Ricky
This book has a similar structure to Cleanness, which I slightly preferred, but it is as effective here as it is there. In parts 1 and 3, we have a story of the narrator's relationship with a hustler in Bulgaria where the narrator is teaching English at some kind of prestigious school. Part 2 is a flashback to his childhood and adolescence in Kentucky. I was having trouble connecting to the narrator in part 1. Honestly I tend to get a little impatient with stories about sex workers, but the core wounds we experience in the flashback section illuminated the dynamics found in the other parts of this book as well as Cleanness, possibly. On that note, I was initially worried that I had made a mistake by reading Cleanness first, but ultimately, I'm glad I did. I appreciate the extra context I had for these relationships. It was helpful to know about the relationship with R. here and it filled in the gaps of Cleanness. It seems like probably a good idea to read both of them back to back, no matter in which order.
The story in the middle is probably the part I'll most remember. We experience how he gradually finds himself rejected by his friends and members of his family as they and he gradually realize that there is something different about him. This is such a common experience for queer people and among the reasons that the queer experience is inherently traumatic in many cases. This culminates in particular experience with a friend strikes such a chord because it is such a familiar dynamic. Like, I never experienced this exact situation, but had many similar experiences throughout my childhood and adolescence. Again and again boys drawn to me, disquieted by this, rebelled against this. And all of this compounded by the loss of love, safety, or belonging in your own family and a dawning realization that your life would always be somehow outside of the brightness of the world. And here these two themes collide as this situation clarifies for the father how he sees his son.
As far as the story of his relationship with Mitko, the hustler, I'm not sure what I might take from it. I suppose the obvious thing is I assume what the title points to, the ways in which we try to mark people as somehow belonging to us. I was never really sure why the narrator was so fixated on Mitko, but also that's something that fiction lies to us. That there's ever a good reason. I guess sometimes it just that something hijacks you. Maybe for 20 stupid reasons that are so trite you'd cringe at naming them. Maybe it's enough that Mitko is charming and self-assured. I don't know, I'm an idealist. I've always demanded relationships that at least grant the illusion that they are not transactional. Maybe what resonates most about these books is they remind me of the vibe of my youth when the shadow around my identity was so heavy and inescapable.
The other thing I was thinking about this morning when I was walking to work is that it makes sense that the author is also a poet. I have always had a thing for novels written by poets. Here, the structure, the flow, and the logic all seemed consistent with how a poet might think.
This book has a similar structure to Cleanness, which I slightly preferred, but it is as effective here as it is there. In parts 1 and 3, we have a story of the narrator's relationship with a hustler in Bulgaria where the narrator is teaching English at some kind of prestigious school. Part 2 is a flashback to his childhood and adolescence in Kentucky. I was having trouble connecting to the narrator in part 1. Honestly I tend to get a little impatient with stories about sex workers, but the core wounds we experience in the flashback section illuminated the dynamics found in the other parts of this book as well as Cleanness, possibly. On that note, I was initially worried that I had made a mistake by reading Cleanness first, but ultimately, I'm glad I did. I appreciate the extra context I had for these relationships. It was helpful to know about the relationship with R. here and it filled in the gaps of Cleanness. It seems like probably a good idea to read both of them back to back, no matter in which order.
The story in the middle is probably the part I'll most remember. We experience how he gradually finds himself rejected by his friends and members of his family as they and he gradually realize that there is something different about him. This is such a common experience for queer people and among the reasons that the queer experience is inherently traumatic in many cases. This culminates in particular experience with a friend strikes such a chord because it is such a familiar dynamic. Like, I never experienced this exact situation, but had many similar experiences throughout my childhood and adolescence. Again and again boys drawn to me, disquieted by this, rebelled against this. And all of this compounded by the loss of love, safety, or belonging in your own family and a dawning realization that your life would always be somehow outside of the brightness of the world. And here these two themes collide as this situation clarifies for the father how he sees his son.
As far as the story of his relationship with Mitko, the hustler, I'm not sure what I might take from it. I suppose the obvious thing is I assume what the title points to, the ways in which we try to mark people as somehow belonging to us. I was never really sure why the narrator was so fixated on Mitko, but also that's something that fiction lies to us. That there's ever a good reason. I guess sometimes it just that something hijacks you. Maybe for 20 stupid reasons that are so trite you'd cringe at naming them. Maybe it's enough that Mitko is charming and self-assured. I don't know, I'm an idealist. I've always demanded relationships that at least grant the illusion that they are not transactional. Maybe what resonates most about these books is they remind me of the vibe of my youth when the shadow around my identity was so heavy and inescapable.
The other thing I was thinking about this morning when I was walking to work is that it makes sense that the author is also a poet. I have always had a thing for novels written by poets. Here, the structure, the flow, and the logic all seemed consistent with how a poet might think.