Boyonjourney

It's not what it was, it's not what it is, it's not what it isn't, but what it will be.

You look at John’s films and you know they’re fiction, but you know you’re not being lied to.

—Gena Rowlands (via johncassavetes)

If I recall correctly, I’ve been phone-less for an entire month already. Yes, I’m surviving—not that people care about the aforementioned condition. (Well, only a few  are affected by this since not so many people text or call me.) So, that’s it.  Oh and it’s fucking hot and I can’t stand it. And after tomorrow, I’ll be done with all of Spring semester courses.  (Yes, such a nonsensical post, I’ll try to write something worthwhile next time—perhaps excluded material from the story I am writing?) Okay (to make this a worthy post), I’m reading Francisco Goldman’s Say Her Name and (boy is it difficult to select a single passage) here’s an excerpt I particularly like:  “Aura and I didn’t fuck that first night, but the girl in Berlin and I did, after I’d eaten her out like she’d asked, with a desperate hunger, for a long time. We used a rubber that she had in her bag and that came in a pink wrapper. She was only twenty-five, the same age as Aura when we’d met, but now it was five years later, when Aura would have been, was still, thirty. We slept, stayed in bed until late afternoon, it was one of those Berlin days without daylight, that pass on silent wings like a soot-colored owl, and the apartment was silent, Pancho was out on one of his famous binges from which he wouldn’t return for three days, we saw or heard no sign of his wife, and we fucked some more, went to a movie at the Sony Center, ate sausages and drank grubwein at a Christmas market, and then at three in the morning I put her and her many suitcases into a taxi to the airport, and I went back to the apartment I was staying in, that belonged to my Guatemalan friend and his wife. When I woke up later that morning it was as if those one and a half nights of sex and sweet female company hadn’t happened, though of course, they had, it just made no difference that they had. I felt the same as I did every morning, the same darkness and sadness, same memories, images (Aura dead…) Sex and intimacy with a beautiful young woman made no difference, I could fuck all I wanted or not fuck and it wouldn’t change anything—later when I found the pink condom wrapper in my jeans I decided to save it as a remainder of that lesson, and put it away in the pocket of my down jacket. Over the next few weeks, while I was in Berlin and when I got back to Brooklyn, we exchanged a few emails, and then I never heard from her again, though now and then I looked at her Facebook page. She was snowboarding in the Alps. She’d decided to go on the wagon and stop using drugs. She was making sculptures from smashed mirrors.”

If I recall correctly, I’ve been phone-less for an entire month already. Yes, I’m surviving—not that people care about the aforementioned condition. (Well, only a few  are affected by this since not so many people text or call me.) So, that’s it. 

Oh and it’s fucking hot and I can’t stand it. And after tomorrow, I’ll be done with all of Spring semester courses. 

(Yes, such a nonsensical post, I’ll try to write something worthwhile next time—perhaps excluded material from the story I am writing?)

Okay (to make this a worthy post), I’m reading Francisco Goldman’s Say Her Name and (boy is it difficult to select a single passage) here’s an excerpt I particularly like: 

“Aura and I didn’t fuck that first night, but the girl in Berlin and I did, after I’d eaten her out like she’d asked, with a desperate hunger, for a long time. We used a rubber that she had in her bag and that came in a pink wrapper. She was only twenty-five, the same age as Aura when we’d met, but now it was five years later, when Aura would have been, was still, thirty. We slept, stayed in bed until late afternoon, it was one of those Berlin days without daylight, that pass on silent wings like a soot-colored owl, and the apartment was silent, Pancho was out on one of his famous binges from which he wouldn’t return for three days, we saw or heard no sign of his wife, and we fucked some more, went to a movie at the Sony Center, ate sausages and drank grubwein at a Christmas market, and then at three in the morning I put her and her many suitcases into a taxi to the airport, and I went back to the apartment I was staying in, that belonged to my Guatemalan friend and his wife. When I woke up later that morning it was as if those one and a half nights of sex and sweet female company hadn’t happened, though of course, they had, it just made no difference that they had. I felt the same as I did every morning, the same darkness and sadness, same memories, images (Aura dead…) Sex and intimacy with a beautiful young woman made no difference, I could fuck all I wanted or not fuck and it wouldn’t change anything—later when I found the pink condom wrapper in my jeans I decided to save it as a remainder of that lesson, and put it away in the pocket of my down jacket. Over the next few weeks, while I was in Berlin and when I got back to Brooklyn, we exchanged a few emails, and then I never heard from her again, though now and then I looked at her Facebook page. She was snowboarding in the Alps. She’d decided to go on the wagon and stop using drugs. She was making sculptures from smashed mirrors.”

filmlinc: Roman Polanski, 1st N.Y. Film Festival, 1963 © Jerry Schatzberg

filmlinc:

Roman Polanski, 1st N.Y. Film Festival, 1963 © Jerry Schatzberg