*bucks

andy pinkster, walla walla, washington —

at the bar — not that far —

i was isolated in depression for most of last night. trevor texted on new years: “happy new years, old boy.” then he called the next day and i didn’t pick up. and then something astonishing happened yesterday: the same thing that happened the day before repeated itself again. such is — happy new years — yet again — recursion — release —

i will try to forget about trevs until he begs. hopefully he won’t beg. hopefully i will forget. i do hope that later in life — when his beauty fades and his gf is long in the past — i do hope that he recognizes this (me) as a regret. i have regrets (jason, for one) — and though it doesn’t ache or shock when i think about it i can imagine the several alternative dimensions. if he has any insight, he will see what he has lost, but there is also the likelihood that he won’t see it. of one of the many outrageous and soothing of freud’s discoveries, the following certainly holds: we do not know our own desires. this is both a relief, i suppose, but it is also an index of perhaps a massive evolutionary error — or gift.

i am now at the starbucks, at the bar, wooden, at the end of the line, at the side of the mix magic drink board, there he is, dirty blond and tall with epic forearm veins — he is but 4-5 feet from me as i write. i’d like to tell him that i am writing about him but i think — since we’ve only spoken what could be described as perfunctory but nonetheless magical words between us — i think to tell him i am scripting his every brewing move for an audience of three — to reveal him to myself is perhaps: not enough. i would like him rather to stumble upon my blog entry — i find it highly unlikely that he takes more than an anti-depressant, even that seems a stretch — he could be on crazymeds for advice for his girlfriend or sister (i suspect he has a sister, he looks like he’s been tortured by women) — i thought about writing a storybook about him — experimental anti-novel, i suppose — but the wager is that he will always work here. what if he passes by or passes on? the novel would quickly turn into a predictable novel of abandonment (or possibly of search) — he is now very close, he is lifting ice, pouring it into the cup, just a sec ago he put the cap on the drink, just work, now milk, there’s tin, the cap/espresso machine, dilly dally he is wearing a rubber glove on his right hand, maybe he has some injury, would he insist on wearing a rubber glove if he insisted on fisting me? i think i would say no, no matter the covering. i had thought about my fantasy of holding hands with him the other day — i had to let that go because i began to feel faint or perhaps nearing aura or whatever the latest lingo for the tko of seizure is — it is a thrill to know that this boy performs his every move for me — i feel it — i feel it — even if feelings are just thoughts and thoughts are just thoughts and thoughts are just feelings and feelings are just feelings and doctors are just the only ones who get to know anything in our system — but there he is: lifting ice, passing trays, marking cups — for me. i wonder if i would break out in lamictal’d hives if i were to quickly grab his right hand and insist on mediation of his skin with rubber. to watch him wear a condom around his hand is almost too much for me. and then i sour when i try to imagine his penis. i have brought the haldol with me in case i become overwhelmed but i think it is so far ok — he glances, it’s all so boring and lonely — i can only imagine what his dreams in life are — i’m sure they are big, otherwise he wouldn’t be funding them with such hard work at a starbucks. he is probably in school, maybe for early childhood education — i seem to recall seeing him on a motorcycle, they all wear black these baristas, i find it unflattering, i don’t like that kind of costume, both in work, out of work, in side, or out of mind. i like color, and i like it shy.

like other baristas i haven’t blown, he has that way of playing off the drink order when announcing its completion — it’s not that he doesn’t care, that it isn’t specific, that the customer doesn’t matter — rather: this playing off is a submission to the system, gleefully resigned, happier because following orders — this is a sure-fire sign of a masochist — who, in my mind and mimesis, is the most ethical of creatures in the system, he twists the system for his own pleasure, he gets off on precisely what is prohibited because it is the authorized. i don’t recall ever breaking the rules. why bother? — when following the rules is so much more fun. but this is surely not the case for most subjects — just, for example, ask any sadist and his petty performances at your local bureaucracy — but for me, patrick with the steam and dylan with the keyboard — we are two masochists waiting to turn a system of torture into a system of ejaculation — what is required is only a minor shift in perspective, though it takes text to make a compelling tiff and it takes bait to tell a different riff — this is why i can’t tell the stories of trust fund boys and their guilty clothing —

one thing about patrick: he has no ass.

i think perhaps he doesn’t have time to work on it. he is beautiful and authentic when he doesn’t have to be — i would say that he has good parents like myself except i have recently come to question the purity of my own mother in the last forty-eight hours. but no matter — i will stay here until he goes. of course, there is the very real possibility that i won’t be able to get any work done in his presence — except this, which i do consider labor — it is good to rid myself of my apartment today, i found myself curled up and winded in my little bed so early this morning, i couldn’t concentrate on anything other than various dangerous fisting sites. i took my lamictal so late this morning — perhaps this was the issue — but i’ve also concluded that lamictal doesn’t do much for me. i wish that psychiatrists would tell patients that the meds are primitive and limited — that we would end this hype about the “state-of-the-art” and so on —

and now it becomes clear: i will apply for a job at this *bucks —

with trepidation but repetition, barista #018438