Thursday, December 18, 2008

Texture or appreciation or sensation or the other things that eating should nourish

But my craigslist posting, I want it to say let's keep making out, right that's what I want it to say. I mean he wanted to go home with me but it was already 4 am so I said let's get together later and then he was waiting outside I already knew I should've given him my number right away but I think he was waiting to see if I'd take him home anyway but then he wasn't waiting. That's not what I'm sad about. I'm sad because I'm sad.

This night became a long night, but it started out a short one, when it starts I don't even know if it's a night at all but I figure I should go out just to see. Out in the cold yes I love the cold when the air actually seems fresh I mean once it's over 45 or so it doesn't feel fresh anymore but 27 frigid degrees it's hard on my shoulders because I hold them up too high but oh the air yes the air yes. If I say that the subway feels like magic then maybe you'll think I'm having some kind of New York nostalgia moment except I hated the subway when I lived here but this is a short ride, a short ride is magic and the rest is everything that leads easily to despair. So anyway I get off the subway, magic into the East Village of long-ago dreams, dreams that started in high school when I wanted to live in a commune in this very neighborhood it seemed possible in my dreams even if those 1980s days were the beginning of the end for this neighborhood. Much later, in 1995 I stayed with Glenn when he lived across the street, before I lived in New York and it was a week of nonstop clubs and drugs and visits to the juice bar across the street which was Angelica's Kitchen. I don't remember eating there, and I'm not sure why.

Glenn was the other flaming fag from my school, I want to say high school but actually we went to the same school together from second grade through 12th and it was second grade when we were already the flaming fags not by choice but by something like choice, except without the possibility. Anyway I’m at Angelica's Kitchen in the overwhelm of the overheated, luckily I have a lot to take off -- two scarves, one wool coat, two wool sweaters, one longsleeved cotton shirt, one t-shirt, one sparkly plastic belt, one pair of corduroys, cotton boxers, wool socks, fake leather shoes. I don't take off the t-shirt, the belt, the corduroys, the boxers, the socks, or the shoes but if we lived in a better world then I would.

The hostess is wearing a short vintage dress that's exactly the same color as my coat and I love it. I would say a ‘60s dress but my grandmother said oh, that's like a coat from -- and when I said the ‘60s? She said the ‘40s, and I'm sure she was right because it's probably the kind of coat she might have worn and anyway this coat would look great with that dress but the coat would be too big for the hostess and the dress too small for me so let's leave it at that.

Once I take off all the layers that are permitted by polite restaurant behavior, and the food comes remarkably swiftly, maybe because I've arrived right before closing so they're thinking about getting away but anyway I'm sitting there eating, thinking there's something so meditative about eating out by myself, more calm than eating with someone even if beforehand it seems like it might be lonely. It's never like this when I eat at home, probably because it's the same food over and over I get bored even right at the beginning sometimes because of the lack of anticipation and maybe because I just eat so that I won't fall apart not so much for taste or texture or appreciation or sensation or the other things that eating should nourish so anyway if it wasn't so hot at Angelica's Kitchen it would be perfect.

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