7/16/12

Hell to Yay



Tonight's the night! I'm reading the poetry of Roy Garrett with Mike Albo, Nick Burd, Lasto, and Casey Spooner. Introduction by Robert W. Richards, and organzied by Dirty Looks and Spunk Arts Mag.

The Phoenix at 7pm. You can see moire info on Facebook HERE.

I'm looking forward to this. Garrett's poems are actually really fantastic, and I am of course in thrall to my fellow readers. Please come!

--

Additionally, so excited to go to San Francisco next week, where I'll be reading at Michelle Tea's RADAR series on the 25th. Are you in San Francisco and reading this? Please come to the reading if so.

--

Thee Ewok Vixen aka Jiddy No-no aka Julia and I had plans to hang out last week, but then she undertook a pretty ambitious renovation project in her bless├Ęd art studio, in preparation for her upcoming MFA studies, so she couldn't go. Instead, she handed over the invite to me and Perfect Little Daniel and I went to the opening of the Yayoi Kusama show at the Whitney. It was so fantastic and special and I wore all polka dots (and black). So much about Kusama's work is really admirable, not the least of which is the fact that she's had this incredibly influential and prolific career under circumstances which make her continued success almost impossible. I don't know, it's so heartening to see the strength, the sense of self one is able to cultivate by working so hard and for so long, and for being so consistently honest, forever. Is Kusama a romantic? I think that she just may be.



At the Whitney, we dined on free wine, and red and white gumballs (like polka dots, natch).

--

I was telling him about how I couldn't get it to together, how I was so confused, bewildered by observing other people in the world. Like, how did they manage to not feel shitty all the time, the way I did, and why didn't everything feel disorganized and painful to them, the way that it did to me? I felt like a child, overhearing an adult joke (this is a position I had been in before), and not understanding what they find so funny. They couldn't possibly explain it to me, and even if they could, I wouldn't understand. I felt left out, forever. I've concluded that the reason I feel so left our and feel so confused and can't understand other people and can't stop feeling shitty is me. Some deficiency of faculty on my part. I just lack the capability. I don't know why, but I keep coming back to that conclusion. I was telling my psychoanalyst that I keep reflexively forcing myself to understand my life in only the most miserable terms. "Everyone secretly hates me," "I am doomed to always fuck everything up," etc.

PSYCHOANALYST: Maybe you just want to be miserable.
BILLY: That's right. I seem to.. want to just be miserable all the time, or something.
P: Maybe you're just not meant to be happy.
B: It feels that way, man.
P: Maybe you're, uh, just destined to feel like a fuck-up all the time, then.
B: Yeah...
P: Miserable in all aspects of you're life. Maybe you're just meant to be miserable in your art, miserable at your job, miserable in, uh, your social life, miserable in your sex life...
B: Yes.
P: Maybe that's just who you are. Maybe you're just meant to be miserable all the time, if you want to be miserable.
B: Right.

And, at this point I actually did start to choke up, which is very much unlike me, as I Never Cry (see for yourself), it's one of those things about me. I never cry, and I never vomit and I've never in my life had a brain freeze. I sometimes puke, I guess, when I am wasted, but my eyes were watering and my voice was quavering, there, on my psychoanalyst's couch. I was surprised to hear myself.

B: But like, that sucks. That's, like, not fair. I don't want, I can't understand why. It just doesn't seem like it should have to be that way--
P: Well, we're out of time.

I looked at the clock and it said 8:15pm. Our session was over. I stood up and got my bag, and headed for the door.

B (sighing): Right, so. I'll see you next time.
P: Yep. Okay. Hope you have a, uh, miserable week.

--

Don't you guys think that Raf Simons 1995's new hairy hoodie is sort of actually literally ripping off the B0DYH1GH aesthetic, the construction of which we've been so careful with? Maybe this is a great minds thinking alike thing.



Maybe he's ripping us off. What it probably is, actually, is that Raf is a huge Hunx & His Punx fan, and has been following us for a couple years now, ever since seeing PLD star as queerbait in that fantastic music video directed by Justin Kelly.



I guess what I'm saying is, Raf, babe, dude, sir: send us those fucking hoodies.

--

Did a fantastic reading on Saturday night. And I got to trade zines with some of my fellow artists, which does make me quite happy. I finally got a copy of Scott Hug's brillian HELL TO PAY, which I treasure so much. More like Hell To Yay!

Also got a copy of Anthony Thornton's first collection of poetry, The World Owes Me Something. I had never seen Anthony read before, and have only ever read his brilliant writing online. I am an immediate and instant fan. His poems are so carefully considered, so really fucking smart. It's this wonderful feeling of looking forward to something, and then it totally living up to and perhaps surpassing your expectations. Here's a little snipped from the chapbook:
Look away from the mirror
Your downward glance opens a
door I can enter.
Sweetheart golem, face of a
pugilist.
My gaze can shear off so
many years and make you
young again.
So brilliant! The zine is in a highly limited initial run of 25 copies, published by DAKHMA, and is available for $5HERE.

--

Last night after a pretty uneventful but relaxing day wading through the deep humidity and crushing heat, I went to my friend Ben's house for a private in-progress performance of his new show. I don't know what I can in good conscience reveal about his work, since, like all good things it will soon be put up onstage for you to see. My point is that it was such a fantastic way to end the weekend basking in my friend's glow. I'm so curious, so really fascinated with how to put something together. It's so trippy to me the way in which aesthetics and logic seem to occur to everyone in radically different ways. Like: I love how Ben thinks. I love how people respond to things, I love how people feel totally secure and reflexive in their assumptions, and yet we're all doing different things, thinking in radically different ways. And no one is wrong, or right, or anything.

--

Maybe I need to become a therapist. I'm just so tickled, turned-on, finding myself personally indicted and called-upon to be in the world. But without having any sense of where or how or to what end. Like: to be empty. Once it used to be an insult to be called vapid, vacuous. I used to get a little upset when people called me those things. But only a little. I know what my job is and it is exactly to be more vacuous, more vapid, more air.

The thing about being the center of the universe is that you are responsible for all of the life which you behold. You light up the entire universe and pull everything into your orbit, and everything bends toward and worships you, but at the same time nothing can reach you for the incineration.

No comments: