Friday, April 18, 2008

In talking about that horror it sounds more like knowledge

Sometimes there's nothing more depressing than washing dishes in the morning, music isn't helping today I hate this music I hate all the food stains on the stove I hate cooking or even just preparing to cook I hate all the time it takes and all the pain it gives me. Outside on the fire escape, I see that two buildings over they’re redoing the roof, a dark sooty charcoal covering white so that the sun doesn't reflect off it anymore. Even though I can't smell the poison, I feel flattened -- just the way allergies combine with interrupted sleep and maybe the new homeopathic remedy works better at night I know it's a beautiful day it seems like a beautiful day but all I can feel is the area between the eyes and nose into head but not where the thinking starts. Then the thinking starts, and I still feel the same.

Later, much later, something clears and I actually have energy, sort of, I'm talking to Gina about the difference between the West Village and Chelsea, the physical structure of the neighborhoods and the patterns of gentrification and the meatpacking district and how that fits into the mixture and of course the piers and the leather bars and cruising spaces now remade into luxury condos and it actually makes me feel some kind of fondness for New York or something, I mean I know I hate New York I mean I hated living there but something about the physical structure and all the memories lurking in between buildings, my memories but also the memories of everything erased and being erased and soon to be erased. But wait -- why does that make me think I like New York, picturing late-night walks between all these different areas, even the sickening spectacle of blood and guts in front of the remaining meatpacking plants, right next to glittering condos and fashionista atrocity design studio loneliness in talking about that horror it sounds more like knowledge. And the places where I would stop, that corner store at 8th Ave and 14th St where they actually had tables and you could sit down if they liked you enough a lot of trans women working the streets would sit there too and eventually the management put the chairs on the table but we would take them back off that was kind of fun. No one would talk to me but I would smile anyway, drinking a bottle of water because there was nothing else for me there, I just needed somewhere to sit waiting for some trick to confirm or before going out. Or, down lower into the rarefied part of the West Village oozing money disguised as culture the store with the sandwiches, oh I loved that store with the sandwiches after a trick maybe on the way to a bar every bite was splendid. I guess it's the familiarity, the way my body remembers 24-hour stores there wasn't much else for me really. I would try to cruise the Piers but only that guy who ran an escort agency nearby would be out there in the cold, still the sky not many places in Manhattan to stand under that sky just me, me from ten years ago, standing and waiting and longing now the longing’s just different. Ten years ago I saw the places where cruising was disappearing but I never thought cruising would disappear.

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