----
Welcome back to DC's Writers Workshop. This is the ninth in a series of days on the blog where writers who are part of the blog's community will present work-in-progress in search of the opinions, responses, advice, and critiques of both readers who don't normally post comments here and local inhabitants of this place. I ask everyone to please read these works with the same attention you give the normal brand of posts here and respond in some way in the comments section below. Obviously, the closer your attention and the more you're able and willing to say to the writer the better. But any kind of related comment is welcome, even a simple sentence or two indicating you read the piece of writing and felt something or other about it would be helpful. The only guideline I'm going to give out regarding comments is that any response, whether lengthy or brief, praise filled or critical or anywhere inbetween, should be presented in a spirit of helping the writer in question. I'll be responding to the work too in the Comments section towards the end of the weekend. So I guess all of that is probably clear. Giving support to the artists of different kinds who read and post on the blog has always been a very important aspect of this project, but this workshop series represents one of the first times that aspect has been made formal. This weekend's writer is Plexus, author of stories, poetry, a must-read blog and one this blog's distinguished locals. He asks for any thoughts, support, or criticism you can give him. I thank him greatly for entrusting his work-in-progress to us, and I thank you all in advance for your kind participation. -- D.C.
*
Physical Education
The summer I turned 15 I started self mutilation. It was clumsy at first like the time when I was little and I slowly closed the door on my finger just to see what it felt like. After a few months, the cutting developed into a more detailed and calculated ritual. At the hardware store, I got jumbo packages of razors. The cutting had to happen at night when everyone was asleep. On the floor in the middle of my room I spread out a garbage bag and then put my bleeding towel on top. It was a white towel I used to catch and soak up the blood. I used a new clean sharp razor every night and everything had to be quiet.
After Paul picks me up, we are deep in the forest behind the house where we had been 27 times before but this time, the 28th time, he is really staring at me. He is watching me.
:How was prison? Then he looks down at a rock and I wait for him to kick it. He doesn't.
:School is school.
:You are braver than you look, Gabriel.
:Fuck you, Paul, seriously go fuck yourself.
He laughs a lot and makes motions like he is stabbing me with an invisible knife.
I took my bedside lamp on the floor with me, opened my legs and shined the light on my inner thighs so I could see like it was an operating room. The inside of my left thigh was where I cut with my right hand holding the razor. I hunched over myself and made 4 quick horizontal cuts then the universe stopped crawling. I swallowed for the millisecond when I tried to see which came first: the blood or the pain but they just came. I never figured it out. The concentration and sensation occupied every part of me so intensely that I didn't worry about whether or not I would think again. I watched the blood bead up then trickle and fall as gravity pulled it down onto the towel. The pain would evolve in waves and burst through me then say shhh and repeat which made me shake. I think I wanted to cry.
He grabs at my ribcage and pushes me down into a pile of dead pine needles and crispy leaves. He is still, red and looks down at me. He grabs at my hair then his hand relaxes . He rubs it against the back of my neck and on my face in circles until it was totally fucked. He smiles.
:What are you looking at?
Soon I was cutting 4 slashes 3 or 5 times a night and making twisted Xs out of every other wound. Then I cleaned them with rubbing alcohol and covered them with band aids that I had purchased at the drugstore. I put used razors, cotton balls and band aid waste in a trash bag that I kept in my closet. My bleeding towel looked like a tapestry of different reds: the older blood was like rust and the new blood was bright and fresh. I hid it in my closet.
He kisses my saliva like it's water and he's made out of sand. There’s a lot of kissing and licking and lapping like a dog and I’m the empty water dish. He is in my neck again with his hands all over me then he rolls me and grabs my ass. He lifts up my t shirt and his tongue stabs every section of my spine like his tongue is some sort of bandage. He is fumbling with my jeans.
:don't fuck up my belt
I was cutting scars open so they could breath. I made more and more that were deeper and deeper. On Thursday I made 6 slashes. Blood. Pain but not enough of the kind that made me shake. I think I was crying when I made the 7th cut and something released. The pressure of my skin holding my leg together let go. I cut all the way through. I did it. The blood poured and I watched it like it wasn’t even mine and the razor just sat there tucked in the opening. Was there pain? This was a slaughterhouse where I was the butcher and the cow. Everything went Red. Oh fuck. I pulled the razor out and pushed a wad of the towel on my thigh. My legs were shaking now. I took off my t shirt and held that to it. I put more than 10 band aids on there but it leaked. I checked the bottom of my feet for blood: none. I wobbled on the carpet to my desk and secured the band aids with scotch tape. I wrapped toilet paper from the bathroom and the sheet from my bed around it. If I stained my mattress with blood I was finished. I cleaned up trash and hid it, took two benedryl and fell asleep.
More spit. He is eating me out and drooling then his cock is a salamander in my asshole with his breath in my ear biting me. He is pushing further and further and crushing me harder and harder.
:I fucking love you, baby, my baby my Gabriel.
I am falling into leaves and needles and they are stuck to my face and the floor of the forest is in my mouth like I am being buried alive but I love being impaled by this dead carved branch that they used to burn witches with.
In the morning it was pulsing. I investigated the landfill of bandages on my thigh. I removed the spotted toilet paper and replaced it with fresh and scotch taped it all together. Time for school. No point in breakfast. I wore baggy black jeans.
It hurt bad all morning and felt hot and wet. I resented chairs, the sun and other people.
I forgot that I had P.E. I took my t shirt and shorts from the locker into a stall with me and looked at my wound again. It seemed quiet. So I changed and I think I walked like I had just been raped. Volleyball. I avoided the ball and got yelled at. I hit the ball then jumped and hit the ball and then I felt it rip open. The dam broke and it started bleeding so much so fast and I couldn't stop it. Oh fuck. It soaked my shorts and started running down my leg. I should have used duct tape. Everyone was silent and staring when someone said
:Gabe started his period.
Everyone started laughing.
:That or he cut his dick off.
More laughter.
:What are you thinking about? Paul asks.
:Nothing.
:QUIET! the gym echoed. The teacher walked up to me like he was gonna run me over but just grabbed my arm.
:go to the nurses office NOW!
The nurse was confused. She asked what happened and I said I didn't know but I thought about saying that I had been attacked by a dog. She told me to take off my shorts so I did. She looked at my bandages and the blood wept through. I looked at her. Don't touch it please. She didn't.
:I am calling your mother.
:Here
He hands me a joint. He kisses my forehead. He laughs.
:You look like your mother.
My mom came and picked me up. The nurse told her she thought I should go to the E.R. In the car she didn't say anything and I started to wonder if she knew what was going on this entire time. The light turned red. She looked at my face then my bloody crotch and then my face again. I didn’t look at her.
:What did you do to yourself Gabriel?
----
*
p.s. Hey. Welcome to the workshop. I basically explained everything above, but I'll just add that I really hope you'll take some time to read Plexus' piece and leave a related comment, even if it's just an acknowledgement that you read the work. Putting one's writing on the line is quite a vulnerable situation, obviously, and your kind attention, whatever that involves, means a lot. As always, I'll put in my two cents at the end of the weekend, Paris time. Thanks, everyone. ** Destroyed beyond emptiness, You're not too late, you're early, ha ha. Of course, it's my great pleasure to be able to direct people to your work, and I'm adoring the new pieces I've managed to read thus far. I hope to have all of them in my head by the next time I see you. Seriously, about the poetry night and possible poetry club? Great idea. The white vest and nipple alterations too. Looking forward to your thoughts on Plexus' stuff, and have a great weekend otherwise. ** David Ehrenstein, Hey. O'Donnell is really the bottom of the nasty barrel so far. Wtf! If she and those other monsters get elected, I may have to start looking into French citizenship or something. The white Andre Leon Tally, ha ha ha, wow. You gave me a laughing fit right there, David. That's hilarious. ** Allesfliesst, What are 'those candy selection micro-cities' you speak of? Whatever they are, I want one. Atmospheric dullness, yeah, very nice, yeah, thanks. Do you have a free weekend ahead, or a weekend of work, or, uh, both? Is that even possible? ** Kent Johnson, Hey, thank you for chiming in. I'll pass along your links. Everyone, The whole 'did Kenneth Koch write a Frank O'Hara' poem controversy that I linked you into yesterday and which seems to have spilled in the comments arena to boot is complicated, and Kent Johnson, who authored the book that started the controversy, offers two links to those who are interested to learn more. This one leads to his reply to the Tony Towle quote I printed here yesterday, and this one leads to some discussion of the legal maneuverings regarding KJ's book by Edmond Caldwell, who also popped in here to give his opinion yesterday. ** Pilgarlic, I'll start culling and restoring my porn stories. Porn stories make might for yet another good SPD theme idea. Everyone must have at least one really good story. You might even please both partners at the party with that Wax Trax box, depending on how mainstream the younger half was back then. Have and create a blast, man. ** El Caimán Divino, Hey. So pleased you liked the post, and the commiseration on the music selections is really nice. Amazing about your friend who plays 'Rebonds B'. I've been kind of obsessed with that piece lately. I'm going to see if I have 'Zyklus' filed somewhere 'cos I don't remember it by name. I just put together a Brothers Quay post and was watching/ listening to their collab with Stockhausen. Anyway, great, and feel more than free to recommend things that spring to mind. Porn opera, wow, very interesting. I can't imagine that's been done, or not in public, ha ha. Gaspar Noe's next film is supposedly going to be a 3D porn film, so maybe the time is ripe. Thanks, man. Best of all weekends to you. ** Edmond Caldwell, Hey. Best of luck to you with all of that. It sounds complicated. ** Alan, Hey. Hm, yeah, maybe the difference is that I let myself play somewhat loosely with my firmly predetermined direction. I think that's probably my problem, but, like you, I don't seem to know any other way to go about it. Well, very best of luck to Noboku re: the upstate job if that would be for the best. So screwed up, though, that it would need to come to that. ** Steevee, No, 'I'm Still Here' isn't here yet. I guess now that it's been revealed as 100% hoax, I'm more interested. I'm in the smallish camp that has never thought Joaquin Phoenix is much of an actor. He hasn't convinced me since 'To Die For'. But I'm curious about the faux-documentary's gamesmanship. Very glad to hear you're starting to feel better. ** Armando, Hey, man! Great to see you! No, I haven't watched the extended cut of 'The New World' yet, which is very weird. My Recollets-sharing pal Kiddiepunk has the DVD or a download. I'm so headlong into my novel that I'm avoiding stuff. Anyway, I'm going to watch it pronto. And of course I'm kind of tearing my hair out waiting for 'Tree of Life'. You doing good? What are you up to right now? ** Michael_karo, Hi, M. Oh, it's over already? Your Warhol tweeting? Will you eventually gather them into a permanent, non Twitter place, or would that be inappropriate? Of course I'll link the folks up. Just watch me. Everyone, the eminent Michael Karo's Twitter art project Warhol_Diaries with its 1997 tweets and 3000 followers has reached its finish line, and you'll be very, very happy if you click that link and have a long look. Thanks, Michael. I'll click as soon as I'm not busy with this. This: p.s. Bon weekend! ** JW Veldhoen, Hey. Wow, a lot of disappearing going on there. What's up with that? I could be way off, but you're doing a lot of generalizing there about NYC bookstore people, eaterie patrons, alienation, America, Canada, etc. Me, I finding generalizing to be the entrance of untruth, so I always try to stop myself when my woes seem due to massed concepts rather than to individual cases. May not make any sense or work for you at all. That just popped out and connected with my problem solving side regarding the ways I blindside myself and the ways I try to parse the dilemmas of others, I guess. ** Statictick. Take care of that exhaustion, man. The rest waits patiently. The semi-long-distance boyfriend doesn't want to see GbV?! (Deep breath.) I'm sure he's a very lovely person otherwise. ** Chris Cochrane, Do I mind if the music gets loud? Ha ha, dude, I collaborate with Stephen O'Malley, for goodness sake. Of course loudness is cool with me. I'll just say to you what I say to SOMA: don't drown out my texts, man. Awesome about the music making. Can't fucking wait to hear it, and hear about the rehearsals and, you know, all of it. ** Sypha, I hope copies of the Philip Best book are still around when I can afford it. Cool you got it and that it rules. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, Hey. Other docs about me? Hm, there's a short doc about me by James Bolton made in the earlyish 90s. I think it played a few film festivals. I think that's it. Oh, Dutch TV did a forty-five or so minute program/doc about me in the 90s, but I don't think it's viewable online anymore. I'm briefly in a couple of docs -- the Kathy Acker, the JT Leroy one, if it ever comes out. That's heavy and, yeah, Jesus, about your great aunt. 99, not bad, though. But the family gathering stuff gave me the willies, and I can't imagine how it felt to be there and to be family. I'm sorry, man. I hope you get a respite this weekend. My Friday was mostly spent doing that radio play recording. We did it at this sound studio just off the rue St. Denis, which has long been mostly the street where you can buy great cheap vegetables and fruit, but which is starting to get hip now with trendy cafes here and there that are beloved by the fashion crowd. Anyway, the studio is on this little street rue Martel, which I'd never seen before and is kind of pretty. The studio is in the building where Julio Cortazar lived, and there's a plaque saying so and everything, and that was cool. The day before we recorded there, Sylvie Vartan, who's a legendary French singer/ songwriter, but I don't think she's known outside of a France -- she's very brassy; that's her thing -- was recording her new album in the same place and sound booth. That was kind of cool too. Anyway, we (Gisele, Jonathan C., and I) recorded from noon to 8 pm with one coffee break. This won't make much sense if you haven't seen the 'Jerk' theater piece, but Gisele decided that I should do all the non-Jonathan parts, meaning the audience members reading the fanzine texts aloud, Professor William Griffith, and the pretentious student who reads part of an essay at the end of the piece, So, I had to adopt different voices to do all that, and it seemed to go okay. We have a short last session today, so I'll find out. Jonathan nailed his parts, of course, since he's performed that piece 170 times now or something. I got home around 9 pm, and then I had the rude shock of discovering that the reason my ATM card bounced the other day I that I have no money at all. So, I have to get some somehow from somewhere right away, and I'm pretty stressed about that, but whatever. Then I slept badly/ stressily. Oh, well. Please tell me about your weekend, and I will do the same. ** Misanthrope, Well, that not leaving the house stuff solves at some of the mystery of your recent sluggishness. Go out there and play Frisbee with Little Show or something. Ugh, about the stingy money guys, but I'm glad you're getting a decent fraction, at least. You're coming to NYC in October? Awesome, but don't blow your wad. Uh, well, you know what I mean. I mean that particular wad. Man, you know the weirdest people. A baby fucker and killer? I mean, Jesus. What next? Spend this weekend like there's no day after the day after tomorrow, man. ** _Black_Acrylic, Great luck tonight, Ben. Have fun, give fun, and I can't wait to see whatever I can see. ** Okay, now you guys go dig yourselves into our beloved Plexus' work and have your say, please. I'll do that too. Thanks a lot, everybody! See you back here.
No comments:
Post a Comment