Sunday, December 01, 2013

Loving cement

Everywhere I travel, there are scissors in the kitchen. Even when there are no pots. This is useful for trimming my sideburns. I spend hours a day cooking, but I’ve never had scissors in the kitchen. Am I missing something? I’m worried about the word cisgender, that it undoes the possibilities of transgender, policing the borders rather than ending them. Transgender: transmit, transmute, translate, transcend, transgress, transform. Whoever invented the kitchen sink disposal should be disposed of. Doing dishes in the bathtub is never glamorous, but it’s even less glamorous when you’re renting a place for four days. In New York, the kitchen sink disposal is illegal, and so it is a luxury: every rich person has one, they hide the switch under the sink. Let them eat cake, I say, who needs another toothache?

            Cementing love is almost as good as loving cement. I keep hearing about something called a book deal. I’ve written books, and they’ve been published, which is exciting, but I don’t think there’s ever been a book deal. I do know about drug-dealing, and books are better than drugs, usually, or at least the crash isn’t as bad, so maybe I’m missing something. Once I didn’t believe in the internet. Once is still now. But then I’m disconnected, and I actually feel disconnected. A window of connection, and I’m trying to do everything at once, except leave the place where I’m staying to go on a walk, which was what I was trying to do before. I’m in Baltimore, so I feel like I should visit my grandmother. But she’s dead. I don’t mean to sound dramatic about it. But I kind of feel dramatic. I still miss what she could never give me, what I gave her: critical engagement as another artist, one related by blood and history and inspiration.

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