No Relation to Creation

I had no idea it was possible for me to become planted in the air. Like a spore: alive and floating. I have no power to reproduce, though: only to drift. It would be comforting to float on water, but I have nothing with which I'm connected. Anything that exists purely in the air is illusory or invisible. Untouchable and uninhabitable. From the exit of my mother's womb until now I've been a wanderer of jet-streams. I'm not intending to imply that I'm fickle, but that I'm unestablished.

There is snow here again.

I meet people - men - one after the other and in the first moment of seeing their face I know that I know that he

1: desires my attention more than I desire his

2: will never progress beyond the conversation of that moment.

Each man discusses one topic with me, and from that topic they derive an opinion of how they would like to explore me more. One thing. That one thing is not enough to merit the types of compliments they give me. I'm a talker, and no body seems to see THROUGH that. I can make anything sound good, and people nibble at any crumb I give. More often than not I remember nothing of what I say to these men, because it's not truly a conversation, but a crock of shit that sounds deliberate and articulate.

Over the course of the four hours or so that I may spend sitting at the bar I make comments to the Michael the bartender and he gets me and I like the way he watches my night pass alongside me, and understands my comments - before I make them - but when his girlfriend asked for my phone number I was reluctant to give it. Michael understood why, but I didn't want to be rude to her; I didn't have to explain to him that we'd become too good of friends and it would be intense and inadviseable altogether because he's bad news.

Whatever all that is supposed to mean.

I want a man who I can't take my eyes off of. I want a boy to draw a stool up next to me and talk to me about moments in his life that made him a better person, and a boy who I cannot take my eyes off of.

I can't take my eyes off of Michael. But he's 32 and only just now considering allowing experiences to make him a better person.

He also doesn't award me more than I deserve, and I like that. He sees through my bullshit. He finishes my sentences sometimes, too.

I said, "tequila makes sweet love to me, but Jager..."

"fucks you in the ass."

Those were the words forming on my lips, and suddenly my cheeks grew red and my heart skipped a beat, and I trembled and as I grasped at my chest Michael commented that my appearance was transformed so I removed my sweater and went to the bathroom, stepped out into the winter night and stood for nearly two minutes before feeling a chill, then drank some water, and tried to locate the source of my anxiety. I thought I was going to faint, but I never have, unless I'm whacked in the head, and I doubt I ever will, because I'm too cognizant.

I kept on drinking and felt fine.

The next day I wound my way around up and up into the Guggenhiem Museum. Toward the pinnacle of the spiraling building I glanced away over the railing and before my eyes found the ground my knees locked and shuddered and heat shot inside my ears and down into my stomach and began pushing back up through my throat, blocking my breath and starting a sweat. I had to slink away, and my friend asked if I was afraid of heights.

No, I'm not afraid of heights, but my body is.

My body and I are dissociated.

I don't really understand my body at all. I don't relate to it. I don't know what color my eyes are, but my body has blue eyes. People tell my body that the blue eyes are pretty, and since my body can't talk I have to answer, "thank you" for it. But I'm not impressed when people talk about my body; I think I could do without it.