Saturday, May 23, 2009

"He had chosen a life among thieves and spoke their argot."

It's good to know that NYC still has space for public play. Sokrates told me about the various exploits that would color Central Park in the 80's, and how Guilliani destroyed these ad hoc spaces by simply cutting back foliage. Well, the shadows of a walk-down stoop was my/our space Friday--and really it was Fate that this dark corner opened itself up, on my way to my mother's car no less (it would have been wholly embarrassing trying to explain why semen was on her passenger seat). A boy who undoubtedly is feverishly searching for my name on Facebook, knowing that there is a very short chain of bodies that connect him to me. And this, the incestuousness of the whole fucking endeavor, is perhaps why I have ceased to be moved by concerns on the order Sokrates raised last night. 

Last night I saw Sokrates at his regular Greek eatery and we spent a wonderful four hours together, though I felt like I did far too much talking--but then, that's typical of me, and I'm still unlearning student/professor dynamics where asking after one's private life wasn't really kosher. 

It was Morrissey's 50th birthday yesterday and to celebrate I met up with Joseph and Lucy and Lee at some queer bar (it actually said "QUEER BAR" in pink on the bottom of the door) titled, cleverly, "Nowhere". Now you can answer, "Nowhere is on the south side of 14th between 1st and 2nd." It was kind of a dead scene, actually, and apparently there are a number of "posh" "mixed" bars in this area (and mixed because fags are allowed, posh for the same reason--I loathe the degree to which a cute queer couple is so quickly transmuted--as if by the heterosexual alchemy of cultural capitalism--into the equivalent of a good DJ or drink special: just another reason the bar is worth going to).

The good news is that my cousin--also a fag--was across the street and I was able catch up with him, the first time for us as two out boys. It was wonderful when I asked how his mother took the news, as she is a bit of a fundamentalist loon (at most times). He said she felt guilty for making him feel like he couldn't have been more honest with her. For everyone else in the family it was an open secret, except with me, for whom it was a shared confession we had exchanged so many (10!) years ago. I think it's good that my aunt felt guilty. She was so deep in her myopic bullshit, and was so hellbent to convince me that in fact I had just succumbed to "a phase"--conversations she had with me in front of her son.

It's funny because if I hadn't simply been mad as fuck in highschool I would have retreated into a posture of assimilationism. I properly met the younger, and now out, brother of one of my main antagonists when I was in highschool. It was so wholly perverse. He began apologizing for his brother--standard doer behind the deed metaphysical nonsense--and I had to interrupt him by informing him, "I don't talk about high school any more." But I had Rimbaud, and I just met another friend--Jean Genet. I know it is wholly perverse to be an intellectual queer and not have read Genet yet, but I am, alas, largely illiterate when it comes to literature: the world is the text I read. But I've started "Querelle," and I love it. It is sort of anti-Billy Budd, which made me think of the Writer. (I need to stop doing that.)

My mother wants to come visit me. I am reminded of a passage from a French novel "Dans mon chambre" in an essay of Bersani's where the quasi-autobiographical narrator says of the gay ghetto where he lives, (and I paraphrase), here everything is allowed, except perhaps working and one's family. It's true, too, I think. The countless times I've seen anxious fags with their parent(s) at the cafe, looking around furtively, hoping not to encounter a former lover; while the parent(s), with equal anxiety--though of a different type--glance around wondering which sort of man is "harming" their son... It's a bizarre scene, and not one I wish to enact. I'll have to talk to the German to see if anything can be done about it--if a plan of action is workable that does not entail traipsing about Boystown.

Anyway, in Florida, and the air is gloriously heavy and hot. Off to the pool!

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