Last night (or this morning, depending on how you think about it) was the Leonid meteor shower. Meteors were supposed to be visible, passing through the Leo constellation. Whenever I told people throughout the day that I was going to watch it from my roof, people asked me what the astrological implications of a meteor shower might be, and I don't know. But I did and do feel as if the equivalent of meteors are passing through the Leo constellation of my own actual terrestrial life. Like being shot up, maybe. Like balls of fire whizzing past, but muffled, obscured, made invisible by local weather and the glare of the city. I don't mean that I feel like I've been shot (I don't just mean that), I mean I feel like something is happening and I am not yet aware of the significance of the moment. Is anyone aware of the significance of any moment, though? When they're living it? I guess so, maybe. I guess the trick is to treat every moment as equally precious and significant. But you know what I'm talking about.
To get ready for the meteor shower, Ptrck and I watched this really wonderful documentary on Yayoi Kusama. How to talk about Kusama's work / legacy? I guess I can't really say anything right now that you can't look up for yourself (my brain is fried). Plus, I'm assuming that anyone reading this blog is familiar with her, and if not then I don't want to ruin the really great experience of discovering her work. She's like Kanye West and Nirvana-- actually worth the hype. Maybe Kusama has not been super-hyped, at least not until very recently, but check her out.
So we watched it, grooved super deep to Yayoi's world-view, obsessions in equal measure with life and death, and went up to the roof.
Sort of made me think about the lyrics at the beginning of Mirah's amazing one-sided 12" EP, Storageland. The first song, "Telescope" goes: "I'm looking up through the telescope lens / I'm wondering where does the universe end / I'll take my clothes off in meteor showers / I'll take my clothes off and climb into bed." That song always struck me as kind of sad, I dunno.
Anyways Patrick and I didn't end up seeing the meteors. But it was nice to spend some serious time searching for something in the night sky, even if I didn't end up finding what I was looking for. It's a good place to look, instead of inside or inside of other people. This makes me think of the title of Khaela Maricich's first album, Look for it in the sky, it will always be there, and then again Blue Sky vs. Night Sky. I sort of connect looking directly at the sky with being a kid, which to me feels really Pacific.
I keep imagining hypothetical conversations, reunions, revelations between us. Like, having a revenge fantasy for someone who's hurt my feelings in the past, getting to finally tell them everything on my mind. But I don't have any revenge fantasies. The more I explore one, I don't want to yell at you, and I don't want you to feel bad. Anyone, really. What's the point?
I want to say that I saw you and I recognized you and I hope you recognized me. I want to put both of my palms on the sides of your jaw. I want to hold your face really close to mine and I want to tell you, quietly, how sorry I am. For everything that has ever happened to you. I'll start with this, since it's been coming up in a number of relationships which I would never have thought to question: I'm sorry if sometimes I seem like I'm mean, or if I'm angry at you. I'm not angry at you.
And then extend it to the universe, Billy. Make the sky your own analogy when hot rocks fly through it. I'm sorry for what the guy you were dating before me did to you. And I'm sorry for what the boy you've been seeing lately is doing to you. And I'm really sorry that it seems like people don't take you seriously, that people make you feel small, or stupid, or unsexy. And I'm sorry your parents couldn't impress upon you exactly how perfect you are. I wish they could have convinced you early on in life. I'm sorry that you've managed to live a life among people too stupid and selfish (I am including myself among these people) to really let you know how important you are.
The world is a big and mean place. This end, this deduction about human nature I've been mining for a lot longer than I'd like to admit, using it as some kind of proof that ruthlessness succeeds, that cowardice and weakness fail, and that failure is wrong. But I happen to know that failure is absolutely not wrong, that cowardice and weakness are fundamental parts of everyone's personalities, and that ruthlessness is rewarded by karma and god and evil spirits and we'd all do better to leave it alone. But the fact of the matter is that even in a violent culture we can find beauty. The bea(s)t.