nostalgia and fantasy

an excerpt from my melbourne journal. yesterday...

I fell into nostalgia today. I went to Caulfield to see a curator speak about the Chris Kraus exhibition and then I found myself retracing my steps of 15 years ago, when I caught the #3 tram every day. I wrote like a maniac on today’s tram. Much to say, but nothing of value. As Kraus says, “Nostalgia is not active. Fantasy is active”. Writing backwards (about the old days, as though one might recreate them or capture a pure memory) is pathetic. From now on I only wish to write through fantasy, projecting a life that I could be living (but not pausing long enough to know if this is the case).

At the talk, the gallery staff member introducing the speakers catches my eye. In his first introduction our eyes lock several times. I have reason to look at him (he’s speaking) but why must he look at me? I feel a pang of something. Later, after the second introduction, he backs away and stands in front of me; very close. His perfume is lovely. I breathe him in. I want him. He’s balding, a little chubby, clearly gay, and dressed in a way that I wish he wasn’t, but still, I want him. At several points the speaking curator is muted and I slip into fantasy. I find myself speaking with him, holding him, my face pressed into his neck, inhaling him. I think he might want me too.

I can’t know if he wants me or if this is a fiction I’m writing. Soon enough the talk is over and I return to look at the art. He disappears and I’m saddened by my loss. We never got to speak. His scent never impressed itself upon me. And now, back home, I eat chocolate cake on the couch. This is not fiction but pathetically real. My wave of nostalgia carried me to Europa Cakes on Acland St where I bought the same cake I’ve always bought. First tasted 16 years ago, today's cake is as unsatisfying as today's passive journey.

The exhibition, however, did satisfy me. I wrapped it around me like the perfect cardigan. I wanted to stay forever (and yes, the thought that he might return was an added incentive). I flicked through the books. I bought one. I felt my pulse quicken at the thought of being this kind of artist; of making collage through the journeys of daily life, incorporating the books, ideas, and loves that impress me. I’ve known for a while that these are the conversations I want to have. But still, I keep it at bay.

I want to rub myself against the works of Kraus. I will start by reading this book and others. Yet I find myself doubting the power of words on pages. I find myself hopelessly aware that this book lacks warmth, a perfume, and limbs with which to hold me.