What's Your Name; Who's Your Daddy?

A long time ago, a friend of mine told me about Henry James and the idea of the delicate.

I've written about it before.

It's something slow.

Complex.

Flickering and soft in its illumination:

The unraveling question of what a favorite fabric feels like against  your skin

instead of the garish flood light of asking how you like to fuck.

The anticipation of touch will always swell into, and create, a thirst so much more artful than the programmed grasps of scarcity.

Take the time to consider the lines on the tips of your fingers

and what they may feel like

tracing a jawline

you have yet to touch.






Be well; be loved,


k.


P.S. If there is something on my mind that needs figuring out, I'll lose myself in dance.

Dancing.  Watching dance. Both. 

Although this song is old, I've been watching this abbreviated clip of the song with choreography by Max Dbk.  It's been fun to play with.  I like that there are a few tiny elements of boxing, crotch grabs and head clutching peppered throughout.  Follow the leader of it. It's pretty fun. You can watch it, here.

(title: from the end of the Miguel song Don't Look Back)
(image: via Mytessia tumblr)

Shit MuthaFucka, MuthaFucka Damn Damn

One of those days where everything seems to be going wrong:  "It's okay." "Breathe."

All of that shit.

At times, days like today are almost funny.  You get to a point where you are tempting the day:  "One more thing and I swear to God I'm going to start screaming and crying and punching strangers in the face!"

But of course you won't.

And of course one more thing happens, just to see if you'll make good on your threat.

Another failure, of sorts.

Instead, I'll just be celebrating the Loser's Victory over here in the center of the city:

Looking hassled and slightly insane, hair askew and wearing an expression on my face that no one could read even if they tried.  It's that expression of total stone that happens when three thousand tears are just under the surface.  Not tears of depression or sadness, just tears of pure frustration and exhaustion of being harassed by some unseen force.

A pause while I smooth my hair, straighten my DUNCE cap, throw my shoulders back and just

keep

on

fucking

going.


be well; be loved,

k.

(title: Part of a song we used to sing on the playground growing up. If you ever want to hear me sing it, just ask. It's horrible and great.)

Crystal Cages That Keep

Black lace and curvature. Half-lit rooms and the smell of incense mixed with camphor.

The way you speak is a dark chord pulled out from your depths, up your throat, and out of your mouth.

Fragile, but full.

Let me tell you something about how you are courting me. If that is, indeed, what you are doing.

It is perfect, and safe, and stretched out, and well timed. There is no pressure.

There are only stories of the childhood back and forth from a gray land to this green-gray one. There is music. There is reserve.

Within this, there is a freedom I feel that is rare. There is the gift of time. To fantasize. To think. To wonder. There is time to piece things together.  To be honest. To let you in, as opposed to dodging the thieves that are always in such an odd, capitalist hurry to know who I am. (So as not to be ashamed, I am certain.)

Here is to those whose least concern is looking a fool.

It provides the very difference

between captured

 and kept.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image via witchesxsabbath tumblr)

Water Finds Its Level

This morning is black spray paint on fingertips and palms. I smell faintly of chemicals and denim.  It is raining outside, but the drops are fat; satisfying. 

Inside and warm, now. Getting shit done.  Let me tell you that if  you ever feel uninspired, find people of your caliber. No, fuck that. People who are of your caliber and some. None of these folks blaming everyone for their mean parents, hard lives, and disappointments. 

Accountability is hot, folks.

How much can you own without flinching?

I can own every bit of things and then some, and will maintain eye contact with you the whole time doing it.

Can you?

Perfect.

Let's go continue to put our energies and passions into something that matters.


be well; be loved,

k.

(title: quoted, specifically, from Rupaul)
(image: Untitled, 1960s, Akira Sato via Secretcinema1 Tumblr)

Nothing is Elegant Except That Which is Seen to Be

Today was 2 PM theater and seeing a friend of mine playing the part of an historical idol of mine to Sondheim.

Go figure.

Here I am, typing away on the floor of a bedroom, munching away at a peanut butter Twix (they are kind of rare), thinking about topics that are larger than my life right now. The nights have been continuing on with the incredible conversations I mentioned that have been going on as of late.  It feels good, and nourishing, and exploratory, and real. I haven't been going to bed any earlier than 2 AM.

Meanwhile, in regular life, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. I keep thinking of my friend Tony and the conversations we would have about the word imposter and how it can creep up on us at times.  What are the realms of life that you feel, sometimes, that you are an imposter? How do you connect with the word?

I'm trying my hardest.

There are days that things get to me and my eyes sting. Tonight might be one of them. Stilettos and faux leather skirts, or pizza and warm sweaters? Either way, I will continue - at least for a bit- reading Say Her Name by Francisco Goldman, then getting into an adventure or six.

I have less than 48 hours left of "spring break", and I intend to use every bit of it.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Luigi Veronesi, Senza titolo, 1936 via camillea tumblr)

I Wanted to Love You Like My Mother's Mother's Mothers Did

I saw you tonight from the bus window. You were walking Southbound on the East side of the street. You looked contemplative. A bit sad. As soon as I saw you, my heart went wild. I pulled the bus chain to get off the bus and ran back towards your direction.  You were gone. Thinking that maybe you went down into the new tunnel, I ran past people to get to the platform. I looked around frantically.  The police men there for this new tunnel duty stiffened and stared at me sternly. I spun around and kept looking. You were nowhere.

Instead, there stood Basil, standing on the platform looking down into his phone.

Full circle.

Beating heart.

Listen to this loud and at night, for me.


be well, be loved.

k

(title: a lyric from the song I've linked, above)

(image: Vicki Ling, Eclipse, 2013)

It's Just a Matter of Knowing When to Say No or Yes: Somebody's Love, Another One's Daughter

Good morning. It is one.

I've been up since about 6:30 this morning enjoying the view of the sky. Spring is here and, with it, comes the light that has been hidden all winter.

You know how there are there points in your life where you know that it is a proverbial "new chapter"?  This is one of them.

It feels so good.

In being matched, challenged and encouraged,

the possibilities are endless.



be well; be loved,

k.

(title: Before the colon it is a lyric from the Fugazi song I have been listening to all morning.  You can listen to it along with me, here. After the colon is a lyric from the song Conrad by Jets to Brazil)
(image: L’Esprit du Large via m-as-tu-vu tumblr)

The Cavalry That Came in a Murdered-Out Escalade

I wish I could articulate how happy I have been over the past five days.

I can't.

I will simply say that chance and magic are alive and well in the world, and that when you are open to the world, it can feed  you.

More than you can possibly imagine.

Be well; be loved,

k.

(image from unglaubwuerdig tumblr)

Serenity Prayers

The past few days have been very beautiful, indeed.

I've been having the most incredible conversations with a particular person about everything from the poetry of Byron to the specifics of the film The Reflecting Skin (I rarely have met anyone else who has seen it, let alone love it) to words and art and beauty.

It feels nice and recently rare to have conversations with someone comfortable with their level of intelligence. No insecurities to deal with, but also no ego mania.  Just good music, good literature, good humor, good art. (And how thoughtful they are of the people around them.)

A rare and unique find of a person to fold into my life. I look forward to it.

Before I go to bed for tonight, a note to everyone:

You are intelligent. Own it.

Don't be afraid of it, and don't compare it to other people.

Just dive into what you love, and let it come out and around the world around you.


be well; be loved,

k.

p.s. Today was the first day of a new adventure/chapter for me. It was exciting and scary and fun.  Here we go.

p.s.s. A piece of music that has been running through my headphones, today.

(image: Cesare Saccenti Watercolor Ink on Paper 70x50 2014 — with Pablo Varela F and Yousif Abbas via giampixxx tumblr)

In Praise of Pulses

I woke up this morning having had two and a half consecutive sex dreams. One, with a person I recently met and barely know, one with a person my mind created, and one (here's the half) interaction with a person I dated perhaps six years ago who I still see from time to time that didn't involve sex at all, but rather, a very sexually charged interaction.

He was at a party full of our professional colleagues. He was there in one of his tweed suit coats, a scholarly tie, and his close cut, neatly trimmed beard. It was dark in the room, which looked to be a gymnasium or a rented hall. The attention on him read as his birthday party, but the electricity in the air read as holiday high end work party. For some reason, he had been told to close his eyes and that he would have to be able to identify people by their voices. He was laughing along guessing everyone quickly and correctly, all the while smiling.  The crowd had spread out away from him as the game dissolved- heading to grab another bottled beer or plastic cup of punch from across the room.

I knew he didn't know I was there, and there were only two or three people still standing around  him not really paying attention. He stood there, his eyes still closed, still smiling waiting for the next person to identify.

I step up behind him, my stilettos giving off their sturdy, hollow clicks upon the floor as I approach him.  I don't say anything but, instead, press the front of my body against his back. I feel him stiffen a bit and jokingly say "Okay, now who is that?" but I don't respond. Instead, still pressing myself against his back, I reach around and slide my hands down his forearms almost to his hands, run them up his stomach to his chest, place my hands on his shoulders and turn him around. I put my cheek against his cheek, hold it there for three full breaths, then tilt my head back and to the side to expose my neck, leaving it just under his bottom lip.  I want him to smell my cologne being heated with the place upon my throat that pulsates the most. With his eyes still closed, he turns his face and mouth towards my neck, breathes in. Recognition washes down his face.

He smiles, some combination of memory and arousal and his cock against his pants and trying to keep things PG and good humored, waiting for me to say something as the game rules state.

I turn slowly, so that he can feel the turn on his body, and let my stilettos walk me back through the crowd, the echos of my heels getting further and further away until I am out the door.


k.

P.S. Last night taught me that talking to strangers can lead to the most beautiful angels materializing to help you do exactly what you want to do. Here is to rare and necessary magic.

(image from roserum tumblr)

The Mental Wirings of Multilinguals

Today has been quite lovely.

I had a beautiful early morning conversation with a Russian interpreter about the complexities of interpreting for people using a vehicular language (or, lingua franca) to communicate.  So, you know, for example, a person who uses Russian to communicate only because it is more known than their native language.  This comes up a lot.  I'll find myself in interpreting situations where someone is using a language that is their third or fourth language for communication purposes. But it may be a third or fourth language that they have only been studying or exposed to for the past few months or years. 

It's kind of great when there are two interpreters and about eight languages going on in the room.  The interpreters have to work together in a way that isn't as common as our usual, semi-solo work.

There is more to today, but I will stop my pace upon this stone.



-k.


(Lucky Blue Smith by Robbie Fimmanno - L’Officiel Hommes Italia, FW15, via genetic-freak tumblr)

In Love With Love and Lousy Poetry

There are times, like today, that I actually enjoy writing papers. It's odd, I know. But tonight I am jacked up on maté awaiting the arrival of a favorite person I have not seen in many, many months. She'll only be here for less than 12 hours, but I intend on getting every bit of her brain and laughter and style and amazingness while she is here.  And so...it is a race against time to get this paper done.

(I know. It's counter- intuitive to be writing a blog entry but, for me, it's not.  There are weird ass things percolating in the depths of my brain as I write this.  They need time.  This is it.)

Anyway, I'm into the title I came up with. It's always funny to continue my obsession with coming up with ridiculously lengthy and campy titles to toss into the academic machine. Especially in Spanish.  Although I won't tell the title, here, I will say that the part before the colon I'm especially excited about. It translates to be Punitive Voyeur. I mean, how hot is that? And completely fitting to the essay, itself.  As I said with a friend of mine, recently:

 I will either get an A++, or will end up in prison.

Hopefully both.


Be well; be loved.

It's good to know  you're out there; It's good to know that it's you I'll never forget.


k.
(title is a Weakerthans lyric)
(image: maximeballesteros, again. Thank you, Casey.)

Site Magic

I'm a creature of magical habit.


Ritual has always felt so good to me.


1pm, tomorrow.


I look forward to leaving yellow calla lilies upon those weathered tiles. 



k.


In other news, this still remains as one of the best combinations of short film, under garments, and metal/doom.  I don't care that it's an advertisement. It's incredible.

(image: maximeballesteros IG)

When the Bough Breaks

The past three days have been one of the most amazing/healing stretches of time than I have had in a long, long time.

It is no wonder that I woke up this morning feeling completely different.

I woke up feeling free of some things that have weighed on me for about three to four years.

Holy crap does it feel good.

Here is to abundance in love and light.

It makes all of the difference in the world.

And now?

On with enjoying the magic that some people just don't believe in.

Let's do this.



k.

Illustration: In Bloom- Herbarium by Nicolas Come aka Sinpiggyhead via genetic-freak tumblr)

Sin salida, or, Other Reasons I Move To a Chair Across the Room

Tomorrow's job makes me nervous, yet excited. Tonight feels like Christmas in a functional family home. I know I need to sleep but, instead, I'm alert and typing away like a mad person.

(pause)

Last night the person I thought might try to kiss me, tried to kiss me. I was pretty sure it was going to happen because every time I got up to sit in a different chair, further away from them, they would come and sit right next to me. It was weird. Awkward. At that point (the musical chairs point), I yawned and said that I needed to go to bed and I'd see them later.  That is when the quasi-lunge happened.

I feel embarrassed when someone does this. When there is no context or history of kissing. When they don't ask if they can or even ask if I am attracted to them.  It's really awkward. I always feel like I have some odd-ass butterfly on my mouth that they are trying to catch between their teeth.  It's gross, and kind of disgusting.

(pause)

So, yes. Tomorrow will be exciting and nerve wracking.

I've been happy lately, thinking and writing and reading with people who are very different from me. It's cool to be in contexts where one of the only common threads among us are the things we are reading and talking about, and the language that we are using.

As a cinematic suggestion, I need to plug Buñeul's  El ángel exterminador (The Exterminating Angel) again.  If you've never seen it, watch it.  It may make you feel claustrophobic, but for me, right now, I'm into that.  I think I may be obsessing over concepts of hell in the form of humans.  This film by Buñeul, Sartre's No Exit, and Gacía Lorca's La casa de Bernarda Alba (The House of Bernarda Alba) all mixed up with either an intentional or accidental panopticon motif -   I'm into it, and ready to write.


Be well; be loved;  find a window and tap on it to make sure that it is real and not a window-pane-shaped video recording device,


k.

(image: Yumi Lambert by Yusuke Miyazaki _ L'Express Styles (France), November 2015 via genetic-freak tumblr)

A General Summary of Things as Described By a Snippet of a García Lorca Play Translated into English in Juxtaposition to a Photograph

LA PONCIA: Listen, Angustias, what did he say to you the first time he came to your window?

ANGUSTIAS: Nothing. What would he say? Trivial things.

MARTIRIO: What’s truly odd is that two people who don’t know each other should suddenly meet at an open window and become engaged.

ANGUSTIAS: I don’t find it astonishing.

(pause)


Dear Angustias,

I feel you.

be well; be loved,

k.


(image: A Turbulent Dream, by John Dugdale, 1998)