The Angel of History Read Online Free PDF

few seconds, a phlegmy warbling frog sound. He relaxed somewhat when he saw my eyes slide across the table toward the book he was unconsciously yet reverently caressing with the palm of his hand. His nostrils flared, his face lit up, his dyed blond hair seemed to turn two shades lighter, sprouting more frosted tips with every ticking moment. He interrupted his pretty friend’s Burning Gross monologue and informed me that this was Didion’s book, except he called her the goddess, his gay eyes rose toward the ceiling in Pierre-et-Gilles devotion, I could imagine a halo or at least a tiara above his head. He never missed reading any of her books, he said. I admit that I was surprised by both the insipidity of this pair and their assumed intimacy. I wished them gone, I wished me gone, get thee gone, get thee to a nunn’ry, why woulds’t thou be a breeder of sinners? Odette and Sue were yet to arrive, and the maître d’ had returned to his host station, and I was about to walk away, my habitual leave-taking. Ever since I turned fifty, I have been able to extricate myself easily and painlessly from such situations, for none of these unripe boys care for much beyond their groins or their navels, but I wasn’t so lucky this time. The other young one, noticing that they were about to lose their audience, piped up, Can you imagine, she lost her husband and within a year and a half lost her daughter as well, how horrifying is that?
    Can you imagine, and alarm bells woke me from a twenty-year nap. It was instantaneous, I promise you, Doc. Zeus launched crackling thunderbolts and Molotov cocktails in Rip van Winkle’s head. I began yelling. Her husband died? You think that’s horrifying? You feel sorry for her? She’s lived a full life. I had six friends die in a six-month period, half a dozen of my close friends including my partner. We were nothing but babies, where was she when we were dying, where were you, you motherfuckers? Adrenaline rushed through my veins, anarchic, atavistic, delicious, a sheen of sweat on my palms, tingles on my forearms, rage in my voice. Even as I was yelling, I realized that the question was silly, I mean, where were they? They were barely in middle school then, probably eight or ten. Same as Yahweh asking Job, Where wast thou when I laid the foundation of the earth? I wasn’t even born then, you silly thing, no one was. And these boys, soft-shelled and scared, looked as if they were eight or ten. Frosted Tips reached for his ice-filled glass, probably thinking I was going to spill it on him. Tom Something’s knuckles were mottled white as he clutched the sides of the table. I wanted to feel sorry but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t stop, could not. I was in the midst of an amygdala hijacking. My sanity deserted me, all I had left was rage, long-lost rage. How can you not know your history? I yelled over and over. You with your righteous apathy, how can you allow the world to forget us, to delete our existence, the grand elision of queer history? The music was still blaring but every other noise had faded. I could feel every eye on me, every nervous and baleful glower.
    When I was in school, I used to stand outside in the yard during recess wondering if my classmates would jumpme once the nuns turned away, same thing in that restaurant. That fear of being jumped seared me inside my own skin, never went away, my love, never did, third-degree burn right under the surface, moonlight easily bruised it. I covered myself with layers and layers, with false fronts and bitchy attitude, but my charred history refused entombment. I felt dirty, congenitally filthy, what could wash me clean as snow, nothing but the blood of Jesus. Give it to me, I’ll drink. Fuck me. I can walk into any room and tell you in the blink of an eye where the danger lies, who hates me, who despises me, it’s a superpower, I tell you, X-Men have nothing on me.
    Frosted Tips looked at me as if I were carrying an AK-47, they all saw