I started writing again! I spent the day talking and talking about what I "planned" my next piece to be. I knew it would be prose, in sections, in voices, that it would be a confusion of the self. In some ways I don't always know who I am. Sometimes I'm him. Sometimes I think I could have been him. This is in the poem, which came out like a long roll of paper unfurling from my lips. The more I wrote the faster I wrote. It became a heated exchange.
I'm outraged when people wear those shirts that say, "I wish I knew how to quit you." It's printed in some wacky, trend-o-rama font. I want to tear them off their bodies, even gay boys who wear them. If you own this shirt, throw it away. When you wear it, it means you have no soul. It means you've learned nothing from all of this.
I've noticed that Brokeback fever seems to be waning. I no longer hear people tacking "brokeback" onto anything anymore. I'm glad. People have moved on to new things like silent births and who's got the preggers. After all, if it weren't for straight people, we'd have a lot fewer queers in the world. Thank you, heterosexuals!
Your phone call made my day—your news was the bright spot in an otherwise horrifying month. I'm happy for you. And jealous? If I were another man I'd want you for myself.
Thanks for the well-wishes on Living Things. I'm proud of this work. The encouragement I receive through this blog matters to me.
I channeled Veronica Mars this weekend and engaged in a ritual cleaning of my space: my desk, my pen tray, my dresser. When you take everything out and put it back in again. Veronica calls this "textbook." It signifies a desire to regain control of the world around you.
Tomorrow is the season finale of Veronica Mars. Don't bother calling between 8 pm and 9 pm. It's like I won't even exist.