I Was a Teenage Sketchbook

The sensual, the surreal, the beauty we overlook on a daily basis, the dark urges, the exotic escapes; words and images by American artist, John Goss.

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John Goss was born in Santa Cindy and was raised and lives in Asia/Pacific. Learn more about John at Siamorama

Friday, June 30, 2006

Nocturnal Emissions

Hi, I read your letters again last night, thin scent of you stuck to my fingers now. Sweet, you guiding me to memories. I'm still shaking sand from my socks on this beach where I've spent a little lifetime since you left working on stories that were quite mean and dishonest until your letters of love knocked them into focus so fast that I'm sending you this valentine.

How is the city of sex anytime, Heaven? There aren't many men in my life right now. Spend my time off chasing ghosts that haunt the toilets and parks, walking everywhere (which only the poor do in L.A.). I actually mean that a terrible secret makes music here these evenings. A new and intimate companion. He comes here on Saturday nights and fucks me over. His name is Loss. So, I'm shut out of L.A. and I dance on Venice Beach for quarters. My life's like those two masks of theater. Can you see me, the absense of you forming my smile and my frown?

What's that? Oh, you remembered. Yeah, today I'm thirty-one years old. Tomorrow, what will I be? Luckily, no one sent me roses and chocolates like you used to. I sound so blithe! Last night I arranged the performers in a vast ultra-violet landscape. I had the front row all to myself. I watched them glow and touch. Then, I walked out and sat by the thousand camp fires of the homeless. I bartered, trading back rubs for cheap wine. My birthday party was very nice.

What else? My performance in Brussels went to hell, tape enclosed. No plot. I forget the idea. A lot of subtle moves and part of it repeats. The epidodes merge the way a river gives up a body. He offers the flowers shifting collage of video images kissing the slick of his lover's nipple, stomach, the wet nape of his neck warm against the cold tiles of the shower walls. They won't let go of each other, shorts coiling around the thighs of Laocoon and his hunky sons. Anyway, it was a bomb. But I've perceived, in a number of ways, a new piece presenting ourselves -- as fantasies or dreams -- in hyper-drag with never too many sequins in these vignettes composed of obsessions over Dorothy's shoes and friends of Dorothy -- old Daddies in leather -- hunched up against each other in a bar called "The Yellow Brick."

I'm researching normalcy. No authoritative studies exist yet. I personally believe that hanging out the back window with a pair of binoculors to watch the neighbor boys fuck is a good definition. It's a very academic pursuit -- sketches in blue pen noting the signals, rectal temperatures, samples of their ejaculate sent to the lab. Am I turning you on? Or am I turning into you? I squeeze you out with each new fantasy so I can make sure you still exist in me. I have fantisized daily about your face, smiling canvas for my sperm. And I see you on video, attracting dust like a magnet. I have a secret plan to come to your rescue. I know an actor. He says that if I send slides, resume, and lots of everything to a hidden theater or dance space disguised as a love motel -- there he will faithfully and accurately transform his own body so that I can rehearse my lovemaking with you (the scene in question).

Can you tell? I'm pretty poor at doing this over the phone. It's not good for me to hear your voice too often. I think of seeing you and me kiss on all the video monitors in Japan and everyone standing frozen in the train stations watching our monster-sized make-out while gay boys cruise in and out of the toilets, hard-ons leaking into Issey Miyake briefs. It's a comedy disguising a tragedy.

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