may fourteenth.
(a few weeks previously).
May 14th
The plantation in Tokyo has sprung forth, as if from a tap. Sidewalks are riots of camp pink and purples; the bare twigs that scraped me cycling bypassed the timid sprouts of puberty, and flourished directly into resplendent, leafy adulthood. The white and yellow flowers on my balcony, however, have shriveled up into autumnal corpses, brown and spiky. Perhaps they were offended at being unnamed and unrecognized by their brown-fingered owner.
I don’t know which of these I will turn out more like. Will I flourish or shrivel in a domestic setting? Will the daily love, affection and support be my MiracleGro™, or feasting caterpillars that menace my edges? I don’t know what his adoration will do to me. I chased him like a stalker; I rifled his photos obsessively, I longed to speak to him. When I cut off contact two days were surprisingly- and unbearably- painful.
But what are these things that I want to achieve before I’m- don’t say it- thirty? (six years to go). There’s the New York fairytale, with stoop chats and Shortbus-esque sexual exploits. There’s the wild night life and raw brick apartments with bikes and hairstyles and a million different nationalities. There’s the Latino man that haunts my visions; dark haired and muscly and all those other clichés thrown into the mix. (For now, nothing I like better than N’s silver bracelet around his beautiful hands and wrists, his shoulders). There’s squatting in Berlin and being part of something, anything , a movement. Tapping out ideas at 3am with one of those American library green lights- I think I’ve seen them in Central station, maybe, or just in pictures of Salinger and the other bespectacled greats who still tapped away on typewriters. There’s me holding my first galley, peeling off glossy sheets to send in the post back home (because I won’t go home for a while). There’s me on the Mekong river, eating deep fried insects and nurturing a moleskine pregnant with fistfuls of travellers’ scraps; there’s me in Tibet, colder than I could have imagined, or sun-drenched but bone-chilled in Bolivia, coca leaves ground between my molars. There’s all the dreams I always had, but in all of them I am alone, solo, wandering. He hasn’t been photoshopped in yet; he might still yet. We could be great, he and I. I could be the one wearing the trousers; the one who gets the jobs and brings him around while he keeps me slow and sane and sexed.
May 14th
The plantation in Tokyo has sprung forth, as if from a tap. Sidewalks are riots of camp pink and purples; the bare twigs that scraped me cycling bypassed the timid sprouts of puberty, and flourished directly into resplendent, leafy adulthood. The white and yellow flowers on my balcony, however, have shriveled up into autumnal corpses, brown and spiky. Perhaps they were offended at being unnamed and unrecognized by their brown-fingered owner.
I don’t know which of these I will turn out more like. Will I flourish or shrivel in a domestic setting? Will the daily love, affection and support be my MiracleGro™, or feasting caterpillars that menace my edges? I don’t know what his adoration will do to me. I chased him like a stalker; I rifled his photos obsessively, I longed to speak to him. When I cut off contact two days were surprisingly- and unbearably- painful.
But what are these things that I want to achieve before I’m- don’t say it- thirty? (six years to go). There’s the New York fairytale, with stoop chats and Shortbus-esque sexual exploits. There’s the wild night life and raw brick apartments with bikes and hairstyles and a million different nationalities. There’s the Latino man that haunts my visions; dark haired and muscly and all those other clichés thrown into the mix. (For now, nothing I like better than N’s silver bracelet around his beautiful hands and wrists, his shoulders). There’s squatting in Berlin and being part of something, anything , a movement. Tapping out ideas at 3am with one of those American library green lights- I think I’ve seen them in Central station, maybe, or just in pictures of Salinger and the other bespectacled greats who still tapped away on typewriters. There’s me holding my first galley, peeling off glossy sheets to send in the post back home (because I won’t go home for a while). There’s me on the Mekong river, eating deep fried insects and nurturing a moleskine pregnant with fistfuls of travellers’ scraps; there’s me in Tibet, colder than I could have imagined, or sun-drenched but bone-chilled in Bolivia, coca leaves ground between my molars. There’s all the dreams I always had, but in all of them I am alone, solo, wandering. He hasn’t been photoshopped in yet; he might still yet. We could be great, he and I. I could be the one wearing the trousers; the one who gets the jobs and brings him around while he keeps me slow and sane and sexed.