Where better to go with the longing of your heart than to the wards of Brooklyn’s culturally bedecked matadors of intellect whose issue release parties boom with the music of now, so driving conversation to the cobbled street outside where passing taxis and the occasional drop-in by undercover badge-bearers will set the tempo?
I am a man, of that I am sure, by gender at least, biologically at least, but is that right and how can I be so sure? Do the women who fascinate me not in some way subsume me, do they not live in my mind when no longer in direct proximity and in that way are they not unlike the stuff of fiction, those fancy teasing figments dappled on the page? And is there a woman, could there ever be a woman, just one, whose beauty would enthrall me, whose discernment would spark and instruct and embolden me into being the best man I can be? If I am not already the best man I can be? And who, if I am, would recognize that and let me be as I am? Or will my own vanity reign, an outsized sense of myself fleeing the law of any predictable embrace?
Okay, so maybe you don’t know either. Maybe I will report back in 50 years to let you know how it went. I am 5″8, though, 5″9 in boots, brown hair, indeterminately colored eyes, allergic to cats.