new year’s day is black coffee and pink sauerkraut for however purpose (ML says it’s “too keep your butt clean”). god bless!
i had a cool new year’s eve which was actually a classic hell but turned on a dime in fresh company and once in gear steered a pleasant path. hell to fakie! the previously-faithful big parties fell through, leaving everyone scrambling in pitiable confusion. when we rolled up early (11:30?) to the providence event at the dingy cavernous warehouse with huge tarp billowing over the open windows in the very very cold, we were the only ones there except the party orgs, who noised on the PA way in the background. mike t, you would’ve been so awesomely bummed. like, stabbingly bummed, but you were in florida urinating in a hot tub with heirs to b-grade fortunes (probably). queenie, (you know, queenie) was flabbergasted, THIS SUCKS, and waving around her party heels like DO YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THIS IS A SYMBOL OF?. then group dynamics of moving three cars of folks to nebulous spots, finally landing at an amazingly nothing potluck where everyone already there sat in the background watching tv (!?) while one dude (at one point, jbruce) riffed SO CASUAL on an electric guitar in a middle room. we (which was ~20 people, all old friends from worcester) were just happy to be warm, we counted down, drank champagne etc in the kitchen, in the firmly stagnating present. i hesitate on preprogrammed moments– i mean, who counts down to an epiphany? still it would’ve been better if we were at, i don’t know, a store 24, or an ATM enclosure, anything with an air of possibility. from the pedestrian kitchen to little pancakes where thankfully i met up with CRASH LA GEM, and for an ageless period, clung, as one would to an old rugged cross, and was similarly emboldened. we’re pen pals, recently, and to be sure it’s a funny age to be pen pals in, with other forms of communication so ubiquitous and mcluhanly engaged with personhood. i mean, there’s an undeniable victorian romance to the physical letter, but also, when you’re dialed into it, it supercedes other forms. which is to say, you can’t just call a pen pal and ask what’s new, because you owe them a fucking actual letter. also, because it’s a letter, and there’s no (or way less) format restrictions, the tendency is to go bonkers with it and make everything a damn pinhead puzzlebox. plus with a pen and a paper i can’t put my words down in a way that makes any sense– all you’ll ever get from me is staccato missives and noodley drawings. so it was nice to sit down and really bend ears and have actual immediate less-measured responses like “oh my!”. listen, this is what i’m saying: it’s nice to not just have an abstraction you throw weird rocks at. which is like, duh. so a special hello and thank you for inhabiting a cone with me. and don’t worry– even though pen-paldom is to some extent a fool’s game, it’s just TOO tempting to try and mark a fool’s game back on itself. expect a bag.
back to the night, and being “into the night”– gin was the beverage, which i sipped in tiny tiny amounts from a tall thin bullet-stopping flask, with a spout as big as a pencil eraser. i don’t drink as much as yoni gordon, steinbeck-motivated, says i should. but i enjoy enjoying and i keep liquor around for toasting, for appeasing spirits, for medicinal purposes, and other reasons that all mean the same thing pretty much anyway. i like food when it tastes good– liquor i like for different, more encoded and magical reasons. gin and milk was that valentines day i was out of sorts, and as a magic potion, it did the job– i got sad and angry and delighted and confused and terrified and ecstatic right when i needed it, the signifiers to the concoction being “milk and gin” by the capris and “yellow coat” by screamin’ jay hawkins. gin and juice of course is snoop. but just gin? to me gin’s quality is thinness, but rather than the thinness of a person, who you might say is wasting away to nothingness, gin is an asymptotal thinness that resolves to nothing only at infinity, and this only as a way to wrap your brain around the concept. it is infra-mince, like the infinitely sharp knife that is so sharp it does not cut anything, just finds the spaces between a thing and itself. or the act of passing through a door that is itself closing: infra mince. these are my feelings on gin, and the time i had, placebo-indulgent and avoiding value judgements and the trite puffery of the droll boozer, was: gabby, gliding in and out of situations; at rest, in motion, with a vector of movement that was isotropic. not for everyone nor at all times, but last night: OK.
will told me as we were gathering to leave that the writing on the page (this page) was getting gooder but also half-weirding him out. he also chided me for saying “trajectory” too much in conversation, even though that’s what i’m trying to cultivate: good habits and boss trajectories. MJ interviewed me in re: new year’s wishes, i told her my line: i don’t make wishes, i make decisions. BOOSH.
oh, and the good news of a few pops ago has been notarized: this march i’m being flown out to belgium by the antwerp museum of modern art to show a film and give a lecture on my life, and buy all the LIO LPs. i will also play some shows around. EU ballers check in.