“Boy you two really know how to clear a room!” But the room wasn’t clear. It was full: of people dancing.
“Did you decide you couldn’t take it any more? Huh? Matt?” But I couldn’t hear her, whoever was that other one, talking to me.
“Guess that’s what happens..when you invite freaks to an art show." Guess so. Guess that is what happens. That’ll teach you. Always, always invite freaks to an art show. What are you doing, having an art show without them?
The poets left the room. They didn’t talk to me or Jules for the rest of the night. They sat out front, by the stairs, on an old church bench—they kept to themselves.
Their poetry was sad! It was too much thinking!
We didn’t need thinking—we needed dancing.
We didn’t need intellectual smut tonight—making fun of words. That stuff’s for school.
No.
We needed all the people dancing. That’s what all the people needed, too. Right? Cause these were people who just got off of work. These are people who had a rough week. Right? These aren’t people with no spunk and all luxury time, whose brains need technicalities and wheedling. These are people like Ash, who just got broken up with; and people like Chad, who’s not sure if he’s really gay; and people like "Brit!" "Hi!", who had to clean cum off the coffeehouse bathroom wall tonight. "How are you Brit?” “I’m fine Matthew. Is that your painting?" “Yes. This is Jules." “Hi Jules." "This is Brit." "Hi Brit." “I didn’t know this was a dance." "It wasn’t." "Well, it is now.” Damn right it is. See..these are people like Sean Wood, whose gallery this is, who owns this print shop, who owns this whole floor. A week later Sean Wood is gonna be dead, because Sean Wood is going to kill himself, in this room we’re dancing in now. He’s going to shoot himself in the face because he’s in a lot of debt. He doesn’t tell any of us. He’ll leave a note..but it won’t make any sense. So Sean Wood definitely needs to dance tonight. He needs to see Jules and me cutting across this poetry reading with a red marker, shutting out everything else in the world, and looking at each other across the space of four inches. He needs to see us in this one moment that we happen to love, and get out of his seat that he has perched in the corner where he’s secretly smoking pot, and come over here and dance. Come here Sean. Come and dance. Forget for a moment your debt. Dance with us. It’s ok. It will end in a few minutes. But for now, for a few minutes, it’s ok.
And it’s ok poets—you wanted to be sad anyway. You are better suited on your church pew, away from this dancing. People have joy in here. I didn’t hear any joy in your reading—did you, Jules (no)—and I didn’t think you wanted it there, either. I didn’t see your reading seeking it out..and I didn’t hear your text doing any seeking either. So you sit in your pew, and be sad. You can do it together. Be serious. Be lacking in question. Be full of knowledge..and answer—and see how much that answer weighs you down.
This is my Jules—and not even mine—and this Jules and this guy across from her—this guy here—this guy is gonna dance. It’s not hateful—it’s not hateful to poets. It’s not about me and Jules. That room wanted to dance. It didn’t want to read poetry right then. If it did..we’d be reading poetry. We’d be sitting here listening to intellectuals, and looking at their intellectual paintings, behind them (including mine). But that’s not what happened, because that’s not what this room wanted to happen.
Some things are like that—but a lot of things are like that with Jules. She always said the same of me..I don’t know why..but she was always calling me "Divine Master" and shit like that..other names..”You are a Divine Master God!” I always thought she was crazy—and she was. Jules was most definitely crazy. But maybe she was right, too, in a way. Maybe I am a divine master god (I have my moments). Maybe it wasn’t her who got up in that warehouse and invited her man to dance. Maybe it was the other way around. If she was so lovely—and to me she was the god—then if she loved me..maybe I’m not such a piece of shit after all. Everyone has their god. Is it so hard for you—yes, YOU!, the person reading this book—is it so hard for you to believe that to someone out there, you’re their god?
I knew it would be. That’s why I had to back into telling it to you, in this roundabout way. See..there’s this little problem with not-being in love. Which is that somewhere..somewhere in the world..you’re punishing the people that could be in love with you. It’s not just your loneliness—if it was that would be ok (that’s what we tell ourselves)—but it’s not: it’s someone else’s too. They’re like pieces to a puzzle. And yeah: there’s not just one right person for you in this world..it’s not that kind of made for each other. But right now, in a certain moment, in a certain way, every part of us that’s mismatched, isn’t just part of one person. It’s part of two of us, or three of us, or four of us, or more. You can’t be alone all by yourself..loneliness is something we do as one, as part of the whole human animal.
Your pain is my pain.
Your joy is my joy.
When you dance..I dance.
That’s just the way it works.
(Jules taught me that.)