plot, rhythm, structure
Sunday October 16th 2011, 10:49 pm
Filed under: Boozy,nextish Tags:

Not quite lost, I don’t think, but still feeling tenuous. There’s still more work (there’s always more work), the pleasures of transcribing, the unexpected satisfactions of some very lightweight editing. But that’s not what I’m thinking about. A note, from an AZ friend, listening to Morphine, on god-knows-what, but feeling the past keenly, feeling the rhythms of speech, of dialogue, of meaning, of a series of people he/I/we knew/know in/from college/now. That gulf grows ever larger, between present and past tense, but that, too, is not where I head. A journey next weekend, to a beloved city and area, largely though not quite entirely depopulated with beloved ones. A friend I last saw in London, I think, though whose flat in Rome YCTNW and I used on the moon that was honeyed, even as I dug through shoeboxes of notes on dance and drag and theory and marlboro lights. A journey, too, for geekery, a visit to Google’s campus to see if my disparate interests actually intersect with the conceptions of others as to where the point of intersection is. Another dear friend, who has, perhaps more than I realized, fixed the Bay for me, held it in stasis and made it meaningful even as time has gaspingly passed, a friend for whom the clock ticks, in the best possible way, before she heads east to begin the next phase of it all, the phase that I, inexorably, slowly, oh god it’s too fast too much too soon quickly, pass through.

I’m not sure when I became an adult. I’m not convinced I want to stay one, rather than throwing it off, moving backwards to a state, not of fewer responsibilities, but of the passion, the excess, the uncertainty. Not that it’s been replaced with certainty, but rather with contentment mixed with tiredness and a mild benevolence, and the mediocrity of that shit scares the living shit out of me. A trip to London in just under two months, the struggle to find a hotel for a handful of nights not because it’s difficult to find a hotel there, but because I find it incomprehensible, an appalling insult, that I don’t simply live there. New York was lovely, but London is home. And maybe that’s enough to Peter Pan my way through the next bits, knowing that things aren’t as they ought, and I’m not where I will, and that the pour me another, sister, need not only numb, but can sharpen, point, direct the go go go go need that got me here and isn’t empty yet. So, cheers, ‘Saac.



To make amends
Saturday October 08th 2011, 10:25 pm
Filed under: HelLA,myjobfuckingrocks,myjobfuckingsometimesdoesntrock,something new Tags:

Like shadows who have offended at the end of the play? Or, wanting a life / to make more sense? Both, I suppose, as Zoe Keating plucks and bows in the background and my lightly-red-wine-sodden brain figures out the ways to tap my thoughts through this. I don’t know who or why the email went to the lot of us, but it did, and thus the Swell Season film downtown crossed my radar. And so we went. The film was mediocre, the music exquisite. Identifying with victim and victimizer, with the search and with the calm that can only come from denying the search, my mind and soul were busy for an hour and a half. I had amends to make, sure, but it’s been a while, really, and the forgiveness i never asked for around my ankle, the trespasses in translation, have rather diminished over the years. I recognize his relentless shuffle forward, to some degree. He’ll never unproblematically want what he has, and that i understand, the condemnation of desire attained. But the problematics run deeper, and release is complicated. And this I know, and it makes the rawness raw and the sorrows of knowledge obtained real. As I pick my way through a post-manuscript life, choosing music and films and having the rEading done long before class, I tap dance around the decisions I’ve never really wanted to make. The bay area calls and I brag of the future of the past that is past and must contribute to my future and wonder and wander and wonder what comes next. What book, what story, what visualization, is the next next of nextness?