Friday: Venus Day
I turned up at the Phi Garden, my favorite place on earth, at 8pm. Roi Perez, the legendary DJ, was spinning early; this venue was known for its sunset parties, and I was known for having romantic awakenings here. Besides, my cousin Michael and his friends were coming.
Ryan and I recently talked about the peace found in limitation. He recently went to a small gay town, with two restaurants and two bars. For him, it was heaven. It’s similar in Tel Aviv. Though the nightlife here is slamming, the city is too small for that many gay events to go down on the same night. If you find yourself in the right spot, at the right time, you really are in the center of the universe.
But Pride changes all of that, and introduces too much choice into the equation. Tonight’s real event is PAG x GAZE, but it’s at Haoman 17, a space which I have never ever ever enjoyed, not since George W. Bush was president. It’s one of those arena clubs that fills up like a gas chamber; it’s hard to go off when you can’t find an exit. So I didn’t buy a ticket and I planned to stay at Gazoz. But I couldn’t help feeling that once again, I was between worlds, at the wrong destination, too early, too late, neither here nor there.
Inside, I saw Artium, an absolutely stacked Russian, who, on this same dance floor just last summer, was the Taye Diggs to my Angela Bassett, the agent of my sexual awakening. To be clear, my manic feelings for him lasted for about three days. He was no more than a sex idiot. But the point is: he’s a gorgeous sex idiot, and my one or two nights with him were enough to show me that someone like him could be mine. The memoir chapter about him has already been written. There’s a Google Doc.
The reunion, however, was not one for the annals. He regarded me as if I were his milkman, or his accountant. It was as if I had never left, and I don’t mean that in the good way. With my cousin in the room, I felt sexless and trapped in my head. On the last new moon, when I was at this venue, every song was an invitation; the woman DJ even played “Hung Up.” Not this time. I needed one song, one true bop, to liberate me, but it never came. There was no way out of myself. Saturn had finally caught up to me. The party, as it were, was over, and it was time to move on.
I texted Catherine: I can’t remember every feeling sexy! She said that the whole mandate about loving yourself first is a myth. Sometimes, we just need validation. I agreed: it’s a byproduct of individualism. In true a tribe, we would be seen, regarded and loved all the time. We wouldn’t have to work for it like this.
More dancing, kibbitzing, melting. I was out in the garden at midnight when little drops came down. Rain in Israel is as common as snow in Sunnydale, and so everyone ran in. There was a frantic excitement, and I chose to ride it. A new DJ was up, and her music gave me something to work with. The rain was enough: I knew I wasn’t going to another party, that I would have to get through it here. I got myself another drink, this time to honor Venus, to honor the moment, and to dance for the hell of it.
I’m doing Kat Hunt’s arc, and one of the questions she has me working on is: Why am I me? It’s taken me through my past, my shortcomings, my failures, my gifts. But tonight, it came down hard. Why am I me? Why must I play out these neurotic, tiresome operas when I could be dancing, or touching or kissing? Why can’t I just go to a party and do drugs and have a good time? Why must I run to the other side of the world to escape my life? Why do I shut down like a Victorian consumption patient in one moment, then wild out like a porn star the next? Why am I me?
I had just seen the new Spider-verse movie, and next week I’ll likely go see The Flash. My brother watched Everything Everywhere All At Once on the plane, and was raving to me. But I know the truth: there is no multiverse. There are other dimensions, sure — I’ve even been to a few — but there is no other timeline, no alternate you, no sliding door. This is it. This has to be enough.
Those experiences I had here, not so long ago, were so important to me, at the time, because they took me out of myself. My guides, and gods, had to show me what I was without the history and the identity. I could radiate and glow, as no more than a vessel.
But tonight, I was locked in myself for a reason. There may not be a breakthrough, or an ecstatic catharsis. I may just have to be OK with being here, with myself. And so, “me” is on the dance floor right now. “Me” is thinking too much again, and I don’t have to correct it right now. It’s not a problem: all this shit. It’s just me.
I fetched ice cream at Leggenda, scootered home and tucked myself in. I am relieved tonight, to go to bed as myself, not having had to kickstart a false ego death. I will not wake up shaken, enlivened, or reborn in the morning. I’ll be the same contiguous entity. I didn’t overdo it, or drive it past the point of no return. I let it stand. This is a new kind of freedom, or contract with myself. This may be the new way.