The Peace We Build and the Hands it Touches

There's a person I supervise who is around eighteen or so. When she first started working under me, there were some boundary issues: I'm an obvious queer; so is she. She would wait until people weren't around and ask me questions that were in kind of a gray area of things related to queerness. One day she asked me if I thought it was wrong that she was thinking of asking a woman out who was significantly older than her.  I decided to use it as an opportunity to tighten up some boundaries.  I told her, "Well, I can't have this conversation with you because I am your supervisor and that gets into boundary stuff that I'm not comfortable with. But what I can say is that you should talk with folks you trust about it, and that you should always feel respected and safe in any relationship that you are in."

Over the next almost year, everything goes fabulously.  We are able to talk about life (including queer related things -events on campus, film, etc. etc.) and are just generally able to have a good work related relationship to each other that is hilarious and productive.

So two nights ago I go into work and we are chatting and she tells me about a youth drag show that happened in the city.  She said that each youth drag king and queen was paired with a drag mentor. "Anyway", she said, "they asked everyone in the crowd to think about a person who is a queer role model for them. Someone who is a role model in just being out and simply living their lives unapologetically. You being super out here made me feel like I could be out here, too. So I just want you to know that you are that person for me."

Of course I stifled bursting into tears and, instead, simply started to glow. I told her I appreciated that very much and that I felt like I was winning the most valuable kind of award.

I was.

I'm pretty sure I'm still glowing from that.

(pause)

The universe, through situations like this and the one with Scoob and a few others has really been letting me know that what I believe in my heart of hearts really is true: That setting boundaries with people is not pushing them away, it is what allows you to become closer.  That boundaries are one of the most necessary components to love.  I'm being reminded that it is within boundaries that we are able to be who we are, get what we need, and become close in ways that are as deeply impactful as they are lasting.


be well; be loved,


k.

(image: A young Catholic wears a gasmask during clashes with British troops after a night of teargas and street fighting, Derry, 1969, Hans-Jörg Anders via secretcinema1 tumblr)

Pussy Control, or, Things I Have Learned Twofold Since the Fall Started and Winter Approaches

Do not sneak crush me. Meaning: Do not put a little "platonic friend" costume on and then try and come up with reasons that you need to stay the night at my house and send me poetry. Be up front with what you are after. And when I say no thank you, don't start some prolonged death scene. I don't respect it and will more than likely remove you from my life as one would remove a drunk from a bar.

Meditation fucking rules. Meaning: Today is day 181 of meditation. The shit changes you. Period. I see things more clearly and do not fuck around.

Art influences art. Meaning: If you are stuck in one realm of life (writing, painting, fucking, doing homework, etc) then just switch to one of the other realms for a few enjoyable hours. It will cause the stuck piece to become unstuck.

Keep it classy. Meaning: Even if you could "win" (an argument, a moment, a competition, a court case), do not  step outside of your integrity. If you stay within it, you will end up winning in more ways than you can count and in all of the ways that matter.


That's all for now. I'm back to cuddling with my ever-sexy primary partner of grad school.



be well; be loved,

k.


(image is from Hood By Air's Spring 2015 show/ by Lea Colombo)

How Many Times Do I Have To Tell You: Even When When You're Crying You're Beautiful Too.

Today has been thick socks and leftovers.

I feel very happy and am looking forward to next week.

But, for now, I am completely content in the time capsule that is the in between.

In all realms.

Be well; be loved,

k.


(title: Lyrics to the ever emotional song by John Legend)

The Beauty of Transfusions, or, An Angel Among Us

One of my favorite things in the world is to wake up with people I love in cities other than the one I live in. Then, to drink coffee with them while still in my pajamas.  Today I have succeeded in both of these things but, in addition, there is an adorable dog sniffing at the toes of my socks and the smell of spices in the air.

I am into life as of late.

Two nights ago I went to the Dark Arts Castle. It was so great to be in A's space with her and to see that nothing has changed: We both still have the same obsessive aesthetic of filth and style and darkness. She gave me a miniature book of Beardsley's art. Between my love of his art, his nose, and of tiny things: She knows me.

In other news: I'm trying to get my 60 some year old professor to be friends with me.  I can tell he has so many viewpoints I need to learn from, and so much experiential knowledge in what has ignited me.  I don't think I'll ever be able to express how grateful I am for randomly ending up in his, exact class. It has, without question, changed my life by giving me tools and information on a topic that has been vital, vulnerable and important to me my whole life.

Glory be, as they say.

May healing and time open you to a love that is beyond anything you could have ever possibly imagined. 

A love in which your belief

undoes your disbelief.


Be well; be loved,

k.



P.S. Shout out to Zebbie who knows just when to descend upon my life with his hilarity and philosophies. I love you, weirdo.


(Image: EXSANGUE/Yannis Angel via appendixes tumblr)
(Last sentence: your belief undoes your disbelief is a line from a favorite Anne Sexton poem about love that always sticks with me.)

Domestic Partnering, or, Before Your Eyes Change Their Color for the Last and Final Time

My pants are spattered with slate grey paint.  There is some on my rings and fingernails, as well.  Tonight was apartment painting with a friend of mine. It's one of those weird things I enjoy immensely. I find it meditative, somehow. It makes my body ache in a way I love. You can also learn a lot about a person from how they paint a room with you. Tonight was no exception.

The mattress upgrade I have been experiencing as of late is basically changing my life. Who knew that such things could impact you so much? I swear to God I am sleeping so soundly. (A sweet thank you to A. who pointed me in the right direction years ago with that weird egg carton foam thing that was on my bed for years until I finally got rid of it last week.)

I feel really thankful as of late.  It has nothing to do with the season. It has to do with the people I've loved, the relationships that we have built, and what they have carried and continue to carry (each of us at different times). There are times that I feel overwhelmed at how much love there is in my life. It can be so incredible to feel the weight and expanse of it at times. It can feel completely sublime.

It's always beautiful to see the people who have been in my life for many seasons greet the people who are just being welcomed into the fold. Somehow, we/I always know who it is important to hold onto for good, no matter how far away they might be.


be well; be loved,

k.

(title: includes needed redundancy)
(image: YSL at Dior's funeral via yvonneconstance tumblr)

Love, or, Your Cat Says Stop Torturing Yourself

Tonight was such a ridiculously perfect evening. I had my favorite new sweater on and found myself high up in the balcony with my back against the wall (safety and a little box: what is not to love?!) with such a good heart sitting next to me as we watched one of my favorite authors read.  It's odd because it's not so much that I think he is an amazing writer as I think he is an amazing storyteller.  I could listen to the cadence of his voice for hours, and I have.

More importantly, he read a piece having to do with an author who made me weep with his description on numerous, numerous occasions.  "Words so beautiful that they wound", indeed.  

So, there I was, sitting up there in the dark in my favorite soft sweater tearing up listening to what was more or less a love poem that one of my favorite authors had written to one of my all time favorite writers. I was in total literary heaven. The tears that balanced on my lashes were fat and real. The words that have saved my life have saved my life on more than one occasion.

*

I have taken to pinning the tiny, aged Saint Sebastian medal to the inside of my jacket facing my chest.  A hidden story and homosexual icon that only I can see.  It conjures the smells of the church I grew up in with all of its dark wood and stained glass the color of jewels.

I talk to you even though you aren't around anymore.

Surely no one can fault me for the smile it brings to my face.


k.

(image: Salvador Dalí — The Eye of Time, 1949, platinum, rubies, and diamonds)

Con mis manos mortales

These days and nights have been strong, directed and tender all at once. Earlier this evening I was reminded of one of the more ridiculous truths of me in that, when I put on my favorite cologne, I end up turning myself on from its scent. It is an unexpected and distracting element of tonight, and one that gets odd when interacting with strangers, but it is pleasurable. It makes me think of some of the colognes you used to wear.  Something between black pepper and white linen.

I've been thinking about your hands as of late. I seem to have a thing for people with small hands and fat-stub fingers. That probably isn't surprising. It's been quite a long time since I've been with someone who has fingers and hands that match mine.

I think of you masturbating, sometimes. I'm not sure if that is weird to say, but, it's the truth.  I think of how fucking sexy you are when you do it and I start to laugh when I wonder if your cat, sometimes, gets in the way. (Not a euphemism).

In any case. I have work to do if I am going to meet up with these people, tonight. I am in an odd combination of business mode (clean lines, black and charcoal and a deep grey because, as you know, they are different) and the mode of what would make you nervous sometimes. The mode that has no shame and only wants to see you do all that you've never done. There is no blushing. Only eye contact and those thick-ass thighs of yours that I love. Thighs that quench my thirst and demand it again in one, weighted, motion.

This painting, by Ángel Zarraga, reads, very small in the bottom right hand corner:

Señor,
No sé  celebrarte
como el poeta
en versos complicados
pero acepta
Señor
esta obra áspera
y humilde
que he hecho
con mis manos mortales.


And at times, to you, I say the same.



be well; be loved,

k.

The Lamp That Your Cat Knocked Over and Other Truths That Set Us Free

I.

I am still stunned that I am now living in the same state as members of my family of origin, and it is amazing.

II.

It is the last few weeks of this semester. I am excited and have exactly zero extra time. But that is okay. I have found my new favorite place in which to stash myself so that I am never found.

III.

I've been imagining how Sarge would get involved in some of what is going on as of late. How he would use his ethical and ruled compass to shine a floodlight on some bullshit. I keep imagining how he and Scoob would interact. They are like adorable inverses but reflections of each other, somehow. Scoob preceded him by many years. They never had the chance to meet. Maybe one day.

IV.

Holy fuck and healing. I know it's completely cliche to talk about things like the 'power of love' and all of that kind of thing, but it is no joke. Things that feel like horrible mountains can disintegrate and fall with a puff into the ocean in a matter of moments, actions, words.

Family- every construction and/or birth of it- can, very literally, change your life. (Here, the words "change your life", again, falls flat. But, if you will, think about the actual words. Try and forget that it is an overly used string of words and truly try and feel the weight of the phrase).

V.

Show the world who you are.  That beautifully wired heart and mind of yours. All of the pain that may be laced within it. All of the tastes and flavors that you prefer.

If I've ever told you that I love you, you can know that I have meant it and forever will.  It's not something I say often. It's something, only, that I mean and, somehow, I've always known who to say it to.



be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Alberto Burri - Cretto, 1976. acrovinilico su polistirolo. via giampixxx tumblr)

In(n) Keeping

Returning from a weekend out of state. There's a new moon in Scorpio, and I have been easing into and taking advantage of every opportunity of healing that has offered itself. What has happened in these last few weeks has been incredible, earned, and so incredibly impactful.

I'm grateful for every person who has been a part of this.

I am grateful for the people who have not, as well.

be well; be loved,

k.

*****

I am a possessive boy/friend
I know that this is one of the things
you had secretly hoped
was true

You've never been kept before.

I can feel that in your wild responses
They are a mixture
of family and bones
grief and uncertainty
singularity and determination.

You have a familiar vernacular.
The kind of the kids I grew up with
who are quick to insult you
at any
silent pause
because
deep down
they are terrified
that you will leave.

Someone once told me
that the way you know you love someone
is if, when you see a photo of them as a child,
you want nothing other than to scoop them up
protect them
pinch them
celebrate every specific fleck of color in their eyes
every curve of their face
every angle of their toothless smile
that you know will eventually grow into

the person you know today.

I am a possessive boy/friend

and proximity and promise
have little to do with
this stillness
this calm
this keeping.

Falling Backwards into a Pool Full of Feathers

Roughly 10am. My fingers are cold. I'm sitting alone at the end of one of those long, wood, communal tables that some of the hipper cafes, bars and restaurants tend to have.

I had a dream about you two nights ago.

You were on a date in a restaurant and you looked beautiful. I walked up to the table and greeted your date, placed my hand at the top of your sternum and started to rub and pat your chest.  I looked at your date and said, "This one has one of the most beautiful and genuine hearts in the world." There was a pause. I smiled warmly at her and said "congratulations", and meant it. I took my hand off of your chest, and left without looking at you: What I wanted to remember was the feeling of your chest underneath my hand.


be well; be loved,

k.

One taught me love; One taught me patience: This song instantly stuck to my brain.

(Image: Steven F. Arnold, Sea of Transition)

Under the Christmas Tree This Year

I'm about to go to bed.

Tomorrow begins a new chapter of my life.

Sometimes the dreams that I aim for have a way of manifesting in such literal and unexpected ways.

I'll take it.

Joyously.

It serves to reinforce the the most important guideline that has proved itself every single day every single year:

Never make excuses or blame people.



Let's do this.

k.

The Art of Testing for Danger, or, Soft Paw Pressing Upon Uncertain Ice

Coffee steaming softly in a mug to my right, a nine volt battery and foil color silken tie adorned with gray roses to my left. My aim, today, is to get everything done in exactly enough time to keep my commitments to show a newer gay around town. He is the boyfriend of a dear friend, and he has a Boston accent so thick that it will be a misread Chicago and Boston duo sauntering about town, tonight.

If I really gun it, I can go to the graphic novel/comic/zine convention with a few of my friends.  I'm all about getting fed/inspired/ignited by art.

(pause)


There is a context that I have been working in as of late that involves easily 30 children.  There is one little girl who does not speak at all unless asked to.  People label her as shy. Quiet. Her ways are familiar to me.

In the past month, each time I am there, she will come at sit at my ankles. When everyone is too busy in their bustle, she will poke my ankle with the eraser end of a yellow pencil. She turns her back to the crowd, as if she doesn't want them to see her speaking, and asks me a hundred questions.

This happens often with me: Quiet kids and feral animals always know that I'm safe.  I don't ask them to do things they aren't comfortable with. I don't ask them to speak. I don't ask them to accept unwanted or unearned affection. But if they have something to say I will listen, and I will ask.  And if they force their little harried and fur-covered head under my hand, I will pat them gently.


Trust is a slow burn process.


I have all the patience in the world.




be well; be loved,
k.

(image: Tokyo, 2013, Tatsuo Suzuki, via secretcinema1 tumblr)

To Stare With Strong Eyes and No Weapon Around But One's Own Raison D'être

It is cold outside.

But inside it is warm with blankets and a heartbeat that is skipping, in time and in happiness.

I've been learning a lot about people who write. People who are different. People who are less likely to be in crowds of people and loud sounds. People who appreciate the tightness of a shirt collar or the pinch of slender, tall heel. People who can focus, very clearly, when the rest of the world is drown away.

I've been feeling very in my skin as of late.

With a solitary bank lamp and the perfect amount of chapstick on my smile. Dots of light on the end of every eyelash as I look down to read or to write or to imagine. There is a delicate feeling upon the corners of my mouth. My lips have been curved into a smile these days. The kind that feels electric and supple and makes me want to place my fingers on the parenthetical lines around my mouth to enjoy them. To study them.

So many things have built this tenderness and this truth. It feels good, tonight, that they are being silently celebrated, here, and in a more just manner on the other side of the city.

It feels good to be worthy of protection.

In the last three years I've learned that the only strength worth any weight will always involve a showing of our most soft and precious targets, hidden by nothing. Only the light hitting their nude and honest selves, a posture of dignity laced within them, will set us free.



be well; be loved,

k.

(image: bart dosa via inneroptics tumblr)