|
bryan fox : early spring
A 62-degree January day brings couples out of hibernation like so many dormant squirrels. Arm-in-arm they take the city by stroll.
New York is not a place to be alone when so many other people here are not. Peals of shared laughter regarding jokes I'm not in on are forks streaking across the blackboard of my lonely mind.
Being single, there are so many restaurants I can't eat in. So many comments left unsaid while strolling through the Guggenheim on a Wednesday afternoon. Countless witty things nobody gets to hear. Somebody's missing out.
Valentine's Day is in 20 days. Maybe I'll leave the country.
In the Union Square station today, I was buffeted by an attach้-wielding power suit as she rushed past in the pre-rush hour scramble. I scowled, and scowled deeper when I realized she didn't even notice. People in this city don't even have time to be rude.
I am single because I don't know when to lie. At least three times, a lover has asked me, "Do you think I've gained weight?" At least three times, I've replied "Yes, but I don't mind." Why ask a question when you already know the answer? Just because you don't want to hear it?
Springtime in January and everybody rejoices, as if snow were the fourth pillar in the Axis of Evil. I like snow in winter. It means the planet hasn't given up yet completely. I've been in this city for twelve months, and we've had the biggest snowfall ever, the hottest day ever, the warmest day in January ever, and the coldest day in January, ever. Fortunately, the conservatives tell us global warming doesn't exist. Otherwise I wouldn't be so sure.
A fly buzzes past my face, confused. Probably he's wondering why he's alive now. Something we have in common.
It's disorienting when you've been single so long you don't even know what someone's touch feels like anymore. When discomfort becomes comfort again. Like when you're hungry, and you don't eat, and after a while, you're not even hungry anymore. And when someone tries to give you food, probably you could refuse it.
All physical contact eventually becomes abhorrent when there is no romantic physical contact in your life for long enough. I haven't even hugged anyone since I don't know when. It's becoming hard to embrace family members.
When I jerk off, I feel like I'm raping myself with my own hand.
A few weeks ago in a loft in Bushwick, I ended up giving my phone number to a girl I'd chatted with at high volume for about 10 minutes while trying to suppress a coke grimace with little success. If I could remember what she looked like, I might answer her calls. If my friend Ray hadn't been laughing when she'd walked away.
If he hadn't said, "Drinkin' some tonight, huh?"
Any port in a storm, but I remain lost at sea. With bitter fascination, I pick absentmindedly at the hangnail of my discontent, praying the wound will fester.
A New Year's Resolution: If I haven't met anyone by the time spring comes, that's it. I don't know what 'it' is, but that's still it. I'm going to stop thinking I'm an artist. Or maybe write poetry. But to who? To whom? I'm going to exercise more. Or maybe let myself go. But from what? I'm going to stop drinking. Or maybe become an alcoholic. I'm going to change something. That much is certain. Something's about to change, for better or for worse. I need it.
A few nights ago, I attacked my hair with a pair of scissors and cut and cut and cut until I was standing in a furry brown pile in front of the bathroom mirror. The next day, two of my students told me my new hair cut was nice. Why do other people still care about you even after you've stopped caring about yourself?
Passing by the Virgin Records on the south side of Union Square, I learn that Snoop Dogg now has a new album, and a goatee. The goatee is flecked with grey. Time passes for everyone.
On New Year's Eve, I joked to a friend "The only pussy I got my hands on in 2006 had whiskers and a tail." Passing out that night at 5AM in a fit of coke sweats, I masturbated until my arm hurt but couldn't come because I kept thinking about his reaction.
"And you're happy about that?" he'd said.
But I'm winning the small battles. Four weeks into the new year, and I'm still doing my push ups every morning. Not keeping chocolate in the house. Or pot. Only smoking when it's offered to me at parties. I'm being a pretty good boy, for what it's worth.
What's it worth?
I walk past the art vendors in Union Square to see what people think is good enough to sell. Once I'd stopped in front of a table where the artist had made shadowbox scenes full of disassembled watch parts.
"How much?" I'd asked, pointing at a small one. "Four hundred," he'd replied. "Dollars?" I'd asked. "Yes," he'd smiled. "Why?" I'd said, putting my headphones back in and turning to go buy a loaf of bread in the Farmer's Market.
Today, it's the same offerings as usual. New York photos, kitsch art, jewelry. Watch parts in shadowboxes. Things for tourists to buy so they can say they bought it while they were here. Nothing worth breaking stride over.
Then a table of simple oil paintings, chunky, stark in the chiaroscuro of their chromatic contrast. I pause. The swathes of color fight each other for space on the canvas. I take the headphones out of my ears so I can hear myself talk.
"These are, really good," I say, without looking up. Then I do. Her hair is pigtailed and dyed day-glo red. An open-mouth smile reveals a tongue ring behind the lip ring dangling from the side of her mouth like a semicolon, separating the rest of her face. She is slender, wearing a red Puma jacket and jeans. Red hair over a red jacket it doesn't match, but she wants it that way. "Thanks." "Did you do all of these?" "Yeah." "They're a bit like Rothko, but, more, visceral. More bold." "Maybe even bolder." She smirks. She just corrected my grammar. I am without reply. "Do you like Rothko?" she asks, to break the silence she's caused. But I don't buy art, I think. "How much?" I say. "Well, the 16" by 24"s are $150, but that's negotiable." "I like negotiation." The breeze stops. Someone turns off the background noise. "I'm doing an exhibition at a little bar in Soho at the end of the month, it's nothing special, but you should come!" "Should I?" I say.
She laughs. It doesn't sound like a fork on a blackboard.
"Definitely. Here, take this card the opening is on the 27th at 7PM." She hands me a glossy flyer off the folding table. I take it graciously, like Sunday mass and she's giving me the communion wafer. "Thanks ," I lead. "Moira," she follows. "Thanks, Moira." "You're welcome," "Sam." At least I got that right. "You're welcome, Sam." "Well, maybe I'll see you there." I hold up the flyer, toasting her with it. "Yeah, maybe you will," she smiles. She licks her lip ring, just a little.
Almost I need to hold onto the table for balance.
Crossing past Strand Books on 12th and Broadway, I am nearly run over by a car while studying the flyer as I turn it over and over in my hands.
It happens again on 9th. Then I put it in my pocket, after it's been committed to memory. "Confessions of a Dirty Palette An Exhibition by Moira Jane."
Around 7th, I notice a girl smiling at me broadly as she passes by. Then I realize that she's just reflecting back the grin I'm now wearing like a badge.
Perhaps it doesn't take a lot to change a lot. Promise doesn't even need to be fulfilled. Just having it there is enough. I think about that for a while, and unzip my jacket, to let the warmth in as I continue my walk downtown.
Bryan Fox is a Brooklyn-based bard & pedagogue who refuses to admit that the only reason he continues having adventures is so that he can subsequently write about them. He has had fiction published in the online journal Underground Voices & has had travel writing appear both in print & online in the US & elsewhere.
[ J. A. Tyler ] [ blog ] [ news ] [ buy ] [ read ] [ Mud Luscious ] [ current ] [ news ] [ archives ] |
|
{ issue one |
