In My Defense, I Have None

 

The past 48 hours have been a mysterious, sudden rainstorm with the majority of the people in my life contacting me with something that is beating them down. These are the moments I stand between recognizing that the world is on fire, and feeling so fucking blessed to be in a space to offer the widest, warmest shelter in which to house them. There is nothing that feels better than a person I love contacting me and needing a moment of presence and witness and me feeling, down to the chalk of my bones, that they have come to exactly the person who can offer them the strongest arms in which to hold all of the momentary broken pieces. 

It is both a strange and beautiful feeling to be in a moment of entire watershed and storm and, consistently, feel internally at peace and as strong as the oldest and most deep-rooted tree in an untouched forest. This will not always be the case, but I am grateful that it has been for the longer parts of the past ten months. It is a tart and humbling realization to know that it is not the wickedness of world that brings me to my knees, it is the love and gory humanity of the people who exist within it.

be well; be loved,

k.

(title: Lyric from the 1 by T Swift)

(Image: Louise Robert Dust Magazine n°14 ph. Hugo Comte via jinxproof tumblr)

Edison's Stigmata & the Art of Cupping Your Hands

I had gotten up early this AM to do some reading, homework and to act like I am a person who gets up early every morning.  So far I have a cup of coffee, some downloaded readings, and a stack of jalapeño bagels in a crinkly plastic bag.

One step at a time.

If you have not read it yet, I would suggest reading Sonya Renee Taylor's The Body is Not an Apology. In particular, I would recommend the audio version of it, if it is accessible to you. Sonya Renee Taylor was in some of the same circles as I was at a point in time, and her reading voice - her reading or spitting her own words, in particular- is amazing.  The epigraph and prologue, alone, had me tearing up. She writes an ode to her mother's belly in the very beginning of the book that will squeeze, ruin and save you- all in the course of less than two minutes.

It is a necessary read.

As I sit here, gearing up, I am surrounded by a string of lights that have bulbs on them the exact size of my palm. It creates the feeling of light illuminating from my palms, and I find it both comforting and sublime.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Anjelica Huston, 1972, Bob Richardson via Secretcinema1 Tumblr)

The Importance of Being an Anchor, or, The Unnatural Tides of Planned Loss

I sat next to and by the same loved ones I did ten years ago.

This time, the child that was growing in G's body back then stood ten years old and somber.

When R, A, D, T and the two small, tiny-faced children went up to do a cover of Iron and WIne (and Calexico)'s He Lays in the Reins as a familly-and-friend band to do the last tribute to him, it killed me.

One more gift to bring
we may well find you laid;
Like your steed in his reins,
Tangled too tight and too long to fight.

How much pain does a family have to see, and how many friends have to keep from drowning?

When we first saw each other, we said nothing. We just walked toward each other, put our arms around each other, and I held him as strongly as any man could as he sobbed into my shoulder.

Such moments are the gold and the privilege I am blessed with.

There are no words but the sunlight that poured down on us that day amidst the rain and thunder and lightening that made green of the grass sublime.

I am home now.  I arrived at the airport to the beauty waiting for me with a handful of flowers. I know when I need her to, she will hold me as strongly as any woman can and I will sob her into her shoulder.

But such things unravel slowly. Bathing and tending to a death by one's own hand is such an odd and dark blossoming in its opening.

It will be my time to come undone, soon.

But for now, my arms are still wrapped around him in that funeral home from a few days ago. The futile, albeit romantic, gesture of trying to suck venom from the bite of a snake.



be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Ahndraya Parlato via untrustyou tumblr)

The Glow of Tree Lights and the Prick of the Needles

"If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash"

Earlier tonight, we went last minute holiday shopping. It's such a weird feeling. Families and couples are out and about getting wrapping paper and stocking stuffers. We were running around getting Legos for a 3 year old and some house warming stuff for the 3 year old's adults.

But, deliciously, now:

It's late, but not too late.
I'm excited.
My home is warm, my guests are gone, the living room smells like fir and eucalyptus and there is a fire going next to me.
The presents are wrapped.
The house is silent.
I'm content and cozy and grateful.

The blend of holiday and bliss, reading and warmth, the annual meet ups of the family-less faggots in the gay bars and actually-open donut shops is what I look forward to most. Family, family, family jewels. There is a warmth in the connection of what we have seen growing up and in what we have seen in the world as it has changed back and forth. Every year on these nights the taunt and playful chant is the same for a thousand different reasons of both dark and light:

Boot the grime of this world in the crotch, dear
And don't go home tonight
Come out and find the one that you love and who loves you
The one that you love and who loves you


See you over the next two days and nights and we will show the world why Christmas is always better with warmth of heart and a Santa in assless chaps,

be well; be loved

k.
(bolded words: Lyrics from Shelia Take a Bow by The Smiths)
(image: Leonard Cohen quote)

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)

The Taste of Cherries and My Everlasting Love of Necessary Thieves

I coddle my hooligans when I'm not bullying them. I'm visibly charmed by their extra-curricular excesses and their anti-social tendencies. My love for chaos, conspiracy and the dark side of human nature colors the behavior of my charges, most of whom are already living near the fringes of acceptable conduct.
                                               - Anthony Bourdain

There are many things I have seen and tasted in life.  There are many things I am seeing and tasting in life, currently. But for some reason, tonight, I want to take you back to one of the most innocent moments I can remember in my life.  A moment that feels like it should have existed in the 1950s. A moment that feels so pure in comparison to anything else, arguably, that has transpired.

(pause)

When I was a child, I took a piece of candy from the Brach's candy display in my local supermarket.  It was the candy by the pound bulk bin display.  As my mother pushed the cart past the display, I took the piece that I wanted (a candy coated gumball, if I recall correctly), and placed it on the bottom of the cart. The part underneath the cart, for oversized or heavy things.  Somehow, I got the piece of candy to balance between two of the long, parallel, metal bars that made up the shopping cart.

When we got to the line and we emptied the cart onto the black rubber-ish conveyor belt to check out, the candy remained under the cart. We placed the bags back in the cart and walked out to the car.  I took the piece of candy from underneath the cart.

From this point, my memory gets fuzzy.

One of the strange things about having neglectful and/or abusive parents is that, as you grow up, there are moments of potential tenderness or normalcy that become sublime in their stature.  There are only a handful and so, like some type of strange worry doll, we run our minds over them again and again building a fiction of tenderness and lesson that may or may not have ever existed. Generally speaking, there will be two stories that exist in your mind.  One is an idealized version of what should have happened, usually made up of snippets of television shows and of stories from what you've witnessd or heard about other people's parents.  The other is what actually happened. Over time, these stories intertwine forming a strange rope that attempts to lasso any actual facts but, by adulthood, the fiction is as valuable as any type of truth.

What I recall is that I took the candy off the cart and held it in my small hands, twisting and turning it around in a guilty worry waiting for my mother to notice it.  I waited until she asked me where I had gotten the candy and then I readily confessed to her what I had done.  She turned the car around, marched me back into the store, and had me tell the manager what I had done. I felt ashamed, but I also felt loved. I was glad that my mother had fallen into my trap to love me.

Yet at the same time, I have this memory of the indescribable flavor of a singular, stolen, candy.  I recall the texture of the candy coating over the bubble gum.  As I type this, the memory becomes more vivid.  I am certain that it was a candy covered piece of bubble gum. I can feel the shatter of the candy against my teeth, and the incredible mix of sharp candy mixing with the malluable tough of the gum.  I recall the color of it: Red.  The taste of it: Cherry. My palms start to sweat, and my heart starts to race - not with fear, but with anticipation and want.

What is it that truly happened?  More than likely, a combination of the two. More than likely a child who stole a piece of candy and fantasized while chomping on the stolen gem, and for hours and years afterwards, of the intervention of the care and attention of an imaginary parent.

Be well, be loved,

(If you aren't? Just imagine it. Make it up in your head:  It will come.)


k. 

Lemonade, Grass Stains and My Arms Around You: A Mid-Summer Reflection

Here is to having manifested and continuing to manifest almost the exact summer I have wanted for this year.  Travel and visitors and food and quasi-filth and the night and good, good people and music to experience it all with.

I.

Last night I met up with Sadie and we went to a different waterfront with soft serve and caught up on the goings-on of the past month.  She loves and supports folks in her life so well.  It always feels good to hear what's going on with her.  The balance of support and love not only feels good, but I feel like I learn a lot from her each time we hang out.  I like how she has my back. It always feels measured, with integrity, and then just straight out raw as fuck when someone is doing me wrong. If *she* is ever mad about some shit going on, you *know* something is wrong.  Integrit-ied love is where it's at.

II.

Last night I finished registering for classes and ordered the textbooks through the library via the sneaky ways that most people are too lazy to look into.  I love it. It saves money, but also gives an injection of library savagery that I love.  I can't wait to start.  The classes look incredible and the content endlessly exciting. It feels good to have supportive folks in my life around this, and definitely folks who are in the same wobbly boat as me in it.  Onward we go, us scholarly misfits and dream having hooligans.

III.

Michi and I are talking about going to LA together and going to tiki bars because, well of course we are. Plus, Casey is already coming up with an agenda for us (which will include the most absurd and glorious things ever). It is summertime, life is short, and there are so many reasons to go. (The shared adventure, Bradly, food, sun, that theater that I really want to go to, more food...)

For now, however, I find myself in air conditioning about to get down to business. There is a time for work and for play and, lately, I find myself smiling widely doing both.






Be well; be loved,

k.
(image RED #1 styled and shot by J. Quazi King via quazimottoonwax 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.

Disappearing and Emerging Lines: The Beauty of Antonio Lopez

[Listen to this, first.]

It is good to be home.

This weekend was incredibly lovely. One of those weekends where time feels stretched out, somehow, because of the variety in people, places and content. Four days felt like a week and some to me and my mind is full and happy and digesting.

(I am excited that the artist of the piece that blew my mind reached out/found me. Here is to local art and to non pedestal'ed artists.)

It is good to be home.

This morning is the one morning I have a slow start to the day before a full flow of work and out-of-town-visitors and art and more work and particular types of solace.

I keep thinking about Antonio Lopez and how hypnotic it seemed to be to watch him draw. All of these descriptions of how he would hold his breath while he drew to be able to get the most perfect and still lines.  How he would jut his tongue in and out of his mouth. How, at times, he would get up and dance and dance and dance before continuing to draw.

Perhaps you are familiar with his work. Perhaps you aren't. Perhaps you are but don't know that it was him.

He was a queer fashion illustrator born in Puerto Rico who moved to New York with his family when he was seven. He would hang out at Studio 54. He would befriend and/or hang out with Karl Lagerfeld, Warhol, Yves Saint Laurent...he would draw Grace Jones, Pat Cleveland, Jessica Lang, Tina Chow among others.

Anyway.  I've been learning more about him in the past week and some. Going over his art. Going over interviews with and about him. Wanting to replicate almost every outfit he ever wore in public. Running my fingers over his story as I piece it together. His history and story are important for a thousand reasons - all of them having more to do with representation and magic and beauty and art and adventure than with the actual mechanics and capitalism of the known fashion industry.

Look into him.  Enjoy his art. See how wide spread his influence was and continues to be.

(pause)


I've been thinking a lot about concepts of home. How there are people who make up what is home to me. Family. I love them so much. They are close and they are far flung. And that's all right. Family is family is family. If you want it bad enough, you make a blueprint. Hand over hand. Family is family is family.  It's just a matter of knowing when to say no or yes.*





It is good to be home.



be well; be loved,

k.

(images: photo of Antonio Lopez while drawing; drawing by Antonio Lopez; another photograph of him in the outfit I want to replicate most)
(*= Last sentence is a lyric from Blueprint by Fugazi)

Take Seven

I came home from work today, took a nap, meditated (I never know what I'm doing but I've been doing it a ton and it changes so much!), and lay across my bed to record a necessary audio letter.  All of the above was cathartic.

Then I got up, took a long shower that I shaved my legs during, got out, put cocoa butter oil all over my body, combed my wet hair, and looked myself directly in the eyes in the mirror. It had been one of those showers where you didn't just wash the dirt off, you somehow inadvertently washed off the weight of something that was never yours to have to hold in the first place.

(pause)

Tonight I met up with a friend of mine I haven't seen in a while at the one lesbian bar this town has. I haven't been there in years. Anyway, while sitting there, my friend accidentally dropped a blush compact on the ground and it shattered. She got the bartender's attention and told her "Hey, we are going to clean it up, but I have to apologize because I just dropped a blush compact and it may have made a mess", to which the bartender paused and looked genuinely sorry and said, "No. *I'm* sorry. That your blush compact broke. That sucks."  My heart softened a bit at this: It feels so fucking good to be around masc women who are femme allies in this way.  It may seem subtle or even silly, but man, it makes femmes feel so much more comfortable, safe and seen in their skin. A smile and a warm toast to those who are the likes of that long haired butch behind the bar.

(pause)

Earlier today, I dressed in the drag of commitment by calling to see if my life partner who lives with me would be covered under my five free therapy sessions plan.  Does this life partner who lives with me exist? Not exactly. But while I was mouthing the words to the woman on the phone, it felt so oddly incredible, this drag. I felt so committed. So wanted.  So family-having. It was nice.

On the up side, I now know that if a good friend is in dire need of therapy, we can pretend to be a couple and I can just work it so that everything gets focused on them. You gotta do what you gotta do. Creative resource sharing.

In any case, it's been a sad 48 hours.  I've learned some things to take with me, and have the dull ache in my heart to stay.  It will be rough to start imagining a life without a Little Lamby, but what can you do when your love has been deemed too expensive? What can you do when the rain of somebody else's rage never lets up?

Nothing but honesty. Nothing but miss her until you don't.



Be well; be loved,

k.

[image From The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (Tony Richardson, 1962)]

Beheading the Wake, or, How Insecurity Begins to Sound the Same as the Buzzing of Flies Around One's Dinner

I can't help you with your mind.


There is a misfortune with your mind, at present. Perhaps forever.  At least up until today. As you have described, it is out to get you and, thus, lashes out at everyone and thing around you. Likening yourself to a dirty sock is both humorous and saddening. I can't imagine the torture of it.

What would you have to offer someone if they told you that they have a hard time telling the truth, controlling their anger, and sharing who they are with the world?

My guess would be: Not much.

Perhaps if you cared about them like a family member,  you would have dinner with them from time to time, taking much of what they say with a pound of salt while pushing your potatoes around on your plate. You would try concentrating on the taste of the food, the patterns of the person's shirt, the clouds that culminate and threaten to rain in their eyes.

But you couldn't much listen to them, now could you?

Not really, anyway.

You would hear stories that never happened, or re-tellings of stories that have entirely changed, or proclamations of feelings that are, more than likely, just the day's form of attempted manipulation: The morning's daily truth.

Eventually, you would wonder: Who is this person sitting across from me?

And wonder, not so much why they are there, but rather,
why you are.

And just as they are midstream of what will one day be revealed as a whopper of a tale, you would simply
put down your fork
dot each corner of your mouth with a napkin
before placing it gently
on your plate
push your chair back
and
distractedly
(distracted by the excitement of life and of love and of truth and of struggle)
stand up
looking out to the furthest reach of the room

and leave.


I can't help you with your mind, dear member of my proverbial family.

And while I have compassion for the torment of your mind
even in this routine hour
the babble of lies
has become

a bore.





Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Saturno Buttò, Red Skull)