The Colored Fizz

Months have passed... And the story has become too complicated and trailed off...

At Cheers a few minutes before leaving to hear Amy P's concert. (French Carols). I feel sick with Narc in my throat like this. He texted on Wednesday night and I didn't respond because I still didn't have my new phone. But he said he would email me the next day and he hasn't. And this is maddening. I never should have told him that his silence is deafening to me like this because this is the worst punishment of all...

I'm scared of being here on a Friday too... after last week. I feel so sick about what happened. I hope that guy dies. I mean it. No wait... I don't. I guess he doesn't deserve death. I just need some peace right now. My right hand is tingling and I hope it's not some sort of circulation problem. I'm gonna wait a minute or two and then see if there's any space at the bar. I'm so going to be late for this concert... but that's okay. I feel brave enough already that I'm going to spend some time with myself again. I need some hours alone tonight... to face the quiet space. To pierce through what Grosz would call the "colored fizz" frothing at the top and see what this is really about for me. I think it will be sweet... and Catholic in a way I haven't tasted in a while... Anyway, I'll close for now...

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Ok.

In the church now. A gorgeous church. (76th and Lex). The pale blue and yellow gold of a Russian Art Nouveau icon, all accented in pink marble with alabaster cherubs and veins of sea green. The altar is magnificent with red and orange accents, the most brightly colored piece in the room. God curling leaves peel atop the pillars. I feel as if I'm inside the whip-lashing curve of that Obrist tapestry (God, I hope I did okay on that exam...).

Even here, Narc is close in my ear. So much closer now that I've read that text, and I hate him for it. Two sapphire and tonics are dulling my eyes. I hope they don't give me a headache. I'm wondering if I should have called Bezoukhoff about tonight, but in retrospect, it's better that I'm alone. I hate the silence though, and want the music to start and fill me and relieve me. I want him to fill me too... in the same way. I miss him for that, even though the last week or two, since he called me that Sunday night and said he doesn't know what he wants, he's been distant and so unfulfilling. And I want the rape to go away too. I can never tell him about that. Thank God Bezoukhoff was there to save me from that on my birthday.

I wish I could share something like tonight with him... that Narc weren't the worst kind of bad for me That this ache would go away and I would stop wanting to punish myself. I know why he's not writing back to my emails.... because there's nothing he can say (except "sorry"). Because every single word I've said there is true and he still can't offer me anything even remotely acceptable. I'm tired of giving a shit about any o fit. I need a sacred space to go to so I can be reminded of how love can be in the world-- a religious love that acknowledges that it can't know anything and is all the more comforting because of that.

Singing Ave Maria. I finally feel like Narc means nothing when there's God.


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Ok.

That's over again for the moment and now I'm back at Cheers. It's loud and I'm only drinking diet cokes and I"m totally alone and feeling the strangeness of ghosts of a life past having just come from talking to Amy P and Stephen. But how do I explain to them that I'm still the same? They still think of me as a great singer. I remember Amy in New Orleans. She's just not cute like that anymore. I remember the three boys with green beer and my cowboy, Weston, and the hot dog man and my smeared eye-makeup from those hallucinogens, as if it were yesterday. I'm still the same as I've always been-- cleaning the bathroom for them here, the same way I cleaned up the classroom for Mr. S. Only, he knew about it and I'm not even going to bother to tell them about it here.

I see FightingMensch and his brother and Lindsor here, but I'm pretending that I don't, and they're pretending that they don't see me. There's a man with glasses here who's acting like he knows me, only I don't know him.

And Narc is back only two seconds from my mind, although there's no denying at this point that he's an asshole. What I feel can't be love-- only some fucked up Freudian compulsion. This guy singing... Phil... I've seen him here a million times, but I never knew that was his name.

Feeling at home enough that I'm not weird and mysterious for sitting in the corner alone and writing in my journal... I'm only me. I guess it's ok. There's no ignoring someone you see every day. I think I should just screw over what I was thinking last week.

God, I can't believe that rape incident was only a week ago. PumpedUp is looking over here now... Whatever. I think I'll draw, instead of write.

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Later, and drunk, drunk, drunk!

Ok.

So, I fucking gave in and wrote to him. And now I am stuck on the raw end of hell waiting for him to call me back and feeling like I love him and all sorts of shit that I know not to be true and sine I can't say it to anyone in any way that approximates comprehension, it will have to remain a "Platonic Blue." A feeling of death. Or nominalism, right? If all I am is sensation (a la Ernst, or Husserl, phenomenology), what's to say that being drunk isn't the perfect way to be all the time?

WHERE IS NARC?