Personal Journal Entry
I’m off and away to meet up with a PowerGirl, a strange time for me to write about last night, but I need to get the words out of my veins before I think about them playing over and over again, a seedy art porn flick. Stranger still since PowerGirl and yesterday’s main encounters are/were/are dating…
Yesterday I grabbed my computer bag and headed off to find a bank to drop off my checks- Furry had told me he’d sent rent off, and there was nowhere near that amount in my account. I went to the first bank, and their ATMs were broken, and their tellers informed me they couldn’t take my money because I was from Oregon. Off to bank #2, who A) had working ATMs and B) was within walking distance of Central Park. I’d never been to Central Park, but Widow Centauri had asked me to meet her by the South gatehouse of the reservoir.
Along the way, I found an icey vendor outside a catholic private school who I bought a cherry freezy from, staining my teeth and lips a bright cherry. The cherry of Widow’s dress when I met her. The cherry of my cheeks later that night on my knees in the bathroom stall… but I digress.
Widow was depressed- like myself all of her sessions in New York had cancelled on her- but for me that only means two jobs down- for her that means her entire week wasted, money down the drain. We had originally thought about dropping by to see the Baroness so that Widow could pick up a dress, and could talk to her about commissioning a rubber clown dress… but the Baroness was busy, and I think I’m leaning towards having Annie at Madame S do my dress anyway.
Widow and I, after yakking about tiny dogs, naked porn stars with reindeer heads, life and rubberwear, decided it was time for coffee. We grabbed our bags, and hiked the park and up to Lexington where we found a quaint little café where we both ordered steamed milk with mint, discussed adventures, zebras, and had conversatons about art and more with a 50+ year old woman with long white hair and a fetish for collecting leather gloves.
Time to pick up again, Widow and I tried to find a toilet to no avail, so headed on the bus over to the Melrose where she had stayed and used their bathroom, and I took self-portraits in their toilets. Toilets were definitely doing to be the theme for the day. Widow gifted me with a pair of alien tights, and I helped her get a Taxi to hair her mink hat in hat box and 4 giant rolls of blue palate wrap off to her next destination while I hopped on a train over to Ma*Ya Thai on 4th Street.
Just before hopping the train I checked my voicemail- and rolling my eyes I made a decision… or did I? I deeply dislike persistent, pushy people… even when they are kind and generous. And this one in question has too many of the makings of becoming a stalker. My fault, I remind myself, for letting it go as far as it has. But we’ll see.
Getting off at 2nd Avenue, I could taste the grit in the air. 18 months later and you can still taste the grit from 4,000 dead and a bomb the size of twin towers in the air, see it on the street like a veil of rubble on the downtown city. Uptown I can forget what happened. Here, downtown, coat pulled tight around me and a slight sprinkle coming down, the light is grey grey grey and I can only see through the haze if I open my eyes wide and let the grit permeate my body. I let the grit permeate my body.
I walk 5 or 6 blocks to Ma*Ya, Steven Speloitis is having a gallery opening there that night, and I had hoped to meet up with DeLano there, and perhaps run into Lydia et al since our previous plans for attending burlesque shows together had failed. Lydia did not show up that night, but it was FAR from a failure for lack of people I knew. I was offered a potential College campus gallery show (the gent will be sending me info on where to submit my proposed show), met a few art collectors, a sculptor who I got to geek Les Chantes De Maldoror and Shiva/Shakti imagery in modern interpretations with, and show my work to a non-adult-industry audience. Self-affirmation. Art fagging.
It has been way to long since I had a chance to totally art geek, and letting DeLano see that side of me was wonderful to share. I told him about my hopeful plans to do museum management or curator work, about some of the crap beyond composition and getting a hard cock that helps me create my work… it was wonderful.
Steven’s work that evening was interesting, but much of it the same as what I’ve seen of him before. The exception was one piece on the slide show that caught my attention, a man on his side with a cat, whose eyes in the black and white image had been hand painted yellow. It stirred me, which I’m not sure why, but if I could see the piece for longer. I’m sure I could write something more discerning about it.
8pm rolled around and it was time to head off to the TES meeting on 2nd and Bond, the last night of the TES meetings at the Bond Street location. As we head out from Ma*Ya into the pouring rain, we realize, doh, we haven’t paid our bill, so we stumble back in and hand them our $20 for the wonderful fixed dinner we’d enjoyed, then headed by taxi over to Bond.
Taxi cabs in New York seem slower nowadays, with the city on orange alert and men with Uzis and camo wandering the subway. Cops, Firetrucks and service men and women wander by nonchalantly, eyeing my bulging bags and I raise a glass and toast them with Fanta.
Right out of the cab there he is, Uncle Boymeat. He’s had a very tough time of things recently, and I’m glad to finally be around him, share abit of my spark with him. Spark indeed we did. To say the least.