You do realize something’s gotta give. (And whenever I hear those last three words, the image of Diane Keaton dancing around naked in her living room while Jack Nicholson looks on just flashes and flashes and flashes. Flash. Whatever.)
I am waiting for a headache to pass. I am waiting for the ihawan in Gonzales St. to open so I can pig out, because I haven’t pigged out in so long. I am waiting for people to stop thinking of ways to eat my hypothetical pet pig of the future, Commodore Hump. I am waiting for tonight, like J.Lo, who, she’s quick to remind you, has not forgotten that she’s from the block.
I am waiting for a mentor/childhood hero to get his Sanuks in the English Dept., as he bears the magic signature. Someday I will have a magic signature. Someday people will line up in the rain and circle around blocks just to be in the ten-foot radius of my magic signature, which, typically, will have a smiley face as a punctuation mark.
I am waiting for short stories with titles like “Lie” and “Silverfish” and “Hysteria” and “A Few Things You Should Know” to get jiggy with the inner workings of our wonky universe and write themselves. Here’s the thing: I love what I do, and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing.
Most of all, I am waiting for poems like this to stop sneaking in on me and have me blubber and slobber all around the room, in search for my green flats and that donut I just know is somewhere:
The Primer by Christina Davis
She said, I love you.
He said, Nothing.
(As if there were just one
of each word and the one
who used it, used it up).
In the history of language
the first obscenity was silence.
And then Barthes comes along, even though I’d taken the pains to shipping him off to cat-infested Kael Co’s house: ‘”Am I in love? — Yes, since I’m waiting.” The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn’t wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover’s fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.’ You think you know so much, Roland my boy, don’t you? Well, fuck you, man, fuck you. You and the baby penguins and one-week-old puppies and the platypus and baby pandas. Fuck it.
I am waiting for the blog entry that won’t take me too long to write, because I don’t need to think of codes or hide behind quotable quotes; I don’t have to go through my repository of Shit, Booger Complex snippets from literature because I do not have the capacity to express myself with my own goddamned words.
Sucks when the New Year rolls in and you become absolutely sure of one thing, and that one thing you’re absolutely sure of cannot — for the fucking life of it, at the least for the goddamned conventions of politeness (i.e. white lies) — goddamn give you a simple Yes or No. By all means, it’s moving back to the rainbows and cavorting bunnies mode, but dude, come on. You think I feel vindicated because it’s shining-shimmering-splendid now because I goddamned cried like it was a The Buzz interview? Gaaahd.
Yeah, it’s all coming up roses. (If you think about it in the technical level, it is.) But I’m not making sense. So, yeah. Shutting up now.