Monday, August 4, 2008

Chakra and Awe



Walter Sickert, Ennui, 1913

Last night was the very strange conclusion to a very strange weekend. I don't remember all the details but I know saw all the same people on a prolonged and anticlimactic cycle. Yes I was drunk, yes I was high, mainly I was bored.

I was bored of being drunk and bored of being high, and Lord knows, so sick of being low. Bored of being hungover but I hate being sober, bored of eating and bored of puking, and bored of walking to the front of the line. Bored of being awake, too tired to go to sleep, bored of being hungry and bored of cooking, eating out, eating in, take-away. Bored of scripts, bored of improvising, bored of endless hours online shouting but never even expecting to hear an echo back, bored of being so alone in the middle of a crowd. Bored of smoking, bored of seeing straight, bored of the humidity and the drone of air conditioning. Bored of looking at you, waiting for the light in your eyes to come back on or flicker out forever, bored of hearing myself complain and watching my friends fold up and cry. Bored of feeling helpless, bored of cynicism, cold distance and economic protection. Bored of poverty, bored of chasing someone else's dreams, bored of living in a graveyard, bored of slandering the city that loves me, bored of having to make up my mind. Bored of waiting for it to happen, bored of avoiding it, bored of death row, bored of reading, bored of imagination, bored of words.

Ennui.

After the show at Joe's Pub I found myself standing on the sidewalk watching a peculiar tableau unfold. Stage left stood the Tsar in exile, a few former flunkies milling about his turned back. Stage right stood the downtown impressario and his date, chatting nicely to two of the talent bookers from Obama's campaign. Centre stage stood the most handsome boy in the world with lipstick scribbled all over his face, and his willowy friend who had found a box of Atkin's bars somewhere, in a trash pile no doubt.

Strange then, how Lucy's lipstick should match the shade doodled all over the face of the world's most handsome boy. She was wearing a basketball uniform under a pink zip-up hoodie, with black patent shoes and pristine white ankle socks, complete with a ruffle. And her lipstick was fuchsia, a word I learnt in my childhood garden, fuschia and thickly outlining her mouth. She had gold eyeshadow on her temples and the bridge of her nose, I asked her if she knew of her namesake, Santa Lucia, she said she did. Looking at her I wondered where the line is, between a playful personality disorder and hacking off a stranger's head on the greyhound bus. Nobody knew her but we all spoke with her, for a while, thinking that somebody must.

I was talking to the campaign bookers, about peacock feathers actually, because I had no interest in even the faintest possibility of Obama association. There was a genuine, upright intent in them, these two ladies who felt the world could be changed if they just had the chance.

One of them, I realise, is wearing fuchsia nail polish. It is so well applied, I realise, that she must have been to a salon. I have a daydream of she and her nail technician talking politics, but never, never playing the race card.

She says: "We really want to get the community excited again, to really..."
Lucy cuts in: "Do you want to have sex?"
I'm not even suprised.
"Not tonight," I reply.

Lucy moves over to the dowager Duchesses and looks for sex amongst their circle, I can hear willowy friend tell people that the Atkins bars probably aren't as bad as they look. They are. Later that night willowy friend tells me that it's probably my sexual chakra that's misaligned. It is.

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