tall, dark, and french (?)

andy p, killtown, deleware —

fen phen for men men! — andy pink here, live from the south boston campus of roxbury community college —

i really can’t tell, he has that brooding quality of a dirty frenchman (i should know, i’m located in a virtual paris "en obsura") — yet, he could also easily be german (though i don’t see him as austrian, even if austria still exists). i did learn his name, finally, off of the class roster — i can’t bring myself to tell all of you, but suffice it to say that his name is the spanish version of “leopold.” leo is just quite lovely. it was almost disastrous in the gay class today — absence — and i thought that i would not bother to speak, perhaps leave early from class in the midst of a dry and unenthused lecture, give up midway, collapse to the floor, seizure and mothballs, i would never rise again. yet, suddenly, i forgot that he forgot class, i charmed myself through, variously, denouncing science, mocking evolution, and straight-up dissing all that is (ontology) as such, qua, and so on. for a lazy autumn day, my dance card was full, step and polished, perfect moves and lazy swings, hard to floor, beat to the disco, party in my pants — i made it through to my may pole — happy holidays! i have never heard his voice. i have no use for ears.

i don’t know whether i am exhausted or depressed. my mother, who has treatment-resistant depression, forever, and forever, she always, while i grew up, referred to herself as “tired” when she was likely depressed; i have probably inherited this verbal tick, and so i am probably depressed. i was so happy midweek — almost flying, but without mistakes — i stumble toward the weekend, away from the boys at sea, and i wander about the lost island, as if the treasure were buried from me.

trevor will help from 5 on, but not because he is homosexual. you might say: trevor is tall light and canadian. but then you’d know i live among the quebecois. i should note about brooklyn, ny in this time of year in lincoln, ne — boston looks especially nice from the porch of the ports of the pacific, pm.

we are down to about 70 of the hardcore fan base; i would like to ask any of you, if you have the time to comment, to please describe my writing style. my psychiatrist, who has read my fictional work, describes it as “post-apocolypic,” as if in this time in which nothing is left, there is nothing but the fallout of bugs and mice after the return of the civil wars, at this time after death all that emerges in visibility is a kind of thingness of the word, as if my words are things, that all that is left is language, perhaps even a language which only speaks about language, why? — for the reason that all bodies are dead, melted from nuclear fallout, hidden in the dirty dirt and the dusty dregs of the scorched earth of a time and a place which used to be called: earth. remember, her? she was pretty and green and gay and happy with smite. now, we forget her, words abound, things reduced, as if andy warhol had re-silkscreened the image of edie on the walls of the rivers. for those who are in fact reading this at this very moment — now — i would hope that you could take the time to comment, identify the style, either good or bad, tasteful or sour, cruel or happy, clean or evil — but i hope, do not describe it as poetic! i should hate poetry more than i hate the loss of the german frenchman, and his absence, as i write, can only remind me of a poetry about him that i refuse to write. trevor will listen to my musings, but he won’t cuddle — hold, reverse — and he will make it better because he insists on putting me to bed.

i should think that post-death writing — mortal script, it could be called — would emerge from loss, from death, the frying pan which wounds the egg, the hot butter which skittles the omelet. now, as then, my father died, i should think that my screams and wails — my various hidden loci and secret villages — such could emerge only from hanging. psychoanalysis identifies instability with the absence of the father, and i think the strange decenterment of my text indicates this loss. at the same time, as i thought of it this morning, cool heat in a sweater with a monogrammed pink triangle on it — for a moment, i thought: what is the center of this text, what is the function which holds it together, what is the word which escapes the alphabets which i am always simultaneously speaking? if word overwrites sex, then i am convinced that i am asexual, despite my bodily craves, my physical woes, and even my enjoyment of sex. but finally: i would, with warhol’s thousands of eyeglasses — i would rather gaze, look at, be in physical proximity to, close but no touch, around, near, beside, adjacent, above, below — of every preposition in the system — my eyeglasses and his eyeglasses, refusing each other’s gaze, i would confess: of tall dark and austrian. for the moment, i will wait for trevor’s call. later, i promise, i will be depressed and watch the news.

i cannot stop watching the news, the repetition is soothing, and this compulsive and insistent repetition — a kind of spectatorial and televisual ocd — it is properly of the freudian “death drive,” as the master said of it, to repeat the pain is to witness death. my post-apocolypic writing, my post-hanged cure — such is the beyond of the pleasure principle — to die, once more, yet again, not yet, already, and too late — to die, as peter pan said, will be an awfully big adventure!

9″

to comment: how would you describe these alphabets? my academic writing — of which i am now endlessly editing — is profoundly deviant from the style of this text; one might think that my philosophical verbiage would comment on this playful mortality; yet, i think it is precisely the reverse. these words are the interpretation of my academic words. as such — i will post and not but later — to wit: narcissism masturbates ink, by definition.

i recalled jean genet, the french post war gay writer, early in my series of entries. i had read “funeral rites” — not yet, have not finished — but we are reading “our lady of the flowers” for the queer studies course, for next week. dirty birdy in thirty. such is — france en obscura and the german!

to leo with love, andy pretty

postscript: i imagine that some of you might think that i use my blog as a vehicle for my narcissistic satisfaction in my textual talents. you complain: but you do not talk about your sickness, your illness, your psychical woes, your bipolar, your social anxiety disorder — your depression! you refuse to speak of your mood, your psychology, your diagnosis! such is a misreading, for — quite obviously — these alphabets are my mood, as such. would only the psychiatrist know that the dsm is bad literature! the diagnosis is poor poetry!

and, so, strange as it is: if my text is my symptom, then only you, my reader, can tell me how i feel. how do i?

a-dog