11.22.2002

Coney Island, Baby

Drove R.'s jaloppy down the Beltway with its mostly mad drivers. I was quite surprised when the scenery switched to long stretches of flat green fields. What are they doing in Brooklyn? I could have been in the middle of nowhere--except for the faint glow of a bridge's red lights on the horizon. Everything was grey, washed out--the streets flushed out like an open sore. School kids and old men looked like space explorers in their bright puffy jackets, squinting in the mist, waiting for the light to change so they could cross the four lane intersection.

I pull up to the beach at Coney Island, famed paradise for burn-outs and dirty freaks living the rock n' roll life. This was my first pilgrimmage. I was expecting the beach to resemble a huge ashtray, but it was remarkabley clean. I walk out to the surf in the neon green Doc Marten boots I'd donned for the occasion, singing: "I guess it's healthy...I guess the air is clean."

I'm immediately mesmorized by a row of white caps, jostling each other for position before they rise up all at once and smack down like the hand of God herself. Before I can get over this, there's a line of even taller waves, rising up behind the spray and the foam. I realize that my recent, undetermined fascination is with nothingness itself. I'd thought that there was some-thing behind it, but I was wrong--it's nothing itself that I long for. I realize this in the whiteness of the crash; an awful pressure flattening my lungs, erasing all maps.

What do I want? What should happen next? It's true that I'm reevaluating our little trimumverate here. TRUE is MIA somewhere out west without any explanation or so much as a "hey, what's up?" phone call to the sick crew back at home. I guess she feels that the occasional, cryptic post on that purloined titanium laptop should suffice. Whatever for you, Ms. Thang. The other one, Sterling, isn't much better. While she's physically present, she's blasted off on some expressway in her skull, where she thinks she's all that and a fat bag. I think you need to cut back on all that lifting at the gym, my healthy little raisin. Spend some time making some art that matters--not this looped movie, reconstructed New Wave sample electro album bullshit. Get those three fingers out of your cunt and make something that isn't COMPLETELY self referential.

I don't know...I feel like I can and should talk to you this way because we're trying to accomplish something here. Or at least that's what you two fooled me into believing, when I was all set to pack it in and head back to Europe.

Please don't misunderstand me: It's not about being hardcore about something. It was never about that--even when I was with those punks on Avenue C. Then it was about wearing my jeans in a way that looked good. I was 20 and didnt' give a shit. By 25 it was all grinding to a halt. Although I went around scared and convinced that something was wrong with me--only I didn't know what--I still managed to spend a certain number of hours as a genuine star, if only a temporary one, 4 AM in a shoebox-shaped club filled with men. I thought that was the answer: I thought I wanted to be wanted.

Now I just want what other people have. I stare at the everyday people on the street, trying to parse the truth of their lives. It's not this or that specific thing that I want from them...it's nothing...it's everything at once that I want.

(coney island baby)
...And you start thinking again
About all those things that you've done
And who it was and who it was
And all the different things you made every different scene...

...Yeah, but now, now
Glory of love, the glory of love
The glory of love, might see you through...


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