He sings to me, has been singing, in public, since we met two weeks ago. Some days, I catch him watching me from a distance, motionless.
This is something new to me, this….wooing.
Something new has pale white skin & wild red hair. It’s Howdy Doody red, Opie Cunningham red, Brenda Starr red. I’m finding it hard to ignore him.
He hangs over my head from low tree branches and sings to me, about me. Red Wolf lifts my skirt, wraps himself around my ankles like some sweet snake content to stay at my feet, and he sings to me.
My skirt is long enough to hide quarts of Budweiser underneath when cops roll past. They cruise the outside circle where we drink and hang –the Indians, Sleazy John & Rat, Jack & Carmine, Johnny One Eye, the Starriders motorcycle club, Haney & all the little runaways. Cops roll past and a dozen hands slide a dozen beers under my skirt.
I look all hippie in this skirt, no matter that that peace & love shit was ten years ago. Long skirts hide how my thighs touch. I have my deerskin full of wine I don’t share with anyone. I hate beer. I only drink beer when I’m run out of wine, when there is no acid to be had.
Sitting in Washington Square Park, drinking wine in my long skirt, I’m supposed to be writing a script for my directorial “debut” at NYU film school–they never should’ve put the school so close to the park–but I can’t think of a single thing anyone would give a shit about. I can’t think at all what with all that singing going on.
So I just hang out in the park, waiting for inspiration, for something that will blow everyone the fuck away when they see it. Anything. Some days all there is is hallucinogenics. Some days all there is is watching the cops roll up, roll past, roll away.
Whether I stand or sit, inspired or not, as long as there’s a cop in sight, there’s beer between my legs.
The cops roll away and one by one, hands reach under my skirt, between my feet and re-claim their beers. And Red Wolf wraps himself around my ankles singing some nonsense he’s made up about me. About the curls in my hair, the whiteness of my skin, my zodiac sign for chrissakes.
He lives here, in the park. He’s out of his mind.
and I think I love him.
I can never let him find out about Floyd.
he wouldn’t love me if he knew.
I’m careful not to run into Shortun.
or anyone else who knows what happened the night the Bon Soir closed...
he couldn’t love me if he knew.
dirtygirl wonders : How do you know the difference between romance, passion, obsession? C’mon, talk dirty to me
| << 1979 : 7th St. | 1979 : howlin’ wolf >> |
Posted August 12, 2009 at 11:32 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, love. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.
Romance is flowers, serenades and evidence that you’re important even when you aren’t there. If you’re given it-hope it lasts. Passion is dangerous, powerful and tiring if it lasts so long but worth it even then. Obsession is problematic if it can’t be controlled.
Juel –
The problem for me has always been, I can recognize obsession when I see it walking down the street, but god-damn if I ain't always giving it the keys to my house and my heart. Now that my mom is older, I can see that what I thought of as a marraige she was "trapped" in, was a mutual agreement. Being the object of obsession can be very intoxicating. I think, for some of us, when who've had nothing or felt invisible, just a little touch of romance is enough. But for those of us who've numbed ourselves out, as a method of survival, we can't even feel that gentle touch — but the overwhelming, all encompassing experience of obsession- that we can feel. That makes us feel whole, visible. Real.
These days, I'm not giving anyone the keys to my house and my heart is by invitation only.
thanks for writing and for reading
your own,
dirtygirl