Me and Mr. Jones

So I’ve been sleeping in someone else’s bed, and will continue to do so for awhile. In fact, I shower in her bathroom, eat in her kitchen, and relax on her futon. And I call it mine.

It is the best way to live. My own belongings have been pared down to a minimum. And yet I have what I need, all the comforts of home. And the windows…

Tony, on the other hand, thought it might be nice to bring everything he owned (two tuxedos: one traditional black and one powder-blue with ruffles; three bottles of whiskey; and a stolen suitcase filled with headshots and lubricant) and has opened every drawer and cabinet, trying on or tasting everything that was left behind.

Subletting is a way of life. For now, a very good one. We’ll see how it sustains itself. You never know what Tony might do.

After his visit, German just sat and remembered. From the very first hug (and kiss) to the parting words (“Leave a message when you get back home.”) he could not stop his consideration of the boy whom he loved.

This had happened to him when they still lived together. After an intimate evening and its caresses, he drank his coffee and considered their actions from every angle.

It wasn’t clear if all of these memories lingered to compensate for their inability to unite in the ways he dreamed (coming together as one, never parting), or if he simply delighted in the intricacies of their various unions.

Either way it was clear to him that the simple touch of this boy electrified him. And in the moment of embrace there was nothing else. He sipped his drink and closed his eyes, and once again allowed the world to disappear in the arms of last night and all of the others they had spent together.

I just read an article suggesting that gay men react differently to smells than do straight men. For instance, they like to sniff the sweat of another man. Scientists discovered this after an expensive, NIH-funded study. I could have told them for free.

Painters couldn’t mirror the beauty of this afternoon. Or the morning, actually. The trees are on fire, the breeze is humming along, and the streets are so laidback that you might think that they’re stoned. Each footstep flows like well-metered verse. And I can’t stop smiling long enough to pretend to sympathize…

I watched the biopic “Frida” this afternoon. It was not the first time I’d confronted this woman, or her art, but it was the first time I’ve appreciated both. What struck the most was her obsession with self-portraiture, and the distortions located within.

Here was a woman who made a career over the drama the befell her life, or the expression thereof. Or, as they in the movie, her “agonized poetry on canvas.”

Kahlo reminded me of my youthful obsession with Cindy Sherman, who has also made a career of picturing herself. And although her work is much less personal or intimate (in the sense that it isn’t obviously autobiographical), it is still a compelling use of the self as art-object.

Sherman elaborates her own myth by the roles that she plays. Although fictionalized, she still appears to be sharing some personal secret with the world.

So why all the art history? Well, really I just wanted to talk about myself, Tony, and the art of blogging. Because lately I have felt the need to talk about a lot of things that aren’t necessarily obviously fit for public consumption. (And by “lately” I mean “always”.) However, I still want to talk about them. And so I let Tony do the dirty work. And through Tony I can digest my own happenings by playing them up or toning them down and always embellishing the truth. Because it is all well and good to confess that I ridiculously packed up all of my undergarments last night, not realizing that I would need some to wear to my day-to-day activities (ie work), but it is much better if I can tell a story in which Tony went “commando” to his job and has a series of crazy or embarrassing situations that would cause you to laugh and laugh. Unfortunatly I couldn’t come up with anything this afternoon to pretend so instead I will just confess that I opted to recycle some from yesterday.

But even this isn’t really an accurate depiction of anything, because I’m only typing this so I can publish pictures of some artists I admire and then close with one of my own creation.

It is very rewarding to artistically dissect your life, whether it be words or images. Well, at least that’s what Tony says.

When packing up your belogings, it is a good idea to leave yourself a pair of underwear in case you have to go to work.

Every so often it is good to change things up. You know, turn and face the strange. Well, Tony and I are leaving behind this latest palace to see what we can find at the end of the yellow brick road. See you on the other side!

The cyclical nature of my relationship with words. Or is it relationships via words?

First their was the vision, and then the retreat to books. Now there is the letters of love. It comes full circle after I am allowed to have more vision, expression, and actual consummation, but then dissolves into this blog which finds me again using words to find fulfillment and meaning. But for now, my formative years of letters and longing.

I learned note-passing from my girlfriends. It was high-art in middle school, with intricate ink colors and origami-like folding of the pages once they were filled with gossip, emotion, and confession. I received many notes, saved them all, and read them time and time again.

I also read my sister’s notes she kept in her desk. I loved how mature her friends’ writing seemed compared with my own. The boys who wrote to her talked about music, identity, and self-expression. I loved how the page could contain so much, and began to add my own obscure phrases to the notes I passed my friends. And I began to get attention.

The bulk of my readers were girls, because they were also the bulk of my friends. However, I soon become aware of the fact that I could write letters to boys, saying more than I would dare to say in person, and they would read them and even reply. For some reason machismo didn’t exist in the realm of paper and pen.

I fell in love often, and always with boys who liked me but would probably never love me. Mostly because these boys were dating my female friends, or other girls, and didn’t realize how much better I could have been for them. But instead of simply moping in the depths of unrequited love, I pursued them poetically. I appealed to their intellect, and to their ideals. And it worked.

My favorite epistolary romance was with Ray. For weeks we left missives in each other’s lockers, and each was more passionate then the one before. In fact it was almost like a competition to see who could outdo the other’s passionate prose.

We both asserted how strongly the other’s last letter had made us feel, and spent paragraph upon paragraph trying to convey our teenage titillation. And eventually we would have moments in person that we would both write about after, describing each sensation as best we could remember. Cuddling at a friend’s house watching a movie, skipping swim practice and lying on top of one another in the park. That last one was extremely important to me because he wrote that he felt “…as if I was made only to support your weight, to hold you on top of me.” I may forget that afternoon someday, but I will never forget those words.

Although I never had the opportunity to have an open and recipriocal romantic relationship with a boy while growing up, I am still stimulated by the memories of these letters.

V

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI

Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VIII

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.