This morning I bought an apple at the farmer's market in Union Square, then a pretzel croissant at City Bakery. It might be the perfect food were it not for the fact that it provides exactly no nutrients at all. Listening as always to Laura Nyro, pondering the beautiful mind that'd come up with that stuff. Warm weather cheers me up.
I've come to some realizations, or I'm coming up with some slogans. The thing about keeping secrets is that the actual message isn't so important as the way you tell it. Or in the case of secret gossip, it says more about who is not saying. Secrets are about their keepers. Following that, questions are all about their askers. I'm reading you, and I am reading into you. I don't want to listen to what you say, but the telling says a lot about you. Following further this logic, love is about the lovers. That doesn't make much sense but let's focus on the tongues and not the teeth. The lips. You like them, yeah? You can have them if you want them. Here.
Go-go dancing with Richert at QxBxRx. He gets so many more tips than I don't, and that doesn't really bother me. I feel fine with that. At the exact moment in the evening when I realized that he was getting all this tip money and I was getting, well, none (I kept spending my dollar billz on boozles-- gotta stay hydrated) then I got a tip. Pity? I dunno. It doesn't really matter why, it matters who. I later realized that my fantasy pity-tipper was none other than Carlos from the Peechees. So, y'know, teenage high school crush. I feel pretty good about myself.
Spent the end of QxBxRx making out with a dude as usual, who had a boyfriend, as usual. Fuck what you heard: she's a homewrecker. Left the boyfriend dude and went to Bklyn where I had a real romantic interlude.
I'm feeling kind of romantic, generally, because of the weekend, so I started Morrison's A Mercy. I bought it in November, when she was reading from it and signing copies at the NY Library event and I had been putting off actually reading the book because it's pretty short and I didn't want it to end. I'm like 20 pages in and already plenty of dead babies. It's so weird, she's like really 'gentle', in tone. But also wants you to witness the blood-letting (I'm not being figurative, there's some blood-letting in the book). Genius. Maybe the most useful class I took in college was the really really hard literature course where we only read books by Toni Morrison, Gloria Naylor, and Alice Walker. They're my favorites now, sort of.
I've been thinking in the past day about romantic desire, which I almost never have. Not because I'm pessimistic but because I am too connected to the reality of the world / planet earth to worry too much about being in love. Like: the apocalypse is just around the corner, y'know? But I've been thinking about the distance of desire. It has to be something you do not have, in order for you to want it. And the other part of desiring the other is to recognize it. Not only "recognize" as in acknowledge the separateness of the object, the independence from yourself and the differences and desire that make the object desirable. But also "to recognize" as in to realize that you desire the object. This recognition-as-romance thing is at the heart of Toni Morrison's books, often. I like tat feeling. Of, you know, "Oh, right. There you are. I know you." Certain movements and colors, and I remember that I know you, or I want to, so let's get to it.