Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

And so we come here to the place of a thousand voices. I thought this was a necropolis, but every inch of it feels and sounds alive. There is something more sinister at work here besides the miserly claw of time. We know what fought your will to life. We know that sometimes, there are dualistic forces at work. When I first saw you, you were in the same room as we were. You led along the first lines of our thinking in this certain way. There were tiny lines, tendrils, connecting us. Arteries and nerves of this thing we call friendship. How do I know? How did we know? No one thought of the thousand stars because they were busy staring at the black curtain. Now you're a series of polaroids. Your face becomes etched ever more weakly, like a repetitious cliche. But who needs the world of old houses? Musty investments; this crumbling material we call life. I find it silly when I think about it, too. Now I am the old lady, writing about my irrelevancy, and you've had the last la...

I'm going to work this kind of like a list of extended bullet points. Hey, kids. So let's talk about a little something called gender expression. Gender expression comes in many different varieties, and has taken on different sub-labels in popular or regional culture. Some of these labels that you might know are concepts like "dyke" "femme" "twink" "tranny" and other terms. Though there doesn't seem to be an overarching consensus on whether or not certain terms are considered offensive, partially due to the culture of term reappropriation in recent years (for instance, affectionately or cattily using the term "fag" within the gay male community), mainstream culture has adopted some terms and concepts as shorthand for certain gendered lifestyles. I argue this- No one should be unfairly reduced to their gender expression by anyone else. I believe that it is unfair to assume that someone considered to adopt a more convent...

How does it feel now? One foot in front of the other, walking on the path. I listen to and weigh all the doubts. I worry about my capacity to do what most people seem to do decently and naturally. People have not been granted much in the way of things sometimes. I don't really think there is just a way that things are inherently. I suppose that it's all perspective, all judgment, all subjective. I know that I am no more superior than the guy with the three beemers in his driveway or the bum on the street corner. We all do different things in this world, I suppose. My thoughts wander, my focus wanders. I come back to the path again. I evaluate and try to see if I have made the best decision. I am rarely assured of this. But I guess we do the best with the information we have at the time. I am keeping score. I make no lie of it. I know I am not in the place to judge, but we still must evaluate as best we can with the information we have.

It feels lovely to write. When I finally do I feel even thirstier for it, like a sexual dry spell. I want to do it all the time. I want to handwrite everyone little notes, to put in their lunches for work, to tell them that they've done a good job, to scrawl mini-poems on doorjambs, on skin, on car doors with keys. Words make me so thirsty. They are the pictoral graffiti of the mind. They are an affront to your attention span. I like to be forced in this way and only this way, to read, to be the subject of the writing and never the object, always coyly avoiding, like a woman, what people think they have the right to do. I feel the murmurs of the streets hear the beat the hungry faces the struggle, things put in shorthand in other forms, danced waited with bated breath found dead on your doorstep two years later, it being no surprise because everyone who knew them knew they were going that way do you want do you want what he had did you want what I wanted Will we only find out throu...

Writing this to you from nearly 30 years of experience. I have plenty of heartbreak on my resume and lots of old, old now, ritual scarification. I was like a tumbled rock back then, being fought and directed and commanded so that my rough edges would be hidden. I am writing this to you from the command of the objective mind. Your heart is under lock and key now and it is perfectly fine if it stays that way. Who knows these words whispered again, in one sentence taking on the syntax of love, in the next, tearing a person down. Life is whimsical in that way. Either side, left or right, to love or to hate. There is no virtue in suffering alone, nor in giving of yourself to every creature who walks by. The word "strong" is spoken from relative means, for the rock that you stand on may crumble tomorrow. Or today. What stays when you fade into infinity? What will *you* bring to the company? How are you old and how are you young at the same time? I am no higher than you. But I can l...