I feel liquid. Like I’m liquid, and the room is liquid, following my pleasure here, or displeasure; following
MY BLISS.
Even as I sat down I started thinking of an opening sentence. “Yesterday felt like a productive day with some weird feelings.” Well, it did. But I didn’t really want to start with that sentence. But there were indeed some weird feelings yesterday.
Merchant of Venice.
Those kinds of feelings? What are those kinds of feelings?
People in the dark.
Old loves.
Jealousy.
I saw Maritza yesterday. She came to meet at Miguel’s show at Lincoln Center which put me in a gushy mood. Miguel’s show was fabulous, complete fire, of course. Both the jealousy and the awe were present in me.
I stop with the sudden thought, who am I writing for? I wasn’t really writing for myself. It was like a report I was giving to my blog, dutifully submitting, to God, or to the Cat Lady author, or two my teachers at Columbia or something.
New Jersey warehouse.
Man in a courier bag making his way deeper into the subterranean tunnels – or further up the highrise ladder.
Man in a courier bag is me. The tunnels are my life. The city is New Jersey.
“The city is New Jersey, folks! We know what that’s like. We know, we know. New Jersey! Who hasn’t been – or at least heard of it? You live in New Jersey, folks! Best get used to it.”
A giant insect crawls towards the city. It is yellow with a segmented body, three round spheres, and green legs, and purple feelers, and I’m getting texts from “maybe: Nancy.” Well, Maybe Nancy: Merchant of Venice.
New Jersey. Merchant of Venice. The little Mermaid? Jealousy.
Narrative and mental cul-de-sacs. Simmering reluctance, like a cigarette smoking in an ash tray, as I sit here, a stranger to myself, a stranger to the people I meet. Including my lover, my cat, and Maritza.
An email advertisement comes in “PLAYS FOR HTE PLAGUE YEARS.”
Woh. Someone should spell check at the old Public Theater.
The music’s got me feeling like I’m in Blade Runner.
“Tell me more about that, Sam.” Says the spider in a diaper in the corner. I need a therapy session; my mind is getting fuzzy.
No. I’m pissed. I’m writing for someone else. Making account of myself, giving some kind of excuse to God, but I don’t think I need to excuse myself at all, so NO. I don’t feel good writing that way. Why am I crying now or feeling like I’m going to cry? I read everything it’s like eating junk food and filet mignon, I’m confused like Epikhodov, and I’m making an account of myself – I’m defending myself.
Well. Fuck it I don’t need to do that. Thinking, unpleasant, anger.
That’s fine. I’m an angry guy on a couch writing who keeps feeling like he needs to make account of himself. Because my policeman (not that stupid Harry Styles bull-shittery) is pointing a gun at my gut and saying “Go on, talk.”
Alright, Sam Spade. Put the dick gun down.
I won’t make an account of myself. Merchant of Venice? Walk through the darkness, near the water, while the lights of New Jersey glow on the other side. Merchant of Venice? Walk through the darkness, near the water, while the lights of New Jersey glow on the other side.
Merchant
Of
Penis?
Well. That goes without, you know, saying.
He made an account of himself. He sealed it up in an envelope, he stuck it under his chair, and he walked out into the grey day to walk along the riverside.
Didn’t he have anything to do?
Yeah. Of course he did. But he left the things he had to do. He’d made an account of himself, you see?
Yeah.
He made an account and walked. He walked by the riverside, and across the bridge, and into New Jersey. Once he got to New Jersey the buildings were huge, huge, huge, standalone, not like in Manhattan, hundreds of workers per floor it seemed. Sleeping the sleep of those who would soon take the train to Manhattan to work. He walked through forests. He walked past embankments. He’d made an account of himself.
I see.
And he walked past embankments, I don’t think you’re really understanding me.
I don’t think you’re really understanding yourself.
…
I’m not.
Well, what is it you’re trying to say? What are you trying to say?
Grey. New Jersey. Merchant of Venice.
…sorry. What?
Whut.
Whut.
Whut.
Whut.
What!
WHAT?
What are you trying to say?
Look I made an account of myself, I left it right over there.
And how did you like writing it?
I didn’t. It made me feel like a loser. Like someone at the bottom of the proverbial, offensively referenced, totem pole.
Ah.
Well I guess we both feel that way. That’s okay.
We feel a certain way today, we’ll feel a certain way tomorrow. That’s okay. Right?
NEW JERSEY.
Merchant of Venice.
Totem Pole.
You dig?
That’s okay. We’ll feel a certain way tomorrow.
Hey you two keep it down in there!
Blue Notes 