Cool for You

The window in front of me was like a page and I was writing in a spiral notebook and I got this idea: I drew a sad woman’s face and I wrote what she was thinking and I thought, why can’t I be famous right now. Why can’t I just act that way. Why can’t I record everything down like my life counts, like I’m the Queen of England or Bobby Vee, and that way I can be safe and not have to wait to die to be important. Why can’t I live right now. Because I am not rich, I am not a saint. But I do know this: not all of us were sent here to work.

that’s how men are raised. They’re deluded. They get the idea that they are more important, than, say, their sister. Then they go out into the world and discover that other men are more important than them. So of course they go home and slug their wives.

My whole life had become a big mental health experiment.

I wanted to kick him in his eggshell sweetness. I wanted to see his yolk flow.

I’ve often thought of a female Christ. David told me there’s one in a church in Montreal. Mostly the world can’t take it. Because of people’s feelings about the delicacy of women and also because of what a meaningless display female suffering simply is. If you belittle us in school, treat us like slaves at home and finally, if you get a woman alone in bed just tell her she’s all wrong, no matter what sex you are. . . or maybe you just grab one on the street and fuck her real fast—in an alley, or in her own bed.
I mean if that’s the way it usually goes for this girl what would be the point in seeing her half nude and nailed up? Where’s the contradiction? Could that drive the culture for 2,000 years? No way. Female suffering must be hidden, or nothing can work. It’s a man’s world and a girl on a cross would be like seeing a dead animal in a trap. We like to eat them, or see them stuffed, we even like to wear them, but watch them suffer? Hear them wail?

Christ, if he had been a woman, might have been nothing but a great complainer.

In these freedom-loving times we were being handed something scarily wonderful. A discipline.

I liked being the dispenser of positive emotion in a population that wouldn’t identify me as a slut.

now I was having my own relationship to the streets of the world.