Erik (eriktrips) wrote,

how it is that I can spend hours sitting in one place

if lisagail were here she would never put up with the way I am not doing anything all day although I am doing something but it wouldn't be any fun for her to sit and watch.

which is one reason why I must get this not doing anything fun out of my system before she and K return from Paris. in a minute I am off to the Stumbling Monk for revelry but first here is what I've been doing.


it began perhaps in the back seat of a car but not what you are thinking rather earlier than that but later also or rather that what you are thinking never happened to me in the back seat of a car. none of that for me especially given that I never would have been able to figure out if I was to be the humper or the humpee.

but if it began here that is not to say that any particular thing began here or it is not to say that there was anything like logic to its beginning or even accuracy in the locating of this beginning. really I expect that nothing began here or that beginning is really too much to say about it or that beginning is a convenience and that is all. however it happened the only thing I can say about it is that it observes punctuality still and that its punctuality acts as a kind of dispersal of notions of originality and I realize I could be clearer but the whole world pretty much opposes me on this point which is to say it would be too easy simply to observe that certain things happen again and again to the extent that no single one of them can be discerned as having started the whole series.

here though it is night and the lights are out and silhouettes that do not reveal themselves pass by without saying anything except that what they do say is something like being just about to say anything at all which is that point you most want to inhabit but cannot as it is not anything yet or not anything habitable but only momentary in the way that moments reverberate like this one time looking out the window or another time.

it could be said and all it would take is the saying of it that daytime and the diurnal shelter under thin air whereas air is no cover at night. not that anyone is looking. rather that we look. jupiter. there it is but there is no getting there. like thousands if not millions I have looked. but this one time but no this so many times there is no counting of them jupiter goes by or rather stays still while everything else goes by and only after dark while being whisked along do you notice how far you can see or rather how far something can reach and still be able to strike you. how arduous the journey and yet they arrive unscathed or at least capable yet of making an impression.

it may be that there is a budding racial memory in the countless instances which surely have occured over the last century of falling asleep in the back seat. that smooth ride which supposedly we seek with all our automotive technology would in fact be anathema to falling asleep in the back seat because only a constantly shifting acceleration signifies the comfort of motion. I would count the corners on the way home in spite of myself because I did not want to anticipate the end but could not help it. this has become a compound problem for me in that anticipating the end is one thing that I do obsessively and fearfully and I suspect that when it is time to die I will look back and say yep. I've always been here and isn't this exactly what it all boils down to and haven't I been saying so all along.

for now though sweetly moving and unsteadily through endless passages of shadow and nighttime lights. the world is finite but you can go around it forever. or even back and forth. either way the same thing but different each time.

mom used to buy me blue socks. not that this is terribly unusual but she kept doing it some time after I started wearing nothing but black as though to try to tempt me back into blue. I wear blue regularly now but most of my socks are a neutral grey and I sit in the front seat now but for so long so many of us find our homes in the back. what this has to do with hosiery is pretty much just that hosiery and suffering were equivalent notions in the summer in the back seat of a black-upholstered and unairconditioned car. the way the heat would slam into you when you opened the door after church in July and the way your stockings would stick and especially the way they were not made for long-legged young women so they would stick somewhere between your crotch and your knees.

I didn't sweat so much then as I do now but I did suffer nonetheless. the mystery of pantyhose will always be a mystery to me because when I wore it I had no idea why I had to wear it and I still don't understand its allure especially in black-upholstered and unairconditioned cars where anything completely covering your skin is a torture and especially when that which covers your skin does not really cover it at all but reveals it there in its exposed vulnerability or even as though vulnerability were what one was expected to put on with one's pantyhose and there I would sit unprotected from heat and light both.

as I said several things were wrong but I think I have turned out all right and that if these things had not been wrong I might not have turned out this way at all although probably I still would have been all right just a different sort. the odd thing is that every time I think I have turned out a particular way I discover that I have not but am being hurried along towards some other way where I likewise will get no rest but then there is shadow and subtle acceleration to keep me company and that is enough I mean it is more than enough even it is sometimes almost too much and this also is what love is for and how it is that it will not be kept anywhere for very long.

and this is why nothing adds up but the accounting trails ahead of itself indiscernable and discerning. even sticky in the back seat in July I knew this but I also knew that it would be years before I would be allowed actually to say it but from the low rumble and the obscure passing in the dark I derived a kind of promise that has kept me alive even when I did not want to live any longer.

oddly the twin specters of homosexuality and transsexuality never spurred any desire to die. I was once told that I could not possibly be gay because to this point I had showed no signs of homosexual panic. what they did not know is that I had been thinking about it for so long that the panic which was entirely interior and entirely muted into an incomprehension of why was I falling in love with my best friends was long past insofar as it was panic at all which it wasn't so much as confusion as to why I did not enjoy being kissed by boys but spent most of my fantasy life hugging my girlfriends and not knowing just why that seemed at once so satisfying and so lacking. there was a time when I thought that spending the night would save me but I didn't know just exactly how it would work.

generally spending the night left me with these fits of passion that were utterly puzzled in their attempts to figure out what they wanted. we would fall asleep next to each other without touching which seemed fine with the other party but drove me to distraction so great that I could not think of anything else for several days after. how I would casually brush her arm in turning over. why I wondered did she not do the same.

these sorts of things are not unique and their poignancy will surely come in for abuse once we have all forgotten what it was like before. think of The Well of Loneliness or is it that we all have our victorian pasts to grapple with so sooner or later we tire of them and tell them they were cowardly for living life the way it had to be lived.

thus it may not matter that on my first visit to the big gay bar in Atlanta I waved my money around at the people hanging out outside because I was so nervous I could not quickly locate the bouncer who was actually collecting the cover at the door. this was not panic either but a squirrelly elation at this public move which became more public when I ran into a high school acquaintance who kissed me on the cheek before leaving the bar.

my coming out was almost unbearably chaste.

I do not remember my second visit to this bar but I am fairly sure there was one. I do not remember any subsequent visits and am not sure whether there were any. after this momentous night I simply took my new identity and went about my business in the music scene. not that I had any business going on there. I dearly wanted to but as has happened to me so many many times I waited in vain for someone to invite me in and show me what to do. it wasn't until years later that I realized I had to invite myself and in fact that realization still has not fully dawned upon me in all the areas I would like to be invited into.

if you are reading this for instance I must have invited myself in so here we are. I can't promise you anything in particular and I'm not prone to generalizations and I suspect that after I write this all out in one way it will only be time to start over and do it some other way but for now we can sit together and see what happens. because what happens now may bear some relation to what happened then but what I mean really is that what happens now only takes what happened then as its occasion so I cannot predict just what will show up or how only that I will continue to take advantage of this occasion for as long as I can and I would suggest that you do the same not because there is any higher morality in it but because in the telling there is at once violence and its amelioration but only if you don't stop or rather if you don't settle down to any particular story but keep it moving along.

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