“Oh, my goodness: men! … Who are all these people?”
What’s going on here and where’s the Intro/Table of Contents?
On Wednesday, November 22, 2017, I would have missed a day that began with the annual fancy lawyer luncheon that I have gone to for many years now, where I realized that Everything As It Has Been is so over. I would have missed missing the Waldorf-Astoria, where it usually is, as much as walking into the lobby of this year’s location — the Grand Hyatt — home to some of my New York Memories. And then I would have missed jetting up to the Upper West Side and spending more time with my nieces and brother, and shooting back downtown to hook up with a friend I met at one of the Ethereal New York events last May, a few days before beginning this project. There were the Baths, of course, where I got to bump into the guy who was talking too loudly last July about litecoin (whom, you recall, I subsequently ran into at that blockchain thing in Mountain View), the Extraordinary Facial Bone Structure Guy, and everyone else who showed up because the Baths are totally fucking lit on Thanksgiving Eve. And ohhhhhh shit, let me tell you this: I really 100% without question would have missed hopping into a conversation with two hot Indian guys at sushi afterward, to ask whether they really believed U.S. equities were a better bet than crypto. The ensuing discussion — which eventually drifted us all over to a dive bar further down First Avenue and frankly got me kind of horny for almost two hours straight — feels like a highlight of the month so far. How astonishing that men who work in banking could be so receptive to a Revolution that, as they began to volunteer about 90 minutes in, could lead to sidelined governmental authorities, a borderless world, and advancements for human society overall. I probably would not have missed one of them asking — after he returned from having disappeared outside for a moment — whether I’d like any of the coke he had just purchased. That development seemed a little too stereotypical to be true. But, nevertheless, I still would have missed staring at his face as he offered because, even in that atrocious lighting, the beauty of his eyes transfixed me.
On Thursday, November 23, 2017, I would have missed futzing around the apartment for much of the day because it was a fucking holiday and that’s what holidays are fucking for, and that’s okay. Okay? I would have missed skipping the seven-years-later postscript that Kuhn wrote for The Structure of Scientific Revolutions — which serves as a reminder that it’s unwise to hope for too much too soon, and wise to quit when ahead. And, on that note, I would have missed taking some ether gains because the market is all omg srsly:
I very much would have missed Thanksgiving dinner in Brooklyn at the house of a family I have known from the Baths for quite a while now. I really am grateful for that place, and for the relationships that have formed with the people I’ve gotten close to there as time has wended mercilessly on. The walk to dinner through Fort Greene — where I don’t think I’ve been since apartment hunting once or twice probably two decades ago — was exquisite. I might want to live there if I were looking for a place all over again — but, I felt that way back then, too. Only difference is, I would’ve been talking about the dot com bubble instead of crypto: which of course I ended up doing. Anyway, the best part of the day was the subway ride out, even though it sucked, because this time I got to carry an older lady’s shopping cart thing up the stairs for her. The last two times I’ve been behind people carrying something heavy, I was too self-engrossed and pre-occupied, however, this time, for Thanksgiving, I was paying enough attention to help. Grace.
On Friday, November 25, 2017, I would have missed selling some ripples and being able to give back to the cryptocurrency community.
It really feels good to contribute to something that I am such a miniscule part of, for now I can feel less alone. While visiting my nieces in Long Island City, on the way back from a restaurant where we used to go when my brother lived in Queens (and where, of course, Piano Man came on the speakers overhead as we talked about crypto and the disintegration of governance in the United States), I would have missed passing a cute guy sitting on a church stoop who knew me from the Baths. I always love when I get to say, “Oh, my God — I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” I would have missed the hugs my nieces gave me throughout the night, and their Goodbye kisses. And I also would have missed people dancing in the Union Square subway station to beats from an underground musician because that phenomenon truly is One of The Best Things Ever.
And, lest I forget, at the Baths, I would have missed talking to a Beautiful Young Man With Long Hair.
On Saturday, November 25, 2017, I would have missed getting to spend the afternoon at the playground with the girls before they left back to the Midwest, browse The Strand and get some recommendations from a nice, handsome young man, and say an OMG-Hello-! to the poet Czeslaw Milosz that already felt like a Goodbye-I-Cannot-Whisper:
At the Baths — where I almost didn’t go because I was so steeped in poetry all evening — were the men. I would have missed the Extraordinary Facial Bone Structure Guy, who, it turns out, has likewise been reading Milosz (of course) and talking together all the way from the Turkish Room to the Russian Room, where we started up about Wittgenstein and the house he planned and built for his sister. I mentioned Thomas Bernhard’s Corrections (inspired by Wittgenstein’s design process) and how it had affected me so deeply when I was 16 — at which point another handsome young man — this one an architect and woodworker, and more elfish than anyone I’ve ever met — piped in with another book inspired by the Wittgenstein’s relentlessness. We wound our way into talking about Proust — the Elfish Architect remembers the music scene in Swann In Love, too, though his memory seems to represent another angle from mine. Then the Beautiful Young Man With Long Hair showed up and it turns out he’s kind of famous and we just talked and talked — mostly about how being open and transparent in life leads to dissolution of vulnerability — and, you know, my friend who housesat for me in LA said later (after catching the tail end of the conversation) that there was chemistry between us, me and the Beautiful Young Man With Long Hair, I mean — but putting aside that I am old enough to be his mother, albeit just barely, really I think what was going on was just this wondrous communion of two human hearts. I would have missed bidding him farewell with a smile instead of my last name, so that the seed we planted may yet enjoy enough mystery to grow into.
On Sunday, November 26, 2017, I would have missed a dance class that left me twitching with euphoria. I thanked the teacher afterward, and he commented that I “inhabit [my] body.” That observation means so much to me because, as I confessed in To Whom I Could Have Been, I left my physical being when I was seven, and did not return until a couple of years ago. Wow. Here in the present, after I returned to my apartment, I’d have missed my response to the guy huddled beneath the staircase out front, where I believe he was probably shooting up: “Are you okay?” I simply am not sure whether my instincts would have gone to compassion — without fear — before I started this project. He seemed nice and was very respectful to me — which I would have missed far more than my own self-satisfying politeness. Shortly thereafter, I would have missed heading up to my old stomping grounds for a play produced by The New Group, where I did my first full-fledged theater internship 22 years ago, when I was 18, and subsequently worked full-time two years later. I would have missed hugging Scott (the director) and his partner — and seeing Chloe Sevigny perform a role that she frankly seemed kind of made for, and thinking back on her first stage appearance, in a New Group play that I helped produce. A year or two before that production, there was the playwright Seth Zvi Rosenfeld’s (first ever?) show, which I house managed — I was only 19 or so for that one! A twisted but frisky part of me would have missed the walk back down 42nd Street to Port Authority a/k/a Memory Lane Undergoing a Constant Remodel. And who among us wouldn’t have missed bitcoin flirting with $10K, an exciting event for which I made a meme:
On Monday, November 27, 2017, I would have missed publishing my exposé Judges Run Amok: A Defense Lawyer’s Story of Corruption and Manipulation in the U.S. Criminal Justice System. The piece — which will probably spell the end of my career — is, in conjunction with my letter to Judges Lohier and Cardone, what I would most like to remember about the efforts I’ve expended to defend the Constitution. I would miss having given this closing phase of things my very all. Sigh. On a quiet night at the Baths — when initially I almost turned away because the cold plunge was out of commission for maintenance — I would have missed that Tall Guy From Staten Island, whom I’ve spoken to for years even though I don’t think we’ve ever introduced ourselves by name, mention that something I said a while back about working less — even if it’s just a mindset — has stuck with him and impacted how he approaches his life. I always look for inspiration from others, yet I always forget that I just might offer what I seek.
On November 29, 2017, in the Steam Room at the Baths, I immediately responded to a guy slipping by reaching out and asking if he was okay. Before this project, I believe my instinct would have been to pull away. Shortly thereafter, in the Russian Room, the shoulder of a guy sitting next to me grazed my own. The sensation of his skin on mine — twice — flowed through my body. I had forgotten the feeling of a man’s accidental touch, and what it can do to me inside. At home, I called Jimmy and we talked about $10,000 bitcoin and my Judges Run Amok project — which, I want to remind myself, is probably the most important work I’ll ever get to do. His voice — oh, the sound of a man’s voice sometimes, the emotions that the deepness stirs, enfolding all my insecurities with comfort and reassurance, like a warm cave where everything is safe! — encircled me. I would miss these experiences, even if they are as close as I’ll ever come.
On Wednesday, November 29, 2017, I would have missed venturing into the crypto markets — just to check! — during POV=P time, and thereby reminding myself how goddamn important and precious POV=P time really is. I ought to appreciate how sacred that portion of the day must remain for everything else that follows to stay on track — an ongoing process of learning that constitutes life on this earth, which I would have missed. I think I also would have missed working all day — despite the frazzle I orbited from having gone off into the deep end for much of the morning — because it feels good to contribute to things outside of myself. There was a call with a potential client, and the feeling of connection over the energy that catalyzes every crypto discussion I get into, and tinkering away on things right up to when I went to the Baths at 7:30 p.m. Sometimes it’s good to be busy. Once at the Baths, I’d have missed another conversation in the Dry Sauna about Sex in America Today, during which we all agreed — male and female alike — that things have spiraled out of control. Way far down inside, there is still this thing where I want the man to be aggressive and often take me right up to the line — but I mean right up to the line, and not a millimeter beyond — while somehow knowing instinctively at which point to stop and hold, because that’s where a sweet spot in the heat of desire lies.
On Thursday, November 30, 2017, I would have missed this observation from F. A. Hayek in The Road to Serfdom: “As soon as the particular effects are foreseen at the time a law is made, it ceases to be a mere instrument to be used by the people and becomes instead an instrument used by the lawgiver upon the people and for his ends.” — followed by yet another day when I thought nothing was going to happen, but then majesty unfolded. I can honestly say I would have missed doing some discovery review on a case because I experienced breakthroughs, and, again, working can feel good — and I also would have missed talking with Sonali Kolhatkar (on her KPFK-Pacifica show Rising Up) about trying to help restore the Constitution with the Judges Run Amok project. On the way to Homeland Security, I would have missed dashing into a gallery near the High Line that featured the coolest furniture I’ve ever seen, created by Misha Kahn:
And also a startlingly calm sculpture series by John Mason:
Subsequently, on my way to the big law firm Debevoise and Plimpton, I would have missed a jazz musician who caught my eye in the Grand Central subway station:
And a middle-of-the-block shortcut I’d never taken before, even in all these years:
Finally, during Judge John Gleeson’s talk on federal sentencing alternatives, I would have missed remembering why I do the work I do in the first place, and how much fighting for the Constitution matters.
On Friday, December 1, 2017, I would have missed this cellist smiling, in the instant he finished a piece as the subway back to Manhattan arrived: “Yes — ‘Prelude,’” in response to my question: “Bach?”
On Saturday, December 2, 2017, it was Yet Again with the Handsome, Incredible Young Men. On my flight to LA, I would have missed a two- or three-hour conversation with a 20-something from Cleveland, Ohio, in which I learned about his experiences as a photographer in Ethiopia, living as a gay guy in Charlotte, North Carolina (with a straight male roommate who’s a best bud), and his current digital media work and the woodshop he built in his garage. I would have missed his interest in the Constitutional restoration work I’m trying to do with the Judges Run Amok exposé, this project (which he believes should be a book — “I’d like to read it,” he said), and how much it fucking sucks to date as a transgender person (“That would break me,” he responded, when I told him what happens upon disclosure over and over and over again). I would thus have missed the hopeful reminder that, notwithstanding the Cold Civil War that the United States has entered into beyond the point of no return, we may still emerge as one. In my Uber later on, I would have missed riding over the Fast Track 105–110 interchange and exclaiming to the cute driver whose very masculine voice I wanted to keep talking forever, “Oh my God! This is where they shot the first scene in La La Land!” — to which he looked back at me through the rearview mirror and smiled.
On Sunday, December 3, 2017, I would have missed battling with Google to reach my personal and professional distribution list with this e-mail:
Everyone:
This past week I went public with Judges Run Amok: A Defense Lawyer’s Story of Corruption and Manipulation in the U.S. Criminal Justice System. You can watch my interview about being a whistleblower — and standing up to retaliation and abuse of power — on Rising Up with Sonali Kolhatkar for KPFK-Pacifica here.
Under our outdated system of court-appointed criminal defense, judges wield control over the defense function in all indigent cases — which comprise almost 90% of the total criminal prosecutions in federal court overall. This conflict of interest has led to an erosion of independence for defense lawyers that will shock you. Just this year, for example, the judiciary failed to secure $1.9 million in Congressional appropriations needed to bring the defense closer to funding levels previously authorized back in the 1980s — while judges obtained an additional $133 million for judicial salaries and expenses out of the same pot.
One casualty of this breakdown in governance is, of course, advocacy that we depend on to protect Constitutional rights for every American. Surely we can all agree that Executive and Legislative influence over the Judicial Branch must always find its counterbalance in the precious Sixth Amendment right to independent counsel that our country’s Founders envisioned.
So… please feel free to share this e-mail or the links above with at least two or three people in your life — and preferably more — asking them to do the same. As Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. observed: “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
Thank you so much to anyone who has already “clapped” for my piece on Medium, drawn attention to the issues via e-mail and social media, or written to me with your support.
With appreciation,
Zoe
At first I removed “exposing” (the story) and “blowing” (the whistle), since I’ve had experiences in the past where a word that Gmail interpreted as sexual ended up in a blockade. No dice. It was only after I removed “Trump” and some links to New York Times pieces — about what’s going on with the federal judiciary falling under Executive Branch control — that I was able to get the message out. And even then I only made it to about 40% of my list before I was shut down once more. Now I’m locked out of sending e-mails altogether for an unspecified period of time between 1–24 hours! I’ve tried a few times, with no success. And thus it begins.
OMG OMG OMG, on Monday, December 4, 2017, I would have missed finally setting up my crypto wallet situations and actualizing full possession of various coins. I am now my own bank with respect to those funds. I did not completely trust myself with wallets and stuff before, tbh, but now I am getting the hang of it. How fucking astonishing. When I saw the funds safe, I felt like I was floating on air. I also became more convinced than ever that this direction is where we’re headed for the future: I would miss experiencing this new (for me) level of the Revolution I’ve been participating in. Wow. Back in the dull and washed out greys of our present-day reality, I would have missed the sensation of being on top of what was happening in a courtroom facing a petulant human being who is a miserable excuse of a federal judge — pitiable creature — and the nice Los Angeles weather outside the courthouse. At the Club, I’d have missed grabbing a spot in a decorative chair that no one ever sits in, so I could listen unseen to the choral practice in the sitting room nearby.
On Tuesday, December 5, 2017, I would have missed the Monero I picked up a few days ago — by accident, really, since I meant to buy just a tad and instead bought a lot (for me) and kept it, because, oh, what the hell! — spike into outer space on news that Mariah Carey and others are going to be selling albums for XMR this month or whatevs. I would have missed calling Mom to wish her the best for her trip to see the nieces and ending up in a subsequent conversation with Dad about “bitcom” that culminated in liquid democracy and the Revolution. I would really, really, really have missed my first full day in possession of my own coins, master of my own destiny. Master sounds better than mistress — YMMV but IDC.
On Wednesday, December 6, 2017, I would have missed a day that began with a run through the park across the street from my house in Los Angeles and wound to a close in my bed here in New York, which still gives me the best sleep of anywhere I’ve ever been in the world, I think. I really do appreciate the experience of flying across swaths of this earth every so often, and of being reminded that everything moves along without relent when I’m not there — which, in turn, helps me remember my little place in the world. Still, I marvel at how there’s this spot over here — and another over there — which are considered “mine” — and in these spaces dwell my memories and I. It should go without saying how much I would also have missed Yet Another Round in the Handsome Young Man Experience — this time with the guy at the airport parking who literally came out and opened my car door to greet me. We talked about what it was like growing up in the 1980s and 1990s — he was born the year after I graduated high school, omg — and everything from the reverse migration between suburbs and inner cities to dot matrix printers to when I snuck out and met my best friend at a specific point in between our houses across town after everyone had gone to bed (so we could make our way over to another friend’s house and watch David Letterman) when we were 12 years old… all without cell phones.
On Thursday, December 7, 2017, I would have missed children gathering around an artist as he created a chalk drawing of the Delancey Street subway station — in all its multicolored tile glory. I used to sit on stoops and sidewalks and whatever, much as he was sitting on the concrete floor with his back against the wall, jotting down notes for plays and screenplays and stories and novels and ideas to think about and develop — around the same age as I suspect he must have been. The early 20s are such an exquisite time to be in New York and full of life. I feel full of life now also though — Jesus Fucking Christ I would miss everything that being here on this earth breathes into me on a daily basis, even when the air is ridden with toxins or foul and wretched spite. I also would have missed — omg I nearly forgot — not one but two massages from men in the Dry Sauna at the Baths, randomly, yet only like five minutes apart. The first was from the guy who hugged me on July 9 — you remember that one — and the second was from a Really Tall Dude with wonderful hands who followed me down the crypto rabbit hole a few months ago and seems to be having a good time down here. And, oh yes, I would have missed — as would have we all — bitcoin spiking to $19K (I swear I saw that price on GDAX for a split second) before crashing Coinbase and plummeting to $13.5K or whatever, and then rebounding back to $16K or something. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee.
On Friday, December 8, 2017, I would have missed some graffiti I took a picture of before but forgot to include for my 12/7 entry. I would not have seen it if I had not chosen a different route to the subway than the one I usually take — a reminder to shake shit up whenever possible.
At the Baths I would have missed seeing a bunch of my friends and men, men men!!! So many men have been springing up in my life rn, it’s wonderful to behold. The Beautiful Young Man With Long Hair. A crypto friend (whose wife I’m also close to) who gave me a hug as if he somehow knew I needed it. Several other regulars. The guys at the front desk. The waiters at my regular Japanese spot afterward. Smiles all around. And warmth. As soon as I got home, I would have missed tweeting: “Tonight a man put his hand on my knee during a conversation and I didn’t notice, really, because it seemed so natural. He suddenly withdrew and apologized and asked if physical contact was okay. I understand — but I fear the social correction has already gone too far.” The irony is hardly lost on me here, for, earlier in the day, I would have missed — just as much as I would not have missed — a national headline about sexual harassment allegations concerning a male who once wrote something sexually-oriented to me that made me feel… uncomfortable? strange? I don’t fucking know how it made me feel. The news somehow triggered a memory of the sexual abuse from a teacher I survived at age seven that I’ve been trying to get to for years now. It’s as if the recollection lay locked in an encrypted block — and suddenly it broke apart and everything inside overcame me. I would have missed walking through the park as the experience unfolded, as movement somehow helped the process occur, as my emotions dislodged and greased the wheels that churned to let it all out. I would have missed feeling better afterward, even if it took a few hours, grateful for the support — though they may not have even known — from human beings I’ve grown to love… all these men.
On Saturday, December 9, 2017, I would have missed an evening to treasure. The neighborhood park sparkled aglint from streetlights that have lit my way for the last 22 years, and, uptown, the Met, rearing up into the snow-speckled sky, made my heart skip a beat. In the lobby bustling with a human colony of dancing minds, I would have missed hugging the Extraordinary Facial Bone Structure Guy, and, shortly thereafter, whispering with him about David Hockney’s stuff. I would have missed sneaking away for a sec and catching an overhead light shining through the eye of an Isamu Noguchi sculpture. And — OMFG — I would have missed being overwhelmed by Michelangelo and the magnitude of beauty intertwining with power and the savage gentleness of human form. After dinner in a restaurant hidden away in an upstairs corner of the Upper East Side, I would have missed a subway ride back downtown with the Elfish Architect, all bursting ’n’ shit with electricity over the appreciation we share for passages from Swann In Love. Any Proust lover is a lover of mine. The comely elf expressed astonishment that a gay man could write love for a woman with such perfection — until I rejoindered that, as someone who has experienced love affairs with both gay and straight men, I was there to tell him that all love is the same.
On Sunday, December 10, 2017, I would have missed, leaned up against some trash cans on my way home from the gym — because I guess the infinite permutations of our world are so perfectly orchestrated — a poster for the David Hockney retrospective at the Met… from 1988.
Ironically, I would not have noticed it but for the snow leftover from the day before, the frozen slippery remnants of which kept me on this building-side-of-the-street instead of the unsalted park-side-of-the-street, which I usually walk down now that this project has taught me to stray toward the light.
On Monday, December 11, 2017, I would have missed a reminder that every day is the last day for something, somewhere:
On Tuesday, December 12, 2017, I would have missed walking down Houston Street and wondering why the hell these suitcases were chained to a street sign.
On the way to court, I would have missed a dog lie down in the middle of the street and look coyly up at her master, who — as I laughed — said something it sounded like he’d said to many a stranger before: “She’s very manipulative.” At lunchtime I’d have missed a woman let an older gentleman know his zipper was down, as we all crossed paths in a Downtown Brooklyn intersection. Moments later, on the way home, three young children danced on pin lights shining onto the sidewalk in front of a local corner store and exchanged smiles with their father. At the Baths, I arrived simultaneously with the Extraordinary Facial Bone Structure Guy and we ascended the stairs together, which was very pleasant. Thank fucking God: Alabama found itself restored to dignity — albeit barely — with its special U.S. Senate race.
On Wednesday, December 13, 2017, I would have missed having been in the right body for exactly twelve years, and picking up over 10,000 XEM so that I might be able to harvest blocks on the NEM network one day. At the Baths, I would have missed a hug and a kiss from the Gorgeous Iron Man Guy with whom I’ve felt a connection for many years now. I would have missed him calling me “baby girl” as he leaned down to embrace me Goodnight — and getting to keep the secret of how it feels like being struck by lightning every time a man does something so casually normal as that gesture with me. And to think the day began with one of my favorite pieces of street art, which I always love seeing on the way to court in Brooklyn:
On Thursday, December 14, 2017, I would have missed awakening, directly from a dream, in laughter. I also would have missed a snowy start to a morning in which, nevertheless, she persisted:
On Friday, December 15, 2017, I would have missed a defense colleague messaging me to say he’d heard I’d just “done well” in a summation. It meant a lot especially because he was told so by a prosecutor who had come to watch oral argument. I did not achieve a full acquittal on this one, however, I would have missed obtaining not guilty verdicts as to four of the eight counts — in what everyone had assumed was a totally unwinnable case. I would miss taking pride in my work. On the way home, I managed to slip into a cab during a snowstorm that was threatening to do my toes in with frostbite as I trudged back from the subway through the icy slush wearing my Vibram minimal five-toe shoes! Bloody hell I’d have missed talking to a finance friend at the Baths about crypto — which he says his industry is indeed taking seriously now — and going to bed knowing that I gave it my all this week.
On Saturday, December 16, 2017, I would have missed what — at least for the moment — appears to have been a luckily timed move from ether into three other next-generation alts, and the afternoon nap that I was waiting for all week. And then I would have missed returning to the Met with the Extraordinary Facial Bone Structure Guy, in an attempt to absorb more subconscious from Michelangelo and contemporaries.
Fuck yeah: I got to catch some of my favorite Rodins on the way out.
On Sunday, December 17, 2017, I would have missed the startling joy of nearly bumping into a federal prosecutor on the dancefloor at 5Rythms. How enlivening that, even now, the DOJ may be staffed by people with a few surprises up their sleeves; I can never be reminded often enough that everyone in any human system is as human as anyone else. I would have missed ambling home from dance class with a crypto friend — the very one who introduced me to dance in the first place when we met at the Baths several years ago — and hearing about his project and disappointments and dreams and progress and hope. There is nothing in this world quite like walking next to a man. Anyway, I am not sure what I would have done had I missed one of the most breathtaking works of art on stage that I have ever seen — and the tears it brought streaming down my cheeks: Hundred Days at New York Theater Workshop.
Oh, my goodness: men! On Monday, December 18, 2017, I would have missed a smile of recognition from an editor at BuzzFeed whom I’ve been in touch with over the past couple of years, and his grasp as we shook hands. I love running into people on the street in Manhattan. Not 30 minutes later I would have missed emerging into Grand Central Station on my way to visit the New York Public Library, and, upon discovering that I’d fucked up the hours of operation, saying, Oh, hell, I’ll just walk downtown and take in the season.
At the Baths, I would have missed encouragement to continue this project from that nice New Yorker writer — who engaged me with question after question for half an hour — and the sense of purpose his interest imbued in me. I love being reminded how going topless leapfrogs my conversations with guys right to the heart of things — almost as much as I love all these glorious males I get to count as friends.
On Tuesday, December 19, 2017, I would have missed visiting the New York Public Library on 42nd Street for, I think, only the second time ever — to think about what I might do for the next phase of my life.
What I decided was to reaffirm my commitment to seeing out this project and then remaining open to whatever may happen next — for better, or for worse. Oh dear, I would be remiss if I neglected to mention that I also would have missed ending up in Spike Jonze and Eddy Moretti’s office at Vice.
And to think it all started out on what was supposed to be a nothing day, as I happened to take a route to the subway that involved traversing a block where I once made out — pressed up against the brick wall — with a tall, dark and handsome man, kissing him and being kissed so hard that a passerby exclaimed, “Get a room!” Oh, I can’t believe I almost forgot: in the Union Square station, I’d have missed a man say, “I’m sorry, that was my bag, not my hand.” I myself hadn’t even registered the touch — but I did notice, in that instant, how far we’ve come in male-female relations during this never-ending split second that has been 2017.
On Wednesday, December 20, 2017, I would have missed okay here goes. (1) Insight into why I feel like an alien, since — according to Matt Ridley’s The Red Queen — I apparently lack a fundamental characteristic of being human:
(2) The windows at Bergdorf:
(3) A touch of Old New York and Magical Midtown:
(4) Oh my God, just, you know, colors everywhere:
(5) Two men’s chests pressing up against mine — the feeling of their nipples on mine, as one hugged me Hello and another Goodbye, fuckin’ omg — at the Baths. And, (6) Those eel-avocado and smoked salmon rolls with ponzu sauce at my sushi spot — it is as though happiness and appreciation for life make food taste better.
On Thursday, December 21, 2017, I would have missed grappling with Matt Ridley’s The Red Queen and pissing myself off for much of the day. I think it’s important to face how, even now that I feel so much livelier and more confident, the desire for intimacy remains, and I would very much like to start going to bed with men again from time to time. I love being stronger. I love being independent. I love being the person I always wanted to be, and to become. But I would miss the drive to break out of my shell, to connect with another human being, to feel the utter sensation of a man as his arms envelop me and his breath on my skin gives me goosebumps. I would miss imagining his lips and hands and dick and balls and legs and feet and ass and back and hair and face and everything else I would want to rub my hands on. I would miss what keeps me human. Fuck Matt Ridley for stirring up all my previous nightmares of inadequacy and evolutionary strictures in sex and love and the Machiavellian brutality of relationships and all that bullshit — fuck him indeed. A guy at the Baths who seems to know me — I still have no idea when I met him or what we ever talked about, if anything — remarked that I seem so buoyant and cheerful. Who needs dying inside — fuck that, too — I like being in the driver’s seat of my soul. Also, whoa: I reached 1,000 followers on Twitter. Who are all these people?
If this project speaks to you, please feel free to donate in crypto. Thank you for reading.