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Montreal Soir

Sky Gilbert
From:   Digressions of a Naked Party Girl. ECW Press, 1998.


Peter had invited me for coffee, first,
at that restaurant with the unpronouncable name
and of course he was sitting there with James.
I was impressed, as well I should be.
(Isn't it interesting the way people introduce the ones they love? "Sky this
is James", and of course, I tripped and almost fell into him and then he
wanted to know about my tattoo. It's important not to be too fascinating-
result: jealousy, or too disinterested- result: hurt)
James asked about the various forms of neuroses and Peter was in his
element- father, teacher, pedant, wit:
"Well Gestalt describes three types of neurosis: projection, introjection
and retrogression."
Peter and I agree that we have all three. James is confused and interested,
and goes home, almost stealing Peter's hat.
As Peter and I make our trek to the strip bar I realize that the poets are
wrong; one-sided love is not hopeless - it's the other way around. Peter and
James are clearly in love with each other equally, and that of course is why
they will never be happy together. The obsession is too equal. Neither is
crying and sighing hopelessly. Neither is telling the other what to do
(I.E.: MARRIAGE). Two people equally in love? That's a stalemate, a prison,
two pairs of eyes endlessly staring fearfully into the void. Dare I know
that soul (it loves me as I love it)? Why no, I dare not.
And we're at the strip bar and the boys whirl perilously around us. One boy
has made pants out of ripped jeans and a pair of chaps. Another surprises us
with his long cock. Another sits, pouting, by the slot machine, but every
time he moves, Peter and I gasp.
And of course these boys make me think about death. As they always do.
For those who are obsessed with the body are obsessed with death. We are all
too aware of how the body changes. Each pimple, each wrinkle, announces
death's imminence. And you can lock yourself in your house and roll up your windows and make dinner.
Or you can throw yourself into the body of that young man, with every ounce
of fury you have left.
Death will come either way. But we imagine that watching it's inevitable
approach is a kind of cheat, is beating the game.
And we are always running, with our back to the moon, and hiding, with our
face in the sun, and yelling, with the music in our ears.
Our desperate escapes! How we love them, as we love our boys, and though we
are reluctant to admit it, they love us too.
Or then again, perhaps we're just two old queens sipping beer at the Adonis,
and it needn't be any more important than that.


Sky Gilbert's works copyright © to the author.


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