i’ve practically forgotten all about the people i hate. amazing. spencer reese, iii.

do you remember last summer? we would wake up and eat brunch at barmarche, or le jardin, or l’orange bleue or dos caminos where we switched seats because you loved the sun and i didn’t love it as much as you. afterwards, we slowly walked home and you couldn’t believe i was having a cigarette so early in the day. we’d spend the entire afternoon on your rooftop, you at your plastic fold up table practicing your english writing essays about how american food corporations were going to make money off the explosive population growth in the next few years.  and after i read it, you’d say “thank you very much for correcting it,” very seriously, very sincerely.

when you were done, we’d take showers, sticky from the sweat and sunblock. we’d make love then we’d watch a movie in your bed. sometimes, we’d stop in the middle of the movie to make love again. then we’d go out for dinner. the julienne platter from la esquina, this was your favorite. or rice on elizabeth, the indian curry with the mango chutney, you loved it too.

i think about how this summer is so different from the summer before, and the summer before that one, the summer i met you.

while you are gone in london i think of all the ways we will start leading different lives and how the thing we had will slip through our fingers like water. while you are gone my boss flirts with me and it makes me angry and then it makes me laugh. while you are gone, i write a lot about my childhood and stay up nights crying after writing. while you are gone, i think of other men. i think of all the other men i could have, i think of even the guy who cuts my hair.

he’s like the japanese johnny depp. he is ridiculously good looking in this subtle, can’t-speak-a-lick-of-english-way. the whole time he was cutting my hair, i closed my eyes and believed it was out of tenderness that he grazed my face with his fingertips. i wanted to lean forward and rest my hand on the inside of his thigh as he trimmed the front layers. i think, oh i think, he wouldn’t have even noticed.

simone weil on beauty:

beauty is the only finality here below. as kant said very aptly, it is a finality which involves no objective. a beautiful thing involves no good except itself, in its tonality, as it appears to us.

it offers us its own existence. we do not desire anything else, we possess it, and yet we still desire something. we do not in the least know what it is. we want to get behind beauty, but it is only a surface. it is a sphinx, an enigma, a mystery which is painfully tantalizing. we should like to feed upon it but it is merely something look at; it appears only from a certain distance. the great trouble in human life is that looking and eating are two different operations.

it may be that vice, depravity, and crime are nearly always, or even perhaps always, in their essence, attempts to eat beauty, to eat what we should only look at. eve began it. if she caused humanity to be lost by eating the fruit, the opposite attitude, looking at the fruit without eating it, should be what is required to save it.

reminds me of an exboyfriend of mine. ahem. when probed, the doctor, over gchat will tell me he plans on proposing to his current girlfriend early next year. then, he asks me to take off my shirt so he can see on videocam my, not to brag, perfect tits. but not even he can wake me from my stupor. as he leans in close in the back of cab, ready to confess how much he wants me, i am suddenly turned off. i’m disgusted even. i know this game, i know how it ends, this game is old.

well, i ate him. i ate him and him-inside-of-me tried to kill me and then i killed him by killing me.