The color is blue, like the ocean. So, less blue, I suppose, and more like a muddied green. Naturally, I’m referring to the likes of the Atlantic or Pacific, not the Caribbean’s cerulean stained glass-like surface. Writing this now, the color strikes me as if I’m to entertain the conceit that things in my life are becoming increasingly solemn. I refuse to believe that color is an oracle of truth, although these days, my belief in most things is halfhearted at best, and I’m willing to conspire toward anything that can neuter my disillusionment. Last week, I spent all of my money. This week, I considered converting to Judaism.
Lately, my actions seem to fulfill the structure of some unwritten genre; one that is not yet distinguishable from the others, but is still capable enough of predicting the direction of my plot. I cannot help but feel that I’m moving along with the wrong intentions. Misery is futile in and of itself, but the cause for action has been disparaged. When I close my eyes, I no longer dream. Nothing fascinates the mind more than the currents of today’s movements. Nothing is a dream when the means to materialize it are already present. I see a man on TikTok with the most beautiful head of hair, and I immediately spend $70 on product.
Nothing holds me still, not the promise of achievement nor the thought of sex. Fuck the OrangeTheory coach. Fuck the guy dropping his savings into cryptocurrency. Fuck that girl’s boyfriend. Self-destruct at all costs. I am too frenetic, waiting for the shore to be brought into my periphery, for I have no intention of traveling toward it.
A friend of a friend, whose pronouns are probably they/them, tells me in the park that being queer is a constant radical act of defiance, and that we must unlearn ideological behaviors. I ask them about ideologies, and about which ones they know. “Heteronormativity, for one,” they respond.
“What about capitalism?”
“Less of an ideology and more of a structure.”
“Good to know.”
I ask they/them if they’re working, and they tell me where. I wonder if it’s good money just enough to to ask the question, regardless of how off-putting it is. After all, defying convention is inherently queer. They/them tells me they make $15 an hour and work only part-time, about 20 hours per week. “My parents help me out with my rent,” they tell me.
“Very queer.” I was half-teasing.
“Oh I know.” Lucky for me, defiance doesn’t mean well read.
“I like today’s look by the way,” I mention before leaving. “The mix-matched patterns and fabrics are kind of giving.”
“Ohmigod, thank you. Honestly, I got it all from Urban.”
I almost played all my card; not because I wanted to be all in, but because I wanted to get out of the game entirely.
”Good to know,” I said, rising from the bench to begin my walk home.
That night, I make an espresso with a shot of Cointreau, add a small ice cube, and lay in bed. Next to me, Jeffrey entertains himself with Youtube videos on his phone, their scripts half-catching my ear on occasion, yielding a truly curious, “What are you watching?” For the first time in weeks, I feel my heart pass through my ribcage, and settle into my back. I comb through the satisfaction only for an ounce of meaning. Undiscovered and without language, I rest my eyes for the night.
slay!! queer voice of a generation. purr mama yaas
This feels stylistically parallel to Henry Miller in the best ways. Love!