bushwick impressions precede its expressions

It’s the second week of mine here at my new little palace in this cozy corner of Bushwick. There’s not much to look at outside the front door besides a community college across the street and the big L station buried under what looks like an abandoned mortuary. It’s funny that it looks that way because the other side of it is the biggest graveyard in the borough, or so I like to believe. When I’m doing a bad job of living and waiting at the station in the day all anyone seems to be able to do is gaze out at the thousands of tombstones rolling away to the horizon under a gray sky. I mentioned to my roommate earlier tonight that it’s probably a source of unconscious comfort for most residents because with the greatest mystery right there on the other side of the tracks, living and working and trying to love doesn’t seem like such a crazy idea.

But enough about death; the fact is that I do have a backyard, and neighbors’ sporadic security lights alternate in a sequence slow enough that if some poor dreaming straggler with too much whiskey on his mind were to trounce through it around midnight, he might tune back into the general sensorium just rarely enough to fool himself into thinking it’s a german disco arranged primarily for his catharsis, and rejoice in chemically-prolonged celebration at the irony of such a serendipitous light show put up for his own truest self.

But the whole best true self scenario feels too numbed down for that dissociation to actually happen. The self is buried in the work somewhere, floating along in an undersea river along with the rest of these other roommates, and we’re copping a proverbial tapestry in terms of psycho-social pirouettes. Did I say social? I meant sex.

Some godless union of raw artistic talent is obviously on the horizon, and for once I’m not the only artist here, and for once I am the only writer. But it’s early; first trimester for this particular inter-subjective baby, and so there’s no sense in placing bets on blue or pink when everything is gray and maroon.

One thing any friend of mine would find appealing is the presence of other like-hearted folks trying out Bushwick like it’s the abyssal end of the punk world that somehow still works…the women in this cafe and around the block who are probably a semi-consensual part of the complicit half of gentrification feign a guard when they pass, but check in for anything with a momentary glow of the iris. Distrustful, yet not mistrustful. Careful, selective, but not disconnected. Or maybe I don’t give my visage enough credit. I wouldn’t know.

on the trauma of privilege.

The night before last I spent five hours analyzing the semantic and performative contours of the phrase “as if” in-text. Tonight, I vacillate between secret applications on one imperious hand, and the abject denial of the pernicious contingency my last ex proved me right in inevitably being on an Other’s.

Accepting that second-guessing intelligence is more harmful than acquiescing to the truth of said intelligence’s brutally proven first nature in its first instance has a lovely indelible flavor, and a third hand is holding spectral position over this amazing Crown Heights studio I’ve enjoyed for two weeks. Nevertheless I remain ever-readied for a second move in two days, and I’m writing fiction like never before on yet another fucking hand, and I threw Anaïs Nin’s “trauma of privilege” motif out the frigid window with fully conscious glee, and I drink under a nomme de guerre with two-dimensional strangers.

I’m beginning to believe in the existence of an intermediary class of inauthentic extroverts, those who are really introverts, yet lack the commitment to follow through, and so make much better extroverts, digitally. No hate, no foul.

Don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be here right now.

I barely touch my social media accounts. It’s kind of exhilarating to imagine the emotional détournement everyone is copping on the hourly, perpetually fighting the urge to conflate their concrete situ with their self-produced produced-self.

But clearly it’s still worse to run from the acts one does, or continue metanarrating one’s failure to act from an abstract, presumably innocent position. My god, the casual ease of blaming one self for hurting oneself, while one freely switches between judge and accused.

In other words, I’m quite pleased with myself, and I know it. Apologies to most readers for the cryptic nature of this post, but look at your fucking clock. Look at it. Goodnight.