I hate when you’re sitting on the subway and the man in front of you fakes an obligatory need to shove his junk in your face, under the guise of holding the bar above your head. I’m not offended I’m just annoyed. Women don’t do that to each other. I don’t put my tits in your face simply because I have them. If you wanted to see them, I’m sure id know it. In time you learn to do things like – touch no one – for personal safety reasons. Never sit in front of the map – because a 300 pound grandfather will pretend he’s reading it just to get close to you. Never doubt yourself – if you think he’s a creeper, he’s creeping. And not in the awesome t boz, left eye and chilli kind of way.
When I first got to BK I spent a lot of time riding the subway fucked up. On my way to meet up with friends, drinking vodka out of water bottles because I knew I needed more booze in me then what would be seen as acceptable and I could never risk running out. During this time I started blowing mdma just to make sure I was never sober. As an addict you’re always maintaining specific ratio levels. You’re very rarely so intoxicated that you lose the ability to monitor how much more substance to put in your body. It’s quite an ability and paradoxically a disability (to some). I’ve never quite preferred if any of my feelings were fabrications or fact. If i felt an illusion of power – I didn’t care if it was an illusion, I felt it and therefore I was powerful. I could be fervidly and physically imprisoned, but if I felt free then I was fucking free.
I’ve been trying to act less like a child lately. Mainly due to the adverse side affects that occur and create baleful dysfunction within my dear friendships. It’s hard because the illusion of maternal vigilance strikes me at my core. If we were in a room of millions, with one mother amongst the crowd, I could find her in record time. It’s a personal skill. It’s based on nothing other than function and dysfunction. We always find the people who have rocks shaped to fit the holes in our heads. The esoteric leaders find the followers. The abused find the abusers. Misery finds its company. Joy finds festivity. It’s no mystery we find ourselves in the same relationships, looking at different faces. But every once in a while I think luck strikes. Something bigger than your tiny ego-centric ideas for living hits. Or you get ten seconds of courage. Discomfort. Or whatever you’ve been doing progressively fails day by day and if you’re like me, you look up 2-3 years later asking What the fuck? How did this become my life? with genuine inquisition, as if this is the first time you’ve seen any of your surroundings. And maybe it is.
I rode the subway and other day and this fat middle-aged guy squeezed himself next to me on the seat. More often than not, I prefer not being touched on the subway – not because I give a shit but because if you give someone an inch they’ll basically rape you, so it’s just about establishing your authority right off the bat – as if we were in lock up. He tried to make himself as small as possible but he could do nothing about his natural shape which was more like a diamond. As his warm, over-pouring body filled the holes of negative space around me, I realized I felt less lonely.
Lately I’ve been riding the subway like it’s a skateboard. Holding onto nothing, feet planted, knees bent. Letting my body and balance sway with each fluid and sometimes rigid change of motion. The hardest parts are keeping my mind on the matter and holding my head up.