488: And a Few Days Later...
Sorry I skipped out for a bit on you guys there. It's actually a long story--one that, quite literally, I have started to write...
Basically, going gay dancing was a bust. I got down there and ready all right--until I realized I didn't know how I was meeting up with perversedmind or anyone else for that matter. As you can imagine, after my panic attacks at the French Film Festival, I wasn't keen on going in alone. I mean, much more crowded, and really a lot of people I don't know, much closer to my age even! And (le gasp!) they might even try to talk to me this time!
...Or not. Which would actually be pretty depressing, too. And anyway, do I even really know how to dance? I felt kinda lame, but I guess I kinda want my first time goin' to a gaybar/club to be with my Lesbian Husband...
I would've felt even more lame about this, if I hadn't wandered over to K St earlier and gotten this delcious cream cheese brownie at Rick's. I don't car if it makes me boring, but that was my night out.
...Well, then, of course, I had to walk home. From midtown. Which is (in case you wanna look it up on a map) about five miles. I wasn't quite fool enough to trek the entire way, so I mostly just wandered down to the 39th St station (still a good 20 blocks or so), and took that most of the rest of the way home.
And, wouldn't y'know? My ever-ironic muse decides to descend at this time and help me narrate my way through the last half of my trip home by turning up my never-dormant powers of observation. So, when I got home, I took five pages of notes and I think I may have something halfway between memoir and a piece of fiction to write. Joy.
And not even a very sarcastic joy, either. True, a late-night trek home might not seem all that exciting--well, unless there's a car crash and a serial killer at the end, as in "A Good Man is Hard to Find"--but, well, we got a heavy-dose to inward reflections and collections to liven things up. And I'm not sure it's a story, so much as prose I need to write that takes the nominal form of a piece. And my focus is for shit, because my Muse is kicking me in the head with her steel-toed leather boots, trying to get me off my lazy ass to write the damn thing.
I haven't quite given in to her whip-cracks yet, but it's only a matter of time... See, I'm beginning to think maybe the reason I can't seem to write fiction (not for lack of trying) is that I have all this autobiographical shit I need to get out first. I guess you gotta cleanse out your own story and figure out those pieces before you can do the same with anyone else. And certainly some of that can turn into, fiction, too (it does for Eve).
And anyway, well, there's a lot of important stuff in this piece, I think. In that, a lot of it is about Sacramento. And bits of me, of course. I guess my mind is giving me an opening to start with to start taking those bits out of myself, to figure them out.
And, if you've read Streetwalker, you can tell I have a real penchant for wandering the city streets at night... let's consider this, like that, as a very important experiment and a step forward (no pun intended).
And just 'cause I like it so much (and because the original post for it is kinda lost in ramblings), I'll give it to you again here:
Streetwalker
Night and no cars coming.
Empty street for my catwalk.
Place one foot exactly before
the other. Perfect symmetry.
Straight down this left-turn lane.
Sway my hips. Don't hurry.
Houses seem empty. Silent.
The perfect audience. Awash
in some buzzing sound. The
highway? The river? Follow
this cement reflection of that
beating heart. Leave granite
and Spanish facades behind.
Towards those blinking lights
ahead. Red and red. No green.
Ignore those white lines. They
only hold me back from the
blackness. Oblivion I desire.
Basically, going gay dancing was a bust. I got down there and ready all right--until I realized I didn't know how I was meeting up with perversedmind or anyone else for that matter. As you can imagine, after my panic attacks at the French Film Festival, I wasn't keen on going in alone. I mean, much more crowded, and really a lot of people I don't know, much closer to my age even! And (le gasp!) they might even try to talk to me this time!
...Or not. Which would actually be pretty depressing, too. And anyway, do I even really know how to dance? I felt kinda lame, but I guess I kinda want my first time goin' to a gaybar/club to be with my Lesbian Husband...
I would've felt even more lame about this, if I hadn't wandered over to K St earlier and gotten this delcious cream cheese brownie at Rick's. I don't car if it makes me boring, but that was my night out.
...Well, then, of course, I had to walk home. From midtown. Which is (in case you wanna look it up on a map) about five miles. I wasn't quite fool enough to trek the entire way, so I mostly just wandered down to the 39th St station (still a good 20 blocks or so), and took that most of the rest of the way home.
And, wouldn't y'know? My ever-ironic muse decides to descend at this time and help me narrate my way through the last half of my trip home by turning up my never-dormant powers of observation. So, when I got home, I took five pages of notes and I think I may have something halfway between memoir and a piece of fiction to write. Joy.
And not even a very sarcastic joy, either. True, a late-night trek home might not seem all that exciting--well, unless there's a car crash and a serial killer at the end, as in "A Good Man is Hard to Find"--but, well, we got a heavy-dose to inward reflections and collections to liven things up. And I'm not sure it's a story, so much as prose I need to write that takes the nominal form of a piece. And my focus is for shit, because my Muse is kicking me in the head with her steel-toed leather boots, trying to get me off my lazy ass to write the damn thing.
I haven't quite given in to her whip-cracks yet, but it's only a matter of time... See, I'm beginning to think maybe the reason I can't seem to write fiction (not for lack of trying) is that I have all this autobiographical shit I need to get out first. I guess you gotta cleanse out your own story and figure out those pieces before you can do the same with anyone else. And certainly some of that can turn into, fiction, too (it does for Eve).
And anyway, well, there's a lot of important stuff in this piece, I think. In that, a lot of it is about Sacramento. And bits of me, of course. I guess my mind is giving me an opening to start with to start taking those bits out of myself, to figure them out.
And, if you've read Streetwalker, you can tell I have a real penchant for wandering the city streets at night... let's consider this, like that, as a very important experiment and a step forward (no pun intended).
And just 'cause I like it so much (and because the original post for it is kinda lost in ramblings), I'll give it to you again here:
Streetwalker
Night and no cars coming.
Empty street for my catwalk.
Place one foot exactly before
the other. Perfect symmetry.
Straight down this left-turn lane.
Sway my hips. Don't hurry.
Houses seem empty. Silent.
The perfect audience. Awash
in some buzzing sound. The
highway? The river? Follow
this cement reflection of that
beating heart. Leave granite
and Spanish facades behind.
Towards those blinking lights
ahead. Red and red. No green.
Ignore those white lines. They
only hold me back from the
blackness. Oblivion I desire.