Friday, July 31, 2009

Two Movements to Circa Survive (or: Bored at work

"It Starts Out Like He Sees It In Reverse..."
Last night J. and I fucked at work. It was quite amazing, if for no other reason than it was, as it turns out, one of those rare moments when sex brings two people closer together. Though I should rephrase this: our sex has consistently brought us closer together. Which I think is amazing, and makes me realize how lucky I am to have found someone with whom I can be so open, and with whom my body, as well as his own, is respected in the course of our fucking. There is, as it were, nothing that is off limits because he just knows how to phrase things. He is a beautiful communicator. When he speaks there is so rarely the taint of judgment. For someone like me, who struggles quite regularly with sometimes rather profound insecurities about my body, my intellect, and my desirability, his simply--but not simplistically--stated expressions are all I could hope for.

We discover one another, I think, in small, quotidian moments of relaxation. In moments of stress, too, no doubt. Today we had another intense discussion about politics, subjectivity, and critique. He is incredibly smart, often quick to undercut himself for fear that he is contradiction. The struggle is bodily. I can see how his whole frame will contract with concentration and then how, frustrated, or perhaps realizing that his own argument isn't quite what he had wanted it to be, his body loosens again.
I have started to let slip with increasing frequency, "I love you." I do, and I suppose there is no reason not to say it.

Last night, too, I found myself realizing that J. had slept with someone I hold in rather low regard, and now simply am extremely irritated by. He is, this boy, the sort who enjoys sporting a knowing smirk, which he doesn't know drives me rather close to the brink of homo-cide. This is why I need this space. To chew it over, to taste the bitterness of it, have it fill my mouth with its rancid flavor, and then swallow it down, digest it, and be done with it. Here, in my pristine space--my "sensory deprivation chamber" of sorts, a place where I can battle myself without hurting anyone, without hurting myself. A space where, as Zarathustra proclaims in "On Reading and Writing," I can kill the spirit of gravity with laughter. Even if I need to laugh at myself a bit first.

We briefly spoke around the idea of monogamy, which is to say, we briefly spoke around the idea of what it would sound like to say, "I want to commit to you and I'd like it very much if you felt the same." We didn't say it so much as we tested out what it would be like to hear such a desire expressed, issuing forth from our lips, striking one another's ears, and sitting there, curled in the spiral of doubts and excitement. I think, if the opportunity arises and presents itself tonight, I will whisper the idea back into discourse, draw it out of its place of fermentation, see if its sweet yet, ripe for the plucking.

"Deeper Into a Murakami Novel" Continued
Over brunch you found out the piano player's name was Henry Cotton. The meal passed with the usual exchange of nondescript banalities. He moved to Chicago to study sound manipulation at the School of the Art Institute. When you asked him what sound manipulation was and how it could possibly be a major he laughed, as if at my naivete, and explained he once composed an entire concerto to be played by a video game controller. This sounded so absurd, but then, when you were a kid the idea that a sattelite could track your every move, even as you rode a city bus, displaying in real-time your current location would have seemed like a paranoid delusion straight out of a Hollywood thriller. One that starred an innocent young man wrongly accused of espionage, hunted by a cold-hearted military officer with distinguished silver hair who then comes to learn just in the nick of time that his quarry is genuinely innocent. It was his subordinate, the slick know-it-all that seemed suspicious all along, who was actually the spy and with the help of his once enemy, now ally, the grizzled military man saves the day, but not before being shot in the arm--he'll survive of course so that the movie can end with him throwing a sharp salute to the young man as he boards a Greyhound bus home: the camera pans out slowly, and you gaze at the earth as though you are the satellite. Cue the music, roll the credits, bring up the house lights. Everything is a movie, and only when movies come true do we get truly scared. 9.11, you think, was one of these moments when all the special effects sequences of massive destruction that sold millions of box office tickets seemed like cheap mock-ups. Hurricane Catrina, too.
Your mother emphasizes that while my generation may be growing up under the shadow of Manhattan's smoke plumes she grew up with the crackling gun shots that blew Kennedy's head open, and then Martin Luther King Jr.'s, and the Robert Kennedy's. Every generation has their traumas, she says.

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