tell me about your life. tell me all about it. don't be shy or afraid. tell me about your beautiful past. speak it to me. about your first feeling and impulses. about how strong and fine they were. how pure. and high-grade.
[Robert Auletta, Stops]
Okay. Actually. Let's be honest here.
I can't write this post. I keep going over my draft and I think I need to just give up.
I'm trying really hard, but I'm sad. I don't have any Gay Pride. Like: rah rah! Kill me.
and about how those around you responded. about the gestures. about the faces. what did the hands feel like? and about the hearts. could you feel their hearts beating beneath their chests?
For three days, I've been trying to write this thing about gender, referencing this week's [redacted]-I-mean-New York Magazine article about Gaydar and the "gay gene," probs too theory-heavy to be even remotely interesting, and I keep changing references to TB from past to present tense and back again and back and all I can think about is how much I miss my girlfriend and how sad I am and how I don't really want to celebrate anything.
And about the colors. What were the colors like? The colors of the rugs, the walls, the stairs, the sinks, the closets. Tell me all about the colors.
Like, if I'm going to have a parade, I'd like all the instruments to sound like this: waa waa waa. waaaaa.
I feel like I can only speak in cliche, like all my feelings are boring.
And the smells, the smell of the snow. The wonderful smell of the snow. And the sky. The look of it. Tell me. Did it frighten you? And the funny faces you made. Make some of those funny faces now. Don't be afraid. Yes, that's beautiful. Those funny faces you're making are beautiful.
I am was am comforted by her arm, extending in front of my body as I carelessly step into oncoming traffic. I was am was comforted by her arms holding me. I was am was comforted by our palms, face-to-face, comparing lengths, that first night in her car.
And the darkness. Tell me about the darkness. The depth and the intensity of it. Its feel. The grit of it. Of what you lost in it. The black of it. If you died in it. Or if you lived in it. Tell me about it. Speak it to me. Speak the hatred of it to me. Don't be afraid. Spit on me. Don't hold back. Spit it. That's why I am here. Spit.
I cannot be in my room because it reminds me of her. I cannot leave my room because I'm crying. My face's gotten so used to crying that I don't even need to move to do it. I can just sit here like Linus and his raincloud except my raincloud is my eyes. The thing is, too: Linus didn't even have a raincloud over his head. No Peanuts characters did. People just think that 'cause PigPen had a dust cloud, and I guess there's some Lil' Abner character with an actual raincloud, but that doesn't matter, really, the important part is maybe only my truth, and I'm not trying to make Peanuts profound or something, or make myself profound, but actually, Peanuts is way more profound than I am.
that's good. that's fine. all together. now we're one together. by the sea for a picnic. in the woods for a romp. our pretty dresses. our colored shirts. sipping cider. our heads thrown back. our hair flying. the trees, the sky, the sea, our eyes.
This picture was gonna be in my post:
Ardhanarisvara: cosmic androgyny
Third Eye Chakra
Relic of my Boyhood
I honestly believed we'd be together forever, and I believed that more purely than I ever have before with anyone. I saw our whole future together, mapped out, and it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I'll probs erase this post 'cause it's pretty raw, for me. But that's all I got, kids.
And so the heart breaks...
[again: this monologue's from Robert Auletta, Stops]*
...into small shadows almost so random they are meaningless like a diamond has at the center of it a diamond a rock...