This image is immediately arresting because of the dense layering of projection planes of which it is composed. There is thewall behind the figure, upon which is an interrupted poster of a woman whose border frames his head. The head of the woman is coincident with his head, a fact which further emphasizes his head, and his unbalanced, uncomfortable stance. The absence of a floor--as well as the slightly skew angle from which the image was taken--gives a floating quality to all the elements in the background. Because of this, it is as if that the detritus in the room is as interesting to him (and as worthy of the dissective clipping) as is the torso and cock he wishes to display.
Another projection plane is that of the wall on which the mirror is hung. The position of the man (facing slightly left) as well as the mirror's orientation divert the attention to the left.
The final projection plane is that of the image itself. This is an invisible plane, a conceptual boundary usually marked only by the ending of pixels on the screen. However, the presence of the man's thumb, larger and suggestively more massive than his body, startlingly announces this plane, and creates a diverting attention to the right of the image, toward a closer piece of flesh. His body is continually brushed by the eye, drawn from left to right, away from a central focus on his torso.
Yet this attention is presumably different than what its author intended: that of his muscular torso, and, given the slight inclination of his head and camera, his copious, covered genitals.
So it is possible to say that a "double attention" is at work: a tension, between attempting to record his own body and the means used to record it. What is scrutinized in this picture includes not only the physical elements he has composed--unwittingly or not--but the very priorities he uses while recording them. In an instant, he has transmitted his own particular connection to his body and self, while brilliantly separating himself with the very same technique.
[i wrote this in 1998 for a porn site. so inspired, i will be posting more of these from the rest of my little porn collection]
"The architectural process must be corrupt in order to be...extraordinary"
(from a conversation I am having right now with the brilliant koray)
I'm walking our dog on the pier. I am at the end and am envelopped in a fog. The tide is high, and so the close water appears greenish with a white cast, as if the sky has rubbed off onto it. It slowly undulates. All the city's sounds are dampened. Nothing is distant, because nothing distant can be seen. No one is here. It is lovely and immensely serene.
There is nothing more sublime for me than the city quieted by the weather. It reminds me that the city (second nature) can easily overpower me. And the city, in turn, is easily overpowered by first nature.
Last night, I went to a bar. I am inside bars all the time, generally after a rugby game. But this was different.
Walk into a crowded room
I see you there and I'm hypnotized
You turn and look at me
Love wheel spinning 'round 'round 'round 'round
About two years ago, I made a choice to drink only when I wanted to, not because of Habit, and to spend time in a bar only when I wanted to, not because of Habit. The choice has had a huge impact on my life, but it was a simple one, really, once i put it on the table. I chose to take control of my life. Habit is useful, but it must be constantly watched, or it will run away with your time.
Can't you see baby
I'm just crazy for you
Show me your loving
Like the heaven above will do
In the last 18 months, excluding the rugby drinkups, the number of times I've elected to go to a bar to see a friend for a cocktail numbers less than 10. The number of times I've gone because I just up and felt like it, because I didn't feel like writing, making architecture, surfing internet profiles, downloading porn, watching a film, making out with my boyfriend, or having sex, is 1. I'm not proud of any of these numbers, nor do I strive to achieve any particular result. I'm simply stating a couple facts.
Like this: I was drunk on a bus after a rugby match a month ago. You read about a song we sang. That was very special.
And, about a year ago, I was drunk at an indoor pool party with 5 other gay rugby teams. That was fun too.
And, last night. I went to a bar. It was different, because I was there with several friends, and a few newfound acquaintances, and the space was cavernous and wooded and gorgeous and gay and it was sunday night and the music rocked and I felt cool and insider and I was feeling sexy and wicked. I had emailed co-fiend from the blackberry, letting him know where we were. It was our friend's birthday, and our friend was looking forward to seeing my co-fiend too. I kept eyeing the door. When I'm feeling that wicked, I enjoy sharing it with him. It was hard to stay present to the conversation I was having.
I used to find bar conversations delectable. Toys to play with. I still do, when the conversation is actually interesting. Mostly, I want to dance and take off my clothes.
You're the one so attractively built
Ooh, the way you make me feel
I look into your healing eyes
Love wheel spinin' round, round, round, round
Can't you see baby I'm just crazy for you
Show me your loving like the heaven above will do
I remarked to a friend that the crowd had changed. I've noticed several shifts of personnel since I've been part of New York's nightlife. I've noticed that this effect can be attributed to changes internal and external to myself. External effect: attrition: people turn thirty-five or so, get married, have kids, get sick, get sober, get a job, and get whatever else it takes to occupy their time such that the objectless going out disappears from their lives, like spilled sugar is dusted off their tables. Internal effect: the crowd was younger, but still near my own age, and cuter and cooler and better dressed than ever. Very much like the London crowds I've seen recently: so goddamn crazy and cool it makes me smile. I like looking at cool people, especially friendly ones, and ones actually having fun. I just don't care if I'm one of them, so long as I get to shake my ass a little.
One of the new acquaintances we were with is a friendly cool one, who was having fun. Just like my friends.
Comes a time to rock the night away
Holy matrimony someday
Come to me from out the blue
Just like a dream come true
Yes it's been my favorite wish
Love wheel spinn' round, round, round, round
Just as I had forgotten about the door, and the arrival of co-fiend, and a great song came on, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a very hot guy, around my height, but more muscular, and older, with a bright orange shirt on, printed with japanese writing. The man had japanese tattoos. I perked up. Nice arms.
Oh wait, that's my co-fiend.
Can't you see baby I'm just crazy for you
Show me your loving like the heaven above will do
I take you now into my arms
Feel the pleasure of all your charms
My head is dizzy and my knees are weak
Love wheel spinin' round, round, round, round, round, round, round, round, oooo!
At 12:30 we both went home, watched a little television, and went to bed, singing a little tune.
This will sound silly, but at the time, it felt very natural.
It felt natural to put myself into harm's way. Airplanes. Buildings. Sex. Aaron.
The flight to London is taking off. Or is it Seattle? Or Albuquerque? Or Minneapolis? I can't even remember if I'm at EWR, LGA, or JFK. Probably not JFK. But it could scarcely matter: the interior of airplanes erase all context. Which is ironic, because they are powerful machines, creating a wormhole between two entirely different contexts. A time-delay wormhole. Sometimes with business class to smooth things along. Am I going to Japan? Yet the wormhole must be contextless to work. It still takes a day-that-never-happened (or, a day that happens twice).
Planes are like smaller, stinkier versions of the insipid interiors of airports. Their landlocked cousins extend the wormhole's delay by completely erasing any connection to the city you have been in all weekend, or month, instead giving you an endless supply of Hudson News stands and duty-free shops, everywhere you go.
Airplanes crash. Sometimes intentionally. The point is that the only time they are non-insipid is during a disaster. In short, they are only fabulous when you die. And so, whenever I am in a plane, taking off, I can usually think of nothing at all, because there is an engineered not-something all around me, smoothly shucking off all responsibility for my attention, not even good for people watching, and the only thing that will rescue me is the idea of a fiery catastrophe.
That should set the theme for this post.
Of course, I have no wish to die, only to see New York again, so the sum of the experience is terror. Not of the potential for bodily harm, but the fact that my mind would wander there for distraction.
Why would I admit to the violence within me, the curiosity about destruction? Why would I tell you, dear reader, that I stood there, that day, just looking at crashed airplanes. My feeling side twinged, but my knowledge side wanted to study.
Why would I admit to being unable to love anyone for who they were until I'd met Aaron, again, and began to love him? The first evening with Aaron, where love unhinged from the silly story I'd made up about it, when it began to congeal in the present, in his little hairs, and how he dug coins out of his pockets for coffee, and how he mercilessly plowed my ass, was only the beginning. The first evening was followed by many more, each building on the one before. All of my previous sexual repeats had never been like this: sex had been like doing the same thing over and over. Yet with Aaron the sexual and emotional intensity of each night was accreting upon the previous night, until, at the end of a month, he and I decided to meet some friends at The Phoenix. He told Jim, my second-favorite bartender, that he would have a beer, and his boyfriend would have a jack and coke. Even in my love haze, I had to look at him twice, for saying the word "boyfriend". I had practiced returning his pugnacious gaze so often in the last month that I had begun to pre-empt it with my own withering look.
"Boyfriend?" My Look. I may be silly crazy about you, but this is a little quick, even for me. Which could also have been interpreted as I wanted to be the first one to say it!
His Look. You've been dying for someone to call you that since you had your first crush in high school.
For your information, his Look was correct, and mine was one big cover-up lie.
But there was something else in his look, something that I recognized but was unable, at the time, to admit. Several somethings. He was really crazy about me. I could hear the wings rattle and the wheels lift off the runway. I could feel my old self, the one that loved the idea of Aaron, fall away, in favor of what was Actually Happening. He was ready to be jealous, and it frightened me.
see previous post
1987 was a really great year for me.
I'm just in the way
as the French would say de trop
but if baby I'm the bottom
you're the TOP!
ps all work in this domain is copyright chad the minx.