Archive for December 4, 2002

Cancer, Canabis, and Homosexuality

There’s a part of me that’s dead, or at least people tell me this all the time. It doesn’t really matter, but when I think about I turned off a lot of things in my life to keep things from getting to me. Ya know, you make fun of me, I turn this off. Lost my laugh around seventh grade. Now folks just tell me I appear either angry or nervous and sometimes I don’t look with drawn.

I just finished bathing after two days in Miami. I was down there looking at art. A Yoko Ono retrospective called me there. I arrivd around 2 or 3 in the afternoon and found my way by phone to the museum. I enter the museum to find the girl I talked on the phone is a lovely little black girl. Everyone in Miami is not white. It’s as if this town is what America would be like if we hadn’t segregated the whole world into racial classes and minority politics. I feel like a minority walking around Miami, everyone is speaking other languages. When I enter the hotel some long haired hispanic kids are talking to the receptionist in Spanish. I check in and discover I need a parking pass for a garage in order to stay all night. I’m running out of money, with 54 dollars I get a room at the clay and with 8 more I’ll be able to park in garage. But let’s gat back to Yoko Ono and what this all means.
MoCA’s retrospective of Ono’s work is full of reproduced objects from Ono’s career. A series of canisters, instruction paintings, and idea works fill the rooms. A gaggle of art students are discussing how this work side steps the aura of the original. The original is the idea, the concept which Ono gives us regularly to be dealt with in our heads. Her instruction paintings aren’t intended to produce duplicate copies. I’m wondering, I had this all figured out a little back.

What’s cool about Ono is that the original is with us. She gives us her ideas, and we get to carry them around. I don’t have much to back up this thesis, only a pretension I use to study the objects in the room. It’s deconstruction, Ono gives the originals to us, but by storting them in our heads in our fantasies in our hearts we lose the ability to have a single take on the idea. Her work is multiple, split by the disections of thought and experience we come to the floor expecting. I disagree with the art students, but ya know what their saying is real simple and I wanna see something complex.

Yoko has installed a mazed of see through walls and mirrors that ends in a bathroom that doesn’t work. She has a sense of humor. I come out of the maze and a phone rings. The guards all get excited and tell me, “Do you wanna talk to Yoko?”
“Sure,” I say and she picks up the phone and says, “Hello, Hello?” Time passes and Yoko hasn’t come through, the line is silent. “She calls all the time,” the guard says, “She’s very nice.” Yoko has installed a phone in the gallery on which she calls to talk to whoever happens to be passing through. A series of works for John Cage are pasted on the wall and I go through them seeing a kinda of beauty in thier simple instruction. Another room contains a film called The Fly in which a fly crawls all over a woman’s body. In another Yoko has filmed people’s asses. I stare at John Lennon’s ass and wonder if I’m gay, which is another small subject in this post.

Amanda calls and well talk for a second about the gig on Friday and when I’ll be DJ’n etc. It kinda interupts me and I just merely look at the last room with all white chess sets and the instructions, “play it by trust.” Your not allowed to play the trust of the chess sets, or climb the famous ladder work, or do much except wet a sponge which I do when the guard turns her back.

It was around here that I went to the clay and checked in. I walked around a little bit and looked at Miami. It’s huge, and the street the clay is on is very enchanting like a small bend in an European village where you find those alleys stock full of cool shit, only Miami degrades into near strip mall real fast. It’s a beautiful town, but instead of stacking and building and using space better, it has jumped to expanses of clear clut ennui that boggle the mind. Washing Avenue is like a center you find a Walmart in only going on for several miles and full of tropical color. I have about 30 minutes on my meter so I make my back over the MoCA for the christian marcaly performance.

Phoencia’s DJ’n christmas records from Marclay’s collection and the Art Basel crowd has taken up all the spaces. At the door they tell me I can’t get in and I rudely bump a few art world luminaries on my way out. I head back to the clay, park for the night and walk the streets of south beach trying to find something to do. Something that doesn’t cost money. I return to my hotel and lie down. I stare at the walls and feel a relief I haven’t felt in a long time. I am finally alone. No one knows me here. No one is looking for me so they can get a gig, borrow a cd, company for drinking, make music, talk, or just confess their latest depressions. I am alone.

There’s a little balcony off from the public internet connections and I sit out there and read while smoking and watching the crowds by. It’s a little street it looks out over and a restaruant owner keeps coming back and forth down the street straddling his motorcylce and talking with the staff.

The entire way down to Miami I am filled with a sense of dred. I fear I’m turning gay and my mind keeps turning over ideas of homoerotic intercource till finally my mind absorbs them and when I arrive in Miami I feel uncomfortable with the entire concept of my sexuality. At night I dream of the usual girl despite these dreams, but the tensions persists with men. When I arrive home I find myself changing from the girl crush to a crush on guys. I feel as my find is flicking between the gay and the not-gay as away to get over my latest crush. She won’t have anything to do with me, and I need that new thing ya know something to move on to. Perhaps that’s a bad thing, maybe I think of sex to much. As I write I don’t feel gay, but sometimes it comes over me these days.

My cat was killed before thanksgiving: death by SUV. My neighbor saw it all and she came running up to me with Stella in a blanket. Her husband tells me Stella’s heart is beating, but blood runs from her mouth, her spine is shattered, and her eyes are oozing out of their sockets. I take her to the vet anyway, and they pronounce her dead on the spot. They ask me if I want I moment alone with her, but I’m already late for my plane and to be honest I don’t feel anything. I tell them I feel cold hearted saying this, but I just need to go. I head out to Memphis.

Thanksgiving is un-eventful. My older brother spends his days on his laptop studying for law school. My step-mother is talkative, but away most of the time. My dad drops in and we see a movie etc. I spend most of my time finishing a Kundera novel, watching movies, reading a Patricia Anothny novel, working on my laptop, and eating left overs. I haven’t eaten meat in awhile, but Memphis is a meat town, BBQ is the food of the day, Turkey the words of Thanksgiving. I stop by River Records and pick up a few records. Gawk at the continuing renovations my Dad is making and try avoid my step-sister.

I arrive home to my neighbor sitting on the porch. “How are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I saw,” How are you?”
“I’m okay… no I’m not. I’m a mean person…” and this goes on for awhile. My neighbor always pulls this on me, the pity trip. It’s horrible, I mean there’s A LOT of bad stuff in her life (she’s dying of cancer), but every time I talk to her it’s all about her problems and such and yet she wants to have this kinda casual parlour which always break down into her confessions. She says she’s sorry about Stella, and that (and she always mentions this) that her dog loves cats and she doesn’t understand why he doesn’t get along with my other cat Mao etc. etc. I go through this everyday. It all started with pot.

Basicly most of the people I know smoke pot. I never did, it always fucked with me. I kept tracking from the time I was 17 to 23 with what was wrong with my pot smoking experience. Other people enjoyed it, I didn’t. So anyway, long story short I finally had fun smoking pot. It was like being drunk only somehow dry and a little more goofy with a great deal more silence in the mix. So I think you can make the link between cancer, pot. confessions etc. She had to tell me how she smokes pot, and how she has cancer and now I hear this rap everyday. It’s horrible, and I’m sorry she has to go through that, but if I was dying of cancer I’d be out doing stuff. Perhaps she can’t afford to, maybe moving into an aprtment at 40 something from a house is a neccessity to pay the bills. She just seems at wits end, and so am I some days with a new found sense of depression. 2002 hasn’t treated me the best, but at least if I go gay I can someone to share in this shit with me =)

December 4, 2002 at 8:17 pm Leave a comment


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