Ian Curtis Bedwetting
Twenty hours left at Burger King. Christ I hope I'm done with fast food. Then again, anyone who's read any of my blogs, for any time, knows that I treat moving as the cure for life, without any significant change.
My first "partner", though that register is wrong, was trans., on T, without anyone other than me, and the guy who gave him T, not even his mother, knowing. The language of being a faggot seems to be an issue of prepositions. A man we called Grandma, in BAGLY, said, when I was 13, to Zach, a month before his mother sent him to the hospital, and a month and ten days before he killed himself: "You're gonna get a hard on that wont ever go down and you will want to get off constantly and will rub your dick on everything." There's some intense symbolism in all those prepositions ... there was a line in the L Word (shut up) that was insanely similar to that, which reminded me of Grandma.
Theis and I looked at houses we could buy on Ebay. It won't happen, I'm sure. But we found a beautiful house in North Carolina that was destroyed, and had vines growing through all the windows. Actually, it was a piece of shit, but beautiful in terms of how it fit into the symbolism that I can't escape, which is the only reason I'm leaving to get away from this symbolism that I've connected to the Northeast.
There's a fucking formative relationship for you. My mother kicked him, Zach, that is, out of my house: "That girl means to hurt you!" my mother said, sounding like a Western movie. She never uses 'Irish language'. She never says 'yer man', 'ye', or anything like that, however stage it sounds.
Grandma wore an brown shawl that literally hugged him, not like some literary metaphor "his shawl embraced his bony shoulders" or some bollocks he'd knitted the thing to be thicker and more weighty at his neck to feel like a hug, because it had been so long since he could remember actually the thing itself. He had a mustache, and looked fucking glamorous as hell, because of how he walked, and talked, and fucking hell, just who he was. I loved him, Zach, at thirteen. I think I got Grandma a Charleston Chew or something like that when I first met him, from the corner store, on Beacon Hill, that night, before Zach and I got the train home. Grandma had AIDS and was about to die, though I didn't know that until I got the email, a bit later, which cuts down on the 'gay drama' a bit.
|My mother fell into a fucking strong brogue when she kicked Zach out of my bed. I swear to anything, she said "Jesus Mary and Joseph" in the strongest Dublin accent, when she opened the door. It was fucking odd. This was also the first year I had been living with my dad, and not with my mother. One of my first memories of living with my father, that year, away from my mother, the year I met Zach, was my father saying to his friend, while we all sat around the little black iron table he had installed into his living room, that he would fuck Deana Troy, the psychologist on Star Trek. I remember his using the word "fantasy" and my adoration of alliteration wants me to say "fantasy fuck", though I'm pretty sure he didn't' say that.
I think the Irish that have moved to America, that is, those that aren't green trash, try and get rid of the Irish in them as soon as they get here, to not just be "Irish Emigrants", in the same way that the Irish-Americans say things with reference to Mary and spell things with extra "U"s. With my mom (sorry "mum") it was always about class, which I never, and still cannot understand. I try and put it into the terms of that most brilliant of essays, Derrida's "Postscript on the Society of Control", and it's still confounded by issues of race ("But the Irish aren't like, a separate race ! ?) . With my "mum" it had to do with the fact that my Dado was an architect and my mother's family had money, in Greystones, in Dublin, and though she was kicked out of her department in Bristol, she was told by her favorite prof., for being Irish, and for lack of funding she was the easiest to axe, she still felt that if she had a rich enough family she would have made it and when I was a kid, before 14, she couldn't' make friends with my friends' parents because they were so utterly poor.
He, my dad, and his friend, Steve, a horrible person, drank T&Ts and I, a Jolt, while they talked about Deana Troy. I, a fourteen year old nerd, immediately went online to look for her naked. I found clips from some film where she was raped by a group of, what I remember as only barbarians, though, I admit, that could be painted over by second wave feminism. They had clothes that barely met the definition, and beards. I remember her pretending to like it to 'one up' them so they would not have that pleasure. I wish I could remember the premise of the movie so I could get the "barbarian" thing out of my head.
I came home to visit my mother and introduce Zach to my childhood friends Aaron and Angela. It was all so awkward, patterns of friend having to readjust to a new person, and a strange new person at that. Fucking hell, I'd give so much to not have to remember that weekend. I remember, before we slept together, walking down this really cold road, with all the white grit that the polystyrene plant made, to someone's house with Zach. and he told me that he wanted to make sure he looked male enough, that he wanted to pass. Later, I mean years alter, Aaron and I talked about it as if it were a prank. I'm a master of excuses for my life like location to be to blame.
I went to the biggest gay bar in Vermont one weekend, with my utterly straight, and rather gay-hatin' girlfriend, and a wicked gay friend of mine, whom I adored. A man in a fedora with a terribly un-matching tie, was giving me shit for not dancing properly to "Sinorita", you know, by Justin Timberlake: a song which I knew, and utterly loved, and love, and know, to my core. I remember my excuse was a joke about rejecting my heritage.
Zach faded away over a Christmas when his mother sent him to a psychiatric hospital and he told me to hack into the computer to fuck with them. Not get him out, just to fuck with the people who had control over him. I adored that. He just stopped calling me, and the phone couldn't get incoming calls. He got out and was around town. Something other than the obvious had changed while he was inside and it didn't make sense to either of us to keep 'being together' when he got out. He was still around town, making sort of a fool of himself. One December I got a postcard from his mother telling me "she killed herself in another hospital".
I remembered the joke just now, but not really a joke, because jokes are funny, and this is just stupid: the Irish only dance below the knees, and I only dance above the shoulders, it's a matter of rejecting my heritage.
Twenty hours left at Burger King. Christ I hope I'm done with fast food. Then again, anyone who's read any of my blogs, for any time, knows that I treat moving as the cure for life, without any significant change.
My first "partner", though that register is wrong, was trans., on T, without anyone other than me, and the guy who gave him T, not even his mother, knowing. The language of being a faggot seems to be an issue of prepositions. A man we called Grandma, in BAGLY, said, when I was 13, to Zach, a month before his mother sent him to the hospital, and a month and ten days before he killed himself: "You're gonna get a hard on that wont ever go down and you will want to get off constantly and will rub your dick on everything." There's some intense symbolism in all those prepositions ... there was a line in the L Word (shut up) that was insanely similar to that, which reminded me of Grandma.
Theis and I looked at houses we could buy on Ebay. It won't happen, I'm sure. But we found a beautiful house in North Carolina that was destroyed, and had vines growing through all the windows. Actually, it was a piece of shit, but beautiful in terms of how it fit into the symbolism that I can't escape, which is the only reason I'm leaving to get away from this symbolism that I've connected to the Northeast.
There's a fucking formative relationship for you. My mother kicked him, Zach, that is, out of my house: "That girl means to hurt you!" my mother said, sounding like a Western movie. She never uses 'Irish language'. She never says 'yer man', 'ye', or anything like that, however stage it sounds.
Grandma wore an brown shawl that literally hugged him, not like some literary metaphor "his shawl embraced his bony shoulders" or some bollocks he'd knitted the thing to be thicker and more weighty at his neck to feel like a hug, because it had been so long since he could remember actually the thing itself. He had a mustache, and looked fucking glamorous as hell, because of how he walked, and talked, and fucking hell, just who he was. I loved him, Zach, at thirteen. I think I got Grandma a Charleston Chew or something like that when I first met him, from the corner store, on Beacon Hill, that night, before Zach and I got the train home. Grandma had AIDS and was about to die, though I didn't know that until I got the email, a bit later, which cuts down on the 'gay drama' a bit.
|My mother fell into a fucking strong brogue when she kicked Zach out of my bed. I swear to anything, she said "Jesus Mary and Joseph" in the strongest Dublin accent, when she opened the door. It was fucking odd. This was also the first year I had been living with my dad, and not with my mother. One of my first memories of living with my father, that year, away from my mother, the year I met Zach, was my father saying to his friend, while we all sat around the little black iron table he had installed into his living room, that he would fuck Deana Troy, the psychologist on Star Trek. I remember his using the word "fantasy" and my adoration of alliteration wants me to say "fantasy fuck", though I'm pretty sure he didn't' say that.
I think the Irish that have moved to America, that is, those that aren't green trash, try and get rid of the Irish in them as soon as they get here, to not just be "Irish Emigrants", in the same way that the Irish-Americans say things with reference to Mary and spell things with extra "U"s. With my mom (sorry "mum") it was always about class, which I never, and still cannot understand. I try and put it into the terms of that most brilliant of essays, Derrida's "Postscript on the Society of Control", and it's still confounded by issues of race ("But the Irish aren't like, a separate race ! ?) . With my "mum" it had to do with the fact that my Dado was an architect and my mother's family had money, in Greystones, in Dublin, and though she was kicked out of her department in Bristol, she was told by her favorite prof., for being Irish, and for lack of funding she was the easiest to axe, she still felt that if she had a rich enough family she would have made it and when I was a kid, before 14, she couldn't' make friends with my friends' parents because they were so utterly poor.
He, my dad, and his friend, Steve, a horrible person, drank T&Ts and I, a Jolt, while they talked about Deana Troy. I, a fourteen year old nerd, immediately went online to look for her naked. I found clips from some film where she was raped by a group of, what I remember as only barbarians, though, I admit, that could be painted over by second wave feminism. They had clothes that barely met the definition, and beards. I remember her pretending to like it to 'one up' them so they would not have that pleasure. I wish I could remember the premise of the movie so I could get the "barbarian" thing out of my head.
I came home to visit my mother and introduce Zach to my childhood friends Aaron and Angela. It was all so awkward, patterns of friend having to readjust to a new person, and a strange new person at that. Fucking hell, I'd give so much to not have to remember that weekend. I remember, before we slept together, walking down this really cold road, with all the white grit that the polystyrene plant made, to someone's house with Zach. and he told me that he wanted to make sure he looked male enough, that he wanted to pass. Later, I mean years alter, Aaron and I talked about it as if it were a prank. I'm a master of excuses for my life like location to be to blame.
I went to the biggest gay bar in Vermont one weekend, with my utterly straight, and rather gay-hatin' girlfriend, and a wicked gay friend of mine, whom I adored. A man in a fedora with a terribly un-matching tie, was giving me shit for not dancing properly to "Sinorita", you know, by Justin Timberlake: a song which I knew, and utterly loved, and love, and know, to my core. I remember my excuse was a joke about rejecting my heritage.
Zach faded away over a Christmas when his mother sent him to a psychiatric hospital and he told me to hack into the computer to fuck with them. Not get him out, just to fuck with the people who had control over him. I adored that. He just stopped calling me, and the phone couldn't get incoming calls. He got out and was around town. Something other than the obvious had changed while he was inside and it didn't make sense to either of us to keep 'being together' when he got out. He was still around town, making sort of a fool of himself. One December I got a postcard from his mother telling me "she killed herself in another hospital".
I remembered the joke just now, but not really a joke, because jokes are funny, and this is just stupid: the Irish only dance below the knees, and I only dance above the shoulders, it's a matter of rejecting my heritage.
Now I'm sad