Tags: contextatone

book

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there's a sense, when i speak, when i say "there's a story behind this", when i have to contextually consider every word i speak, as pause for thought reveals that i may find myself unattractive and too much of a ball of words and nerves to cart around or touch but i am nothing if not drooly and full of tar-fluff if i'm taken out of context...

...but everything is context and making everything fix contextually begins to weigh, sometimes...

we have michael thomas at the decatur library in feb at some point. i hadn't realized his book had hit and hit well until i saw the reception it's gotten in new york-which, granted, is less a random sampling than a further venture into "anyone can sell out a bathroom at pencilthinskirtdisco2000 in ny, but can you DANCE, sucka", but i'd started reading this book, which for *some reason* struck me in the same "i don't WANT to read this, but i feel as though i *have* to, not just for work but because it's wedging itself under some personal emotional door of mine" way that calvin baker's dominion did last year...and i picked it up while in maine over xmas w lucy and her family, and got maybe 50 pages in.

last night, i devoured close to 300 pages. it's fucking beautiful, a series of connected events in the life of a black man married to a white woman with mixed kids telling the truth about what it means to not. have. money. and. try. to. function. in. a. city. when, as a male, he feels the weight of every responsibility being hoisted upon him, and guilt at shirking any or asking for help because he's a male and therefore owes the world.

it's a tough book to read, because i want to scream at it and cry about it all at once, so much makes me SO fucking ANGRY but because, well, on my best behavior bits of this are *my* truth?




i had always put girls to sleep. it was a gift. whenever i was broke and hungry, i would go to a bar or a party, meet a girl, and listen to her talk about her parents, her job, her last or current boyfriend, about her dissatisfaction with her life, and her theories on how life could be different. i'd listen and that alone would be enough-a great act of heroism-to be invited home with them, where i would then talk about pretty much anything until they couldn't listen anymore. they'd drift off. in the morning i'd make breakfast and they'd look at me strangely, no longer a hero, just a symbol of their great dissatisfaction.

--michael thomas, man gone down