How to Facebook

oldmankick

I got an e-mail last night. It was about a little book of “prose poetry” I made last summer and left around, mostly on the Bloor-Danforth subway line, the Woodbine bus, and around the U of T campus. I also sold a very few at CanZine. As time goes by the e-mails seem to be accelerating, as if it has only taken them this long to reach “critical mass”, only now may opinions be voiced; it’s very interesting.

from: Fxxxxxxx Cxxxxxxxxx <cxxxxx.dxxxx@gmail.com>
to: “xxxx@gmail.com” <xxxx@gmail.com>
dateSun, Jan 18, 2009 at 7:01 PM
subjectThat was amazing

And I want more.

I remembered it differently when I wrote what follows (how embarrassing), in my head it no longer said “That was amazing” in the subject line, which is nice, very nice, it’s fun to hear, but it’s not quite as eccentric, or even, should I say it? “Sexual” as the line Lisa and I somehow hallucinated ten minutes after viewing the e-mail. Below is the representation that we left the computer imagining, for whatever reason, and the rest of this is “built” on that.

from: Fxxxxxxx Cxxxxxxxxx <cxxxxx.dxxxx@gmail.com>
to: “xxxx@gmail.com” <xxxx@gmail.com>
date:Sun, Jan 18, 2009 at 7:01 PM
subject:That rocked my world.

And I want more.

Look, this person is on Facebook. Lisa tells me to look this person up and I find out right away, she’s right there. And I think “how easy it is to find someone when you know their full name”, and if I responded (I will) this person will know my full name and she can find me, just like that. Look she even knows some people I know, how amusing.

And how on Facebook you can go on and find the “full” truth (the imagined truth) of the, find things such as “Hello I am André, I don’t want to show you my face, there are pictures of me– here are some pictures of me from 2007, two New Years ago, the last time I was drunk, really drunk, blacked-out, pissed my pants drunk, I am afraid to tell you, I can’t remember, well I can’t remember

–for that thank you, thank you, super-conscious, sub-conscious, whatever–

what I did exactly, but you can see the pictures of me lying on the ground possibly rolling over in my own filth and possibly a great big fat man is sitting on me and I am wearing a pink sweater and awkwardly hugging the girl who gave it to me, just for that night, it was a themed party, awkwardly hugging as in excessively, too much, I’m too drunk, and it’s the last time– who is taking pictures? Who is taking pictures of me?

And the next week we’ll all go out again and I’ll feel like a douchebag and I’ll tell that to everyone I meet, I won’t say it explicitly but they will see it in my face, in my eyes, in my cheeks, they will look at me and they won’t say anything because they are too busy absorbing the truth in my eyebrows, my chin, the hairs on my neck:

“Hello, my name is André, I am a douchebag, these are my friends.”

That night the girl who gave me the sweater will have some kind of altercation with a man (a man?) in a parked car that I don’t understand and never hear the full details of, but hear he is something like 6’7″, 300 pounds, and I’ll remember about the time I was less a man, and gigantic, really huge, over 250 pounds, maybe well over, I was massive, a monster really, frightening, to tell you the truth, and there was some kind of attraction, between me and this girl, which at this point (the time after New Years 2007) has completely dissipated, in a way I didn’t quite understand, so it was all physical, but physically I felt more appealing than ever, really, I was more attractive than ever, I can say, pretty safely, I mean, pretty close, we can’t judge these things absolutely, I mean around that period of time I felt sort of confident about my appearance, that’s all.

That night I won’t plan on drinking anything, we’ll be at the dance cave, we were at dance cave, I spent all of my cash (five dollars) on the cover, but someone will convince me to go in on a pitcher and everyone will say “Oh please do, please do André, we know you aren’t the deranged man from the other night,” but even though I have one eye closed in all the pictures I know that part of that man is true. And I go in on the pitcher anyway because, well, why not? We’re young, we should live.

–everyone is so nice, do you understand that? We’ll dance, and I’ll think how nice everyone is, and the night will feel like a kind of ending, and I’ll feel good, but terrible, you know, and it’s odd that it felt like an ending because in a lot of ways it was and there are things about that time that will never exist in the same way as they did then, but that was always the case, I understood that from the very beginning.

Afterwards someone will put the pictures up on Facebook and they will be there for everyone to see and I haven’t been drunk in two years, and I’m fine with that, excellent really, I couldn’t be happier, perhaps that’s not glamorous, my life isn’t glamorous, but anyway thank you, the response has mostly been positive, I’m glad it “rocked your world” (I was careful not to use I in front of that construction) and there’s another one you can just have, if you want.

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