bright lit gray skies

15Aug10

Bright lit gray skies. Vampire Weekend, cats passed out on either side.  More time to myself than I’ve managed for weeks – the house is empty and clean, new pics as yet undeveloped, beach excursion unnecessary after a stint this week on Fire Island.

Just renamed the house Greene Gardens due to excessive female eccentricity, feline bodycount, and good old bones.  Missyfoo’s dementia has gotten more pronounced this summer.  Three times already he’s wandered out to Myrtle Avenue; the sidewalk psychic is convinced we are starving him.  We finally had to lock him at home in the aerie with Tiger.

They take naps together.  It’s super cute.

Mixed results on Butch Summer so far.  Gender fluidity is more expensive than you’d think: new outfits, boys underwear, pale pedicures, constant mohawks: it’s something to build up to.  My mother admonished me for looking like an 18-year-old rebel.  No, mom, I look like a 33-year-old rebel, cheerfully. Give it up my hair is COOL.

I’ve settled on a psychedelic drawing for my first tattoo; with luck next summer I’ll be on a motorbike.  The mini-skirts in my closet remain untouched.  Actually following through on these impulses feels more like maturity to me than regression.  Maybe evolution is the right word.

Fire Island this week was like a RESET button.  Every muscle in my body relaxed and I finally stopped worrying so much about love.  Instead there were an abundance of avocados, unexpected ocean baths, sequinned beachwear, and a baby buck who reminded me of Tiger and scratchy licked my palm.

Before I left I was listless.  It took two full cigarettes out the studio window before I noticed my tree had sprouted lean green seed pods.  The heat wave felt like a wasting disease.  I played Time After Time on the piano, and time after time I couldn’t get through it without choking.

Back in Brooklyn I got a new bed and am sleeping relaxed, relieved of the acuteness of recent heartaches.  Feeling more Journey now than Cyndi: more sweeping, less mookie.  Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti are shining hopeful rays of California through my studio speakers.  There are cat dramas to de-escalate and an encouraging string of upcoming adventures.

I keep shooting and shooting and the pictures keep coming back looking like this.  It’s been since January already, suddenly, and I continue to be startled by the consistency of this alien aesthetic coming back in every new roll of film.  I’m not doing this on purpose, yet I can tell there’s some kind of powerful instinct happening.  I feel it when I shoot.  Some important connection between the photographs and queer sensibility.  Don’t know if it’s better to articulate it or leave it be.

I just keep shooting and shooting, mystified about what to do with this pile of images.  Four more rolls this weekend.  The pile is growing.

Last weekend we lit fireworks in the backyard and I couldn’t stop shooting.  I knew how cool that explosion would look, bright white against the black sky: I wanted the pictures.  I thought there would be time both to photograph, and to watch with my eyes for my own memory.  But I kept shooting and the sparks ran out.  Do it again!  This time I promise I’m going to watch! Erica lit the second set of fireworks and I couldn’t help it, I had to take pictures.  Again.

Something is missing.  Or something is gained.  I’m starting to lose my ability to see the difference.

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