My father is home.
My mother brought him home and he's doing well. He's eating and exercising and watching television. Now that he is watching television, I know he is doing well. I am feeling relieved. He's a tough old man. I'll go down and see them in the spring.
I am feeling out of sorts today. I am not all that happy, and cheerless. I have to go to the SHOUT OUT and perform, and I left my poems home. Great. I have nothing to read. I'm late, riding the subways which go local or wait interminably long at stations. I'm tired, and cranky and would like to get on with my life. My life. Huh. What kind of life do I have?
The SHOUT OUT is tremendous. A large number of people show, twenty eight in attendance. Probably some kind of record, or close to one. During the break D2theL invites myself and OBSIDIAN with him to a gallery opening in the Fuse Gallery on 2nd avenue. After a few tokes, I'm ready to go anywhere. At the end of the SHOUT OUT we find ourselves watching the Jets/Bengals game at the bar at OTTO's Shrunken Head, and I'm knocking back shots of Jack Daniels slowly drifting into my familiar brown world. Another poet, Susan sits with us and is also invited to the gallery open. When the time is right, we hit the streets and march downtown in the cold to the Fuse Gallery and check out the artwork of Jack Walls. Poetry and photographs.
I hit the photographs first. Black and white, high contrast pictures of an interracial male couple having penetrating sex. I have to say, I wasn't prepared for that. Not that I am oblivious to sex, but this was pretty graphic and straight on sex. Then there was the sheets and sheets of calligraphy on the walls. We shoulder through the crowds with D2theL who introduces me to Mr. Walls, sitting in a huge chair at the end of the gallery. A very nice gentleman, very unassuming. Then I gravitate over to OBSIDIAN and Susan and the four of us find that we are standing right next to Patti Smith, dressed in a long, dark trench coat and pull over hat. OBSIDIAN greets her and she turns around to talk to us, and for the first time I noticed her eyes. One looked East, while the other looked West. Neither of them focused on us. Could she actually see us?
From the Gallery, we decided to go to Coyote Ugly to watch bartenders dance on the bar, but could not find it in the cold and instead headed to the Nightingale Lounge. Once there we drink again, bullshit and Susan gets restless and wants to go to another bar. Sure, what did we care. We did a doobie on the way there and had a few beers at this new bar until late and broke for home, leaving Susan at the bar. We headed to the L train, and then I headed on up on the 3 train, making it home about one in the morning. I was about to write this blog, but grew tired and crawled into bed, passing out from all of the opiates in my body.
I get up in the morning and feel pretty good. Not very hung over, not high. Today is a low energy day, I write a few emails, set up my social calendar a little, wonder about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I feel adrift in a raging sea. Lost with no direction. I want to be doing something, working towards something. I am doing nothing. My future, uncertain.
I get depressed again, so I head out and get a fat bottle of wine, and a long 12inch subway sandwich. By the nighttime I'm blasted, and sitting in my chair, face in the Internet barely holding onto consciousness and shortly crawl into bed and drift off until midnight. I'm up once again, jumping behind the computer, noticing a few of my friends had popped up on IM while I slept. They were gone now.
I stay up for a little while longer, read this, surf to that, and then bore with my life and crawl back into bed.
Goodnight.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2010/01/is-life-more-than-sex.html
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