Who is Constantine?

Constantine ain't a real person no more. He's fucking historical.

See, that's the thing about history, literature, celebrities, anything you study to write a paper on so you can sum it up in all it's parts and get at, you know, the truth. But in the very act of you looking at it, it fragments. People gathering up every little bead off a dress a woman left on the sunken Titanic, every chicken bone in the trash heap left by Viking crusaders, are killing the thing they love through their own desire to hold every precious fragment all at once. Instead of it making a clearer picture, it pixelates into eight million tiny details. And the big mist of details that begins to surround something, that's myth. When people come up with six or seven theories over one celebrity car crash, then you know it's a goner, no matter how many times you try to nail down the truth.

From the time Constantine said, "I'm ready for that bottle of wine" to the time when my fist met his head a week later, that's the font of everything. All my cybersex and fetish sex and one night stands and barebacking and gender experimentation and thinking BDSM is fucking normal...all of that, it started right there. And yet during our one night together (some eight hours), we did none of these things. By most people's standards, by internet sex blog standards, what we did was boring. If I took you back to campus and I took you out on the quad and pointed and said, "There, that's Constantine," you wouldn't think it was anything special.

You live in a little town, you get to know everybody. You go to a little tiny boarding school, you get to know everybody's clothes. I know all of Constantine's wardrobe: the tartan scarf. The pinstripe suit. The baggy green sweater he wore over dress pants. Shiny shoes. Gold toe socks. Black leather gloves. A leather briefcase.

All these tiny details that I store up, rediscover, creating their own web and spawning new symbols and histories. His clothes are why I now see every Versache ad as porn. The high narrow bones of his cheeks, the reason I love the Colt. His fingers between my legs are the reason I would fuck A. two months later. The reason I'll fuck anyone, anywhere, for the entire rest of my life.

Even know, two years after that one short night, the sight of a man in a long coat holding a briefcase will make my heart rate zoom up to a trillion beats a second.

When Valerie Solanas shot Andy Warhol, she used only one bullet. But that one bullet ricocheted in his insides until it cut open his liver and lungs and spleen and stomach and it took six doctors five hours to put him back together again. And according to Gerard Malanga, my peeps, that was the end of the Sixties.

EDIT: I might write more about Constantine, or I might not. I find it difficult...and it might even need a whole other blog. But for now I'll post a few bits and peices when the mood strikes me.