it's mostly because i'd rather be surfing internet porn, or reading my proust, but unless i'm watching will and grace or simpsons, every television commercial break puts the same thought in my head: "if i turn off the TV right now, i won't have missed a thing". i always turn it off. oh, and unless it's the american president.
another thing happened.
episodic notes on another visit to new orleans
highways glide on by, during and after
going the same places
krazy kajun meat belong
walking the dogs
and edward gorey collage
brooding air sign
nonobjective force video
i have two new tattoos as of 10pm last night, from the same place i got my first one over two years ago. this makes three tattoos on areas with nerve clusters. the pain there is intense, semi-arousing, and fatiguing. of course, that didn't halt a short post-tattoo euphoria brought on by the adrenaline rush, half tylenol with codeine, two beers and feeling cute with a new tight shirt from red, white, and blue fashions (lapalco, louisiana). that and taped bandages on each elbow.
it was somewhat spur of the moment, although the idea of having these symbols sprinkled around my body has been percolating for some time. but i was inspired by jonno's burst of resolve yesterday evening and decided to go right after him.
i'm struck by how right they feel. it was like this when i got the sacred heart: a series of events fell into place, comfortably, and my body feels added to, extended from within. getting them this way, on a trip, deciding within a walk to the parlor, well, it's a form of inspiration, to look at it a different way. as opposed to a commemoration, it's as if i encountered the beginning of the symbols' meaning (a meaning that grows by multiplying as time passes), and that beginning comes into being by getting inked.
today, jonno took me to the first bath-house i've ever been to. it was a little more hard-core than i'm used to; after all, my sexual experiences have been limited to a backroom in a bar or my gym.
the organization of the three-stories-and-roof place fascinated me. first, because it was a labyrinthian complex devoted to a veritable catalogue of sexual pleasure. as my flowers project might show you, i've been interested in how/if sexuality inscribes itself into urban space. more recently, this interest has become something a little more concrete. namely, what are the specific objects and arrangements that people create to allow them certain kinds of sexual activity. because these accoutrements are generally not something you can purchase pre-assembled at home depot, they compose for me of a peculiar kind of sexual building vernacular.
specifically. the shower wall was angled so that you could walk by the shower area and see all six showers in one side-glance. mirrors and glass block connect the shower and hot tub. the steam room and sauna have windows into the sink and shower areas. the sink area is unusually large; space hungry new yorkers will immediately recognize that the room is not efficient for washing hands. stairs everywhere. fire code? some pictures. some friends necking in a poster (i've never seen them kiss in real life: literal sign of defamiliarity). several floors of rooms, dark grotto-like areas, dungeons (in the attic), stunningly landscaped roof terrace that allows a calming view of the sky, little rooms with porn, little rooms with cnn, little areas with benches or platforms. matrix of glory holes. everything is cut and painted plywood. everything, every turn, every moment of the procession allows for some kind of encounter, every episode not forseen but given potential through a careful maximization of equipment and views.
vernaculars, of course, being of interest to me because of their immediacy, their utter lack of beauty, except the beauty of solid use (seeing and mood and the need to make sculpture is sometimes use in my head/hand). the loft i'm working on has a strange bent-glass-walled bathroom that reflects light from around the space, inside and out, strange in shape but actually quite reasonable given the shape of the existing walls. the trip to the bath house, yes, reminded me that my design intentions are very close to this 'pleasure of use', raw sensation and material.
after working out in the weights area, we split up to do our thing. i hot tubbed for a while, showering myself, let myself be seen (a newly discovered turn-on for me), and relaxed on the roof terrace. honestly, i need some kind of visual to get me stimulated in an anonymous-sex setting, and there was none today. so i chilled until my boo-boo was ready to leave, and we left to eat.
finished now with the book on gordon matta-clark, and the thing i keep wanting to write about has expanded in my head, the subject amassing connections, growing in size, side-subjects and sub-side-subjects appearing until it's become hard to sit down and put it down in any meaningful way.
my first note card has me talking more about matta-clark's motivations for the 1976 incident at the institute tor architecture and urban studies. he was invited to participate in an exhibition pompously called "idea as model" which included members of the new york 5: then up-and-coming, or almost-there, architects, many of whom have attained legendary status since. the institute was founded by peter eisenman, also one of the 5. as is well known, matta-clark took a BB gun into the institute, and was given permission to destroy several already-cracked windows so that he could use the casements to install pictures of window blow out, depicting destroyed windows in modernist housing projects in the bronx. the critique of the architectural elite was powerful, but never was executed: matta-clark proceeded to destroy all the windows on the floor of the institute, and allegedly railing against all his former teachers at cornell while doing so. his critique became a simple yet violent act that was subsequently denounced by eisenman at something akin to kristalnacht.
pamela lee is very even-handed about the event, calling it reckless. since reading her leavened account (and very thorough; most of the facts on this event haven't been so clearly defined in other writings), i've had the opportunity to challenge my own valorization of matta-clark's actions. her clarifications make a productive distinction between the metaphorical violence in his building cuttings (as productive act) and this act, the damaging of an exhibition space for architecture. it's clear that the denoument matta-clark unveiled at the institute was influential: as an architect critical of their techniques, it's an attractive thought to think that this one artist resisted what is now a fairly deadened elite of architects who have a great deal of influence in new york, and america's, academia. huge totalizing projects like the getty center or eisenman's west side development are never critiqued for the banal exercises in power-design they are. but examining this 'resistance' has made clear something that's been confirmed ever since i've been in the building world (i.e. post-school): a personal violence that seeks destructive confrontation over building never produces anything on its own. on the contrary, it immediately destroys all the personal relationships that building is contingent on. matta-clark's sociability allowed him entree into the world of constructive destructive of buildings; his dramatic rage at the institute simple caused his presence to be erased.
my second note card has me talking more about how i get the new yorker's form of road rage: sidewalk rage. or at rush hour, subway rage. it also has me delving into the realms of my work relationships, and how i get angry there. sometimes i let my little temper go, something i'd never dare to a short time ago, and i can say that it never really gets me anywhere. constructive combatitiveness, however, is a different story. but i'm talking about rage here, the need to be malicious to productive ends, which is really an illusion. maliciousness is easy to spot, and is the least likely to encourage sympathy.
my third note card, in the form of email-to-myself-from-work, has me talking about how i sometimes am tempted to express anger in my writing, to take a shot at someone, to make specific replies to not-so-flattering comments made in my direction. whenever i'm tempted to so do, i am thankful that my audience has grown to be very large; friends, colleagues, acquaintances through my job, magazine editors, their friends, former dates, tricks, lasers, robotic mechanisms, strangers, stalkers, and my mother all read. with an ever-expanding audience, the difficulty of writing direct inner thoughts increases. this inability has made me realize that i sometimes, somehow believe that a dramatic exchange will fix what is really the problem (my thin skin or lack of patience). it has also helped me uncover that direct thoughts are not the point of writing at all, but that the larger connections are what are ultimately important to me.
case in point, this entry has already been edited (probably not enough).
the fourth note card, a continuation of the third, has more on the subject of what is really the problem, what causes my anger again and again, and more importantly, what on earth makes me think it's okay to take it out on someone. now that i've begun to feel very comfortable with my body, the issues associated with that body have begun to fall away. but they aren't forgotten; on the contrary, i can see them in perspective, with depth perception, in relation to other issues. my shortcomings (talking over others, making catty remarks that are out of context and end up sounding cold and unfunny, harshly taking conversations somewhere as opposed to letting them drift, ignoring what others want to talk about or do. lack of patience, insensitive talking: qualities i find instantly grating in others, and the most unattractive forms of being, yet am always blind to in myself) keep me from being more widely liked (something i too often mis-ascribe to my appearance). again, for a long time i thought i wasn't attractive to others (not in a bar, darling, but on dates), because deep down i didn't feel physically attractive. now that i've nailed that coffin shut, i realize it's the inner rage that must be quelled, not extinguished but artfully mastered, in order for someone else to come close to me.
i am certain that all of this is probably not news to 99% of the people reading this.
this is going to be a weird entry. weird to me, that is.
you see, i'm beginning to lose track of where things begin and end. when i started writing here, something i began a hare under a year ago, no one was reading, except jonno and richard, because i typed the first few entries on jonno's computer, in their living room, during their morning breakfast of cigarettes and coffee. i can't wait to go back down there. delivery boy from the nelly deli, i'm on my way.
merely a few hours after this post, someone i'd only met once, who i didn't immediately recognize, had in his first sentences to me at an opening in the meatpacking district with 'congratulations on your professional registration'. i told him he was 'freakin me out here' but i was really just a little confused. i'm slow on the uptake sometimes, especially when i'm out socializing, and not thinking of how who knows who and from where. it'd be easier if we all had telepathy, coupled with if there was no thing such as artistic authoring of life, so that we can all just know all things about others when we get near them, and just chat about what's really important "what kind of art should we make, fellow robot?".
the blog i was going to post this evening was amusingly interrupted by a check to my email. it was someone who had emailed me a few months ago, with a message subject "everlasting blog stalker", and a body comprised of parts "if i say hi i'll be nervous" (i paraphrase), allowing me the wonderful to say to my friends and potential lays that "i have a stalker who lives in my neighborhood", amused and carefree. a little self-editing always makes good copy, right?
this now-unwritten entry was interrupted, because i'd sat down to write that i'd seen someone who looked a lot like this guy i kept crossing paths with a long time ago on my way to the westerly health food store. i was crossing ninth avenue, where there was a street fair, feeling cute in my black tank and camo pants and my pumes. i passed this someone, complete with cute dog, who was waiting to cross 54th. there was a mild jitter on his part, which i took to mean "i'm a homo and you're cute". i took a few more steps and decided to cancel all plans to buy lip balm and instead peruse the street fair. by which i mean i was going to follow the sexy daddy for a while.
i strolled, checking out the latin teens with their shirts off, the pillow salesmen, the nesting dolls, the italian sausages, the lemonade, all the while being careful not to get too far behind, or ahead. after walking a few blocks, it was apparent that this guy really loved his dog. at some point, he was carrying his dog, kissing it. for me, personally, this is weird. i'm allergic to most pets, so my experience with them is as third-party. but it's very sexy. later, after the gym, i was thinking about this appeal. bobby has a large, drooling, stupid, destructive pup that somehow extends his sexuality. i've got several personal ads bookmarked because they guys have dogs in tow.
at 50th street, which is the mason-dixon line of hell's kitchen for me, i decided it was time to turn and hit the subway, resume my go-to-the-gym plan. the guy was still hot, and now ahead of me, and walking away. the sun was getting hot, and i may have been getting some of it on my pearly-white skin. i thought "shit, what have i got to do today?" and kept walking. somehow, though, i lost him. "hmm." kept walking...he was pretty fast, so he probably was ahead of me. block or two, nothing. i decided to head back to the subway, and passed mr with-dog. another ripple: busted.
doubly so: as the message revealed, he's him.
oh one day
when you're lookin back
you were young and man,
you were sad
when you're young you get sad
when you're young you get sad
and you get high...
troy and i had a goodbye dinner last night. he's going back to italy for a while. tipsy in the lounge/raw bar at marika:
troy: wet bar?
me: raw bar
is there a cold bar?
there's no such thing as a cold bar. we're in a RAW bar.
honey, do you see that huge pile of oysters there next to that guy?
oh. [looks at menu while waitress stands near us] what are all these bays?
honey, the bays are where the oysters are from. [orders]
someone should be writing this down. this is comedy.
troy and i have such inconsistent knowledge. it probably comes from being ohioans. we didn't grow up in urban areas, and we both seem to know what things are, but have no words for them. the tea list was as confusing to him; teas had names like 'buddas finger' and 'yoda', which made troy laugh but required lengthy explanation to get through. he gave the menu to me to decipher. troy can give you every designer, every collection, every accessory, every pattern, every button type, without thinking or blinking. yet he had no idea what port was on the dessert menu. it might just be an aporia of wine knowledge in general: he watered down his californian pinot noir with sparkling water because it was too strong for him. he filled it to the brim, and smiled at me, who began laughing. so trashy. so good.
it seems like we spent the whole dinner talking about sex and tricks and the gym, in addition to familial sickness, what we are doing with our lives, how to hold on to what is important to us, and taking new chances. i looked around at some point; it's exceptional to have a friend, and have this conversation, in a public place, the dinner setting a backdrop to a wonderful conversation, delectable wide swings of subject, riding high on each other's company.
the older leather daddy, the one who always smiles so sweetly at me through his gray mustache, leaned over me on the triceps machine and asked how many more sets i had. i had two more, but offered to let him work through. he motioned to his partner and said that both of them would need it, so he'd wait. after a few seconds of silence, i turned back around and introduced myself. he told me his name, and then his partner's name (young leather daddy, as in colt studios). i told him i see him every time i'm here, we might as well know each other's name. i might as well know a lot of people's names. at work, i'm starting to call all the people i just know, because i can just get us published by doing so. sociability pays. but beyond simple networking, lines i quickly wrote in my previous entry about the contours of my life keeping me from making new good friends festered because of a blessedly buggy blogger server. the rest of my weekend partying with david j and the rest of the troops in turn gave me the momentum to say hi to someone at my usual dance party. i had been checking this one out for an hour or so, and saw him across the room, standing alone, smoking, and i dropped my inhibitions and went over and chatted with him. i instinctively thought how very unacceptable it was to not smile at or talk to a person i liked. (my single, recurring new year's resolution: "smile at the people and things you like"). i went home with him. he turned out to be crazy about me. i need to talk to strangers more.
i seen the big sour apple
i drank some cheap cherry wine
i slept through too many appointments
with would-be friends of mine
the partner came over, and we shook hands too. sets done, i moved on, said bye-bye.
they have a friend with something like the most perfect ass i've ever seen. he's kind of frat-boy-but-now-goes-to-the-spike. by frat boy i mean muscular, but like a baseball player: sturdy and not perfectly cut. he's the one a few months ago that older leather daddy was chatting to not far from me, and i'd been basically staring at cutie's ass in the mirror the whole time, till i see them in the mirror looking directly at me, and overhear leather daddy say 'are you into that?' and cutie look at me and wickedly grin 'yeah'.
sometimes i think i feel like ty cobb
i'm always on the job
i just can't seem to relax
and that's not good
cutie was there today. he was chatting with the couple. i was checking him out every chance i got, musing that he probably likes to be tied, curiously constructing how he likes it best. he looked back at me off and on. we crossed paths at the showers, and he gave me a little front show. everything checks out. our lockers near each other too, and then leather daddy came down, gave me the biggest smile that could fit on his face, and started chatting with the whole corner, five of us. it was very purple and lovely. he included me, and we all kind of ki-kied, but in a way that was so informal that no introductions were to be had. cutie was shy, i think because of me, and daddy kept trying to pull his towel off, giggling like a girl, scolding him for being so shy. "weren't you the one tied to the meat rack a couple of years ago?" i need to muse about people's sexual habits more often. i kind of left during the coversation, which was a little awkard (i'm like that at times), to toss my towels, then came back to pee-pee in the nearby toilets. they didnt see me come back, and i could hear that they were talking about me again. as i left, i looked at cutie, and he gave me an intent look, saying take care.
at times the day is like a small, barely yellow butterfly, hovering over bushes and brick. the motion of its wings makes it impossible to perceive the wings themselves in any single fixed position, something my eyes try to do, but instead gives thousands of instantaneous positions, many repeated and overlapping, leaving the unconscious mind to sift through and find the unique ones. (or maybe i'm the butterfly in the day: my metaphors are never fixed either.) it happens because of the bright light, and the quickness of one's eyes, but like REM sleep, the motion of the butterfly is unpredictable, and it's impossible to distinguish one's intention in looking and the actual motion. at times the day has no meaning because it happened.
at times the night is the same, but with the light inverted, a sea of spots, emitters, glowers, all yellow. i have enormous fun dancing, and lately steve travolta has been turning up wherever i turn up. when i get into it, my hips keep my feet from barely touching the ground, releasing me from gravity and everything heavy. and i need it at night, when things are heavy, when it's clearly revealed to me how few good friends i have left in new york, and how the contours of my life seem to be keeping me from having new good friends. i found out last week that yet another of my best friends is leaving the city before the end of the year. i have to wonder if i'm doing something wrong, that i haven't figured out that seven years is enough and that i'm only supposed to "do new york" and not actually live here. yesterday i asked a friend if i'll ever be happy in new york. his reply was complex, as it is from all of the friends i ask it of. this is good: i have complex friends with subtle replies. but i'm also frustrated by the fact that no one has attempted to answer the intentionally sophism-laden question with an equally simplistic reply, if only to momentarily assuage whatever passing mood i happen to be going through. i wait for an epigram, some patter like "of course. you just need to la la la that la la la." or "no. there's too many la la's and la la la la". the mood that this would address keeps passing, true, and it is small part of my emotional constellation, yes, but keeps coming back, self-discovered, and it moves around, and i can't figure out whether it's the motion or the subject that should be addressed, and i can't stop it.
Pamela M. Lee's book on my favorite artist is an attractive object in and of itself: the white ink on the cover is printed in part on ultrasuede. the ink wears off. the edge of the cover is not wrapped in the fabric, but is exposed chipboard, leaving the paper board to be worn at the spot where the book is opened. the book design brilliantly extends her academic disposition on matta-clark: that the messiness, unpleasantness, and open-endedness of his work should be maintained. although her lapses into jargonism--and by this i mean using academic arguments necessary to her phd but completely antithetical to the artist's method, and consequently an understanding of his work--are more frequent than i would like, she mostly keeps an even hand regarding the facts, without sacrificing her bias toward matta-clark. it's obvious she admires him as much as i, and that that admiration extends to his physical being as well as his work. the facts and stories she's gleaned from interviews and documents are worth the discussions of socialism and any architectural theory that 'applies' to his work.
stories of matta-clark. he has been my favorite artist for a long time, especially ever since i found the IVAM catalogue in avery's bowels. when i did a studio that took a trip to mamou, louisiana with keith sonnier and richard landry, i found out that both of them knew him, and that they call him gordon. i spent a weekend as a nuisance to them, continually asking them stories about him. they were very reticent, the way you are with a stranger about someone you didn't like very much, but are unwilling to reveal to the person you're talking too, so as not to appear malicious, or perhaps not to unduely alter their perception of who that person is. however, there is an interview with both of them in the IVAM book. richard landry took lots of the pictures of his early work. there's a goofy picture of keith and carol gooden with mixing bowls on their heads, with gordon in the middle, in the IVAM book. maybe he was a jerk, or maybe there's something bittersweet about him being gone at such an early age.
one of the people i work for ate at food when he was a child, and matta-clark ate with them. my employer and i chat about this encounter from time to time, probably because i now own two copies of the IVAM book--one in french, one in spanish--and they are on my desk, displayed along with the other stacks of books, images, and magazines i've artfully composed to allow maximum influence on my thinking. books and stories are like totems for me, tiny gods of inspiration. often, with art and architecture books, i simply buy them, completely familiar with the works inside, and just have their presence on my desk. once, a few minutes after leaving a not-friendly discussion i had had with my employer, he came over to my desk to cheer me up, leaned next to me, and told me that gordon had dirty, matted hair, and smelled so bad "you couldn't be this close to him". matta-clark was beautiful and charming, yet completely unkempt, inside and out.
the gallery i work with has a few of his pieces, which they stubbornly refuse to give me in exchange for the work i do with olafur. "you can't even afford the frame". his work is valued, and can be found in the most unexpected places.
yet another person i know told me stories about him cutting up the truck with graffiti, on the street, gas tank full, kids playing nearby. he was reckless.
before i did decks, i corresponded with jonno about doing an online shrine to him.
i'm still making my way through the book, but already i've several entries brewing...
"The body is no longer conceived of as an object of the world, but as our means of communication with it, to the world no longer conceived as a collection of determinate objects, but as the horizon latent in our experience and itself ever-present and anterior to every determining thought." Maurice Merlau-Ponty
He will not stop, he keeps on talking
Just a tie and a suit
He's a lonely persuader
all throughout today's bizarre morning meeting, impressing the trustees of a museum that we're eventually going to expand, i kept looking at my hands, my pants, my feet. even though i get endlessly fatigued being paraded around a large group of the over-50 classic museum set as part of the young and creative architecture office i work in, i must endlessly marvel that when the time comes to shine, no matter that my friday night was ruined by an early bedtime, that i got up and took the train to the office when all the kids and not-so-kids were just going home (like i should have been). i put it together, find the words. i care about what i do, and, no matter how much i need a vacation, i always spring to life when i'm put at the table.
i kept looking at my hands and feet and shirt and shoes and kept trying to attach my new title to it. i'm for real, yo. it's no longer 'i work for an architect' or 'i design architecture' or whatever other hedges you get in the habit of saying so that you aren't penalized by the state board for misrepresenting yourself as a professional: i passed all the tests, jumped through all the hoops, and now i AM a registered professional.
despite that, i kept looking at myself, trying to see how i've changed. i mean, technically, i passed the last of the tests when i took them several weeks ago, so in some computer limbo i have already been there. and yet, the last few weeks i had convinced myself that i actually failed general structures, so i didn't feel anything at all, although i was one without knowing it.
one what? some of my peers have been registered for years and still can't utter a cogent word about design, no matter what cockiness they've attained with the title. i don't feel as if new york state board's record has in any way catapulted me into a new level of being. what i do and care about was begun very long ago, and was of course not on any of my tests. i guess there's a measure of potential that just got activated, but like a new web page, one with the most amazing content ever, but not yet linked anywhere, it's a potential force that hasn't yet been actuated.
so much to write and say, so little desire to do so.
like a road
you're somewhere to GO!
i've a desire to really break out of writing diaristic entries. my correspondance usually suffices, and at any rate, the events usually warrant an exchange, not a post.
i work too much. contrary to popular belief, i don't love it, because i know that i get really focused on my creative activities, to the exclusion of everything else. the weaving of the gym into my schedule, while helping to balance my apportioning of concentration, has also helped me deepen my concentration even further. which means the more i work, the deeper i get. my life is always-forward, one way. it's hard to see what's getting left behind as i speed ahead.
you know it's so passe
to sleep without you every day
so easy to give you stuff
so easy to live it up
as i was heading home, i saw up ahead my buddy bobby walking with another guy, his hand on the guy's ass, the guy's arm around his neck. it was very casual, sexy (bobby is sexy), and saddened me a little. my life is starting to empty out of even casual loves, pickups from the stoop and going to have a drink before heading back, guys i met at this-or-that bar in the east village, guys i meet at the gym. and this is even more troubling to me than the lack of big love, savvy fave, 1,000 little gifts. lack of big love i approach as an act of fate; after all, i feel pretty good about myself, and if it hasn't happened yet, it's just that, well, it could be as simple as that i haven't gotten on the right car on the A train yet. and i'm comfortable saying that the longer i live, the more troubling this belief is to sustain.
but the casual loves are something i've always treasured: as i hinted in my last entry, there's something about the soul of the city's sexiness that i feel a part of when enjoying a casual encounter. yet lately, i've been extremely timid where before i was bold, so to write that i haven't felt like making the effort is a big lie. on the other hand, to be fair with myself, since the fall my sexual life has been limited to people i was emotionally connected to, and to say that i enjoy sex with someone who i can make love to more than a casual encounter is a big discovery. it's a taste of what i really want in my life, it's something to share.
i was cashing in a gift certificate. in the little shower room, there were approximately 25 kinds of scented soap. you move through the pine forest, through the rain forest, through the mojave desert, and into a more centered state of skin smell. oh, and you only have a robe and sandels on. i was the only guy in the lounge. the women were kind of weirded by me in a robe. or perhaps it was my tattoo...i draped the too-big robe so it'd peek a little. okay, a lot. the lounge was filled with books like 'healing with color' and 'the power of stones' and 'the 50 best places to get peace and quiet in nyc' (with this spa bookmarked). as i was leafing through a copy of 'sacred architecture' and sipping on my tap water, this muscle BEAR walks up to me, all tattoo, cap, goatee, leather arm strap, and twice-as-wide-as-me of him. he stuck out his hand, introduced himself, and we went even further into the back of this 'garden level' to the room with the massage table.
he had me undress and lay down while he was out of the room. i started out face down, and put the towel over my crack. mostly. but this guy was professional, and as soon as he hit the first pressure point (which put my eyes in a half-closed spin), there was no more chit-chat. after a while, my back in luscious pain from all the work it was going through, i started to purr a little. i do that when i'm really, really relaxed, not thinking about anything at all. he did some wonderful stuff with pressure points that was at times as meditative in its motion as it was effective in its location. as when i was on my front, head and neck lifted by the back of his furry hands, rotating to massage that area. that one made my dick jump. that and when he had one hand on my calf, the other on my armpit, and slowly, carefully, stretched my whole side out. sigh.
i still feel loose, and i did on the dance floor saturday too. i had that extra half-beat in my hips, and a new quarter-beat there too, if i liked, euphoric. kijak asked if i was on X or something, but it was just that i'd had an emotional state lifted through a physical stretch. it allowed me to be out of my head for a change, something felt a lot these days, but with no way to express. i'd never admit it unless it were really, really true: the physical stiffness was blocking my ability to look like i'm feeling good.
out of my head. having a conversation with a certain someone, who illuminated that there's a magic in being an unknown to the nightlife. i implicitly have grasped this before, but never have brought it to words. in the east village, even with some of my relatively new friends (martin, steve, and the gang), i'm someone most people don't know or know well. but it's a condition dependent on the fact that they could know me; lots of people dancing who recognize me from the gym; the promoter kisses me and gives me drink tickets, but only knows me by face; carl was there and we had another funny exchange; an old acquaintance from columbia who is always at events like this; the guy who was hot-and-cold who now is shade-and-more-shade; etc. after coming out of one of my dancing frenzies, i looked up and there was this cute but slightly dazed couple standing side-by-side a little from me, both smiling that 'you are cute and who are you because we want to meet you' smile...
ps all work in this domain is copyright chad the minx.