…be dissolute, be despotic, be an anarchist, be a suffragette, be anything you like, but for pity’s sake be it to the top of your bent… Let’s live, you and I, as none have ever lived before.” ~ Violet Trefusis to her lover Vita Sackville-West (who never did leave her husband) (early 20th century), quoted in Janet E. Hardy’s book, ‘GirlFag’.
A man says in a Spanish accent that he’s closing the window beside me and I say,
“It’s going to rain?”
Disbelieving, liking the air untill yes it’s pouring.
Sitting under a coat rack in the corner, our legs intertwined.
His best friends girlfriend keeps calling me his girlfriend,
loudly and giggling.
“Not girlfriend!” I say from under the coat rack.
He’s sticking his hands in through the rips in my jeans,
we are high on MDMA.
A black capsule split in the bathroom,
he wrapped it in toilet paper.
I made a face,
asking does this actually work?
I swallowed it anyway since he’s been doing drugs for like as long as I’ve been alive.
“Would you like a bump?” Asked another,
the kind of aquaintance I haven’t known how to bond with previously and I hesitated,
“Oh…,” he said, “I dunno, I’m just trying to be nice.”
So I did two off my triangle tattoo because why not and this is how to make friends.
Then I met a guy who looks like Nickelback and we did a bump together too.
Then he stalked me all night like a fucking softcore Canadian nightmare.
Standing way too close, staring, following.
As if I owe him sex for a sniff of Coke.
Haunted by his terrible haircut,
lurking in the shadows of the shadow loft.
So I crawl under the coat rack,
digging in my bag for my soggy gum.
I need three pieces to save the skin inside my cheeks.
And we watch as he lurks at the bar,
watching us be watched.
His best friends girlfriend keeps slipping us free vodka drinks.
We watch super models hullucinate and I rant about friendships.
Beside the bar,
under the coat rack,
he says, “Not girlfirend!”
His eyes coaxing and scanning my face like the first time,
when he was the stalk-y one.
“She’s just teasing us.
You do whatever you want,
I’m just happy to spend time with you.”
And I smiled the smile I feel for being so happy to hear men say that.
And the spanish man with a cigerette in his mouth and a coffee in his hand,
slides back open my cafe window.
Even though it’s still raining,
the wind has softened and the storm has passed.
We exchange smiles and I say, “Thanks.”
Watching his laptop screen from beneath a fuzzy tiger printed blanket in the dark, I waited for the words he typed to translate properly under the box labled “english”.
“I like you and I want to know you more.”
The box told me, and I nodded a thank you. I had understood his words the first 17 times he’d said them aloud in french, but perhaps because my reaction was not what he wanted he thought that I hadn’t.
Although, I was quite struck by their simplicity when translated in a basic terms, thinking that most relationships would probably be easier if we all used similar translation tools, especially for those of us that pretend to speak the same language.
I love when you meet for brunch and you haven’t been home yet.
I love that messy space between happiness and comfort.
That messy space before you’d had time to collect yoursel, to process your actions and experiences and all of the new people in your life as of last night.
Space before you’ve had the time or energy to put on good face, to remember who you’re supposed to be and what your insecurities are, when your groggy, hungover, giddy and greasy. Before you remember how to be yourself and so instead are so much more.
The possibilities streatch and expand you, the laughter tumbles like a nervous boy stutters when talking to a beautiful girl and connections are made deep, below the surface of expectations and reputations. You are weaker in manyways but vulnerability is a wise monster, and vulnerability is the key to making real friends, and vulnerability is essential to growth and change and discovery.
I’ve been internet shopping for an apartment in Montreal for weeks and it feels almost like I’m internet dating with a home for the next part of my life and it makes me wonder, how anyone can stand to internet date (for real) at all, because love to me is all in the instincts, the feelings, the quirks, and these things are terribly hard to read through a screen, but even in between the negotiations of how much I’m willing to pay and what neighborhood I’ll be in and if they like cats, I have been able to find a few places thats character and charm speaks to me (and some I even yearn for) but then it’s all ‘well they haven’t called me back…’ and ‘someone got to them right before me…’ and ‘well, maybe I only liked them because I was drunk…’.
And in my (possibly foolish, unrealistic, unpractical and idealist) romantic ways, I’d like to believe that there’s an apartment out there (with all requirements met) that’ll be perfect for me(and my roommate) and exactly what I need right now, and that when it works out it’ll feel natural and comforting, and that maybe that’s possible within the next week? Yikes!
Home hunting feels like dating because it’s all like a delicate dance of mutual desire.
He seemed lovely and we had a lot of fun dancing and he’s a photo-journalist who’ll be interning at Vice. So these are all excellent qualities, and we smoked cigarettes outside and he was friends with everybody and… continued here.
kissing older boys in cold cars.
the pigeons are falling and the sky closely follows.
these unfinished stories.
anniversary of awkward.
season of spilling.
get me more wine.
holidays are for encounters.
our breath in all the hair.
butter, coffee, chocolate, sugar, salt.
how it tastes to be twenty.
“she knows lost.”
wine and laundry.
the summer of lost boys.
spin gold from this.
“please wait in line and take a number.”
riding the train of circumstance.
“who is that creature?”
the way his glasses match his underwear.
teach me your ways of disconnect.
radiance derived from absence.
daily grind erodding heart.
I have been known to love you.
kissing, biting, breathing, humping.
“I heard you giggling in the morning.”
knowing exactly where my fingers go.
almost, almost everytime.
like children playing house.
this is called flirting.
film to finger, four eyes to mine.
blood wine drank.
The shape of his face.
all forbidden all the time.
why be jealous boy.
intellectuals just give better head.
feeling like a deep breath, so full.
this home swaying.
painting ceilings gold.
noticing the patterns of mornings.
antique mall mondays.
Slow and small and soft.
the sounds that adults make.
Lip biting. Neck biting. Hair biting.
first kisses only after fondles.
adolescent pile up.
the habit of anticipation.
cascading in consequence.
conversations smart like sparks but needing foundations.
soon lost in imagery.
“you look like a painting” she said. colorful and coloring.
I don’t know how to dress.
dreamt of silicone statues and tafeta.
dreaming of handfulls filled with skin.