i worry. i worry that i consume too much/not food—well, maybe a little worry there/but that i consume too many objects/paintings/pottery/plants. i worry that i worry about this. once m. & i had dinner at an architect’s house/new friend (for about 5 minutes in gay time) his abode was stunning/stunningly empty & every object was spotlit/sparse/solitaire. he takes me by the hand to show me his glass collection (both pieces, okay maybe there were 5, i don’t remember how many exactly [something else to worry about] all were exquisitely displayed,) but completely drained of personality which made worry about what kind of person lived here or could live here (his house—i wouldn’t have called it a home) what should’ve worried me, but didn’t at the time, was that he had taken me by the hand—as i later find out, was a ‘move’ on his part, i totally missed the signals when they should’ve been obvious since there was nothing in his house to distract me from paying attention to minor gay details such as hand-holding by the host, he may’ve even patted my hand or stroked my wrist—i was trying so hard (because i worry) to be the gracious guest and ooh & aah over every little detail/how little detail there was too ooh & aah over made me worry that i was being a tad over solicitous — was i sending smoke signals when there was no fire/misread? no, no, all him, not me, m. assured me after we left & i had expressed my worry to him. of course, m. said to me ‘i could not live like that.’ so i still worry that i consume too much/& what it might say about me/i don’t want it taking over my life, but i worry that it might be too late/that i’ve/we’ve taken that final exit into spinster aunt-hood, for christ’s sake there’s a crocheted doily under the fucking cherry pie pot/carrier which a friend gave us (fitz & floyd how i love you) and we’ve never used, but love anyway.
i worry. i worry that being gay is going to be more difficult than it already is. i worry that we won’t ever have equal rights. i worry that my neighbors denied me equal rights. i worry that m. will die before me (true that.) i worry that i’ll be all alone in socal, which i loathe (except for its beauty.) i worry that i’ll lose my job. i worry that people won’t buy art anymore, because everything is free on the internet & copyright will be a thing of the past & the elderly (me) will say ‘why, i had to negotiate the copyright agreements when i was your age & it didn’t stop me from enjoying life’/in the similar vein that ‘i walked 7 miles to school,’ shit your parents/parent/parent’s parents dished out in the last century to your parents/me (except i think my mother did have to walk a long way to school in the miserable wyoming winters with only newspaper to wrap her feet in so they wouldn’t freeze/frostbite still a worry in that ‘great depression.’) i worry that i worry. and then i don’t for some time/maybe hours/minutes/seconds/days/weeks/months (that’s not true, months that is) because something/someone/some object/painting/pot/plant/animal/friend/lover/neighbor/boss/associate/blog (multiple ones)/tumblr takes my mind off my worries. thank you, i’m better now, maybe even a little corner of my lips turned up in a smile-kind-of-better, however briefly, before the next worry creeps up behind me on little cat’s paws and covers my eyes & says ‘guess who?’