Wednesday, October 11, 2006

It's National Coming Out Day

Please, for the love of Gay, get your Queer on, and tell everyone you know, or just one person, that you're a big Homo! and i will, too!

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Cee Vee

last night, i spent more than two hours trying to figure out what is important about me and what, frankly, is not worth mentioning.

and i dont want to even mention the formatting. because i've really never had much grace, never had too much aptitude for presentation - always been inside a kinda dirty jeans wearing, inside my head being, coffee stains on my shirt having, spewing ideas in sort of a Beef Stew format. give me too many choices, and my chest starts to wheeze, and my skull starts to hurt.

did i should mention that I am applying to PhD programs?

so last night, with half an ear listening to The Bachelor: Rome, I was trying to make all sorts of decisions about my worthiness for the CV (curriculum vitae, for all you Latin Lovas) that i have to turn in with my application. and this Glorious Gay ponderment kept whizzing around my typing fingers:

"...525,600 minutes! 525,000 journeys to plan. 525,600 minutes - how can you measure the life of a woman or man?"
(thank you, Jonathan Larson).

Right. How do I know what will be important, what will Grab! The! Reviewers! much less what format to put it in: does my Teaching Experience look more snappy in this blue descending-time-order tie, or is it more impressive if listed stoically in this Humanists' chunked-together-by-Institution-name sweater vest? moreover, do i call it 'Teaching Experience,' 'Adjunct Positions,' or 'Come Watch Me Stand Up In From Of Both Eager And Cranky Learners?'

I am terribly excited, really. I just hate to formality. and, as much as it hurts ever to admit, I hate the impending rejection (see previous post), and the sneaking suspicion that everyone else at the Academic Soiree secretly knows what organizational/intellectual/conversational Fork to use, and i'm just the first one in my family to go to University and, well, eating Beef Stew with my hands.

and i hate the uncanny aloneness that creeps up on me whenever try to achieve this thing that makes me orgasmicly thrilled to the gills, that Thinking Life. Until the Feminist Film Night that changed everything, I worked my academically very much in isolation, and that was something i was used to: the odd nerdy duck in my family, i would hole up in my room, writing poetry by candlelight. no, really. by candlelight. i mean, isn't that how Shakespeare did it? Isn't that how you do it? all dramatic and straining your Poet-Eyes, and painful and muses and stuff?

my Mom read a lot of Danielle Steele, when she wasn't obsessively cleaning the apartment, then the house. And my Dad read a lot of Tom Clancy, when he wasn't obsessively Fire Fighting to save money for said house. always work first, and words, always, but a distant second. so Thinker-Poets must write in secret, and in aloneness, and, certainly in the dark, because to do otherwise would be to waste good work energy.

but i don't want to separate work and play so much. and i want to exist, ultimately and ecstatically, in conversation.

Monday, October 09, 2006

recently rejected for publication

a discretionary epistle

a recovering anxiety addict;
released with only a few new
found sense and a pen in my pocket,
sloughing off the desire to use my sword for stabbing.

to you, a massive missive, with a turn-cheek and squint-eye:

i don’t want to presume
you will attack me, darlin',
but sometimes without my trusty rusty
piercing-blade, and in the midst of my withdrawal,
i slip slide back,
try to employ my shield, and
snap
to a taut-muscle-sweaty-brow defensive stance -
in that, i see you as a noxious cloud
joined with the dense fog of foul strangers that betray,
with white-noisy betrayers bubbling in my head.

and, with them,
i could swear it, that
you will strike me,
and wound me,
and then disown me.
i hold up my flimsy shield,
try to ward off the thick mimetic,
lost in recovery,
and waiting, raw and addicted and with paper-thin protection , to stand your lash:
"Come On. Hit Me. I Deserve It."

quietly, to me from you, a mnemonic memo glides, across my guarded advance:

in smooth rhythm and soothing rhyme
you bassa danza with my newfound form,
whisper 'flagellation isn't all that sexy anymore,'

my breastplate clanking to the floor
drifting me, uncovered and breathless,
crosswise and upsidedown,
our gorgeous gangly arms akimbo in kind,
lapping the uncanny-sweet-lemon-drop dripping off your tongue.

then, despite and to honor
these under-armor-skin and bones,
tingly wakening from slumber,
tender and brittle
from lack of light and loving touch -
discovered, I present myself, tenderhearted, to you -

a sheepish wide-open knight,
a dis-devotee of defense and disrobed of pre-emptive chain-mail,
strong without all that metal,
I adore the passion of our vulnerable dance.

`````````````````

thus endeth the mope.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

R.I.P


Rest In Peace, dear, bad-ass Cleopatra Jones, a.k.a Tamara Dobson.

you don't know kung-fu hottness, until you've seen this.

and, yes, that is THE Shelly Winters, who was Nana Mary on Roseanne and, as far this working class qweeirdo is concerned, is one of the Best Shows of all Gay time. for, it is where i saw my first Lesbian Kiss, which somehow i internalized as a Good Thing, despite the stupid WARNING at the beginning about the 'adult nature' of the episode.

saved my life, i tell you.

actually, i think i will tell you. perhaps a short piece from The Chronicles of I.M.Butch. Stay tuned.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

word watch

here i am in Pennsylvania, and even the National News is talking about the school shootings in Amish Lancaster County.

Paradise, PA, as it were. and when i was the stock manager of a natural foods store in South Philly, the folks that brought us most of out Organic produce were from Paradise. and, right now, my thoughts are with them.

and this is the thing that is stuck in my mind the most. apparently, the murderous rampage-er told his wife that "he was acting out to achieve revenge for something that happened 20 years ago" according to CNN.com. anyway.

revenge
.

the aformentioned quote is what the police said, but most newscasts are saying Charles Carl Roberts IV had a "grudge" from 20 years ago. seems a little dismissive, don't you think? i mean, grudges are always depicted as silly things. like, i may have a grudge against my 7th grade friend for sitting choosing to sit at the Popular kids table, instead of with me. pissed, yes. maybe i should work it out, yes. because it's not ok to hold a grudge, right. but, in most cases, we are expected to just get over it. no biggie.

grudge.

'Grudges' don't make people tie up young girls and shoot them execution style, do they? something for real serious truamatized this guy, and what ever it is, it deserves a more powerful term then grudge, i think. maybe.

but we can't seem to see people as simultaniously victims of really nasty horrible shit, who are also also perpetrators of really nasty, horrible shit on others. Andrea Yates is the first that comes to mind for me. she's either a cold-blooded murderer or guilty by reason of insanity, but neither description/verdict/decree of identity addresses domestic violence or post-partum depression as viable ideas under the Law. friggin' September 11th is another. it's all Guilty or mutually exclusively Innocent, or Good or mutually exclusively Bad. i bet if we approached things more Venn Diagram-like, we would get a much clearer map of when the hell is going on.

and to my mind, the repressed always returns, no question - when, where, and how is the matter we need to be concerned with. it doesn't amatter what happened to Charles Carl Roberts IV. It is a matter of how he got to a place where murder/abusing others is the only way to reconcile it. And when some caring person sees others' in pain, and is brave enough to intervene, it creates a safe place for everyone who has been victimized to bare witness. and they might just be able to purge their anguish through spewing words, rather than create more pain with their spewing bullets.

Monday, October 02, 2006

football = no showmance

this just ruined my Monday night:

Hey Bachelor fans! The Eagles are playing Monday night on 6abc, but you can still catch the 2 hour premiere of:
The Bachelor: Rome
Just set your VCR/DVR to 6abc Tuesday night at 1:05am, for 2 hours of romance.
You catch The Bachelor: Rome at its regular time - Monday at 9pm the following week.
So don't forget...the 2-hour Premiere of The Bachelor: Rome - late night Tuesday, on 6abc.


what? tuesday is after monday, and, are you sure that you mean Tuesday night, because methinks you mean Monday morning....

either way, its
not.
right.
now.

Fuck your TiVo. i want my rome-mance.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Desperate Times

i rode/road my bike into work today. it is a decent haul - about 43 blocks. and it is kind of ridinginthefall day where you climb on to your bike lamenting about not enough layers on your torso, hop off feeling kissed by the wind mixing with browsweat.

i even saw the same crossing guard waiting to cross kiddies at 7th and spruce. the same woman who was there last school year - always seeming to be at the end of her shift (she is never crossing anyone, just gazing off into traffic... thinking about her next job? does she go inside the school and become a hall monitor? or does she do something totally unrelated like, go to her own office, the one that is especially there for her because she is the CEO? it's gotta be something in between. i wish i had the attention span to be a short story writer.).

hop(p)ing off of my bike with these thoughts: generating bodycozywarm through muscle movement. same crossing guard, different season = same me, different season. big lungs/big words/big stories/not so big attention span.

those thoughts are in my head/heart when a guy approaches me. Very, very blue eyes. he says:

"can i wha wha nert far wha wzrt?"

(me) "hmm"

(him, gesturing with hands and forearms now, which are dirty and scared. or, come to think of it, maybe just dirty. or just scared.) "can i wha wha nert far wha wzrt?"

(me, stepping into him one step closer, by kind of with the safety restraint stance i learned at the group home - front leg and foot pointing toward the person, your weight on your back leg, with its foot perpendicular. good balance this way...) "wait. say again?"

(him, head down) "i thank you for you humor. i'm sorry. i don't know how to do this. i am working cleaning out these buildings here. and, well (hands shaking now, as well as his voice...) and, well, someone stole my lock box and, i'm sorry but, i need to get back and....

(me - a bit impatient, a bit get to the point, a bit not being about to handle this guys shame at his situation - say...) "what can i do for you bud?"

a pause is required here. because, i know that anyone that i ever, ever, lived in a city, can really just insert their own location, day, time and dialogue into this situation, and get to the same point, and come to the same set of swirly and twirly questions:

do i give this guy money?

is he shaking out of nervousness because, as he says, he has "never had to do this before," (i.e. ask for spare change)?

or is he shaking because he is an addict?

let's return to the dialogue:

(me - a bit impatient, a bit get to the point, a bit not being about to handle this guys shame at his situation - say...) "what can i do for you, bud?"

(him) "well, i really just want to get back to (location uttered indecipherably, something about north philly...)."

(me) "i can give ya a couple of bucks" (sticking my hand in my pocket, pulling out a five and handing it to him)

(him) "How can i return this to you"

(me, putting my hand gently on his upper arm) "just get home safe, ok?" (turning, walking away)

what he needed it for, i will never be sure. but i was feeling like giving, and he was clearly in pain. and feeling very ashamed. maybe he will get high. maybe he will get on a bus.

and either way, disastrously, he will, alas, get home.

and then. to my inbox:

To: All ISD

Subject: Panhandler – beware

High priority

This morning on Market street a panhandler tried to go after and grab a man who would not give him money. He then came after me. I did report him to the police but he ran down Market street. I have also seen him in this area before panhandling.


He is about 6' 2" and is wearing a white baseball hat, light blue tshirt, dark blue shorts and white sneakers and is carrying a dark blue tote bag. He also has very blue eyes.

I don't want to alarm anyone but just be on the lookout.


Thanks.

mr. customerservice


i'm going to spend some time on this site today:
The Philadelphia Committee to End Homelessness