Meanwhile, the neighbors were setting each other on fire. I was invited, and I said Yes, I said Send me the syllabus, I said I am only partially fluent in your language. Like salt is invited to the early-winter road. Tonight I met a man who was beautiful and tall, who wore capitalism like a well-fitting suit. It appeared when I needed it: an acquired taste. How are we to know who started things? The idea for Anti-Love came from me, I’ve been told, though I remember it as always having been there-not always, in the strict sense. The news reports appearing at the top right of the screen, a stack of small explosions, almost registering, then-impulsively-swiped away. Without the beginning of the story, it is insufficient but still necessary to have a picture of the surround: not only the bodega and the playground, but the news reports filtering from the apartment below. There is an abundance of emotion-enough years, enough fucks and near-fucks and pseudo-fucks, enough expectations unanswered because unheard or unsaid-and it is that abundance that is known: a partial knowing, as excess is always, paradoxically, partial. Without the beginning of the story, it’s enough to know that there is a drafty corner apartment an all-night bodega out the window a playground across from the bodega, quiet at night. Love bills itself as itself, eponymous and proud. Sometimes it’s billed (tentatively or defiantly) as self-Love. It’s billed variously as resistance, revolt, revolution. Love, by contrast, will be a recuperation project.Īnti-Love is not, to be fair, billed as Anti-Love. Anti-Love meets regularly, though attendance is spotty. I never made it to Love, and now I hear it’s defunct.
Love, Anti- (notes toward) by Anna Moschovakis
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