on gallo and the teen dream.

i wake at four a, just now, and all i can imagine (after putting on some sweater that wont stay on my shoulders, after picturing los angeles paris new york milan and how it must be louder than now, how i still have two hours before i can even think about going into the sewing room and working and forgetting about every other space i am not in, after pretending that no other space really exists and that im glad there is this enormous steel gate between me and the world) is my most teen dream of all things, vincent gallo.

i have been ridiculously fascinated by gallo since i was sixteen, watching buffalo 66 at two am for the first time and thinking, this is it. this is exactly how it should be. that bonnie and clyde sailor and lula romance. when everything collapses and there is nothing but electricity, even for the worse of it. and for the past ten years i have been gifted japanese import movie posters and original warp vinyl pressings of "when" from separate boyfriends, perpetuating that teen dream, that desire to disconnect.

all the boys i date have dark hair and blue eyes and if they dont, they are jaunty with evil tongues and tremendous wit and callousness.

one of my all time most repeated fantasies is gallo coming to my little house. then nothing. no photoplay, no interview, nothing like that. everything silent and the light green. him in a leather jacket and greasy hair, and i just waking with a mess of hair and stained red lips.

everything as the most tremendous dreams. everything a labyrinth. lately, all my dreams are about strange humiliation but like someone doing something so absurd, so hurtful, that it isnt hurtful at all, its embarrassing to watch, how clumsy the mind can become when it convinces the body that it is beautiful enough to do anything. so much so, that just the act of seeing the spectacle makes everything into a picture show, that, thiscantbehappening phenomenon. then the room becomes so oppressive and there is nothing to say or do, i cant leave the room because that would appear as an emotion, and not the actual boredom that comes over me now when things become so outrageous and hyper dramatic just because there is nothing else.

i like rooms that are empty. i like things on the walls, like living in a tree trunk, these walls like cathedrals covered in knots and scars and handmade things. i either like when the room is empty, when there is one person in the room, or when the room is so stifled with breath and bodies that they are tumbling from the doorways. i can only imagine, in those three instances, that something worth noticing can occur.and i never imagine words, not anymore. its always the worst disappointment when someone says what you think they are going to say, or when you came up with something better. every pause and gesture is such role play and thats even more absurd than a room with three people.