Sticky Floors; Concrete Thinking

That night we were in a boy bar the size of a dentist's waiting room. The smell of leather, black paint, vodka tonics. Somehow even the two disco balls with small light beams aimed at them seemed to emanate a scent: Old glue and mirrors. 

You were eager and nervous wearing a thin black sweater. You wore a plaid pencil skirt (greens/yellows/tans) made of stretchy fabric. You wore expensive eyeglasses made to look cheap. 

It seemed like you had never been in a gay bar before, which seemed at odds with the amount of time you spent describing the intricacies of your queerness. 

You were smart. Over-educated in that way that has so much knowledge and no point to it. 

Don't get me wrong: You seemed kind- even endearing when you were yourself.  It's just that you only seemed comfortable being yourself for the same amount of time a flame stands still.

That night you drank. 

I didn't. 

You talked. 

I listened.  

The thumping music that surrounded us got louder as it got later in hour. 

You stood up and took my hand. 

"Come with me to the bathroom!" you yelled, as if it made sense to do so. As if, even in a gay bar, a pencil-skirted woman needed someone to go with her to the bathroom. 

I stood up, brushed my black jeans off of whatever the fuck was on them that day, and followed you.

The bathroom was huge, dark in the way that most gay-bar bathrooms are, and single stall. Somehow, even with a bar packed full of people, we found the bathroom to be empty.  

We stepped inside. I went in first. You locked the door, turned around to face me, and walked past the sink toward me. You stumbled into me, grabbed the front of my black button-down shirt with both of your hands and pulled me toward you. You continued pulling as you walked backward until your back hit the painted cement of the bathroom wall. You kissed me: Hard and drunk and committed to the bit. 

As you pressed your lips into mine, I put my hand gently on the side of your face and slid my hand between our mouths, replacing my lips with my index finger across your mouth. A "reverse librarian shush", if you will, in order to end the moment without embarrassing you.  

Instead, you looked up at me with playful eyes and lowered your chin in what I think was an attempt at a seductive look. While maintaining eye contact, your arms darted down to the hem of your skirt and in one, swift movement, you lifted your skirt up to your waist. I glanced down, then back up at you before you saw that I had looked. You had absolutely no panties on. Of course you didn't. How do I end up in these situations? 

What would a gentleman do? I remember wondering. I wanted to act quickly and with certainty.

I kept my eyes on yours as I put my hands on both sides of the skirt that was bunched up around your waist. Slowly, I pulled the skirt back down into place- my fisted hands running down the sides of your thighs until your skirt reached your knees again. I straightened up, put my hands firmly on your shoulders and turned you around to face the wall. I pushed up against the wall, and I saw you smile and press the side of your nose into the wall. I slid my hand from the back of your neck down to the middle of your back, paused, then turned and walked out of the bathroom.

 

I stood outside the bathroom door. 

I figured it might take you a minute to know that I had left.  

 

[If this was a poetic piece, perhaps I would end the story there.  

It is not, so I will continue.]

A few minutes later, you came out of the bathroom, your face flushed and almost looking wet. I greeted you and let you know that I was going to take off to go study. You walked with me to the door of the bar. Things seemed smooth and fine and uneventful until we walked outside and the stuttering streetlights and outside air hit you. 

You, drunk, started demanding to know why I had left the bathroom. 

I didn't answer you and, instead, asked how you were getting home and can you text your partner to come get you? Once I knew he was on his way, I stood with you while you waited. 

You started getting louder demanding an answer. Wanting to know why I wouldn't make out with you. Those weren't the actual words. The actual words you were yelling were "WHY WON'T YOU FUCK ME?!" repeatedly while I did not answer and while a small crowd gathered to stare. 

Your partner's dark green wagon pulled up. 

I looked at you and, as my reply, said, "I have to go - I have verbs to conjugate." and crossed the street into darkness heading toward my place.

 

 

I never saw you again after that night. 

We had just become friends a few months prior. 

I don't have anything profound or profane to say about this situation. 

Just that it existed

that it was odd

and that, as a gentleman, it was mortifying to navigate. 

 

 

I did go home that night and conjugate irregular verbs of the language I was studying

and I found it to be 

quite soothing.   

 

 

be well; be loved,

 

k.  

(photo credit: Jagoda Wisniewska
via Untrustyou Tumblr) 

Bump in the Night

Werewolves and unraveled mummies and pompous vampires and gauzy ghosts and hunched-over witches and wobbling ghosts and too realistic Michael Myers and Robert Smiths in equal proportion.

The season is upon us. 

The plan has been set, accordingly.  

I will see you soon. 

Keep your Hollywood Blood Capsules on you. 

 

 be well; be loved,

 

k. 

 

P.S.  A and I and about five others are ready to embark on Inktober starting next week. If you are interested, the prompts have been released and the "rules" can be found HERE .  I've been playing around with some of them and already have a satisfying cactus and a ram that somehow looks like The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. 

[image credit: Daniel Jensen]

Spiraling Hood Ornaments and the Love of Humanity

 

Earlier today, I was sitting in my car in a grocery store parking lot after getting my flu shot when a man yelling at the air and then singing at the air and then yelling at the air tried to sit on my car hood while doing so. He turned toward me as he leaned upon my hood and howled. 

As it rained and as he yelled and sang, it made me think of a person from long ago (ten years?).  The person from long ago would lose her mind from time to time. Sometimes, too fucked up on drinks and prescriptions to be able to drive home. Sometimes leaving frantic,wild voicemails. Sometimes pleading. Sometimes crying. Many saying things that just didn't make sense. Eventually I had to set the boundary that I would not be able to be in the same room with her again without a therapist present. (Caring about a person is one thing, but we all need boundaries to 'protect our peace' as they say.) She sent me a video of her lighting her own childhood photo on fire. Then a year later, on New Year's Day, she sent me an email telling me she had moved to my childhood hometown and sent me a photo of the house she had bought there. Then about a year later, she contacted me concerned that she thought someone was looking at pictures of me on a photography site she kept.  Once, about four years ago? I messaged with her briefly. She asked to meet up. I said no. Four years later, she sent me emails accusing me of looking at a photograph website she has. When I let her know that I didn't know her photo website so no, it wasn't me, she sent email after email after email. (Thank you to C who read them for me since I had to stop reading them after a bit because they were too disjointed, paranoid, odd.) Perhaps the funniest email (I know I am supposed to be serious about this but sometimes, how can you be?) before I passed the reading-baton to C was one that consisted of nothing but middle finger emojis. 

Eventually, the man stopped yelling and cussing and got off of the hood of my car. The thump of his feet on wet pavement snapped me out of that momentary memory that had been sparked by his odd behavior. He stood in front of my car. Then he leered at me, broke into a smile, and ran off- almost frolicking- to his next foray. 

 

Be well; Be loved; 

 

K.  

 

P.S. Went with S. to a Yom Kippur service put on by a Pro-Palestinian Jewish community last week. It was the first time I have ever been in the same room as one of those huge Torahs that I've seen in photographs and on YouTube.  I'm still thinking about many of the things that were said and sung in that room, and still thinking of the visual that was that sea of people all wearing white as they faced the year to come. 

[Image credit: Nik via unsplash] 

The Wings at My Ankles

 

A friend and I were talking lately about how much we respect and love a person with hustle: That head down ineffable quality that involves scrap, determination, quick math, and a hefty dose of unintentional swag.  You can usually see it in the way a person moves (literal; figurative) and also in how they treat others: They tend to me more generous in their kindness and willingness to help someone out with something. 

It's hot. 

Tempered. 

Attractive.

Lately, things have been moving in an unexpected and relatively great direction.  I feel a hum underneath my feet that is elevating something beyond my control, and I am grateful for it.  Some things cannot be explained and some things are, indeed, stranger than fiction. 

A reminder: The people you protected yourself from years ago, the ones you booted who pop up to try and tell you who you are? They will always be the people with the least to say. Whack-A-Mole that shit (as usual).  Stay the course. 

And, as you do, enjoy all that unfolds in front of those humming toes of yours: 

Hermes may have nothing on you these days. 

 

be well; be loved,

 

k.  

(Photo credit: Julien De Rosa/AFP: Bella Hadid for Saint Laurent Spring/Summer 2025)

Swims in the Pool She Used to Clean

 

The other still-summer evening R and I went to a park I hadn't been to in a very long time to eat pizza and read together. (R: An autobiography of Jean Genet; Me: The most recent graphic novel of Alison Bechdel's from the library, Spent). 

While there, my eyes moved to this one corner of the park that has cement walls (to actually make a corner of sorts) this weird memory unlocked for me. I'm not sure who it was with, and it must have taken place there years ago. What I remember is that me and the other person alternating sitting in metal lawn chairs (they came with the park) and laying on the grass, occasionally picking up baseball mitts and throwing a ball to each other. (Where the fuck had I gotten a baseball mitt?) Memory is a weird one, but it was such a surreal feeling to follow what my mind recalled had happened there: Even if I couldn't see the face or body of who I had been with. 

 *

Lately I've been sleeping deeper and having more complex dreams. There are so many reasons for this. I jot them down sometimes in the morning. A few days later I will re-read them and feel terrified in a way I did not feel while having them.

 

Be well; Be loved,

 

k.  

 

image credit: Dmitry Osipenko

title credit: I'm still on my inexplicable Jets to Brazil kick.  

Your Wings Were Never Mesmerizing to Me: On Why Drunk People With Cameras Are Boring

Embodiment, mystery, cleaning, and nail polish removal. If my day was a teeter-totter, it would be at the exact moment of balance: Satisfying, but with the warm tension and curiosity toward the next lean of life dropping you into the next dip, or pulling a gasp out of your mouth and clutch out of your hands at the next rise. 

This week there was a well-timed reunion with a person who has been in my life in some capacity for 18 years. I've never quite been able to put my finger on why and how he feels familiar well beyond the 18 years we've actually known each other but, no matter. I enjoy the ease in which we share humor and ideas and suspicions and life.  

 

be well; be loved,

k. 

 

Currently reading: My Lover, the Rabbi by Wayne Koestenbaum

Recently watched: The Letter Room, a short by Elvira Lind that (surprisingly) had Alia Shawkat in it.  

[image credit: Le Génie du Mal by Joseph Geefs, 1842 (left); Le Génie du Mal by Guillaume Geefs, 1848 (right) Source: Basler Zeitung]

The Stock of Your Greeting Cards

Lately I have been back at listening to different Hz of sound for various outcomes. Today, I have been listening to 40 Hz binaural beats geared towards focus. What results is a feeling of being in a different dimension. Not a better one nor a worse one - just one that feels markedly different. 

[I pause here to mention that I read recently that 18.98 Hz is said to cause hallucinations of "ghosts" in humans because it somehow vibrates the eyeball or the fluid within it. I have no interest in testing the theory, mainly because much of what I've read also says that it causes a feeling of dread as well. What has this level of sound? An extractor fan, evidently. Well, and the Youtube videos now made to replicate it.]

*

I spent a good part of today with a friend of mine and her brother. I asked them questions about what they were like growing up and how their relationship to each other has evolved. It was fun to learn about a loved one through the eyes of their sibling. I studied the similar shape of their eyes as they spoke and looked at each other.

* 

I've recently tried my hand at investigating Macbeth, again. Word on the theatrical street is that Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood (1957) is the best filmed adaptation of it - setting it in feudal Japan. It is on the docket. 

In the meantime, if you haven't gone to see Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma, I highly recommend it. I will keep this from being a film review. All you'd need to do is look up Jane Schoenbrun and it will prepare you for the dreamy, genderless meditations on being and attraction and becoming that they tend to make. The films create a feeling of an ineffable moment: Something that feels groundbreaking but simultaneously deeply familiar in the way that a long-forgotten dream resurfacing does. 

 

 

be well; be loved,

k. 

 

[image by Mohammad Alizade]

The Company You Hired to Clean Up the Mess

 

 

This weekend X and I went on our secret little biannual routine that I won't mention but that ends with Thai food and driving fast cars that I will mention. I won't lie: A Rivian goes fucking FAST if it wants to. 0-60 in less than 3 seconds. Total asshole/pussy clencher and don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. 

It was a good time, as always.

 (pause)

A bit ago, Petty Officer and I hosted some friends to come over before going to an art show and I have to say that I am slowly breaking my habit of cultivating the home of a 13-year-old boy. No one sat on milk crates, I had enough glasses for everyone there, and I had napkins of sorts as opposed to what I refer to as a "slob blanket" which is a shower-sized towel that you can put on your lap and wipe your hands on as you eat before throwing it in the washer. (In defense of the slob blanket: Not only is it environmentally friendly, but I will have you know that I've had more than a few people pick up on the habit.)

What can I say? 

A long time ago I heard a binary stereotype: Women keep their rooms spectacularly clean yet their cars looking like an actual trashcan on wheels; men meticulously detail their cars yet have their mattresses held up on cinder blocks. 

While my gender(s) don't fit exactly into this framework, I will say only that my car is almost obsessively clean yet I do not own cinder blocks. 

I will be taking no questions at this time.

 

Be well, be loved,

 

k.  

 

 

 [image credit: Hoyoun Lee via Unsplash]

 

 

The Phrase You Remember Most That Was Whispered into Your Ear

 

I speak and understand and read four languages including my own [...] I suppose that's why I have a tendency (as does Luisa, who is also an interpreter) [...] to want to understand everything that people say and everything I hear, both at work and outside, even at a distance, even if it's one of the innumerable languages I don't know, even if it's in an indistinguishable murmur or an imperceptive whisper, even if it would be better that I didn't understand and what's said is not intended for my ears, or is said precisely so that I won't catch it.

                       - From A Heart So White by Javier Marías                                                          

Recently, I watched a film short about two interpreters and have been thinking about it. The two main characters are simultaneous interpreters, the kind in which people who need the spoken language access (in this case, Hungarian) are given earphones in which to hear the  interpretation while a speaker is presenting. 

I've been around this type of interpreting and these types of earpieces a number of times. I've sat next to people using them. I've been one of the people using them. The flimsy and ill-fitting plastic-and-sometimes-foam meant to offer access to information for the price of discomfort for a few hours. The most memorable time being around these earpieces was, long ago, being in a room with Baltasar Garzón lecturing in his tailored suit and slicked back silver and dark gray hair. I recall how he gripped the emblemed, fake-wood podium at times. I remember this movement accentuating his sophisticated, almost teasing tie wear as he spoke. 

More specifically this film short taught me the term chuchotage, which I have also been in a room with and been teased by. Chuchotage is another type of simultaneous interpretation, one in which the interpreter stands (or sits) close to a person and whispers the translation in real time. There is a connection to the French verb chuchoter in its origins which means "to whisper". It tends to only be functional when there are one to maybe four people needing access to a particular language. I've been in a lot of meetings where chuchotage is going on in the back or side of the room and, before realizing that's what was happening, I thought people were just whispering during a presentation, which peaked my interest. 

I wonder, from a spoken language interpreter's perspective on simultaneous interpretation, if most prefer being the disembodied voice in the ears of a percentage of the crowd, or if most prefer to sit close and whisper. 

From a physical and interpreting standpoint, I have thoughts. There are pros and cons to them both that I can see. From my own experience interpreting, I can say that sometimes chuchotage makes my own interpreting more challenging in that it becomes harder to hear what is being said by the speaker. But I don't fault anyone for that: Access is access and it's all equally vital. 

Putting all profession aside: I will forever be prone to romanticize any type of whispered access that is murmuring in the back of the room and tempting me for my attention.

 

 

Be well; be loved,

 

k.

Note: The aforementioned film short is by Barnabás Toth and is entitled Chuchotage (2018).

 

[photo credit: Kristina Flour]