Tag Archives: written

My Marxist crisis

I totally ganked this image from Foursquare, thanks internet and sorry sucker! You can send me a cease and desist if you ever find this.

This is Dave. This guy went to art school, like me. This guy lives in Brooklyn, like me. This guy used to make self contained terrarium green-scapes and the by product of those amazing aquariums was alcohol…like me? My only by product lately seems to be methane.

I was lucky to take a tour of Industry City Distillery over the past weekend. It was really, really fucking cool. These guys fabricate all their own materials from stuff that they buy at auctions. They letter press and screen print their own cards and labels. They make some damn fine vodka using an innovative method that speeds up the process and lends greater control to the flavor.

As we were walking up to take a look at the roof, all I could think was, “I don’t make anything! I sit at a computer all day and I put ideas in peoples heads and try to create some joy in the world, but I don’t make anything. I have no tangible product from labor. There is no fruit. NO FRUIT!” These guys are all hands on all things and I don’t make shit. But then I knocked back a few shots of that sweet smooth vodka No. 2, looked out on to the Statue of Liberty and it didn’t seem to matter.

on hoping your fear doesn’t eat you alive

I think that you know what this image is. I haven’t yet got to deleting the account yet. I want to really savor that action. I want to relish finally being able to rid myself of the worry of what color my light is and what that says about me to total strangers that I care fuck all for. But that, that would take courage and trust in amount that I still need to tap my reserves for.

Let’s be clear. I am getting there. And I am thoroughly in like. And I am trying this new thing, what I like to call brutal honesty with myself and by default, that means the other person. So, get ready folks. There might be actual feelings going on.

on sobriety


I have made a decision. To be honest, it was a rather hard one for me. I love booze. You can tell from the history of this much neglected outlet of my brain. It’s true. It’s my one vice nowadays. We’ve had a long and storied relationship. We’ve gotten in and out of trouble with each. We’ve taken breaks before, but this time, this time, lover, it’s got to be a little longer. I have decided to go sober and celibate for 2 months. Basically, until I head to Austin for a friend’s wedding.

I made this decision after a few, ahem, mishaps. Basically, I put my vagina in some compromising positions. I woke up some places I didn’t really want to be. Nothing I felt bad about, I’m not into slut shaming or anything, but I would kind of like a real relationship. Also, when you are drunk enough not to remember, but have the presence of mind to send send yourself an email with the subject line “Stop being so slutty”, you should really listen to yourself. Getting completely swizzled and going home with people that, on a good day, I like but on a drunk one, I, shrug, guess love. This kind of behavior precludes developing a connection with anyone, let alone the guy next to me in the morning. I think that I would like one of those, a connection. Like one where I have some one to go do the stupid things I like doing with, like dress up as Spy vs. Spy and ingeniously faux murder each other all night. Or at least some one who will laugh at me while I do said stupid things, like sing “Holding out for Hero” by Bonnie Tyler in complete earnestness.

So to, whit, I started my sobriety streak Monday February 6th. It’s been a week. I’m doing alright so far. I miss it a little. The soft social lubrication it provides, but then again I don’t miss the over sharing, losing my shoes or picking puke out of my hair on a bad night.

on presence

My cat has been unreasonably whiny since we relocated to our new and much larger place. I figured that she would get over crying for hours every morning at the door or at me in the shower, cooking, sleeping. But it’s been months and she is still crying. Ever the mournful cat, howling at the door to horrible freedom. Doesn’t she know, nothing but failed expectations lie behind that door?

What could possibly be troubling my cat? Is the shock of the new? The odor of the neighboring feline? Or something more sinister?

I’ve been troubled by dreams this week. Some full of familiar faces in strange situations. But the most troubling was a lucid dream I had about the presence Viktor. I knew that I was dreaming because I was sleeping on my back. I never sleep on my back. Ever. I could feel the cold descend on my arms and the goose hairs rise up, as Viktor settled down to “communicate” with me. Of course he wanted me to accomplish a task for him that he could not complete in life and even less so in death.

Then he moved down the bed and put pressure on my legs. The bed covers went taut and I could not move my legs. I knew I was dreaming. I knew it, despite how realistic everything in my room was down to the exact daylight.

“Look Viktor, if you want me to do anything for you, you are going to have to leave me the fuck alone while I am asleep or even just at home. I don’t want any of this ‘ghostly’ bullshit.”

The pressure released from my legs. I got up, put on my bathrobe and calmly walked out of my room.

So, could Viktor be bothering my cat in lieu of troubling me directly? I doubt the reality of that situation, but it makes more sense than the constant pain my cat seems to be in now that we are living in a veritable lap of luxury from our small Chinatown studio.

on commuting


on the train to work, it was a slow and quiet commute. i think i left earlier than usual. the train was swaying and it was seemingly in time with the soft music i was listening to. i was still groggy and sleep was still hovering over me. i watched from the very front of the car as the few standing commuters ebbed and swayed with the motion of the car. in dream states we all were. i let my eyes drop a little and when i looked, i swear there was you, though, an impossibility, i swore it was you. but it was not you. it was no one but the lingering dreams, residual desires and the slight coincidence of NYC playing tricks on my eyes.

it doesn’t matter any more. it shouldn’t but. there’s the but. i read things, i see things. i remember the code. now i start to feel that there is a code there. a code no longer meant for me. it never was, a language built on guile. playing tricks on the house of secrets. the dance of the subway in the quiet of the early morning commute. playing tricks on the eyes, hearts, knees and nose.