I want to tell you how brave I've been this week and how painful and isolating this week was. I want you know how awful it is. Why? That won't change any of the circumstances and won't make me feel any better and it'd just bum you out. Maybe the point is not to invite everyone to study the little fissures of my neurosis. Not, I don't think, today. I guess the point is to find new ways of saying things. Hopefully new things.
I feel like I am an horticulturist, tending to the most delicate orchids. I have no aptitude for this kind of hobby: I have no patience and I lack the gentle touch needed to cultivate, encourage even the hardiest of blooms. I may not be able to grow plants, but I can make my language flowery (in big, broad, autistic strokes). I feel emboldened to be proxy to so much potential beauty. How best to nurture?
I want you to feel that I am taking care of you. I want you to feel like I understand how sensitive and fragile you are. And if I am rough with you or withholding it is only because I think you can take it. The orchid does not trust the soil or the water or the birds or bees. Flowers and I both know, now, that chance plays a really big role in making beautiful things happen. And then again, orchids die, too. Fussy. I get so nervous around all these delicate flowers, signaling to me their sundry needs for heat, moisture, minerals and light.
I would go in drag because the dress looks expensive and your hands are rough. Put it on me, I can take care of it. And if I stain it, I'll clean it. If I get it caught on something, if I make some little tear, I'll take responsibility for it. Open myself up for the lashes, take them almost gleefully. There, I imagine, there is the sound of the other shoe dropping. A high-heeled patent-leather number, you know. Let's go chase it. My impulse is to be the girl-shape because I'm afraid you'll fuck it up if you do it. I'm not talking about getting fucked, neither. But I am talking about the fact that someone somewhere will have to wrestle with these facts, and it might as well be us.
Yeah, man it's like where we leave off loving each other is just planted and watered. I pat the dirt around your roots and you smile up at me and then it's up to God, or Time, or Your Favorite Member of Sonic Youth or something. Some divinity, it's a waiting game. We have to let things fall where they may and wrestle with demons as they come up. Sometimes it's a bad time and sometimes the bad times are a long time coming. Sometimes the bad times are broadcast internationally of TV and still escape us. Our best intentions, our fear and our pain are not protection from the future, and it's a waste of breath to arm ourselves in scars.
Once they had some money and could finally have a nice house to themselves, she had them renovate the apartment above the garage. The idea was that when they were home from tour, once they got out of their hers 'n' his rehabs, got their shit together and got the baby into a good nursery school, that she could grow orchids in there.
Had a pretty low-key weekend. I canceled all my plans and refused every date because I feel insecure about how sick I look. The computer I use to make my internationally-upsetting dance music died last night, for like the eighth time, meaning that I can't make any new music. This would be upsetting if it hadn't come at the tail end of such a really difficult week. I sort of expected it to die. I need to buy a new laptop and get some new music software. Tips, recommendations and ideas all welcome, as always.
Highlight of the weekend was going record shopping, reconnecting with my inner teenager. I got some perennial faves:
Mecca Normal - Water Cuts My Hands
Sinead O'Connor - The Lion and the Cobra
Laurie Anderson - Big Science
Dot Dot Dot - The Dot Dot Dot Story
Kill Rock Stars' Stars Kill Rock compilation
Blonde Redhead - S/T and La Mia Vita Violenta
Bis - New Transistor Heroes
I often think about what I would say to myself if I could go back in time. I think the me of ten years ago would be fucking thrilled with my life now. He'd be horrified that I'd become a smoker, but otherwise I think he'd be pretty excited and hopefully would feel like his teenage life is worth it. So if I can (hypothetically) please the teenage me, back in time, then I guess things can't be all bad.
I do wish I didn't have to have a day job, though.
And I wish we could lay in my bed tonight and I could tell you the real reasons, the secret reasons for some of the things between us.
But both of these things will come exactly as soon as they can.