In some cultures, y'know, white and whiteness are not associated with purity, cleanness and beginnings, the way they are in our culture. In some cultures (and throughout history), whiteness has signified Death, the void, total absence of meaning. And as a modern white western male, I happen to agree with this second point of view. Black is always preferable, it's ubiquity is its charm. I think we all know what I'm talking about.
I want these for X-Mas (Kriss Krossmass).
My friend Chuck died twice. The first time he had pneumonia or had OD'ed or something (he was a troubled teen, but a really beautiful soul, and absolutely my one shot at having a real good boyfriend in my entire life) he was clinically dead for about four minutes. He bounced back from death, and I remember him writing endlessly about this experience on his LiveJournal. He described the sensation of death, his experience of being dead as "PITCH FUCKING BLACK". And it's not that I didn't believe him, cause I did believe him, but I always sort of rolled my eyes at that description because I really wanted there to be another experience of death. And also, "PITCH FUCKING BLACK" is so vague. There are a million different kinds of black. Hasn't anyone else read Song of Solomon? With the kids, wandering through the woods? Anyway.
I also remember that around this time, Chuck had been corresponding with JT LeRoy, and had told him about this experience. Both Chuck and JT had experienced (as I said) very difficult adolescences, drugs and sex introduced at a very young age. I was so jealous of the fact that he and JT were email pals, I can't even tell you. So Chuck told JT about his four-minute death and the "PITCH FUCKING BLACK" (Chuck was, despite being a total Scorpio babe and a full-on math nerd, an Emo Boy as well) and it always made me think of that JT LeRoy story "Coal" from The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things. And I really resented Chuck for getting to debate the Theory of Black with JT. Anyways, since that time JT has been revealed to be ficticious and Chuck has died, for a second (and permanent) time. And I happen to believe that he is not caught in some blank black void, but that the afterlife planned for him involves boys in tight black jeans, wearing black eyeliner, with fresh black tattoos of sine curves and algorythmic dance beats, long black clove cigarettes that never go out. There're a million kinds of blackness. Blackness is rich.
I want those t-shirts.
My other favorite memory of Chuck (while we're on the topic) is that once we went on a kind of a date in Oakland Chinatown, to this really weird deli I used to go to where they made fresh watermelon slushies out of fruit sugar and ice. Really good. It was super bright in this little food court and we drank our slushies, squinting, sitting at a fountain. It was a really beautiful moment. Chuck was telling me about how he'd hang out with his older brother (who is a successful rock star) at their parents' house in the summertime, and he and his brother would eat only lime popsicles, get stoned and play super nintendo. And up until that moment I thought I had wanted to fuck people before but never up until then did I want to be part of someone's life so badly.