My Face'd Be A Black Hole
I think it's a lot about, like, saying things that you wish somebody would say to you. I think it's a lot about trying to find a way to say something. Like, imagining yourself on the other end of a conversation. By conversation we mean microphone or audience or movie screen or mommy/baby relationship. I think it's a lot about that Sinead O'Connor song "This Is To Mother You". Y'know: trying to recuperate something. Trying to imagine someone saying the exactly right thing you'd want to hear. Because that presupposes that you know what the exactly right thing for someone to say would be. It presupposes that there is one perfect thing. And trying to nail that down, even for the purposes of imagining, is pretty good. I think that's a useful practice. It's a very good habit to be in and, I think, a project that more people are involved in on some level than may even be apparent to them.
Gawd remember how SK had all those CD singles on Matador Europe?
I feel like I'm really done being the mom. I dunno. I feel like that Sleater-Kinney song "Little Babies". People don't seem to get the, you know, message of that song. They're essentially making fun of their fans. JC Mitchell said that it was an inspiration for his first film, about an immigrant transvestite rock musician. I can't find the original quote but he said he felt like Sleater-Kinney performing that song for young girls, there was a kind of seduction there. He used that word, I'm certain: seduction. I don't know if I agree (big surprise). I never thought of that song as seductive. I thought of it as very astute. A very sort of slight read of the audience. A very tender mocking of not only the dynamic of the audience-performer, generally, but also a kind of mocking statement of Sleater-Kinney's own audience. So, in a way, as a fan, you have to decide whether or not they're making fun of you in that song. You have to decide what the song is about and whether or not you're one of the "little babies" they're talking about. Maybe that's the seduction, is you have to decode the song as a message or something. But anyways I'm thinking a lot about this. About how sometimes the response you get to things (maybe let's say yr music or yr art or yr blog or some other blog that wrote about something you know about or maybe you just have a photo of yrself) is one of "Me too! I can do that! I wanna do exactly what you did but in fact you're an asshole because I could have but did not think to do that first!" I dunno. Am I projecting? Maybe. I just feel like my big revelation of this weekend's eclipse was that I think I needed to treat people (I am counting myself as a person-- something I refuse to apologize for and as such something I am continually punished for but o well) with a bit more maturity. As in, I'm done having the conversation where I tell people "It's okay, maybe no one else sees it, but I really do see that you are a Closet Secret Mommy Femme Top, though, and no one will ever fuck you / make you feel bad / like a girl or something, ever. Don't worry, I will take care of you. Here is my blood, I can cool it for you". HyPerBole, I know. High Her Bolee. But Listen: I think we need to be more real with each other and I think that means not acting as if we're accountable for our feelings when nobody is, ever, because feelings are sometimes out of yr control. Right? Right. I think I get myself into a lot of trouble by accidentally acting like it's okay to be an jerk to me, and it's not.
Anyways. Courage in this now. New Goals.
MY POINT IS: I really do love you and I wish you'd just let me do that.
Luckily, the technology for this already exists.
Woke up on Sunday in a blind rage. Well, not blind. I knew what I was looking at, but my rage kept my vision expanding so it was hard to maintain focus. I kept repeating over and over in my head "this always happens. . ." or "this never happens. . ." which are prime examples, as we discussed previously, of what is clinically known as stinkin' thinkin'. So I was having a real hissy-fit Sunday morning on the L train. I had my sunglasses on and was projecting a lot of 'don't talk to me' energy, which was probably unnecessary since the train was nearly empty. It was 10:30am and I had slept for probably four hours, and I was really fucking pissed about stupid shit from the night before and I was sulking. And this elderly lady sat down next to me on the train, and said 'Hello' with a very thick European accent (like, Italian or something). She was wearing a muumuu which was blue with white and green flowers on it. She was very short and nice-looking.
"Excuse me," she said, "what is your language?"
"Um," I said, already regretting turning to face her "English."
"Oh, good." She said, then she pulled a small book from her purse, it showed women and men of different ethnic shades and costumes (sort of "It's A Small World" but with grown-ups). Above them was written the phrase GOOD NEWS FOR PEOPLE OF ALL NATIONS. The woman tapped the cover of the book and said "Do you know this?"
"Yes." I said, turning away from her and staring off into space and wishing that my glasses, which are black, were blacker, so black that not only would no one be able to see where I was looking, but so black that no one would even look at me because my face'd be a black hole from which not even light can escape. I wanted to turn inside out.
"You know this book, then?" The woman continued. She started flipping through it.
"Yeah. I mean, no. I'm not interested, okay?" I said. I was trying to be polite. "Sorry." The woman kept muttering and trying to get my attention.
And I was thinking very consciously about how I was in a really bad mood, and I would need to restrain my feelings of anger. This woman probably got up early on her Sunday to ride the train to convert people to Jesus because she probably believes that she can save people and how could I really hate on that?
"Listen," the woman said "you will die..." then muttered something, she kept saying the phrase "...after you die." But then I thought, you know, I'm in a really fucking bad mood and this lady won't leave me alone and she probably only came to sit next to me because I look like a godless faggot and in fact am one. And since she will not respect my boundaries and go the fuck away, she seemed like an appropriate receptacle for at least some of my rage. So she kept saying "...after you die."
Without turning to look at her I said in my sternest voice: "Seriously, you need to go talk to somebody else. I'm not gonna die. Okay? I'm not gonna die."
The woman was only slightly discouraged, got a concerned look in her face and stared at me, muttering "You will die, you will die, you will die..." over and over again for another two stops. Like, TELL ME SOMETHING I DON'T ALREADY KNOW ABOUT, LADY. Ugh.
I got off of the train eventually and I bought myself a Mountain Dew and had a cigarette and spent all day filming Jeffery and Cole Casserole and it was a really fun and fantastic day of shooting. Afterward, exhausted (I hadn't really slept much the night before) I went up to my rooftop and listened to Bongwater and read about Annie Sprinkle in Richardson Magazine and ordered Thai food and then watched the Simpsons and read magazines in bed and passed out at, like, 10pm and now I'm here. For now.