E,
I don't know what the desert has done to you really, but I find it like a breath of fresh air compared to the "it's all well and in good-order" types of boohoo it's-just-business-babe so please blow-me-on-my-birthday Bobs and Bills I'm surrounded by in the city. There's only really one city, the rest are metropolitan, they're like New York themed cocktails. I find myself using words like civic and municipal. I think it's something to do with that big buck altitude high, some air born cloud-9 complex born from a lot of time spent looking down on people (I don't feel guilty for killing ants). I would blame them if I didn't get the same sick, green-paper kick in the gut everymorning from my fat boss. They way you talk now, E, makes me think you've forgotten quite a lot, and I envy you for it. When we were younger I kind of had the idea that you'd be making fake-phone calls in the swivel chair and I'd be somewhere hot hissing at rattlesnakes and whatever other animal sounds you've been making out there. But even on its worst days I find myself, dick in hand, jerking it and thanking the fouled pavement for swallowing and smiling after all of this gummy white "love". I imagine one day some wretched sewer drenched, money grubbing infant will make its way through the gutter and into my warm, compliant arms. 6am Fog hovers cold and impolite. I am a fake! A wound-up figment of my own abandoned fantasies... drinking champagne on a yacht with seven lucky Brazilians...my mind wanders to fleshier things. When love seems no better than vertigo, and is even less classifiable (as what, a phobia? Some boring medical term, or worse, a therapist's "thoughtful" diagnosis??), I sit there generously sweating, squeezing ego-shot blood from my forearms. I want a lot more to come out but I'm a coward. I sit and rot amongst my neat set of contrived dichotomies and catalogues with robotic alarm clocks and one thin stack of cheating porn. In my dream I wake up to my hot alarm-clock wife talking in rain sounds that progress into ambulance sirens, saying she loves me, that she'll fuck me, that I should throw that porn away because she's here now in perfect punctual titanium glory. I wake up from the dream turned on in a fanatic rush.
I have an ancient confidence that lies in my foundation, a dirty blend of emerald and pale skin, beat-up bits that pressed together, compacted over centuries, have left me in this marked up eternal state. I am wound up so tight I see double; I see into a past that never happened.
I think I'll come visit in May.
Yours,
S