Today devoted itself to cleaning my chamber out, since I had meant to do so before the party and "late" is the new "on time". I find it intensely frustrating that I have never exhibited either the passion or the talent for tidiness I feel are my birthrights as a gay man. In the macrocosm my dreams of beauty are ordered spaces where there is space and containment for every existing medium-sized object. Ordered compositions of paintings cover my walls, the books on my shelves are mustered by subject and author, even my clothing is folded and unobtrusive.
Unfortunately, on entering my room (in the microcosm), I feel the necessity of marking territory, I feel a kind of horror vacui about the sight of a freshly-made bed or a broad expanse of persian rug. In five minutes, the surface is home to scattered objects; in two weeks, the scattered objects are hidden under whole population systems of media.
So I cleaned out my old wallet today which I've had since the summer of '98. That was the summer I lived in Berkeley taking Latin, and it was a black leather wallet from a horrible frat-boy shop on Bancroft, up past the Urban Outfitters. I think I went in because I was tired of shopping for a wallet and was suffering some kind of mild heatstroke. The place was drowning in insignia and Top 40 "alternative rock" and "casual wear" and frat-boy shoes. I wasn't welcome; I think I bought the wallet there to give myself an excuse to be there.
I replaced it today with a canvas wallet I bought in T*nbr*dg* W*lls the following winter in a fit of vegetarianist pique. Unfortunately, it lacked some of the creature comforts of the other, notably, space for six ranks of credit and library cards. It has three distinct advantages to the now-retired Berkeley wallet, beyond the fact that nothing had to die to make it: first, it has an industrial-strength Velcro� closure which makes a satisfying tearing sound, second, it has a secret compartment, and third, it is designed for the more generous proportions of sterling banknotes. In the midst of this, I also decommissioned the wealth charm that SB and I made last summer, since it appears to have done what I meant it to do.
Skippy Mp3: You and me and the moon, a song with history. On the subject of moon and history, Richard Garfinkle's Celestial Matters is the perfect marriage of SF and Classics geeking. Follow the link, svp, to find out why. KG, I'm looking at you.
I miss having MB here; she was here for five days and it was just so pleasant to come home to somebody with taste and good sense. Chicago, Duckface, Casse-noisette, and the red shoes. 'Till next time, my love.
I missed, also, not seeing more of M(R)W when she was here. I'm sure there were Circumstances, of course. Her indulgence watching me sort the cocktail napkins by color was truly regal; we spoke of cabbages and kings. XC was more of a surprise -- for one thing, she tends to live in dangerous parts of the world that are not the eastern seaboard of the US. For another, we did not part company on the best of terms. Enough dust has settled on the Past, though, that it was miraculous and beautiful to see her and I didn't particularly mind. I caught sight of her sitting on the black futon next to SWW, for all the world like twins.
I have been working 11-8, drinking gimlets, playing the french suites and Couperin ordres. Something mocking and pop-cultural perches on my right shoulder and something hot and atavistic perches on my left, both driven to distraction because I am always single, because I usually have nowhere to go but bitter. They can go fuck themselves; I'm going to take this nail-polish off.