Poem Written and Folded Into a Paper Airplane and Dropped From a Hospital Window

One night you told me that if you had one wish that night
it would be sleeping next to me
The ferry was late
I was asleep

I felt proud I had enough clean laundry to leave a towel, a washcloth, and a t-shirt
out for you when you came in
I've always only been able to be slightly higher
than janky as fuck
(Your height above this
has always been something I have admired)

I cleaned my tub out real well
and had the soap you liked to use
I thought too much about the shower rug
because it had been six months
and you had never showered at my house before

I knew the lit candles while I was sleeping
would probably stress you out
but they were too sweet
to extinguish
You climbed into bed and
I could have held you for the rest of my life

Hospital Crowns and the Most Beautiful Sunrise I Have Ever Seen

Once, when I was in elementary school, there was an incident with my shoe being thrown onto the rooftop of a building that no longer exists that was close to my school.  A friend climbed up to retrieve it.  As we laughed and as he tried to find the shoe (me on the ground pointing to where I thought it was thrown, him on the roof running back and forth following my finger) a police car pulled up. They told us that a rooftop alarm had been set off and what were we doing there.

Because of this incident, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, started a belief that all rooftops of all buildings that are not homes (or not the homes of rich people), have weight-triggered alarms on them. I had always figured, "Well...this may or may not be true."

This morning, however,  I woke up on the rooftop of a hospital. There were no alarms. There were no police.  There was only the expanse of sky from a vantage point I have never seen in my life.

My companion, who works at the hospital and thus has access to such things, had gotten me to this level rooftop. We had set up two little tents (one for me; one for my companion). We had a yawning conversation about the difference between people who love as a verb (a messy but glorious garden) and people who love linearly (forward motion as mandate; the thinness of bright screen communication in replacement of hand in hand, eye to eye deep and reals*) -  but we quickly fell asleep in our respective tents. It was already so dark out. I fell asleep thinking of a conversation I had heard recently about love I have always related to.  How it does not start perfect and clean and beautiful. How two messy people meet and they work together to make something imperfect and smudged and undeniably, glowingly beautiful.  Yes.  I've always pictured both people as Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoons but with additional spaghetti in their (our) hair, holding onto each other and figuring out how to create the best and most beautiful love.

This is the love I love.

Yes.

In the morning, a few declarative bird chirps and the slow lift of the darkened sky's veil began to stir me. I pushed my head through the tent flaps, and could feel the barely beginning light reflect off of my eyes.  The sky's slow, deep and pungent colors.

I scooted out of the tent and sat there silently thinking about life at present. Sitting alone on the rooftop of that hospital watching the light and sky, the beginning growls of morning traffic crunching below me, I could feel the sharp electricity of potential and the hands of a thousand histories running up and down my arms.


be well; be loved,

k.
(image:  Tytus Szabelski via untrust you tumblr)
(*= "Deep and reals"= conversations of the heart that matter. This was a term learn from Luce, which I carry with me to this day. Thank you, Luce!)

Their Laugh is Like a Story That is Older Than Us All

Holy fuck the air is so clean tonight.

My musical inclinations have been shifting with the weather. I'm craving something that I don't usually crave. Something a bit more rock. A bit more grit.

One of my favorite things to do is drive, at night, over this one particular bridge with a beautiful view of the water and the city with my windows rolled down and music blaring.  It's always a different song, and I always cue it to start the second my tires wheel upon the bridge.  Tonight it was Hoop and Swan. Try it. It's incredible.  It's also where I learned the word prole.

(pause)


There is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself.  

and

What I would have done to have heard a story like mine.

-- H. Gadsby (read postscript, below)


Everything feels good right now. Right. It's the combination of telling the truth (it's the only way love can grow) and the first month of summer. Events lately have me thinking of friendship and drumbeats. I found myself thinking of this post from years ago. I think it describes where I'm from better than I could ever articulate now. The beginning and Andy. Not so much the Jeff part.

I love people's minds and hearts. I love thinking back to moments of hand holding and uncertainty. Of walking along train tracks and earnest conversations late at night.

I love the weird misfits and arguable outcasts that make up the people in my life. I love that the people in my life  will leave me messages like "Hey. I'm callin to wish you a happy birthday. I'm pretty sure it's the day before Ice Cube's and Tupac's is on Saturday. That's how I remember your birthday" or that conversations can go from how to resist what is going on in the world, currently, to conversations about super gay Tom Selleck swimming shorts.  Because of course they do.

Things feel right with reason. Who knows where things will go? It's summertime, the air is clear, and there is an invincible force that is culminating. Keep loving; keep fighting; keep your heart open and eyes clear.



be well; be loved,


k.

P.S. Watch Hannah Gadsby's standup Nanette on Netflix. It may start slow, but STICK WITH IT UNTIL THE VERY END. Holy shit. YES. YES. YEs and fuck shame. I'm not say this just because there's nothing like a masc presenting lesbian who has her shit together around sexism and misogyny (a slight swoon and mad applause here because this, unfortunately, is way way way too rare) let alone art history knowledge to boot. It's bigger/deeper than that. Connection. Emotion. Humanity. Fuck yes.
(title: Lyric from Hoop and Swan)
(image via lebonazze tumblr)

A Stone Cold Bitch Isn't Blushing

Yesterday was weird.

In the span of 1.5 minutes while waiting for a friend, I had a yelling man run up to me and ask me to hold his headphones because he was going to kick this other man's ass.  I just said "No." He walked off yelling and then another man came up to me and said "Hey I don't want to bother you or anything, I just want to say hello." To which I said "Hi."

(Casey, hilariously, was like what kind of fighter doesn't fight with his headphones on? It's way better with a soundtrack. lol)

Today is weird too.

Also, I'm over-relating to this video that the ever fabulous Theodora/Teddy Quinlivan posted specifically, and currently, the hilarious endpoint.


furious with how...


Be well, be loved, stop oscillating and do the work,

k.
(title: Quote from the ever fabulous Theodora Quinlivan)
(image: Stefanie Moshammer via www dot museumsportal-berlin dot de)

Only Lovers Left Alive

In the sun in a black sweater, surrounded by paints.  I'm working on this 12 painting art piece (12 because one for each month and because they are 2 inch by 2 inch paintings) for my friend Elise that lives far away.  It is for her birthday, even though her birthday was in October. I'm into how it's turning out so far.  She's someone who has had a really positive influence on me- just in who she is and how she lives her life.  I met her some ten plus years ago while we were both organizing with/for a domestic violence and sexual assault organization. Raising money to build their transitional housing, to be exact.  She's someone that's always felt like a kindred spirit, somehow.  Like I've known her in a different life or something. In any case, it feels good to almost be done with this piece for her.  In the past I've been sheepish to tell her about her influence.  Fuck that. Life is too short for that crap.  I know that already, but for some reason have still felt sheepish with her. She's a good mom. A good artist. A good organizer. A good person. I look forward to writing the letter that will be sent along with this.

(pause)

Lately I've been thinking a lot about learning and about love.  I've been reading a lot. Getting stuff in order to start school (again). After being so social while out of state, I've found myself choosing to spend a lot of time by myself-  getting lost in all of the good ways. Trying to balance out getting lost in lesson with engaging in the world around me.

There is some trust that is earned. And there is some trust that just is.

I'm not sure why I trust her to do what's right. I just do.

It's the reverse engineered something of the trust that Bourdain speaks of when describing a casual but automatic level of trust that was bestowed upon him by a guy who ended up being influential in his life:

I was so shaken by his baseless trust in me- that such a cynical bastard (...) would make such a gesture- that I determined I'd sooner gnaw my own fingers off, gouge my eyes out with a shellfish fork and run naked down Seventh Avenue than ever betray that trust.




Be well; be loved,

k.
(Title, of course, from the vampire movie of the same name set and filmed in Detroit.)
(image Natura Morta- Serie B -XI (after Man Ray) Giovanni Maria Sacco via tumblr via artlimited.net)

Love is a Rebellious Bird

(Saturday)

It's currently 8:37pm and I’m outside on an abandoned building. Just like I like it.

In my bag, there is a semi-stolen granola bar and a fruit roll up, which I didn’t even realize were still manufactured.

Today has been both weird and warm. Also just like I like it.

There are pockets of this city that people don’t know about. Even those who claim to have seen every part of this city. It simply has to do with one’s willingness towards the pure feeling of doing something you are not supposed to be doing. It’s something so much dirtier and exhilarating than planned events and mountain ranges. It’s something more slanted and sideways- the kind of adventure that makes your asshole tingle not because you’ve just taken a shot of alcohol but, rather, because you’re entirely sober and recognize the potential danger of what it is that you are involved in.

Every weekend this month I have accidentally ended up in a city that is hosting Pride.  This weekend, while Pride is happening in the city where I reside, I am the farthest away from leg wear and streaked make up as I can be.  Texts coming in about where to be are being ignored. This is an all together different operation. Yes, I am queer. Sometimes the best celebration of that entails ending up around wild rabbits and cans of spray paint along with (or being) the filthiest of gays (think: bike chain grease on fingers when there is no bike around for miles.)

There is an odd mechanical breeze that is associated with the whisk of cars flying by on the nearby highway. So loud in its metal, pavement and velocity that it becomes almost melodic. Then you remember what the sound consists of.



(pause. Early AM Sunday.)


I've been listening to, watching, and being involved with interviews with writers and thinkers I respect. It is feeding me as of late. There is a lot on my mind.  Continuing to make connections to something larger than my everyday life is one of them. It is important for so many reasons.

One item I am investing in is a text written by the late Anthony Bourdain. It is read by him as well. He reads fast but his words are beautiful.  He was, indeed, a genius sensualist. I look forward to hearing more of him, although I would be lying if I were to say that hearing his voice read particular phrases is not haunting. It is. Something between hearing his voice speak of his own premonitions and attractions and my own discomfort with the levels of connection I feel to it.

(pause)

I unexpectedly related very closely to a passage he wrote about a famous Ultimate Terror of a chef that would go off for at least ten minutes on each and every student. Some people would drop the class just to avoid the tirade in which nothing was sacred. The chef would throw handfuls of their food on the ground and demand if they considered it cuisine.  Each student knew that, in this one particular part of the class, everyone was guaranteed to "...in some way fail to meet our leader’s exacting standards".   Bourdain's description of how he handled the tirade is something I relate to so humorously and deeply as it relates to lovable tyrants I have had in my own life. People who have had this type of exacting standards that no one can actually meet. These standards make me laugh-in a loving way because I know where they come from - but I also know that laughing will ultimately have me being yelled at even more.

I cheered when I heard this part of the book. This "convict thing" he describes is as familiar as the blood in my veins. It is the exact method I have used most of my life when needed. I don't have to use it too often these days, although I have used it a handful of times this year, for certain:


I was ready. I could see Chef Bernard looking deep into my eyes as he began his standard tirade, could see him recognize a glimmer of something familiar somewhere in there.  I did the convict thing.  The louder and more confrontational the authority figure got, the more dreamy and relaxed I became. Bernard saw it happening . I may have been standing at rigid attention, and saying all the right things, ‘Oui, Chef! Non, Chef!’at all the right moments, and showing the right respect, but he could see, perhaps in my dead fish-eye gaze, that he wasn’t getting anywhere with me. 

He knew, I think, that I had already been humiliated. He looked into my eyes and saw, perhaps that (…) had done his work for him. I liked Chef Bernard and respected him. I enjoyed working under him. But the fat bastard didn’t scare me. And he knew it.  He could have smacked me upside the head with a skillet and I would have smiled at him through broken teeth.  He saw that, I think- and it ruined all the fun.





be well, be loved,

k


(title: translation of L'amour est un oiseau rebelle, the aria from the 1875 opera, Carmen. It has been on my mind since it was mentioned, in passing, in a book I am re-reading, currently, that was written by this neurosurgeon who does research on the connections between the brain and the heart, James Doty, entitled Into the Magic Shop. )
(photo: Angela Grubich via blackshivers tumblr)
(all italicized words written by Anthony Bourdain)

Quick

First:  An article to read.

Second: There is much more, but I have some things to tend to that require care and attention.

be well; be loved,

k.

Found Objects, or, You Die By Your Own Hand or Kill What You Can't Stand

(to be followed by listening to Die By Your Own Hand by Forgetters; part of title is taken from the lyrics)


A few days ago while walking along the water, I found a small but heavy chest stuck between two sizeable rocks.  The chest was like the ones used in seafood restaurant commercials, or found at the bottom of aquariums, to denote treasure.  Inside of it, wet but still in tact, there was a note and three photographs.

The note read:

I loved you the way someone should have loved you all along.
It will make you hate me.
It is easier to hate me than to hate anyone who should have loved you first, and well. 

The photographs were of a woman and a small child. On the back of one of the photos was written:

I try to know you but it's too late
Some (lady) told you how you're no good
So now you're gonna prove (her) right 

There was a smudge after the last line of the message. A lost word. Lost punctuation. A smear of grime. It was hard to tell. 

I gathered the contents and placed them back into the chest.  I pushed the chest back in between the rocks, careful to leave it angled upon the sharp beach where I found it.  The message was not for me, and I was certain that its contents were sought.




be well; be loved,

k.
(image via pancakebandit tumblr) 
(influence: The Night Accelerates by Forgetters)

Extraterrestrial Luminescence, or, Girl Loves Me Pt. II

P.S. In case you enjoy the music of Jherek Bischoff, there will be an incredible stream of him performing with some amazing artists in Paris at the Basillique de Saint-Denis playing David Bowie's Blackstar record.   It is just about to begin. The link is here:

https://www.arte.tv/fr/videos/083436-002-A/hommage-a-david-bowie-au-festival-de-saint-denis/

(Update 5 minutes into it: Crying a bit with how good it is, the familiar faces of some of the musicians, Bowie, the beauty of the location, and the odd electricity in watching it real time, and watching it with other friends of mine sprinkled around the country. It's not just Blackstar- the first song was from Low.  Update a bit later:  Full disclosure is that I'm not entirely into some of the singers but some I am. The music and especially the first piece was amazing. Girl Loves Me [my favorite song off the album] is incredible. The second half [after bows, etc. is great-- as is the pan of the audience and their huge smiles during the brief intermission].)

They got a message from the Action Man
"I'm happy, hope you're happy too
I've loved all I've needed, love
Sordid details following"


Such a needed church. Take care of and love yourself, the people in your life, the people in the world.

be well; be loved,

k.

Two Tale Juxtoposition: Feeling the World as it Rains, and, The Sun Upon My Shoulders

I'm thinking about all of this detention center bullshit that has been going on forever and the family separation bullshit that has been going on at the border. Trying to do, connect with, and plug into everything that matters with this. It's a nightmare that is part of a nightmare that has already been going on.

It takes a moment to be grounded in doing something and not fall into thinking that nothing is going to stop this or, alternately, thinking that any moment you savor in life is somehow extravagant when thinking about what is happening in the world right now.

Just connect and do. Don't martyr but don't succumb to overwhelm.  But don't just stand still. It's what I keep telling myself step by step by step.

(pause)

Some things that I'm grateful for that are on my mind:

I received a gift of a piece of art in the mail made by a friend of mine in California and it is absolutely perfect. It is the kind of thing that, when I hang it on the wall, I will get excited and inspired by it every time I look at it.

A friend gave me a box of lavender shortbread cookies that she made with the lavender she bought on a road trip we went on together a number of weeks ago.  They smell amazing. Such an incredibly thoughtful gift: To take one memory and fold it in to become another.

People don't tend to give me necklaces. (One, because I tend to keep my throat covered. Some misread this as a shyness about a scar that I have. That's not what it is. It's something more primal than that.)

Today a person gave me a necklace that they made that they weren't sure that I would wear, but that they thought it would look beautiful around my neck.  It is gorgeous. I'm not sure if I will wear it either, but I think I will one day. I'd need to work up to it. Create a gender for it. I can. I will. It's beautiful. Stunningly so. The light that catches on the tiny stones that lay on my collarbone (I tried it on) is absolutely ethereal.

I feel flattered in a strange way. People here tend to misread me or want me to be a person who is eternally or only "tough". I am not. I would not ever want to be that misread or that one dimensional. It freezes me in an extreme that doesn't actually exist in anyone. This freezing can be used to excuse anything. ("He would fight you like a man", my brother once said in describing my father's interactions with me.) "Can't you take it?" The answer is that I don't want to.

No matter the thinness of my body structure, it is rare to be viewed as delicate enough to wear something as intricate and fine as this necklace. It's not me talking shit about myself. It's just rare. Being viewed as delicate has always made me feel relieved, somehow. Like I can let my guard down. Fall into the arms behind me and know that I will be caught and kept and held.

Light reflecting off of tiny crystals without a single fear in my spine.

I like imagining that feeling.

I have had it before.

I will create it, again.

To take one memory and fold it in to become another.



be well; be loved,

k.
(image: Three Tulips - 1967 © Irving Penn)

The Gleam of a Thousand Stethoscopes Underneath the Moon

I came home to a birthday present from a friend here that was bought from a childhood friend of mine back home in Detroit. It was so thoughtful for him to connect with her in that way. I feel very loved. (I'm also completely sugar high at this point in getting through the gift.)

There's so much to savor from the past few days. It will take me a while to be able to digest and formulate.

For now:

1. Yes, I will admit that I loved my outfit at the Daddy's Social Club event that that Scotty put on. The name makes me laugh and is the perfect name for an event in the middle of the Midwest.

2. Good things and magic are moving.

3. We can have our desires and goals and dreams. We just can't be attached to how, exactly, we get there. Be open to what leads you when almost every part of your body tingles with what is right.

4. I am reeling at the love that is in my life, and I am grateful in a way I may never be able to adequately express.

and

5. So much love to everyone out there. Sometimes the people who hurt are the ones who are hurting the most.



Be well; be loved; 

k.

(Image: Chiharu Okunugi by Mote Sinabel Aoki for Harper’s Bazaar Japan Oct 2015 via genetic-freak tumblr)

The Back of Your Bathroom Door

Just past midnight. Today was so many good faces.  Queers I grew up with. Queers I organized with. Queers who influenced me for better or for worse. All grown up.

Also: Bad ass Palestinian DJs.

So many good connections with people (old and new) who inspire me to reach for more and who remind me that being a friendly person out in the world doesn't make you an idiot: It makes you human and it makes you an effective organizer.

(pause)

I will leave your key here in Ohio when I go. It feels fitting, somehow. Home touching home. Both of which are yours, neither of which were ever truly mine.



be well; be loved,

k.
(image: Eric Ruby via untrustyou tumblr)

Tender Daytona

It is very, very late or very, very early depending on how you look at it.

I'm not really sure how to describe the past 48 hours.  They are sublime in their details. Both beauty and decay.

D telling me about his trip back to Vietnam and being able to meet family of his he has never met. Us having conversations about love, friendship, life and the conversation we had about the suicide zine he was working on, years ago.  He drove 40 minutes to come see me and it makes me feel loved. When he texted me afterwards to tell me that I am a valuable part of his life, it made me feel loved even more so. He is one of those friends who means so much to me but one can never really articulate the anatomy of how/where/why.  It simply just is.

B told me of a conversation he and I had lifetimes ago on the porch of a domestic violence shelter and how/why it impacted his life in a positive way. He told me of a book he has been writing and how one of the main characters is based off of me. There were a lot of tears in the conversation. The good kind.

N, I am not sure how to encompass this. How is it that a gay bear and a gender weirdo could have the luck of connecting so deeply so long ago and still feel the same golden connection of friendship? Old souls. Deep friendship.

Casey and I walked and walked and had so many conversations about so many things.  All the while under a sky I have forgotten the expanse of. I don't know if there is something I enjoy more deeply than walking for hours without a destination in the summer evening in Ohio.

I'm listing these things and leaving so much out. Sometimes it is overwhelming to know that the people you love and admire love and admire you back.  It seems like such a basic or obvious thing.  It's  not.  It's not something I would ever take for granted.

(pause)

These things and stories and sentiments are of a foundation made of years and, in some cases, decades of knowing each other.  They are the people who do or do not know each other yet still have the same, consistent story of who I am and what I am like. This foundation is what alerts me to something undeserved. This foundation is what shines a light on the contrast of some things that have happened in the course of the same 48 hours with a person I have known for a relatively short period of time, but have cared for very deeply.

(pause)

Blame doesn't really compute with me. With the exception of situations involving force, systemic oppression, or captivity:  I get into situations through my own agency. I get out of these same situations through my own agency as well.

This is true of everyone.

The details can be lengthy or short, but it all comes down to decisions. I set limits as I need to. They are set for me. They don't imply blame. I don't blame you. I never have.

Blaming the other person:  I just don't think in those terms.

(pause)

There is always a point when you let go of a loyalty you wish was earned. It is slow. It is gradual. Letting go of a loyalty I wanted to give might always be hard.

Last night I felt it loosen to fall away.

I won't throw it down, nor will I throw it in a face: There is nothing admirable in shaming love or belittling feelings.


I will simply watch it dissolve 
and feel the heft of its weight

slip from my fingers.


May the endings in our lives, of all kinds, occur with a presence of profound love. 



be well; be loved,

k.

(Lisa and Anne Bosveld, by westografie via genetic-freak tumblr)

I'm not sure how this fits, but Paulo Freire's ideas of love being an act of courage, not of fear and thus love being a commitment to others and to liberation influences something of this.  Here, when he speaks of liberation, I am thinking more in terms of the liberation of oneself and each other from trauma, from history, and from hurt. Keep trying; keep fighting; keep knowing that the compassion you have for yourself becomes the compassion you show for others becomes how you continue to cultivate compassion for yourself. And on and on in love and courage.

Sundown Shadows

A moment of solitude in between adventures made necessary due to the telephone interview I will be taking within the hour.  No one is in the house I am at.  That is intentional.  I am sprawled across the most comfortable king size bed with short shorts on. That is intentional, too.

I am here in the midwest now.  Holy shit it feels so good.  My bones, again, are moving back into place. Swearing and toughness and tenderness all in the perfect amounts.

I've been thinking, lately, about a dating relationship of mine that has ended for good and how much, although I want to be friends at some point, in this moment it feels like such a weight and stress has been taken off of me.  No more melt downs. No more yelling at me. No more being emotionally punitive. No more just being, well, cold in a way that just doesn't feel loving at all. She's been going through so much in life, but one can only accept the ricochet of what one is willing to accept. I care about the person truly, but am currently feeling the warm honey glow of being in a midwest town during Pride Weekend surrounded by people who know what it is to love the shit out of each other and go so fucking deep with not all of the words.  To go deep believing the best of each other.  To go deep because we can and want to. At the same time, there is that odd ghost that pops up. Places I know she would love or love to photograph. People she would enjoy and who would enjoy her. 

In time if it feels right to me.

I have a good track record of folding former lovers into the folds of my life as my best of friends. But the commitment to holding onto each other was always there.  That hasn't felt to be the case with this one, and that matters to me. Sometimes people are so used to doing things fiercely on their own that that is the main and only road they know with a few exceptions.  And I don't want that.  There are things to be fierce about. Fiercely individualist or self sufficient isn't one of them for me. Interdependence, support, community and collaboration towards lesson. That is something to be fierce about. It is the ability and desire to allow people to depend on you and for you to depend on them that is one of so many ways that trauma is undone. And, for me? That is where it's at.  Being brave, stupid, gentle and smart. Lace your fingers with mine and show me who you are. I'll do the same.  Life is so rich and beautiful and even overwhelming at times with the beauty of those that are okay with looking silly in true attempts to connect.  I love every person who strives toward that.  That includes me.  And I guess that is the lesson of all of this.


be well; be loved,

k. 

(Image: En. .bLanc. via ilmiolabirinto tumblr)

Do Not Love Half Lovers, or, How to Bask in True Love: A Guide for Firefighters, Managers and Exiles

Do not love half lovers.

Do not entertain half friends.

If you accept then accept it bluntly: Do not mask it.

If you refuse, then be clear about it:  For an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance.



-excerpts from, Do Not Love Half Lovers, by John Siddque

I can't get over the amount of love I have seen in the past four days.  I would act as if it is luck, and one part of it is.  The rest of it, however, is years of cultivation of love that has taken so many forms over the years.  I can't get over how many loved ones I will get to see, how, where, and why. 

 Currently at the airport.  The soundtrack?  Is this. 


Also to be filed under "fuck yes" poems:  The Guest House


This being human is a guest house. 
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

 The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-Rumi


I will have more to say, and soon.  For now, I will say that it has to do with the love and compassion of what Bessel Van der Kolk refers to as Firefighters, Managers, and Exiles. Holy healing hell of love.


Be well; be loved.

I will see you soon and, perhaps, you'll let me touch your heart and I'll let you touch mine.


k.

(title: the title of a poem by John Siddque.  First two lines are from this bad ass poem.)
(image: from the beginning of this week with beautiful people and in celebration)

Tried and True Direction

And just like that, pre-6:30am, the family you have built comes into view and everything else fades to black.

k.

Pendings: A List

News comes today.
Breathe.
When someone who loves you never asks you about your art.
It was nice to get flowers.
The people who are worth it are the ones who show up when you need them to.
This week.
He has something for me and he hopes that I like it.
Sweet boy.
Life moves on.
Consistency will always win with me.
Death.
Airline tickets.
It's hard to have the family I do in moments like these.
Oakland.
Hold me until I can't cry or breathe anymore.
I met you on the fourth floor of that famous old building when I first moved here.
Diagnosis or results; birthday; job interview: in that order.
When you love someone: Engage.  It is not just suicide prevention. It is something even larger.
Tender hearts, always.
Growth.
There are some people that will always go to anger. I am so thankful I am not one of them.
There is so much change and growth that can happen within one year. Thank you, J.
When you love someone enough to make sure everything is okay. 
Seeing people helping other people out.
Tenderness.
Tenderness.
Tenderness.
Open.
Vulnerable.
Anger. Beauty. Emotion.
Put your hand on my back. Leave it there for an eternity.
Honesty.
To the people who are bigger than the moment they find themselves in.
It's not about the substance use. It's about the instant disappearance of the person.
You are more lovable than what they taught you.
Boundaries are not rejection.
It is too sad for me to think of all your lonely dinners.
The music outside of my window at night.
Purity of heart vs selfish hearts
Just close your damn eyes and jump into the belief that you are loved.
When fear is better than being afraid. 
The two of us walking in the rain.
Take care of each other.
Wish fulfillment (the thing and the Sonic Youth song).
Going within.




May you never feel you have to coax the love out of anyone who claims to love you. You should be showered with  love in little and and big ways, everyday.



be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Human heart showing vessels at the Mütter Museum, Philadelphia Photo credit:  by Robert Clark via malformalady tumblr)

Dreamscapes, or, the Man in Red Chiffon Who Appeared Between Two Elevators in my Dreams

Dreams, while traveling, tend to be the most accurate. The most clear in their symbolism.

Last night in my dream, I was sitting next to Bakke, a former partner of mine who, to this day and probably forever will stand as the most calm, stable, safe, protecting and unflappable person I have ever been partnered with.  I was sitting between him and another former partner of mine I felt safe with (possibly Bradly) who both were wearing similar outfits of dark jeans and flannel button downs.  I remember thinking that, although I didn't care much for flannel, that tonight it was appreciated because I was flanked by it and, when it comes down to it, flannel - like cashmere- is one of the fabrics that is closest to dressing as a teddy bear in a socially acceptable way in public.

In any case. The three of us were sitting in stadium type chairs. There were rows of people next to us, behind us, and three rows in front of us. We were at some type of event, although it was was unclear what kind it was.  I knew there was a dinner. I knew that it was important or fancy even though people's dress did not reflect that.

Suddenly, a woman in a uniform stood up in front of everyone. It was not an actual uniform, but rather, the type of regular street clothing that can be worn to imply a uniform.  She seemed angry about something.

She pulled out a small gun. What is she going to do with that? I remembered thinking.

She then placed it under her chin, slightly pressed it against the U of the underside of her jawbone, and shot herself.

Her body fell to the ground.

I stayed seated between the flannel of Bakke and Bradly as people ran to her body.




be well, be loved,

k.

Postscript: Thank you to Bakke and Bradly who are both people who I've dated for long chunks of time who made me feel safe, offered deep stability, and were consistently very thoughtful. Relationships can be sites of healing trauma and other weird shit. These were two examples of that, without doubt.  They aren't the only ones, of course, but I recognize the reasoning that it was the two of them that appeared in this dream, and why.

(image: By Juan Madrid via untrustyou tumblr)

I've Got This Nasty Habit: When I Need Something, I Just Reach Out and Grab It

One of the things about being psychologically stimulated in all things sex is that you can get away with doing just about anything, un-clocked, because it's all how you look at it.  Like asking a hot femme who she goes to for waxing/sugaring because you're read as a femme and, from what you've observed, this is a perfectly acceptable question even though you think it's completely insane to ask someone that.  Then, you go to that exact person. And, as it turns out, the woman rubbing sugar on your stuff ends up telling you all of the complimenting things said femme has said about you. An accidental messenger that doesn't understand the language they are reciting back.

It's something of self-topping.

It's something of flirtation.

It's something that no one wearing their vanilla visors would ever be able to catch.

Pure enjoyment.

Oh my, Ms. Sugar, what your hands have in common.

(What? Arrest me.  It will just turn into a scene, anyway.)


[pause]

"Can I ask you about your hanky?"

It's such an obvious and odd question.  They know enough to know that it's sexual, but they also test it enough to ask permission.

I'll answer.

There's no way I'm going to let them hear me tell them no, mid-day and with nothing earned.

[pause]

It's been months of this.

My heart true as ever.

Somehow, I'm still being accused of the most basic violations I would never commit.

What can you do when you're locked out and there are twists to be turned and rug burn to be caused?

A gentleman is a gentleman

is a pansy is a pansy.

But, in the end, I am a hopeless romantic:

When I fuck her, I'll use both of my middle fingers so that I may feel closer to you.




be well; be loved,

k.

(title: Fugazi. I can't stop listening to the Repeater album.  I know, I know. So meta.)
(image: Alexandra Kehayoglou, "Shelter for a Memory" made of 100% natural wool. Click on the image to see it up close)

Feeling the Freedom 90 lyrics, yet again, tonight.

I won't let you down
I will not give you up
Gotta have some faith in the sound
It's the one good thing that I've got
I won't let you down
So please don't give me up
'Cause I would really, really love to stick around, oh yeah

Thank you, George Michael, for your blatant and an unapologetic faggotry.  You were an inspiration to me and mine. 

When I Was Growing Up, One of My Brothers Referred to Me as Sir

I just saw The Field Guide to Evil, which is a bunch of shorts from really great film makers from around the globe that were asked to make a film based on folklore or a fairy tale.

Here's the thing.

The last film is Peter Strickland's The Cobbler's Lot and I CAN'T STOP FLIPPING OUT ABOUT HOW GOOD IT IS.

It has everything:

Shoe fetish, men with eyeliner, a woman with a trained raven, a toppy king (also in eyeliner) who pulls the most fucked and amazing toppy death couture I've ever seen in my life, blood on a quasi-wedding dress, jizz, women in these weird body stockings that are supposed to make them look naked, young men kneeling in front of an older man in a throne, two brothers who look like young/weird Robert Smiths, a forest, embroidered stockings, a princess, murder, ghosts...  It is a visual and thematic orgasm. Someone *please go and see this so that we can talk about it*.


(image: Man Ray, Legs)

Necessary Feeding

This early evening, I went to go see a friend in a brief play of George Bernard Shaw's, How He Lied to Her Husband, and it kind of blew my mind. I'm sitting there thinking, how the fuck could someone born in 1846 and dead in 1950 get slivers of the angles and kinks of my relationships so perfectly?

I poked around a bit and found some quotes from Shaw that resonated and made me laugh specifically about this play. Evidently, in the preface of the play, Shaw describes it as "a sample of what can be done with even the most hackneyed stage framework by filling it in with an observed touch of actual humanity instead of with doctrinaire romanticism." (Emphasis mine). 

Equally as entertaining is what he says (and, here, I'm just pulling from Wikipedia), "Nothing in the theatre is staler than the situation of husband, wife and lover, or the fun of knockabout farce. I have taken both, and got an original play out of them, as anybody else can if only he will look about him for his material instead of plagiarizing Othello and the thousand plays that have proceeded on Othello's romantic assumptions and false point of honour."

In any case, it was enjoyable and, of course, my friend was incredible in it.

Conversations about theater and family and addiction and neurodiversity ensued, afterwards.

Anytime I hang out with her I find myself deeply grateful that we met when and how we did. She's a wise one with the knowledge of art and theater I crave. I could talk with her for hours.

(pause)

In other news, I went to go see a beautiful film out of Mexico recently called Los tigres no tienen miedo/Tigers are Not Afraid. I'll be thinking about it a lot.  If you get a chance, go see it. You can watch the English subtitled trailer here. 

There's more to say, here, but I need to get my ass to bed.


A last thought?

There is a place where innocence and fantasy are the only escape. 

Such places may not make quaint manners; but they will always cultivate fascinating minds.


be well; be loved,

k.


(image: Janis Ancens photographed by Giampaolo Sgura for the seventh issue of Candy zine  - via homotography dot blogspot dot com)
(last italicized sentence is from the beginning of the trailer that is linked)