To Fix My Teeth

I've mentioned it a couple of times before on the blog, I constantly post pictures from it. My favorite movie Qui êtes-vous, Polly Maggoo?, William Klein's 1966 mod-inspired critique of the fashion world. I know I've posted this scene before, but it bears watching again and again:

Discretion prevents me from really getting into it, but yesterday I had a similar experience to the one pictured in the movie clip. First a woman and a cameraman interviewed me about my life, my work, what I like to listen to, how I got to New York and who / what I think is cool.
They filmed my response to the question: "How important to you, on a scale of one to ten, is fame?" Then a team of photographers really did dress me up and ask me about myself. There were three people being shot yesterday, and the assistant came over to me, looking up from her BlackBerry, to say "You know, your rack is the best." Meaning, rack of clothes ("looks", for those of you in the biz) picked out for me to wear. "Also," she added, "you're the only one with accessories." Which was nice. I'm very shallow, what can I say? It's totally thrilling to be in a world, even just for an afternoon, where gorgeous girls lead you to a rack of clothes and refer to things by first names. "These Jil's are nice. The Marc's are really cute too, huh?" I took a portrait at the studio, then the photographer and assorted people-who-actually-know-what-they're-doing hauled me to a few neon locations in East Williamsburg. They put me in some really awesome clothes. At one point someone said they thought I looked like a young Merce Cunningham. When I donned my sunglasses, at night, wearing a metallic gold hooded track jacket, and really high-heeled pointy boots, I heard someone say the magic words, the Ultimate Compliment.

From where the photographer and stylist and assistants were milling around, examining the photos, I heard someone say the name Grace Jones.

I don't have some big point, this, unlike my favorite movie, is not a rumination on the evils of fashion and art and high commerce. What I mean to get across by writing this is that I got to have a bunch of people ask me which clothes I'd like to wear, then take my photo. Due to the nature of the world, I have no clue when these things will see the light of day. But I do have a few gritty Polaroids to show for it. Sorry to brag. I'm really just documenting stuff.

I came home and watched the very, very end of a Marianne Faithful documentary. Fel asleep as it started to rain, but I left all the windows open. around six or seven this morning, I woke up for some reason and it was really coming down. I remember, being half-awake, thinking how great it was. You know, how great. How lucky, I am, to be able to smell what rain smells like from my big safe bed. To roll around in the cool gray morning and fall back asleep. I don't know why I was so into it. It's just rain. I got a videotape of my performance at Dixon Place. It came out surprisingly well. It's so weird to watch myself move. I used to hate to watch or listen to the sound of my own voice, but now I've made peace with it. But how I move, my posture, horrifies me. My center of gravity is inexplicably low, and forward. I don't understand. But the tape is good to have. It's proof of something that happened.

Today I can't focus on anything. I'm doing very poorly at work. Constant errors. Something feels sort of 'off' and I'm hard pressed to figure out what. I'm having lunch with Marcus tonight, we're getting Thai food. I haven't seen him in a long time. He's almost my only straight male friend, and is more of a Soul Sister Down-Ass Bitch than most of my gay boy friends. Go figure.

I don't know what I'm going to do. Like, generally. I guess it's time to start a new thing. To wait until you notice the new feelings you're having. Have the feeling, then make something with it. I mean, right? There is no such thing as success, I'm realizing. There's no end-point. I'm more or less exactly where I wanted to be when I idealized my future 7 / 4 / 3 years ago. For the most part. That's the thing about New York, and about everything ever. The thing about desire is that we talk about it like some burning, impossible thing. Like a holy grail or something. But really it's more like a paper lantern, or ring of fire or something. You pass through it.

The real tragedy of desire is not when you don't get what you want. Or, when someone else gets it. That's fine, that is a part of life. The one sad thing about desire and having dreams or something (although, I mean sexual desire too-- don't get me wrong) is that you want something. And either you get it or you don't get it but the point is eventually you go on to want something else. Either instead of or in addition to your first desire. And once you start realizing this, then you see the horrible inevitability of wanting something you haven't even imagined yet. I'm trying to figure out what I want next.

Tomorrow is my 24th birthday.

1 comment:

Unfaltering Certainty said...

Well, this is what our friend Kate Bornstein has to say about desire: "Chasing your desire is like chasing perfection: you find joy in coming as close as you possibly can, and then you try all over again. If you're lucky, this delightfully insatiable chase ensures your quality of life until the day that you die."