Thursday, March 19, 2009

Living In Clip

I wish, now, to live always in the spell of Jose Gonzalez's cover of "Heartbeats."

I was angry with my class, though pleased with myself at once: I had called their bluff: he could not call her a whore. But they called mine, and didn't bother reading at all.

I spoke with my mother. She agreed to keep me company on the phone until the train arrived. And then she was off to the School Board meeting to represent the claims of elementary school teachers demanding each school have a permanent librarian--even in the face of budget cuts removing 3 of 8 librarians.

On the train I wrote about two of the boys who have made me feel alive, their bodies and smells, tastes, smiles, demeanors. I listened to Bloc Party on my iPod. They were joyful, and I smiled as I wrote.

Before boarding I said to one of the conductors, "Wouldn't it be wonderful to reach Chicago with the sun still in the sky?" And he looked up and said, "We have 30 minutes." I could tell he wanted to win the race, too.

I smoked a cigarette outside of Ogilvie, the sun just beginning to wane into the pink hues that speak of Summer. I wrote my Mother this text message: "Momma--I love you and am proud of you: you'll kick ass tonight. I am very alive right now; warm air, the light of day still sings, and loved."

I worked.

I followed myself to Hydrate, to enjoy the hidden economy of our generosity, to enjoy the drag show. Only one danced with irony, and she danced to "Flashdance"--fat, ugly, and wholly mocking. I loved her.

I was called a Jew by a European who I compared smiles with (we have the same smile, I said). I asked if Heydrich was his grandfather in reply.
At a certain point he said: I think you are wholly esoteric. He was right: I played with him, and showed him nothing but the literal, which he couldn't trust because it was me showing it. I showed him nothing and everything, and I hated him for his haughtiness.

I leaned over the votive candle and found out She is a heroine. WIth the best hair in the place. And I love her curves, her moves, and her smile. I owe her a drink, at least.

I fell in love with a motley assortment of men who loved one another as friends, together, playful, laughing. And I've been thinking of Joseph and Ghazi and Paula and Morris a lot recently--my imposed year of solitude ends this month. I asked each of these boys I met, skeptically, if they were all friends and they each, in turn, were surprised by my question: yes, i can't even remember when we met, but since almost forever.

The boy I wanted to kiss disappeared, and another of this band kissed me, promising to return. I asked the bartender for advice, but he made it vulgar and about me being a bottom and so I excused myself to smoke.

I saw a (particular) boy outside with his friend (who carried the boombox) while he grinded a parking meter. And my appellation caught him, and me, in something neither of us expected. The police made us move from one stoop to another, and than another. I don't know why he listened to me. I wanted--needed--him to hear me. (Tell him about his needs and wants?) What did he want to tell me?

The Writer once asked me if I invested myself in relationships. He declares that he can choose where to channel himself. At times I envy his boast: I am ever caught-up, and moved--I read too deeply, like a needle into flesh: I see where blood is begging to break skin. The read itself is a violence, perhaps, that demands succoring. My heart will never be dead enough to walk-away after my sight severs skin.

I wanted to kiss him, to be naked with him, who knows. Does it mean anything that I couldn't, despite his temptings, his pleas? That to have allowed myself what I wanted would have been to confirm in him what he feared most? Can I take that to bed? Will it dry the sweat of my night-terrors before I wake?

O Momma, I felt so alive tonight, when the sun was still spilling into the dusk.
Somehow my life opens itself too widely, maybe trying to take everything in. And here enters what I cannot keep but reading, seeing, being bloodied by.
The first cabbie tried to drive me in a circle after hearing I could only pay by credit card, and when I called him on it he kicked me out of his cab with cynical innocence.
The sun was set.
The boy who made eyes at me I realized looked like my boss.
The wrong boy kissed me.
I saw something too close to a reflection--and a desire--in a boy, and I wanted to save him.
The faggot, of all people, making racist jokes about cabbies.
The underage kid I never dared to be sternly sent away from the door by Gayle.
Too many bodies. Too much drunkenness. Too much of everything, too close.

And I'm wearing my old glasses now, because the lines on this screen only maintain a sharp edge when I don them.

I need sleep, I know. I need a break. A rest. I need to step-out of this moment, and the moments that would follow if I were still in them.
My body is beginning to sense the impending relaxation of tension and binds itself tighter.

The Writer, it must again be said, arrested me once again with his prose.

There is plenty to say.
But not now.

As I ascended the stair to my apartment, my neighbor's orgasm could be heard in the hallway. I froze, not to make a sound, but then realizing I was listening, kept climbing, until I was inside, and typing...

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