Tuesday, 1 October 2013

So what else do you want?

We are sitting in the bar and she asks me, "So what else do you want?" and I laugh, because it has been a long time since anyone said that, a long time since someone asked as if things were easy spread gems across the runways of life's video games, as if we could choose our path to pick them. I laugh because in six months everything has changed so much I barely recognise my grin in the mirror.

What else do you want?

I just want his hands to stop shaking, for a moment, to breathe.
I just want to get through the next five hours until sleep comes like bird wings and we are sunk under feathers.
I just want to drink this.
A moment to wail and gnash my teeth for all my things that are broken; just a moment to mourn my life instead of supergluing the shards of his
I want you to feed me gin the way you always do and sing me juniper-soaked lullabies about the highest shelf
I want to believe I can pay my way, I need money to fall on me like stop-gap animations of snow
I need to get laid oh holy shit I need to get laid
I need a holiday in a country where the sun never sets and the lakes are vanity mirrors for the smugness of the sky
I need friends who will drop everything when I panic in the bathtub to bring me cedarwood and blutorange and smudge the corners all with sage
And, oh,
I want
I want to flail 5.a.m to drag queens and rock&roll filth
I want to rip my clothes off and smudge these purple glitter-vaseline eyes, leap into that swimming pool, and bob
I want you to slap me holy-ow-shit hard
I want two-feet-take-offs in skates, landing on my feet or my face
Hairpulls and highhats and headstands
Fables in the kitchens, cigarettes
Stories in magazines
Cellos on stages
Teeth in skin
A moment to sit and inhale between the torrents of life and take stock of what just happened
What just happened?

It is the last day of September and we are sitting in the bar and she asks me, "So what else do you want?"' and I look at the week ahead of me and laugh because I am fucking ready for October, I am ready for feral undergrowth, I am ready to be a grownup, I am already there.

I once watched a projection on old rat-a-clack film of a typewriter being slowly, infinitesimally, covered in falling snow. Crouched by the gallery wall, we were so close to the typewriter; the keys were huge. I luxuriated in the curves of g. I watched the bars pile up with sharp white walls. The typewriter was smooth black plastic with the first feathers of snow on its bulk. The typewriter keys were cutouts and tutorials in space. The snow fell and built up tiny-huge typewriter drifts. The black disappeared. The angles disappeared. The holes between the keys became soft, sweet slalom runs, winking in the sunshine. It happened so smoothly. It was impossible to say when this thing became something else, something smothered; I could not have pointed to a moment and told the typewriter to run.

It is the first day of October and all the muscles in my body are screaming curses in Mexican because I never learned how to let them get warm--I either sit and do nothing or I leap and I run. It is the first frosts and time for thinking about saunas, a swaddle of green glass warmth round my body, pricked shards of the cold of the snow. I felt bad for a while because I tried to make everything different, I tried to stop time, I tried to clear the falling snow with my hands. Everything happened so slowly that I did not know how to stop it. Everything fell so quickly that when I tried to fix it, I was just flinging dominoes at a racecourse track, begging them to stand.

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