Mac DeMarco

And so we smoked pot in a dingy two roommate bedroom, surrounded by the strangeness of Mac demarco stinginess with a Native American named mason headed out to the Dakotas summer soon to learn the language of his fathers and a young cornel west lookalike that the damn dog wouldn’t stop growling at, and other such oddities cast out by the cold cunt of America, the unliberated liberals of dives and dumps, for those whose graduation comes not from a degree but from the relentless reality of being discarded for being the unconventional lovers of life, the bitterness of young age oppression cast aside only by the smoke which fills our lungs and surrounds our stories, our small parts in this larger story of a Midwestern summer night, a community without hope grasping at the aftermath of the post industrial, post capitalist, post modern small town grappling with an underbelly of the methuselahs of meth and hopelessness that poverty brings into being, as we smoked and drank our fill until we forgot even our names, we smoked and drank until nothing was left in the world except this small bedroom community that being outcasts brings, until the small town and the middle class that haunts our very breasts and breathe ceased to have any say into our lives, because we were the masters of this infinite moment of small bedrooms everywhere, we were the lords of life and the kings of summer, and no longer were the chains of modern American peasantry wrapped around our legs, no longer were the tortures of jobs and mundane necessities of being were brought into existence, so we took communion, the blood of Jesus out of wine boxes for all those before and all those after who will know only like us the tortures of bedroom closet hideaways and existential late night walks downtown in the cold freezing rain chain smoking cigarettes until our lungs could no longer scream in frustration, and we took in the body of Christ as the cannibals of our society take in the drugs of sugar and coffee and chemical food, we took it in hungrily as we were starved for life, as we the true junkys of boroughsean madness can only know life by injecting it into our veins, we took communion for the salvation of all those like us in dingy two roommate bedrooms surrounded by the strangeness of Mac demarco stinginess.

Lyrics from Dar…

Lyrics from Daredevil by Fiona Apple:

“I guess I just must be a daredevil
I don’t feel anything until I smash it up
I’m caught on the cold, caught on the hot
Not so with the warmer lot
And all I want is a confidant
To help me laugh it off

And don’t let me ruin me
I may need a chaperone

Say I’m an airplane
And the gashes I got from my heartbreak
Make the slots and the flaps upon my wing
And I use them to give me lift
Hip hip for the lift
Hip hip for the drag
I want them all in my bag
Oh give me anything and I’ll turn it into a gift

But don’t let me ruin me
I may need a chaperone

Seek me out
Look at, look at, look at, look at me
I’m all the fishes in the sea
Wake me up
Give me, give me, give me what you got
In your mind, in the middle of the night

Maybe you let me look out for you
Protect what I found in you
And never let it starve
Then that way, you let me stay
Skirt in my skirt like I want to
And I will try hard to hold onto you with open arms

But don’t let me ruin me
I may need a chaperone

I give myself permission…

I’m applying to a theatre studio and I have my interview on Wednesday. I am being reminded daily that I am a man afraid of what could be as much as what could fail to come to pass. I am on the edge of myself today as I think about what I hope for my life and what it is that gives me reason to doubt myself. 

I give myself the permission to fail. 

Though I exist in a 24 year old body, I feel so infantile. Too young. Too inexperienced in life. Life is happening at speeds that I find impossible to keep up with. Lucidity is my deepest desire and when it is that I feel most lucid, the feeling is accompanied with a heightened awareness of ignorance. This ignorance makes me afraid. I am a child alone in a dark room without his nightlight. I only wish for someone to join me in the dark and hold my hand. 

I give myself the permission to be afraid. 

I live a certain with a certain juvenile aesthetic. It is what I have seen in myself and something that exists as a cloak of identity that wraps around me head, heart, and soul. I am ecstatic with joy and trembling and tearful with fear. Content and happy with love and afraid of what it would be to be separated from that love. Dependent. 

I give myself the permission to need.

I read voraciously and soak up as much as I can. I am insatiable. I have a hunger that refuses to be abated. I have an ambition that eats at my person like a parasite. Tired and yet energetic I rise at the beginning of each day, ready to be amazed and surprised by the wonders of the world. Grandiose dreams of elevated and transcendent living are my fuel. An engine revving loud and powerful. Yet needing a constant influx of resources and maintenance.

I give myself the permission to rest.

A great cloud of unknowing engulfs me and I walk in a daze groping for substance. A solid substantive item: a tool, a weapon, a conviction. I am ambiguous and unacceptably vague. Abstract. I see through eyes plagued with cataracts. An astigmatism fixes itself on the corneas of my mind. 

I give myself permission to not know. 

I live and give and love. I hide and steal and hurt. I run towards and away from. I am enslaved yet I fight against these bonds with which I’ve entangled myself. I walk along the street gazing at those around me living, eating and drinking, driving, loving, and growing and wonder if I could share in those things with them. 

I give myself the permission to be human.

 

Am I less of a man?

The smell of stale smoke clings to my worn wrinkled clothes
while my mouth is dry with the acrid taste of a faded night,
my body aches and my mind spins in blindness

all I can see is the shape of your face,
the warmth of your body pushed against mine,
your laughing voice staining my ears with desire,
your hand causally pressed against my shoulder blade:

“Stand here with me”
And when it was time for me to leave
“Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Is it some sort of Kierkegaardian madness,
an unexplainable leap of faith into folly,
an unanswerable puerile measure of my unconscious self against all I desire,
a madness unknown yet made manifest in my male ego?

Or is it because I consider myself some weird sort of feminist,
Or maybe somewhere in blind naïveté I grasp at nothing,
Or perhaps it is my sexual brokenness,
(for some reason it’s not ok for a ‘man’ to be sexually broken – to scream in frustration of the expectations just having a penis brings)
Or is it my childhood – that fine dance of cognitive dissidence,
my only reminder that I once grew up,
I once learned, loved, hated, was someone else?

Am I less of a man because
I did not ask for your number,
that I did not take you home,
that I did not fuck you last night?

Book One, “Beth” : Chapter 1

I lay, by the shape she makes. I let my hand run down the curve of back, rolling over the grooves of her spine just to land in the crease jus above her buttocks. That half circle, where a small valley leads me. I run my cold finger in that valley of her lower back. The small hairs, too light to be glimpsed by the eyes, but to the finger they are soft. That shape that moves still and methodic with her breathing.

I lift my finger for a second, and small bumps sporadically raise, those hairs are finally distinguished. Her eyes part, born again into a new day. Those brown eyes, so magnificent, so dark. Traced by the heaviest set of lashes that leave little room for the white of the eyes. Two dark globes stare at me. Her hand slips from under the sheets and takes mine, her’s are so warm, never sweaty.

Her fingers, soft and delicate, weave with mine. Her lips part, letting a soft breath escape to reach my nose. The tart breath left by the wine we shared the night before beckon me to those lips. Those lips, full and soft. I only ever kissed women. My mother and Melanie. She pulls my hand to her mouth, letting her lips part and land on the tip of my knuckle. Her lips pass over each knuckle massaging, wetting, tickling. I smile.

At this point I know I am supposed to embrace her and wet her lips. I just can’t stop staring into those dark globes. They tie my stomach in knots. They carry my every thought. The shape of her eyes bounds my hands to hers. She pulls me in and our lips curl into a passionate kiss. Her hand leaves mine to cup my breast. The valley of her thumb and forefinger pinch my nipple. My leg lifts to rest behind her’s. Now we are one shape, intertwined.

Its this moment when I can’t remember who I was. I know who I am and who I can be. I can be her’s. I can mesh into this shape for forever. I can lay by the shape she makes for eternity. There is no religion, science, or god who can make me feel as complete and assured as this moment, this shape, this woman can. The shape of our tongues passing over and under each other mirrors our bodies movements. Our hands are frantically searching, trying desperately to reach every crevice, to move over every indistinct hair, to finger every valley. Her lips leave mine to wet my neck, now my body is covered in bumps, my eye releases a tear. Her mouth reaches my nipple, my mouth lets a faint sound escape. Her mouth has enveloped my mind such that I am surprised when I feel her fingers reach my pout moving in circular motions, shooting sensations up my body.

That shape she makes with her tongue, her fingers, her back, her valley, her eyes, I found my love. Each day, I know I can wake up and be reborn. I can forget the town of Venerable. I can forget my alcoholic mother. I can forget the wicked and the pious people of this world. My world is the shape she makes. I lay by it. I live for it. I will never leave it. I can control this world. When I step out of that door, I lose that. I lose her.

One Shape. One Mind.

Two shapes. One Mind.

I inch first.

One shape. Two Minds.

 

What happens is we share dark secrets of the past. This ushers in a softer, warmer air. I leave occasionally to puke, to brush my teeth, to clumsily fix the disheveled.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

We rearrange.

One shape. Two Minds.

 

At this point, its four in the morning. My hand is in between your legs and that same air has grown thick, even warmer still. You take my hand and we head upstairs.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

We lay to rest.

One shape. Two minds.

 

The lights are off, and you turn onto your side facing me. We embrace, kiss. My hand returns to that warm valley in between your legs.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

We turn and turn.

One shape. Two Minds.

 

There’s no right way to do it. There’s too much anticipation, expectation, frustration. We give up. A sigh stillness lay.

 

Two shapes. One Mind.

You remain.

One Shape. Two Minds.

You leave.

Two shapes. Two Minds.

Will we ever be-

One Shape. One Mind.

 

- ;)