Foot guy

There is a man who rides the 5 train in the mornings who I simply cannot figure out. He is almost always in the second car from the front, sitting on one of the long blue benches in the spot nearest the center doors. His age, ethnicity, and motivation are beyond me. He appears to maybe be white, but he is pretty tan-ish, and there is something in the way he looks around that implies that he is not American by birth (this may sound silly, but the longer I'm in New York the more I find I can actually pick out the foreign people from a crowd by their mannerisms and bearing). He wears a diamond earring on the right side, and he has shoulder-length, sparse, wispy, but very well kept, straight white hair. Light eyes that move around constantly. He seems to be interested in everything going on around him; it's difficult to get a good look at the guy, actually, because he's so alert that every time a head moves in his direction he notices and turns to look. I've found myself looking him square in the eye many times. But it's difficult not to want to look at him, because here's the thing: he is always barefoot. I don't know why. Nothing about him suggests extreme poverty or homelessness--he is always clean, his feet in exceptionally good shape, not particularly dirty or gross. He wears nice enough jeans, rolled up to just below the knee, and everything jutting out from below the cuff is bare.
He is always in the same place when I get on the train, and I have never seen him get up from his seat. He usually has a black drawstring bag under his seat, and I've tried to sneak a few peeks at it to see if there are shoes in it, if maybe he just likes to be ON the subway barefoot, but puts on shoes before he disembarks? From what I've seen it doesn't seem lumpy enough to contain shoes, but then, every time I try to look at the bag, he notices me and looks up and I feel awkward and look away. Someday I'd like to go over to him and ask him why he never wears shoes, but a crowed train early in the morning just never seems the right time or place...

Silkworm Snail

It must be true that we survive our deaths.

We are mollusks, really,
Trailing our preemptive ectoplasm everywhere.
It has to be that way.

Because I realize that I'm leaving traces here and there.
I can tug at the tendrils behind me
(Not ribbon-graceful in the wind
but sticky and viscous, complicated patterns branching out from the strands,
into patterns I didn't know I'd traced).
All over every spot that meant something.

If I cast a thought back to one of these exigencies,
To some heart I've grasped at or body I've finger-tip-traced or place I've lost my breath to,
The slime tightens, tugs at me from behind.
And there I am, stuck to that other end of the trail,
glued to that lump in the road and my throat.

And vice versa, when he or she looks my direction from miles away,
or the moon lights up that bend in the road--
You know, there above Wounded Knee where they set up the Hotchkisses--
I hiccup, turn just a bit,
Feel my irises expand and my tear ducts swell,
Gather my mucus to me, tremble to shed some more on this moment,
And wonder if this will ever become a silken strand,
A web with a design I didn't plan? Or just that perfect coil,
The golden ratio's baby?

When I've expired,
I will have to revisit these moments, places, thoughts.
I'm stamped on them, and where can a lost spirit go but where it finds its puddles?
It must be that way, for there they are, my steps in slime.

Pitfalls of Porn Writing; or, my first stalker fan

Well. I had a great holiday weekend. I took two days completely off from all writing- and work-related things, then spent two days working on several projects. I felt good. Somewhere in there I got friend requests and messages from TWO, count 'em TWO, fans of my column, who found me on Facebook! Yippie! Fans! Who sought ME out based only on my pen name! Awesome.

Until, today, I got this (I'm x-ing out his name). Please don't feel obligated to read the whole thing. Really, just glancing through its ridiculous length to pick up a few key words should do the trick:

"XXXXX sent you a message.

--------------------
Subject: hey

So you added me as a friend. I wasn’t sure if you would but I’m glad you did. Obviously we aren’t friends but maybe we can be some version of friends if you are interested. Why, you ask (I’m assuming you are asking that, so if you aren’t then hmmm lol, I’m going to go with it anyway) ? It’s a legitimate question I guess, and so I will attempt to answer it to get things moving a bit. With that said, this email will probably either be the beginning of our “friendship” or the end of it, so it’s probably good to get that out of the way up front. Also, it is good to note that I am feeling somewhat “serious” in tone right now, so it will probably seem that I am that way, although you should also realize that behind almost everything I say or write there is always an awareness of my own absurdity or the absurdity of the context or situation or basically of existence generally, and that I am always “playing around” or “joking” or better yet, laughing at myself, and want to communicate my recognition of that. For example when you look at my quotes around the words “friendship” and “serious” a couple of sentences back my intention in using them was to invite you to know that I am not taking myself or the situation very seriously even when it’s hard to imagine that I am not (this becomes important to say since we are communicating in writing and since you have no prior experience of me to use as a reference point). Anyway, enough of this for the moment, I think, you might be very tired of reading already and I need to get to the point. But I find that difficult because to me there never really is only one – point that is. But, I will stop, and go on.

First, I will say that while I was looking at your profile after you added me I noticed a comment that one of your friends left in response to your posting about you having a fan (which I’m pretty sure was me ). He was kidding around and responded “Call the Police”, but of course a joke is not the same thing as saying something without meaning, so I will address this quickly. I am only interested in reciprocal relationships, no matter what the degree of role playing involved (I say this because as we both know to some degree all relationships contain role playing but I am also not averse to actual role playing, although I am not stuck on it either lol). Anyway, in other words I am not “The Fan” from that bad movie with Wesley Snipes in it that I don’t remember very well. I am not going to be involved in your life unless invited so there is not much too worry about along the lines of what I think your friend was “joking” about. If at any time, even let’s say if we were married or something along these lines (I use this word “married” to make a point only because I am not particularly interested in the idea of marrying) and you were to say “XXXX, I no longer want to be involved with you – in any way” I would probably say “OK”. Well, maybe I am exaggerating, I might have many other things to say, in fact, I know I would because I am not dead of spirit, however my point here, my one point here, is that I have no interest in forcing myself on anyone because it is just too much trouble for me. I am a simple man and cannot be bothered. “I am a reasonable man get off my case”, to quote RADIOHEAD.

Second, and probably more to the heart of the matter here, is that I am fascinated by you due to what seems to be your fascination with pornography. Now, that was a very dangerous sentence for me to type because you might have now taken it to mean that I am only fascinated by this aspect of you and no others. Or that I have only the capability to be fascinated by pornography and nothing else. You might have taken this to be the one point, the definition of me or of my “relationship” (notice the quotes) with you, when in fact it is only one of the points of either of those things. Labels leave out more than they include (my analyst said that to me the other day and I was like “yes, that is very simple and easy and sums up quite nicely what had seemed like an overarching component of my personality or experience but that seemed impossible for me to articulate - and she said it one little sentence. She’s Cuban) In other words, I will say this to add to my explanation…Your art work is amazing. And I generally admire your style of social living because it is quite foreign to me from what I can gather by the very very little I know about you . It is foreign to me in the social aspect, however not in the creative. On the creative side we are neighbors. Hmm, where have I wound up here? I have to re read. Hold on.

OK. So, yes. I will leave the particulars about the fascination, or better yet the intrigue and curiosity and interest I have in both you and pornography for now. You are also very pretty. Have a nice day. It's nasty out."



...oh, good. He's fascinated with me. And pornography. And mentions marriage.

Why can't I just have a few nice folks who like my column send me fan mail? Is that so much to ask? I'm gonna. I dunno. Go shiver in the corner or something.

After a long weekend, with more coming.

I feel relaxed. Maybe not exactly caught up, but ready to at least walk a little faster to maybe think about starting to catch up.

...Yeah. I think I can do that.

And smile a lot, for a while, and not pay attention to my dwindling bank account or the future staring at me. But to just, you know, enjoy myself. And, who knows, maybe do some kissing. And definitely, definitely, be with my friends.

I am ignoring my responsibilities this week because I can't really handle the idea of them, much less tackling them. Far from feeling ineffectual, I've been writing more of what I want to write. It's liberating. But I know I'll regret it later.
But.
I am also at the end of my rope with this gallery. Suddenly it's like the epicenter of f-ing midtown. I have had a bowl of ramen here (awesomely delicious Korean ramen from the place across the street) for an hour and a half and I'm about halfway through it, and I've been trying to watch a 3-minute video on YouTube for about the same amount of time. I've gotten 30 seconds in. Because every time I put the phone down some moron walks in and stares at me so I can't be stuffing my mouth with noodles. And when that person passes, the phone rings again, and when I put it down it rings again, and when I put THAT down, the same moron is back at the desk asking some inane question, and then when the moron walks away again, another moron comes in, and then someone from the back office comes walking past and because I can hear them before I can see them, anytime someone from the back office approaches I have to assume it's a Big Boss, which means, again, that I can't be stuffing my face with noodles. It's like a three-ring goddamn circus in here.
I should be happy because the busy-ness means that we're selling art, which means that my job is secure and that the Big Bosses are in better moods than usual (seriously, yesterday TKR offered me cookies [which I refused because I hate her; when I said no thanks, she looked taken aback--haha, take THAT you scum!] and today Mr. Levai told me he was 'excellent' when I asked how he was doing). But the truth is, I don't give a CRAP about the gallery's sales, and I have a horrendous splitting headache that won't go away. I like it when it's really, really quiet and nobody is buying anything, because then I can eat my lunch in less than two hours and get some work done, if I want.
Hm.
But I was going somewhere with this.
Writing....
Hm.
Oh well, it's gone.
/rant

Skinny Puppy: or, my anger management issues

I want to be there in the thick of it, protecting, holding fast against what might hurt her. I want to be bashing in skulls. I'm always like that. At concerts I jump into mosh pits and get beaten down unless I'm held back by someone bigger, wiser, less prone to starting fights. There's this thing in me, some kind of tribal being with no regard for personal safety or the convention of nonviolence. Sometimes people deserve to be kicked in the face. And I can kick pretty high. I kicked someone in the head once, after ample warning, and he was still shocked.
And yet, there are always cops around, watching. Or crowds with their disapproving glares. Or reasonable folks standing nearby, talking me back from ripping off my shirt and plunging in--reminding me I am not really the Incredible Hulk. I am Lynsey. I am small and weak.
I remind them that I've got the crazy in me. My temper flares are like sunspots. They can cause all kinds of problems.
But, yes, I can hurt too. And I do, when I watch the melee going on around me, when I stand on the sidelines and watch and tremble with this fury that seems born into me. Instead I smash things, non-living things, and when I was young I learned to imagine that alarm clocks and mirrors had feelings, like all of my toys. Not so I could talk to them or feel like I had companions, but so that when I broke them, I would feel more triumphant. "Just punch your pillow," said friends when I told them my rage had gotten me in trouble again, when I broke the sliding glass door. "But pillows never seem like they feel it," I'd answer. "They bounce right back."
I wanted to jump into the fray last night, pound my fists into you and watch you reel back. Rip off these damn chains and unleash the fury of my purple pants. Dance like the devil was in me.
But I remembered, thank god, that no one was holding me back this time. That guy with the meathead might really pummel me. I held myself back.
Or, maybe I'm just old and lazy.

Lord, I was Born a Ramblin' Man: or, androgynous, confused self-reflection

Some days, when the time drags by slowly with busywork, as I watch my hours of productivity fall away unused, a sadness begins to steal in around noon. Quietly, pad-footed, cat-burgling my energy in slow steps, until sometime in the mid-afternoon I look up and realize my heart is wide open. I want to turn on slow songs, quiet songs, about honey and childhood and remorse, and stare quietly at falling rain and think about candles dripping. I feel tenderized, as if someone had beaten me with one of those big wood meat pounder things with the blunt spikes, as if the smallest prick of emotion aimed my direction could stab a fork in me. I see flashes of all the beautiful eyes I've known in my life, the big, wide brown ones and the long-lashed hazels and the occasional stunning blues. I feel heartache coming on, a rip working its way up from my stomach along the very back of my trachea and expanding every time I shift in my chair. I want be very, very still, let myself feel the waves of nostalgia and yearning and mystery of where I am now. I feel tricklings inside, as of raindrops on a window pane but perhaps it's just the pane of me, being as transparent as ever. The past few weeks have been emotional but mostly for other people--I'm just on the periphery watching the action. But the contact with intense feeling has brought about my weakness to the seduction of abandonment to those whims. To feel so deeply, to lose myself in the blackness of it, the shutting down of thoughts, to weep or to scream or to swoon... It's been a long time. And I miss it. Adulthood sucks out those wild moments and replaces them with routine, comfort, calculation, practical considerations and those occasional breakthroughs of sordid passion through the mud-caked armor... They are real and close and loud, and we shut them out, shut them down, shut ourselves away. But I've gotten a taste and I'm fiending for more.
I suppose it's just a matter of an empty day. Not a quiet one or an easy one, but one during which my brain has had little to do but sit still with itself and let its thoughts roam inward. But here I sit amidst the bustle of the gallery, with my heart pulsing for everyone to see, just hoping someone will notice and break it.

Unrelated but Pertinent

Any person who comes into the gallery whistling is someone I do not want to talk to.

Ponderings: or, possibly I am now a criminal

I... have not blogged.... for a week. And so now, it's time to blog. And yet here I am on Monday morning with a frustrating lack of things happening in my brain. I tried to Gchat a moment ago and nothing happened. Just no words.
Sooooo....
I just wrote this article for Whack! which was horrendously underdeveloped and kind of badly put together in the first place, but which I didn't have enough time to fix. And which I feel really weird about having written. Because in the article I make a case for people being less hysterically panicky about child molesters, aka sex offenders.
Because, here's the thing, I'm not in any way condoning really messed up things that people might do to children. We're not living in a day and age where forcing a prepubsecent child into a sexual situation is ok. I don't know that there would ever be a day or age where that would be ok. It skews the child's understanding of sex and what it means, turns it into a dark and painful thing rather than a joy, as it should be. Warps the growing-up process. Hurts everyone involved. It's wrong.
But I also think that because as a culture we're so terrified of the prospect, we've also gone a bit overboard with our definition of it and our desire to catch the bad guys responsible. I mean, I understand that the age of consent is high in most industrialized countries in hopes of preventing young people from being taken advantage of by older people. But there was a kid recently locked up for TEN YEARS on a statutory rape charge, because when he was seventeen he had oral sex with a fifteen year old.
That's not ok with me. He didn't really do anything wrong. Sure, she was fifteen and probably didn't really know what she was doing in the grand scheme of things, but, A) he was seventeen and he probably didn't really know either, and B) nobody EVER really knows, and C) he was only two years older! That is not the same as 35 year old man preying on a five year old child. It's not the same at all. And yet this guy will be forever labeled a sex offender. His life is ruined. For no good reason.
Consider the fact that there are cops posted to the ICAC (Internet Crimes Against Children) Taskforce who are undergoing serious emotional trauma because of the things they're forced to see at work. Consider that there are cops across the country posing online as young kids or the guardians thereof, offering sex with minors to perverts online. Consider that guys responding to these offers are often arrested without having committed a crime.
Consider that we are so terrified of child molestation that we get suspicious of any adult male near our kids. If a kid falls on the playground and a man is there to help them up and dust them off, we think "pervert" instead of "helpful." It's weird, isn't it?
And, in another vein but still under the general premise of this conversation, consider the fact that a fifteen year old "girl" in this day and age has probably been getting her period for three or more years, developed a fully functional adult body, and is horny as all hell. She is probably not really mature enough to understand or interpret her horniness adequately, but those are the facts.
Also consider that there is a thriving industry based on "barely legal" female porn performers who 'just turned eighteen.' Many of these girls might not be eighteen yet, and many others are barely over the line. It's ok to jerk off to them, though, because they're 'legal.'
Furthermore, consider that as animals, we are biologically programmed to find young adults attractive. Younger females tend to be healthier and more able to have healthy babies. Younger men tend to have more energy, be faster and stronger and more able to bring home the bacon. While TOO young is obviously not ok from a moral, social, OR biological standpoint, the fact that lots of guys get off to 'barely legal' porn isn't so much gross as biologically expected.
Of course there's a line between what's ok and what's not, but it seems to me that we are so terrified of people crossing it that we've made the line a thin, solid black one separating the adults from the children in a world where it's a much more grey, fuzzy line that covers a whole lot of territory.
And I think we need to figure out a way to be less panicky and more comprehensive about it. I don't have any anwers to the problem, but it's been on my mind and it bugs me.

Ok. So that's the premise. Does this make me a bad person?

Third Column is UP!

Check me out, I'm such a writer! My third column is up on McSweeney's! This one is a lot more of a story than my usual rambling, and I happen to think it's pretty funny. Let me know if you agree!