Sipping cough syrup at my desk. I've cleaned my room and I'm making stacks of all of my books. I'm counting things like I'm pretending to organize them, but I'm also making plans to throw things out.
This is the proof of my empathy, the indication of just how intuitive my style of love-making is.
Deft and sure and sleight of heart I am showing you (not telling you) that like characters in an opera I can with a single motion accomplish dual goals: I catalog and I kill. To measure something is to change it. So I am counting your qualities as I am saying goodbye.
This photo is from a project that Stuart Sanford did, and I am as always totally excited and happy to have been involved with and know him in any capacity. So you should check it out. Thinking Grace Jones. I mean, as usual.
Friday night I had the release party for Graphic Glory, which was great. Ran over to my office party, which was also fun, but too much. Spent Saturday sleeping. Went to the Birdsong reading, then a few bars, then Dan's party, then the Metropolitan, where I ran into my long lost and much-admired friend Alex Da Corte. That was great. Sunday Tommy made me go see Let The Right One In, since he loves horror movies. I actually thought this one was really sweet. We watched cartoons at my house and I fell asleep early.
I'm going home to California next week, and I'm excited to be mostly alone. I want to go shopping and eat Thai food and dig through crates of records at Amoeba and buy cheap bad cigarettes and breathe some fog for a while, you know?
I told a friend the other day that I felt lonely. That's not entirely true. I feel bored, I guess, by dudes. Do you know the feeling when you are watching television and you've watched the commercials and the opening credits and sung along to the theme music and the actors get out on the set and start making all these stupid jokes and then you realize that you've seen this episode before? This is how I feel, with regards to my love life. Why not just stop watching tv? I am working on some interesting new art projects and I think I've had more than enough sex to give me things to write about.
And I'm reading Ariel Schrag comic books and thinking about you and the thing that opens up in my mind every time I remember you is like a black hole, not even light can escape I find a well I cannot peer down into no matter how thirsty it makes me.
I remember you picking me up for our first date when I was 17 and you were 19 (I'm pretty sure). You met me at the mall in Oakland Chinatown and I took you to this crazy candy store that I loved. I got a watermelon slushie which still had the black pits. We sat at the fountain in the center of the minimall and I spat the seeds into the water. You told me about how growing up, you and your brother spent the summer getting stoned and eating lime popsicles and playing nintendo. You drove me to a minigolf course and while I aimed between the arms of a fiberglass windmill you stood behind me telling me that I had no reason to be ashamed of my body. Sburban families gawking at your buzzed hair, piercings and tattoos, they watched you come up behind me and put your arms around my waist. How could they have known that without that I wouldn't have known where my hips really were? Similarly how could I have ever predicted that a few years later I'd be tracing the shape of imaginary hands and keeping you on top of a list of MY FRIENDS WHO ARE DEAD, picturing and remembering the weight of you on top of me and how you sounded plaintive, insistent and expectant you on top of me on the floor of your apartment on 14th street the first time I ever went to Manhattan in the summer of 2002.