December 12, 2001
Perhaps it was the timing. Christmas came early for me this year. I think I worked myself into a seasonal froth and prematurely ejaculated all of my seasonal jissum. And now I’m finding it hard to get hard for the holidays, which isn’t like me. Some mania had me doing it too early, baking mince pies by the baker’s dozen, boiling plum puddings until I had steamed my epidermis into a ruddy ooze, combing FAO Shwarz for various godchildren and wrapping their gifts with ornate paper they will never notice, even mailing cards to people who there is a substantial chance that I will never encounter again. And now I am left with something akin to a hangover of the season as those around me are just getting up to speed. The Swiss contingent feeding us with troughs of melted cheese, friends variously taking their kids to chop down Christmas trees, doing too many drugs, having nervous breakdowns, and ordering several phyla of beasts from d’Artagnan. Me, I have this underwhelming desire to sit very still, perhaps not eat anything except for some vegetable broth, to read extensively. It seems unlikely that this will happen, there is a piglet in a box in our van, a house full of humans, and two children wielding axes in anticipation of felling their first Christmas tree. In situations like this I have come to take comfort in the retreat to the kitchen and in what one can produce there for those gathered. One can participate while being absent, contribute while not having to converse, to celebrate by doing.
December 4, 2001
I am sitting on a bench in Soho. A French woman wearing too much perfume sees the bench, some of which I am saving surreptitiously for my late date, and informs her husband that (littoral translation), “truly, there is a rarity of benches in New York.” She’s right. I momentarily resent her for stealing my date’s portion of the bench, but I have been waiting a long time and some part of me knows that his arrival will coincide with a vacancy on the bench beside me. I have been sitting there since the last gasp of late fall evening light, which brings a brief stillness before dark. I have been running errands for former super models as a favor to a friend. Do former super models run their own errands? Probably not. Nor do they sit on benches anonymously, waiting for their perpetually late date, and get to see the day turn from gilded bronze to milky tea. The bench clears of perfumed French shoppers, of art boys trumpeting articles about themselves in Art Forum, and of Southern belles asking their mothers for cash hand outs on cell phones. My late date arrives, crooked with the day and in need of a seat.
"crooked as the day," that's lovely.
hello sweetie.
xx kate in mexico
shall we try that again?: "crooked with the day," that's lovely!
i couldn't help it, a cliche just popped out instead of your words...
art thou well?
i love following your mind around via computer.
un abrazo, k xx
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Perhaps it was the timing. Christmas came early for me this year. I think I worked myself into a seasonal froth and prematurely ejaculated all of my seasonal jissum. And now I’m finding it hard to get hard for the holidays, which isn’t like me. Some mania had me doing it too early, baking mince pies by the baker’s dozen, boiling plum puddings until I had steamed my epidermis into a ruddy ooze, combing FAO Shwarz for various godchildren and wrapping their gifts with ornate paper they will never notice, even mailing cards to people who there is a substantial chance that I will never encounter again. And now I am left with something akin to a hangover of the season as those around me are just getting up to speed. The Swiss contingent feeding us with troughs of melted cheese, friends variously taking their kids to chop down Christmas trees, doing too many drugs, having nervous breakdowns, and ordering several phyla of beasts from d’Artagnan. Me, I have this underwhelming desire to sit very still, perhaps not eat anything except for some vegetable broth, to read extensively. It seems unlikely that this will happen, there is a piglet in a box in our van, a house full of humans, and two children wielding axes in anticipation of felling their first Christmas tree. In situations like this I have come to take comfort in the retreat to the kitchen and in what one can produce there for those gathered. One can participate while being absent, contribute while not having to converse, to celebrate by doing.
December 4, 2001
I am sitting on a bench in Soho. A French woman wearing too much perfume sees the bench, some of which I am saving surreptitiously for my late date, and informs her husband that (littoral translation), “truly, there is a rarity of benches in New York.” She’s right. I momentarily resent her for stealing my date’s portion of the bench, but I have been waiting a long time and some part of me knows that his arrival will coincide with a vacancy on the bench beside me. I have been sitting there since the last gasp of late fall evening light, which brings a brief stillness before dark. I have been running errands for former super models as a favor to a friend. Do former super models run their own errands? Probably not. Nor do they sit on benches anonymously, waiting for their perpetually late date, and get to see the day turn from gilded bronze to milky tea. The bench clears of perfumed French shoppers, of art boys trumpeting articles about themselves in Art Forum, and of Southern belles asking their mothers for cash hand outs on cell phones. My late date arrives, crooked with the day and in need of a seat.
- rachael 12-22-2001 7:49 pm
"crooked as the day," that's lovely. hello sweetie. xx kate in mexico
- anonymous (guest) 1-03-2002 11:27 pm [add a comment]
shall we try that again?: "crooked with the day," that's lovely! i couldn't help it, a cliche just popped out instead of your words... art thou well? i love following your mind around via computer. un abrazo, k xx
- anonymous (guest) 1-03-2002 11:30 pm [add a comment]