Friday, October 19, 2007

Sometimes sadness settles all the way through until I’m nothing but edges

Sometimes I get so angry right when I sit down to write, angry that I'm already exhausted I have to push through all this headache messiness in order to get where I want, to the words on the page so I mean something. Today the headache starts right when I get up -- I don't know if it's the carpet fumes from the hallway or the paint fumes from the roof of the building next door that my apartment overlooks, now the roof is silver it reflects all the light. I'm not sure whether this is a good thing. Then of course there's the mold, the heatwave weather trapping toxic air, all those charcoal grills outside, I walk by one and poison goes right up my nose like a gas station -- Chris says it's mesquite, but isn't mesquite an herb, a tree, a shrub, something maybe good for you?

I'm thinking more about that last time in the backroom and why do people have to act so horribly? I guess you're not supposed to be human, just a button-pushing machine pushing other machines pushing. That's the norm -- everyone accepts it, it's okay. I try to smile, hug people even when I don't want to have sex with them, caress some guy's hand even while I'm moving it away. There's a way to assert boundaries without expressing disgust, although sometimes I get stuck smiling too much and to some people that just means keep pushing.

I'm trying to think about what would have felt empowering in that terrible situation of race-baiting, scenesterism, aggression and alcohol-enhanced stupidity. Sometimes in public sex environments I witness tragedy enacted on such a grand-yet-personal scale, like one time at Buena Vista Park when some guy was slamming his dick into this other guy's ass -- the other guy was so high he didn't even have a face, I reached down to see if there was a condom of course I knew there wouldn't be, the guy fucking reached for the back of my head I mean he stuck his tongue down my throat stubble brushing against that place between lip and cheek I felt his hand on the back of my neck moans into my tongue he was grabbing my dick suddenly harder then I'd imagined. He finished thrusting, zipped up, looked me in the eyes and moved away I realized it was the other guy grabbing my dick, pulling me towards him like he was reaching underneath for the football I stumbled forward, such a soft sweatshirt I kissed his neck he kept angling to get my dick in his ass I said no I don't want to fuck you. I couldn't tell if he was grunting or talking, just that where his features looked soft in the dark when he stood up to walk away everything jutted hollow indignation stumbling elsewhere.

Sometimes I wish I could save everyone, I know that's not a useful dream what is a dream if it's useful? I don't even know how to intervene, challenging choices conscious or unconscious in these spaces where questions don't matter. Sometimes I settle for getting aroused anyway, like that will get me anywhere except sadness later. It's not a thing that I want, anything but space. Yes, let's rename it: Sadness Later.

Did I really hold that guy’s balls while he fucked into a soft sweatshirt? Sometimes sadness settles all the way through until I’m nothing but edges, maybe the walk home will be okay. Or the walk to the taxi on the way home. The food when I get home, the shower, the feeling of water on my hands.

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