Thursday, February 05, 2009

A sense of hope

Here’s how my brain works: I’m trying to decide whether I have enough energy to go to this reading or whether it will give me too much pain I mean I want to go but I don’t think I have enough energy, thinking about it or actually talking it through with Hilary over the phone and already I start to crash I realize I don’t have enough energy and that makes me more frantic and sad. I call Andee, as the phone rings I’m planning out my first sentence: I can only talk for a moment because I’m so exhausted I have to get back in bed but I have to write before I get back in bed but before I write I have to do feldenkrais movements because I’m in too much pain to write. Andee’s sleeping, or at least he’s sleeping until he answers the phone, so I don’t have to use my first sentence.

Rewind a bit to that point in bed where I realize the next day is ruined, that’s today the day that’s ruined except so was yesterday and I guess I could go back a while. Ruined just because I wake up sometime too early and my brain gets wired and then the next day’s ruined. It sounds so symmetrical, and maybe it is, almost like the pain from sinus catastrophe plane aftermath faded about two weeks ago and then my sleep got much worse so now I don’t have the same sinus pain, some sinus pain but not the same, but now everything else is worse.

One of the worst things about being so exhausted all the time is that it makes my life feels so solitary, I mean I want to engage with the world but mostly I’m physically by myself in that engagement. Because otherwise I’m too exhausted. I mean I’m still too exhausted, but otherwise I’m too exhausted to do anything. But still this exhaustion holds me stranded and I’ve always found a certain amount of comfort by being alone but there’s comfort and then there’s stranded.

I keep remembering that I’m engaged in this project of trying to regain a sense of hope in my own sexuality, but then I get so tired that sex only feels like a potential escape and that’s not a sense of hope. Or worse, a trap. Sometimes I even think I felt better about my sexuality when I was a hooker, more embodied and hopeful, even though one of the reasons I stopped turning tricks was because I kept getting to this wall of familiarity with the routine of gay consumerism in all of its forms I fought in all other areas. Too many years of that routine it was starting to make me feel desperate. Not starting, it was making me feel desperate. Now I just feel more tired.

Let me catch up on recent attempts. I went to Blow Buddies and watched all these guys stand around someone in a sling getting fucked, maybe it was hot for a moment but then I noticed the way people were touching each other like there wasn’t anyone there. I went upstairs and sucked someone’s dick for a moment, it tasted rotten but I tried to like it anyway since he was grabbing the back of my head and people were watching but it wasn’t fun so I stood up and kissed him on the neck he already acted like I wasn’t there. Then I left, 20 minutes and that was progress because I left.

I went to Buena Vista Park and actually had fun, pulling together a group between trees and then lying on top of this guy up at the very top in the grass and talking about cruising and health and the decades between us. He left San Francisco for New York just when I arrived in San Francisco so we talked about San Francisco and New York and what I missed and what we want but we don’t have and he was interested in my critiques of gay sexual culture made slightly more casual for this situation among the stars. It felt intimate; I even thought he might come to my reading. He didn’t. I went to the Nob Hill Theatre and no one was there; I watched a video of some guy jerking off and then he said he was married but polyamorous so that meant straight but the good kind.

I realize it’s February, February means I’m no longer banned from craigslist so I cruise craigslist and then my body hurts too much and my mind keeps circling back to the new posts, are there any new posts so I decide I can’t cruise craigslist in February except to post my own ad, which is harder to do when I’m exhausted much harder so that’ll keep me away. A sense of hope? I haven’t found it yet.

2 comments:

Adam Britt :o said...

I often find my self looking for some sort of hope on craigslist late at night, but I am usually dissappointed. Hope isn't the right word, I don't think.

Living in a smallish town with a craigslist is kind of exciting however, because i now recognize almost every person that posts and it feels like a chosen family, of sorts, which is comforting.


Sometimes.

mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

That's an interesting point about craigslist in a small town versus a large one -- here it's just depressing.

Love --
mattilda