Amsterdam.
I think I'll set my sights there. Something to put on the horizon.
New York isn't ready for me and I'm not quite ready for it again. San Francisco is even more awkward than it was before. I'm too young to have developed a tolerance for L.A. PortIand has been dying for years and I think its Time Of Death was announced sometime after my last visit. I haven't known if theres a home left for me. I think I've found where to work/(fight) for.
Its strange to remember, acknowledge, even admit-and Jesusfuck its weird to actually say it; My last lover is Dutch, born, raised and currently living in Amsterdam. FYI: The Dutch live in Holland. Holland is not actually a country. It's part of the Netherlands. Actually its two parts of the Netherlands. North and South Holland. Two of twelve provinces.
Nikita...
Complicated topics I may never be able to express but I digress from the topic.
Few people have recognized my heartstrings as an instrument. Fewer can play them as such.
Masochistic or high-functioning autistic rationales aside, some people abandon masterpieces under process of composition. It happens more than you realize, 'almost' being caught in public eye. Butterflies in Peking could make millions.
Its been months and longer since I've even acknowledged it to myself, somehow arguably both happening at the best and worst time possible. I still have a sealed love letter, the first and only time I've used my finest Badtz Maru stationary. It still sits on a shelf never sent.
But still, the city of Amsterdam. what was once just some place I never cared about where you could smoke pot or hash became a city of cheap apartments along canals I studied in art history. a place where part-time bookstore workers wore garters because they honestly wanted to. and the taxi's were on par if not slightly better than Manhattan's.
And... well... its the first city I found someone I thought identical with. It hurts how many sentences we finished for each other. How many we never had to finish.
I recognize it tonight though. Acknowledge it. Admit. Confess. Instinctively I'm drawn. More than that; drawn to force those capable of abandoning, or completing the masterpieces they started. Theres no denying a desire to take the knife in my chest and press against & chafe the culprit on a dance floor with the hilt.
International travel is... (forgive me!) foreign to me, I may have to practice once, maybe twice in Canada, then England. I may have to put this on hold until I can legally tattoo. I don't know.
Knowone tells me anything; but thats mainly my own fault.
I think I'll set my sights there. Something to put on the horizon.
New York isn't ready for me and I'm not quite ready for it again. San Francisco is even more awkward than it was before. I'm too young to have developed a tolerance for L.A. PortIand has been dying for years and I think its Time Of Death was announced sometime after my last visit. I haven't known if theres a home left for me. I think I've found where to work/(fight) for.
Its strange to remember, acknowledge, even admit-and Jesusfuck its weird to actually say it; My last lover is Dutch, born, raised and currently living in Amsterdam. FYI: The Dutch live in Holland. Holland is not actually a country. It's part of the Netherlands. Actually its two parts of the Netherlands. North and South Holland. Two of twelve provinces.
Nikita...
Complicated topics I may never be able to express but I digress from the topic.
Few people have recognized my heartstrings as an instrument. Fewer can play them as such.
Masochistic or high-functioning autistic rationales aside, some people abandon masterpieces under process of composition. It happens more than you realize, 'almost' being caught in public eye. Butterflies in Peking could make millions.
Its been months and longer since I've even acknowledged it to myself, somehow arguably both happening at the best and worst time possible. I still have a sealed love letter, the first and only time I've used my finest Badtz Maru stationary. It still sits on a shelf never sent.
But still, the city of Amsterdam. what was once just some place I never cared about where you could smoke pot or hash became a city of cheap apartments along canals I studied in art history. a place where part-time bookstore workers wore garters because they honestly wanted to. and the taxi's were on par if not slightly better than Manhattan's.
And... well... its the first city I found someone I thought identical with. It hurts how many sentences we finished for each other. How many we never had to finish.
I recognize it tonight though. Acknowledge it. Admit. Confess. Instinctively I'm drawn. More than that; drawn to force those capable of abandoning, or completing the masterpieces they started. Theres no denying a desire to take the knife in my chest and press against & chafe the culprit on a dance floor with the hilt.
International travel is... (forgive me!) foreign to me, I may have to practice once, maybe twice in Canada, then England. I may have to put this on hold until I can legally tattoo. I don't know.
Knowone tells me anything; but thats mainly my own fault.
I think I'm going to Portland for the 4th though. Actually, across the river from it, in Vancouver, WA. Where they have an enormous fireworks show, the biggest on the west coast, and also where my origins are buried.
... except even those that claim to miss me avoid penciling in any plans. I may just spend the 4th waiting by the phone.
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I couldn't imagine Edith not making art.
Next time you are in Portland come when there are some art openings - beginning or end of the month.
Here's the 2004 story.
I was living in NJ for the summer, but came back to Boston to spend the weekend with a Harvard grad student I liked. We spent a couple days together and then he went home for the 4th. I didn't want to go back home, so I stayed with another friend, who brought me to a party. I met one of the men I'd eventually have my first threesome with at that party. We watched the fireworks from a rooftop in downtown Boston, and had water balloons thrown at us on the walk home.