lady lonesome
It’s all coming together now. The way I look at myself in the bathroom mirror everytime I come home, how I have to check my reflection every time I walk by the bathroom and even cast myself a crumb of mirrorface. I think it provides the same function as greeting a dog or a family member. Coming home to me, to the safe zone, where no one treats me like a gringa. Wait, but now I’m feeling isolated from myself, like a stranger to myself, all split-personality like. Like there’s part of me that understands me and part of me that doesn’t. I’m at war with myself!
Look guys. It’s time to put aside our differences and unite for the common cause. What is the common cause? Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. This is quite fun to type.
I’m getting back from an awful night that has suddenly turned good. Good for the writing, that is. Funny that I spend so little time doing the things I really dig. Drums and tranquility and writing. So I’m getting back from an awful night that has suddenly turned good. First there was pilar’s exposition, which was very cool. Can describe at other moment. It made me laugh and it made me uncomfortable. This girl’s got something cool going on. Which is why it’s hard sometimes that we don’t always communicate well. After the exhibition we went to some drinking hole that also had pizza and garlic bread, and I reached such a pitch of loneliness and hopelessness socially that I had to excuse myself to go cry. That’s how I put it, too. It kind of sucks when you’re so isolated from everyone that you excuse yourself from the table to go cry and no one runs after you to make sure you’re ok. Not like that was my ulterior motive for crying, but I later thought it was strange that no one cared. Pilar said she did a lap around the block but didn’t find me. Anyway, the end result was I returned bleary-eyed and cold and more removed from the world. But having triumphed in some small way, I felt.
One girl in particular made me feel especially shitty. It could have been anyone, but because it was her, I will probably have trouble liking her again. For the inhumanity of it all. She made some comment about how a huge range of expressions passed over my face in a short period of time. Whether this was true only of that moment of drunkenness or is true all the time, it’s not a pleasant thing to have pointed out. They were imitating me and contorting. So it pissed me off how I was diminished to a gesticulating, confused gringa in that moment. Which I was, I admit. But I was so ticked off I put on a weird, gesticulating, slightly hostile show for her. It shut her up for a while, and then her sidekick kind of caught on to the essence of what I was getting at because she tried to engage me in a conversation, which went well until I caught the original girl muffling laughter-at me! I said, “you can laugh openly, it’s ok.” And then I complained to pilar about it all, about how they treat you like a little kid, and how fucking dehumanizing it is, but how you participate in it because it’s all you have. And she asked if she treated me that way and I said yes, sometimes. And she started feeling bad, but I felt worse. Because this is how it fucking is.
Then I stopped by the party that Alan invited me to, dragging along the whole band of people. Don’t ask me how the idiot gringa of the group happened to wield this much influence, but that’s how it went. But the party was dead, at least to the outside world, so everyone left and went to El Oso, except me. I stayed at the party because I thought it might be better what with Alan and decent music and a cool Jackie chan film playing and the boy juan diego that I have flirted with. But it was blah. All those boys are so in the closet it makes me sick. It makes me so annoyed! I just want to shout: “YOU’RE ALL GAY! FACE THE FUCKING MUSIC! EMBRACE IT! NOW GO HAVE SEX WITH EACH OTHER!” But there are no epiphanies, so they just let it come out in other ways. It probably didn’t help that I asked juan diego the other night if he was gay. I hope I didn’t interfere in his natural process and stunt it another twenty years. I feel I’ve committed a crime against humanity.
So I made my way home walking, which is always nice. I passed by that really hot old car that’s always parked outside 198 whatever that street is. Or I suppose I should say whatever that street is 198. It was glimmering surreally and there were a white ribbon and flowers pinned on it somehow. It sort of seemed like a rushed attempt at decorating a car for a honeymoon, but that car hasn’t spent any amount of time away from its parking space, not so’s you'd notice anyway. And I guess they don’t really have that sailing-off-in-a-car-for-your-honeymoon custom here. Cars aren’t really engrained in the culture in that way, not really in any way. Least of all to the point of appearing in fotographic mental schema for hallmark life events. Wow, the U.S. of A.
So I opened the gate to my street, the awful white one, and realized soon enough that there was a giant party taking place somewhere on my street. I toyed with the idea of just walking in and dancing salsa, but I knew I was in the wrong state of mind to go ringing doorbells. But I was in luck. For once I got to see what was inside the huge artsy mystery house that is but a gray slab of concrete on the outside and a huge garage made out of really nice wood. I’ve always known it must belong to some rich folks, and tonight I got to go in. this guy is fucking rich. The door was wide open and the first thing to my left was a catered bar with really good red wine. Glass in hand, I took a good long look at the crowd, a group of limeños that I hadn’t met before. Rich or posers or both. Not to a person, but it was the general vibe I got. I “wove” through and almost fell into this guy’s lap pool, a skinny number that crept along the side of this huge, outdoor, garage, studio space. With really good salsa blaring. I went further in to the roofed part of the studio. But this place is immense. I ate a piece of lemon square that immediately trapped me in a sugary thirsty hell and asked someone who the rich guy was. I think he was playing upstairs in his library, which we could all see from below the spiral staircase. I saw a hot dyke and tried to catch her eye, but only because I sensed she might understand me as a person. Then I decided that wasn’t the way to go about making friends, and that really I was in no shape at all to connect with anyone. I explored the kitchen where amazing food was laid out: sliced ham and really good whole wheat (but not sweet) bread with sesame seeds and this amazing onion-y mayonnaise-y condiment. It was Peruvian food improved upon and taken to one of its many delightful conclusions. I ate two petite but intense sandwiches, finished my wine, and walked out, after getting hooked for a few minutes at the dance floor (as an observer, not a participant). I had said nothing except the inquiry about the rich guy and two “thank you”s to the bartenders.
It was a lucky and eloquent end to the evening. I don’t think I could have written a better script for that party, it was so classic-everyone trying to show off in some way, but the rich guy trumping all with his really good food and wine and music, and, lest we forget, generosity. But also I couldn’t have written a better emotional and psychological script for the evening. As the night wore on I felt further and further away from people. There is no better ending than stumbling upon a surreal party of rich strangers and partaking of their goods as a non-participant observer.
Look guys. It’s time to put aside our differences and unite for the common cause. What is the common cause? Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. Drums and tranquility. This is quite fun to type.
I’m getting back from an awful night that has suddenly turned good. Good for the writing, that is. Funny that I spend so little time doing the things I really dig. Drums and tranquility and writing. So I’m getting back from an awful night that has suddenly turned good. First there was pilar’s exposition, which was very cool. Can describe at other moment. It made me laugh and it made me uncomfortable. This girl’s got something cool going on. Which is why it’s hard sometimes that we don’t always communicate well. After the exhibition we went to some drinking hole that also had pizza and garlic bread, and I reached such a pitch of loneliness and hopelessness socially that I had to excuse myself to go cry. That’s how I put it, too. It kind of sucks when you’re so isolated from everyone that you excuse yourself from the table to go cry and no one runs after you to make sure you’re ok. Not like that was my ulterior motive for crying, but I later thought it was strange that no one cared. Pilar said she did a lap around the block but didn’t find me. Anyway, the end result was I returned bleary-eyed and cold and more removed from the world. But having triumphed in some small way, I felt.
One girl in particular made me feel especially shitty. It could have been anyone, but because it was her, I will probably have trouble liking her again. For the inhumanity of it all. She made some comment about how a huge range of expressions passed over my face in a short period of time. Whether this was true only of that moment of drunkenness or is true all the time, it’s not a pleasant thing to have pointed out. They were imitating me and contorting. So it pissed me off how I was diminished to a gesticulating, confused gringa in that moment. Which I was, I admit. But I was so ticked off I put on a weird, gesticulating, slightly hostile show for her. It shut her up for a while, and then her sidekick kind of caught on to the essence of what I was getting at because she tried to engage me in a conversation, which went well until I caught the original girl muffling laughter-at me! I said, “you can laugh openly, it’s ok.” And then I complained to pilar about it all, about how they treat you like a little kid, and how fucking dehumanizing it is, but how you participate in it because it’s all you have. And she asked if she treated me that way and I said yes, sometimes. And she started feeling bad, but I felt worse. Because this is how it fucking is.
Then I stopped by the party that Alan invited me to, dragging along the whole band of people. Don’t ask me how the idiot gringa of the group happened to wield this much influence, but that’s how it went. But the party was dead, at least to the outside world, so everyone left and went to El Oso, except me. I stayed at the party because I thought it might be better what with Alan and decent music and a cool Jackie chan film playing and the boy juan diego that I have flirted with. But it was blah. All those boys are so in the closet it makes me sick. It makes me so annoyed! I just want to shout: “YOU’RE ALL GAY! FACE THE FUCKING MUSIC! EMBRACE IT! NOW GO HAVE SEX WITH EACH OTHER!” But there are no epiphanies, so they just let it come out in other ways. It probably didn’t help that I asked juan diego the other night if he was gay. I hope I didn’t interfere in his natural process and stunt it another twenty years. I feel I’ve committed a crime against humanity.
So I made my way home walking, which is always nice. I passed by that really hot old car that’s always parked outside 198 whatever that street is. Or I suppose I should say whatever that street is 198. It was glimmering surreally and there were a white ribbon and flowers pinned on it somehow. It sort of seemed like a rushed attempt at decorating a car for a honeymoon, but that car hasn’t spent any amount of time away from its parking space, not so’s you'd notice anyway. And I guess they don’t really have that sailing-off-in-a-car-for-your-honeymoon custom here. Cars aren’t really engrained in the culture in that way, not really in any way. Least of all to the point of appearing in fotographic mental schema for hallmark life events. Wow, the U.S. of A.
So I opened the gate to my street, the awful white one, and realized soon enough that there was a giant party taking place somewhere on my street. I toyed with the idea of just walking in and dancing salsa, but I knew I was in the wrong state of mind to go ringing doorbells. But I was in luck. For once I got to see what was inside the huge artsy mystery house that is but a gray slab of concrete on the outside and a huge garage made out of really nice wood. I’ve always known it must belong to some rich folks, and tonight I got to go in. this guy is fucking rich. The door was wide open and the first thing to my left was a catered bar with really good red wine. Glass in hand, I took a good long look at the crowd, a group of limeños that I hadn’t met before. Rich or posers or both. Not to a person, but it was the general vibe I got. I “wove” through and almost fell into this guy’s lap pool, a skinny number that crept along the side of this huge, outdoor, garage, studio space. With really good salsa blaring. I went further in to the roofed part of the studio. But this place is immense. I ate a piece of lemon square that immediately trapped me in a sugary thirsty hell and asked someone who the rich guy was. I think he was playing upstairs in his library, which we could all see from below the spiral staircase. I saw a hot dyke and tried to catch her eye, but only because I sensed she might understand me as a person. Then I decided that wasn’t the way to go about making friends, and that really I was in no shape at all to connect with anyone. I explored the kitchen where amazing food was laid out: sliced ham and really good whole wheat (but not sweet) bread with sesame seeds and this amazing onion-y mayonnaise-y condiment. It was Peruvian food improved upon and taken to one of its many delightful conclusions. I ate two petite but intense sandwiches, finished my wine, and walked out, after getting hooked for a few minutes at the dance floor (as an observer, not a participant). I had said nothing except the inquiry about the rich guy and two “thank you”s to the bartenders.
It was a lucky and eloquent end to the evening. I don’t think I could have written a better script for that party, it was so classic-everyone trying to show off in some way, but the rich guy trumping all with his really good food and wine and music, and, lest we forget, generosity. But also I couldn’t have written a better emotional and psychological script for the evening. As the night wore on I felt further and further away from people. There is no better ending than stumbling upon a surreal party of rich strangers and partaking of their goods as a non-participant observer.