FAG CITY DANCES TO THE BEAT OF DRUMS WITH SYNTHETIC SKINS.
Friday I went to a birthday party with my room mates. We all looked great. Jennifer and I drank Sake on the subway and danced our little butts off. The "arts community" and the "queer community" in New York overlap in ways that make me question the word "community". At once claustrophobic and inspiring. Makes it difficult to make out with strangers. (But not, I should add, impossible). Saturday I go-go danced at Cake Shop for QxBxRx Halloween party. Fantastic. Jonny Darling and JohnJoseph and I spent the night hanging out in the back room, putting on make-up., drinking free drinks, and chit-chatting as showgirls are wont to do. I felt good dancing. Still working on my "WHY I'M A GO-GO BOY" Essay. I wish I could go-go dance more. Pansy Division was wonderful and I'm amazed I made it home in one piece. Sunday, Sister Pico and I went shopping at Pearl River. Treasures from the far east, miracles, universality. These are some themes of the last weekend.
My jobs are starting to stabilize. I'm interested in writing a lot more, since that little thing got published on pequin.org and I got some positive feedback from my friends. Encouragement is rare, so I need to hold on to it. I'm curious about writing in the continuous present, and how to affect formally pornographic writing, without necessarily being violent. Does that make any sense? I'm interested in how my language can fuck, even if I'm talking, about, say, deep-sea life. You know, baleen. Creatures living with a minimum of sunlight. Bacteria. Hibernation. I want to fuck like feral cats. Bio-luminescence.
Also thinking of singing less. I hate feeling competitive. I want to tell more stories. I know exactly where I want to go but I don't know the fastest, cleanest, prettiest route. Oh, by "where I want to go" I mean:
- The heart of the boy
Jungle Creatures, I'm thinking about. Listening again to house music and thinking a lot about forms of art and writing that circle back on themselves. Loving someone is so painful. To really love someone and be locked out of their heart is just unbearable. So, my thinking is that the art we make should reflect that. We need to make hermetic spaces, like house music (is a hermetic art form-- it exists for it's own purpose and obscures itself). Andy Warhol's factory is hermetic, even to Warhol. We need to make art works that breathe for themselves. I am of course taking about Mary Shelley and when I talk about Mary Shelley I trace this lineage to Marianne Faithfull and then I hope to trace it forwards to myself. If you get my drift.
I believe in the radical possibilities of pleasure, babe. I do, I do, I do.