clashes in the stacks

So I'm in NYC on a medieval manuscript conference (associated with the New York Public library's "Splendor of the Word" http://nypl.org/research/calendar/exhib/hssl/hsslexhibdesc.cfm?id=354 ). I'm meeting bigwigs in the manuscript world, understanding now more than ever that my boss is one of them, noting the oddities of professional researchers, scratching the veneer off the moneyed elite (collectors) and wishing I could be with Rick in Sarasota, drinking coffee and being slow.

The dynamics of working for a millionare in NYC, during these veritable feast days of viewing, talking, schmoozing, oo-ing, ah-ing, nodding, lying are exhausting. Money is so strange. And money wrapped up in work politics, paternal/maternal undercurrents, and disparities in knowledge/history/language is even more strange. exhausting. emotional. it makes me emotional.

what did rick and i talk about tonight? the ego. feeling the coarse brush-up of familiarity and distance, a strange passing that feels like gentle grating. slow enough to not wince, but accumulative nevertheless. shredded skin and memories on the floor. my self left far behind as i recall those tumultuous aclu days during which i exposed my soft spots in what i thought was bracing for safety. i'm aware this doesn't follow a neat narrative. think of this as words collected rather than sentences formed.

i'm tired, too impatient for something online, wishing i were sleepy enough for bed, responsible enough for dishes, or bold enough for pen to page.

divulgence

(context) As these currents of doubt and memory course through me, I grow deaf and dumb in front of this beauty. Scared, anxious, sick with the smooth bile of insecurity, I am a fool to let this get so far with so little.

In chemical (imaginary) terms, I am chaotic, an unstable mixture of substances that have been too long boiling. And maybe I think these substances should not have intermingled so early and carelessly (trauma). And maybe I worry about their release (orgasm). Sex to me means no control. No "I" in the act. And what's present in my mind is that sex has two eyes (I's) who contribute and give and receive. I am scared to lose myself -- loose -- and I am scared what does or does not happen will absorb all that I am (was). So all I will be after is what let out, what got splayed then sprayed, and washed away. What remnants are strewn on my lover or I, patchwork juices that don't even crochet a blanket of personality. And what can I give -- ? Someone whom I find so beautiful, so amazing -- someone whom I want to glorify with pleasure?

I want to send this to -- (get it out). Out. It's like any minute I will boil over, pour out. And any minute is either a boiling over or a flood from an incision. This imagery never lets up. Where are the tides? Would it help to find, and mark my life by, tides? Mystery. Misery. Hope.