(Look: I'm from a working-class background. I live and work in a really bourgeois culture that likes to glamorize grit and poverty and utterly disdain nice, middle-class life. That's fine, but for poor folks like me and my family, there is absolutely nothing more glamorous in the entire world that living in Uptown Manhattan. I get made fun of a lot for it, but I am a Walk-Up Queen. I am a Bay Windows Queen. My dreams involve a quiet apartment-- some of them. I'm getting over it).
I'm not gonna get into everything I love about My Original Homegirl Cotton, not in this blog post (I'm tired, I have no time) but suffice it to say that Cotton has significantly shaped my entire life since we met when we were 15. And I love him very much. The apartment was full of these really cool fellow SF runaways and we all sat around eating popcorn and listening to Patti Smith and talking about friends and dogs and cats and stuff. We went up to the roof to stare at the stars and neighboring apartment buildings through binoculars and talked about the sex we're all having. It was sort of magickal and amazing. Cotton told me a joke he had heard from one of his friends in Philadelphia, this woman he met at the bus stop and nicknamed Chug-a-lug Donna. Here is the joke:
What's the difference between a virgin, a whore, and a wife?I guess that makes me a wife and a virgin and a whore. Or none. Anyways I laughed my face off. Cotton played us this really cool cassette audio collage he had made in 2001 and recently found. We all listened, rapt, to the various mix of radio commercials, Gloria Steinem, Penny Arcade, Lydia Lunch, and Susan Powter. Really amazing and inspiring and reminded me of so much of what I love about getting to know Cotton and have him in my life. It made me feel really lucky, but then really sad that he was leaving. And his whole time in Philly I never made it out there. I am the worst. I will frogive myself but I need to spend more time with people who are interested in Feeling Good (as opposed to Looking Cool). Super nice.
The virgin says: "Slower, softer."
The whore says: "Faster! Harder!"
The wife says: "Beige, I think. Beige for the curtains."
I'm working on a new story tonight, about one specific sense (out of our five, you know). When it comes out I'll tell you which one but I think I'm pretty well-equipped. It's been so long since I sat down to just write. I hope it goes okay.
Then also, thinking about:
Comme des Garçons' Spring / Summer 1997 Collection: "Body Meets Dress, Dress Meets Body", affectionately known as the 'lumps and bumps' collection, which wound up being the basis for Rei Kawakubo's collaboration with Merce Cunningham.
Thinking a lot about volume, the space we each inhabit and what we do with this space. The whole premise of Comme des Garçons is like a sort of fucked-up version of Chanel (I didn't come up with this comparison-- I don't remember who did but it is apt). The premise is that rather than making clothes for people who live a specific lifestyle, a woman (let's imply PEOPLE when we say women-- just as a general rule, especially I am speaking to white NYC faggots here, ok?) a woman can derive pleasure and meaning from her clothes. That the act of dressing can be a conscious communication apart from the ongoing patriarchal discourse of looking pretty, looking cute. Both Chanel and Kawakubo mine traditional men's tailoring as a site of raw material-- will to power, etc. Uglypretty.