here is your dish of raspberries and chocolate; notice their transfiguration of the colors of excrement and blood. robert hass.
i think i miss people, my past, myself so constantly that, that emotion (part apathy, child of heartache) becomes muted. g. says, “aera, i want to see you happy, one day i want to see you happy.” some douchebag at a club or a good friend (i can’t remember) asks, “are you happy?” no, you dumb, crass shit, i’m never happy and that is not the point.
wanted to write that i’ve been seeing the doctor in between all these, distracting, shiny men. i want to say that he came to the rockefeller center and bought me lunch at this chinese place where i proceeded to tell him that being in his company made me want to blow out my brains. i demonstrated this by putting my joined index and middle finger to the temple (precisely at the tender spot that was giving me a headache, a clump of alcohol, cocaine, and fatty tissue no doubt) and clicking the gun by sticking my tongue out. pbbtt. the people at the other table, 2 inches from my elbow, looked over at him. his face went black.
the frenchman returned from asia about a week ago. on election night he took me to the met to watch madama butterfly. the usher unlocked a door with a golden key (no joke) and we passed a place to hang our coats. next, we shot poor people with silver pistols while drinking champagne. just kidding, but i felt like it. when we came through the short hallway, we were greeted by velvet walls demured by the gaze of a dozen chandeliers.
it was all very fancy, in our box seats. i felt like this was how it was suppose to be. to bring me back to reality, i turned around and saw a woman with a mustache. is that a transvestite, i whispered to the frenchman. he asked me back, what is the difference between transgender and transvestite? i told him i didn’t know. and then he held my hand through act 2, letting go as my fingers conducted that most famous aria, un bel di (one beautiful day).
the man seated in the box over, elderly, with his wife’s hand on his knee leaned forward when butterfly unsheathed her knife. i thought, you still feel this man? cause i am wavering between obama and how could a woman be so dumb? ten thousand fingers point to me. in the end though, ressurected and triumphant, she tiptoed to the front of the stage where people clapped and shouted bravo fiercely.
i have somehow accepted a date with ishmael. i did not mean this, but i’m polite and giggle too often i think and now im having dinner and drinks with him next thursday. he’s smart and when he writes me emails or talks to me, everything becomes quiet. he wrote me, out of the blue, about a dream he had:
“They know it’s from god because when they all met, in this house, extraordinary, impossible things happened — people levitated, people saw through walls, people were given mortal wounds and lived — it was another world and god told them that it was his world.”
i can’t shake him off.
hi mike, i received your email. im very happy about obama and i thought that was what your letter was going to be about. i am sorry to have worried you, don’t worry. you want to know why this and that but to begin, to start, to allude to…the genesis of my problems…would require herculean patience for a futile attempt. drugs make me take deeper, longer breaths. the men i sleep with help me go through the motions of this surface life. when i think about the bad things that i have done and that have been done to me, it feels like an injection of liquid nitrogen into the chest cavity. sometimes mike, i think our wounds are what we are closest to in this life.
goodnight, don’t worry.
jean says:
it wouldn’t be new york if you don’t sleep with more than one person at a time, go on dates you don’t really want to, etc etc. people who haven’t lived there don’t understand this. this is all very normal and mike should not be worried about you…
November 11th, 2008 at 5:31 am
rushai says:
If what jean wrote is true. Why am I still here and not there. – You’re always a dose of oxygen, must be all the drugs you do, and the struggles you’ve been thru. As much as it makes for inspirational writing, and is a couple of puff, puffs, it would be nice to see you overcome it all, and just be “happy” – Being happy doesn’t sound the least bit exciting compared to all the snort, sip,suck, and sex you’ve experienced. But you know, we always root for the hero to succeed and never die out.
November 11th, 2008 at 1:10 pm
t nasty says:
Hey, I was just trying to be mean. You’re not chubby. At the very least your face isn’t chubby. You’re very pretty.
You’re not happy? 2Pac also said he could never be truly happy after the things he’s gone through.
Happiness is overrated. Not because it doesn’t rock, but because it’s not tangible and it’s not something that’s attainable. It just sorta, happens.
Sometimes I wish I could find someone to pine over, to be infatuated with. I’ve never met anyone worth losing sleep over. In the end I guess that’s good.
November 13th, 2008 at 9:51 am
Jean says:
yes! JG Mellon is my favorite burger there, it’s on seventy-something on the east side. after that, in order of yummy: burger joint at le parker meridien, corner bistro, shake shack, westville. there’s these little kobe beef sliders at stanton social that are also pretty good. i heard the peter luger burger is also good but i’ve never been there.
(this is another very new york thing, to get obsessed over one specific type of food and compare all the existing variations, and argue about it with your friends.)
November 14th, 2008 at 12:45 pm
r says:
http://www.publishersweekly.com/article/CA6613422.html?nid=2286&source=title&rid=1122425307
since u kinda introduced me to his writing…
November 15th, 2008 at 3:00 am
mildly says:
…i think it’s your roommate that’s cute…she just needs a little clip on the top of her hat where i can set the beer bottle ; )
November 15th, 2008 at 7:09 am