[It's some months since I showed up at meetings of the University writing group; most of my classes and seminars this semester have ended at 1 p.m., and then of course people have questions, etc.; so crossing the University to be fifteen or twenty minutes late for a meeting that last less than an hour seemed a bit silly. But although it was already quarter after when I left my office I felt that I wanted to connect with them...
Only one other member was there today, a low turnout; but a favorite person, a remarkably pleasant woman I've bumped into several times in town, someone who spends a great deal of time on recycling projects related to the city. She told me she, too, had been having some kind of stress/neural problems over the past few months, with no definite diagnosis yet but possibly related to a light stroke; it was clearly worrying her. We talked about it for a while, and I agreed with her sister, who really wants her to get some attention from the doctors....
Although there was just half an hour left, we thought: what the heck, we'll write something anyway. Her exercise, which she'd thought of on the way over: write down as many emotional responses as you can think of. Then: think of a phobia and write about it, using these emotions. I was a bit surprised at the voice and tone of mine... was wondering if it could relate at all to reading so Bolaño's Nazi Literature in the Americas, a witty but definitely disturbed book. But then Bolaño's writing always seems rather disturbed, slightly psychotic, even when it's very good.]
I hate fags.
I mean I really, really hate 'em.
There was this guy, he was at the station – I don't know him. I didn't know him –
no idea, really. Just some kind of –
Anyway. Short hair, tattoos, the whole nine yards: ripped jeans like they do, it's disgusting.
I wasn't going to – I mean he just looked so disgusting, so –
but he did keep looking at me, the way they do. I was furious, didn't look at him – they act like you're leading them on then –
and I could see him starting at me, it's so, well. And the train didn't come and didn't come and didn't –
I look straight at him, furious, challenging him to, whatever. He didn't get it, of course, they never do, every time the same –
I mean I see these guys, they're complete, you know. Perverts, that's – and they just go around like that, even the goddamned police in those uniforms, they don't do a thing.
What I don't get is why they look at me, every time, it's like they don't know how much I hate –
like that guy last week, wanted to hit him so hard, break that white skin, that pretty face. They just don't get it do they –
and while I'm standing there, going to do something about it, going to smash his face into the wall, see how he likes that, the –
and this girl comes up, she's got this big nose ring, and tats too and they say hi and they kiss. Right there in front of everybody.
Like I don't know what's really going on, what fakes, you could tell.
And they walk away together, like nothin' happened, they just walk they didn't do anything.
What a fag, him and his –
I hate 'em. I really do, I –
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