Who's heard about the Darling building? The rumour is that it's being turned into condos. When I was a fresh faced artistocrat at OCAD, the Darling building represented that impossible dream - super cool studios in a prefab community of like souls. And beams and nice light with cute art boys slouching around in lowriders and tanktops. And history, anchored: old artists with crystals and stevie nicks on the boom box.
Sarah and I considered some spaces in that building before we settled on ours, and we were drawn, probably mostly, to its obviously endearing name. Who doesn't want to work in a building called Darling? I mean, I'm darling. My hopes are darling to me. You're a darling.
Is Artscape acquiring something else instead? I get a post-traumatic chill every time an oldschool and visible visual arts institution like the DArling studios changes. Maybe it's for the best - I mean, those spots were getting kind of prohibitively expensive. But I just hope it's not the beginning of a gradual or not so gradual drop off in affordable (that's an elastic term) spaces for artists in this city. I've said it before - the scene is fickle, and I don't just mean that as a jilted ex-curator.
In other news, Clementines: so hot right now. Everybody's worried about scurvy I guess. Everybody's got one in their pocket.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Paraphernalia
According to Graeme S, "paraphernalia"used to mean a woman's OWN posessions - you know, like, those things she collected that were outside of her dowry, really hers. For some reason, this tickled me. It made me happy and I didn't bother to google for accuracy. I mean, Graeme S is pretty trustworthy - he's one of my oldest friends.
According to Mike W, the Nazis called one of their loot fields - the place where they put
teeth and other valuables - "Canada". Canada was all myth, untapped purity and white potential.
I had a dream about Canada's innocence. I had a dream about snow cover over Toronto so high that only the peaks of buildings + a harvest moon + sunset (max technicolour) were visible. A thaw came next, this crazy melting that let all the snow drain to a river beneath the gardner. A few whales were in there, swimming, with huge glorious floppy tails.
Sarah B likes Debussy and she thinks that the early Americans were shitty painters, who did not progress because they did not have access to the Europeans, and because they had no solid competition. They started out strong and cocky, perfect revised blueprints for future boy painters, but after a while there was nobody to spar with and their work, like their bodies, suffered.
Sarah read me bits of Dorian Grey and an entire David Antin poem, after we ate a dignified dinner. I read her some little flamboyant bits, the better ones, from Summer Crossing. Sarah leant me Summer Crossing years ago, and I still have it. I hate that people have to call it an "immature" work. That's only because of what came after.
According to Mike W, the Nazis called one of their loot fields - the place where they put
teeth and other valuables - "Canada". Canada was all myth, untapped purity and white potential.
I had a dream about Canada's innocence. I had a dream about snow cover over Toronto so high that only the peaks of buildings + a harvest moon + sunset (max technicolour) were visible. A thaw came next, this crazy melting that let all the snow drain to a river beneath the gardner. A few whales were in there, swimming, with huge glorious floppy tails.
Sarah B likes Debussy and she thinks that the early Americans were shitty painters, who did not progress because they did not have access to the Europeans, and because they had no solid competition. They started out strong and cocky, perfect revised blueprints for future boy painters, but after a while there was nobody to spar with and their work, like their bodies, suffered.
Sarah read me bits of Dorian Grey and an entire David Antin poem, after we ate a dignified dinner. I read her some little flamboyant bits, the better ones, from Summer Crossing. Sarah leant me Summer Crossing years ago, and I still have it. I hate that people have to call it an "immature" work. That's only because of what came after.
HANG THE DJ
It’s a cold winter day. There are two people who matter. They are Anthony and Regis. Regis is not Regis from Regis and Kathy Lee or Regis and Kelly, and Anthony is not Anthony Kiedis, although he does wear tanktops and he is conceited about his upper arms.
Anthony matters less than Regis, because he is not crazy. Anthony has regular worries, like everybody, you know? He doesn’t really like the fact that no matter how often he waxes it off, the tight black curly trail between his crotch and bellybutton reappears. He worries about the environment, and about never being able to buy a condominium, and he also worries about whether or not he is a very good lover. Because he is handsome – and that’s something he doesn’t worry about – he’s unsure as to whether or not people ever tell him the truth. Anthony’s worries collect in a deep lopsided groove above his nose, and they dissolve quick in a half-pint of fruity German beer. He doesn’t have a favourite kind, and usually he goes with the cheapest.
Anthony matters less than Regis, because in the greater scheme of things, Anthony is a super guy. In summer, Anthony takes his broad shoulders and worn rock T-shirt to Toronto parks, and makes them move around a little - he plays dodgeball and he rides his sweet low-rider around his pretty neighborhood, smiling at girls with bangs, and sometimes while he’s riding his bike he thinks about buying a Vespa. Other items on his to buy list include: iguana and rrsp. He has recently grown fond of poetry. He doesn’t claim to be an expert, because he’s not.Anthony’s not a liar. Anthony’s favourite poet matters even less than Anthony does. Because of his favourite poet and the poems written by his favourite poet, Anthony likes to talk about the intersection of art and science.
In winter, there’s more art than science to look at in the city. Children make snowpeople out of snow in fields where Anthony plays dodgeball in the summer. Anthony watches them build the snowpeople and is reassured by the way that their mothers and fathers talk with them. Their mothers and fathers say: “If I understand you correctly,…”
Anthony has a twinge, all warm in his tripledecker parka, but the twinge he feels matters less than Regis. What also matters less than Regis is that Anthony’s strong in body and mind, and also that the puff of white air that leaves his mouth into the greater white of his city disappears as fast as it happens. Everyone’s making do with their winter pickings – cars can’t start, there’s lots of pushing, people in their coats are only eyes, and barely.
Anthony matters, but less than Regis. Regis is somebody Anthony only meets because it is winter. In the summer, with his nice arms out, he wouldn’t stop to ask somebody if they needed help.
Regis matters more than Anthony, because Regis doesn’t know about the seasons like Anthony does. This is why he matters more to Anthony than Anthony does to Regis. It’s fine that Regis is a tall, handsome boy, younger than Anthony by a lot or a little, it’s hard to tell. He is wearing a Smiths t-shirt. He is leaning back, casually, on this snowy bush. He is impressively handsome.The snow is cold and makes his cheeks nearly purple. He’s a little latin-lovery, even for someone who looks barely out of childhood.
Anthony says:
“Do you have a coat?
Regis says:
“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t”
He says it like a Spynx or something – riddle me this, riddle me that.
Anthony, who doesn’t matter as much as Regis, slides into the hero role as simply as anyone can. When Anthony was only six, he jumped onto a runaway horsedrawn buggy at pioneer village and saved a faux-settler and her baby. Anthony is good at doing the things that need to get done.
Anthony: “You need a coat”, he says to Regis.
Regis says: “Are you going to give me your coat?”
Anthony says: “No”.
The people who matter are Anthony and Regis, and they are at a stunning impasse.
Regis does not appear worried. He lolls as calmly as if he were reclining on a chaise in the court of Versailles. His feminine lips are pursed at the whipping air, the way lips sit when they’ve been told they are pretty.
Anthony registers alarm at the discolouration of Regis’ arm.
“You’re turning blue”, says Anthony.
“Maybe I’ve always been blue.” Says Regis.
Anthony moves from one foot to the other, because he is cold.
“Do you have to pee?” Asks Regis.
“I’m cold,”Says Anthony.
Regis smiles. His teeth are very white.
Anthony looks at Regis’ t-shirt. It is a Smiths concert T-shirt.
The Smiths concert t-shirt makes Anthony think of his childhood. Automatically, he asks:
“Is that an original tshirt?”
Regis becomes very serious.
“I love the Smiths.” He says.
*
Because Anthony doesn’t matter as much as Regis, it should not be upsetting that Anthony is mildly homophobic. He is not afraid of gay people, as such – when in Rome, etc. He just can’t believe that he, Anthony, is getting a blow job from a possibly underaged boy he met in the park. His disbelief is denial is a kind of fear.
Anthony shoves Regis away from him as suddenly as he pulled him to him.
“How old are you?” He asks Regis.
“Old enough to know better.” Says Regis, wiping his hand across his mouth. “It’s okay, honey. I started it”
There is something terrible and mannered and movieish and pervy and knowing, and patronizing about the way that Regis says “Honey”. For a minute, Anthony fears that he is being framed by one of those shows about pedophiles. It makes sense that Anthony is not as smart as Regis because he matters so much less – but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t upset Anthony.
Regis can tell that Anthony is getting angry, because that is the kind of genius that Regis is. Anthony is the kind of smart that takes out the trash and maintains his vitamin d intake to avoid seasonal affective disorder, while Regis can barely discern between the seasons. But Regis matters more because of the way he is fully aware of his own free will and of Anthony’s erection. He knows he can pick up that warm pinkish thing, which has gone limp with indecision on the side of Regis’s bed. Regis knows he can hold it up against Anthony’s body. He knows that after a little while, it’ll be easy enough to squeeze out Anthony’s very essence onto on his homework desk. He knows that later, after Anthony’s gone, he can wipe the desk down while whistling, Kleenex the surface and push that next into a little ball in his sweet ruddy hand, and bounce it, and kick it out the window.
He doesn’t do any of that, because Anthony has said no. “No” is Regis’s moral compass. He thinks about how he could have continued. Instead of acting on the could have and making it a did, he says:
“Do you like the Smiths?” And points at the posters on his wall.
Anthony says: “Yeah. I do.”
Regis looks at Anthony.
“I could tell you liked them when I saw you in the park.”
“How?” Asks Anthony.
“Something about your eyes.”
Anthony sighs. Anthony doesn’t feel guilty because he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but he does feel upset.
“Where are your parents?”Asks Anthony.
“Where do you think?”Asks Regis.
“Work?”Asks Anthony. He touches his own stubble, a tiny act of semi-conscious seduction.
“No, honey”. Honey, again. Honey is an awkward, dangerous word, it seems to Anthony.
“Where?”Asks Anthony, out of some kind of politeness. It’s the same thing that keeps him in the room, even though he wants to go home to his computer. He feels ill.
“You’ve gone all fevery.” Says Regis. “My parents -they are tanning at the salon.”
Regis stands up. His arms are frostbitten.
“Looks like I got a tan.”He says. His jaw drops and he looks scared. Then he laughs. It’s not sinister, but it’s awfully sincere.
“Aren’t the Smiths smart?” He asks.
“Yeah.”Says Anthony.
“What’s your favourite album?” He asks.
Anthony draws a blank, and for some reason, he feels frightened.
Regis sits down next to Anthony.
“Don’t be so serious.” He says, and ruffles Anthony’s hair. It’s difficult to ruffle, because it’s arranged in a complicated hair cut.
Anthony looks around the room.
There is a knock at Anthony’s bedroom door. Anthony’s intestines seize up and feel as though they might void themselves.
“What?”Asks Anthony, through the door.
“Mom said there was pizza but there’s no pizza.” Says a child’s voice.
Regis leaves Anthony alone for a couple of minutes, and then returns. While he is gone, Anthony sniffs the air and feels lonely and sort of desirous. He looks at the homework desk.
“They could stay red like that forever”, Says Anthony, about Regis’s arms, when Regis returns. So Regis kisses him.
*
Anthony decides to wear the Smiths t-shirt to the party. Because he is healthy and fairly intelligent and okay with stuff, he has neatly overcome the strangeness of the encounter with Regis. He has wrestled it out like this in his head: He did the right thing, because the kid looked like he was freezing. The kid manipulated him and went down on him. And sure he liked it for a couple of seconds but mainly because of the thrill of having tried to save the kid, and the whole novelty of it, and the fact that they had gone from the terrible cold of outside to the cheerful warmth of Regis’ parents’ house. Regis had to be at least 18, from the look of him – and besides, he would never see him again.
Anthony is somewhat relieved by the fact that he continues to be attracted to passing girls. One girl smiles at him and he smiles back. He hands her one of his flyers with his mitted hands. Their hands collide through yarn and synthetics – for Canada, it’s a smouldering moment.
At work, Anthony revises an excel spreadsheet, ensuring it takes enough time to get him from break to lunch. After lunch, he mails a letter to his aunt (who still doesn’t have internet) and a late hydro bill. Anthony is stoked about his party.
Anthony does what he decided to do: he puts on his Smiths t-shirt. For a few minutes, he is distinctly unhappy that the t-shirt is cheap remake. He didn’t get it a concert. “Why should that matter?”, he wonders, and he doesn’t overthink it.
After they eat take-out ricerolls and tea, Anthony’s old friend and ex-fuckbuddy Lisa (who does not matter at all) helps him lift the ungainly turntable out of her truck and carry it into the club. She is stronger than him, because she is a gymnast. They joke about that, a little bit.
The club is dark and empty. Anthony enjoys the setting up. His playlist is set, and all he has to do is get stuff ready to go. It gives him the same reassuring satisfaction that he used to get from having appropriately colour coded binders at the start of the school year.
The bar smells like cigarettes, even though it has been over a year since the ban went down. He had worried about that ban, but it hadn’t made any difference at all, really. See? He thought. Worrying is ridiculous.
Anthony is very good at putting a positive spin on things – he is a dj, after all. Hardy har har. This kind of thinking is what makes him generally well and happy. Anthony matters less than Regis because Regis is the kind of person who doesn’t have to think positively in order to stay alive.
*
Regis dances with a girl with yellow hair. They dance to a song that Regis hates. It is hiphop. Regis’s palette curls with disgust when his dancepartner shows that she knows the lyrics, by singing along.
Regis climbs the onestep up to the platform and touches Anthony’s left arm.
Anthony lowers his headphones.
“Hello.”He says.
“Hello.”Says Regis.
Anthony is happy to see Regis. He doesn’t exactly understand why, but he conceals it to the best of his ability.
“Are you going to play the Smiths?”Asks Regis. He places the palm of his hand on Anthony’s chest. Anthony’s Smiths tshirt folds and wrinkles in Regis’ hand.
“Yes.” Says Anthony.
Regis smiles. He is charming to all concerned. The girl with yellow hair (who does not matter) is drunk and angry about having been passed over.
“What’s wrong with me?” She asks.
“Nothing.” Says Regis. He pushes his fat black curls behind his ears – left then right, and looks over, impatiently, at Anthony. Anthony is playing a remix of a Christina Aguilera song.
“Do you like this music?”Asks the girl who does not matter.
“Not really.” Says Regis. “do you?”
“It’s fun. For dancing.” Says the girl who does not matter. She kisses his neck.
“Do you like the Smiths?”Asks Regis.
*
There are two people who matter. They are Regis and Anthony. Anthony matters less, because by the time he plays the Smiths, Regis is full of rage at Anthony for having taken such a long time to play the Smiths. Regis, who knows a great deal about people and how to make them do things, does not act on his rage at Anthony. His rage is a motor – it just gets him up the onestep up to the platform again and looks at Anthony’s tattoo, which he had not noticed before, and says:
“I don’t like the mainstream hits.”
Anthony smiles at Regis because he is glad to see him even though he doesn’t know why. Maybe it is because Regis matters more than Anthony. Regis’s anger has caused a tiny bubble of a vein to hit surface on his long neck, and maybe that’s why Anthony is glad to see him again all over again ten minutes after the last time – it’s like the veins in his cock, kind of, and Anthony saw those, and he kind of remembers them without totally remembering them.
“I’ll play another one later.” Says Anthony. And like somebody going steady, he sweetens with: “Very soon.”
“How about right now?” Says Regis. Anthony’s heart flips up into his face when Regis touches him to emphasize NOW.
Anthony takes his headphones off. The thrill of the room. Everything is loud and people are singing along with the lyrics. A couple of girls are really into it and they dance with their whole bodies, switching places, turning and clasping hands and this is the whole reason why Anthony became a dj in the first place, of course – to make people happy. Anthony is a very good person.
The girl with the yellow hair who doesn’t matter as much as Anthony or Regis, and maybe not much to anybody, puts her hand around Regis’ neck from behind. The gesture would go with “Hang the Dj” but that’s not the song Anthony’s playing.
Regis removes the girl’s hand with exacting gentleness, placing it back in her pocket. She walks backwards and steps on the foot of one of the girls who is really into it. She gets drawn into their heave front, heave back, and she’s dancing again, so it doesn’t matter all that much that she is not one of the only people who matter.
“I can’t play just the Smiths.” Says Anthony. He is tyring to appeal to Regis’ reason.
Regis smiles at Anthony: “I would go out to night.” He says.
Anthony says: “I finish at around 3. Want to get breakfast?”
Anthony feels his body fill with blood.
Regis is impatient. “that’s morning. I would go out tonight, but I haven’t got a thing to wear.”
Anthony is confused. He knows the lyrics but he doesn’t completely understand. A thing that Anthony does when he doesn’t understand something is he laughs. So he laughs.
“Do you smoke?” He asks. “We could go out back.”
“I don’t smoke.” Says Regis.
“Pot?” Asks Anthony, yelling over the music and the crowd, which is feeling Britney Spears.
Regis says: “Whatever. Sure.”
*
In the alley, Regis does not take out Anthony’s penis. He lets Anthony be romantic. Anthony touches Regis’ hair, softly. His touches are experimental and tentative. He thrills at the sweet man warmth of Regis’ body. He feels like he is in an afterschool special. He no longer cares how old Regis is. He is not thinking about Vespas, or todo lists, or what is hot/not. He is only thinking about touching Regis. It isn’t even that he wants to fuck. He’d be afraid to fuck a man – as a matter of fact, he wouldn’t know how. Regis is incredibly bored in his different genius, noticing his shirt has picked up some of the alley rough around its bottom – it’s all black and sooty from all the rubbing - but he says, to help, into Anthony’s ear:
“This charming man.”
This seems to stop Anthony. Regis looks at Anthony.
“Aren’t you having a good time?” He asks. He kisses the edge of Anthony’s eyebrow. It is a special place for Anthony, and Regis knows that right away.
Anthony says: “I gotta get back.” Regis says: “Promise me”.
Anthony, who matters less than Regis, can’t make any promises. It annoys him that he’s made to change his preplan. His pod is queued, and besides, he’s here with the same agenda as everybody. Anthony is a man of the people. He orders a beer that he isn’t fond of, and when Regis offers to pay, Anthony almost says: “with what, your allowance?”, but doesn’t, because Anthony is essentially good.
Anthony matters less than Regis, because he is not crazy. Anthony has regular worries, like everybody, you know? He doesn’t really like the fact that no matter how often he waxes it off, the tight black curly trail between his crotch and bellybutton reappears. He worries about the environment, and about never being able to buy a condominium, and he also worries about whether or not he is a very good lover. Because he is handsome – and that’s something he doesn’t worry about – he’s unsure as to whether or not people ever tell him the truth. Anthony’s worries collect in a deep lopsided groove above his nose, and they dissolve quick in a half-pint of fruity German beer. He doesn’t have a favourite kind, and usually he goes with the cheapest.
Anthony matters less than Regis, because in the greater scheme of things, Anthony is a super guy. In summer, Anthony takes his broad shoulders and worn rock T-shirt to Toronto parks, and makes them move around a little - he plays dodgeball and he rides his sweet low-rider around his pretty neighborhood, smiling at girls with bangs, and sometimes while he’s riding his bike he thinks about buying a Vespa. Other items on his to buy list include: iguana and rrsp. He has recently grown fond of poetry. He doesn’t claim to be an expert, because he’s not.Anthony’s not a liar. Anthony’s favourite poet matters even less than Anthony does. Because of his favourite poet and the poems written by his favourite poet, Anthony likes to talk about the intersection of art and science.
In winter, there’s more art than science to look at in the city. Children make snowpeople out of snow in fields where Anthony plays dodgeball in the summer. Anthony watches them build the snowpeople and is reassured by the way that their mothers and fathers talk with them. Their mothers and fathers say: “If I understand you correctly,…”
Anthony has a twinge, all warm in his tripledecker parka, but the twinge he feels matters less than Regis. What also matters less than Regis is that Anthony’s strong in body and mind, and also that the puff of white air that leaves his mouth into the greater white of his city disappears as fast as it happens. Everyone’s making do with their winter pickings – cars can’t start, there’s lots of pushing, people in their coats are only eyes, and barely.
Anthony matters, but less than Regis. Regis is somebody Anthony only meets because it is winter. In the summer, with his nice arms out, he wouldn’t stop to ask somebody if they needed help.
Regis matters more than Anthony, because Regis doesn’t know about the seasons like Anthony does. This is why he matters more to Anthony than Anthony does to Regis. It’s fine that Regis is a tall, handsome boy, younger than Anthony by a lot or a little, it’s hard to tell. He is wearing a Smiths t-shirt. He is leaning back, casually, on this snowy bush. He is impressively handsome.The snow is cold and makes his cheeks nearly purple. He’s a little latin-lovery, even for someone who looks barely out of childhood.
Anthony says:
“Do you have a coat?
Regis says:
“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t”
He says it like a Spynx or something – riddle me this, riddle me that.
Anthony, who doesn’t matter as much as Regis, slides into the hero role as simply as anyone can. When Anthony was only six, he jumped onto a runaway horsedrawn buggy at pioneer village and saved a faux-settler and her baby. Anthony is good at doing the things that need to get done.
Anthony: “You need a coat”, he says to Regis.
Regis says: “Are you going to give me your coat?”
Anthony says: “No”.
The people who matter are Anthony and Regis, and they are at a stunning impasse.
Regis does not appear worried. He lolls as calmly as if he were reclining on a chaise in the court of Versailles. His feminine lips are pursed at the whipping air, the way lips sit when they’ve been told they are pretty.
Anthony registers alarm at the discolouration of Regis’ arm.
“You’re turning blue”, says Anthony.
“Maybe I’ve always been blue.” Says Regis.
Anthony moves from one foot to the other, because he is cold.
“Do you have to pee?” Asks Regis.
“I’m cold,”Says Anthony.
Regis smiles. His teeth are very white.
Anthony looks at Regis’ t-shirt. It is a Smiths concert T-shirt.
The Smiths concert t-shirt makes Anthony think of his childhood. Automatically, he asks:
“Is that an original tshirt?”
Regis becomes very serious.
“I love the Smiths.” He says.
*
Because Anthony doesn’t matter as much as Regis, it should not be upsetting that Anthony is mildly homophobic. He is not afraid of gay people, as such – when in Rome, etc. He just can’t believe that he, Anthony, is getting a blow job from a possibly underaged boy he met in the park. His disbelief is denial is a kind of fear.
Anthony shoves Regis away from him as suddenly as he pulled him to him.
“How old are you?” He asks Regis.
“Old enough to know better.” Says Regis, wiping his hand across his mouth. “It’s okay, honey. I started it”
There is something terrible and mannered and movieish and pervy and knowing, and patronizing about the way that Regis says “Honey”. For a minute, Anthony fears that he is being framed by one of those shows about pedophiles. It makes sense that Anthony is not as smart as Regis because he matters so much less – but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t upset Anthony.
Regis can tell that Anthony is getting angry, because that is the kind of genius that Regis is. Anthony is the kind of smart that takes out the trash and maintains his vitamin d intake to avoid seasonal affective disorder, while Regis can barely discern between the seasons. But Regis matters more because of the way he is fully aware of his own free will and of Anthony’s erection. He knows he can pick up that warm pinkish thing, which has gone limp with indecision on the side of Regis’s bed. Regis knows he can hold it up against Anthony’s body. He knows that after a little while, it’ll be easy enough to squeeze out Anthony’s very essence onto on his homework desk. He knows that later, after Anthony’s gone, he can wipe the desk down while whistling, Kleenex the surface and push that next into a little ball in his sweet ruddy hand, and bounce it, and kick it out the window.
He doesn’t do any of that, because Anthony has said no. “No” is Regis’s moral compass. He thinks about how he could have continued. Instead of acting on the could have and making it a did, he says:
“Do you like the Smiths?” And points at the posters on his wall.
Anthony says: “Yeah. I do.”
Regis looks at Anthony.
“I could tell you liked them when I saw you in the park.”
“How?” Asks Anthony.
“Something about your eyes.”
Anthony sighs. Anthony doesn’t feel guilty because he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but he does feel upset.
“Where are your parents?”Asks Anthony.
“Where do you think?”Asks Regis.
“Work?”Asks Anthony. He touches his own stubble, a tiny act of semi-conscious seduction.
“No, honey”. Honey, again. Honey is an awkward, dangerous word, it seems to Anthony.
“Where?”Asks Anthony, out of some kind of politeness. It’s the same thing that keeps him in the room, even though he wants to go home to his computer. He feels ill.
“You’ve gone all fevery.” Says Regis. “My parents -they are tanning at the salon.”
Regis stands up. His arms are frostbitten.
“Looks like I got a tan.”He says. His jaw drops and he looks scared. Then he laughs. It’s not sinister, but it’s awfully sincere.
“Aren’t the Smiths smart?” He asks.
“Yeah.”Says Anthony.
“What’s your favourite album?” He asks.
Anthony draws a blank, and for some reason, he feels frightened.
Regis sits down next to Anthony.
“Don’t be so serious.” He says, and ruffles Anthony’s hair. It’s difficult to ruffle, because it’s arranged in a complicated hair cut.
Anthony looks around the room.
There is a knock at Anthony’s bedroom door. Anthony’s intestines seize up and feel as though they might void themselves.
“What?”Asks Anthony, through the door.
“Mom said there was pizza but there’s no pizza.” Says a child’s voice.
Regis leaves Anthony alone for a couple of minutes, and then returns. While he is gone, Anthony sniffs the air and feels lonely and sort of desirous. He looks at the homework desk.
“They could stay red like that forever”, Says Anthony, about Regis’s arms, when Regis returns. So Regis kisses him.
*
Anthony decides to wear the Smiths t-shirt to the party. Because he is healthy and fairly intelligent and okay with stuff, he has neatly overcome the strangeness of the encounter with Regis. He has wrestled it out like this in his head: He did the right thing, because the kid looked like he was freezing. The kid manipulated him and went down on him. And sure he liked it for a couple of seconds but mainly because of the thrill of having tried to save the kid, and the whole novelty of it, and the fact that they had gone from the terrible cold of outside to the cheerful warmth of Regis’ parents’ house. Regis had to be at least 18, from the look of him – and besides, he would never see him again.
Anthony is somewhat relieved by the fact that he continues to be attracted to passing girls. One girl smiles at him and he smiles back. He hands her one of his flyers with his mitted hands. Their hands collide through yarn and synthetics – for Canada, it’s a smouldering moment.
At work, Anthony revises an excel spreadsheet, ensuring it takes enough time to get him from break to lunch. After lunch, he mails a letter to his aunt (who still doesn’t have internet) and a late hydro bill. Anthony is stoked about his party.
Anthony does what he decided to do: he puts on his Smiths t-shirt. For a few minutes, he is distinctly unhappy that the t-shirt is cheap remake. He didn’t get it a concert. “Why should that matter?”, he wonders, and he doesn’t overthink it.
After they eat take-out ricerolls and tea, Anthony’s old friend and ex-fuckbuddy Lisa (who does not matter at all) helps him lift the ungainly turntable out of her truck and carry it into the club. She is stronger than him, because she is a gymnast. They joke about that, a little bit.
The club is dark and empty. Anthony enjoys the setting up. His playlist is set, and all he has to do is get stuff ready to go. It gives him the same reassuring satisfaction that he used to get from having appropriately colour coded binders at the start of the school year.
The bar smells like cigarettes, even though it has been over a year since the ban went down. He had worried about that ban, but it hadn’t made any difference at all, really. See? He thought. Worrying is ridiculous.
Anthony is very good at putting a positive spin on things – he is a dj, after all. Hardy har har. This kind of thinking is what makes him generally well and happy. Anthony matters less than Regis because Regis is the kind of person who doesn’t have to think positively in order to stay alive.
*
Regis dances with a girl with yellow hair. They dance to a song that Regis hates. It is hiphop. Regis’s palette curls with disgust when his dancepartner shows that she knows the lyrics, by singing along.
Regis climbs the onestep up to the platform and touches Anthony’s left arm.
Anthony lowers his headphones.
“Hello.”He says.
“Hello.”Says Regis.
Anthony is happy to see Regis. He doesn’t exactly understand why, but he conceals it to the best of his ability.
“Are you going to play the Smiths?”Asks Regis. He places the palm of his hand on Anthony’s chest. Anthony’s Smiths tshirt folds and wrinkles in Regis’ hand.
“Yes.” Says Anthony.
Regis smiles. He is charming to all concerned. The girl with yellow hair (who does not matter) is drunk and angry about having been passed over.
“What’s wrong with me?” She asks.
“Nothing.” Says Regis. He pushes his fat black curls behind his ears – left then right, and looks over, impatiently, at Anthony. Anthony is playing a remix of a Christina Aguilera song.
“Do you like this music?”Asks the girl who does not matter.
“Not really.” Says Regis. “do you?”
“It’s fun. For dancing.” Says the girl who does not matter. She kisses his neck.
“Do you like the Smiths?”Asks Regis.
*
There are two people who matter. They are Regis and Anthony. Anthony matters less, because by the time he plays the Smiths, Regis is full of rage at Anthony for having taken such a long time to play the Smiths. Regis, who knows a great deal about people and how to make them do things, does not act on his rage at Anthony. His rage is a motor – it just gets him up the onestep up to the platform again and looks at Anthony’s tattoo, which he had not noticed before, and says:
“I don’t like the mainstream hits.”
Anthony smiles at Regis because he is glad to see him even though he doesn’t know why. Maybe it is because Regis matters more than Anthony. Regis’s anger has caused a tiny bubble of a vein to hit surface on his long neck, and maybe that’s why Anthony is glad to see him again all over again ten minutes after the last time – it’s like the veins in his cock, kind of, and Anthony saw those, and he kind of remembers them without totally remembering them.
“I’ll play another one later.” Says Anthony. And like somebody going steady, he sweetens with: “Very soon.”
“How about right now?” Says Regis. Anthony’s heart flips up into his face when Regis touches him to emphasize NOW.
Anthony takes his headphones off. The thrill of the room. Everything is loud and people are singing along with the lyrics. A couple of girls are really into it and they dance with their whole bodies, switching places, turning and clasping hands and this is the whole reason why Anthony became a dj in the first place, of course – to make people happy. Anthony is a very good person.
The girl with the yellow hair who doesn’t matter as much as Anthony or Regis, and maybe not much to anybody, puts her hand around Regis’ neck from behind. The gesture would go with “Hang the Dj” but that’s not the song Anthony’s playing.
Regis removes the girl’s hand with exacting gentleness, placing it back in her pocket. She walks backwards and steps on the foot of one of the girls who is really into it. She gets drawn into their heave front, heave back, and she’s dancing again, so it doesn’t matter all that much that she is not one of the only people who matter.
“I can’t play just the Smiths.” Says Anthony. He is tyring to appeal to Regis’ reason.
Regis smiles at Anthony: “I would go out to night.” He says.
Anthony says: “I finish at around 3. Want to get breakfast?”
Anthony feels his body fill with blood.
Regis is impatient. “that’s morning. I would go out tonight, but I haven’t got a thing to wear.”
Anthony is confused. He knows the lyrics but he doesn’t completely understand. A thing that Anthony does when he doesn’t understand something is he laughs. So he laughs.
“Do you smoke?” He asks. “We could go out back.”
“I don’t smoke.” Says Regis.
“Pot?” Asks Anthony, yelling over the music and the crowd, which is feeling Britney Spears.
Regis says: “Whatever. Sure.”
*
In the alley, Regis does not take out Anthony’s penis. He lets Anthony be romantic. Anthony touches Regis’ hair, softly. His touches are experimental and tentative. He thrills at the sweet man warmth of Regis’ body. He feels like he is in an afterschool special. He no longer cares how old Regis is. He is not thinking about Vespas, or todo lists, or what is hot/not. He is only thinking about touching Regis. It isn’t even that he wants to fuck. He’d be afraid to fuck a man – as a matter of fact, he wouldn’t know how. Regis is incredibly bored in his different genius, noticing his shirt has picked up some of the alley rough around its bottom – it’s all black and sooty from all the rubbing - but he says, to help, into Anthony’s ear:
“This charming man.”
This seems to stop Anthony. Regis looks at Anthony.
“Aren’t you having a good time?” He asks. He kisses the edge of Anthony’s eyebrow. It is a special place for Anthony, and Regis knows that right away.
Anthony says: “I gotta get back.” Regis says: “Promise me”.
Anthony, who matters less than Regis, can’t make any promises. It annoys him that he’s made to change his preplan. His pod is queued, and besides, he’s here with the same agenda as everybody. Anthony is a man of the people. He orders a beer that he isn’t fond of, and when Regis offers to pay, Anthony almost says: “with what, your allowance?”, but doesn’t, because Anthony is essentially good.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
This blog is named for a graphic novel I'm writing. The graphic novel is based on another story, by the same name. If you can like a girl who names a blog for a story she wrote herself, you may stay. Be aware that this blog will also function as
*an engine of praise for friends, collaborators, and art workers I admire
*a connector site for Good Morning Press and Moremore magazine
*a test site for new writing and ideas
*a much needed opportunity to endlessly cycle through new fonts and colours in search of the perfect combination
*a holiday from facebook
*a place to chat up my first book, Dora Borealis (ECW, 2008, fa ll).
*an engine of praise for friends, collaborators, and art workers I admire
*a connector site for Good Morning Press and Moremore magazine
*a test site for new writing and ideas
*a much needed opportunity to endlessly cycle through new fonts and colours in search of the perfect combination
*a holiday from facebook
*a place to chat up my first book, Dora Borealis (ECW, 2008, fa ll).
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)