dangerous compassions

I call you / from the comet's cradle

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

audience, justice

I was talking to a friend about audience. She said she had trouble writing because she didn't know who her audience was supposed to be. She said maybe god.

But I said I couldn't write to god because I think of her as either an amorphus cloud of detached intelligence or a compassionate Indian woman who wouldn't get my jokes. I told her I write for a friend who's intelligent, makes me feel safe, understands me and wants to, wants to hear what I say.

In reality, there's a formula for who my audience is at any given moment. It's...

the person I love most,
who I'm not related to,
other than my husband and my best friend.

So basically my non-family #3. How romantic. If you're not related to me and not my husband or best friend, it could be you, or it could have been you, or it might be you one day.

But I was talking to another friend yesterday on the phone, and we were talking about love and crushes. He was saying how he gets crushes once in a blue moon and telling me how that seems right to him because you would never want to say, "Well, the one I want the most doesn't want me, so I'll go with my second choice." No one wants to be the second choice.

I was saying "uh-huh" and being very supportive at the time, but something contrary to say did burn within me unsaid, and it was like: People are so different from one another. Any ranking of people is absolute ridiculous because just like you can like cherries and grapes it's not going to hurt grapes' feelings that you like cherries. I've got a different kind of love for everyone I love.

This morning I went for a little walk. I watched a Pavement video. I did my own sad version of flaming someone's glowing review of Ulysses on myspace, which didn't feel good, though I never know how I come off. Maybe not as mean as I felt. Because I really hate Ulysses.

And I drank some pomegranite juice and did some zine stuff. Wednesday is a test of my patience.

Yesterday I walked around the corner to make eight copies to compensate for the eight that the Staples machines messed up, and I liked it there when a dressed-up man wanted to interupt and the worker wouldn't let him.

Hi, I'm important because I'm in dress-up clothes. I am better than this woman who was here first.

I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to wait your turn in the name of justice.

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