Wednesday, July 23, 2008

memory is a fickle siren song

oh, sweet, merciful christ.

I'm in such a pickle, but I can't think of the last time I wasn't fervently trying to make relish. when was the last time I wasn't managing a disaster? when weren't kosher sandwich slices of zesty misadventures assailing me with clammy, green passion, a passion that steadily builds and grows like an epic concerto conducted by an unrelenting deli maestro? I suppose I've always had a knack for manifesting unusual situations and wacky, once-in-a-lifetime, cinematic undertakings that give me material for my writing. it's uncannily reliable.

sunday night with my best friend at a gay bar suddenly becomes moonlighting as an art student from LES new york, leisurely relaxing in a penthouse suite on the top floor of the westin st. francis, surrounded by original picassos and two homosexual vintage san francisco socialites with an affinity for nose candy, persian cats, and kate moss's plastic surgeon. a birthday party at the clift turns into a hyphy phenomenon and when we're kicked out at three am, tripping over a veritable sea of empty bottles of korbel, we're singing as we're being manhandled by security into a misty tenderloin morning holding hands and twirling through the gutters in our evening gowns. everyone else's blockbuster nights are my precious gems of spontaneous and fantastic magic that I collect for my jewelry box of shocking tales. every corner in this city has a story, every day that I choose not to waste has the potential for extraordinary excavation. I claim these things with as little ego as possible, because I believe that these spectacles (wonderful and heartbreaking, respectfully) find me just as often as I seek them out.

what is the point of being satisfied with anything unremarkable? I don't go on dinner dates, I fall in love with my roommate. I don't eat peanut butter and jelly, I order a super al pastor burrito with extra cheese and black beans on a tomato tortilla. I want to live the shit out of my life, because I know all too well and have been taught all too painfully, you never know how long you've got. you could get cancer. (hell, I did.) you could go to a party with friends, have a fantastic time, and then never wake up. (jorge did.) you could jaywalk on mission street and get hit by a semi-truck. (I actually have never known anyone who pulled that one off.)

jon's father passed away last week and I've never felt so desperate to take care of someone in my life. I wanted to jump on a plane, flee to his side, wrap him up and hold him, keep him safe and take the pain and fix everything. unfortunately, none of the aforementioned rescue techniques could be executed, for several reasons not only limited to proximity and the nature of the source of emotional ruin. I couldn't bring his dad back. I love him, but I can't put us back together. but, oh god, how I wanted to. when he came home to pack for an extended stay down south with his bereaved family, watching him leave again felt like chewing blown glass christmas ornaments. my heart broke seventeen times. (give or take.) afterwards I laid in bed for hours, completely immobilized by sadness, listening to the sounds of our empty treehouse. there are so many things to mourn, and I can take those feelings and really iron them out, let them coarse through my veins and leave permanent traces like a tattoo. I thought to myself of a response to jon's querying my transparently sad eyes, months ago, and it's simply that some feelings never go away. I can't un-feel falling in love, just as I can't un-feel the loss of it. I can't un-feel constance. this relationship has swung to both ends of the spectrum just as everything else in my life has, there are highs and lows and I carry them with me with pride. I don't regret anything about the ballad of jonstina. we are real and flawed and human and beautiful, and also doomed. we've moved beyond beating the dead horse and now we're just hanging out at the glue factory.

the time for me to take my leave from treehouse is looming, but I'll look at it head on. a new chapter is on the horizon, maybe even an entirely new book that promises hundreds of crisp, blank pages, eagerly awaiting to be filled with san francisco fairytales and a tragedy or two.


lydia.white said...

LCD Soundsystem "All my Friends"

That’s how it starts
We go back to your house
We check the charts
And start to figure it out

And if it’s crowded, all the better
Because we know we’re gonna be up late
But if you’re worried about the weather
Then you picked the wrong place to stay
That’s how it starts

And so it starts
You switch the engine on
We set controls for the heart of the sun
one of the ways we show our age

And if the sun comes up, if the sun comes up, if the sun comes up
And I still don’t wanna stagger home
Then it’s the memory of our betters
That are keeping us on our feet

You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan
And the next five years trying to be with your friends again

You’re talking 45 turns just as fast as you can
Teah, I know it gets tired, but it’s better when we pretend

It comes apart
The way it does in bad films
Except in parts
When the moral kicks in

Though when we’re running out of the drugs
And the conversation’s winding away
I wouldn’t trade one stupid decision
For another five years of lies

You drop the first ten years just as fast as you can
And the next ten people who are trying to be polite
When you’re blowing eighty-five days in the middle of France
Yeah, I know it gets tired only where are your friends tonight?

And to tell the truth
Oh, this could be the last time
So here we go
Like a sales force into the night

And if I made a fool, if I made a fool, if I made a fool
on the road, there’s always this
And if I’m sewn into submission
I can still come home to this

And with a face like a dad and a laughable stand
You can sleep on the plane or review what you said
When you’re drunk and the kids leave impossible tasks
You think over and over, “hey, I’m finally dead.”

Oh, if the trip and the plan come apart in your hand
Tou look contorted on yourself your ridiculous prop
You forgot what you meant when you read what you said
And you always knew you were tired, but then
Where are your friends tonight?

Where are your friends tonight?
Where are your friends tonight?

If I could see all my friends tonight

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