PH. Poets House. In high school PH was short for Penance Hall, where pretty much everybody ended up at some point. I don’t remember what I did to deserve it but I seem to remember it was nothing, just an angry, insecure teacher trying to assert his dominance early in the school year. All I remember of PH was that we had to write out by hand some printed twext that was hopelessly boring and unenriching. They were determined to make this a waste of your time instead of a rehabilitative experience. As much as it felt like jail there was nothing corrective about the experience. You simply wasted time.
I don’t know why I came over here today. I was thinking of going out to Far ROckaway but it’s too damn cold and windy and only getting colder as the day progresses. Does a day really progress? For something to progress that means it is evolving, improving perhaps or simply moving forward. A day cannot really progress because it ends. A week can progress as days pass, and months progress as weeks pass. Oh who cares…
I took the 2/3 express to Chambers Street from TImes Square. Door to door I think I got here in 45 minutes, but the wind got really brutal as I approached this building. Nice and warm in here.
Id been working with a documentary film maker from whom I had not heard in probably 2 years. He finally resurfaced and it appears he’s done his homework regarding PRAY, the legendary scratchiti artist who, frankly, I was getting a little tired of talking about. He found the only known photo of the woman and took it around some old bars and restaurants, finding that a few people did in fact recognize her but no one knew anything about her. Her identity remains unknown, as does whether she had any family or even friends. I remember thinking it possible she got arrested for her vandalism and there’d be a record of that but it was made clear that anyone who brought an old lady into a precinct on those kind of charges would be laughed off of the police force.
As part of being in this documentary I was made to, once again, shuffle through old writings, writings by me, writings about me. I’m a pretty depressing/depressive dude. I’ve always known that, though I do not believe I was born this way. I don’t think I will watch this documentary or attend its opening, if there even is one. The last time I was on a big screen like that I nearly imploded from anxiety. It was far worse the last time I was on TV. The days leading up to that I thought I’d stop breathing. Now I have meds for that kind of thing.
A couple of days ago I felt very unwell. Dizzy, dehydrated but unwilling to drink water, I just went out and wandered until I felt better. Walking long distances over hill and dale is a true form of catharsis. Today I’m feeling fine, though the cold and wind was starting to get to me.
I think the filmmaker might have been surprised just how much has been written about my little website, and other things. He didn’t know it had been A1 front page of the Times. Still, as a demonstration of what a good researcher he is he found a lengthy writeup about PRAY on Reddit and, though it was not obvious, he detected that it was almost entirely plagiarized off of my site, which he had not yet discovered. A less-keen eye would have assumed the Reddit person wrote all of that on their own but there were clues.
I also found a Payphone Radio recording of the very moment I spotted PRAY in an UES payphone enclosure. It was while I was out mad at work on my Mr. Softee/LinkNYC nonsense, making it a summer of that as well as finding PRAY in such quantities that it became monotonous.
I almost reached out to the guy who first introduced me to PRAY back in 1991. He was store manager at the record store where I worked. He was cooperating with the filmmaker at first but then went radio silent. I assume he will make some contribution to the final film, which is another reason I don’t want to attend any opening night type of event if there’s a chance he would be there as well. It’s about the woman I spent much of 2024 with. He wanted her. I mean, he wanted her very, very badly. Of course all the men in her were like that. She is phenomenally beautiful. Anywhere we went there’d be catcalls and rude comments from asshole men. It was liie dating a supermodel, though she didn’t have those kind of looks. She had a rugged, smoky look, a perfect body, perfect frame, a perfect mix of white, Choctaw, and San Diego (I chuckle when I include San Diego as a descriptor for her appearance but somehow it makes sense to me).
I don’t know if that former store manager knows that she and I had a thing in 2024. But it wouldn’t surprise me. He was never at peace with the fact that she and I had a thing back in 1991. Jealousy is an ugliness but he had plenty of it, as did many of the other dudes who worked at that store and knew about us.
But you know, for all that beauty, which I find undeniable, I still find that I just don’t see it the way others do. I know too much of what goes on inside that beautiful head, behind that beautiful face, and there’s nothing pretty about it. Beauty like hers becomes like a sarcastic taunt. It means nothing, and it even turns against itself in making her look ugly as sin to me.
There was one night, though. It may have been the very last night we were together. She never got completely naked for me except for this one time. I was wearing nothing a shirt, and as she kep speaking I could not look away from that lithe, slender body that was her instrument throughout a 12-year dance career. The legs arched perfectly, the breasts that she suggested were too small were, in fact, perfect. In the darkness of the kitchen I finally could see her th wway others did, and my God she was heart-poundingly beautiful. She stopped talking whan she noticed my cock hardening. She whispered “GIve me that.” I walked over to her and she stroked it, repeating earlier comments about how goddam handsome she found it to be. FOr her to level any kind of compliment was very rare so I appreciated that from her. As the passion mounted we went back to the bed. I forget now how many times we had already had sex that day but it was a few.
I should get going. I go back to work tomorrow. Feels like I should have somewhere to go but I do not.