Monday, February 08, 2010

Imagination and regret

I was going to write something about sadness and attraction and the guy from last night at the Nob Hill Theatre, the one who said: I think I’m going to walk around. That was nothing unusual -- I said do whatever you want, he was sweet enough but I was irritated because obviously he wasn’t going to find someone as hot as me, but now I realize what he wanted was more intimacy. I wasn’t really attracted to him in that way, so when he kissed at the beginning and I tasted liquor I pulled away. Should I really be having sex with people who I don’t want to kiss? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I do know that I hate all the sexual spaces I go to, really really hate them except for those moments when everything transcends, but even those moments happen so fast that it’s almost like they didn’t happen, never will happen again, don’t matter anyway.

We left the video booth without a hug, that’s what I regret. Was I annoyed because he didn’t fuck my face until he came, his orgasm the prize I was awaiting? As if he didn’t matter, just that thrust into my throat: what these spaces make us. But I can’t even write, I’m so tired -- or not tired, destroyed. I can only focus on something for five minutes and then it’s like my head pulls into my head. My head hurts, all this pulling. Maybe sometime I’ll think of an amazing new way to describe how terrible I feel, and then I won’t feel so terrible. Sometimes this actually happens, but right now I’m just trying to remember to breathe, breathe while I’m writing, in between words, words that are hard to keep, to keep, to keep words.

I want to go to sexual spaces where people actually appreciate me, where I can appreciate what they appreciate, where I can appreciate. I have a sense of where those places are, tiny glimpses here and there, usually with smoke that makes my head hurt but my head already hurts, right? I feel hopeless, and that’s one of the reasons I need to leave, but leaving sounds so tiring, I can’t even finish this sentence.

I mean leaving San Francisco, not just the sexual spaces that mostly feel like regret. I can feel myself getting ready, looking around my apartment and wondering if I should get rid of all my books. I always regret it when I get rid of books, but still that’s what I’m thinking. If I move to Santa Fe, I’ll probably move again. I study the map, trying to imagine it.


Dane said...

Ah, the books question - I face it too, every time. Getting rid of books hurts. I guess all that "portable homeland" stuff really got to me when I was a kid.

mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

Dane, I think this time I am going to get rid of books -- at least 100 or so (I have so so many!), but hopefully I won't regret it -- or will I? I know I did last time, oh no...

Love --