Come Back Sky Gilbert

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.The worst that can come of a cigarette, I think, is that the fact that I smoke it in a certain way — at least, according to this young man — might be noticed.He is extraordinarily sycophantic; I am, to him, an idol or even a god.Don’t worry, he won’t tell anyone.I have sworn him to secrecy, and he does everything I say.It’s a pity I’m not attracted to him — although I am.But it just seems too dangerous to nurture the sad old sense memory of — what shall we call it — sensuality? Yes, that’s palatable.He is mentally unbalanced.He has admitted it, in fact.Anyway, he is responsible — his name is Allworth — for the newly installed alert function.I’m sure I should disable it — who knows what stalker could discover my location.So be it.The alert function came up with that hoary old tale about the hanging Munchkin — the one who can be seen in one frame, apparently dangling in shadow by the yellow brick road.Well, all I have to say is, Fuck them! There was no hanging fucking Munchkin! But there sure were one or two who were well-hung.Jesus Christ, why do people always have to turn it into a tragedy? What are we going to do now? Have a memorial service for an imaginary hanging midget and wear fucking black armbands? Jesus Christ: so they were short, so what? That means we have to feel sorry for them? They didn’t fucking feel sorry for themselves.No, let me tell you, it was a party for them all the time, and I am sick and fucking tired of being demonized for saying so.Nobody understands that it was a tribute to the goddamn Munchkins for me to say that.I was the first to treat them as people — not just a bunch of dolls! And it’s not my fucking fault if no one can handle it when I tell it like it is!The Lollipop Guild guy — I can’t remember his name — was such a fucking pervert! I mean that in the nicest sense; I mean it as a compliment.You think women don’t go for guys like that? I guess that’s all part and parcel of the “women don’t really like big cocks” bullshit.Size doesn’t matter? Sure it doesn’t matter, in a technical sense.But there’s such a thing as a fantasy.Don’t underestimate the power of fantasy that a really big cock can create.I mean, just looking at one could scare you.(But that’s the way I used to want to be scared.) Anyway, this little fucking Munchkin had a dick of death, even for a normal-sized male.And he really liked scaring women with it.And need I tell you how much power there is in being a little guy who can just vanquish — I mean, really vanquish — a regular-sized woman with his goddamn member?I know all this because he showed it to me.He was bragging about it and I said, “Honey, show it to me — you know everyone wants to see it.” So we went behind one of the candy-cane trees, and he hauled it out, and I burst out laughing.I mean, you’ve got to laugh at a thing like that, because there’s nothing else to do.The Lord giveth, and he taketh away.I laughed harder than the time Marlene played the records of her European tour for us.I told Carson this, I think.She played song after song for us — but they weren’t “songs.” You couldn’t hear anything but applause! Now and then Marlene would go, “That’s Frankfurt,” or “That’s Berlin.” I was on the floor.Anyway, back to the Munchkin.He ended up marrying this normal-sized woman, and I would have given anything to have been in a locker room with some guys when he stripped down.So yeah, yeah, I know — please don’t tell me all of this does not bode well.There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Johnny.Since when did you become my conscience? Is that all there is to being a lover? Because I know, deep down — even though we’ve never done it — that somewhere, somehow, we are lesbians.In the old-fashioned sense of the word.I mean, of course you have sex with women — but I am a lesbian inside.I know I am.And even though our friendship is only, these days — how did they used to say it? — deeply epistolary, there is that element.We both know it.And if, in fact, I am now a lesbian, even though I no longer have anything much resembling a body, it would seem that we are lovers and that when we speak (even though you are not here) you have become my conscience.So can we cut that out? I know you won’t, so we might as well just keep the whole conscience thing going, because that’s what two people do when they are in love.Let’s just come to terms with that, as they used to say in self-help books; let’s be real about that, as we used to say in the sixties.Yes, yes, you are going to chastise me and that’s because you love me, and because I love you too — we’re lesbians in that way.Which brings me back to the man I was telling you about — the Samuel Pepys of his age, or.not.Okay, fine, do it: tell me I shouldn’t even be thinking about, or writing about, this poor lonely guy, exploring his fucked-up psyche.Just tell me that.But if you have the right to scold, then I have the right to hear what you say but not listen.Of course I will listen, but I won’t take it to heart.I still do have a heart.Which reminds me of.But there we will not go.Because I know, in your heart, because you definitely have one, somewhere, even though you deny it.I know in your heart you know I appreciate that you care about me even if I don’t pay attention.Because I can’t pay attention.And I will use my interest in this man, in his historic moment, as an excuse not to listen to your chiding — which I can already predict.This is the first trace of him I’ve discovered.I found it in the archives at the University of Toronto.He was writing during the early part of the millennium when he lost his mind.Didn’t we all, slowly but surely? It’s pre-9/11.One of my friends — and he’s a gay friend — he still archaically calls himself that (no, not the one who put me onto the alert function) — noticed that I call it “nine-one-one.” But it’s nine-eleven, isn’t it? Well, I just think of it as one big emergency.And we mark everything from that — the decline.Or should we not be Eurocentric, and call it “the ascendance”?So how did I find out about this artist from the past that I wish to put before you? Well, I was searching these old theses for gay subject matter, and a very nice librarian named Kim found it for me.There are nice librarians, as well as those who are not, as you well know.I sometimes prefer the bitter ones, because they don’t talk your ear off and they’re not enthusiasts.Kim is an in-between, but not tragically so: she is neither a bitter librarian nor an enthusiast, she is just someone who seems to enjoy her job — but not too much.She said, in an offhand way, “Oh, there’s this Dash King stuff.” I reacted immediately to the name.Dash King — now, there’s a name for you.I remarked that it seemed like a theatrical moniker.She said, “Now, that is the odd thing — his name was the bane of his existence.” In other words, because he was called Dash King and was involved in matters theatrical, people assumed his name was concocted for theatrical purposes.And we all know the effects of that (I won’t go there) — the enormous fakery that begins (you can’t remember when) and catapults you into a spasmodic nothingness and near death — at least, in my case [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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