I have been dumped. I finally got to talk to Matt today, it went something like this:

C: I haven't heard from you in a few days, what's up?
M: Um, [pause] we have a situation.
C: Um, what's the situation?
M: Do you remember what you did to me?
C: What, are you talking about Saturday when I called you and told you about making out with the dog?
M: Uh yeah! That is what I am talking about. Charlie, that really disturbed me-
C: I'm sorry-
M: Don't be sorry, I am just, I'm just really disturbed and find you unattractive now, I just - that really turned me off and I can't say I find you attractive right now.
C: Um
M:
C: Okay, so what does this mean? Am we not going to talk anymore?
M: No, no, no, I mean, yeah, I am sure we will see each other around, and I guess we'll talk then.
C:Um..
M: Yeah, but I really don't have time to talk right now, I have to go meet Kevin for dinner.
C: Bye?

My body felt this break-up when I was reading Wojnarowicz talk about carressing his lover's bodies. I got butterflies in my stomach just reading this stuff, thinking back to time spent curled up next to Matt's body, running my fingers along his spine. That is when I feel this. I also feel it listening to song #2 on the Destroyer album Bonnie mailed me. For this reason, I have been listening to this song on repeat. These is something heartbreakingly beautiful about memories of bodies that you no longer have access to. That is why I read these sad things and listen to these sad things, and think of moments in bed together, because it is a pain, a pang that is laced with the slightest bit of pleasure at the recollection of these things. I am glad for the experiences and equally glad for the memories of them.

I am just sad that it had to end so abruptly. Things have a habit of doing that and I am trying to take as much from this experience as possible and to not under any conditions get bitter about the situation. In the time spent with him, I learned that I do possess these capacities, an ability to have feelings of a certain type towards others, a generousity of spirit (I don't want to say love, but that type of feeling, a warmness towards others). I have become receptive towards touch. I am beyond grateful for these things. It depresses me however that it ended for such a silly reason, and ended with such a kind person who lived so close. But I am learning so many things, this is life, my friends, and I am doing the best I can, trying to learn, trying to be honest, and to love without restraint, and some days, I even think that I am successful. Oddly enough, today is one of these.

I am officialy (well, at least according to the NY Press, whatever that means), "officialy" more loathsome than not only Drew Barrymore, Abe Foxman, Bud Selig, and Eric Alterman, but more loathsome than even Joan Rivers. Sadly, the Hilton Sisters are appearantly just a little more loathsome than Strand employees.

29. Strand Staffers
SLAVING AT A used bookshop may be a nobler vocation than trading pork bellies, but is it too much to ask that someone make eye contact through his or her Elvis Costello glasses? Is it unreasonable to expect the occasional acknowledgement of a customer's presence? Do new employees take classes to learn how to display utter contempt? Screw the Strand and its narrow aisles and indecipherable shelving practices and overpriced used books and staff of petulant clerks. They can ram all eight miles of books up their mopey asses. Next to them, the people at Barnes & Noble are downright motherly.

(From The Fifty Most Loathsome New Yorkers)

While that does make me happy, as does the nice package I got from Bonnie yesterday with CD's that I am listening to, there is still this Matt not calling me thing creating a sadness that is dueling with these happy things. Guess which one is winning? I'll give you a hint: It is not being more loathsome than Fifty Cent. Will he call today? And no, not Fifty Cent, but that boy.

I do not know if I actually have a reason to be sad or not, if I am actually being brushed off, but the possibility that I am is making me sad. The last time I talked to Matt was Saturday night when I told him he should come out to those parties. He said he might later. I called after fleeing Sterling's to tell him that I was going home, told him about the dog, and about running away. As I mentioned he did sound disturbed about the dog. Something along the lines of "Charlie, what? Don't tell me this now. I don't want to hear this. We'll talk tomorrow."

So I waited Sunday for him to call. He did not. I waited most of Monday, yesterday, before giving in around ten o'clock and I got his answering machine, which I thought was odd since he always has his phone on him. He did not call me back at all last night which is where the sadness started. Today, I waited and waited for him to call me back, constantly checking my phone to see if there were any new messages. At nine, I called and did not leave a message. Same thing at around ten. At work, I was so sad, trying to think of why perhaps he might not be calling me, could he really be that disgusted by the dog story? Does he just not like me anymore? Or is he really busy getting ready for his show this Friday? All questions which I threw around to myself and to Joe when he would listen to me mope. He thankfully convinced me not to call anymore, to just chill out and wait. I took the subway home, sad, and while walking up the stairs out of the subway towards my house, I heard that distinctive ring tone letting me know that I had a message. Excited, I dialed it up, and heard that it was Matt's phone number, and waited nervousely to hear what he would say in the message.

Hi Charlie, This is Matt, Call me back.

That was it, but he said hi and not hey, said call me back and not give me a call back. And he said it so dryly, which was the most troubling part, his bouncy optimism could not be found in any of those words. Normally he does not leave as curt messages either. It also seems oddly suspicious that he would call me right after I got off work, when he knew I would be on the subway.

I called him back, he did not pick up. I left a message, and then sulked off to La Bonita Bakery where I ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich with mayonaisse, all that yummy fat to make me feel better. While I was waiting around for my food, I turned up my ringer to make sure that I would hear his call, but I sort of had a feeling that I was not going to recieve a call back from him in La Bonita, and I was right, and soon, I am going to go to bed feeling miserable and lonely and unwanted, and I have a feeling that he will not call me then either, and I really hope that I will not be right, but I think you guys know what will probably happen.

Tomorrow evening, I will try calling him again.

"losing the form in darkness"

Lately, I feel really ugly and don't like spending much time with people in face to face interactions. I don't make eye contact when I am with people. I try not to stand to close to them, and I shy away when I think people are looking closely at me, avert my head, fiddle with something. This is because my acne is "severe" and because I am aware of this and am going to see the dermatologist on Monday, and so because I hope to soon have this problem alleviated somewhat, right now, the current condition seems even more noticable, more unbearable, with some hoped for future looming, placing the current state in a stark contrast.

And tonight, perhaps because of this reason, perhaps because of others, I felt entirely comfortable in the dark night, wandering the streets of Williamsburg and Greenpoint. The streets were empty, all mine. There were sublime cloud formations moving quickly past the half full moon, or perhaps, in this condition, the half empty moon. And it reminded me of nights at the beach in Florida, how majestic the night sky looked over the ocean, how it appeared to be as just as large, if not more so, and so tonight I looked at this expansive sky that I had forgotten about, realized that I had forgotten how expansive this land is, these oceans are underneath it. That I have become very self-involved with this city and myself, and forgot how expansive it all is, how vast.

There is a very distinct thrill that is obtained by wandering Brooklyn streets at night alone, streets that are deserted, some that are competely dark, and having to check over your shoulder every once and a while just to make sure that whatever you hope is not there is not there. Then you can breathe out into the crisp night air and know that you are alone. Lonely, lonely, and best so. As WCW would say.

There is this passage in David Wojnarowicz's Close to the Knives, which I am reading right now, and which is quite excellent by the way - at work, on days when I show up, I am reading his diaries, In the Shadow of the American Dream, which are also really good, perhaps better, just because they are diaries and they have me excited about ways to enliven and experience life through the method of journal writing, giving things more meaning that way, infusing your life with poetry, and I will talk more about his diaries as I read more of them, but to the quote: "In loving him, I saw great hosues being erected that would soon slide into the waiting and stirring seas. I saw him freeing me from the silences of the interior life." (17)

That passage really struck me for its tenderness when I read it earlier this evening, that yes, that is what good sex is sometimes. However tonight, the night, its darkness allowed me to embrace the silences of the interior life, not having to worry about lights, and my bathroom mirror, and what other people are thinking. It was so liberating, and perhaps that was the reason I took the walk, to think. I have recently taken a few long walks at night, and tonight, thinking over the habit, I realized that it is exactly what my mother does. My mom is a pretty restless woman and cannot really sit around the house, cannot engage with other people very intimately, and she is always taking walks at night, long walks, and asking other people if they want to go. And lately, I am coming to realize how indeed lovely circutious walks without any destination are. It felt so good to breathe in that cold air, winter is not yet gone, to walk past houses in my neighborhood, seeing the Easter decorations put up on the houses on Hope Street, familiarizing myself with my surrounding area.

Before I took a walk, I got a call from this boy Chris. Chris is this really hot boy who djs at Metropolitian on Thursdays, and he wanted to know what I was doing tonight. I am not sure if it was just a friendly invite or if there was more to it. I told them that I wasn't going to go out but that I would call him in the future. I did not go out because I am broke and feeling outrageously insecure today. But the friendly attention that I have gotten in the past week makes me happy, and seems really odd, especially at this moment when I am probably the most ashamed/disgusted with my appearance since probably 10th grade, and man, 10th grade was a rough time as I am sure many of you know. I am currently going through a similar experience of self-defeating thoughts and behaviour that I am far too experienced and intelligent to engage in, but yet, which I still do nonetheless.

I have to go into work early tomorrow to pick up some extra hours since I called in sick today and have no sick days left and was going to try to pay my rent with this week's paycheck. I have to find a new job ASAP. My goal is to quit between May 7 (when I will have been there for a year and can collect two weeks vacation pay) and June 12 (my birthday, and if I am still working in a retail job at the age of 23, I will break down and cry). Or maybe I can get fired and collect unemployment. I did get stuff accomplished today. I cleaned dishes, finally found someone with a copy of my tax forms from the Best Western which were mailed out this afternoon, made a dentist appointment, looked for some jobs (did not apply yet), and read lots of Wojnarowicz.

What you desire and what you would actually allow to happen, or what you actually want to happen are not always the same thing. Desire is funny like that, and sometimes (often times?), it is better left as some erotic possibility, something unvocalized, not acted upon, in those nether regions of pleasure and sensation. I was thinking about this when I woke up a short while ago in a boy's shirt whose name I do not even know. And no, I did not do anything stupid - okay, I defintely did - but I did not do that.

Last night, I went to a few gallery openings with Christy, Niki, and Jessica, drank lots of beer and wine without regard to the effects of mixing the two, and don't remember much of what I saw except the Sabine Horning show at Tanya Bonakdar, which I really liked. I may talk about the show more later if I see it again. My thoughts are too unformulated right now and would sidetrack this attempt at narrative too much.

So yes, beer, wine, art and then plans to go to two parties in Brooklyn. And Niki and Jessica had people they wanted to see, so we splintered. Niki to see Ramsey. Jessica to see some rock and roll boy. Christy and I to our respective apartments to consume food, but all of us planned on meeting up at Sterling's party. I will fast forward and let you know that that did not happen, that Christy called me and said she was too tired, and the other two, God knows where they ended up last night but it was not at Sterling's.

I get home, make some food, answer my phone, and it is PKDB who says he wants to go to these parties. I was not that excited about attending them with PKDB and sort of regretted answering a phone number I did not recognize, but later when no one else I was supposed to go with showed up, I was very glad, very glad indeed for the company of Mr. PKDB. We went to some party off the Montrose stop where Dara's new band, The Party, made their official debut. Jessica's vocals were not loud enough and I could barely catch any of the lyrics. They sounded good though, and they did a fun cover of Duran Duran's "Hungry like the Wolf". After their set, I started talking to some boy that Dara introduced me to. And why Dara introduced me to this really hot homo now that I am with a boy, I do not know. But we talked, flirted out of control, and after complimenting each other's shirts, decided to trade shirts. I am now in an old Mickey Mouse shirt that is a little big on me, and he ended up with my favorite shirt in the world that was a little small on him. It is this blue button-down western shirt that I stole from Jamie. I don't know if I am going to get it back. Basically there were lots of innuendos and lots of non-innuendos exchanged. Comments like, "I thought Dara's roommate was going to be really nerdy and someone I wouldn't want to sleep with." I think that fits into the non-innuendo category. Lots of touching was occuring also. And then, Micky Mouse boy, PKDB, and I headed off to Sterling's party.

Walking back to the subway, I realized how out of control I was being and decided I needed to take it down a few notches. Mickey kept touching me on the way there, but I stopped returning these touches, and decided that I was not going to go home with this boy, that that would be wrong. We got to Sterling's party and I was doing my best to give Mickey cold body language, but I think I had flirted too much earlier for that too have any effect now. We hung around for a while, drinking beers, and I kept trying to think of how I could escape, and how much I knew that no one from that gallery group was going to make it out to Sterling's. I finally was up front with Mickey and told him that I was not going to go home with him, that I would feel bad. And he still kept hitting on me. I wanted to escape the party so bad, and was looking for an opportunity to flee.

I made out with some dog and it was really hot. This dog was really hyper and kept shoving his tongue down my throat, we kept bumping teeth. Mickey went to the bathroom, and PKDB and I ditched him and the party. We scurried down the stairs, out the building, and around the corner towards my house, leaving Mickey without even saying good-bye. In retrospect, I realize that was assholish to abandon some boy at a party where he did not know anyone, but hey, you do assholish things when you are drunk - and if I had not done that, I really think I may have ended up going home with him, so which assholish action would be more asshole? I think you know. I knew. And I just had to run away. And so I did. I picked up some fried chicken, called Matt, told him about the dog, about how hot it was, and he sounded pretty disgusted, which amused me a lot.

I went back to my house. PKDB came for some reason. I ate the chicken and wanted to go to bed so bad. PKDB just sat there on my couch talking about something or other, I kept closing my eyes in the hopes that PKDB would get the hint and leave and also because I really was starting to fall asleep. Finally he left, and I went to bed, so tired at only two. But that is what happens when you start drinking at six. The moral of this story: Make out with dogs and don't trade clothes with people you just met.

Might I add that it is beautiful outside today. I opened the windows in our house last night, not because it is hot out yet, or even really warm, but I am ready to start things rolling. Hopefully, these windows will not go down until late fall. There are buds on the gingko tree that grows outside my window. I look forward to seeing those quirky leaves back outside my window. Today when I was walking around the city, I became aware that spring has a smell, that there are so many scents that cold weather suppresses. The smell of all the hot dog vendors fried food mixes so good with the spring air. I can't identify all the scents in the mix, but man, I can tell you that they smell great, that they make happy.

Also, I picked up the new copy of HX, and while Dara and I did not make it into the mag, a few other people did. If you want a handy visual to accompany this journal, you should pick it up. There is a picture of the Phoenix, the bar that is often mentioned here and its bartenders. You can imagine what my stories might actually look like. You could even cut out the figures and have them interact as I say they do. There is also a photo of Matt and Kevin, also often mentioned in here. And there is a photo of my mostly former obsession, Josh, who is no longer mentioned as frequently in here thanks to the entrance of Matt into this story. So yeah, page 19 of this week's HX is your visual guide to my life until the day I save enough pennies to buy a digital camera. It's cooler this way.

Niki arrived here last night around eleven. It was really nice to see this familiar face again in my apartment. We talked and downed some Milwaukee's Best, before going across the street to the insanely nice, insanely out of place apartment building that Trent lives in, and that Matt and Kevin were hanging out in. Matt met us as we were ascending the stairs and he had that look that people have when they are on drugs, far away eyes, clenched jaw, just a little scary looking. It was sort of odd to encounter him so fucked up while still relatively sober. The three of us then did some coke in an empty apartment, because as I said this complex is insanely out of place, and insanely expensive, and even though there are probably about twenty aparments in this building, Trent may very well be the only tenant. Matt is supposedly going to get a key so that we can hang out at Trent's nice pad since he is appearantly never there, which would be so cool. Cable!

We hung out in Trent's apartment, did more lines, talked about crap, drank some of Trent's Moet. The fact that this boy, that this space is right across the street from my dilapadated apartment is really funny to me. We then made our way to Metropolitian where we met up with PKDB, which was really funny, to encounter this New College person at my local homo bar. I drank countless beers, talked to many random people, and was there with Matt and Niki until they closed. The three of us went back to my apartment in the nice breezy SPRING weather. And is the sex that I have with Matt when we are both messed up more hot because I am too wasted to tell the difference, or is it really that much hotter, maybe less inhibitions, more wild. I don't know, but last night was nice. Matt is still passed out in my bed. I am about to go run some errands before going to see Tracey and the Plastics. And it's so nice out! God, this weather!

i went to the doctor, and guess what he told me?

Nothing that would make me call him a fool, in fact, just the opposite. I went to the doctor today, Dr. J. Engel, and it was the nicest trip to the doctor I have ever had. The waiting room was nice and classy with mod little glowing coffee tables, nicely painted purple walls, and cool paintings. All of this made me happy that I decided to pick a doctor a little out of the way just because he was listed as gay-friendly.

There wasn't that much waiting around the reception area, or even in his office. It was all relatively quick. It was still a visit to the doctor's though, there was still some waiting, just not much. He asked me about my diet, about my drinking habits, which I was embarrased to confess to, but which he non-obnoxiously asked if I was concerned about. And I said no. And he did not scowl. He was already recieving cool points, then he asked me if I was sexually active with girls or guys. I like boys, I demured. Then he asked about the frequency and type of sex I was having in a way that did not make me nervous or embarrased at all. He asked if I was having anal sex. I said no. And then he told me that when I do, if I do, make sure to use a condom. He gave a little lecture about how lots of young homos aren't using condoms because they never saw the ravagaes of AIDS, and that "sucking" (his funny term) was not going to get me HIV, that it might get me other things, but that if I engaged in anal sex to be sure to use a condom.

This may sound like a basic conversation people have with their doctor, but none of my doctors have ever asked about my sexual health which seems just plain stupid. Only once, when I wanted to get tested for basic STD's did a doctor ask me about my sexual health, and he did not seem so interested when I told him it was with boys. So the upfrontness of this doctor was really nice, made me really happy.
Some people occasionally joke around about what the hell is a gay friendly doctor or dentist, but this is what they are. Non-judgemental people who ask you these questions that factor pretty highly into your overall health.

When I dropped my underwear and got my testicles examined, he made a comment about my foreskin, saying I was lucky, and asked how I managed to still have one being born in the US. That made him even more nice in my book. And lately, the past couple times, I have played around with people they have asked me the same question, why I had my foreskin, and I guess I never realized how few men do have theirs, and I am curious to know why I am uncut. But, I don't think I am going to ask my mom about it the next time I talk to her. It might be weird, you know?

I also talked to him about my acne, which he said was severe, and wrote me a referral to go see an "excellent" dermatologist that I will have to only pay two dollars to go see! Go Strand health insurance! The word severe sort of made me sad just because sometimes I like to think that it is not horrible, but oh my god, it so is. This week it has been driving me crazy. I am literally uncomfortable when I have to interact with people, insecure of my acne, of my dry skin. I am so excited to go see the dermatologist. Not that I am excited that at 22, I still need to go deal with the same problems I was going to see the dermatologist when I was 15. Will it ever end? Am I going to be a senior and still be treated for acne? I then got some blood drawn to get tested for STD's. I weigh 150 and am 6 feet tall. Nice clean numbers.

But yeah, basically, Dr. Engel rocks and it was probably the most pleasant trip to the doctor I have ever had.

mccarren park pool

Think of how creepy that scene is in Pinocchio, right before he is turned into a jackass, and he is in that half-abandoned amusement park. I believe there is also a Simpsons episode that involved a creepy abandoned amusment park. And then of course, there are all those creepy scenes of general ghost towns in countless films. There is something very discomfiting about being in a physical space that used to contain so much energy, used to be filled with so many people as the remaining structures attest to - but now, it is deserted. The people are gone, possibly dead, and to see how lives, populations can shift just as easily as weather patterns, how nothing is really that stable, is a pretty disturbing sight. Another apt analogy to me seems to be the fiction of W.G. Sebald where some continental wanderer finds himself at places of his youth, only to find that they have been completely transformed by the shockwaves of change Europe experienced over the last century.

And while, I had never been to McCarren Park Pool while it was in operation, I know that at one time it was a bustling huge outdoor pool with a capacity of 7000. It was built in 1936 as a WPA project and closed in 1983 for silly reasons, and now it is fenced off in the NE corner of McCarren Park. Last night, I went for a long walk with Peter, and we found ourselves circling the fence peeking in, and eventually ignoring the "No Trespassing" and "Do Not Enter" signs and hopping the fence. The fence was high and I did not land so good, and once on the inside of the fence, it felt like we were in a haunted house. Slowly and quietly we walked around the site, walking inside the pool, knowing that at one time, it was filled with not only water but crowds and crowds of people in outdated bathing suits probably saying lots of outdated slang. You know, the type of people you see in black and white photos of Coney Island or Muscle Beach. And now there was graffiti all over the pool, weeds sprouting up, random clothes and blankets of people who have probably made this their home, and we were wary of encountering one of these people, worried that someone would kill us in this dark, spooky place.

We slowly, looking carefully around corners and behind us to make us there were no killers lurking in the dark, slowly climbed up the tower that stands over the entrance. At the top of the tower, there is a gorgeous view of Williamsburg and the Manhattan skyline, and also a view of how huge this pool is, how many bodies were probably splashing around down there. There were two stray shoes up in the tower that freaked me out, thinking that some serial killer had killed or tried to kill someone here and they lost a shoe in the scuffle. You know, the type of thinking that you do in the dark, in the woods, maybe even on lonely streets, but the exaggerated type of thinking that makes little kids so cool. We climbed down the tower and walked past the huge circular entrance underneath the tower where there is still a ticket-booth in the middle, albeit aged a lot by time and petty vandalism. And there was a flash where I was able to envision the crowds streaming through there, and then the shocking contrast with what I was also seeing, the current state of the place, wondering how change happens, or more correctly since I did not know how to formulate the question or what I would even want to ask, I was simply astounded by how much things change, all the time. The place is a total ghost town and it is so weird because it is in the middle of a really nice well-kept park in a nice neighborhood.

We hopped back over the fence. This time, I fell even harder. My hands still hurt today. I lost a button on my jacket. But man, the sights that I witnessed were so worth it, so beautiful, and man, I live for these experiences of beauty and adrenaline. I seek out things that somehow combine the two. Booze, loud rock, heights, drugs, trespassing, naked boys, ecstatic words, the good things in life.

The sky looks so deceptively nice from in here, from the warm side of the windows, but I have read the weather, know that it is 27 degrees and really do not want to leave the house, but I called in sick yesterday, and there is no way that I can still have any sick days left. I spent a sexless night with Matt last night and it was nice. It was the first time we slept together without having sex, and this was because he had to wake up at seven something, but it still is nice that he wanted to spend the night anyways. That in fact makes me really happy.

I did a writing experiment yesterday that I am happy with, or at least more happy than with previous efforts. I will talk about more about my efforts at some future date when more experimenting has been done and when I do not have to leave for work.

This week promises some fun as it progresses. Niki is going to be staying with me this weekend. Arianna will also be here visiting Dara, as might Ena. It will be a crowded little house. PKDB (!?) will be in town and wants to hang out with me. Friday there is Tracy and the Plastics. That night, there is also the Fiery Furnaces who I had been wanting to see but will probably not end up getting to see now with all these people in town, but maybe. I am also going to the doctor on Friday and am oddly excited about this. Saturday, Dara's band will be making their debut, and then there is Sterling's b-day. And Matt sounded interested in all of these last night when I talked to him, so of course, there is also his company to look forward to. I have not looked so forward to a weekend in so long. I am counting down these days at work, and yeah, let's all sing it together, because we are all in the same boat, doing lame things with our precious time so we can do amazing things with the rest of our time: Everybody's working for the weekend. Yeah, yeah, yeah, and the crowd goes wild, and screams the chorus because it is too fucking true, and to say it in any other way besides a rocking song you can jump around to would be too depressing, would break all of our hearts, and so just keep singing.

Yesterday in the mail, I recieved copies of all my New College course evaluations. I got hold of them so that this time if Hunter says they want to see them, I will be able to produce them, voila. Yesterday, however, I did not look through them. I was too busy. I had to run to work when I saw the huge envelope dropped in the hallway, and then when I returned from work, I had to start drinking with Peter and Joe. We then went out to the Slide to see the Isotoners where the cover was ten dollars and not five as had been advertised. We all wavered in the doorway, reassesing how much we wanted to see the Isotoners now that the price was going to be double what he had wanted to pay. We eventually said fuck it, I think because it was raining, and because we wanted to do something, and then would have had to think of something else to do on a Saturday night in Manhattan (hell, I tell you - going out on weekends is for losers) that would not have been prohibitively expensive. It also probably was because we were drunk off forties and willing to do these things. It is also because we have been wanting to see the Isotoners perform for a long time. Jimmy, the bartender from the Phoenix is in it, as is Clint, the bartender from Nowhere. They, and the other two members are cute short, stocky homos with soft voices.

The three of us were standing around upstairs, waiting for the show to start. Joe went downstairs to pee in the hottest gay bathroom ever. [Sidenote to explain this bathroom: It is a trough that you pee into, about three people can fit up to the trough - and then there is an open set of windows in front of it which look out into a room where there is a naked go-go dancer having his hard-on played with by random bar patrons. A fun thing to look at any time, even more fun when you are peeing.] So Joe ran off to that bathroom to pee. I decided I had to pee also but went to the close bathroom upstairs, leaving Peter by himself for a minute. I came back from the bathroom and Joe is still nowhere to be seen. I did not see Peter either, so I stood by the stage where we had been standing and waited for the Istoners. Eventually, I spied Peter making out with some hot boy in a corner. Going to bars with gay boys is so funny because when you go to a non gay bar, or even a gay bar with non gay males, you tend to usually stick with the people you came with, hang out and talk throughout the night, but man, homos scatter so quickly, talking to any other homo they can, trying to get them to make out with them, and when you are not in the same mood, you will find yourself standing around alone hoping that those boys quit hitting on each other so you can talk to your friend(s). Eventually Peter came back over and joined me. The boy followed him. We all watched the Isotoners sans Joe. They were so good. Their first song, "Subway Love" is about doing it on the L train. Yeah, L train! With silly lines like, "Yeah, I knew you were headed to the L train - I could tell by your hair." And then a chorus of raunchy lyrics sang really nicely. Jimmy has such a nice singing voice. I was really surprised. Throughout the show, I kept secretly telling Peter how hot the boy was and how he should go with him. Peter kept saying No - that he definitely did not want to go home with anyone. The show ended. I talked to Jimmy, got the set list, then saw Peter and the boy he "did not want to go home with" (ha!) making out again. Joe was still nowhere to be found. I scanned through the bar again in search, did not find him, and then left, tired as all hell - and hungry.

Grabbed some food, got to the train, fell asleep waiting for it, fell asleep riding it, and luckily knew when to wake up, woke up, stumbled home and passed out in my bed. This morning I woke up in that bed, saw the envelope from New College next to it and started to read through all my old evaluations, and realized that I was a horrible, horrible student. A few really nice people would ask me, shocked, how I got kicked out of school, telling me or implying that they considered me intelligent. And this was always nice to hear, and always nice to think, Fuck New College, they are just stupid. But honestly, I was a horrible student and I am surprised I did not get kicked out earlier. Every evaluation has all these slight stinging remarks, some of them not so slight. "The report was a disaster." And that is just the one I remember enough to quote. So many of these. I like to think that I have matured a lot since those early years at NC, that I am more intelligent now, would not write such horrible things, would take things more seriously. I do believe this, honestly. Right now, I would like nothing better than to be an academic environment. Hopefully, that will occur this fall.

HYPERtext

I just got back home from watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and while it was an enjoyable movie, there is something preventing me from totally embracing this movie - I am not sure what this thing is, but it was also in effect with the other big Kaufman penned films. The questioning of reality and our perceptions of it is done in a way that is not as ham-fisted as say something like The Matrix, but nor is it that disimilar from it. And that is the best way I can describe why these movies don't jive with my way of thinking - their hyper-conscious, almost paranoid concern with various levels of perception is just anaethema to my way of thinking. Call me slow-witted, or just slow - but these movies are akin to hanging out with an uptight, neurotic friend. Small doses, small doses.

I am also becoming increasingly a sap, I do believe. The scenes where Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey cuddle in bed made me mouth, "Ohh" in that Ohh, that's so cute way. And this is because there is a boy in my life right now that I like to cuddle with, a boy that right now I adore. I spent yesterday with him and a decent chunk of early today also, and it was so fun, and so exhausting. I slept until six this evening and I am ready to fall back asleep right now. We went to art galleries in Chelsea last night, saw a purple painting by Kusama that I really liked at Robert Miller. The rest of the show did nothing for me. Gorgeous Warhol prints at Paul Kasmin that seemed happy and in no way cynical. I loved them and they are forcing to me reevalute my thinking about Warhol. And then lots of schlock that I cannot remember, because it was schlock and because I was trashed off of God knows how many plastic cups of white wine. The only thing I remember is Jessica Jackson Hutchins at Derek Eller. I remember adoring the paintings. This, however, may have been because of the booze.

Then free doughnuts at Krispy Kreme, open bar at Plaid, four weak cocktails down my throat, dancing wildly and ecstatically with Matt to pop music, catching the last train to Brooklyn before the L shut down, playing with Matt's hands, which I love, the whole train ride home. Him buying coke, yes, more booze at Metropolitan. Talking to random people, downing five beers. Count those drinks, they add up to way too many. Doing lines in the bathroom with Matt, making out with him in the stall, confessing various things. Him, telling me that he is obsessed with me, and I was so happy - I have now let down my guard completely and am infatuated also without restraint. I made out with two old men. And then when the bar closed, Matt and I walked to my house in the snow, and it looked pretty for a change. I made out with Matt in the falling snow outside my door. The snow looked even prettier then. And yes, then we went to my bed and kissed and kept our bodies close together all night long. He overslept, and missed the train he was supposed to take home. He eventually got up. I tried to prevent him, tried to keep in my bed forever. Now he is in Pennsylvannia for the weekend, and I am so happy these days.

Today, I found out that I overdrew my checking account with a five dollar check to New College that I had forgot about. I am now negative thirty three dollars until I deposit my paycheck. I have still yet to recieve my W-2s from the Best Western after calling them numerous times. I could probably list many more things that should have me fretting and pulling on my hair, but again, there is a boy I really like who told me he was obsessed with me, he has a lovely curve to his back, and really, I am so happy.

How many times have you seen the following sentence appear in this diary?
Open bars are so bad news.

The answer is a damn lot. And more of these nagging questions about the meaning of life:
When you have no food in your stomach and four drinks in about the span of twenty minutes, just how trashed will you be? And will those trashed effects be immediate so that you stop drinking then, or will they be a little delayed, and will you consume yet more free booze?

Yes, all very important questions. Dara and I got to Phoenix at about nine to maximize the free boozing. Matt, Kevin, and Mark were already there, also knowing how to maximize the free boozing time. And more questions:

Will any of us actually appear in the back pages of that trashy fag rag, HX? Or was all that trying not to blink for about ten photos all for nothing? Will any of us have any shame about appearing in said magazine?

The night is definitly filled more with questions than with answers when I look back on it on this hungover day. Towards the end of the open bar, the female bartender in a packed bar full of trashed people took my drink away from me and came back to give me a bottle of water. I was a little annoyed about that then, but now I appreciate the caring of the gesture, especially since that is the last event of the night that I can clearly remember. I don't remember riding the subway, walking to it, or anything. I just then remember being back in my neighborhood and walking to Metropolitian for some reason with Matt. I honestly have no clue why we went there. To pee? Then I remember falling with Matt, landing on a door, falling through the door, and looking up to see the sky and snow and some alley.

Then Boys Night Out (Kevin, Matt, Mark, and I) trekked to R Bar where you get free drinks for undressing, and please, this should not even be posed as a question, but did I have any compuction about undressing for free booze when I was this drunk? Do I ever have hesitation about removing clothing? And yes, did I really need to drink more? All very pertinent questions. And wait, I am remembering cake now. There was cake for some reason, and I ate a lot of it. Chocolate cake. Why the hell was there cake? There was also some food, a buffet setup in the back that I remember eating from also. I talked to so many random people. About what? Good question. Did I or did I not make out with some cute boy at the front of the bar? I really don't remember. I remember apologizing to some man that Matt was being a dickhead to. I remember the bartender addressing me by my name throughout the night - and I thought it was weird that he remembered what it was.

Then finally walking home to Matt and Kevin's. Talking to Matt about anal sex pretty much the whole way home. Vague memories of trying to get Kevin to make out with me when I went to pee. Him, thankfully, saying no. Why am I so out of control while drunk? And then there was the cause of noticable pain I have been having in my asshole today. Why did I want to try to have anal sex while that drunk? Why did Matt? In what furnace was my brain? There was a condom involved. That's good. No lube though. That's not good. I have never had anal sex, and I think I still might be able to make that claim today, because there was not really that much penetration since my sphincter said no, that this does not fit in here. But that did not prevent fumbling around, mashing ass against dick. And yes, in what furnace was my brain? Why it so fascinating to watch your dick get sucked? What type of fascination is it?

And I slept for a few hours before I was woke up by his heater which is right under his bed, and blew hot gross air all over me so that I could not sleep. I woke up, got dressed, and saw pretty big cuts on Matt's forehead. I do remember him bleeding when we were running around Brooklyn. How did that happen? I asked him this morning. More questions without answers. He didn't know. I kissed him goodbye and came home and slept for a couple hours so that I could go into work today semi-functional. But just how functional will I be? And when will the pain of last night fully hit me? Will my ass hurt all day? Oh, life and its mysteries.

I woke up this morning, rolled over on my stomach, bleary-eyed to look out my window and see the day, to greet the world, and honestly thought This cannot be happening, this cannot be for real. But the grogginess quickly were off and I realized that yes, it - this - is for real. It was snowing and hard. That was at ten this morning. It is nearing six o'clock and it is still snowing. Yesterday, I ate my lunch outside in the temperate weather, wearing only a blazer, and thought about how happy I was that spring was here - that I could finally kiss winter good-bye and could start to live joyfully outdoors. This is some bullshit and I should not be the least bit surprised. But I still am. I went to the bank today, cursing the snow blowing on my face the whole way there. I don't know what has happened to either of my winter caps. I had three pairs of gloves. I was able to find one single glove. Fuck this shit. I called in sick to work today. This must have been the last sick day available to me. Hopefully, I will not actually really get sick anytime this year and need those sick days.

I still have not recieved my tax information from Best Western after calling them way too many times. I have spent my day, thinking of songs I want to hear and downloading them. The first two from here, the rest from SoulSeek.

Jaymay - Hammock
Jaymay - Letter
Cee-Lo - All Day Love Affair
Beyonce - Me, Myself, and I
Gravy Train - Hella Nervous
Lionel Richie - Easy (like Sunday Morning)
The Supremes - You Can't Hurry Love
Beach Boys - Good Vibrations
Beach Boys - God Only Knows
Kelis - Milkshake
Monkees - Daydream Believer

And god, if I have not listened to that Cee-Lo song a million times already. It's such pretty r and b. I am trying to ignore the snow the second best way I know how. Tonight, I am going to ignore it the best way I know how: by getting shit-faced drunk with Matt and Kevin in what they are referring to as Boys Night Out. Open bar at Phoenix for two hours and free drinks for undressing at R Bar are on the agenda, and I am trying to add bears night at Nowhere to the agenda also. Turn up that music and fuck this shit.

Lying pressed against each other with the semen still wet on our bodies, Matt said I reminded him of his mother. It seemed like an odd comment to make, and an even odder time to make it, but he then elaborated saying that his mom got worked up about things too. I "got worked up" about how ET (yes, Entertainment Tonight - shh!) discussed the Kobe rape case, which led to me getting worked up about Bonnie Fuller and last week's Globe cover with a photograph of the accuser dancing with a boy at a club as evidence of her sluttiness, or something so similarly horrible that it makes you want to hop on top of a counter, start ripping tabloids to shreds in a crazed supermarket frenzy, and leading an insurrection.

Matt, Kevin, and I drank forties and watched scary ten year old girls from Star Search belt out tunes that seemed really age-inappropriate. These songs about love expressing a world-weariness were sang with such conviction and earnestness that it made me sad to realize how easy it is to fake such a thing - how even when old people sing these songs, they, like these little girls, could be faking it, and not expressing a sincere feeling. We then watched Harry Potter with an alternate soundtrack that Kevin brought home from the NYUFF. And then silly music videos and yes, ET.

Matt's comments that I am good-hearted and concerned with righting wrongs is a comment I occasionally get that sort of forces me to step back and examine my behaviour. I was doing so this morning and wondering why I have this sense of social justice and experience moral outrage when it is not met, and it is totally derived from my time in church. Perhaps this is why I remind Matt of his mother. I am not sure. The comment was funny though. And I followed it with another non sequitur and told him I wanted to have anal sex with him. Then there was his huff of surprised laughter that I adore, and that seems to happen a lot in our conversations. He will say while laughing: No, no, Yeah, totally. Or something like that with a grin and shaking his head, and I love it. I do.

Can someone please tell me what is wrong with me? I was reading through my blue book, which is filled with nothing but laments about boys, and general gripes about being lonely and friendless in Madison, Sarasota, and New York. I only write in that thing when I am depressed so much so that I am not even in front of a computer, that I am in my bed writing, sad, shut off from everyone and wanting to cry. And this morning, I scratched at this never-healing scab on my ankle until it bled. I scrubbed at the dryness on my face until it was red and also bled a little. I do these things and I don't know why. You know when you were a kid, and you would purposely break things that meant a lot to you when you were upset. There was this tricerotops model that my mom and I had spent forever assembling, and one day in a lonely, self-hating rage in elementary school, I remember breaking the thing to pieces in my room and crying. It is one of my few childhood memories that I can remember distinctly, and it still makes me sad - the hatred with myself I felt then, and the later manifestions of it.

Yesterday, Matt called and asked if I wanted to hang out when I got off work. I told him that if I did, I would call him, and if I didn't, I wouldn't. I did not call him. Today, I did. He called me back and invited me to come over and eat at his house. I said no, and said I was going to read. Going to read? What the hell is wrong with me? He sounded confused and said that he did not know what he was going to do now that I wasn't going to hang out, that he was going to have think of new plans for his evening. I was at work for less than three hours today before I left. I am not sure what is going on with me these days. I have drunk way too much coffee. I am so anxious. The weather sucks. I want the sun and the warmth. Please, someone help me. I am learning how to live. I am picking up the phone and calling him back. (Fingers crossed).

Last night, I was a little annoyed with Matt and I kept telling myself to imagine that I was in "Fireflies on the Water," urging myself to think back to how I felt in that room earlier at the Biennial.

I was supposed to go with Matt and his roommates to parties last evening, however, I did not leave the train that left their house because I was uptown at the Whitney and then somewhere in Lower East Side eating a burrito. When I got home around ten thirty, I called him to see where he was, and he was at a Williamsburg gallery, it was lame though, and they were going to leave to go to the party, and would call me once they got there. Okay, I said, expecting a quick call back. Around midnight, after my energy had peaked and crashed, spending an hour or so at home pretty bored, playing online, I got a call telling me they were just leaving the gallery he was at when I called earlier. I was pretty annoyed since I had wanted to check out some of the Williamsburg galleries, but also really tired from waiting around forever for him to call, and so I said I was going to bed and went to bed, thinking back to Yayoi Kusama and the amazing experience(s) I had earlier in the evening, remembering that that feeling was once in a lifetime, something rare and precious, and this day (yesterday) was special because of it.

There was a ten minute line streaming through the third floor, waiting to go inside this room because only one person is allowed in at a time, and I joined the line, giddy, wondering what exactly it was that I was waiting for. Once I got closer to the door, I got peeks into the space whenever anyone entered or left, and saw the brightness, and would see the shockingly joyful expressions on just about everyone's faces as they exited the room. Finally, it was my turn, and I cannot even begin to tell you what sensations, what joys I experienced when the guard closed the door behind me, and I was in this tiny room on a platform, surrounded by reflective water, by mirrors on all sides, and little colorful lights hung from the ceiling. I looked out and around and saw no end, just an infinity of lights and myself. It was so fucking amazing, and my joy was totally unrestrained because I was free from any feeling of how I should properly respond to the art because I was in this room totally alone, no one could see me, it was just me and this universe of magical lights and mirrors. It was a wonderfully liberating feeling, to escape the crowded museum and be here alone - I think that made the experience that much more joyful, that much more wonderful. It was probably only fifteen or so seconds that I was in there before the guard opened up the door and it was the next person's turn to enter the room of pleasure.

I left with an outrageous smile on my face, wandered around to check out some more art before being compelled, like a kid just getting off the rollercoaster, to run around and get in line again. The second time was just as amazing. Think of all those mirrored, Christmas-light adorned restaurants on Indian Row, remove all the people, make it somehow more magical - and that is the closest approximation I can think of to describe this piece. It is my fantasy of infinite space: joy, lights bouncing till the end of your sightline. This is totally the tourist piece also. I kept walking past families, couples asking each other where "the glitter room" was, and I squealed with delight knowing that if they found it, they would experience joy and wonder and would leave this museum so much the happier. Mr. Costanza would chant "Serenity Now" to remind himself that he could occupy a happy space. Last night, I was chanting "Yayoi Kusama" for similar reasons, to remind myself of the expansive joy that is latent in me, that was brought to the surface by this work.

The show was totally overwhelming with so much good, amazing stuff scattered throughout the place. I am going to have to go back and try to absorb more of it, spend more time with some of the stuff, I will be going back anyways to watch the Tracy and the Plastics performance, which is appearantly part of a three-show trilogy. The other works that I loved were the other immersive rooms, the one by Assume Vivid Astro Focus, and the one by Virgil Marti.

God, so much. Ernesto Caivano's drawings are so gorgeous and good, and yes: full of joy. Tom Burr's "Blackout Bar" is also one of my favorite pieces in the show - it evokes so much for me. It is: not full of joy. But good, great even! Quickly everyone else I loved and who I want to spend more time with, learning about: Laura Owens, Sue de Beer, Christian Holstad, Barnaby Furnas and Mark Handforth. The website is great, btw, and it has so much info. I discovered this while waiting around for Matt to call back last night. There is so much in this show! I did not even get to check out even half of the videos being shown. So much! It makes me so full of joy to see all these different works, all so distinct - all these different voices, people creating things, sharing them with you and I, and it is an invitation to do the same, to show us that amazing things are possible, we just must do them. Yayoi Kusama, Yayoi Kusama, Yayoi Kusama...

The talk last night on John Waters was pretty good, although it was disappointing that AM Homes left about fifteen minutes into the talk to rush off to teach a class since she was the reason I went to the event. The moderator asked her if it was hard to sustain being a provocateur, which was a nice question in light of both Homes' and Waters' work. She responded by saying that she did not set out to be provocative, that when she wrote something that was not, is not, her intention. She then talked about how humanist Waters' work is, especially when set next to Warhol's, who she saw with a similar set of concerns in his work. It was pretty shocking to see Homes in the flesh. I envisioned someone else entirelly. She looked like one of my high school English teachers, nice, non-threatening, and slightly portly.

Jim Hoberman, however, being the film critic that he is, was able to provide the most insightful comments of the evening, referring to Waters as a prophet who was doing stuff thirty years ago that predicted the current cultural climate and its fascination with celebrity, sensastionalism, and depravity. Making a comment about how the Farrelley brothers were still running around in diapers while Waters was making his early stuff. Then he expanded upon the earlier discussion of how difficult it is to sustain being a provocateur, and that Waters' later stuff isn't as good as his early stuff.

After the talk, I said good-bye to Peter and met up with Matt for dinner at Dojo, where I had a nice cheeseburger in pita bread and talked with Matt about dating and interior decorating shows amongst other things. It was nice to sit across from him and have an excuse to look at his face for a long period of time, resting my head against the wall, listening to him talk, and there was no rush to do anything, no rush to get up and leave. And I have not sat leisurely in a non-bar setting in a long time with someone else, and man, it is a really nice feeling. Then he went to go do some work and I went home and then eventually went out to Metropolitian with Joe. Was there for a couple hours and then Matt met me there, a couple more beers in my system, and then we walked to my house so I could take out my contacts and someone, some male, made some patronizing comment that we ignored. I took out my contacts and we walked the couple blocks to his house, where some other male whistled at us because we are homos going home together or something stupid. And then we were in his bed, exchanging handjobs, blowjobs, and kisses before cumming and collapsing into his sheets where I slept until early this morning.

Today, I deposited my paycheck, drank coffee, went grocery shopping, and am now going to check out the Whitney Biennial.

I am always so embarrassed after I write stuff like the previous entry. For some reason, I am a lot more comfortable sharing my happy moments than my unhappy ones, and so here is some of the glow:

I am looking forward to tonight. Shortly, I will be leaving my apartment to go hear AM Homes and J. Hoberman talk about John Waters. Peter may go with me. Matt may go with me. Chances are very good though that neither will end up going. Matt, being the art socialite that he is, is probably going to some NYUFF parties later this evening that I have not been invited to. I want Matt to say, Hey, you should come. I don't want to invite myself, but secretly, I would really like to go. I feel like such a bored housewife, and I am so ready to cut loose on this my day off. I just have to get out of the house and rage. Yesterday, I spent all day in bed preventing a cold from forming and now I have to make up for lost time. I am so ready to drink and dance. Yes, maybe we talked about this habit yesterday. Maybe we should keep that secret.

Today, I dug through Dara's CDs and found Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation and have been dancing around the house to it all day. It is good. I am the princess in the tower, dancing away, all day, dreaming of putting on my shoes and going out into this world below, dancing, dancing, dancing, escaping for a while this loneliness, this ennui. Everything is all right while the music's loud and my body's in motion. Hopefully, hopefully, that will happen tonight.

I am so ready for a change, I cannot even tell you. I really feel like I am stuck in a rut - that there are skills I can offer, things I should be doing that I am not doing. The mindlessness of my job is really starting to get to me. It has been for a while, pretty much since I started working there some ten months ago, and all of you have heard me complain about it way too often, and you are saying what I need someone to say to me, people to say to me everday: Well what the fuck are you doing to change your situation then, you fucking whiny baby? Get off your lazy ass and do something about it besides getting trashed and dancing! That's so easy! Come on, jackass!

Something like that. I have been discontent with my situation for too long, and it has been starting to come to a head where I dread waking up because I know I will have to go spend eight hours in that same place I do everyday, doing nothing. Not today, not ever. Please. For this reason, I called in sick today. Granted, I did have a sore throat, but I was more than capable of going into work today, but God, if it did not seem like willingly stepping up to the executioner this morning. There has been Matt to distract me these past couple weeks, which I have been more than grateful for. But now, the mediocrity I am here is again becoming appearant. And the worst part of it all is that I am not sure at all what I would like to be doing. I think time spent with Matt and his roommates are adding to my discontent. Everyone there is an art student and does stuff with their time, can point to tangible results of how they spent their time. Last night, I went to Matt's studio, saw his stuff, heard about his day, and he asked about mine, about what happened. And without any touch of drama because it is the painful truth, I said, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." And the contrast between our two days made me really sad. I really don't know what to do. Hopefully, I will get into Hunter in the fall, but what until then, and what after then? What the hell do I want to do with myself here in this town, or if not here, where?

Right now, I am going to take a bath and listen to Tom Petty sing songs that sound too sad right now.

I had a few fairly important things I wanted to get done this morning. I woke up not too long ago. I am heading off to work. They are not going to get done. Ask me if I give a fuck. It is a cold, dreary day - a day that could probably possess the depressing effects that a dreary, cold day appearing after a spat of nice temperate ones normally has the effect of. But it is not going to. And don't ask me why. Surely, there must be other reasons besides the fact that there is a boy I am going to call this evening. However, I don't think I could tell you about them. And let's just pretend that the reason I can't is because I have to rush off to work right now and don't have time to elaborate.

It is no secret. Many of you know this from personal experience with me. But I have no self-control when I am drunk, and tend to get a little boy crazy. So yeah, last night, I went to galleries with Christy, Matt, and Kevin, and please don't ask me about the art - I couldn't even begin to tell you about anything I saw. I don't really recall seeing anything besides a surreal country duo playing in a cheesy gallery full of vaginal art. It felt like a weird parallel universe I had stepped into, and I ran from there pretty quickly. Then there was a series of what I thought were cool distorted images of vixens. That gallery was serving orange martinis. I had a couple and was done for the night with the art.

There were more galleries, more booze, and then Krispy Kreme where I got free doughnuts by asking for them, flirted out of control with Kevin whenever Matt was away, and then yanked a bunch of doughnuts off a tray with Kevin, and then for some reason loittered in front of the crime scene with the goods. A few minutes later some grumpy manager came out, following the pointing finger of some employee, saying "It was them." He yelled at us about the doughnuts, asking what happened, that those cost money for him, and Kevin with a bag of doughnuts in his hand said blankly, "It was our friend Jimmy." For some reason, this satisfied this guy and he gruffed about how we need to tell Jimmy that if he comes around again, he'll kick his ass and have him arrested.

Then riding to Kevin and Matt's with some people collected from the galleries, more booze and everyone talking in Kevin's room. More indiscrete flirting with Kevin. And eventually most people left and Kevin kicked Matt and I out of his bed. The two of us played with each others cocks, with each others sensitive skin, and afterwards lying next to him in silence, Matt said, "Charlie?" I said, "Yeah?" and waited tensely for what the question would be, thinking that it would be some comment or question about the sex just engaged in, or future sex to be engaged in, but instead, "What's going on with you and Kevin?" I was taken by surprise because it was not the question I was expecting, but also because I did not think Matt was around when Kevin and I exchanged gropes. So I choked on words for a while before saying, "Nothing, um, I have been hitting on him all night though, which makes me a horrible person." And Matt said that he was not jealous, that it was okay if I wanted to make out with Kevin, and he sort of grudgingly encouraged me to do so if I wanted. But I am not sure it is okay since they are roommates and best friends, and I think it bothers Matt a little. So, I am going to try to exercise a little more self-control in the future with regards to Kevin, not towards other things. The less self-control the better.

It is a cloudy day, rather lovely, and its loveliness is being paired with the equal loveliness of coffee and Morrissey. Perfect weather for curling up on my couch and thinking about the gap between how I am living my life and how I would like to, and thinking of ways to collapse that space, and then realizing that, in fact, right now, aside from a few minor things, the space between how I am and how I would like to live my life is very thin, very thin indeed. And this is great news. Of course, I would like to be writing instead of thinking about how I should, how one day, I will get around to penning stories to show you. Of course, I would also like to have a job that involved less time and more money. And of course, I would finally like to get ahead of the bill curve instead of constantly tightening my belt and worrying about finances. Those are problems everyone, most everyone has. And they are nothing. They are moot because they are problems that will always exist, no matter where I am working or how much I am making. It will always be One day... and If only if... And citing them as problems, citing financial poverty is a sad, sad way to try to justify spiritual / mental / artistic poverty. There need be no correlation. So the only real problem is wishing I lived a more creative, exuberant life. And that is something that is going to be remedied starting right now. Today.

I encounter art a lot, pretty much every waking hour and sometimes these are really meaningful encounters. I read constantly, spend forty hours a week surrounded by the thoughts and utterances, the gorgeous turns of phrases of innumerable living and dead comrades, and I spend my days off going gallery hopping, my nights listening to music - and yes, I am a very diligent consumer of artistic products, but for what purpose? What is being achieved by this? The right things? Any thing? Yes, things are, but is it leading somewhere, what is it going to culminate in? And so, today, for this reason, I quit my "internship" at Lamda Legal, knowing that I do need time to myself. That there must be some reflection to absorb the week's offerings, some time to think things, and even produce tangible products from this thought. Yes, so the resolution is that my days off will focus on a "self-improvement activity" (do with that phrase what you will). The main goal is to write non-diary entries on my days off, to see how that goes, if anything comes of it. But, these days could also include learning either Greek or Spanish or the guitar. Reading narratives will no longer consume my days off. Maybe occasionally it will, but I will no longer spend my days off plowing through a good book. I do that all week long.

I am going to make my ideal life and my lived life congruent. There is no reason not to, and nothing but my own lethargy preventing me from doing so. But again, today, I realized that the incongruencies are tiny, that all I need to do is channel my exuberance. I already have the exuberance because I am trying to live as honestly as possible. I am becoming better at talking to strangers, which is the result of letting down my guard more and opening myself up to emotional experiences, and disclosing my true feelings of joy and of sadness when they occur. And that is what I mean by a life of honesty, about going with your feelings, not letting those howls be restrained be decorum. I am reading Whitman again lately, if you can't tell. That probably has a lot to do with my recent joy, as does the temperate weather of the last week, as does the fact that I have been sharing a boy's twin-sized bed for a week or so now, a boy whom I like.

Last night, on my way to his house, I stopped at La Bonita bakery and bought a coconut doughnut for fifty cents. I started to eat it on my way there, only to drop it after my first bite. Two fat guys pointed and laughed way too hard, splitting a gut, exclaiming, "Ha-Ha, He dropped it, Did you see that, Eat it." And I picked it up, smiled, took another bite and continued on my way until I walked past a car covered in eggplants. And the sight was too surreal, probably made all the more so by my intoxication. I gathered an armful, went to the bodega, bought beer, got laughed at by all the guys hanging out in the store about the eggplants, and then finally made it to the saftey of Matt's, where we hung out in Kevin's room, looking at Kevin's high school yearbooks, listening to music, talking. And the three of us sat on Kevin's bed, talking about something or other, and I was so happy to be there, on a comfortable mattress, with two intelligent cute peers of mine, laughing and talking about nothing into the early hours. Those are the moments I live for. Just talking and being in close physical proximity to my fellow humans, being alive and comfortable with that. I could want nothing more in the world. Eventually Matt and I left Kevin's bed and collasped in his own, throwing off clothes with pefect ease as if the act were nothing, just making ourselves more at ease with each other, feeling the warmth of his skin, smelling his particular odor of sweat, cum, and mold, and doing things, being in close enough contact throughout the night, so that when I came home this morning, I could still smell it, him on my skin. I stunk and I loved the smell. I breathed deep, but never deep enough to understand the appeal of this smell or what exactly its components were, but instead it was always just on the tip of my tongue what it was about this smell, what it recalled. It was always almost coming to the surface but whenever I tried to think about that flash of recognition, it faded back to the recesses of my mind, to the recesses of some past experience, some past person or odor that this one evokes.

Have I told you that I missed you, that you are that thought being evoked by the odor of sex? All of you, those moments of closeness and of awkwardness. I miss it and experience some form of reunion with you by the sniffing of this scent. I am happy with it and hope for your happiness, would like to somehow add to it, be involved in it.

black beans, cilantro, onions, corn, yum

Last night was spent with Matt and his roommates, Kevin and Sasha, drinking forties and giving each other haircuts in his enormous bathroom which is probably about four times the size of my bedroom. Then listening to Spacehog because Matt seems to have a soft spot for the alt rock of that era, I made out with him, did other things, felt the press of his flesh to mine, and eventually fell asleep for a few hours in his bed, in his arms, happy as I may get in this world.

I woke up early this morning around eight with the sun glaring through his window, and the sound of birds, people, and traffic starting to go about their day. I kissed him goodbye and started to go about mine also. I have cast a vote for Denis Kucinich, applied to Hunter, paid some bills, bought some fruit and ate it. And now what will this day bring forth?