When I was in college, I wrote Prince a letter once a week. I didn’t do it in a stalker capacity, though it still seemed pretty stalkery. I just was going through an incredibly hard time and deeply felt he was the only straight man alive who understood the pain and pleasure and vulnerability and courage and full-frontal honesty required for matters of the heart. I never heard back from him, but even two years after his death there’s a part of me that thinks he’s still alive–still learning, still shining, still putting it all together in a way that will move everything and everybody. Basically, there’s a part of me waiting for his neon call. Rest assured, I’ll come running.
I dreamed a very generous friend took me on what was ostensibly a road trip but really a mission to Harvey Weinstein’s. She claimed to be counseling him in his “convalescence,” but I could see I was going to have to bite a hand that was feeding me, because fuck that shit. I was pissed I now knew the location of his secret lair, even more pissed I found it enviable with soaring ceilings, forest views, loads of pink light. I didn’t see Harvey–my friend was upstairs with the “client”–but my awareness of him was like someone had shoved a pile of shit beneath a million-dollar rug; you could smell but couldn’t see his rotting decadence. I wanted so much to write a whole novel on his enormous pale velvet couch but instead had to go. Of course being me I fled only to realize I’d left everything I needed behind. To wit:
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