Saturday, June 26, 2010

Ready for today

I’m having a fun time, talking to a friend visiting from out of town, and then a few other people show up -- another friend, and a few people I don’t know, and that’s fun too, kind of festive -- I don’t socialize all that much with groups of fags. Then somebody starts smoking pot -- I can smell it coming in from the other room, but I don’t say anything; I just start to panic. My friend goes in that direction too, and I start gathering up my things -- I wonder if I should just leave without saying anything, but then I can’t find my coat, and I need to use the bathroom anyway, so I go in the direction of the pot smoke, oh there my coat is, I put it on as I’m entering the bathroom -- I hope it doesn’t smell like pot.

Then I start to make my way out the door, still thinking I can leave without saying much, I need to get out right away, and my friend looks at me like he’s surprised, so I say I can’t be around smoke, and I walk to the front to get my bag, and my friend comes too, he says: there can’t possibly be any smoke in this room. I hate when people who know everything about my sensitivities tell me that I can’t possibly be as sensitive as I’ve told them, over and over.

My friend says: you know it wasn’t me. I know, I say, but you would have told them to smoke too, and he puts up his hands like he can’t handle any more, and I’m trying to find the door, almost like a comedy routine as I open the closet, my friend says: we hid the door. Then I find it, and rush outside for air; I hope I got out in time, in time to avoid the sinus drill.

Then I feel so sad, sad that I’m so sensitive. Sad that people who I know, who I’ve known for so long, refuse to do something so simple as tell someone to smoke outside. Or just don’t think about it, until afterwards. With this friend in particular, there’s a long history of this smoking issue -- years ago, when I was staying with him for several weeks in New York, I would come home and people would be smoking in the apartment, my friend would try to hide it, or say: the window’s open. He doesn’t even smoke, didn’t smoke then either -- it was just something about not wanting to limit other people’s behavior. I hate that shit.

Maybe I should’ve said: in the past, you’ve done the same thing. Instead of: you would do the same thing. Because maybe he wouldn’t, anymore, and that’s why he looked offended. Although somehow I doubt it.

Then there’s the morning, the morning with all this noise upstairs. Probably the kid who lives there is running around, running around and waking me up, running around and waking me up just at the time when I need my sleep the most, right at the end when it’s the key between feeling okay and feeling like I can’t function. Running around and waking me up but I’m trying to ignore it, ignore it so I can fall back asleep, ignore it don’t get upset just ignore it keep breathing but no. It doesn’t work. I wake up in a cloud, go out on the fire escape anyway, the fire escape in the fog, someone’s interviewing me later and I’ll probably need to take a nap. First I have to do an errand, an errand all the way in the Castro again, the Castro where I never go but now I’ve been there four times over the last week I think, because of Frameline, and that’s why I’m going there again, to submit All That Sheltering Emptiness to various festivals. The Castro is funny at this time of year, almost festive, a lot more people around -- or maybe there are always this many people, just not me. Yesterday there was a farmer’s market, a farmer’s market still open at 8 pm, what a great idea! Maybe I’ll go back for that, next Wednesday or whenever. But first I need to get ready for today.


the work of a common woman said...

i needed this. thank you.

the work of a common woman said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

Thank you thank you thank you!!!