25 • Broadstone
yes words ah words yes, for you I’ll pile them up, all of them, or at least just enough, my unsuspecting everything, so we can have the wherewithal together to pretend that such an accumulation could contain more than trace elements of myself to extract, despite the mess and the sorry evidence that I’ve somehow contrived to waste or misplace the best part of this precious ore, yes, spilling it far and wide, so that only an artist of some reach, bless him, and potency, and depth, could possibly gather me up again—the fact that I can’t quite think of you (or anybody else for that matter) as such a prodigy (at least not yet…) notwithstanding, and always provided that I’ve never though of you too categorically, since it turns out I can be dismayingly fickle, vague, and unhappily lacking in moral fiber, and since it seems as well that whatever I do endeavor is condemned forever to remain tentative hopeless feral unfixed equivocal, I really would lower my expectations at least by 71.8%, as they would only get in the way of whatever could be, and I mean of course one of us will inevitably pull out, and capriciously revoke some solemn commitment or another, because the sudden need to try something, you know, anything else will inevitably appear inevitable, and indeed I have always found it easier to just start over, as witness the figurative wastebasket of my young life filled already to the brim with aborted drafts and dead-end improvisations and cravenly abandoned initiatives and sundry existential adumbrations I’ve condemned—many of them undeserving of such a deplorable fate—yes, because the difficulty always lies in dutifully following through, doughty and sun-kissed and trusting in the Lord’s providence, like a worthy soldier of hope and infatuation, ah, like a dogged pugilist of tenderness and devotion, but also alas one exposed to misadventure, as a bald—as indeed an intractable—fact, such that at any moment one might be led to encounter some definitive boundary to one’s power, yes, to one’s radiant reach, yes, and to curtail whatever’s left of one’s carefully preserved childish illusion of omnipotence, and to spoil the consoling mirage of freedom in the distance simply, my heart, unavoidably to tumble against some clear, oh boringly factual limit that might make one smaller, dispiritingly sublunary, yes and vulnerable (can I get a witness?), so that, unfortunately I do tarry, but so wish someone would bother to try to change my mind, a true romantic if I’m lucky, yes, who for the sake of me would even go so far as to gladly perish in his valiant attempt to lead me away from my abeyance, yes, and let me out of my carefully cultivated garden of strange unrealized flowers, yes yes yes and such longing yes forever yes! yes! to dispel
What I’m doing with my life
Playing for time
I’m really good at
Waffling, hesitating, equivocating, reading large books, eating small fruit, saying very rude things, baking delicious blueberry muffins, initiating dangerously unpredictable and emotionally charged conversations, getting a nearly perfect tone on the guitar, performing inspired oral sex, weaving elaborate webs of self-deception
The first thing people usually notice about me
Good skin, a winning smile, a swan-like neck (too bad about the butterface and the smallish tits)
Favorite books, movies, shows, music and food
The Cat in the Hat, Max Richter, Guacamole, The Ambassadors, The Phenomenology of Spirit (the movie), Clarice Bean Spells Trouble, Ariel, Comet in Moominland, Francis Bacon triptychs, Adam Curtis documentaries, The Dave Matthews Band (provided all the songs be played at one tenth of the normal speed, thus revealing their true nature as the elevator music that plays on quiet afternoons in the section of hell built out of wet dreams, angry disappointment, and Jell-O)
The six things I could never do without
A flamethrower, coconut macaroons, tap-dancing shoes, my favorite laxative, the “big grin” collectible cookie jars I keep my Barbie dolls imprisoned in
I spend a lot of time thinking about
2) Why some bad smells can be both terribly repulsive and nevertheless somehow imperatively intriguing;
3) The extent to which both very wealthy people (taken collectively) and conceptual art (as a cultural initiative) suck shit, and
4) The extent to which these two feculent variables are interdependent.
On a typical Friday night I am
Oblivious, but (mostly) charming
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I am an honest liar.
You should message me if
You are not a murderer, and pistachio ice-cream makes your heart sing.