monday (text dreams)
I dreamt that my crush texted me back, isn’t that something? I dreamt he sent me multiple messages, like seven, first apologizing for not responding then suggesting various things that we could do. He left an audio message, I think, in my dream. In my dreams.
The day before I had been watching that Thai BL about a doe-eyed game designer who falls in love with his boss, or vice versa, for better or worse I tend to just put these shows on as I do other things around the house, like cook or clean or write or practice the trumpet. Sometimes I tune in but usually I don’t. It makes the show more interesting to miss several episodes and have to figure out what happened and to who.
Anyway on the Thai BL the doe-eyed game designer, Hill, had finally found a way to visit his boyfriend, who also happened to be his boss, on a work trip to Japan. When Hill gets there his boyfriend, Junji, vanishes. He’s too busy. Hill never sees him, but sends him a bunch of messages. I don’t know. Later they end up happily ever after.
I got out of bed, it was Sunday, yesterday. I felt sad, it was raining and wet and grey outside. I drew my tarot cards for the week, my guiding principle should be the Ace of Pentacles inverted and this is informed by the Knight of Wands. This morning as I drank coffee I thought about this and decided to be materialistic and intense this week. Just be a bitch, you know? Me at my worst is, I think, much better than the worst people at their best. I sent emails, one to a job that keep haranguing me to work on Thursday after I said, look I’m a little out of it my friend just died, and another to a club, a venerable jazz club in the city that has unfortunately been handed over to someone incompetent and inexperienced. Nepotism is a plague — speaking of the worst people.
It’s frustrating, almost debilitating sometimes, to be an artist of any kind. We depend on the scum of the earth, the rich, for our wellbeing — people who have no taste, no education, no culture, and above all no ability to think critically, because obviously if you can think critically you’re not going to hoard a bunch of money for no fucking reason in the world of today where a minimal investment could change the lives of a huge number of people. Like, think of the takeaway from Queer Eye, I mean the takeaway that isn’t about bullying and workplace abuse and the absolute rot at the core of US society, or Western society, or capitalism, what’s the difference at this point. The takeaway is that many, probably most, people in the United States will break down crying if somebody finds them a shirt that fits, or if someone — genuinely or not — asks them, looking in their eyes, speaking softly: are you ok? They lack the bare minimum is what I mean, and this bare minimum could easily be provided by the wretched buffoons who hold on the the majority of global wealth with their sweaty, swollen, searching hands.
Anyway, only the rich can afford to buy artworks, fund musicians, run festivals, open venues, and so on. This means that those of us who work in culture, who produce culture or care about it, must depend on the most wretched and incompetent people on the planet to survive. Wretched and incompetent and anxiety-ridden, I’d add, a sort of compensatory anxiety generated by the absurdity and irrelevance of their own lives, like having a screaming fit over receiving a latte that isn’t hot enough. A person who has a screaming fit over a lukewarm latte is either suffering from untreated mental illness or is rich, which may in itself be a mental illness.
I keep thinking, the legacy of the boomer generation in the US is school shootings and the almost unimaginable — I say almost because one doesn’t have to imagine it, you can just literally go there and feel it — level of apathy and misandry to see men walking into schools and shooting kids with automatic weapons and do nothing. Ah jeez what a shame. Thoughts and prayers. Thots and bears. Maybe tomorrow my crush will text me.