voice that cried.
On the lonesome tide.
Like the wave was the only love it ever saw.
"What's this dying for"?
Asks the Stork that soars. With the Owl.
High above. Canyons mighty walls.
Owl said "Death's a door, That love walks through.
In and out. In and out. Back and forth. Back and forth".
Turn from the fear. Of the storms that might be.
Oh let it free. That caged on fire thing.
Oh hold its hands. It'll feel like lightening.
Oh in your arms safe from the storms.
Sky bends. The moon's dress's slung low, slung low.
Dogstar taught a dance. It goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes, it goes.
Arms out. Knees bend. The motion flows.
Like the soft. Open petals. Of a Jessica Rose.
So Sirius. So it falls apart? Just reveals the perfect nothing.
Of everything you are. Of everything we are!
Candle of life. Lights the blights and bruises.
Oh lay it down. In the night. Let it soothe this.
Oh hold its hands. And we'll know what truth is.
Oh in its arms safe from the storms."
Still TV on the Radio. Enjambments still mine. I was liking this just hearing it. I'm loving it reading and listening to it.
Better
I'm better. I don't think it's mono. I hope not. Had lunch with B again today. I say again. Because I had lunch with him yesterday, too. He's still yellow. His facebook status yesterday read "B is a Simpson." Today it says he's "Greuh." Which I think is a growling noise. B's good at noises. It's part of what makes our skype conversations so fun. At first glance yesterday I thought he was exaggerating. About the yellow thing. Then I looked into the whites of his eyes. And they were yellow. Apparently mono gets at your liver. B's is in overdrive. We like each other a lot.
This weekend. T had lots of soothing words. To help calm me down about B. And T. And I had a really good session of analysis Monday. At some point, the session ended up being about having good addresses. You say that in French if you know a cute store. Or a nice restaurant. "J'ai une bonne adresse." So it's sorta trite that way. (Is it trite in English, too? One of the weirdest things about this extended living and now more and more settling abroad is that I forget what it is we say in English. But we do say that, don't we? I have a great address. For shoes. Or bagels. Or whatevers. Weird how language's second nature can become obviously second and not at all natural once you're straddling two languages at once. Of course, this is one of the major motors for writing about translation.)
But when I was turning around my good addresses in analysis. Of course I was talking about you. And my shrink. And my friend K who just said in an email last week: "YES I WANT YOUR PIECE ON TILLMANS." I was telling my shrink that these were all good addresses. And that I have quite a number of them. Like any of us do. Many of us. At any rate. People I say you to. Who allow me to discover myself differently. Preparing for another world. So many I's amongst us who need it. Yay indeed. Know what? The EP comes out in Europe right on my birthday! Something cosmic about that. Sidereal and all. I'm already all weepy over the minute and a half excerpt that I found on your friend Choire's website before it popped out so serendipitously here.
There's a vague plan in the air for New Year's in New York. I assume you're hanging with your friend Patti.
Keep thinking. I was having vague fits of paranoia because I littered my blog entry with kleenex and you didn't write back. Also because I'm teaching Balzac. Which is enough to make you paranoid. I gave a kick-ass lecture/discussion today to wrap up on Lost Illusions. There are reasons behind why I do what I do. But my paranoia was really only in vague fits. Even reading Balzac. Who has a soft-spot for all the strange things his characters because of how they're "built-in." (Henry James on Balzac cited by Michael Lucey: "Nothing appealed to [Balzac] more than to show how we all are, and how we are placed and built-in for being so.") It's just such a rough world in France in the 1820's. How we're built-in made us do the darndest things. Not like it's looking like it's going to be much less rough wherever we are over the next decade or two. But at least you and I. We're good now. It also helped my paranoia about my kleenexes. That you had burped in your first entry back from your vacation. I love it that you like beer now.
xxoo s
This weekend. T had lots of soothing words. To help calm me down about B. And T. And I had a really good session of analysis Monday. At some point, the session ended up being about having good addresses. You say that in French if you know a cute store. Or a nice restaurant. "J'ai une bonne adresse." So it's sorta trite that way. (Is it trite in English, too? One of the weirdest things about this extended living and now more and more settling abroad is that I forget what it is we say in English. But we do say that, don't we? I have a great address. For shoes. Or bagels. Or whatevers. Weird how language's second nature can become obviously second and not at all natural once you're straddling two languages at once. Of course, this is one of the major motors for writing about translation.)
But when I was turning around my good addresses in analysis. Of course I was talking about you. And my shrink. And my friend K who just said in an email last week: "YES I WANT YOUR PIECE ON TILLMANS." I was telling my shrink that these were all good addresses. And that I have quite a number of them. Like any of us do. Many of us. At any rate. People I say you to. Who allow me to discover myself differently. Preparing for another world. So many I's amongst us who need it. Yay indeed. Know what? The EP comes out in Europe right on my birthday! Something cosmic about that. Sidereal and all. I'm already all weepy over the minute and a half excerpt that I found on your friend Choire's website before it popped out so serendipitously here.
There's a vague plan in the air for New Year's in New York. I assume you're hanging with your friend Patti.
Keep thinking. I was having vague fits of paranoia because I littered my blog entry with kleenex and you didn't write back. Also because I'm teaching Balzac. Which is enough to make you paranoid. I gave a kick-ass lecture/discussion today to wrap up on Lost Illusions. There are reasons behind why I do what I do. But my paranoia was really only in vague fits. Even reading Balzac. Who has a soft-spot for all the strange things his characters because of how they're "built-in." (Henry James on Balzac cited by Michael Lucey: "Nothing appealed to [Balzac] more than to show how we all are, and how we are placed and built-in for being so.") It's just such a rough world in France in the 1820's. How we're built-in made us do the darndest things. Not like it's looking like it's going to be much less rough wherever we are over the next decade or two. But at least you and I. We're good now. It also helped my paranoia about my kleenexes. That you had burped in your first entry back from your vacation. I love it that you like beer now.
xxoo s
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Winter King
look! yay.
hi sweetheart. i'm here. are you feeling better? did you sleep? i'm here, and thinking...
xo
ps. not sure about joyce, either. never have been. but that one below was a stunner.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
At the moment, it's mostly sleep I'm worried about. Getting by. Which I used to think of as an art. Or as something that could leave precipitates worth keeping. At the moment, the main precipitate getting by is leaving are piles of kleenex around the house. I felt something coming on over the course of my Friday -- the one day I don't go in to work, of course. And then Saturday it came head on. Knocked me out all day yesterday. What really worries me is that B has been diagnosed with mono. Which I don't think I've ever had. And the most hilarious part of it is that it wouldn't even have been because we had great kinky sex with each other. Nope. But at point of highest contagion, no doubt, we had had lunch and he had stuck his tongue down my throat for all of half a second. That might be enough. I was pooped anyways. But if I have to deal with EBV? Sheez. I'm not out of the barnyard yet. As they say 'round these parts. Meaning. We've got a lot of road to travel. Before we get to awakening.
Thought I should tell you. Our Search for Delicious just became even more clearly important to me than it already is. I mean our correspondence. I've declared a hiatus from my writing group for a while. Because of headcold, but also because of the fact that every time I tried to write for it I got filled with dread. I was supposed to go today. Couldn't have. Because of the cold. But as T said last night when I was making the decision and he was helping me articulate its consequences. The writing group was always about dread. Which I might have needed. To get where I. And Caroline along with me. Inside me. Need to get. But what with all the concentration on getting by. Too much pressure to perform. For them. Nice people. But so far. Nothing quite enticing Caroline out into the world. Helping her awaken. It's actually felt a little more like. There she is. Lying on the ground. Passed out. And once a month I come up and give her a little kick on the shoulder. She sorta moans. And rolls over. And says she's tired. Does she really have to come out? I mean. I don't wanna be mean. Drag her out into the light if she's not ready. She's got a good beginning. She's just not quite ready to take stage yet.
Plus? I dunno about you. But this whole Wall Street thang? I just don't get it. So I've been reading smart people on the economy. And remembering a moment that I can't quite chronologically situate. When I was visiting my parents. It may have been around the time Bush and Cheney and Haliburton started bombing Iraq. I remember being adamant. Without feeling self-righteous. Self-righteous I would sometimes feel as a kid when I'd go on diatribes for Michael Dukakis. For example. But about the bombings. It was just so clear to me. That it was not a question of right or wrong. That this was all going to be a mess. Dismayed at their inability to consider the consequences. To wonder about the side-effects. I guess it was around that moment that I lost the feeling that however much I reasoned about things. They might actually be right. At that moment. I realized. They were so wrong. And had no idea. And coming back to their house one night. (I have lots of memories of being on the threshold of my parents' home. It's a charged site). I remember turning the key in the lock and thinking. Jesus. They have no idea how fragile this all is. Do they. And it does seem now like we're at a brief moment where that fragility seems obvious to everyone. And fragility, vulnerability. It makes some of us crazy. And then there are others amongst us. Like you and me. We're not alone. And we're ready to do something else with that fragility and vulnerability. Like wake up.
Thought I should tell you. Our Search for Delicious just became even more clearly important to me than it already is. I mean our correspondence. I've declared a hiatus from my writing group for a while. Because of headcold, but also because of the fact that every time I tried to write for it I got filled with dread. I was supposed to go today. Couldn't have. Because of the cold. But as T said last night when I was making the decision and he was helping me articulate its consequences. The writing group was always about dread. Which I might have needed. To get where I. And Caroline along with me. Inside me. Need to get. But what with all the concentration on getting by. Too much pressure to perform. For them. Nice people. But so far. Nothing quite enticing Caroline out into the world. Helping her awaken. It's actually felt a little more like. There she is. Lying on the ground. Passed out. And once a month I come up and give her a little kick on the shoulder. She sorta moans. And rolls over. And says she's tired. Does she really have to come out? I mean. I don't wanna be mean. Drag her out into the light if she's not ready. She's got a good beginning. She's just not quite ready to take stage yet.
Plus? I dunno about you. But this whole Wall Street thang? I just don't get it. So I've been reading smart people on the economy. And remembering a moment that I can't quite chronologically situate. When I was visiting my parents. It may have been around the time Bush and Cheney and Haliburton started bombing Iraq. I remember being adamant. Without feeling self-righteous. Self-righteous I would sometimes feel as a kid when I'd go on diatribes for Michael Dukakis. For example. But about the bombings. It was just so clear to me. That it was not a question of right or wrong. That this was all going to be a mess. Dismayed at their inability to consider the consequences. To wonder about the side-effects. I guess it was around that moment that I lost the feeling that however much I reasoned about things. They might actually be right. At that moment. I realized. They were so wrong. And had no idea. And coming back to their house one night. (I have lots of memories of being on the threshold of my parents' home. It's a charged site). I remember turning the key in the lock and thinking. Jesus. They have no idea how fragile this all is. Do they. And it does seem now like we're at a brief moment where that fragility seems obvious to everyone. And fragility, vulnerability. It makes some of us crazy. And then there are others amongst us. Like you and me. We're not alone. And we're ready to do something else with that fragility and vulnerability. Like wake up.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
ELIJAH: No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys, do it now. God's time is 12.25. Tell mother you'll be there. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. Join on right here. Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or a doggone clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I say you are. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. You got me? It's a lifebrightener, sure. The hottest stuff ever was. It's the whole pie with jam in. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. It is immense, supersumptuous. It restores. It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that? O. K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. Got me? That's it. You call me up by sunphone any old time. Bumboosers, save your stamps. (HE SHOUTS) Now then our glory song. All join heartily in the singing. Encore! (HE SINGS) Jeru ...
James Joyce, Ulysses
did i ever tell you my story about Elias? (and yeah, this does have to do with what you just posted, no loops tonight)
;)
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Came across this this morning. Damn do I regret not having bought those Antony tickets for the concert in London.
There is the urge to weep. There is the force of creative vision. This pain? This isn't a heart breaking; it's a heart waking. The waking world is this one, where our senses clear and we feel the power of transformation, we see that the doors along the corridor of possibility are not, after all, closed to us, though they may be far away and heavy and frightening. We can face them and walk through them nonetheless.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
All These Deep Impulses Roaming Around
Ok ok. Sorry to leave so many deep impulses wandering around our space without any anchoring for days on end. Suzanne is a little voiceless while WB lives out some narratives he doesn't yet know how to tell and waits. Not for an Austinian Pride and Prejudice set-up. (Those typos'll getcha and you're bound to make them writing incidentally on a blog). But for an Augustinian conversion. Oh yeah. He's working. Way too much. Too. Is it too late to have loved you?
Meanwhile, the leash was maybe the best part. It was hanging from my belt out of use Friday night just after I got in. T had come in the day before for a work meeting. And a night out. I got in. We made a run for the goods. Like last time around. Same place same guy. Unfortunately different goods. The connection gave us an extra hit. Which he told us was because it was crumbly. Turns out it was crummy too. We don’t do this often enough to have a tester. B had told us his friend R had said that the e in Berlin was bad. We shoulda listened and cancelled the run. ‘Cos it was terrible. Fine coming on. Then clenched jaws and angry. We had words in the subway on the way to Perverts. Where we will not go again. The echte Berliner boycotted. All the big parties. Except for A. Who we saw out on Saturday. I still remember the way he looked at me. On Saturday. How he looked at me six months ago. I remember that too. I like remembering being seen by him. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Because we were having at each other. In the difficult way. In the train on the way to Perverts. Because while it was coming on I had been saying to T. That I was possessed. B again. That B. Like some others. Was in me. Still. Telling T how it was. How he maybe could be. T. Given B. In me. We’re working it out. Desire is not fair. Ways of dealing with it can be. So far so fair. Basically. With some beautiful mistakes. (Barthes again! I’m reading the recently published seminar that made for the Fragments. Barthes saying there. “Destiny is to be struck by Error. (Error is a god: the goddess Error. Why can’t we build a true Pantheon? The Pantheon of our desire.” Me moaning with pleasure recently reading that in bed.) T and I both separately and independently wished B happy birthday today. And here I am doing it again. Sorta. Happy B-day B!
So Friday we weren’t actually in bed too late. Not much to tell about Perverts. One nice moment. Maybe I need to let T go more. Let him go out on his own. I let him go at some point. Sat with my jaws clenched on a sofa. Drinking beer or water. T went for a walk. A while later on, I got up. Found him in a dark corner. Going to town. I joined in. We went to town. For a good while. Thank goodness. Because other than that? It was a bunch of foreigners wandering around a party looking for where the party was. “Maybe.” The drama queen I also am said at some point to T. “Maybe this is just the dystopia.” Like after the utopia of last time around. But that’s a load of drama-queen shit. Because last time took place. Took place and took time and took words and made me cry lots once it was gone. And I don’t really believe life works in flip-flops between good and bad. There’s always more.
Also? We hadn’t really eaten very well. A hot-dog chopped up drowned in ketchup and curry powder that you eat with a little fork. You eat the pommes frites with the same fork. Pomm-es. The Germans say like it has two syllables. All organic. For real. The hot dog stand says so. We always stop at the same one. Just not usually for our main dinner. This meant that when we got up on Saturday we were starved for Fruhstück. Still at C and L’s. Which is really turning lovely. Comfortable. Campy. Multi-lingual. Lots of laughter around the breakfast table. And? A really sweet Tillmans montage on the wall across from where T and I were sitting. Like Tillmans pictures. In a collage with pictures of them. And a couple of Tillmans’s beautiful after-eating shots. Or after-breakfast. And C and L seem in a good place. I know absolutely nothing. Or very very little. Of their history. But that was nice to see. And be a kind of part of.
Saturday after Fruhstück was Folsom Europe Fair. I’m sure you know how this goes. Mostly lots and lots of men. Some women, too. And? Because we were in Berlin. Even a family or two parading by with a stroller. And wearing the little sticker that says you contributed. But mostly men. Dressed up. Parading around. Drinking beer. Eating sausage. Or? Sucking pig. Quote unquote. It was on a spit. And the stand said. Sucking pig. Quote unquote. It’s funny. Because while we were in Croatia. We had sucking pig, too. Quote unquote. The waitress even said so. “I recommend the sucking pig.” We recommend it, too. Particularly at this one grilled goods place on this island in Croatia where it was actually delicious. I’m not sure there was anything particularly suck(l)ing about the pig on a spit of which we partook in Berlin. Because it was actually a little dry. But yummy. Lots of beer. Well, not tons. Probs 4? Over the course of the day. And lots of conversation. Because you know what? We’re sorta becoming part of a scene. If not a gang. Which is nice. To wander around and bump into people you find things to say to. And they to you. We’re still not great at meeting people. Is anybody? I mean. Really good at meeting people? Sure. I know some networkers. But actually meeting people? When you meet them they interrupt things. And at the moment. I think T and I have a lot going on. Like we’ve got enough interruptions. Or enough occasions for them. All these deep impulses roaming around. You said that very well. Actually though. Now that I think about it. There are F and P. Who were staying in a studio together. Who I’ve seen around on the scene. T met F in the plane on the way there the day before I came. We didn’t fuck. And might well not. But we kept running into them. And chatting. Really pleasantly every time. I think we may have met them. We’ll see how it pans out.
I did get chatted up by an H. Which could have been useful for our alphabet. Hence for my real writing. Whatever that is. Augustine. Proust. Corked-wall. Etc. This is one of my operative fantasies. That I’m not really writing yet. Even here. Probably should work on that. Am actually. Working on that fantasy. Writing here. So anyway. H. He smelled like he had already been at it for hours. Stinky hot leathers. Sexy face. Like the other echte Berliner he was boycotting the big parties. When I told him I’d been to Perverts on Friday. And was going to Pig on Saturday. In other words. The two big parties. Must have been that that made him say he had to pee. And he walked away. Even though I made it clear. Against my best interest. That I fully supported the echte Berliner’s move to boycott the parties on the grounds that they were too expensive. And made for tourists. Like me.
At some point. Around 5 in the afternoon. T said. “We’ve seen everybody but B.” I cracked out my cell phone. Texted B. Quoted T. “‘We’ve seen everybody but B.’ Dixit T. Where are you?” B wrote back. “B is waking up, getting ready and on his way.” I think I went to the bathroom. That’s funny. I almost wrote birthroom. Instead of bathroom. I’ll have to tell my shrink. Anyway. I came back from the bathroom. Or getting more beer. No ! Actually I’d been sidetracked by G. Who’s not (yet ?) a lover common to T and me. So he doesn’t qualify for the alphabet. Which is too bad. Or actually great. Because we need a G. G and J-M have been together for a long time. I think their letters appear in my last Berlin Chronicle. They would have W in their alphabet because I’m a lover common to them. I like them. They’re older. Not usually T’s thing. But. Now that I’ve written this. Which is of course not real writing. Haha. I’ll ask him. G and I had been talking about the American presidential election. And how nice Americans are. And how scary they can be. Because G and J-M had been to the States for vacation. Grand Canyon and all. A stop in Portland for leathers whose fame stretches all the way here. Lovely leathers. So anyway. Chatting about that with G. Then more beer or birthroom (ha!) and then back to find T. Standing with B and R. Who had traveled together. R. Who B often introduces. Or mentions. As the beautiful muscleman who used to scowl at him. Instead of talking to him. And now all of a sudden is his big buddy. And who is a delight. Though intimidating. Just because of his beauty and muscle. They had a swarm of Parisians. And a few Berliners. Swarming around. Some we know. Some we don’t. B took a few pictures. Only a few. But I was in one of them. B’s friend T. (Not “my” T). Says I look like a bus-driver for tourists. Which was not the look I was going for. But funny nonetheless.
After the fair. T and I went to eat. Yummy German food. Which doesn’t come along everyday. Decided we’d go back to the e we bought at Easter. For the big party. Far away. In East Berlin. New space. Beautiful space. But, Jesus. You had to get there first. There was a shuttle from a S-Bahn stop. But you had to find the bus station once you crossed Berlin to that S-Bahn station. Outside the S-Bahn station. On the other side of the station from the main entrance. Where we and a bunch of other guys in leather and other sundry were standing. We chased a bus. City bus. That read “PIG 2008.” I think that it’s only in Berlin that a city bus would ever say “PIG 2008.” I like Berlin a lot. We piled onto the bus. There was a sweet looking guy. Who chased the shuttle back to the bus station with us. When one of us said “Maybe it’s this one.” He started singing show tunes. “Could it be this one. Could it be that one.” I liked him immediately. We ran into him early on inside, too. Or saw him in action. I was sitting down. T had gone to pee. Some beautiful body sat right down next to me. Which already indicated interest. Because there were plenty of places to sit. We were early. For the party. A trickle of people like us wandering around the new space. Exploring. First time used for a party. Still some walls full of peeling paint. An old electricity factory. So the beautiful body next to me got and gave a smile. But it was early. Not too early for him though. Up came the show tunes singer with a friend. They must have known the beautiful body next to me. Because they kissed. And slid onto the horizontal cushiony space just behind us. And immediately. The beautiful body pulled out his huge penis and stuck it right into the show-tune singer. Without a condom. I hesitate to add “of course.” So I’ll keep it away from the phrase “without a condom” and say I hesitated to add it. Because there’s a lot of that understandably going on in a place like this. T and I looked at each other and sighed. And probably felt happy to have each other. And a whole mix of other things that I should probably explore here or elsewhere sometime soon. The dance-floor was beautifully set in place. A big screen playing porn above the DJ. Who spun for the dance-floor that was at the front end of a huge hallway with a glass roof. That had leaks. We know. Because it started raining outside. Out where the coat-check was. Bathrooms, too. Which meant that those porta-potties didn’t get used that much that night. The door to the outside was open all night. You walked into the hallway. Big bar on your left. Dance-floor to your right. The dance-floor was. Let me count. Maybe 6 steps up from the floor beside where you entered. So you could hear the music while you were milling about ordering your beer. But you weren’t drowning in it. And you could step up to drown in the music all the more effectively. And from the dance-floor you could take the stairs up to all the little nooks where circuits and circuit-workers used to work. Where we had come to play. And then you could take those stairs back down to the dance-floor.
The dance-floor is where the leash comes in. Maybe the best part. Besides the space itself. T had been sent on a mission. For his day without me in Berlin. To buy a leash. And try on a pair of pants with a zip down the butt. I forgot to mention that. Before we went to the fair. On Saturday afternoon. We went to Mr B. Where T had tried on the pants. But could barely fit into them. And was told that after a little wear and tear he would. But he wanted me to double-check. I did. With the help of the vendor who spent a good 15 minutes moaning and groaning with T so that they could get the front snaps snapped. They didn’t quite. But with a belt it works. And with a little time. They’ll snap. I love the pants. I love the leash. And I love T.
The leash was the best part. In part because T also had clamps on his tits. And when we’d go up the 6 steps or down the stairway from the nooks to dance. I would slide the leash under the chain between the clamps. And we’d dance. And I would wiggle the leash. Which T had to love. At some point I started telling T to invent gestures. Gestures for dancing. He’s started. But is a little resistant. Last night. We had trouble going to sleep. And at some point he said he didn’t get why his gestures weren’t good enough. They are. But it would be fun. If we could bring some newness into the world. Some more newness. Because here we are. Still. And that’s already new. While it keeps going on. So the leash was fun. For inciting gestures. It was also fun. Funny, even. Because there were several times. Where a big muscleman would try and plow through us. And he’d get caught up in the leash. And look a little silly. Meanwhile. T and I would smile. Because the leash made sense. A further translation of Berlin last time around. When T finally understood I needed him. It’s a translation of that attachment that literalizes it. A little cheaply, granted. But given these tough times. We’ll take what we get. And if we’re lucky. We’ll run with it.
The way back was the hardest part. Though even that. Shuttle jampacked full of men to get back to the station. Because there was ne’er a taxi in sight. And a long subway ride back. But we ran into people we knew. J. A sex buddy of mine. And his lover. And a couple of their friends. So we could at least chat. Which was nice. Even at 6:30 in the morning. After a hard night out. T and I fucked once we got back to the pad. And slept. Well. Until we woke up starving. And went to eat breakfast with C and L, and another visitor from near Leibzig. Back to Paris on a plane. We fucked some more. Since we hadn’t actually done that much fucking. And since then. I’ve been working like a maniac. Way too much work. Did I say that already?
Something else I said already. In Skype to B. Who wants to radicalize. I asked him what that meant for him. It had something to do with a tattoo. And other things, too. But it inspired this from me. In French of course. But if I put it in English. I think it applies here. “I think going radical maybe means seeing, recognizing what we are already. Because what we are already is not necessarily nice to look at. And it takes courage to see it. And then to show it. It takes even more courage. And making for the interruption needed so that – what we are already – is seen and shown. Well. That’s being radical.”
“Amen.” Said B.
Meanwhile, the leash was maybe the best part. It was hanging from my belt out of use Friday night just after I got in. T had come in the day before for a work meeting. And a night out. I got in. We made a run for the goods. Like last time around. Same place same guy. Unfortunately different goods. The connection gave us an extra hit. Which he told us was because it was crumbly. Turns out it was crummy too. We don’t do this often enough to have a tester. B had told us his friend R had said that the e in Berlin was bad. We shoulda listened and cancelled the run. ‘Cos it was terrible. Fine coming on. Then clenched jaws and angry. We had words in the subway on the way to Perverts. Where we will not go again. The echte Berliner boycotted. All the big parties. Except for A. Who we saw out on Saturday. I still remember the way he looked at me. On Saturday. How he looked at me six months ago. I remember that too. I like remembering being seen by him. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Because we were having at each other. In the difficult way. In the train on the way to Perverts. Because while it was coming on I had been saying to T. That I was possessed. B again. That B. Like some others. Was in me. Still. Telling T how it was. How he maybe could be. T. Given B. In me. We’re working it out. Desire is not fair. Ways of dealing with it can be. So far so fair. Basically. With some beautiful mistakes. (Barthes again! I’m reading the recently published seminar that made for the Fragments. Barthes saying there. “Destiny is to be struck by Error. (Error is a god: the goddess Error. Why can’t we build a true Pantheon? The Pantheon of our desire.” Me moaning with pleasure recently reading that in bed.) T and I both separately and independently wished B happy birthday today. And here I am doing it again. Sorta. Happy B-day B!
So Friday we weren’t actually in bed too late. Not much to tell about Perverts. One nice moment. Maybe I need to let T go more. Let him go out on his own. I let him go at some point. Sat with my jaws clenched on a sofa. Drinking beer or water. T went for a walk. A while later on, I got up. Found him in a dark corner. Going to town. I joined in. We went to town. For a good while. Thank goodness. Because other than that? It was a bunch of foreigners wandering around a party looking for where the party was. “Maybe.” The drama queen I also am said at some point to T. “Maybe this is just the dystopia.” Like after the utopia of last time around. But that’s a load of drama-queen shit. Because last time took place. Took place and took time and took words and made me cry lots once it was gone. And I don’t really believe life works in flip-flops between good and bad. There’s always more.
Also? We hadn’t really eaten very well. A hot-dog chopped up drowned in ketchup and curry powder that you eat with a little fork. You eat the pommes frites with the same fork. Pomm-es. The Germans say like it has two syllables. All organic. For real. The hot dog stand says so. We always stop at the same one. Just not usually for our main dinner. This meant that when we got up on Saturday we were starved for Fruhstück. Still at C and L’s. Which is really turning lovely. Comfortable. Campy. Multi-lingual. Lots of laughter around the breakfast table. And? A really sweet Tillmans montage on the wall across from where T and I were sitting. Like Tillmans pictures. In a collage with pictures of them. And a couple of Tillmans’s beautiful after-eating shots. Or after-breakfast. And C and L seem in a good place. I know absolutely nothing. Or very very little. Of their history. But that was nice to see. And be a kind of part of.
Saturday after Fruhstück was Folsom Europe Fair. I’m sure you know how this goes. Mostly lots and lots of men. Some women, too. And? Because we were in Berlin. Even a family or two parading by with a stroller. And wearing the little sticker that says you contributed. But mostly men. Dressed up. Parading around. Drinking beer. Eating sausage. Or? Sucking pig. Quote unquote. It was on a spit. And the stand said. Sucking pig. Quote unquote. It’s funny. Because while we were in Croatia. We had sucking pig, too. Quote unquote. The waitress even said so. “I recommend the sucking pig.” We recommend it, too. Particularly at this one grilled goods place on this island in Croatia where it was actually delicious. I’m not sure there was anything particularly suck(l)ing about the pig on a spit of which we partook in Berlin. Because it was actually a little dry. But yummy. Lots of beer. Well, not tons. Probs 4? Over the course of the day. And lots of conversation. Because you know what? We’re sorta becoming part of a scene. If not a gang. Which is nice. To wander around and bump into people you find things to say to. And they to you. We’re still not great at meeting people. Is anybody? I mean. Really good at meeting people? Sure. I know some networkers. But actually meeting people? When you meet them they interrupt things. And at the moment. I think T and I have a lot going on. Like we’ve got enough interruptions. Or enough occasions for them. All these deep impulses roaming around. You said that very well. Actually though. Now that I think about it. There are F and P. Who were staying in a studio together. Who I’ve seen around on the scene. T met F in the plane on the way there the day before I came. We didn’t fuck. And might well not. But we kept running into them. And chatting. Really pleasantly every time. I think we may have met them. We’ll see how it pans out.
I did get chatted up by an H. Which could have been useful for our alphabet. Hence for my real writing. Whatever that is. Augustine. Proust. Corked-wall. Etc. This is one of my operative fantasies. That I’m not really writing yet. Even here. Probably should work on that. Am actually. Working on that fantasy. Writing here. So anyway. H. He smelled like he had already been at it for hours. Stinky hot leathers. Sexy face. Like the other echte Berliner he was boycotting the big parties. When I told him I’d been to Perverts on Friday. And was going to Pig on Saturday. In other words. The two big parties. Must have been that that made him say he had to pee. And he walked away. Even though I made it clear. Against my best interest. That I fully supported the echte Berliner’s move to boycott the parties on the grounds that they were too expensive. And made for tourists. Like me.
At some point. Around 5 in the afternoon. T said. “We’ve seen everybody but B.” I cracked out my cell phone. Texted B. Quoted T. “‘We’ve seen everybody but B.’ Dixit T. Where are you?” B wrote back. “B is waking up, getting ready and on his way.” I think I went to the bathroom. That’s funny. I almost wrote birthroom. Instead of bathroom. I’ll have to tell my shrink. Anyway. I came back from the bathroom. Or getting more beer. No ! Actually I’d been sidetracked by G. Who’s not (yet ?) a lover common to T and me. So he doesn’t qualify for the alphabet. Which is too bad. Or actually great. Because we need a G. G and J-M have been together for a long time. I think their letters appear in my last Berlin Chronicle. They would have W in their alphabet because I’m a lover common to them. I like them. They’re older. Not usually T’s thing. But. Now that I’ve written this. Which is of course not real writing. Haha. I’ll ask him. G and I had been talking about the American presidential election. And how nice Americans are. And how scary they can be. Because G and J-M had been to the States for vacation. Grand Canyon and all. A stop in Portland for leathers whose fame stretches all the way here. Lovely leathers. So anyway. Chatting about that with G. Then more beer or birthroom (ha!) and then back to find T. Standing with B and R. Who had traveled together. R. Who B often introduces. Or mentions. As the beautiful muscleman who used to scowl at him. Instead of talking to him. And now all of a sudden is his big buddy. And who is a delight. Though intimidating. Just because of his beauty and muscle. They had a swarm of Parisians. And a few Berliners. Swarming around. Some we know. Some we don’t. B took a few pictures. Only a few. But I was in one of them. B’s friend T. (Not “my” T). Says I look like a bus-driver for tourists. Which was not the look I was going for. But funny nonetheless.
After the fair. T and I went to eat. Yummy German food. Which doesn’t come along everyday. Decided we’d go back to the e we bought at Easter. For the big party. Far away. In East Berlin. New space. Beautiful space. But, Jesus. You had to get there first. There was a shuttle from a S-Bahn stop. But you had to find the bus station once you crossed Berlin to that S-Bahn station. Outside the S-Bahn station. On the other side of the station from the main entrance. Where we and a bunch of other guys in leather and other sundry were standing. We chased a bus. City bus. That read “PIG 2008.” I think that it’s only in Berlin that a city bus would ever say “PIG 2008.” I like Berlin a lot. We piled onto the bus. There was a sweet looking guy. Who chased the shuttle back to the bus station with us. When one of us said “Maybe it’s this one.” He started singing show tunes. “Could it be this one. Could it be that one.” I liked him immediately. We ran into him early on inside, too. Or saw him in action. I was sitting down. T had gone to pee. Some beautiful body sat right down next to me. Which already indicated interest. Because there were plenty of places to sit. We were early. For the party. A trickle of people like us wandering around the new space. Exploring. First time used for a party. Still some walls full of peeling paint. An old electricity factory. So the beautiful body next to me got and gave a smile. But it was early. Not too early for him though. Up came the show tunes singer with a friend. They must have known the beautiful body next to me. Because they kissed. And slid onto the horizontal cushiony space just behind us. And immediately. The beautiful body pulled out his huge penis and stuck it right into the show-tune singer. Without a condom. I hesitate to add “of course.” So I’ll keep it away from the phrase “without a condom” and say I hesitated to add it. Because there’s a lot of that understandably going on in a place like this. T and I looked at each other and sighed. And probably felt happy to have each other. And a whole mix of other things that I should probably explore here or elsewhere sometime soon. The dance-floor was beautifully set in place. A big screen playing porn above the DJ. Who spun for the dance-floor that was at the front end of a huge hallway with a glass roof. That had leaks. We know. Because it started raining outside. Out where the coat-check was. Bathrooms, too. Which meant that those porta-potties didn’t get used that much that night. The door to the outside was open all night. You walked into the hallway. Big bar on your left. Dance-floor to your right. The dance-floor was. Let me count. Maybe 6 steps up from the floor beside where you entered. So you could hear the music while you were milling about ordering your beer. But you weren’t drowning in it. And you could step up to drown in the music all the more effectively. And from the dance-floor you could take the stairs up to all the little nooks where circuits and circuit-workers used to work. Where we had come to play. And then you could take those stairs back down to the dance-floor.
The dance-floor is where the leash comes in. Maybe the best part. Besides the space itself. T had been sent on a mission. For his day without me in Berlin. To buy a leash. And try on a pair of pants with a zip down the butt. I forgot to mention that. Before we went to the fair. On Saturday afternoon. We went to Mr B. Where T had tried on the pants. But could barely fit into them. And was told that after a little wear and tear he would. But he wanted me to double-check. I did. With the help of the vendor who spent a good 15 minutes moaning and groaning with T so that they could get the front snaps snapped. They didn’t quite. But with a belt it works. And with a little time. They’ll snap. I love the pants. I love the leash. And I love T.
The leash was the best part. In part because T also had clamps on his tits. And when we’d go up the 6 steps or down the stairway from the nooks to dance. I would slide the leash under the chain between the clamps. And we’d dance. And I would wiggle the leash. Which T had to love. At some point I started telling T to invent gestures. Gestures for dancing. He’s started. But is a little resistant. Last night. We had trouble going to sleep. And at some point he said he didn’t get why his gestures weren’t good enough. They are. But it would be fun. If we could bring some newness into the world. Some more newness. Because here we are. Still. And that’s already new. While it keeps going on. So the leash was fun. For inciting gestures. It was also fun. Funny, even. Because there were several times. Where a big muscleman would try and plow through us. And he’d get caught up in the leash. And look a little silly. Meanwhile. T and I would smile. Because the leash made sense. A further translation of Berlin last time around. When T finally understood I needed him. It’s a translation of that attachment that literalizes it. A little cheaply, granted. But given these tough times. We’ll take what we get. And if we’re lucky. We’ll run with it.
The way back was the hardest part. Though even that. Shuttle jampacked full of men to get back to the station. Because there was ne’er a taxi in sight. And a long subway ride back. But we ran into people we knew. J. A sex buddy of mine. And his lover. And a couple of their friends. So we could at least chat. Which was nice. Even at 6:30 in the morning. After a hard night out. T and I fucked once we got back to the pad. And slept. Well. Until we woke up starving. And went to eat breakfast with C and L, and another visitor from near Leibzig. Back to Paris on a plane. We fucked some more. Since we hadn’t actually done that much fucking. And since then. I’ve been working like a maniac. Way too much work. Did I say that already?
Something else I said already. In Skype to B. Who wants to radicalize. I asked him what that meant for him. It had something to do with a tattoo. And other things, too. But it inspired this from me. In French of course. But if I put it in English. I think it applies here. “I think going radical maybe means seeing, recognizing what we are already. Because what we are already is not necessarily nice to look at. And it takes courage to see it. And then to show it. It takes even more courage. And making for the interruption needed so that – what we are already – is seen and shown. Well. That’s being radical.”
“Amen.” Said B.
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