The Reason I Remember the Name of the Food of a Cat I Don't Feed

I tried to stay upright for the same number of hours I had felt my heart hurt today. Not in the bad way. But  perhaps in the good.

 

 

Simple meets complex

Over-thinker meets oblivious.

You who listens to love songs, and me who listens to metal.

Me who has the blankets in a mountain, and you who tucks all corners in.

Hand holder meets too-PTSD'ed-out-for-most-PDA.

One of the things I love about you is the way that many of the feelings that you have must be documented, written, and pondered while listening to music. 

I know that particular feelings will be soaked in while in the bathtub of your apartment while your cat barges in, walks the edge of the tub, and almost falls in.

In Smurf terms: When I first met you, I was afraid you were Vanity Smurf. Now I realize you are Poet Smurf, described as "very sensitive and artistic...he spends most of his time wandering in nature to improvise poems about it, and sometimes has trouble finding verses that rhyme. He usually manages to do it through some accident." I don't really know how much more fitting you can get. 

What I love about you is that you are so clear to me. 

I know that when you are angry and hurt, you put your sunglasses on even if they are unnecessary.

I know that if I go to take a picture of you, you will start with your "cool kid with no emotions" face, but you will hear me snickering from behind the camera and, eventually, your lips will spill into the widest grin. (That is the picture that I take.)

I know that you get a sense of safety out of knowing that your cat is okay.

I know the reason you fought so hard to keep him was a form of self-love.

 

So there you are

in your bathtub tonight.

Wrapped inside its porceline arms

while your crooked cat circles you 

like a wobbling

shaky 

shark.

k.

(image: luli sanchez)

Will You Find Me on Your Way Out?

Today I feel the un-seasonal sting of a slight sunburn upon my arms. 

(Sometimes, we are caught off guard.)

I was in a bookstore today in a town I am not from, but that I've been in once before in my lifetime. I notice the curation of certain, small bookstores. I appreciate the stores that, in their limited space, stock good literature as opposed to seventeen copies of the book that will/should sell. I appreciate being able to find new authors- magical enough to entice me. 

I've been thinking of you breathing into my hands. 

I've been thinking of the slender-voiced singers whose songs I avoid in order not to be overcome with emotion. 

My emotions have been more of an on/off switch as off late. 

If you ever get a chance to read all of Nabokov, do it. His descriptions are so tailored they will make the heft of all of your clothes fall to the floor immediately by slicing one, simple, stitch.

 

k.

image via rawforms Tumblr

Studying Your Pinstripes as a Means of Understanding

Yesterday was incredibly sweet. I was picked up in a Lexus that was previously owned by a Hollywood star and, although I won't mention what person, I will mention that I have been questioning their choice of Lexus ever since I got into the car.  

But I digress. 

The 45 minute drive was comfortable and beautiful in its sights and company. The meal we had when we arrived at the secret destination was outstanding. The temperature was the exact level of sunny and cool that you can hope for. 

This morning, I am slowly waking up. Although I have been out and about and getting things done, I've still been slow in moving and speed.

(pause)

One of the tenderest gestures to me is someone stroking my hair.  

It can take years to work up to this with someone. 

People who were punched in the face by a guardian understand this. 

Other people will just think you're uptight.

k.

(image: Hye Park by Nathaniel Goldberg for Vogue Italia, December 2005)

The Child I Do Not Have Pulling on the Skirt I Do Not Wear

What I love about nights like this is everything about nights like this.  The nights of in between: When my bare legs are entangled with themselves and I have a candle burning on my bookshelf, even though I will have to be up and out the door by 1:15am.

I know when you're trying to communicate with me. I can feel it in the air and in the electricity in, of all places, my toes. Steady may not have won this race, but people usually know exactly where I stand.

It's always amused me, in the most parental of ways, how those that love me as unpredictable have always inked me onto their short list of the people they can always count on.

As within, so without: It's never been unpredictability so much as the commitment to not do shit I don't want to do unless I truly believe it will deepen this world and the connection among the people within it.  

Turns out, it's a pretty good compass to use.



k.

(image via alinascrapbook tumblr)

Fighting for Honor, or, The Sword on Your Wall

I.

Lotion absorbs slowly - differently- into my hands these days. It's as if my hands have cloaked themselves in the questions of 

Have you washed your hands for twenty seconds?

What have you touched?

Have you pulled on the pillars hard enough for this system to, at last, crumble and finally fall?

They are all important questions.  They are all what is in the air while the lotion, reluctantly, starts its journey down into my skin. To dissolve deeply. To be absorbed and, slower these days,  to disappear.

I wonder if the feeling of your fingers on my mouth 

 

will ever be the same.

 

II.

I have been thinking about language again. There is this thing in ASL known as expansion. It is a linguistic trait of ASL that happens sometimes intuitively in a prediction of clarification, and other times, when an aspect of something is unknown or unfamiliar to the other person. 

Either way, in the moment, it is a brief story or illustration that offers an image to meaning.

An example. 

Suppose someone was not familiar with the sign for FIREFIGHTER You sign it. The person responds by  saying "what's that?" to which you would respond (and here I am typing this how it might be signed. Keep in mind there is no written form of the language...) "You know: House, fire ; emergency; what do I do?! Truck red, sirens, speeding, arrives. water, hose big, spray water on house, fire disappear. Person who fire-on-house-spray-water-fire-disappear? Firefighter."

III.

Tonight I had long and energizing conversations with Xavi about the future, the past, ascension and simultaneous realities.

I also came to the conclusion/realization that literally the ONLY people who interrogate me about learning languages [why are you learning (insert language here)? what are you going to do with that? are you going to work for the U.N.?] are U.S. born white people. 

No one else does this.

(pause)

 

My mouth may be bloodied but 

the victory 

will always be seen 

in the earnestness in my eyes 

and the shine of my blade. 

 

 

 be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Yuan Bo Chao By Nick Yang For Marie Claire China May 2020)

The Other Night When You Asked Her and I if We Were Going to Sleep Together and I Said "I Hope So"

The past week has involved the police, the coroner's office, a body bag, fourteen long hours that should never have had to happen, strange timing, a thump in the night, a play, a hotel, and the sad story of the bag of soil bought to cover up the blood of the dead man that was in my backyard.

This week will involve (something of a) double date, trust, sounds that I miss, and a funeral.

Be well and be loved this week and always:

What unfolds within a 48 hour period can be more than you bargained for on either end of the spectrum

and will probably involve an excess of both.

k.

(image: Jonathan Pivovar)

Charmers Move Slowly

As a general statement, for the record:

I am WAY the fuck out of my league

and I am totally into it.




be well; be loved,

k.
(image Larry Woodmann ph via giampixxx tumblr)

She Says "That's For You", Then the Recording Cuts Off

Currently spread across clean sheets while the tail end of a ton of travel laundry tumbles its way through the dryer.  I've been out of town for the past week. I got home this evening and immediately dove into all of the tasks associated with Sunday nights, but on Wednesday. My suitcase is almost back to empty and can almost be placed back into my closet for the next time I slip out of town with brief trace. My plants have survived, as have I.  It feels good to be home. 

The past three days, in particular, have been filled with a particular type of reflection that feels good.

Other than that, the past week has been filled with good conversations.  Presence. Audio notes from favorite friends.  Laughter. Exhaustion from a good day's work. Tarot. Bleached sheets.  Hotel swimming pools. Tight sweaters. Leg wear.  Heels. Dental floss. Intelligence. Deep sleep. Connection.  Getting into a bit of a confrontation with a Proud Boy that involved me shouldering him. Really, really good vegetarian biscuits and gravy.

I've been around a lot of conversations about sex lately and, following, have been thinking a lot about sex lately.  More so than usual, if that is possible. Thinking about sex that's been had, sex that hasn't been had, and sex that never got to be had. I get enjoyably trapped in my mind sometimes with the topic of sex and, in celebration of this fact, simply take it out via my wardrobe. Sex is so psychological for me. So is gender expression. But it is the fusion of these two things that makes it almost impossible for me to concentrate: All this energy with none of the focus. An exercise in harnessing energy. It's fun to see what comes out of it. So flammable it is.

The remedy, of course, is just as gratifying as the illness, but this time around I want a bit more time to reminisce.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image via stylemasculin-blog tumblr)

The Reason Fist Fights In Movies Tend to Start with a Double-Fisted Grab of a Shirt Collar

I was curious about you.

We were just scratching the surface.

Your belt wrapped around my legs, or me behind you to imagine for a bit.

One of the issues with everything being back to normal is that I want to fuck all of the time.

I don't want to fuck just anyone.

I am enjoying the sweetness of beauties that are so thoughtful in their gestures.  The ones paying attention to my likes and trying to recreate them.

An old fashioned movie with poetry and gifts and thoughts.

Those things are nice.

But they aren't what I want.

I find myself thinking beyond the flirtations with you.

That's what those months were.

Surely, you know that.

They were flirtations.

They were not your face in between my thighs.

They were not the sweat of your imagination.

They were, without question, not the sweat of mine.

I know that it scared you.

Scared you in that same way that, as a child, you would feel the rush in your stomach when you couldn't feel the depth of the pool with your toes.

You clung to the side

but there was always the thrill

of letting go.

Not gradually

but pushing off the edge

and in your kidd-o way

not giving a fuck if you died

because at least the thrill of it

would be the last thing

you remembered.





be well; be loved,

k.





(image Mark Rothko, Reds (Red Painting), 1957-1958 via dailyrothko tumblr)

[Shout out to Ayurvedic herbs. I feel like a new man. 110% for the past several weeks. I am so thankful/grateful. My body and brain can tell that they are back to normal, and just in time for Spring. 

Here is to celebratory little white panties and ridiculous amounts of leg.]

Every Single Night

It's late.

When I breathe, there's a whistle in my nose.

Today was good. Calm.

It involved the attention of a beautiful women

a sweet talk with a good friend as I walked outside in the cold

and a good number of pages in a book I'm reading that I can relate to.

**

Tonight, I washed my face with warm water and felt relieved at the feeling of my hands over my eyes.

The sparks that I see in the dark of my closed eyes remind me that all is not lost.


be well; be loved.

k.

(title: Jawbreaker)
(photo: via prljavo tumblr)

Examining Light

This morning I woke up and everything felt like Christmas. (In the good way.)

One thing I've realized is that, when one slight part of my life doesn't feel right, while I'm considering it/thinking it over, things feel focused on in a way that is a disservice to the rest of my life.  So, imagine that you are looking at a huge painting.  When there is something I feel unsure about, and need to double check, it is as if I am focusing on one tiny part of the painting for a few days, and can't see much of anything else.

Once I figure out what I need to do, or how to re-position it, and do it, it is as if everything opens up to me, again. The entire painting lights up and begins like a carousel, again, with everything moving in tandem and complement with each other. Life opens up.  And what I see is incredible.

[The conversation about creativity with B. The dinner made of all of my favorite foods that was made for me last night. The banter with C about repression in the fashion industry. Pondering remnants of last week's discussions of advocacy/disability/family with W. The book I just finished. The excitement coursing through me about today, and this week.]

I love the loves in my life who look at things differently- fashion, academia, art, food, gender, love, loving, politics, the world, economics, sharing, learning-  all of the time, and who I learn from.


-k.
(image: Chung King Express, 1994, Wong Kar. Via waitemoss tumblr)