I don't know how to listen to music anymore.
Molly Pope tweeted recently about working on another of her brilliant new shows, and she said that she felt like she'd forgotten how to listen to music for fun as opposed to when you're writing a show and learning a song.
It's like everything is measured against that: either it's me or it's not. Either I can imagine myself singing it or not. Not just singing. We imagine how it would feel to play that song, to make a dance to it. We fantasize about putting he record on when we fuck. We listen to the song at the nightclub and we feel we are the singer, the subject of the song. I can't listen I can only bleed. I can't stop pumping.
Maybe it's like my frustration with drag, my drag jealousy. Miss Green Eyes. Which I smoked into this thing I wrote called "Sodium" which a remixed version of was published by Blunderbuss. The original mix is published in the new zine DOOR GIRLS.
I can't listen to music except to think how I would perform the song. Even without singing. How I would lip sync to the song, how I would perform it as a drag queen. Where's the ironic subtext of the song. Where's the hilarious shocking messy pathetic edgy fuck-up landmine of the lyrics. Of the attitude: where in the diva is the pitfall, pothole and how shall I express myself but to choose, onstage which traps to fall into and which to fly above.
The thing of I wish I made that. I wish I felt that way enough to make that. I wish I thought that. I can't listen. Anymore or right now. It's as if, as I think I've said before, subjectivity is salt-water. The death-drive of our moment in white supremacist patriarchal capitalism is a kind of nutrition, a nature of insatiability. We call it a tension, we call it balance but the whole thing is rigged.
Justice. She's not blindfolded to be objective she's blindfolded to become inhuman to be above humanity. They should have given her wings, a weapon or something but no she's so old school like with a spinning loom, an hourglass, a scale.
I know it's silly. Or seems selfishly misguided or something. I'm trying to find a way to explain my way out of it. I don't know if I know how to feel. I'm thinking about that scene at the end of Young Adult where she says something like "I need to learn how to be happy" and then the co-dependent person immediately suggests a much more attractive version of reality. Am I so clueless? I don't know if I think so. I think maybe slippery. Maybe less slipper than I realize. Maybe more, sure. But maybe it's behind me.
That clip from that Chicks On Speed record where one of the Chicks is on the phone and you only hear her half of the conversation and she says how sorry she is about missing the Underworld performance. How was it, she asks.