Some Horror Solidly Anchored In Me, In Us
Last night after work I hurried home to go for a jog and then I hurried over to Bluestockings and still I was late but did manage to make it to the Karen Finley reading, celebrating the reissue of her book Shock Treatment. Finley talks about the book and its reissue and where it came from at Artforum.
When I got there she was finishing up "Enter Entrepreneur". She was wearing all black and shiny silver nail polish. As a sort of encore after taking some questions, she performed "The Black Sheep". It felt weird to be seeing her do these performances, these texts/poems/things that feel iconic, for free. How many times have I listened to "Enter Entrepreneur". It's like a hit song, they all are.
On my way back to Brooklyn I overheard a girl on the train talking about what she's gonna tell her cleaning lady. How the place she's moving into (or something) is so big that she's going to have to tell her cleaning lady to come more often. Why, I wonder, if you pay for someone to clean up after you, why do you ride the subway. Why wouldn't you pay someone to drive you around, right? Why wouldn't you have your own car? Maybe this is how people feel connected in New York. I don't touch my own bathroom tiles but I do touch subway poles. We voted. I'm a citizen too. Right?
Philodendron in Puerto Vallarta
Back to Brooklyn, having a drink by myself before going home to make dinner. Roast a yam. Listen-- it's 8:30. In the backyard, the smoking lounge a boy with blue hair is having a video conversation with his mom about his drinking. How he orders a single but in a double glass. How it's less alcohol that way, how it's more watered down. His mom says that she's worried about him getting home. He might fall down or walk into something. He reassures her. He says: "No it's okay when I'm drunk, I always take a car home."
I can't help thinking about this neighborhood. I can't help thinking, worrying, fantasizing about the future. All neighborhoods. One of the questions for Karen Finley was about gentrification and nostalgia and the East Village. I can't remember it, but even this thing-- this constant anxiety. That we'd go to a Karen Finley reading and wait until the end and ask her about it. I mean, it was a beautifully-phrased question even Karen thought so. I just mean there's something weirdly upsetting about the ubiquity of this fear. Like we all know, here, at the end of the world, that it's ending. Is the word finisterre? Like that Saint Etienne album I never really got into? A cute boy I'm only in touch with through the internet (though we used to sleep together) posted photos of himself on vacation somewhere with that word as the description and I thought Oh How Cool of Course He's Into Saint Etienne All The Hot Guys Are but I don't think he is, I think he just meant that he was at the end of the world, meaning the beach.
I guess roast a yam, for dinner and eat leftovers. Speaking of Karen Finley. I've been so fucked up lately. So sad and angry. And confused. I mean ashamed, too, or whatever. But I don't feel embarrassed. And I ought to. It just feels like telling the truth though. I feel fucked up. I AM fucked up. It's been this weird explosion. A slow-motion train wreck. I mean, another one. Another of what feels like a cycle, a routine of breakdowns. A habit of coming apart.
I thought, while I was still in the city, I want to get a drink among the fabulous set. Where can I drink with sophisticated people who will understand my outfits? Probably a hotel bar, right. Probably somewhere rich where I'm not welcomed or invited. Why bother. Probably somewhere where I can't afford to drink.
UNDERCOVER Hamburger Lamp
A couple sits down in the smoking area. A boy wearing drop crotch Comme des Garçons pants like the ones I wear. His lady friend sits down and says "I'm STILL recovering from fashion week".
This is the reverse commute. Instead of gearing up for my day I'm winding down. Boys nearby are talking about their upcoming 28th birthdays, the fear of their Saturn Returns. I mean God. You have no idea. I want to tell them: "I looked into the void. Into the mirror. And I smashed my face into it and died. Okay. Are you scared yet." On a date this guy said one of his friends was about to turn 30, "a big one," like it was scary I was like you don't even know.
The fashion kids are whispering conspiratorially. The blue haired drunk boy keeps dropping his pack of cigarettes. He's got little ear gauges. I think I saw him on cruising sites. Years ago. I'm writing this on my phone. It's 2015. The machine phone autocorrects "cruising" to "ruining".
Planning a new Scorcher. A sad one. Out of desperation. You know?
Also in the smoking lounge, before 9pm, an old man in a suit. Smoking as if he doesn't really smoke.
The boys nearby are saying how great his Saturn Return will be. How he'll find a partner and get a great career and everything will fall into place.
"Jungle Room" at Graceland
It's eclipse season. Everyone's finding everything out. Right. I lost-- didn't I lose my tooth during an eclipse? Fuck.
Blue haired boy is busy on his phone then suddenly screams "oh God!" startling the fashion couple next to him. "Mosquito." Another guy shows up, the guy with really droopy ears from bigger ear gauges. He's here. All the drunks, the regulars. Know each other. And the bartenders. If I'm here, does that mean I'm one too?
Isn't it funny how when you're younger, free drinks are like a status symbol. And when you're older. Free drinks are. A status symbol.
Okay, the blue haired boy is scared of mosquitoes but has a sleeve of tattoos including butterflies. I'm texting with this boy in Los Angeles, trying to convince him to move to New York and become a go-go boy and be my secret boyfriend.
It's like let's get one more. What's it called? It's called, like, smoke 'em if you got 'em and I got 'em I broke down again this week. I am a pack a day smoker my sign is: Nicotine Sun, Tar Moon, and Cancer Rising.
No really I am a Cancer Rising that's why that's why I'm so emotional but I can't cry.
God, Karen Finley is such a fucking inspiration. It's staggering to think about. Okay I'm drunk I'm leaving, it's almost nine, I'm going.
A guy on the train home is some kind of fitness instructor. Talking about how he went to Dubai for work. Some kind of fitness trainer. Said he lives in Bushwick. That this is even a place. I mean it was. It's always been, but it was something else.
Thinking about the upcoming CdG collection, reading the most recent interview with Rei Kawakubo, she talks about her most recent Fall 2015 collection, whose theme was "Ceremony of Separation." She says the collection: “had nothing to do with politics or wars. It’s about something deeper, some horror solidly anchored in me, in us. The impetus was also about the sense of loss, someone dear leaving, but also the ceremonial ritual accompanying this departure that could make things bearable. There is very little creation without despair.”