Tuesday, January 15, 2013

when you’re not trying too hard to live but not looking to die you might finally be over him/her.
When you have to choose between eating dinner (somewhere nice! and local!) with your coupled friends OR going alone to a trans-people performance in Way Outer Bushwick where the trans-people are. With names that defy your preferred gender pronouns. Call them “vees”
He might be there. Your phone says, he is “Going.” He’s lately taken to painting drag queens. When you sincerely utter that “Club-kid Toulouse-Lautrec” you earn his condescending smile.
You have to leave South Brooklyn if you plan to live in the world of the living and the young. Say this everytime you swipe your Metrocard at your home station.
Comfort is the luxury of people who know they’re dying or really don’t.  Thoughts on Baby Bjorns.
No signal here. Fashion is the denial of death, the denial of nature, the denial of fleshly pleasure and paradoxically our embrace of all those things. So glad we saw the McQueen show at the Met. One bar and 4G closer to the trash can where crackhead Willie Nelson with the aqua bandanna tucked in his back pocket is taking a long piss.  Gotta get the heel on the Chloe boots fixed before the Gagosian dinner.  “Oh my god, he is flagging. (yes he likes watersports, OBV!)” Comments left on the photo I instagrammed.
The impotent anger of a stupid person tempered by the cool rationality of an intelligent person but there’s no in between.  My father is a Vietnam Vet and my mother is failed German literature enthusiast and all of are ethnically Korean Atheists. Go figure Immanuel Kant.  
This is the first draft of the artist statement I’m never sending to the residency I’d probably hate to get into if only I ever applied. If English is your second language I apologize for that last sentence.
Is performance art the only way we can feel anything anymore.  I observe a lot.  I see nothing that I can remember for very long.  All my recent memories have been outsourced to my friend’s timelines.  Vow now to only tweet 140 character thoughts whenever I nearly commit to being an unpaid freelance copywriter.  You  LIKE LIKE LIKE LIKE LIKE every single one of her profile photos. I’m seeing you LIKE them in not so real time forever. In five years when I start to feel like I’ve forgotten about you I’ll still be able to see it and feel guilty you once did this to someone else with me. Unless we all leave Facebook.  Unless the world ends. Unless the North Koreans come up with the AIDS of computer viruses—Sorry! That’s dated—the Swine Flu. You’ve never uploaded me with you for your friends.  This is me being for real right now.  I like the repeated trauma of your cock inside me. LIKE LIKE LIKE your mobile uploads. It does make it better to know I’m not the only one who knows that feeling, this week, at least I know her face and what Bowie songs she and you favorited on YouTube. Lies I tell myself to give me the courage to ring your apartment buzzer.  But I don’t ring it. I text you and wait.
 Feeling the weightlessness of racelessness is the charm of living somewhere bougie, white, overpopulated with overeducated mixed race couples.  Outside where I can see them, they don’t see me, instead focused on not dropping organic groceries or squeezing in a SoulCycle Bikram session before pick-up at Pre-K.  I’m buying a fistie of Jim Beam at 3.
At the bookstore where time stops because children need to be read to by strangers so mommy can call her lesbian friend and gossip about how being married proves the hatability of men.  When I think I like reading Heidegger in public and looking at other people’s children in “their happy places.”  Chinese, Korean, and Japanese wives look through me as if to laser me off their small tight, hairless-- pupils. White husbands look at me-- fresh real estate in brownstone Brooklyn--barren unused ovaries.  Bookmark this page.
 Spent three days this week registering for every Tumblr name that captured how I felt about you, him, and the one before him that really hurt me.  Whiteguyswithasiangirlfriends.tumblr, uglyguyswithasiangirlfriends.tumblr, yetanotherasiangirlfriend.tumblr. They only let you register for 10 a day.  This is my fucking domain now.
Everywhere I go lately, men want to asphyxiate me not-erotically. They tell me so in public instead of keeping it on the internet where those thoughts belong. Derrida privileges the written over the oral himself. They want blood to spew out my mouth uncontrollably until it cant no more. No words =no thoughts. You can see very well why: they like to think of themselves as visual artists.  Their work is very catholic. They like female icons only if they’re martyrs. “Bad mothers make Good artists” isn’t that how the saying goes? Google that for me next time we’re drunk together at an opening so that we don’t have to talk about anything quietly.
I go to Times Square sometimes just to be completely empty and rich. Eat food that still costs one dollar.  People so green they try to pay in Euro coins.  A slice of pizza.  A single hot dog sauerkraut ketchup mustard. When you’re so poor that condiments feel like luxuries, consider moving to Europe.  
Time is Squared.  This place has no residents, no streets, there are jagged idea segments reified by LEDs that scroll and bob off and on.  All points bulletins for unrealized desires.  The husband from Minnesota leading his family’s plodding march through one of the fake plazas of “New Times Square” is about to fantasize about slashing the throat of his wife who’s been cheating on him with her online Scrabble buddy, the daughter popped her cherry masturbating for her classmates on Snapchat, the son has a dust covered Percocet in the 5th pocket of his classic re-issued Levis. They’ve only been trying for the past 3 hours to summon the energy to find that sneaker boutique in The Greenwich Village for him. Are they sad that all that’s here in the belly of the beast is the flagship 24-hour Walgreens with New York’s fastest one-hour photo? Here they buy more waters.  At home, their beds float like ice floes over a basement full of gun closets and each of them knows where the keys are. I get wet hoping this is all true.
We are all here to “get the job done” that’s how it’s always been.
There are some images that can’t be tagged.  When I was small, I was wheeled down these streets dotted with neon fuck palaces where men with wives at home would emerge from the doors with crotches damp with men’s mouths.  I would look up at my nervous mother through the plastic hood of the stroller as my father fed me bits of hot dogs he chewed off with his own mouth, making sure they were cooled enough for me to eat. It never burned my mouth. That much I remember fondly.