Winter is creeping up, best blve. The daylight is keeping bankers hours-- in at 10 am and done by 3pm. That's fine. As long as there is no snow, there is still bikes and if yr on yr bike, even with gloves, it might as well be summer. Monkee ran away for two days and I cried. She was trapped in a neighbors garage, but JR helped me staple up 100 fliers of MISSING KITTY and even though she is home, calls are still coming in about every lost cat in the whole East Village: rooftops, alleyways, saw her in the day, saw her night time last week. The people who say they saw a cat four or five days ago somewhere, I think they are lying: who remembers seeing cats? Do you remember the cats you saw this week? When and where and what kinda fur they had? I cried and cried and blamed myself when she did not come home, I dreamt Monkee in the street with a broken tail, a young boy on rollerblades standing over her limp body yelling "WHOSE BROKEN CAT IS THIS?"--awful. But now she is home and relief is mine and she is never going out again. Ever.
Cried again, this time reading get well cards in the Walgreens, took it as a sign that I am old, or much more emotionally frail than I ever let on. Maybe it's because every card I read, I imagine old people reading them and being touched. Grandmas everywhere displaying cards on the entrance table and mantles. I advance cry for them. I popped a tire on the bike and walked to Myopic because it was barely raining by then, to buy books to take to a friend that is sick in bed. I always look for my standbys, books I give everyone I love, one of which is Rock Moody's short story collexion, the Brightest Angels one. Considered picking up his latest, The Diviners, for gift giving, a book which I started but have not finished because I think I need to ask him some questions before I can get down with chapter four, before I can plow ahead. Now, these are questions based on short stories, Purple America, his intro to the bible anthology and and and the autobiog and this new one, the Diviners one: Dude! What is yr ish with exploitation of womens body issues and self hatred and using it as signifier for "gross" or "serious problem"? Diviners: Chapter one; older woman with colitis--shitting blood--for pages. For pages about the blood and the excruiatingness. Next chapter: Binge eating bitch-daughter of the bloodshitter eats donuts in the back of a limo, 4 at a time, for an hour. Also intersperesed: Assistant to the binger having meaningless sex with washed up actor. Taken all together, it's way fucking harsher than the opening of Purple America, with the resentful, bizerk son dutifully washing his invalid mothers vaginal-area. These women--It's like Von Trier meets Gaitskill minus (the raping that duo would imply)--with this flat ache of McSweeney's cleverness and tic. Meaning it's half heartedly horrifying in this too casj way. France is going to ash, it's almost 2006, USA is making hell come alive in fluerescent colors worldwide, and seeing our gluttony as it REALLY exists, not in fardly metatextual whatevs, is sin qua non of the right- fucking-now.
(Also, note to EchoCam buffs, that adult boy showing up tonight through midweek, is my better half, Matt. He plays a show with his experimental noise duo, White/Light, tomorrow mid evening at The Stone as part of that Jim O Rourke thinger. If you are in NY, and like loud wonderful wooshing sounds on Tuesday nights, you should go, two sets, possibly featuring "some other people". Trust.)Posted by Jessica at November 15, 2005 12:03 AM | TrackBack