round-up: 8/17
housekeeping, reading/listening recommendations, quotations, etc.
Happy Saturday!
Here’s what I have for you today:
Housekeeping
What I’m watching
What I’m listening to
What I’m reading
Quotations
& a disclaimer, again: Things are mostly terrible right now, and the violence is appalling, and there are many people out there who have addressed and do address it better than I ever could, so I’m not getting on a soapbox here—this will just be your weekly round-up featuring what I’ve been reading and thinking through, like usual.
Things to read/watch:
Israeli strike in Gaza kills more than 70, hospital head says
Israel widens evacuation orders in southern Gaza. Hamas wants plans for a deal instead of more talks
Housekeeping:
I have a few plants now and haven’t killed them yet. Incredible.
& I liked this list of Emily North’s perfect things:
texts from friends with disposable photos of forgotten moments
falling asleep with a book in your hand
exclamation marks
the shift in someone’s eyes when you come into their focus
the prada ss23 show
ribs by lorde
when angelina says, “i have chills!”
reaching into a pocket and finding a souvenir from a really great night (ie karaoke ticket, match book, number from a stranger etc.)
the cardamom bun at la cabra
watching my sister deep in conversation with someone and catching the ricochet of her warmth
bodega flowers
the smell of basil and mint together
the feeling of linen on freshly showered skin
the stark newness of a drastic haircut or new tattoo
singing “before he cheats” at karaoke
when sydney (b) slips into a southern drawl mid-conversation
seeing my parents drink their coffee on the porch together in the morning while they read the newspaper
that one moment at a concert when the artist stops singing and the crowd carries the song
remembering to actually breathe during yoga
twizzlers and diet coke
the clanking of beach chairs being carried up the dunes
any apartment party that angelina throws
passing by jersey produce farm stands on the way to the beach
the mosaic tile of hats at the 23rd street subway stop
sourdough bread and salted butter
red socks
being seated right away
realizing i haven’t checked my phone in hours
anything angelina or sydney (s) orders for the table
a philadelphia soft pretzel and blue water ice
the creaky wooden stairs at my parents’ house
my bathtub being in my kitchen
the lobby bar at the chelsea hotel
walking home after seeing a movie when everything feels slightly different than before
my grandmother’s old beat up chanel bag
having a crush
flakey maldon salt
stumbling upon a manhattanhenge sunset
the high line in the morning
eating whipped cream from the can
seeing strangers holding hands
red nail polish
sydney when she’s wearing earmuffs
sydney when she’s not wearing earmuffs
laughing at work
my brother explaining what music he’s been listening to lately
the “they shoot single people, don’t they?” episode of sex and the city
a cartier tank watch (unfortunately)
listening to my mom explain something she’s really passionate about and seeing her big blue eyes get even wider as she speaks
running into a friend on the street and having a stop-and-chat
an outdoor shower
pants that aren’t too short
popcorn made on the stove
giving compliments to strangers
getting compliments from strangers
when my peppermint tea is at the optimal temperature by the time i get into bed
the inexplicable fleeting wave of interconnectedness of new york- somehow in a city so large you are exactly where you are meant to be and with the people you are meant to be with at that very moment
finishing a book in one day at the beach
the sound of heels clicking on a sidewalk
pina coladas
watching a movie while knitting
What I’m listening to:
What I’m reading:
The Pedestrians, Rachel Zucker
Quotations:
I was a hairy, tattooed, pierced, bare-faced, mullet-donning, dirty little hippie who got botox. My dirty little secret. Beauty is a silly little thing, isn’t it? The art of illusion. Those people who look like they don’t care about beauty? Perhaps they’ve mastered the art of illusion more than anyone. Perhaps they care just as much, in their own way. Perhaps not about Beauty with a capital B, but appearances, images, the meaning produced through them. Is it possible not to? Don’t we all care in our own way? We can’t opt out of visual presentation. We’re made of flesh. We can’t erase our image. We will be perceived and interpreted. Meaning will be made. And depending on your perspective, we’re either gifted or burdened with some degree of freedom to shape this meaning. Our aesthetic presentation is an assemblage of personal decisions, all of which reflect our values, signal our belonging, and broadcast our desires. Whether we like it or not, we can’t opt out of this constant decision making, each decision on visual display, each decision communicating something.
I feel like sex can definitely facilitate love. Not in the corny way I hate, where scientists would say it’s unique to women, we’re the only ones who get the oxytocin burst or whatever. It’s just that physical intimacy is so powerful. Even if you take intercourse out of it. If you just laid naked with someone, and you managed to be gentle with each other—or if you laid mostly clothed with someone, but you were touching each other’s bare skin in a present way—it has a really profound emotional effect.
It takes a lot of bravery to be better at loving someone. And it takes a reduction of pride.
A minute ago you were 25. Then you went ahead getting the life you want. One day you looked back from 25 to now and there it is, the doorway, black, waiting.
What a difference there is between Keats’s handwriting in letters or notes for a poem and his ‘fair copies’ made for publishers or friends. I study this difference. I say to myself, it’s just a matter of attention; turn the page, pay attention, try again. I try again; I am wrong. Life slips one more notch towards barbarity.
Of course everyone is striving all their life. And no one wins against mortality.
We possess an increasingly stifled political language. We call Gaza a travesty, a horror, especially when “genocide” seems incapable of cutting through the noise. We call Covid a health crisis, yet one we somehow seem to have a firm handle on. It’s difficult to countenance a world as ignorant and benumbed as ours. Right now, amidst the steady acceleration of discourse and dismal pageantry surrounding both Republican and Democratic presidential campaigns, amidst a summer viral surge, amidst the unending extermination perpetrated in Palestine, amidst a deluge of bad art and even worse discourse around it, there is a feeling, palpable and all the more depressing because of its familiarity, that we are fucked.
There is no such thing as completely “safe” sex. A friend of mine can’t use condoms because they give her bacterial vaginosis. She chooses instead to take PreP to prevent the transmission of HIV, have sex without condoms, and get anything else she catches treated. A guy I know who masks and tests religiously caught COVID while fisting someone (with a gloved hand!) at an air-filtered party. HPV is so prevalent that most sexual wellness clinics don’t bother testing for it, and can’t do much for a patient if they do have it. Our bodies are teeming at all times with various endemic viruses and microbes that we will never have the power to purge.
Far too many people forget that it’s still dangerous to be a visibly gay man in public, and with the rising moral panic over “groomers” demonizing our every move, it’s only getting worse. Every time a queer man opens up to another person about his sexuality, he risks a potential beating, sexual assault, accusation of predatory behavior, or a firing. But in a cruising space, queer men can look after one another, prevent acts of sexual assault and hate crimes, and enjoy intimacy without outing themselves on a massive scale.
To be loved is to be annoyed. To be in community with other people is to be intruded upon, to make sacrifices everyday, to consign oneself to sweet pain.
The question of “why is Neil Gaiman like this” is really “why are so many famous artists like this,” and by “famous artists” we usually mean “famous men.” I’ve been taking a pottery class lately and the teacher—a cool and tough young woman—mentioned how common this sort of thing is in the pottery world. She named a few men (I’d never heard of them) who are considered superstars in the field and are adept at surrounding themselves with—and preying on—young women students. Basically every artistic medium is full of guys like this: known predators who are usually whispered about at best until a sufficient number of victims come forward (and even then, usually the creeps continue to thrive, unpunished.)
I used to be anti-prose, for myself, as it scared the living crap out of me. But over the years, I pushed myself to say “yes” when the invitations arrived. I’ve learned how to play inside prose. I still have no clue what I’m technically doing in an essay, but that’s the fun part. I have no fear because I have no map.
I truly believe people deserve trees, grass, flowers, bees, rabbits, birds. I get angry on behalf of my former neighbors in Point Breeze [Philadelphia] when I think about how nature-bare many of those blocks are. For some, that hyper-urban, stone-and-brick might be the exact recipe for their making, or living, but I need to hear a bird in the morning. I need to have a new favorite tree to pass on my walk each month. I need to be reminded that living happens outside of human-ness. I think that is what I realized this greenery does for me: it keeps me linked to the cycles and bigness of capital “L” life. It reminds me that I exist in a world made by more than just people, which keeps my imagination porous and large.
I can see myself loving and loathing my grandfather when I think about this place I live. I love my “home,” but I can hate “America.” I loved my grandfather. I hated my grandmother’s husband. Duality is all there is. Any danger that is forced upon you requires duality. If you can’t leave a violent home, what do you do to survive it? If you can’t leave your country, how do you make a life worth living in it? With climate change, I think that duality persists. How do I keep living my life when, at the same time, I/we can’t keep living this way?
My allegiance was to community, to honesty, to urgency, to witness, to service.
Gay bars are, to me, a bit of heaven. Heaven sometimes sucks, but the potential for heights of ecstasy are a little higher in a place like that. I think so much freedom happens in them. So much desire. So much drama. So much laughter. The outfits. The Queens. The gogo’s. The regulars. The crushes. The making out. The break-ups. The meetups. The bathroom. The bathroom! The special nights. Pride. My God. The bartender who is stingy and the one who pours too much. The friend who only drinks water these days. The-meet-me-at-the-bar bar, before the other bar. The horrible food.
I don’t crave weed in the least, but a couple months into this experiment, I am reconsidering it. This makes me feel very discouraged. But I don’t want to want to die. I don’t want to wonder if Jade, who has never so much as raised her voice to me since the day we met, secretly wants to kill me. I don’t want to be overwhelmed by my hatred of cis people and fear of men. The disadvantages of staying high being as minor as they are compared to these specters, the choice seems easy enough.
But there is something in me that still resists it. Whatever that is—pigheadedness, a problematic desire for the “cleanliness” of sobriety, the self-harming instinct that has always been there since I was just a little redacted—I’m letting it stay my hand for now. I guess I’ll have to wait and see.
That’s all for today!
-Despy Boutris
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