A week ago I was in Montreal. I was there for a few days and spent them with a lot of people. But at first it was just me and a lovely boy who I kiss often on stage but never in life.
I’m able to romanticize anything, I think. Even a dorm room with tile floor and that looks from the outside like a janitors closet.
Also the women’s bathroom had a tub. I didn’t use it but I appreciated having the option.
When dealing with a long expanse of time in my own company, I often notice, over and over, that I’m gritting my teeth; my jaw locked as if awaiting an impact.
Unsettled, I relax my face and fall back into whatever train of thought I had been so intently following before. Usually it’s speculating as to which part of the story I am in at that particular moment. Or how rewarding it would be to be friends with a bear.
It should come as no surprise that there is a significant difference between a rascal and a scoundrel. And yet, my friend, you’re always so confused by the outcome; by the man in the morning.
The difference is the illusion not the act.
A scoundrel will assume that his only ticket is to convince you that you’re treasured. This is a ticket but not the only one. A rascal will look you in the eye, will tell you that you’re interesting, certainly, but in a very specific way at a very specific moment and that is that. When a scoundrel is looking you in the eye he is playing a trick. With a rascal, you’ll get a kind of antagonism in which you are a worthy opponent. He doesn’t suffer fools even for an evening.
Neither love you. Both could someday maybe. But neither do right now. The difference is that a rascal will never tell you that he does to get you in the sack. He expects you not to be a moron.
They’ll both cause you trouble. But a rascal will do it with a smile and a shrug and a scoundrel will do it with a sigh and sad eyes and make like it had to be done. Like it was a matter of the heart.
They both can be found riding motorcycles but the rascal got his cause he wanted one, always has. The scoundrel bought his with unsampled pussy in his eyes.
Men who play the acoustic guitars while people drink in pubs are almost always scoundrels. I won’t even apologize for generalizing.
They both want the same thing from you, make no mistake. But one makes you feel deliriously free because of the rough honesty of the thing and the other leaves you sour.
Only one sends you to your friends pleading for advice. Because with the other you know exactly where you stand, and it’s somewhere dangerous and sexy and that you chose.
We’ll all have scoundrels yet. Partially because they outnumber rascals by a depressing margin and partially because we are fools.
But to know the difference feels like wisdom. Or something like that.
To girls who share too readily, this lady is considered the Patron Saint of Secrecy.
And smoking.
Just a dim sum starlet in dollar store glasses.
In my mother’s sun hat at my mother’s home, I spent some time with Patti and Robert.
Found:
Imelda, Roncesvalles, Toronto.
I bought these in an anxiety trance. Final sale. Thank god I’m very much in love with them. And don’t mind being a little taller than normal.
When you’re still on the subway that I’ve just left, I grab your eyes though the glass. I keep them for as long as the moving train will let me. You could take them back but it’s so much better if you don’t. I’ve practiced this smile. A woman with a secret. It’s a dare, I suppose. To keep looking. It’s nothing really. I only do it because I know you’re leaving without me.
You see, I want to feel dangerous but I need to feel safe.
Found:
Common Sort, Queen West, Toronto.
In this delicate sheer blouse with its embroidered high neck, I have been called a nun and a harlot all in the same day.
He mentions, as we watch his kids play, that he’s from Essex County. He’s young like me so I ask if he’s read the graphic novel.
He laughs and so does the room.
I had asked a very very silly question.
You fool, their eyes seemed to say. When a man is a father and owns a tractor and a boat and a house and worships the gods of stability and likes everyday to be a certain way, you don’t ask him about a graphic novel. Or any novel. Or anything at all.
You just let him call you frivolous and then you take a long sip from the brown bottle he handed you when you asked for a drink.
