Friday, February 25, 2011

I press trigger, I don't press people button.. how I have 22--now ain't that something? (10 are for you, so who's gonna get the next dozen?)

Walking to the train this morning I was listening to Robyn, which isn't new: I've been succoring my emotional malaise with her eminently danceable tunes. There is a song, though, that makes me start to cry every time, even when I'm on the street walking to the train. So there I am, hurting with every heartbeat, choking down sobs, walking to the train. And I don't look back...

It is 7.30ish, by the way. So I am fraught, emotionally fried, physically exhausted. Cf. last post. Ugh. So fucked up.

Thankfully the song ends before I wheel around the corner into the Addison Red Line terminal, which is where, after slipping my CTA card though the turn-stile, I find my hand in Rahm Emanuel's. His smug little face is grinning back at mine. I wonder if he is enjoying his own reflection in the sheen of my knock-off Gucci shades.

"I think you're a prick," I say. It doesn't register at first I don't think because he says, "Thank you, sir."

But I don't let it go.

"No!" I yell as I make my way up the escalator: "You sold us out to private corporate and financial interests while you were in the White House and you will do it again as the Mayor. Fuck you!"

Now he has heard me, and he scoffs, smug prick that he is. A flare of rage flashes across his face, but another wave of commuters washes through the turn-stiles and he is distracted. And I risk getting arrested if I keep yelling, seeing the thugs with their ear-pieces and semi-auto side-arms getting a little too restless for my comfort. I shut up and let the escalator swoop me off. The people around me are shooting looks of puzzlement, disbelief, repugnance, curiosity... I turn up the volume on my headphones.

Well, what was this stunt anyway? A "thank-you" meet-and-greet for the rich, white population that got him elected. No thank you, I'm disidentifying from that crowd! The crowd that drives me off the road when I'm biking? Who sneer or blush when they see the dildos I sell through the windows when they walk by the place where I work? Yes, that crowd who moved into Lakeview because it was (finally) a perfectly bleached shade of boring--save those pesky faggots, but they are easily enough assimilated/co-opted/bought/priced-out... Oh, this crowd of yuppie fucks who descend on Wholefoods every Sunday with their wide-load strollers! How could I love this city if I gave myself over to the people who cannot tolerate the diversity that makes it interesting? 6% population decline in the city of Chicago, and we all know who's going, and why. (I love Arendt's rationale for executing Eichmann: It's because you had the audacity to attempt to determine who to share the world with, that is, that you offended against the plurality of the human race you forfeit the right to keep company with any of us.) Sometimes I wanna roll out my guillotine. Even if a mini one... for another of Rahm's fingers: let's really shut him the ____ up. hahaha...

I'm moving out of this neighborhood anyway. Not that I don't love it, but I've seen the lines shift: the gay men come here to play these days, while the rich white straight yuppies come here to live. I've seen the evolution of the neighborhood in Kit Kat as a microcosm of the phenomenon: what was once a cocktail bar for gay boys and girls to sing along with and lavish love upon the performers has become a tranny revue for bachelorette parties. Yuck!

A friend and I are talking seriously about being roommates, and I'm excited about it. I've never had a roommate in any real, meaningful sense. I'd always been dating someone, and so it was never two people sharing a space, it was a couple and a guy sharing a space, and that rarely works. In fact, in never did. But, the joy of spending so much time with J. and his roommate was seeing how they negotiated their relationship. It works, not always perfectly, but always 'lovingly.' It made me want to try. So I'm giving it a shake. Plus, saving some money is never a bad thing. Uptown, here I come!

Ok, back to the Rahmifications of my outburst. I was instantly struck with the ambivalence of my sentiments. My rage, mixed with my longing... what was 'legitimate' to feel? Did I lash out at a politician because I was listening to a song that made me miss J.? Is there just beneath or barely discernible within my desire a profound anger? That is: just how symptomatic was this event? I want to claim discrete affective states: longing evaporated with my prehension of Rahm, giving way to indignation. But I should know better, right? That's just a nice dream, right?

Well, either way I was productive today. I registered for classes. Only one, but at a ghastly hour of the morning. If it were anyone else, teaching anything other than Arendt's THC I would say fuck it. But I cannot say no to the class that, no joke, I have been yearning to take since 2006. It was, after all, the idea of being at this school, in a classroom with this professor, reading this book with him, that filled my youthful soul with just so many fantasies of the nobility of Academic pursuits. I feel oh so very disabused now. Perhaps I am hoping that this course will be redemptive, perhaps curative of whatever intellectual fatigue has been plaguing me.

I suppose it's that I lack the conviction that my intellectual efforts are actually meaningful in any substantial sense. Who the fuck will ever read what I write? Goodness knows that just getting someone to read a draft of my MA thesis has been dispiriting--nearly 3 months of silence, and from someone I wanted to work with no less. I never know with these things: I default to a personal inadequacy: if it was good, it would have been read, and I would have heard from her. But after the first 2 pages interest was lost, and so... blah blah blah. So for 3 months I say nothing either. Fortunately I was successfully laughed out of that way of thinking this afternoon by our department guru. Thank goodness for her!!! A million and one thanks!!!

Today was just a good day I guess. It all went smoothly, you could say. Except I keep getting snagged, hooked, caught, on J. I return again and again to thoughts of him, perhaps enjoying the feeling of running my mind over that jagged point. Obsessional neurosis as the psychic equivalent of cutting. I may be seeing him later tonight, and I'm exhausted. Tomorrow if I see him, I will be seeing him out with a date--a friend of his. He reproached me for calling them tricks. He described my language as 'tired'. I'm trying. I wonder if he appreciates how tiring it is to learn new languages: we exhaust one another when we speak. The last time I saw him out with another boy who he went home with I cried myself to sleep. I'd never actually done that before, and that night especially I thought it impossible because I was so tweaked out I didn't even think I could fall asleep, and then low and behold, I woke up the next morning. I don't know how long it took, but it was agonizing. Or was it? What, exactly, hurt about the crying? I'm not sure. Maybe it didn't hurt at all, maybe I'm just scared of crying--that other bodily experience of loss of control.

It's so funny to have been awake at this point for 12 hours--a full day! At this time 12 hours ago I was shouting down Rahm Emanuel! Hahaha, how ridiculous. Sometimes I just can't take myself seriously. It makes it hard to think anyone else does. But then, I suppose, if I didn't take myself seriously, I wouldn't have something? I don't know... maybe that was a reckless, rude, over-determined effort to prove my words mean something. Blah. I can't go on with this any more. Ok. Done.

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