Last night, I had a dream that a friend of mine and I had escaped the Russian militia in an abandoned meatpacking alley by levitating in cartwheels twelve feet in the air. We aimed forward and the ground beneath us fell to a dense, milky vapor as we waited for our feet to land somewhere... anywhere. I woke up with the realization these were, indeed, the remaining hours of 2008—that I’ve spent much of the year in a state of levitation.
If experience is a muscle, or a compendium of memories, then in this year I haven’t faltered from the resistance that comes tailgaiting with it. I found my birthmother and discovered I was a third-world prince. I became a staunch activist for rights I’d previously denied to myself. (So much so that I even got engaged then broke it the instant the hangover wore off.) I spent less time reading and more time meeting new friends. I became the city I lived in. I kissed Alan Cumming. I went to three different funerals. I waited with a bleeding stranger for an ambulance on the corner of
It’s been that kind of year. I give it an A-. Love & Other Discrepancies, Trystan
