Monday, December 31, 2007

Drums softening the holes in my head

Sometimes coming just feels stupid like an annoying crash from the arousal before. They're playing Here Comes the Rain Again but it's not the Eurythmics it's some man I mean there was a man in the Eurythmics but not this one. It's even more overwrought than the original, like you can hear the ocean in the circuit beats and I'm hugging this guy and it's funny because this is when the kissing gets really good, okay maybe that's why I came but it's still not as good as the music wants it to be. That's what makes me think of a trick but the good part the concentration, like I'm holding on to find what's next I'm not quite there yet until he starts scratching my back that's what really makes me smile and make that giggle that sounds like a hum.

In public sex spaces it's so much about COCK COCK COCK, which is fine for a while but then sometimes I'm like what the hell was I just doing? I start worrying that my jaw or my neck will hurt for the next few days and then when will it go away? But mostly I just want to explore those other genitals that soft place behind knees beneath hands in between neck and chin behind ears oh.

The best part is actually when he’s kissing my neck my eye resting inside his ear just when I want to dive into your ocean comes on again it's funny like looking into a conch shell except my eyes are closed that's so I can feel things better.

I wake up with the worst sinus drama yet, it's like someone stuffed carpet into my face and the plastic part at the bottom with all the glue is scratching into my forehead, the chemicals going out my nose instead of in. Just after I was thinking how great it was that Blow Buddies actually has a system where there's a smoking area outside but you walk down a few stairs to reach it and the door actually seals, so the smoke doesn't come in unless someone sits right by the door, last night there were pot fumes for a little while but it wasn't a big deal, what was worse was probably all the heat that's always blasting so all these queens can walk around like it's a circuit party without a dance floor. I'm sure the guys doing poppers right by my face didn't help either, and that place is so dirty that I always get black marks on my powder blue corduroys, not a big deal because I can wash them off but maybe the dirt gets into my sinuses too -- if I can't have salvation, I might as well search for an explanation.

Maybe it's the humidity -- today I smell the mold in my apartment for the first time in a while and I'm lonely, yes I said I'm lonely and I don't know who to call because I don't call that many people it just ends up exhausting me and I already know that the ones I do call aren't available to get together. At least the sun's out, after sitting on the fire escape I decide to go to Haight Street to get music because I don't listen to music enough, sometimes the right song can bring me out of everything and into something else although then sometimes I get wired and I crash but at least I've gone somewhere no maybe that's worse. But sometimes I don't crash, and that's definitely better. I haven't gotten new music in over a year -- I kind of gave up because I kept buying things that I ended up hating or not hating but not liking either and then I couldn't get back to Amoeba to return them for store credit before the due date.

So I take the bus downtown to catch the 7, I'm standing on the bus island on Market Street and these guys are talking about me, a 40-something angry, smoking white guy wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans is saying something to these two younger black guys wearing big decorative hoodies in the style of the moment, plus different SF baseball caps, actually they all have SF baseball caps -- maybe that's what they have in common. Anyway, I don't catch what the angry guy says, but one of the other guys says this is the Bay, you can do that in the Bay, and I like that -- I'm sitting on the ground because I'm too tired to stand anymore, I don't know why they designed these bus islands without seats, just another reason to make us hate people in cars.

This is when I realize that my sinus drama has gone to the next level, because I can't imagine getting on the bus to go to Haight Street, but then I can't imagine getting up to catch the bus back to my house either. Whenever I sit down like this, I remember when I lived in New York and my sinuses were probably always like this, sometimes I’d get so tired that I’d have to sit on the side of the street and meditate although later I’d go into smoky bars and drink cocktails, I hadn't made the connection to the smoke yet or maybe I just didn't see other options.

Anyway, I'm trying to picture taking the bus to Haight Street and getting music at Amoeba, there's just no way, so I get up and walk around the corner to the Geary bus stop, already I have to piss and there's a construction site across the street, I never realized before how relaxing it is to piss into a grate, no worries about where the piss is running except maybe down below it's not the same story. The bus comes, and then I can't imagine going home it just sounds so awful -- I could take the bus all the way to the beach, but no that would be too cold. I decide to go to American Rag, because they have a sale so maybe everything will only be double the price it should be. Inside, one of the employees really likes my fashion choices, first she compliments me on the jacket I'm trying on, then she compliments me on the coat I'm wearing -- the lighting’s good and I realize today my my hair looks flawless, yesterday it wasn't working so well. I end up getting the blue corduroys that I didn't get last time because someone stole my credit card number and bought all these things at Victoria's Secret. But now they're actually affordable, I mean I went out to get music and I'm coming home with corduroys that are the same as the ones I wore last night to Blow Buddies except those are falling apart so they're more comfortable.

Walking in my front door, I'm thinking bed might be the only option but I don't want to get back in bed. First I have to wash my hands, because everyone on the bus was sneezing, but then after I wash my hands I'm still worried they might not be clean so I wash them again -- I hope I'm not getting obsessive compulsive. The worst part is that then I unroll the 50 foot phone cord for my new corded phone because of all the evidence that cordless phones give off as much radiation as cell phones even, and there's this weird powder on the cord so then I go into the bathroom to rinse my hands off, just to rinse them and before I realize it I'm washing them again.

No, I'm not getting back in bed. I'm not getting back in bed. I put on my favorite song of the moment, number 13 on the first Kid Koala album I discovered, it was my favorite until I got the next one which actually came out first but now I like this one better again, it's called Some of My Best Friends Are DJs and it doesn't have track listings or actually I probably lost the track listings so I'm just going to call this track number 13. Oh, wait -- here the list is, but it doesn't make sense because there are only 11 tracks listed.

Anyway, track 13 -- you can tell Kid Koala thinks it's important because it starts with a sample of a koala bear growling, I wouldn't know it was a koala bear except that's what it says I mean that's what it says in the song I mean what the song says, sometimes grammar can be so tricky. But really everything starts with that piano, jolly jolly piano and then that clack clack sound underneath, building into horns then that lovely sample: the more you dance, the more you romance -- I mean it's all samples, or skips and scratches just blending together there's no way not to move my hips just a little bit, eyes closed swaying as the horns get wackier building up and then down and up and then down and then it's the next song, maybe I should stop dancing but wait the song’s softer like the strumming of some spaceship guitar bending into Hollywood sadness soundtrack outside with the weeping willows weeping weeping willows I'm feeling their shape that's me, no wait it's the drums oh the drums softening the holes in my head I'll keep my eyes closed and just sway, hip to hip until the sound fades out, the only problem with Kid Koala songs is that they're so short.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

Good news -- it's 3 a.m. but the VCR tune-up shop is open...

Where sex ends up replacing the social

It's hard to believe, but last night I actually kind of slept okay. I mean I only woke up once to go to the bathroom and later when I got up I did some errands for an hour or so and that completely exhausted me but it didn't ruin my day. Now I'm actually ready to go out and socialize, maybe talk to random people in some bar, which is rare honey I mean really rare. The problem is that I can't think of anywhere without potential smoke exposure -- I'm hoping hoping hoping that, two weeks after the last smoke catastrophe, I'm actually beginning to recover, but who knows it might just be illusion, I mean I still feel the sinus headache but it's not breaking me apart I think the neti pot is helping. The problem with bars and clubs is that they're not made for people to be healthy or even to try -- nothing about them, really, except the occasional social possibilities beneath layers of disappointment -- and dancing, yes dancing oh I miss dancing! But no one cares -- I mean they just care about the next cocktail and where they can smoke a cigarette and who has drugs and maybe who to sleep with, they're definitely not thinking about my health. I’ve even gone out with friends of mine who’ve started smoking right beside me like they didn't even know it destroys my life. Bars are for escape and for a lot of people that means not thinking.

The trouble is that I'm still a late-night girl, I still want somewhere to go and work the runway and say hello to people I don't know and make new friends even if just for a few minutes -- now I'm thinking of going to Blow Buddies again just because there's no smoke. I mean, sex would be fine but the problem with sex clubs and other tragic sex spaces like the Nob Hill Theatre, oh the Nob Hill Theatre -- the problem is that sex ends up replacing the social instead of becoming part of it. Sometimes that's good, because you don't have to deal with small talk leading nowhere, you know why people are there they’re there for sex. I just wish that didn't mean that other types of contact would only be allowed in the moments when people let down their guard forget the rules lose themselves I mean find themselves in the aftermath of sudden passion or release. It's boring, really, to walk around Blow Buddies where everyone's stern and distant and supposedly we’re connecting on some level, it actually makes me sad to think about it there must be somewhere else I can go without smoke or maybe I won't go out after all. Although I don't want to stay in either, because my right hand feels twisted and turned and when it gets like this the best thing to do is to break my habits -- reading or using the mouse are the worst things, talking on the phone doesn't help either -- even though I'm using a headset, it's something about the way I hold my body and sitting for a while makes it worse too so I guess I'm going to have to go out for a while at least, if anyone has late-night non-smoking social ideas then absolutely do let me know...

Saturday, December 29, 2007

The end of San Francisco, just more evidence

I get to the Nob Hill Theatre and there's no one there -- I mean no one. Sure, it's the coldest night yet this winter, and it's raining too, but it's a Thursday at 1:30 a.m., I thought for sure there'd be someone. I'm drinking from the water fountain and I hear someone go into the bathroom, but maybe that's just one of the employees. Then I hear someone going down the stairs -- since they took out the carpet to get rid of the mold, the whole place practically shakes when someone’s coming in, like an announcement. I do another round, and no way there's the hottest boy walking right towards me, he's even wearing one of those emo caps, face stubble, black clothes that are kind of trendy but neutral sure he's working the casual masculinity I fall for, with subcultural allegiances and then I'm frenzied -- I say you're really hot and then we're making out in the hallway until he pulls away and says I can't. So then I'm kissing his neck, he says let me see your dick. Just like that. I grab him tighter, there's nothing I like less than pulling out my dick in a sexual situation when I'm not hard, it makes me feel gross and exposed -- if I'm hard, then anything can happen, but otherwise I kind of feel like an incest survivor all scared, an object to be assessed for value.

He's grabbing my crotch and he says it again, pull out your dick, dude. He says dude like he's saying Estée Lauder, separate from the rest of the sentence, I guess it's just something he says when he has sex. I say I'm not ready yet. He says come on, dude, I say I'm not hard, take out your dick. He says it doesn't matter, and he takes out his dick and then I'm on my knees, sucking his cock in the hallway no one does this here it's all in the little rooms. Then he pulls me up, I'm looking at his eyes he’s unzipping my pants I say do you wanna go in a room? We go in and he’s sucking my dick now I'm getting hard but then he pulls away I say keep sucking I've got my hand on the back of his head matching his insistence. He says no, you suck my dick. Emphasis on my, but at least he doesn't say dude again. He's drunk and everything he does has kind a strange suddenness, probably there's another drug in there but he's not wired enough for crystal, although the way he moves from one thing to another without transition feels that way. Maybe coke or just some coked-out prescription medication that solves everything.

Anyway I'm sucking his dick, it curves up I can't help loving that, he's getting into it he says finger my ass and actually there's a lot of flesh to get through I like feeling the hair I don't usually finger people's asses because it hurts my hands but he's getting excited and then he pulls me away and says let's walk around. I say there's no one else here. He pulls open the door and this big burly older guy walks by without showing any interest, he says let's go get him. I say I don't know if I'm into that guy. He says come on, dude, show me around, I've never been here. I say there's nothing to show, but then we're out in the hall and he's knocking on the one door with a red light on, no one answers.

I grab him from behind, my dick up against his ass, hand around his face he gasps a little or no, what is that sound that's more than a breath but less than a moan just satisfaction? I realize the finger in his mouth is the one that was in his ass I wonder if he likes that too I say let's go in a booth. Why am I urging him into a room -- I'm the one who doesn't like rooms, it looks like we even have that in common. He pulls me around the corner and takes out his dick again so I'm on my knees, he's getting really really hard this is great, then there's someone standing next to us, a tall guy maybe in his 40s with facial hair, kind of hot and I can tell emo guy’s into him, though I'm worried we're going to get kicked out. I stand up and say let's go in a room -- you too, I say to the new guy. He doesn't smile, but he goes in first, and then me and then the other guy. Emo guy’s already got the new guy's dick out, he says look at this it's amazing.

The new guy has one of those dicks that’s so big you can't really believe it, all fleshy with no hair kind of like a blow up doll is what I'm thinking, I prefer the other guy’s dick more manageable and arching up like a diver doing stretches. I pull my jacket off and tuck it up above the video screen, the first guy is looking at my orange paisley sweater I can't tell what he's thinking. At this point I'm facilitating because I'm good at that, I say you want that in your ass he says fuck yeah but doesn't move in that direction I say I’ll start and I grab him from behind. Within seconds he’s sucking the other guy’s dick I decide to go for his, I can't really get hard maybe it's been too long since I've come or I'm nervous or more likely I'm already too hypoglycemic, it only takes like a minute after I’ve left the house.

So I get on my knees and I'm there for a while, sometime I'm sucking the new guy's dick but he pulls away he doesn't want to come I'm worried sucking his dick will hurt my jaw anyway but I'm waiting there anyway just in case he decides to come and the two of them are making out, I guess I'm the third one now they're getting coupled, bad manners but whatever -- at least the new guy holds my head while I'm sucking the first guy's dick, at one point I stand up and sort of make out with both of them but it's more like I'm kissing them kissing each other, then I take off my sweater and put it with my jacket. Emo guy takes off his jacket too and puts it on the chair, he says to the room: don't get any come on that. We’re all facing in that direction, I say why don't I put it back here -- I try to sit it on top of my stuff but it doesn't work so I tuck it in the corner on the floor, I say they washed the floors right before we got here, and it's true they were wet when I arrived.

Emo guy pulls his black t-shirt up over his head like he's auditioning for a porno, head leaning back against the door with belly arched up so you don't see that he has a little bit of flesh there. The flesh is hot too, something to break apart the porno view, face stubble trailing down to dark body hair on pale skin down to that dick still arching up, I can't believe how hot everything looks, I glance at the tattoo covering one of his forearms, down to wrists, usually a tattoo you can't hide with a short-sleeved shirt means subcultural allegiance on some level although maybe a while back because I think I see a Virgin Mary among some vines, otherwise it's pretty. I smack his belly hard a few times maybe he’s surprised I'm not sure. Even if he's an asshole, there's something connected like he wants an adventure and I know how to show it to him -- he's frenzied I can meet his frenzy we can order one another around. I'm more relaxed so it doesn't matter if he isn't necessarily paying me attention, I'm fine with the facilitator role.

I've got my hands under both guys’ balls, I say to emo guy put your hands under my balls and he does, but then he’s sucking the other guy's dick again, he's really going at it -- pretty impressive actually, although I notice that now the other guy’s not hard I'm kissing his neck plus I've got my hand on the back of emo guy’s head until he pulls back to say does anyone have any spit and I'm back on my knees, he stands up I’m pulling on his balls he's pumping my face I can tell he's getting close so I'm pulling more and sucking harder and this goes on for a while until he pulls his dick out and says I can't hold it any longer I've gotta come, he does this thing where he jerks super-fast 10 times in a row and then stops and then jerks super-fast 10 times in a row and then there’s his come, a little bit of white amid his belly hairs and then I stand up and right then I'm ready even though I'm still not hard, I shoot fast up against the wall and the guy with the blowup dick says damn, and then I shoot two more times onto the chair and emo guy’s looking at me with excitement for the first time in a while, at least I put on a good show. Emo guy says I need a towel, I say there are no towels in here, he says what am I gonna do, he’s looking down at the come on his dick like it's a problem. I say what about my mouth he nods his head so then I'm there, problem solved he's moaning now.

Standing back up, I reach for my sweater, emo guy says there better not be any come on my jacket. I say well, you came on yourself and I came on that chair -- I look at the other guy, did you come? No, he says. And I turn back to emo guy -- well, then there can't be any come on your jacket.

He says I need some light, and opens the door, I think he means air. He’s drinking water from the fountain, he says I'm so dehydrated, the other guy says I need a Coke. I forget that people do things like drink Cokes after having sex. Or ever. Blowup guy says did you know each other before? We shake our heads, he says I guess that's just the way it works sometimes -- he sounds excited, goes into the bathroom and I say to emo guy: how come you haven't been here before? He says a lot of reasons, and I can tell that one of them is that he thinks this is a disgusting place filled with miserable types who he shouldn't be around. I pretend I don't notice his tone, and say what's one of them? He says well, first of all, I just got out of a relationship. I know I'm not supposed to ask about ex-boyfriends, that's against the rules, but I'm sick of rules. I say how long were you together? Six years. That's a long time -- how long ago did you break up? Two months.

I say let me give you a hug, and I open my arms, when we're done he looks somewhere between confused and pleased. I say do you live nearby? He says four blocks, I say well I'll walk you out. He says I have to meet some friends. I say at 2:30 a.m. -- give me your number and we can go on adventures together. He says I've gotta go, I say come on girl. He says I'm not a girl.

It's all casual, I'm still smiling and playful but what I say is: you'll regret it, bitch. The other guy’s still there he looks disappointed, he says I'm going to get a Coke. That's right -- they have Cokes upstairs. I go in the bathroom to put my hat on in case it's raining, I'm arranging the curls underneath the hat and I hear someone come down and it's one of the guys who’s always there I say you missed out on the fun. Sometimes we look through the cracks together, and one time he sucked my dick and then said I just wanted to see what it looks like. Today he glances over like I don't even exist, not a word, I really want to chase after him and slam him against the wall I'm so angry.

Upstairs I'm smiling goodbye to the guys who are working, they look cuter than ever actually, one of them has longer hair and looks more relaxed and the other one shaved his facial hair. I'm kind of hoping that outside I'll run into one of the guys I just had sex with, I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to the second one and I wouldn't mind reading emo guy, that dude right he's the dude, dude. Down the hill and there's some guy outside Walgreens asking for fifty cents, I give him a dollar he says let me see that hat. I do a quick turn for him in the rain and then keep walking, he says that's too much you need to get back inside, at first I think he's saying girl you’re too damn hot to be out, but when I look back he's angry like he thinks faggots like me shouldn't be allowed to live. Two straight guys are yelling at each other, something about how if that's a bitch I'm going to stick it in. I yell I'm a bitch! They don't seem to notice or maybe they notice but I'm already past them, I've never gotten in a physical fight in my life but now I'm ready, really really ready.

I'm talking aloud to the world but really to the guy at the Nob Hill Theatre who couldn't even say hello. I'm practicing for him: hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. It's just one syllable. If you want to sound more butch, you can say hey. Hey. Hey. That's still one syllable, but it's a little bit longer. Wait -- let me see – Hi. Hey. Hi. Hey. Yeah -- hey is longer. Or, if you really want masculinity points, you can say sup. Sup. Sup. Sup. Sup. That's the longest, but you get the most from it.

I'm giving raging runway and some fancy white car does a quick turn and almost hits me, I start screaming what the fuck are you doing? I know -- I really need to eat, but everyone's trying to kill me, slow or fast it's the same thing eventually a hit-and-run. Then I'm home and I'm eating and I still feel the same my head's going to explode I can hardly breathe I mean I keep saying breathe, and then I breathe deeply for maybe four breaths and then it's the same thing. I can't believe there isn't a club open at 3 a.m. on a Thursday where I can go to do runway, I mean I would really tear it up even if I tore up my body too this is what runway is made for. Although if there was some club then there would still be too much smoke.

I can't believe it's almost 2008 and faggots still can't deal when you call them girl. I'm not a girl. I'm not a girl. I'm not a girl. I'm not a girl. I mean really -- a size queen who said don't get come on my jacket, an emo boy with subcultural leanings and an adventurous streak or maybe he was just trying to get back at his subcultural boyfriend. I'm not a girl. Maybe he's even a hairstylist, or just a stylist, or something butch like hospitality services or human relations -- I'm not a girl -- I just wish I wasn't surprised, I mean San Francisco in 2008, and what is going on? I'm not a girl I'm not a girl I'm not a girl.

I know what's going on -- it's the end.

Friday, December 28, 2007

I could almost levitate

It's cold outside and the wind is gusting, I can hear it winding around sirens in the distance. Seattle rain, just drizzle really and after a while you barely notice it. But it's chilly it gets under all your layers. In fifth grade music class we learned that song Bye-Bye Love, you know – bye bye love, bye bye happiness, hello loneliness -- I think I'm gon-na di-ie. Something like that -- it was catchy, soon I was singing it in the shower with the sponges that started out as little plastic animals but then you put them in water and they grew, grew, grew. They made more sense before they were sponges, it was hard to wash yourself with a brontosaurus. Anyway, soon I was singing Bye-Bye Love, except I didn't want anyone to know I was depressed, maybe this was a little later like sixth or seventh grade but anyway I changed the words so it was hello love, hello happiness, goodbye loneliness -- I think I'm gonna live and be hap-ee-ee-ee-ee!

Meanwhile, my father would unlock the door with a scissors and I'd scream get the fuck out, no that was later at first I would just freeze like maybe he could only see the dinosaur. I didn't have the words I wanted.

Later I'd scream get the fuck out, but that didn't work either -- I just need to piss, he'd say, like there wasn't a bathroom in his bedroom just on the other side of the wall, another bathroom downstairs. The way that aqua green shag rug that hugged the toilet would smell like piss and mold and everything else in the bathroom we'd keep washing it that didn't work for long, there were two rugs actually. The oval-shaped one went by the sink, that's the one I’d grind into with my face in the other one, pressing right into the pubic bone until I could almost levitate. Then maybe there were other smells, and I felt sad again.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

How fragile



I need to get to a place where I can wake up in the middle of the night without starting to panic that I won't fall back asleep and then I'm awake because I'm panicking. Strangely, when I get out of bed I feel better than the last few days when I slept more. Until I'm looking at the buckwheat on my plate, brown dots on the beige grain like larvae like something's going to hatch I'm scared and disgusted, what is it -- something about rotting flesh a memory stuck in the way something looks like it's stuck in this grain I don't know what except this feeling of disgust where I can't keep my eyes from narrowing.

I'm thinking about when I was in high school and I really wanted these expensive wool sweaters in the designer section upstairs that Bloomingdale's, something about the softness of the wool blended with angora or silk or synthetic, I would wait until a $300 sweater would go on sale for $30, sometimes that happened but only for colors no one wanted, like that mustard one that was too big but it didn't matter, I rolled up the bottom and folded it into my pockets. Later I learned I could change the tags and get the colors I wanted, mostly then I wore black and burgundy and some navy, army green. It was crazy because I would wear these super-expensive sweaters but I wanted everyone to think that I got them at the thrift store, or better yet not to notice it was just about me I wanted to know that I could get something from my parents, something like comfort it never worked.

Today I'm thinking about how many people I've had sex with in beds, not that many really I mean most of my sex doesn't take place there. Except with tricks, that's almost always taken place in a bed I mean probably a minimum of a thousand beds -- let's see, 12 years, take a low estimate of 10 tricks per month on average, except sometimes there were as many as 30 or maybe 40 a few months. I'll just say 10 per month for 12 years, okay a minimum of 1400. This is the kind of thing I can think about now that I'm not turning tricks, although I can't decide what I think about it. Maybe it's kind of overwhelming when I compare it to the number of times I've had sex on a bed with someone other than a trick, I'm guessing not more than 300, if I include the beds at bathhouses and maybe half of the 300 are with two boyfriends, way more the first one than the second because with the second we didn't have sex that many times in bed.

Maybe that's why I get kind of confused when I'm in bed with someone, like I'm more relaxed but also more aware of time and the way everything frames us says still. Sex in bed isn't necessarily more intimate, but it can allow for more positions, more breath between motion. Steven calls, he's visiting from LA -- he and Darin are going to The Bar on Castro, am I at all tempted to meet them? No, but I'll be in LA at the end of January. He wants to know if I'm going to the queer writers conference in New Orleans. No, I can't go to New Orleans when it's that warm, I'm too fragile. How fragile are you?

Oh, I say -- I went to New Orleans in the winter and it was too warm -- I can't deal with the humidity. What happens to you? I just can't function.

Today it's really cold, cold enough so that I'd like to turn my heat on but the last time I did that it took 20 minutes and then I got that drill through my head, that time my sinuses weren't even hurting beforehand. Today even the space heaters feel too drying, I keep boiling eucalyptus in water on the stove and it makes my face feel open and cool and soft and energized but only for a few moments.

Sometimes I leave things out, like the fact that I can't take a plane and it would take several days on a train to get to New Orleans. Or, when Randy was over the house and he knocked over the box of thread and I said oh that's because I have to sew some buttons, but it's been there for like three months. I didn't say: it's been there for three months because I get too nervous that it'll hurt my hands, I save it for the end of the night but by then my hands already hurt too much. Or, when we were walking up the hill and I said I have to sit down for a minute -- I even pointed at a stoop and Randy started to move in that direction but then it didn't look comfortable and we kept walking.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Trying to stay present in my desires outside of the formulas I've come to expect

I hate that awkward moment of trying to find someone I'm not sure I'll recognize, so I'm glad Randy's coming over my house. I'll definitely recognize him at my front door. Randy's the guy I met at Blow Buddies, I mean I sucked his dick and then I found him and we chatted and he'd read Pulling Taffy, and then we talked a few more times over the phone and it was sexy and playful and deep and now he's here, see I thought he was taller than me but he's maybe a bit shorter, a cute hint of a pompadour in the front of his hair and big brown eyes and slightly chapped lips, we hug and kiss hello.

Even though it's 9 p.m., I haven't been out of the house, so we go for a walk – it’s cold and the streets are abandoned since it’s that exciting Christian holiday and we walk up to Polk Street where Randy says he had a silly job once, but he won't say where exactly, my guess is the Gap but it's not the Gap it's somewhere else. I can't think of anywhere else on Polk Street that would be as silly as the Gap, so I don't try any more gases. Then we walk up Bush and once we get up the hill I can tell I've walked too far and I'll regret it but we go over to the apartment where Randy lived for six months when he first moved to San Francisco in 1997 -- it's got a hilarious lobby, redone in the ‘70s I'm guessing, with crazy cobalt and gold fancy bathroom-type little square tiling on the back walls, some kind of bronze-colored metal paneling on the ceiling like heating vents in star shapes that reflect the lighting and then on one side are all of these green pothos plants like the ones I have in my bathroom, inset in the floor like they're planted but they're actually still in plastic containers. But it all looks lovely like some dream where you're swimming laps in a fountain and it doesn't feel weird until you wake up.

Back at my house, it's time for me to eat so I say it's your turn to talk more. Actually, he asks questions and then I talk even more. Like why I stopped turning tricks. I give the short answer to that one, which still takes quite a while -- because after 12 years, I didn't know what my sexuality was anymore; because I was sick of pulling off masculine realness; because after 12 years it was hard to spend so much energy pleasing the exact people that all of my work is against; but especially because it got to hard to negotiate being in so much pain and trying to act like everything was uncomplicated at the same time.

Then Randy wants to know whether I think I'm feminine, I say what do you think? He’s kind of trying to answer but I don't want to make him uncomfortable, so I say I'm definitely a queen. It's funny because sexually I guess I'm kind of masculine, but sometimes I can't tell how much of that is from being a hooker for 12 years, plus learning the norms of masculinity-obsessed gay sexual cultures, and how much of it is something that's me without all of that and I wonder if I'll ever know. But then I realize I want to know what Randy thinks again, whether he was going to say that he thought I was feminine, but instead I ask him if he thinks he's feminine, and he says that sometimes he's confused that things haven’t gotten better, like when someone says faggot on the street. I know what he means. I tell him about that guy outside of the Nob Hill Theatre that one time, the one who said you're really a faggot and I started cruising I mean even so far as rubbing his neck because I really couldn't figure out what was going on, at one point he pulled the front of my fly because my pants were undone.

Oh, I forgot to mention that when Randy first arrives we’re sitting on the sofa, and he accidentally knocks over my box of sewing threads, and when I reach over him to pick them up he says you must have planted that. I do like reaching over him, kind of in a hug, and then playing around a few times like when he's sitting on the back of the other sofa and I push him onto his back and pull his legs up in the air and make grunting sounds -- I like this physicality, but I can't tell whether he does. I don't think he minds it, but I'm not sure if he likes it either.

Later I ask him to sit on my lap and then I'm biting his neck a little and I get kind of hard so I say so, can you feel it? He says he can't feel it, so I put his hand there, oh. He says is this what happens after you eat? I say is it too much -- then why don't we switch places -- and then I sit in his lap and that feels nice too and is that his dick also, but then my back starts to hurt because I'm falling off the sofa so we switch again. I'm rubbing the back of his sweatshirt and making windshield wipers sounds, I say do you like those sounds? He says yes, but I'm not convinced, so instead I put my arms around him and all of this feels sweet and silly, which is how I like it. I'm sliding my hands under his sweatshirt but he says they’re too cold so I leave them on top of his shirt until they feel warm and then I try all the way underneath but he says that doesn't feel good, this is getting to be too much, oh okay and I pull back and he says he has to go.

It's not all the sudden like that, he already said that he had to go, this is his bedtime, he has to get up early to go to work. We hug goodbye, twice -- the first time feels connected but the second time is more just me because we're at the door and I always like more hugs like closure. I say make sure you tell me about the backrooms in Brussels, because that's where he's going for New Year's, and he says I will -- I say make sure to tell me all the details. I like when he asks me sexual questions all the sudden, it makes sense because that's how we met.

Then he leaves and I crash, I guess this shouldn't be surprising but somehow it overwhelms me anyway. I'm thinking about how in public sexual environments everything is so much clearer but the possibilities are only in the moment, sometimes not even that. I just want someone to play with, that's what I want -- play -- but I'm worried I was pushing his boundaries, I mean I’m trying to stay present in my desires outside of the formulas I've come to expect -- but then I get scared that I'm an aggressor -- it's that space of not knowing, maybe I'll have to get used to it.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Can you imagine?

Waking up, I'm trying to decide if I should look at the clock or if it might be too early, the key is not to listen to anything that feels like my brain getting wired because that's when it's usually too soon, but really I can’t tell. I went to bed early, but it took a while to fall asleep -- 11 a.m. is the really dangerous time, because sometimes it feels okay but that fades so quickly and then the rest of the day is nothing but edges. If it's Noon, I think I'll stay in bed, but if it's 1:00 I'll get up. That's what I'm thinking, so I pull off the eye mask and look at the clock. 3:17. I lean over to look closer, because sometimes I read it wrong without my contacts -- yes, 3:17. 13 hours in bed and at one point I actually felt calm like maybe this was rest, but now I'm not so sure.

On the fire escape is where I realize that yes I'm right about the trajectory from smoke exposure to sinus headache drill to sadness overwhelming into exhaustion and exhaustion overwhelming into sadness until I can't tell what's going on except I can't tell. I mean how after a week it feels like maybe I'll be okay and then the next day everything’s worse than I imagined. That's today.

But how does it make me feel when my mother says there has to be something we can do, there has to be something -- there's a lot of information out there now about fibromyalgia. First it makes me annoyed like what do you mean we? And: what do you mean?

But somehow it ends up feeling comforting, things my mother is offering -- to pay for blinds, healthcare practitioners, those mold tests you get at the hardware store just in case the results say move out now. I've already told my mother what I want her to do, to create an account that gives me enough money per month to support my basic expenses, something that wouldn't change her financial situation on any level at all. I don't know if that would help me feel better, but it would help me. And then maybe I could feel better.

But instead my mother says can you imagine what would have happened if I couldn't sell the house? Let's review: after my father's death, my mother received $4.5 million dollars, which includes the $865,000 she got for the house, but not the condo she now lives in, which was already paid for. So, can I imagine? Yes, I can imagine that you would have $3.6 million instead of $4.5 million, and you would still have the house.

That's not what I say, because she says I don't know why I'm talking about the house, that doesn't relate to anything at all. I wonder about the house, it never looked better than in the photos the realtor took, with the newly-paved driveway and the freshly-trimmed trees and the fall lawn cut tight to the ground. Welcome to this inviting all brick home situated on beautiful, rolling hills... features a gorgeous new state-of-the-art kitchen with generous cabinet space, glass fronts, corian countertops and stainless steel appliances... comfortable living and entertaining on one level... enjoy the cozy porch for many months throughout the year. Just a quick warning at the end: very well maintained, but sold in "As Is" condition.

I like the way as and is are capitalized -- there's so much to read between the quotation marks. But wait -- look at the inset photo of the stunning lawn, shadows of the branches filtering the grass. Or, back to the red brick rambler with white trim and black shutters, shrubs in the front never before so round and bouncy, is that really a well to the side of the house, wouldn't it be quaint to have well water? Even the shrubs on the side, now twice as tall as the house, even those have been shaped with points at the top like Christmas trees.

Open up the brochure to a half-page photo of the kitchen, recessed lighting and yes, glass cabinets, white white illuminated counters with a quick view through the window of branches delivering green in the yard. A quarter-page photo of the entry foyer with that small, rounded chandelier I always liked, red door opening onto -- yes, the lawn again, one bush standing guard with just a slight hole at the bottom like in an English garden and ahead everything green beckons soft and shimmering. Ten smaller photos with emphasis on the lighting, the doors between rooms and the artwork. Turn to the back and behold be basement within an endless array of knotted pine walls that can't help but hold doom, at the very bottom another photo of the yard where now the trees cast huge shadows.

Those trees were always the most beautiful part, towering spruce trees with an endless supply of pine cones hovering up above, red maples with white daffodils in the shade, oaks with leaves that grew larger each year -- those trees could never say: can you imagine?

Monday, December 24, 2007

The vanity area

Remember that movie Kids? There are a lot of things wrong with it, and everything by Larry Clark, starting with the way there's no possibility for kids to actually learn anything, ever, they just play out their mistakes for all the adults watching the NC-17 screen. But what I thought when I saw the movie back in 1995, aside from the way it made me hopeless and yearning to take a train somewhere, anywhere, was that I'd never seen the horrifying brutality of boys on the edge of teenagerhood portrayed so well on screen, unflinching. Boys with privilege trying to exist in somebody's margins not their own, and especially the way they prove themselves with a neverending stream of homophobia and misogyny and living to inflict. I knew those boys, starting with the playground at age 4 when they started calling me sissy I never again had a place, a place I'd never had.

Later I looked at boys and wondered what they were doing -- I couldn't relate. It was safer with adults, I believed in their logic, except when their logic excluded me. Which always ended up happening. Girls were the safest, they tried to look out for me we tried to look out for each other and for the stickers we traded at recess. I looked at other kids to learn how to laugh, oh this is how your face is supposed to look. By junior high I'd perfected it, I couldn't understand how anyone could do drugs I don't need drugs because I'm happy. Move cheekbones up and out, retreat to the bathroom when no one is looking, relax.

It's funny the bars you go to when you're 16 and you think you're 21 -- looking back I see pictures and it's hilarious, but I think what helped is that we really believed it. But what an odd assortment the bars that would serve us, I guess we were an odd assortment too -- Erik and me and six or seven Holton Arms students, that was the girls’ school in Potomac actually, but these were the girls who knew which bars to go to, they never asked us if we were faggots. We went to Tucson, where we ordered pitchers of beer with the dartboard and a bunch of frat types. The Vault was my favorite, because it was a club and we could dance way into the afterhours, smoke bowl after bowl of pot and steal other people’s cocktails -- sometimes it was hard to get in, so Heather would flirt with the doorpeople and Pouneh would speak Farsi to them, that usually did the trick but sometimes we had elaborate strategies that involved pretending we were photographers for Vogue and we were on the guest list, right? I can't remember if we ever tried those tactics. I just remember the first time we went to the FAZE warehouse party, this was before raves and I was living for Everybody Dance Now, then they put on People Are Still Having Sex -- Lust Keeps on Lurking. People Are Still Having Sex -- This AIDS Thing’s Not Working -- I was up on one of the boxes in the middle with my black long-sleeved t-shirt that had white stripes on one side and fluorescent green on the other, then a short sleeved black t-shirt that said BLACK in huge puffy letters but they were black too so you had to get close to see it, then in tiny white letters it said shirt. I still wonder if it really was the big woman with bleached hair and a smiley face lunchbox who was the drug dealer, doesn't that seem too obvious?

The weirdest place was the Zoo Bar, right across from the zoo we'd sit outside with red-and-white checkered plastic tablecloths and order pitchers, this was to start the night. With Erik, me and Kayti, Las Rocas became our favorite – pitcher after pitcher of margaritas so much better than beer, who really liked beer anyway it took so long to get drunk. We’d argue about everything just to argue, but we all agreed that we were doomed and then we’d get overwhelmed and say why do we drink, it just makes us sad, catch a cab outside for my father's office and you remember -- Jane Says, I'm Done with Sergio, He Treats Me like a Rag Do-Oll...

But let me tell you about my father's office, I was just there so I can describe it exactly. I mean I feel like I was just there, just there compared to Las Rocas which isn't around anymore, I guess neither is my father's office but it was there just over a year ago when I went to see him before he died. He wasn't in his office, first he was in the hospital and then he was in the hospital bed in his house that once I called mine, my house, home.

His office: you walk in and there’s a hallway leading to two red chairs with chrome legs, ‘60s like you're waiting in an airport lounge except the carpet is firmer and less absorbent, to the right a red plastic magazine cart on wheels, the magazines are Time and New York Magazine instead of the standard therapist’s New Yorker, my father thought the New Yorker was too pretentious, that's one thing we could agree on. Behind the waiting room chairs, one of my grandmother's collages from the ‘60s, something kind of Cubist, and then to the left an elaborate and colorful drawing she got from a market in Mexico, to the right a collage with her signature gold cut-out windows over layered paper shapes.

Of course the therapist's double doors so no one in the waiting room can hear, you enter and on the right is the teak desk, situated diagonally from the wall so that my father could sit behind it and look out at the whole office, you can do that in a big room. Teak trashcan behind the desk, ‘60s modern floor lamps. The far wall is all windows, in front is the analytic couch with a slight curve at the top so I never slept on it I slept on the floor. Next to the couch, my father's chair, a black leather armchair with a matching foot rest, facing another chair that used to be the same one in cordovan but now it's been replaced with something ergonomic and navy. Two small, round teak endtables with orange surfaces and a square box of tissues on each. Everything is Scandinavian modern, therapists love Scandinavian modern but the difference here is definitely the large oil painting by my grandmother on each wall, gorgeous paintings with a lot of brushstrokes and color -- she obviously chose them for the room, because they look like they’re in conversation. In the back left corner is a small kitchen, Mounds and Almond Joy and Diet Coke in the refrigerator, a file cabinet in the back corner.

I almost forgot the bathroom, just across from the closet in the front, a split bathroom so that there’s a large vanity and another closet in one room with the same office carpet, and then the shower and toilet in another room with grey tile. I used to love taking showers there, the water pressure was super-strong and everything would get all steamy, but the best part was that I could walk out into the vanity area and I never worried that anyone else would be around.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Flight

Maybe you remember this. Adults would peer down and say: enjoy it while you can. They meant childhood. I studied their eyes for evidence: were they lying to themselves, or just to me? I never figured it out.

I collected stuffed animal mice, if I kept them under the bed then maybe they could teach me something about disappearance. I refused childhood, but still I asked: do animals have souls? I didn’t want to eat them -- I flipped over mousetraps to rescue someone. I tried to bury my grandmother's fur. I rushed outside to set a lobster free in the yard.

I imagined myself with a forcefield, flying around with mysterious best friends. We would be thirteen forever, there was something magic about thirteen because of the teen part, finally. We would intervene when children were about to be crushed by the hopelessness of imagination, when animals were dying of starvation, when war was about to begin. You could do a lot with a forcefield, especially if you were between worlds, forever between worlds.

I didn't want to get too old because I saw the way that adults forgot. Thirteen came and went, the only thing I got was money for my bar mitzvah and I saved it. I already knew thirteen wouldn't be enough, now I fantasized about sixteen and eighteen and twenty-one. My father would scream and pound on the door while I turned up Tracy Chapman’s "Fast Car," tears pouring down my face, repeating "fly, fly, fly, fly away-ay..."

I did get something when I was sixteen, a while back it had been the fancy car but now it was just perfect for your teenage son, the third car in the driveway hierarchy -- you know how Volvos are safe, it didn't matter if the kids had picked away at the shoulder rests on the sides so they looked like they were rotting away, a defect. Volvos break down, but they're safe, and they last forever -- that's what liberals say

It wasn't my car, but I could drive it, 85 on the highway until it was shaking yes I played Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild then Magic Carpet Ride when I decided Born to Be Wild was cheesy and overplayed, every teenager who drank listened to that shit. It's so tempting to excuse this taste in the universal language of teenage rebellion by saying that I was only thirteen at the time, but then I said I was driving on the beltway as fast as the car would go and it was shaking so you know.

Okay, so I got to 16 but it wasn't what I wanted I was already dreaming of 18 and 21 and way further in the distance, so let's circle back. Before I could drive, there was this new kid at school who was from the suburbs he had a perm but somehow he pulled it off as masculinity, he was pale and had lots of freckles he drove a white convertible which was tacky for our school but he offered me a ride, we ended up in his apartment which doesn't make sense because really it must've been his mother’s but his mother wasn't around so it felt like his apartment. We were lying on the bed and maybe he was drinking or I was drinking, he was definitely smoking so maybe I was smoking. It felt sophisticated because we were alone in the house together but it didn't last long, maybe a few times and then he realized I might not be the right person to be friends with. Now I wonder if he wanted me to kiss him.

Things were different in the suburbs, I knew but I didn't know. The city was what I wanted, in this city we thought the suburbs were tacky. In our neighborhood, we never knew any of our neighbors, when we first moved in our parents tried to introduce us but I was scared. We always went to school in the city, so all the suburbs meant was longing. But when we first moved into that house, a bigger house than the other one in the suburbs, I was ready to create my parents’ dream -- we were still living in Rockville, a middle-class suburb with upper-middle-class areas, but in a neighborhood called Potomac Highlands so I started saying we lived in Potomac and it stuck, everyone changed the zip code so that it was 20854, the 90210 of suburban Maryland, and then for years after that the post office would correct the zip code on our mail but we decided they were wrong.

I went to the same school from second to 12th grade, and most of the students grew up in the wealthy neighborhoods of Upper Northwest DC, but in high school there was an influx of suburbanites -- they had perms and drove convertibles, now I didn't want to be from Potomac but it was too late -- sometimes I joked that I was from West Chevy Chase, since Chevy Chase was just across the border in Maryland and seemed as urban as DC, the part of DC that we knew. The truth is that the kids from DC were actually richer than the kids from the suburbs, but it didn't seem that way because they didn't have cars and they asked you for money at recess. It's funny to have an awareness of class privilege and a desire to erase that privilege with a different kind of privilege of belonging.

But back to 16, what was good was that I could have imaginary friends and just drive away into the distance and then I was hanging out with them. They weren't imaginary to me, I mean I didn't imagine they existed I just wanted other people to think I wasn't so lonely.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

The holidays, oh the holidays!

In San Francisco, it's almost possible to forget the hideous holidays unless you're near Union Square. Unfortunately, I'm walking up Powell and there are so many people carrying so many shopping bags -- every time I think I can pass someone, their fucking bag is in the way. I push through a bunch of FCUK but then there’s Macy’s and Hollister, side by side so wide I have to step into the street but then I get sideswiped by H&M anyway. Someone’s literally carrying seven Urban Outfitters bags, three on each shoulder because they’re shoulder bags, I remember those from high school -- how convenient -- and the seventh practically dragging on the ground because it's hooked into this guy's belt loop. Aren't you worried about those precious gifts? I'm worried -- I swear I'm worried -- I'm desperate to stop that guy in his tracks, not just to borrow his wraparound shades even though the sun is down, not just to kiss his so-soft Italian leather shoes, not just to get a closer look at the oil slick acid-washed tracing over his crotch, yes his crotch, but to say honey, can I help you with those? I mean really, can I help? I really really want to help, I want to help you shop!

I'm not in a hurry, but in this environment how can I help trying to brush past everyone like I'm running the after-work marathon in Midtown. But wait -- did I tell you about the penthouse right around here somewhere because you could see Macy's from the window in the ad, I mean the listing where you can buy a timeshare of this three bedroom shopoholic’s dream yes right by Macy's, H&M downstairs, FCUK across the street, Barney's New York and the Virgin Megastore just around the corner yes this is heaven, pure heaven. But wait -- am I getting my grammar correct -- do you get a timeshare on something or a timeshare in something? Please, somebody send me a realtor’s dictionary!

But did I mention that just across the street from our new timeshare there's construction on a Skechers store -- it's that gorgeous green building with interior brick walls that's been empty for years -- huge glass windows spanning the whole front and side, two stories with enormously high ceilings I have no idea what it was originally but wow, I'm so proud that now it will be a Skechers superstore instead of a stunningly vacant art deco showpiece, who needs such mysterious elegance when you can have sales! When we get our new timeshare, yes we'll be able to hold hands in that sneaky sneakers showroom and buy a different pair of shoes for each time we go on a walk in through the organic vineyard, no more will he need to bleach out the grape stains!

Oh -- and the price of such convenient splendor – they’re looking for 10 lovely buyers to chip in $389,000 each -- each person gets five weeks a year, wow five whole weeks, that means the total for this spacious three bedroom is just under $4 million, I mean that's practically giving it away!

Okay, so does anyone want to chip in with me? Pretty please. It's the holidays...

Friday, December 21, 2007

A few brilliant things...

First, check out this radio interview (it might take a few minutes to download) with Jean Pfaelzer, author of Driven Out: The Forgotten War Against Chinese Americans on Against the Grain.

And check out this video "glimpse into comments on some of the most progressive US feminist sites and blogs on the internet."

Thursday, December 20, 2007

These mysterious ways

The good news is that I call the guy from Blow Buddies and right away his voice gets more melodic and fuller in tone with longer syllables at the ends of his words, queeny too and of course I like that. We talk about buildings because I'm trying to picture the building where he lives and the Tenderloin because that's where I live and San Francisco in general how long we've been here and we both moved here a while back and then left and lived in some of the same cities except he lives in Dallas and I lived in Seattle. And we talk about cruising, especially Buena Vista Park where he used to live I mean he lived on the park. And the City College bathroom where there is such a wide assortment of people you wouldn't expect together -- you wouldn't see them at the Nob Hill Theatre, he says and I'm curious why I mean who they are what kind of people since I haven't cruised there. But then we're talking about safety and risk-taking and STDs and Pulling Taffy, he says one of the reasons he really liked it was that it made him feel better about the way he had sex instead of feeling ashamed like how will I ever find a boyfriend? Then we're talking about writing in general, I guess my writing, and I'm trying to describe So Many Ways to Sleep Badly but I don't have this super short and tight description yet, and maybe I don't need it anyway I can talk about all the themes and how they interact.

And also the conversation is flirtatious in both directions, I like that. We’re talking about how I always get hypoglycemic and he wants to know if eating come helps with that, I say I don't know, but I can show up at your house and we can see, you can be the coach and you can feed me. Coach, he says -- you mean chef. That's right, I say -- I can be a cooking student coming over for a special lesson, that would be really hot!

We're both getting into it, but tonight doesn't work for him he just got out of the shower and he's winding down. He goes to bed a lot earlier than me. Tomorrow's my queer incest survivors support group, and then Thursday and Friday we both have plans, so it'll have to wait. I like it that I'm still trying to convince him to get together now, I mean that I have all that energy, even though I've also talked for too long and I'm crashing, but then I still decide to go to the Nob Hill Theatre afterwards -- I mean I haven't come in 10 days, and I know it's strange that I count but otherwise I'm worried I'll forget, I mean that I’ll get so exhausted in between the brief moments when I'm actually horny and then it'll never happen.

What's funny is when I'm sucking this guy's dick and it's all the way down even when he's coming, hands on my head like I like it, and it's not until he's already come that I start choking -- it's not his cock it’s the come, probably another allergy. This guy's a funny combination -- a preppy GQ-type look like one of the fashion spreads where the colors are bright no maybe that's Details, plus an aggressive masculinity that might be a performance of working class blackness for the mostly white crowd here at the Nob Hill Theatre, or it might be something closet-related I mean we're certainly having sex in a closet, right? What I really like is that he's so concerned about my choking, concerned for me that is and it's sweet. Earlier too when he keeps saying sorry about something, something to do with touching my head I’m not sure.

Afterwards I get that rush like yes here I am, but quickly I'm crashing and my whole face hurts and then my chest and shoulders too, luckily after I walk down the hill I catch the Geary bus. At home, when I take off my earrings I realize I've lost two earring backs -- oh, maybe that's what the guy at the Nob Hill Theatre kept saying sorry about -- at least I still have the earrings -- that's what's important. Oh well is what I'm thinking about the rest of my night, all this pain -- what's interesting about when I wake up isn’t the way it still feels like there's smoke stuck in my sinuses, it's that I can smell that guy in my sweat -- I mean, we didn't have much skin-to-skin contact except face to neck, face to crotch, but here in my bed it's the liquor and something a little too sweet maybe rotten that I smelled under his not-quite-preppiness except now it's coming from my pores -- somehow it's still surprising the way sex connects you in these mysterious ways.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Watch out -- satellite dish madness!


A usual-sized one.


This one's a little bigger.


Oh, no -- watch out!

Anywhere else but Northern California dreaming

Okay, so the neti pot just might be the answer -- I mean, the last time I used one regularly I ended up getting fluid in my inner ears -- no, that wasn't from the neti pot, what was that from? That was from using an ear candle to get the wax out, for some reason I had one in my bag one night when I went to meet this hooker in New York who wanted to do a trade -- that means sex for free, I think he disguised a little bit by saying he had a bunch of clients who liked doubles, but whatever. He lived in some towering soulless building in Midtown that was a bit posh for a hooker, he was trying to give me steroids he said you'd look really great, try them it's on me -- maybe he was a steroid dealer. Anyway I had the ear candle and so I asked him to do it for me and all this wax came out like almost more wax than the wax in the candle which didn't make sense because how long is your ear canal? And I still couldn't hear anything. Eventually I went to the ear doctor, they said there wasn't any wax in my ear, it was fluid and I needed an operation. No way is what I thought -- so what if I couldn't hear people when they threatened me on the street, I could just smile and say hello like I always did anyway.

Eventually the fluid went away, but why did I stop using the neti pot? I guess I thought it was making things worse rather than better, although there was also that story about some yogi who was using salt water from the ocean but he didn't know there was a toxic sewage dump just down the way and he ended up getting brain cancer. It might've been that story that got me to stop, but right now I'm desperate -- it can’t make things worse, right? And so far it's working, I haven't gotten the sinus headache yet.

But wait, oh no -- oh no oh no oh no! I just had to take a break from the computer for two hours and then turn the contrast of the screen down before looking again at these black letters on white. I know you're thinking that was fast but fast is how it happened -- it all started with some bright blue-and-yellow background boring into my head I mean forehead like suddenly my eyebrows were blurring my vision. It's still not so clear, but somehow my mood is staying okay, earlier I was sitting on the fire escape in the sun thinking how much more manageable my seasonal depression has been this year, since now the sun still reaches my fire escape in the winter, unlike my last apartment where I went practically three months without direct sun into my eyelids. I was thinking what an essential ingredient of my daily living, how could I ever live anywhere else? I mean anywhere else but Northern California dreaming, but I also mean anywhere else besides this fire escape, until the sun goes down like it always does and then it's time to try to get outside.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

I was wrong

I was wrong about the music it was great. I was wrong about 1015 everybody was smoking I mean everybody it was like no one had ever passed a law I'm not in favor of the legal system except you know how much smoking destroys me I mean I wish other people could realize that, not about me just about other people but they can't. There's plenty of room outside to smoke, but no it was inside everybody was smoking with extra excitement like they were committing an incredibly transgressive act. Years ago I used to smoke and maybe I smoked that way too. I was wrong because I stayed I mean I knew people were smoking right away there was no way not to know but I couldn't turn around. I mean I didn't.

The place was beautiful they’ve remodeled it so that it's a circle with booths on the sides no pipes on the ceiling now there are little lights hanging down, hundreds of them almost like glow sticks in different colors somehow it looks elegant and everything glows white instead of black like most clubs and almost the whole place is the dance floor in the center which is how it should be. I loved it. I even loved the music when the beats got layered like house or dissonant like broken electro except it was disco don't get me wrong I know where house came from. People were festive no many of them were snotty but on the dance floor it was festive, sure people were working the ‘70s look but it was more styled and queeny how could I not like that? I mean it's sad that the only way queeniness trumps masculinity is when it's high fashion damage, but I'll take that over mandatory masculinity any day.

Maybe I could have left if I wasn't so surprised -- I was surprised by the space it was gorgeous like a cabaret but bigger like a space-crazed landing pad with the design fetish. I was surprised that I loved it, even with all the smoking I wanted to dance and once I started dancing I was there. On the dance floor everyone was sweat-drenched letting go fever I even knew some of the crazier ones I liked that. I remembered how much I can love clubs all that concentrated energy all the sudden like you're in a different world where you can watch and glow at the same time watch people watching people watch me I love looking in their eyes and dancing slow and close and fast and far and faster and closer and smiling everywhere and I knew I was wrong.

I should've taken one look at that place and walked back outside into the fresh air, the drizzle everyone's complaining about oh the air felt so fresh but I couldn't turn around. I was working this sweater Steven sent me from LA, this gorgeous sequined wool sweater, sequins in blue yellow purple magenta green teal diamond shapes and I haven't found the right event for it because wool’s usually too warm for me I mean too warm for a layer I don't take off. Tonight was the night for this sweater because it was cold out really cold for San Francisco I figured it would be cold at 1015 too. I almost turned a whole clashing outfit with a torn part of a prom dress around my neck but decided on the pale green corduroys and sparkly purple belt I made the right choice. Even though I was wrong, I made the right choice about my outfit. I felt like I was sparkling too, but I was wrong. I mean I was sparkling, but I was wrong.

Danny was working these beautiful queeny dance moves somewhere between vogueing and disco diva and ‘90s clubkid she was in white, white in the white room so much sweat it was so fun to sweat and shake then John who I haven't seen in a while either. I don't see these people because I don't go out but the dance floor oh how I love the dance floor. This guy came up to me, he said you look familiar do I know you from somewhere -- he kind of looked familiar but mostly like a lot of butch queens I used to see at clubs in New York, he was beautiful actually the New York part was maybe because he was Latino with a shaved head and baggy jeans and a tank top but a little bit of white eye makeup -- I said I'm Mattilda then I hugged him and kissed him on the neck I love hugging people. I kept thinking I should go before I get tired but really I didn't get tired I just kept dancing or maybe walking a little and trying to find the air but there wasn't much except for one point with vents in the circle it was fun to walk in a circle. Running into people and then dancing again, this one boy who was maybe the hottest in the room for me he kept staring right at me and I stared back but I was wrong. I wasn't wrong for staring. I wasn't wrong because I didn't get closer to him, I mean maybe I should have gotten closer but I was feeling the place of everywhere at once with my eyes body moving into calculated collapse use falling to find stumbling grace like maybe I'm falling apart but it's gorgeous I mean I am falling apart but not now this is what it means to dance.

I want to say that I wasn't wrong for dancing that I wasn’t wrong because there are things missing in my life I want to find them. I thought I was prepared. I thought I wouldn't like the music maybe something about the crowd I was almost sure there wouldn't be smoking because it was at 1015 a big club with too much to lose they wouldn't risk smoking. A big club with only a few doors that seal like a fortress and this night was in the basement, there would be no way for everyone's smoke from outside to get in.

I wish I lived in a different body, in a different world -- or even just the same body in the same world, without so much to fear -- I'm afraid of tomorrow, I'm afraid of how I'll feel, I'm afraid of all the pain and exhaustion and most of all the sinus headache that will bring me into so much sadness like nothing is possible, three four weeks of so much more pain probably more than last time I mean last time it was just from smoke that was outside not even in the bar. Then the pain becomes endless because it's my emotions in a black hole. So much pain for two hours of pleasure but how else could I get to this place where afterwards it's like everything in my body is aroused how else could I get to this place? The other day Chris said something about how he was in pain after doing too much going on too many adventures but he had to live, right? And I felt so sad like does he mean I'm not living -- I knew he wasn't talking about me but still I felt sad. I don't want to doubt the choices that I make to keep myself functioning, I know it's a cliché but still I want to ask how something so beautiful and pure can ruin my life I mean my life for the next few weeks I wish it wasn't true but I know I was wrong.

Monday, December 17, 2007

When I could dance

I'm talking to Chris about how I get nervous when I decide to go out, like yesterday I walked back and forth around this one scenester bar, but there were too many people smoking outside -- I couldn't deal with walking through the crowd and what if someone wanted to talk to me, then I'd be standing still in the middle of all that smoke. But that's a logical reason to get nervous, sometimes I just get nervous about the idea of going out and then I have to shit three times in a row. Or I'll get to the door of some club and I'll get that sinking stomach drama I mean I've always had that but there used to be more of a chance that once I got inside there'd be something to send me to the sky, I could walk into the music my eyes would eyes would close just for a second oh yes.

Tonight I'm thinking of going to this disco revival night, even though I hate disco, mostly because it's taking place in the basement of 1015 Folsom and years ago I went to a club in that basement every Tuesday so I remember it kind of fondly, not like the rest of the club all fancy just a basement not unfinished but finished in a kind of unfinished way, with a pretty low ceiling like maybe you could touch the pipes if you reached your hands up and everyone would dance like crazy, it was a Tuesday night so it was people who were really dedicated to going out -- all types though -- and I’d get that crazy calm rush from dancing and I remember one time standing outside around 4 a.m. after they closed and all these people were getting into fancy cars and I was trying to get a ride, no one would give me a ride.

Then, just a few months ago, this guy on the bus was asking me if I went out to clubs a lot, I used to, then it turned out that he remembered me from Together -- he started going on and on about how it used to be all about the dancing you could be anybody and just dance it didn't matter whether you were straight or gay, who you knew or what you looked like, what kind of clothes you wore it was all about the dancing. He's wrong about the club, but maybe he's right about what it meant for me and him, that's how he remembered me I think I can remember him too if I let my eyelids flutter a bit, he had beady eyes and he used to spin around a lot and jump up and down he was a straight guy who wasn't afraid of me.

But then there's that certain kind of nostalgia so specific to club life, like you can take any horrible place and suddenly it was the place where everyone got along when the drugs were great when there were no drugs when the drugs were actually fun when everyone was different when everyone was the same before the straight people the yuppies the suburbanites the tweakers the tourists the tall people the short people the wrong people took it over when the music was amazing because it was all about the vibe when the music actually built it hit you over the head it went somewhere it would change all the time when the DJs actually knew how to spin when two hours was a warm-up not a whole set when DJs would spin for the music not for the crowd when DJs would actually spin for the crowd when DJs would actually spin records when people would actually make out when everyone wasn't just interested in sex when there wasn't so much attitude when everything wasn't about labels when there were freaks when there was attitude when people were interesting when the music was actually good when it wasn't about who you knew when everything was cheap when everything wasn't tacky when you knew everyone when people actually dressed up when everyone wasn't so dressed up when you could have a conversation when the music wasn't so loud when clubs actually had good sound when people would stand in line when there wasn't a line around the corner when they didn't frisk you when things were safer when everyone wasn't worried about safety when people would talk to one another when people had fun when everyone got along. The other day I was reading someone's blog and he said something about how he missed the big gay clubs like Universe, when all different kinds of gay people danced together, and if someone mythologizes the ‘70s or the ‘80s in San Francisco than I can question what they're saying but I can't be sure, but I'm certain that Universe was an awful gaystream catastrophe of sameness, the only problem is that maybe clubs are worse now I mean there aren't really gay clubs like that in San Francisco right now, the big ones where you can walk around and look up at the lights and try to imagine that you're somewhere in the sky.

But anyway I'm thinking of going to this disco revival night tonight, even though I hate disco I kind of like that it's in the basement of 1015, which I’ve just heard was originally the Sutro Baths, one of the big sex clubs in the ‘70s so I'd like to look for evidence, why not -- I mean I need something to get me excited -- plus, there probably won't be smoke, 1015’s a big club they probably wouldn't risk that -- then, even though the other time I went to one of these events it was terrible, that was a DJ from out of town and I've heard these DJs can actually spin, now you see where I fall in the club mythology continuum I can deal with almost anything if it's mixed well. But I was talking about my nerves, and the problem now is that I can't even get over the nerves with dancing, so if there's no sex and I don't like the music than what am I there for?

Of course, I'm not there yet. Chris wants to know why all the nervousness, it’s strange because I’m actually a very social person but now my life is kind of contained and insulated even, public events end up draining me too much either I can't engage and I end up feeling claustrophobic, or I get too excited and then as soon as I'm out of the public eye I can't function I'm my head blasted. I wish there was another option -- I wish I could dance I wish I could dance I wish I could dance, Kid Koala’s on now in my house and when Chris goes to the bathroom I try a few moves and when she comes back out she's looking at me with a mixture of excitement and sadness, I'm sad too it's because even just a few spins and twirls the look in my eyes it's that space I miss I mean maybe this music is maudlin but oh how I can picture the stage the runway the dance floor the head side to side hands flinging I mean I'm feeling it and then just when I'm about to joke that I'll probably hurt something just from these few moves, I notice a pain in my side I don't want to say anything because it'll make me feel even more hopeless.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

That bird, look I found that bird!





So much blood and the next day there was nothing

This woman approaches the bus stop at Powell and Market, looking both ways but she doesn't look drugged out -- more just scared. She says have you been waiting long? No -- she says I don't like waiting here, it's a dangerous corner. We’re right across the street from the Abercrombie store and the newly-renovated San Francisco Center with a flagship Bloomingdale's, but I don't think that's what she's talking about. She says just the other night I was walking up the stairs and there was this guy lying on the ground and there was blood everywhere, oh there was so much blood I asked the cops what had happened, did someone gets shot, they didn't know I mean it's not their job to tell me it's just there was so much blood, I mean you only have so much blood, right?

Her eyes are big like she's reliving it right now and just from our eyes I start to feel it too. I say did the cops beat him up, she says no, not the cops, someone had hit him over the head on that stairwell right there, and she points to her right I turn that way it is actually kind of dark there. She says there was so much blood and then the next day there was nothing, they had washed it all off it didn't used to be like this in San Francisco -- I love this city, but it just didn't used to be like this -- the other day someone got shot on Cyril Magnin. Cryril Magnin, I say -- she says yes, right there on your Cyril Magnin, you didn't hear about it? It was all over the TV because now they crossed the line -- before it was just the Tenderloin, that's why they've got cop cars right over there but I don't feel comfortable standing out here too long, what does that say -- 14 minutes and 33 minutes, 12:14 and 12:33? I say but that thing lies a lot, who knows how long we have to wait.

Cyril Magnin is a two-block street that connects Market to O'Farrell, two blocks of nothing but hotels. I wonder if that was the night I heard all the gunshots and someone screaming too, this woman says now the cops are cracking down, just the other night I saw them beating up this 19-year-old girl. I say that's not going to help anything -- the reason there’s more violence is because the cops are beating everyone up in other neighborhoods, so now a lot of those people are coming to the Tenderloin. This woman says well, she was dealing drugs. I say that doesn't matter, there are always people dealing drugs in the Tenderloin, right?

There's an irony in the fact that this woman, who's black and a bit older than me and middle-class in appearance but probably not reality, wants my assurance that the cops might lend her some kind of safety and I'm unwilling to provide that illusion, even while I share some of her worries about the increasing violence in our neighborhood. I want to ask her if she thinks what’s changed is that gangs have moved into the Tenderloin, but then suddenly there's a bus that surprises us, and the arrival monitor still says 13 minutes. It takes me a few minutes to get used to the toxic fumes in the brand new bus, one of the ones with tiny windows way up high that no one ever opens, and anyway it's always hard to continue a conversation with someone you don't know, once you get on the bus -- when I look around for her, she's already gone.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

I was trying to take a picture of this beautiful bird that was here

The magic pill

The problem with a backroom that only happens once a month -- well, that's the problem. I guess it happens on other nights too, I'm just not sure which ones. Tonight it happens for sure, but I don't feel like rushing over. Maybe if someone gave me the magic pill -- that doctor gave me a bunch of supplements but I can’t even deal with risking any of them -- maybe a little bit of calming, a sinus headache to tear me up, some cloudiness, a dry throat, indigestion to connect the dots and watery eyes so that I know I'm looking at something, something that doesn't work but maybe with all the blurriness I'll try it again.

The acupuncturist was talking about this woman who found out she was allergic to potatoes, she did a clearing and then boom her life changed. Sometimes sex is the magic pill, but that only lasts so long. A breath of fresh air even shorter. The right music -- that can last for maybe 45 minutes, but then I'm already crashing. B-12 gives me maybe five minutes. A warm shower -- maybe a half hour. The sun on the fire escape, but that always goes down.

I guess the magic pill just means crashing, crashing is what it means for me like ecstasy I always wanted to drive back and forth over the bridge as the sun was rising but I was already crashing this was just a delay.

It feels good to lie on the bed at Grant’s house and accept how tired I felt, going back and forth from emotional to joking sometimes joking can be emotional too like I'm talking about all the H I did in the bathroom and that's why I can't get up off the bed it was the H. Actually this story is before the bed, when I'm talking about JoAnne although can't we go back to the bed, the bed’s a better place for this story I can stare at the ceiling, the way the paint cracks and there are circles that look like metal arranged evenly across the ceiling, Grant thinks maybe it's a decoration.

I was thinking about JoAnne, this time when I got back to our apartment on Sycamore, Sycamore where I got my name because it was the first place where I felt like I had a home -- at one point we were all queer vegan incest survivors, everyone living in the house and what could be a better opportunity except when everything was crashing down? I mean: especially when everything was crashing down. We were always throwing pint glasses out the window that we’d borrowed from cafés, that was my habit for dealing with rage I didn't think about other people who I might be scaring it just felt so crucial to hear something smash.

JoAnne and I would make all sorts of weird concoctions, drugs that we thought were safer than the ones we didn't want to do anymore. Like JoAnne had these heavy-duty caffeine pills that were big in Vancouver, black beauties they were called -- maybe they were speed but they felt like caffeine not like the bitter crystals that secured certain downfall we weren't afraid. We’d pour out the contents of the black capsules, such a pure white on the beautiful shard from an antique mirror that accidentally cracked, then we’d cut up Xanax and do lines, we just loved that feeling of the drugs up our noses even if they got stuck, we rolled up toilet paper and moistened it, snorted the drops of water to bring everything further into our heads.

It kind of worked, especially nights with margaritas at La Rondalla, margaritas reminded me of Las Rocas in high school but now I’d gotten away there was so much more to think about like JoAnne and the safety we were trying to create, this meant most of all holding one another, holding one another, holding one another. I mean we cried, honey we cried and we loved it this was new it meant we were getting somewhere.

I remember these junkies JoAnne started bringing over the house, they were a couple and very styley in that way that only junkies can be styley, leaning in all directions looking up and around like birds -- an elegance about decay almost a celebration they were in this together they always had pills they wanted to sell, the first time one of them brought over a burrito it had meat in it I told her to eat it on the front steps that was just the rules. The junkies were okay with our rules they were the kind of junkies who were always trying to kick except first they needed a fix, that kind of junkie except JoAnne was in love with one of them.

The first time, no maybe not the first time but the first time I was there and the junkies were gone and JoAnne was in her room on the rocking chair with her eyes closed, I said can I come in? She said sure but didn't open her eyes, I sat down. Are you tired? No, she said -- I'm just looking at the colors, I love the colors. I wanted to hold her but I couldn't, she was somewhere else. I said what are you feeling? She said I don't know but I don't want to open my eyes I'm listening to you I'm not sleepy I'm hyper-aware.

Oh, right -- this is the story I'm telling Grant while sitting on his futon but wait I moved it to the bed so that I could look at the ceiling. I'm not sleepy I'm hyper-aware. It's supposed to be a funny story.

Friday, December 14, 2007

My whole face scrunches up like I'm looking at something in a horror movie

Maybe I should add some red cabbage to the collard greens, that's what I'm thinking -- there's an old red cabbage at the bottom of this drawer, let me see if it's still okay. I pick it up in the bag, it looks fine until I notice this white mold crawling out of it like claws and then my chest is locked, shoulders up high and tense, throat pulled tight and I'm shaking. The sound is a vibrating in my throat, oohhuhuhuhuh kind of like a ghost in a movie except it's me.

I put the bag with the cabbage on the counter, but then I have to take it out right away to the trash -- I look again and the same thing with my body, what is it about this mold? I almost want to save the cabbage so I can investigate this feeling, but it's mold I can't save mold. Even now while thinking it, I'm getting that same feeling in my chest. A while back, I read this book by Margaret Randall where she talks about her phobia of mushrooms, and how she eventually realizes that's where she's stored her memories of her father sexually abusing her.

Like once when adzuki beans got stuck in this drain with big holes that I had in an old apartment and I totally panicked, had to throw the drain out I was so disgusted -- something about being trapped and cut up. Or, more clearly, with this knife that I kept thinking about when I first started to remember I was sexually abused, when I went to that house that last time before the 11 year gap I tried to pick up the knife but my hand would start shaking and I couldn't, finally I succeeded in wrapping it in newspaper. Then I kept it under my bed for years and even moved it from apartment to apartment until I realized I was still scared of it, scared that somehow I would accidentally chop off a finger or even my neck or poke out one of my eyes. Sometimes I could see my father with a knife over my body I'm on top of a bar counter fireplace and he cuts me open like a chicken. The way memory is stored sometimes in ways that can't be literal. It's hard not to get caught up in delineating the shape of events, the shape I'll never know even if I can never let go of trying. I want to make something illogical into an orderly timeline of events that I can struggle to understand. Unfortunately memory doesn't work that way, at least not my memory -- in some ways my father did chop off my neck because I never learned how to breathe always throat pulled tight, shoulders high and tense I learned not to shake to hold everything still when everything wouldn't hold.

Sometimes I still thought maybe he would protect me from the vibrating of my throat, the knife everything he stabbed into me, for years I could only chop vegetables with a tiny little knife no bigger than the one you'd use to butter bread. Even if I was chopping a whole cabbage. But I don't know where the mold comes in, thinking about it now my whole face scrunches up like I'm looking at something in a horror movie. I never could watch horror movies, I was always scared enough. Still I can't look at gore, bloody images stay inside my head like a slideshow with flashing lights illuminating my eyes frozen between images.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

More freedom not less

It's funny -- as soon as I wrote about seeing that hot boy at Real Foods, I kept thinking wait a minute, what if ze doesn't go by "he" at all, should I be using gender-neutral pronouns? I mean, if someone said I met this hot boy named Mattilda I would say work! Or, I met this hot girl named Mattilda -- work! Or, I met this hot creature named Mattilda -- work! But not everyone is so fluid.

And don't get me wrong -- if someone said I met this hot dude who's a guy but he calls himself Mattilda, um... It’s easy enough to use gender-neutral pronouns in literary endeavors, but what about the noun that describes the person. I mean, while I might like creature or sea lion or bitch or Mary or reptile or peach, I'll certainly admit to cringing when anyone calls me a man. But something neutral like person or individual sounds a bit distant and desexualized, right?

But anyway, this is probably just me in my head, which -- trust me -- can certainly go on and on. But why think so much about first impressions, remember: all that matters is that I say exactly what I'm thinking and then I feel that rush like I'm a little kid and I can just be me and it's okay. And it's true -- that is all that matters.

Except then I get this message that says: “I'm kind of only into bio boys who identify as that.” But wait -- how did ze know?

Just kidding -- I might as well reveal that this correspondence is taking place through myspace, not exactly my favorite means of communication, but it's the means this lovely faggot delivered into my hands, okay? I say: I'm the girl with the curls who bought detergent and lemons -- I wasn't in your line, but I'm so glad I came over! I'm not always as courageous, but I try to be.

Ze says: I just wanted to say now that I'm kind of only into bio boys who identify as that, so that at some point down the road I don't seem like an asshole who's been leading you on, but I also think that you look like an amazing person that I would like to be good friends with.

Of course I appreciate the honesty and compliments, and actually after browsing this person’s myspace I’m actually not drawn in the sexual direction either -- the flatness of too much information and not enough, why I can't do the computer screen love affair anyway. But there's something about “bio boys who identify as that” that makes me think oh no, even here where looks are precious, when it gets to something sexual it's back to masculinity drama. I mean, this person also works a splashy genderbent flavor, which was one of the reasons I got all excited back among the vegetables. There was that moment when I said you're really hot, do you want to go out on a date? As soon as I said it, I didn't know if I wanted to go out on a date I mean why a date do I really like dates? But in the moment it felt so exciting just to get so excited I mean to show it.

I'm trying to get to the place where my sexuality doesn't feel so separate from the radical queer visions that inspire me, where it's not just moments of passion that feel like they can save me and then boom it's all over. You know -- sex with guys who can't even deal with my name or any exchange past the physical sometimes not even the physical, that feels kind of limiting. Not that I don't also embody a certain type of masculinity in these spaces that feels illuminating and sassy and invigorating and sometimes confusing too but so charged like a burst of suddenly everything I need. Like I’m filled with possibility it's just me I'm everywhere at once. Except that there are rules and I know them -- don't talk don’t smile don't laugh. At least not too much. Maybe I want to tell jokes and do runway and fling my hands in exaggerated flair, just before throwing someone against a buckling wall and saying don’t make me read you, Miss One. Tongue to tongue, a saliva factory. A quick 180-degree turn for maximum glamour potential so this faggot can grab me tighter lick a circle around my face, we can live in that spit and make houses with it.

I don't want the transcendence to fade wither rot as roles are cemented into realness I want more freedom not less.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Maybe some things would even be easy

He thinks I look much better than the last time he saw me, I guess that was three years ago when I couldn't sleep at all I would just lie in bed all night doing different kinds of relaxation exercises. He says I look calmer, more present -- actually, he says something about earth. Down to earth? In the earth? Earthbound?

Something else. We’re talking about everything and when it gets to the thyroid it turns out that I have high antibodies but not that high and he wouldn't recommend hormone replacement because I'm so sensitive it will just make me wired and drain my energy away. I can't think of another time when I've actually been excited about the possibility of pharmaceutical medicine, I mean I guess I was excited about sleeping pills when I took them, for the five minutes when they kicked in and then after that it was 23 hours and 55 minutes of hell before the next five minutes, right I think the last time I saw this doctor wasn't that long after I finally got off the sleeping pills -- that's probably why I was such a mess, the sleeping pills made everything worse, but especially my sleep which was worthless. Worth even less than now, much less if you can imagine. I just remember trying to walk up this relatively short hill to get groceries, I mean to get to the door of horrible Whole Foods and that was just excruciating like I could fall over at any point on the way it was only one block.

Anyway, my energy really sinks when he says he wouldn't recommend the hormone, he has a bunch of supplements to suggest even though supplements rarely do much at all. I can't believe I'm trying to convince him that maybe I should try the hormone, even though he's actually paying attention to me when he says it would just drain me, that makes a lot of sense I mean even a few droppersfull of an herbal remedy or two bites of cornbread can knock me out. But I’d already planned out my recovery arc -- it would be slow, but maybe in six months or a year I'd be able to go dancing and exercise more and then eventually I'd be aware of all my exhaustion and pain but nothing would overwhelm me I’d have energy to relax and think about things with my eyes closed my brain would stop running everything wouldn't be so difficult maybe some things would even be easy.