(In today’s Saturday Zeit-Bites I wonder why I can’t manage to get a drink, sailor . . . or is that, get a sailor by drinking . . . or is that . . .fuck it . . . send me your selfies, dude . . . we’ll meet up . . . name: J.P.Genet . . . and no one has gotten it yet . . .what a world. . .)
So, despite my Tweets and blogs, no one who knows my actual name invited me anywhere last night, for a drink or anything else.
Some people I know (knew) were busy in a theatre I built in another life doing a show that, were I a ghost, I would have haunted – and when I am a ghost – well, never mind that. Soon enough. Some people are never going to have a peaceful night’s sleep again, that’s all I’m saying.
And while I wasn’t asked out – well, by anyone who knows my real name – for a drink or anything else, a dear friend did send me an article from the Huffington Post called: Ten Lies Your Depression Tells You. Okay. Well. I have to say that having read it, these are not lies; they are my biography. So, I guess MY depression is a truthful one. Just my luck.
In any event, I read. A lot. In my own bed for the first night of my first extended stay in my own bed all summer long – which, somehow, sounds far more exciting than it actually is (or has been). In fact, this summer – these past months – quite a blur. So much noise. So much need. So many people asking me for things, asking me to be there or do things or take care of things. I get called when there’s trouble. That’s my m.o., that’s my rep, but I don’t – so much – get called when I have trouble, or, when things are ok. I think, then, I remind people too much of where and who they were when things were not going well – or, for some, I remind them too much of the better self they’ve decided NOT to try to be – and so, I am – as it were – edited or re-written away. So much fucking noise.
It’s okay, the world is full of people who don’t know my name, don’t know me well enough to tell their troubles to, don’t know anything about me but what can be learned in the lies of the dark; we’re all sailors on a sinking boat written about by someone like Genet or Camus or . . . I don’t know, some nihilistic Frenchman or another.
I’ll find my own damn sailor to dance with . . .
Or, more unto . . .
It is what it is. People come and go so quickly here. And they’re all so eager to send selfies. What a world.
Whatever the joys sailor-hunting might bring, we’re so conditioned by the culture to feel like we need to be happily-ever-aftered – it ends up being about the good-bye, again.
And so, it goes. And so, here I am, thinking about going to the gym on the slim to non-existent chance that there might come a day in the next eight months when I would feel able to send a selfie. (Not ever happening, believe me.) Sadly, on Saturday, I can’t do my treadmilling or recumbent biking in time to coincide with Will & Grace reruns on Lifetime, as there are none on Saturday. DAMN THE LUCK!
I don’t know, some days it feels as if I ought to get the red phone out and dial . . .
But, then I think, “Fuck it, most of the world can’t even be bothered to use their heads at all . . . or, they’ve avoided thinking about it by drugging themselves into semi-oblivion – either legally or illegally – I don’t see much difference, frankly – it’s still a race to being and staying NUMB – and, well, I don’t think that’s such an accomplishment – and I’m no worse off than they are.”
And so I go along my merry (sort of) way. But, wait – where the fuck was I going? Oh yeah, right, that place where none of you invited me out for a drink. And some of you were still selling me out. Time for Judy. (Always.)