Boners of Bushwick
Episode one, in Erik Stinson’s series “Boners of the Free World”
1. Nu Stallion: A feeling of elation near the subway exit of the Morgan L station. This is the night beginning to hasten. The wind in the Oak at a nearby park pushes a feeling. The party is over here. The party is over there. Women pass me heading to the train in the opposite direction.
The summer cools and their hearts still beat warmly under the skin of sheer tops. My night is open like a doorway to San Francisco. My night is a river that circles a dry valley, endlessly passing the single villa in a grid of waste zoned industrial. The motion between blocks is evaporating the day. A fan beating the dead air of a rented room. Where is the cool liquid society? Where is the party at? Where is the calm of Sunday? Set the track and fill host tables with endless empty containers, endless trash, the victims of product design fashion, an open symbol for the winning horse.
2. Prime Archipelago: The dance floor is a hush exhibit. The tropical plants are everywhere. I find a heatlamp, and she touches me. There are lasers, against all odds. The DJ is playing the song I came to New York City with, the song that invented my new life here. Everywhere, there are these shadow women. I see the eyes, behind a fog of well drinks. The eyes are predatory, and the faces look like tearways. Launch yourself into their Brooklyn, says the weekend mind. With a bit of music, we can lose all this. Gamble for nothingness. Let the dance floor be your closing ceremony. Die right. It would need to be like this. And the heathen American ritual is not so young.
3. Explorer: This one removes itself from my body at the taste of the good life. I’m in the lush backyard of a brand new gastro-concept space. Nothing like Roberta’s – here, it’s about the way the ingredients sit against your body. I just tried the mussels and now I’m pushing the limits of my performance fabric. Do you even know flavor? Have you ever thought about pure sensation?
4. Maximum Rush: A notification of availability. The symbols flash hot on my device. Her device. We both are probably holding devices, at that point – but in different parts of the city. Not for long, I think. In the legion of the unattached, the searchers, coming into service. She is a call away. And I’m already there. The bar smells like a culture furnace. I’m burning. The drinks are pouring, bourbon on hot rocks. She’s there, and we’re already making out in the torn pleather booth. It’s the fourth of July 2007. When I get back to my apartment, the city goes white with an exploding idea of self.
5. World Trade Center View: Have you ever felt that your last rooftop party had come and gone? Did you ever watch the day rotate away from your position, clearing the sky for a planetarium of faces and tits and Four Loko personality trials? I’m an INTP, even on the sauce and under the spice. On the roof, I can see the whole lurching system. And when the sun is setting over the city, I want to intuit every girl in the TriState. It goes way beyond the commercial moment, the Instagram photo ecstasy that produces desire for production. In that beyond-moment, I have nothing to sell and the pure lifestyle is right there for living. I’m hard for the perfect image in motion, without time. It’s her and it’s my anticipation. She wants to be inhabited by the lesser Gods of Bushwick death arts.