What once had become a challenge to extremes had become a laughable weakling dripping in saccharine date rape and schlocky bruises to the torso and forearm like teenage suicide reminders.
Stripping down to the most unbearable truth-the awkward silence, the too loud laughter, off kilter smile or gruesome expression that passes by in the blink of an eye, real submission, dressing to be seen, not dressing to pretend to want to be seen.

-- Young and Stupid finally posted. You can read more here

Yes, there've been many, many times that people who have been molested or who suffered a lot of emotional, physical, or psychological abuse when they were young have either written to me or talked to me about my work and said they felt connected to what I've written in relationship to those kinds of experiences. Honestly, those have been the most important and meaningful responses I've ever gotten to my writing both because I feel like those people have a deep understanding of what my work is trying to do, and because, especially at a certain point years ago when I was constantly being accused of glamourizing and romanticizing that kind of violence for shock value, their seeming understanding and appreciation of what I'm trying to do really helped me believe and stay on course, by which I mean continuing to write about those kinds of acts with what I hope is their full intensity and complexity, attraction and horror and damage intact.

-- Dennis Cooper wrote today, in the p.s. section of the day

And Porcelain Skull posted, too. New great pictures.
I am staying put tonight because I barely can walk with my knee, whatever is happening to it. I put more dollars in the dollar-sucking machine attached to the PC and read and write. Blogs are always there to help.

I wake up before 7 A.M. because of the party of young dutch students that took over the hostel yesterday. Overgrown by cattle hormones, absurdly tall and loud even when they barely move around on the old wooden floor, dutch guys and girls seem to be in every room of the hostel and in every bathroom and under every shower and into every room at this floor and at every floor of this part of the hostel. The hostel extends itself over several street numbers so I don't know if they took over there too. Anyway the turn-over for the bathrooms and showers has started slowly, and noisily, and as I lay in bed in my room I try to identify the moment when the bathroom on my floor will finally be accessible. I curse the dutch people of the world and try to sleep or at least masturbate but without success, 'cause they have now decided to hang just outside my door waiting for their turn, horsing around, calling down from the top of the stairwell, talking and laughing.

It's not before 9 that I can eventually use the bathroom and take a shower. By then the dutch world is gathering its people across the street, and is being noisy down there in the sun. From the window of my room they now look less noisy and less tall and are instead quite good looking, with their blond and red heads glowing under the bright sun light scouring 20th street out of the frozen snow.

I love this Hostel. I have my own double bed room, all run-down and sloppy, luckily no television. There are common bathrooms all right, but it's not a problem for me. Well, as long as the dutch leave something for me.
There is no curfew, it is all very clean, and it's in Chelsea, Manhattan. It is ridiculously pricey, but only compared to similar places outside New York or in Europe. It is actually cheap for the standards here.

From the Hostel I walk down towards the village, have breakfast somewhere (I wish there were alternatives to the fucking starbucks of my boots) and then I probably head towards a cyber cafe' in Bleecker street that seem to be run by a very nice middle-aged chinese lady who doesn't speak english except for two essential words, and who sweeps and mops the floor under your feet while you're there writing.

Afterwards it's the city, it's my being useless into its belly, it's bars I never dared to enter (thanks, Dita) and my feelings come and go, and at moments all the beauty of it, all its lively magic, all the moving accumulation of sorrows in the shaded maze of the subways hits me with a smell and a push, like the banal solitudes, the young couples kissing on the trains at night, the displays of fish and algae in Chinatown, the fabric stores I enter imagining what Libi would think or say of the colors and the materials, where the old jewish store manager tells me, "if you think you can pick the fabrics for your friend you must think you're very good."
And he's right, I mean. I could never pick the right fabrics.

in picture, above: you know what. It has nothing to do with the hostel though.