I rewatch God’s Country again.
It’s not just the bachelor inseminator: I would also like to sleep with the pig farmer, the pig farmer who likes to work for himself. In real life I sleep with a man who tells me about his failed attempt to be an entrepreneur, something he tried because he wanted to work for himself. It humbled him, he said.
I’d like to sleep with the pig farmer in his youth, at the time of the documentary; I’d need a time travel machine to do it, and I wonder if it is even possible to find a contemporary pig farmer working under similar conditions.
The contemporary pig farmer’s life would be different; I speculate he’d be less happy and that pig farming has gotten harder.
It is probably impossible to sleep with anyone right now who has a hopeful view of the future and is not an idiot. I mean: in 1985 I bet you could sleep with many people, most people even, and the person you chose as your lover would think the world was going to keep getting better and better.
I’ll probably never fuck someone who imagines there might be benevolent aliens in space.
Or that the situation is infinite.
Or that we are small in comparison to a vastness.
Instead I’ll fuck only people aware of impending doom.
One lover likes my sweat, and I have been self-conscious of my sweat for as long as I remember. I am on top of him; he is rubbing my clit while I fuck him; I feel sweat bead on my forehead and watch it splash on his chest; he sees me notice this and begin to wipe away my sweat and says no no, put it on me, put it on me and pulls me down to rub my torso against his; our bodies are very slick.
And this is hot because sweat is hot, but it is also hot because he has changed my shame to pride via his direction.
This is no way to end this poem, which I had intended to be about space exploration.
And how people once thought that better forms of civilization existed elsewhere.
And that our world too could be better.
And how the passage of time means that I’ll never fuck someone with the structures of thought that people had in the 70s or 80s, at least not in their youth.
It’s a good sort of water-into-wine trick to be able to make something one had felt was unattractive attractive, and of course very useful as a corrective in the case that a lover keeps apologizing for their sweat, for instance, something so goofy that even I have always known not to do it, even before I was taught to like my sweat.
However, if I were going to be very convincingly told I’m wrong about something and have my view of it radically changed through pleasure, I’d rather that thing be my notion that there is very little hope. This task seems like one for someone from God’s Country, from the first part of the movie, which was filmed in 1979, and not from the second part, which was filmed in 1985 and chronicles how much bleaker things have gotten by the time the filmmaker returns to finish his movie.
I’m on vacation upstate, lying in bed in an AirBnB that has floor to ceiling windows covered with a sheer curtain. That is, anyone could be watching me.
I would like the 1979 pig farmer to breech my screen and step out of it, as though he were the Kool-Aid man from the same period, a giant anthropomorphic pitcher of Kool-Aid bursting through, pigs galloping behind him. “Oh yeah” is a perfectly respectable thing to say during sex; this would be all he’d need to say; he’d pour the Kool-Aid on me; it would look like blood; it’d be a single act of pouring and then I would crawl into his empty glass body and curl up in it, dreaming of what comes next.