Friday I was told a horrific story at a birthday party by a woman who’s using me as the main feature in her thesis on the Death Of Culture about having a fisting accident where he punched into her uterus and was caught there by her shocked body for thirty-five awkward minutes. Added bonus, apparently she has three ovaries because in the womb she absorbed a twin. He hit one.
Our weather has been restless, torrential bi-polar syndromes daily, swinging back and forth between rain and thirty degrees in the shade. The only reason I know it’s summer has been the time the sun goes down. There’s light in the sky at nine o’clock at night. Today, however, there was sun. Hard shearing light, painful on the eyes when it reflected off the ocean. Dominique and Amanda and I went to Wreck Beach, the nudist beach, where I found Brian and let him curl up to me like a cat, like a little child, thirty years older than me, but four feet tall. All of the sudden, he reminded me of Chris. They’re skinny thin in the same ways, like the bones have been hung primarily to show off something pretty.
Quickie Culture Night on Saturday went well, I think. It bled well into Sunday morning and I suspect that everyone present saw something new. James showed me a piece of film that left me without speech or coherent thought. I was hideously impressed. Prey Alone, it was called, and it was serrated green filter chocolate sex wrapped with an enviable plot, even better than the startlingly brilliant BMW films. Though, I must say, those were a damned treat. The one with James Brown blistered my eyes with how clever it was. You should come to our next one. I don’t care who you are or what city. If it’s possible to do, I would like to find a way to host our itinerary for people who live too far away or in inaccessible countries.