Letting love in
New York Mag, PIN–UP, etc.
Maya Martinez is spinning from the rafters. Not my first abortive NA meeting this month but the only one where somebody steals the money from the bowl. This is a play, not reality, even though we have to walk around following the performers. I’m not convinced by sobriety. “How can I put it, a lot of insular types of conversations are going on,” writes Gary Indiana of a bar in Rent Boy. I haven’t been going out though, so my conversations are more insular than this—largely with myself. Okay, well, after the play I did go to Null Object where I spilled brown mystery health food juice that was also art over a memento-covered white fridge that was also art in a room with metal-plated walls and then at the dim sum restaurant after there were, literally, seven or eight birthdays. Guess my nightstand is in New York Magazine? I mean the one in my actual apartment, not just a morphologically similar table. They knew I’d have things to say about sex and furniture but nobody saw it coming that lately I’ve had things to say about love, least of all me. “Love, an exercise of the imagination…” Iris Murdoch says. Iris Murdoch says love is a performance, a painful one, one that overcomes one’s self, overcome’s fantasy, and thus can lead to art. Does this make art reality?
On the subject of desire and decor (apropos my nightstand), I wrote about this guy who made a triangular bed, also. For PIN–UP. I do still write articles, although fewer lately, but I am trying to start again, because money may be a delusion but it is not a fantasy. I need some.
