penis, and on the agenda

andy pink, fort meyers, fla —

heavens to trevor — it's on the lever, warm — !

three nights ago — a three dog night — three nights ago, i admitted myself and submitted thyself to the er at st e's for evaluation — would she take "doesn't feel safe" for a proper answer — the physician's assistant, older, decrepit, scared, fearful, mouse that she was, with runny eyeglasses and thinning hair, here in hair she was to help me — evidently: a massive idiot — i told her: my appetite had been low to moderate (quickly corrected last night on chinese and ben and j at home), to the er at st e, after patrick, after trevor, after a day of missed appointments, triggered paranoid delusions, improperly coded and decoded and recoded messages, envelopes not letters sent and received, love, of the racing thoughts and the heart palpitations, endless nights of the past and infinite mornings of the future, exiled afternoons, and forgone rounds on the floor — with patrick, without trevor, jason, james, and even wonder boy, erik, showed up — here i am at the er, with my tap a tap keyboard, twice in two weeks, both to be the responsibility of: patrick, the disaster.

the closer i get to him, the further apart we are. the further i fall away — save face, that is evident in my previous and deleted posts to the fact sheet — i felt, after those posts, 90 seconds afterward, straight to the er, do not pass start, it has already begun, mes amis, mon brother of another frere.

i had thought: what better than to leave the notes up for evidentiary and pedagogical purposes? — what, we could learn a lot about you, me, and trevor — right here, there — on the tap a tap of the keyboard, swollen lips, bruised testicles, and the blue balls that only man can inflict on himself in the time of wealth management and the military industrial oedipus complex. but: in rationality, in coherence, i will try to explain the previous two posts — which scared off jason for sure, a tiny mind in a tiny body — a teensy weensy mouse against the ferocity of the lion that roars, here and there — here: an explanation, not that any of you deserve one:

the two previous posts assumed that i wanted to marry patrick — who i do not know except for his tussled, dirty, blond, and oiled hair — but also, too, the assumption that i would want to be married, the heteronormative contract and one story that american has invented: you grow up, get married, and have kids. i have certainly grown up — i am the oldest soul on the www — but i will not relinquish the gift that my homosexuality has thrust upon me: the invitation to not get married and to not have kids. i am a specially marked package, for sure, and it will return to sender, but to the original articulator of the culture which sends his sweet lads off to abjure the scenes of pleasure and joy with the mother and the penis for the ego-ideal identification with the father, the private property of the penis, and to the american fable that otherwise grants permission to me to escape from it: grow up, get married, and have kids — the heteronormativity of reproductive futurity to which i am forever excluded, happily, in my dirty bachelorhood and my swollen penis at the tips of the clouds — do not rain yet — hold in your ooze — ! —

these issues are related: first, to time travel and the paradox of "love at first sight," as kylie sings on this website, and two, to heteronormativity and the one fable that America has invented: grow up, get married, and have kids. in the midst of writing those two previous posts — most exclusively to patrick but to all the boys, trevor, chris, jason, and the rest — i was instructed to go to the er by my psychiatrist — his mailbox was saturated with my ravings of various names — lists, really — of people and institutions who were orchestrating my wedding to patrick (et al). Also of note here is that this is now the fourth time — third was a charm — this is now the fourth time in my career with manic delusion and boys in the gas chamber that i have schizoidly concocted stories of my wedding, that i have endured delusions and hallucinations about my own wedding: why is the wedding — as an institution, as a ritual — a cause and effect for me, psychically? why is the wedding the nadir and apex of my psychical traumatic response to my homosexuality and the injustices of lockheed martin (et al)?

what is the lack or castration which is sutured by the delusional constructions of my own wedding — with patrick, or not?

i can only properly return to the issue of the two previous posts — now erased out of chagrin — only after an excursus on the different mediations of practices of love and practices of falling in love; the two are distinct — practices of love and practices of the fall — but there is certainly an overlap but, crucially, there should, or would, be a temporal delay or displacement between the two modalities and temporalities of practices of love and the practices of the fall, from like to love —

as any cursory or hasty interpretation of my text on this website would conclude — in-between patrick committed to haste or myth, I don't know — it is clear on this website that I fall in love, as it is proposed by kylie, on the sight at this site before the boys, blaring to those who have the volume pumped on their macbook airs of heirs of cares — that i fall in love at first sight, indexed, clearly, to the many boys that i am still in love with from my past, present, and surely into the future. the boys i think about, meditation and extrospection, the fleeting recurrences of a castration — that something is rightfully missing and i can only suture the gap with the fantasmatic constructions of an acutely delusional mind with the ramparts and rifts of those who can elevate the scrap (e.g. patrick et al) to the dignity of the imagined utopia of the future philosopher, his self, who chases the truth only because it is already jammed down his throat, blood and cum, gustaf and tall blond and hung — down the throat — still circling, encircling, decircling — here, right here, remember him — ? — he's right on this site in sight of love at first sight thankfully out of sight —

but it is this "love at first sight" that i felt for patrick — instantly — without a word — instantly — without a feel — instantly — with a joe and a bag, sloshing the coffee, browning the biscuits — here: at the harvard starbucks. woe — it has been three years since love at first sight — kylie, who knew — who knew? — it was love at first sight —

i discovered him before he discovered himself, had touched himself there was i, quietly touching him, in his sleep, with his torso, and erect posture, castrated because he cannot quite admit: i too am gay, master, i too will be owned, and, given that everybody is owned, there is no ownership in the system: only the owned. i will own him, and i already do, he must feel secure to know that his responsibility, obligation, rights, privileges, wrongs, rights, retributions, punishments — all have been undone, stolen as a gift, from andy, who will own him and tear him from his sorry subjectivity, left to be the glorious, shining object that he is — andy's —

i rediscovered the "love at first sight" at the allston store 2 years later — but this rediscovery was precisely a re — a reborn anew of what had already been committed: "love at first sight." we can presume that this is a cliche of a desperate and unloved socius, but not so: there is a reason such cliches enter the cultural paradigm, the movie scripts, and the alternative flicks at kendall and coolidge — it is a story that america has not yet told itself: you fall in love at first sight — without growing up, without getting married, and without having kids. kylie falls in love, the cliche beckons an alternative future, outside of reproductive futurity, outside of heteronormativity, outside of the story the politicians scream but do not live — the outside —

to a bit later, the agenda and the vagina,

andy pink