Transcribed from more morning pages written today:
Just had a pretty solid dump. Ready to write Morning Pages properly. “Good and proper, forever!” I’ve been writing very personally and posting it on solow, but, or, and, it’s better late than never.
That time at the Astoria, when I walked away from Russell, comes to mind. How he looked at me as if he were a mere animal testing scientist, one who is sadistic. I didn’t want to be with him THAT badly. So out onto the bleary street and hum drum home I went.
The time at the bus stop on Hastings comes to mind. I escaped him by getting on the bus, because he moved in such a way, as to remind me of a man who had tortured me, on Victoria drive in that house where two men would torture me whenever I was ‘home'. Russell had his back to me, and bent in such a way, as if he were deliberately giving me a flashback, of the same physical pose I saw one of the torturers make, in the living room on Victoria Drive. I think that house is now boarded up or under renovation or something. I daren’t have a good look.
Back to the bus stop on Hastings. Russell had crept over to me as if he were stalking prey but it was playful. I watched, amused. I thought, now we would be united, but as he gets close he veers off behind me instead of to me, and I watch him, and he strikes that horrible pose that gives me a flashback, and just then I see the bus coming, and I hail it down and board it, to get away from the image now seared freshly in my mind’s eye, of the torturer, via Russell’s pose. Maybe he did it deliberately.
The bus door closed and I looked through the glass, at Russell’s crooked nose profile, and I thought he looked so noble, and had had nothing to do with the torture I’d been through, and so was an innocent lamb, and I felt dreadful taking off on him, but it was too late. The bus was moving and the world didn’t revolve around my whims so I wasn’t going to even try to stop it and get back out.
I resolved to go where I’d initially intended to that morning, to go buy a French press, at Army & Navy. I bought it, and looked forlornly at that bus stop on my way home as I passed by it. I got home, and my inner forearms ached with grief. Love was dying. “Oh mother, I can feel, the soil falling over my” arms. The coffee was little consolation but I went through the motions of making and drinking it. It looked like I’d sacrificed love, for a French press, to make coffee, so I vowed to give up coffee. As if that would cure my affliction.
Russell, was a real person but the man I was in love with, was projection. Underneath, I was in love with The Dancer, and is he Morrissey? Was I and am I in love with Morrissey? But underneath, was like winter’s underneath, dormant, for now, at least, and, flexible, in that it can be platonic, but true.
I just took a break from writing, to go check to see if my book from Verso has arrived, but now I remember I gave him my Post Office address. I was told that we have a new postman, an Englishman. Now, when I hear the word English, I wonder if it is a sign, but what am I going to do, be Pavlov’s dog every time the word English is used to describe a man?
I’ve lost my train of thought. I was saying that underneath my sexually infused love for a projection on Russell, was my at least platonic love for Morrissey, and he must be The Dancer, or made of the same viscera, because, come on, out of the blue, in he walks at that Chinese restaurant and immediately I think “He is The Dancer!!!” before the next thought, “He is Morrissey!” Now Elton John’s song plays in my head “It’s sad. So sad. It’s a sad sad situation, and it’s getting more and more absurd.”
So when I hear Morrissey sing about the pain in his arms, in the Tomorrow song, I think I understand. I don’t understand the pain in his legs, as of yet, and it’s getting late. An English guy is delivering our mail now. I’m so crazy, I can’t help but think, maybe, but no, it can’t be, Morrissey. I’d want a personal invite that’s unmistakable, but beggars can’t be choosers. I won’t be Pavlov’s dog just because I hear that the new postman is English. But I can go down and check to see if, I might bump into him, and see for myself, this Englishman, if the timing is right.
Of course, it won’t be Morrissey, and I’ll feel silly, but I’ll go check the mail, anyway, shortly. I was glad no one, or not many people I came across this morning were wearing masks. Having gotten rid of my TV, I’m not so frightened about wearing one, unless I’m getting on the bus or going into a store.