On Having Lost All Perspective

 
I've been trying to figure out that middle ground of authenticity and connection mixed with appropriateness when talking to particular people I care about who are in my life about my life. 

In particular- although not exclusively- the challenges I have with this are in conversations with cis straight people who I genuinely like and care about. 

Culturally, sex and perversion is just something more casually talked about in queer contexts.  Not always, but usually.

For this reason, a question of "So what's been going on lately?" is filled with images I filter and sort through in order to find one that feels appropriate. The recent queer sex in a hotel room a few hours out of town seems like an out-of-place topic for this conversation. My mind's fingers fumble over to run along my recent combination-kink of freshly shaven and oiled legs, deep emerald green panties, and butter cookie flavored lip balm. This, too, seems at odds with the context. 

So my mind tries to imagine what would fit with them and I end up thinking of stupid, stereotyping topics such as taxes. 

[Interestingly, I asked a queer friend what he thought he could talk to straight people about and he, too, said taxes. Why does this feel so certain?]

It's not just with cis, straight people of course. 

At this point it could be with anyone.

be well; be loved,

k.

Of Sight and Sound in Fragments

 

Sometimes, lists are the only way to communicate. 

A Morse Code of sorts when one is too bogged down or overwhelmed to jewel together words in order to create a beautiful sentence to lay across your collarbone.  

A list as of late would include:

-You with your penchant for the Midwest, your 1950s barbershop hair and wild eyes.

-The spike of a stiletto shattering your classic Christmas bulbs: Solid red, solid green, solid blue - their silver innards spread across a hardwood floor and the satisfying crunch under my shoe.

-My hand upon my mother's chest in my hometown. The waterlogged nugget of sponge I placed into your mouth. The sandpaper grit in which your tongue stuck to it.  My aim and learned accuracy of getting the morphine exactly and slowly upon those furthest molars: A slow steady short distance down that throat that produced every word I have ever heard you speak.

 

 

(pause)

 

It would also include the observation: It is rare that one hears the sound of a firecracker and hears only a singular pop. 

 

 (pause)

 

 

I have been reading about the art of Sophie Calle (thank you, E.), and thinking about the concept not of "love at first sight", but of the "love at last sight" that Walter Benjamin references in his book Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism. 

 

Love at last sight.  

Tell me of the people and times it makes you think of.

be well; be loved,

k.