Page 222 - Flaunt 171 - Summer of Our Discontent - St-John

IT’S A CRUEL (IT’S A CRUEL) CRUEL SUMMER
Reassessing the Comedown Soundtrack for a New Kind of Comedown
Written by Jordan Firstman
No Frank in the summer. No. Frank. In the summer. I actually didn’t even realize it was summer until last week when I threw
my phone on the ground after Frank Ocean came on the shuffle and the sad wave came before I could change it. My relationship to listening to Frank in the summer has become boundaried and strict. It will not be playing in my home June through September, no sir. Not in this climate. Can’t do it. It’s torture. I actually made a decision a couple months ago that I would no longer give him the emotional control he has over my spirit any longer. It’s abusive. It’s wrong. Mean. But I cannot change the music he makes, nor how
it makes me feel, but I can choose whether or not I listen to the music. So no Frank in the summer.
ecstasy, acid, ketamine, coke, etc. and then spend my weeks alone riding a bike, sobbing and listening to Frank. Somewhere in-be- tween my trip 6 years ago and my trip last summer, people in Berlin weirdly... got jobs? I don’t know how... or why... but they did.
So that left my weekdays spent alone while my weekend friends worked. To cry. And process. Frank was there for that. To indulge in his music while coming down from drugs is ridiculous, stupid, cli- ché, etc, but I think if everyone has to be a cliché (which they do), I would choose the chaotic Cancer gay in Berlin crying after partying over many others. Right? Better than at least half of the cliches.
The summer before that I was not connected to myself at all. All I can recall doing was seeing Kathy Griffin at the Egyptian and doing a hugging meditation in Big Sur. I’m sure Frank was there
...could not even get through that last paragraph without turning blonde on.
He beckons the
second I even
think about him.
I’ve thought about
getting a tattoo of
him, but I still do
want to have sex
with him one day
and I worry it turns
me immediately into
fan and not fuck. He
must know all his
fucks are fans too.
But still the blatancy
of a tattoo crosses
the line. We couldn’t
even pretend that
fuck wasn’t also
fan... my Frank god
complex is on the
flesh. Even writing
this is extremely
risky re: sex with
him. I do have some
skin in the game
though. I could
honestly see a future
where he has me tat-
too’d on him. His
power does not
negate mine. We won’t
end up together. I
know this. Even if he
wanted to, I think I would have to say no. He is a device to put me in my feelings, but I simply cannot live there. I can visit. But my home needs to let me leave. Encourage me to leave, even.
It’s July and I’m trying to get this guy I met on the beach to come over. He said “maybe tmrw or thurs” but honestly nothing ever happens tmrw or thurs. Everything only happens now or tonight. In fact, beach guy (he really is so beach guy) made an impact by playing a “Dear April” remix when we met the other day (socially distant hang, please calm). I said it hurt my feelings to hear that song and he asked if he should turn it off. I said no and then later texted him asking if he could send it. If he comes over tonight, I guess in a way I’m fucking Frank ocean?? Frank introduced us at least.
Summer is not a happy place. It has happy moments but I think that’s why it’s not happy. Frank has always been, for me, a reminder that summer is in fact here, and that summer is also in fact over.
Last summer in Berlin, I would spend my weekends doing
too but I can’t remember. The summer before that summer, I finally saw him live at FYF. Someone threw up on my feet, Brad Pitt was there, it was a lot of stimula- tion. I think both Frank and I know this, but it’s better one on one. Groups are definitely fun, we both also know this, but one on one you can just get so much more done. You can go so much deeper.
The summer before that, blonde came out, right as I was learning how to love another person for
the first time. I wasn’t doing a great job I don’t think. But it made me want to love. Which is notoriously a great first step re: loving. I think it’s a dangerous game when you start associating real life things with mu-
sic. The chords in blonde make me feel sad, I learned about love during blonde,
so part of love for me now has to have sad chords.
Dangerous! And then if sad is not there, is summer there? Dangerous! Does music make
summer sad or does summer make music sad? Does music make love sad or does love make music sad? Very chicken or egg vibes, in which I have always voted chicken.
This summer is different. We cannot deny that. There are no parties. There are fewer boys. The sex is... morally complicated. We are all choosing our paths and ideas and actions for ourselves. Out- side feels weird. Inside feels stale. Nothing makes sense and we are grasping for control in any way we can. We might also.... All die?
It feels that way. It’s a different kind of summer. A summer unlike anything we have experienced. But last summer was different than the summer before, and the summer before was different than the summer before that. That’s the thing about summer... it’s actually always different. And it’s always pretty strange and emotional. But we have tentpoles. That’s what makes summer. And for me, the tentpoles are that the temperature is warmer and Frank Ocean is making me cry... So it must be summer. Right?
Frank maybe predicted this summer after all... “This is sum- mer. Keep alive. Stay alive.”
HUGHIE LEE-SMITH. “CONFRONTATION” (1970). OIL ON CANVAS. 33” X 36”. COURTESY SMITHSONIAN AMERICAN ART MUSEUM, WASHINGTON D.C.
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