basic instructions before leaving earth
October 10, 2012
“In the end is my beginning,” were her last words, Mary Queen of Scots. I think of this more often than not. Today, now, I begin again with where I began two and a half years ago. An anniversary with myself, though I don’t know how it is but things happen for which there are no words, and this is why I write.
It was April, two thousand and ten. It was Exit Through the Gift Shop and a bottle of Bacardi poured into a movie theater cup. Sober I was no longer but I was strictly martinis and wine so after the movie, a quiet little bar somewhere on Rivington and…
a conversation that began without a beginning and into the deep end we dove and I was wet and maybe drowning and maybe I wasn’t, maybe it was just water up my nose and panic, always panic only I couldn’t panic because you. Only you, I didn’t know but I did and that made you nervous. It did. I did. Maybe I still do. You make me nervous, in the best possible way, like a vibration that I can feel across the ocean and, me, finally, I learn how to swim.
But that is now and this was then and this was six flights above the street and me sitting at the kitchen table and you saying to your brother, “She was all up in my head so I had to get out of there” and I am saying to myself, But you brought me with you?
No entiendo. Yea, or maybe I did.
And I was drunk until you passed the spliff and then I was drunk no more and suddenly I was ohh soo self conscious, listening to words spoken and words unsaid and not knowing, never knowing, still now no clue but I like it like this.
You bring me a book of photos, a book of paintings, and I feel something I cannot explain but it was excruciating. I didn’t know and I didn’t understand until I saw these paintings, this series, this girl who is me and me is she and how does it always happen like this. And I am looking at the artist and the artist is not you. The artist is LAST, Last Lasterson, and I am saying, Oh My God, how did you know?
But no one knows, not even me. This is why I write.
Paintings by Last Lasterson