part eight
remembering tabitha. rereading letters written. never
given. i loved her. love her. intenseness. the understanding.
but we were never meant for each other. and i knew that then.
and still i ignore it. sometimes. more than love. as i wrote.
envy. i wanted. want to be her. her memory. experiences. i always
wanted to be a woman. when a child. to play with dolls. and dress
in skirts and stockings. looking pretty. long hair i was never
allowed to have as a child. and everything they could do with
it. later. as i grew. envy. of the sexuality. everything a woman
can do sexually. so many more combinations than a man. and i envy
all the things shes done. as shes told me. and i wanted to be
her and do them. so she was my best friend there. because she
understood a part of me. and i think i understood a part of her.
but the rest is drifting. floating in darkness. away.
# # #
conversations with a friend. on what i want to do
with my life. what i want to be. and i explain to her. art is
just a part of me. as is writing. it has its time place. but it
is not what i would do. i will be a muse. and i explain. to inspire.
all those ideas. around in my head. and i want to see them. finished.
in form. give them to people. to create them. why not yourself.
are you lazy. not that. so many ideas. and i dont have the skills.
the time. the patience. and i want to see what they will add.
so i will travel. and give people ideas. and inspire them. through
what i do. and say. and write. and they shall create. make and
shape it into form. my mind is too free to be tied down to an
art. a form. it needs to wander. to rush. to ponder. to muse.
# # #
tabitha inspired me. she taught me to smile. to laugh
out. to act like a child once more. she showed me space. and
light. and told me things about architecture. things i try to
see now. she gave me a part of life. a part of living. so many
things. and once she said. i suppose a good person is someone
like oneself. that we see good as being that like us. unless we
dislike ourselves. or something. and it was to think about. i
cant explain her. she was mystery. a mystery that fascinated me.
and i loved her.
# # #
rave night. dozens of white middle class teenagers
spasm on the dance floor. form a circle. as someone styles away
inside. fancy move this. fancy move that. hits of acid being sold
like the candy lollipops given away by everyone out of their otherwise
empty backpacks. you can tell the real ravers. but then you always
could. i watch. and play. time to mess with their reality. time
to give them something to think about. to help them grow into
individuals. instead of mass movement insecure zombies. even the
sub-culture can have its followers. only sometimes they can be
worse. because they think theyre independent. (no one can be independent.
totally original people. and no complete clones).
so ive gotten really good at bending the fabric of
reality. i hand someone some lady's bank card we found in a wallet
once. i hang a print of a banana i cut out of the newspaper on
a wall. someone tells me its an andy worhol. i think how appropriate.
searching through my bag. going up to someone i hand them a key.
of a squat long busted. three hundred miles away. a bag of silicate.
here. dont eat this. in case you forget. its written right here.
do not eat. later on. same person. a piece of cotton. you can
eat this. it doesnt say do not eat on it. but it doesnt taste
like much. stop some person. did i give you your receipt. and
i hand them my pink slip from this mornings groceries. going around
asking people if theyre the ones collecting lollipop wrappers.
but theyre the clear plastic kind. and people look at me as they
say no. one guy i have this long talk with. he ends up suggesting
theyre a different type of wrapper. i walk away and smile. a cup
with a piece of paper saying, do not look in this cup. and i yell
at people when they do. handing out writings. some mine. some
others. postcards. pictures. anything. even old rave flyers. finally.
nothing left to give. so i ask people if theyve seen abbey hoffman.
because hes dead. and we dont want dead people hanging around
the club. bad for business. and it attracts flies. i tell them
how william s burroughs is a lot older than he used to be and
how sex just isnt as good as the real thing. anything. to confuse.
to bewilder. some my own. most not. it does not matter. authorship
becomes as real as anything else. sometimes i tell them the truth.
other times i lie. depends on my mood. and in the end i sit there
laughing. at the joke they dont get. in the game theyre just learning
to play.
# # #
Try to hate something you understand. Try to fear
that which is known. Try to love that which does not bewilder
you. You are a different man than I if you can. For I cannot.
# # #
separating the sexual and the intellectual. something
i might try to do. as it happens to me anyway. while she tells
me. picking up a frat boy at a party. have sex with him. get rid
of him. that way her sexual impulses. not interfering with her
friendships. like mine interfering with my friendships. but i
dont want to. i want the ideal. a woman i can talk to. and fuck.
but it isnt happening. so maybe ill try this something else.
# # #
he watches her sleep. she takes pictures of him sleeping.
sometimes hell just sit there and watch her sleep for hours. stare
at her. watch her chest rise and fall. as his eyes follow the
outline of her body. she waits and watches. she wants his poses
to come naturally. he is like a child when he sleeps. his features
relax. she is so beautiful. and they spend so much time talking
of how the other sleeps. and i find it intriguing. perhaps ill
pay a little more attention to sleepers now.
# # #
thompkins square park. new york city. people gathering
to remember. the bloody brutal battle with police five years ago.
when the park was shut down. and riot police stormed in. it is
daytime. people walking about. a stage with a band. setting up.
tables. describing glass house. squatting. the homeless. the riots.
trying to make people aware. later. as the last band plays. throwing
metal off stage. drumsticks appear. so others can join in the
drumming. anything. being banged. thrown against the ground. to
make noise. add to the chaotic rhythm. then. suddenly police coming
in. circling round the stage. clearing out the metal. any people
near the stage. so someone grabs a bottle and starts drumming
against the ground. i grab something else and join in. as people
all around find things to drum on. a rhythm now. beautiful rhythm.
people begin to dance. show them we can have fun anyway. like
the frog people. so long ago. finally they leave. but the drums
drum on. and the dancing increases. someone begins to pull people
into the circle. to dance as well. finally i tell rachael. take
your shirt off. its legal. lets shock the fuck out of them. then
dancing around. wild. other women begin. dancing only in bras.
a fire is set. a monument. a burning pyre to remember. and people
begin to dance around it. as the drums continue. and others throwing
things into it. coaxing it along. suddenly it begins to rain.
pour. as hundreds of riot police storm in. 'get anyone you can.'
every man for himself. run. i grab my bag. one foot on a park
bench. the next over a fence and running. over the next fence.
then out of the park. find rachael. watching as people sit down
in the street to block traffic. then police come out of the park.
'arrest them.' and people run away again. finally. a group. ten.
twelve maybe. moving down st. marks. at the end. police barricades.
to stop cars. placing them in the middle of the street. stopping
cars ourselves. add to the chaos. as we move down first. each
time finding the blue barricades. using them. more chaos. finally.
splitting up. wandering around the rest of the night until it
is safe to return to the car. parked on thompkins square.
# # #
its so fucking cold out there. and anyone who thinks
hitching is fun. or romantic. has never hitched for any period
of time. fuck on the road. not anymore. standing out there in
the freezing cold. snow beating against your face. as car after
car passes. and your feet. can you even feel them? so you take
shelter under a bridge. because its well past midnight. and youre
stuck at a rest stop. a truck stop even. with the bitter irony
chilling you hands. that not even a trucker can pick you up anymore.
it being the law. ordering a bit of food. more to stay warm than
out of hunger. finally day breaks. waiting outside as the sun
rises. a trucker. and a miracle. but only a few miles. ten hitches
later. at another truck stop. somewhere in eastern ohio. in the
midst of a snowstorm. a teacher. visiting for the holidays. and
i find my ride through the storm. and the darkness. back to philly.
# # #
a song on the radio. and they hear the lyrics. deep
meaning. tell a story. i hear nothing. but the music. the rhythm.
the melody of the voice. my brain. not able to process. music
as speech. singing as words. it is melody. rhythm. sound. i hear
the mood. of the guitar. the drums. the strings. the horns. but
no words. only the story of the sounds. and they. they that hear
the lyrics. only half listening to the sounds. notes. rhythms.
they dont hear the music. feel the music. the words are the meaning.
two different ways of listening. processing a song. methods of
thinking differing. and they cant understand what i hear. and
i cant hear what they understand.
# # #
fifteen. age. seventy. three. fifty-eight. thirty-something.
maturity? twenty-one. anyone. advanced soul. maturity. age. talking.
and she. and he. and they. understanding more than. they? yes.
unhampered. with a mind. free to roam. to think. or to hide. like
they. twenty-one. seventy-three. still as if. ten and twelve.
but she. and he. even at seventeen. experiencing more. understanding.
seeing. grok. explore the mind. the body. the soul. explore. the
age. unimpaired. unimportant. for maturity. understanding.
and they still understand so much more than people
my own age. able to think in ways like me. and understand me.
having seen so much more than people their own age. they have
matured so much faster. and can comprehend. and create. and be.
things others their age cannot. it isnt solely age which determines
thought. maturity. but experience. and thought experience. thinking
about things. and so they are a lot older than they are. and they
know see experience more than they are. but yet. sometimes. i
see things they dont.
# # #
reading and rereading. issues of sexuality. roger.
attractiveness. an old journal. back when it all began. defining
three types of attractiveness. physical. mental. emotional. physical
obvious. when theyre really hot. make your dick hard. your cunt
wet. nothing to do with personality. or intelligence. emotional.
attracted to personality. when you can talk without them saying
anything important. just. the way they say things. how they walk
talk do things. can even be when you feel pity. and empathetic
emotions draw you to them. mental. what they say. the way they
think is interesting. their mind stimulates yours and allows it
to grow. and now i imagine a fourth aspect. spiritual. where you
are bound together by fate. destiny. baruka. like attracts like.
something more. unsure. and all these ideas constantly evolve.
# # #
a candle. diminishing. being dripped slowly onto
the floor. into a can. a milk carton. just sitting there. as you
quietly burn the candle away. disappearing. into the flame. onto
the floor. or into a box. watching it. drip. building mountains
and valleys and streams. out of wax. and watching it all grow
and change. it is very relaxing.
# # #
i want to fuck her so hard. just to fuck her. because
she'd be so good. and shed enjoy it so much. ever since i met
her. 'you turn me on.' with her boyfriend. 'lets have a menage-a-trois.'
her boyfriend. telling me ways to turn her on. whisper her name
in her ear. and i play with her hair. and she sits there. a sensual
being. enjoying. each time i meet her. 'take me home.' 'im for
sale. only one dollar. buy me.' her hugs are long and sensual.
sexuality pours out of her. but she attaches herself like a cat.
and then is when i stay away. because i cannot be attached. have
people attached to me. like that. clinging to the outside. but
i want her. fantasize about her. because she is so direct. she
tells me every impulse. she tells me what she wants. and a single
touch of mine turns her on so much. i give her a backrub. the
next night i kiss her. and we say goodbye. for a time. undetermined.
until i return. and she says to me. 'when you return. if you ever
want a woman. ill be here.' and i smile. i promise to meet her
at the club. and i know i will. someday.
# # #
i have lost an understanding of the telephone. i
can no longer talk on it for hours like i once could. it is now
only an instrument of brief communication. like a telegram. talking
to people. i want to see them. their facial expressions. their
movements. to touch them. and move about them. around them. and
have them see me. feel me. i need more than simply spoken word.
# # #
She said I had a high self-esteem. I told her I didn't
know the difference between that and an ego. And how I didn't
want an ego, or not a very big one at least, because I hated,
or at least disliked, anyone I knew with a big ego. But I can
understand, almost. They're mostly artists and their ego is the
only thing between them and suicide. Or at least a life of depression
and self-loathing. Ego's are for those who need to believe in
themselves to feel needed in this world. Self-esteem is for those
who need to believe in others believing in oneself.
# # #
talking of tabitha. and roger. and rachael. and jen.
all this talk of love. and i cant explain what that is. a feeling.
a knowledge. a bond. a part of me lost in them. who they are.
their being. a mark made. never fully erased. sometimes romantic.
sometimes. never knowing. and why. but its there. and i follow
it. and i can not explain. because i dont know.
# # #
sitting around a circle of bricks. enclosing a fire.
long burnt. dead. but alive in the mind. a clove. smoke entering
the lungs. and exhaled. swirling in mists. ghosts rising from
a burning ember. looking out into the world. as the world becomes
myself. and more. as more enters me. becomes me. as i enter into
it. and i can feel the energy all around me. powerful. and now
a cone above the circle. where do you see the cones. in the architecture.
where do you see them, tabitha. powerful. the circle. the triangle.
three and one. and then. sage. burning. fumigating. as i move
it around the circle. and let it burn on the headstone. across
from me. and going into the trees. the ground. i slowly begin
to masturbate. feeling the earth run through me. as if i am entering
the trees. and they look like some strange form of vagina. a spiritual
vagina. as i enter. it enters. and the energy moves through my
body. my heart. spiraling. pulsating. as everything disappears.
appears. one with the earth. and i come. onto the fallen leaves.
the earth. a tree. orgasming. the mother begets the son. the goddess
the god. it is halloween.
# # #
i breathe inspiration out of death. the more i die,
the more i inspire. am inspired. spending cold nights on the street.
freezing. wearing my body down. foot rot on my feet. but then
i know life. i know what it's like to freeze. to be aware of death.
and i can write then. like smoking a cigarette. a clove. burning.
searing my lungs. and them i am inspired. the more you try to
live. the closer you are toward death.