Soap Operas Before

When we were juniors in college, my friend J who likes to do fancy and far-out things (she's real adventurous) told me about the colonic she had. How wonderful it had been. How it wasn't even shit that they pumped out of her, it was just black stuff. Things that had been lodged deep inside of her from years ago. Ancient toxins. She rhapsodized about how sweet the woman who administered the colonic had been. How she'd smiled knowingly and made J feel so comfortable, massaging her stomach with her left hand while holding the hose in J's asshole with her right hand. J told me that after the colonic she'd felt so different. Lighter, but weak. She said she was sweating profusely. She was shaking. She immediately had to shit, right after the colonic. I thought that was kind of funny. She said it was just the best experience ever, and I was so jealous.

At one point, I felt like I knew what you were doing, but we didn't have to talk about it. It was just, I knew what you were doing, to whatever extent. And you knew that I knew. There was this unspoken agreement that you'd let watch you. Actually, not even watch. There was nothing of observation. Just sensing. You let yourself be noticed, intuited by me. You measured yourself out to me. I thought that my enthusiasm was (like, duh) thanks enough, but now I can see that I should have praised you much more. I should have let you know that I thought you were generous. That those fistfuls, counted-twice and grudgingly given, meant so much. More than enough. I could not have asked for more. I just wish my timing had been better. Now I do not know what you are doing. Knowing you to the extent that I do, I can only guess what you are up to. I can infer, assume, deduce but not sense and still not notice. And I'm no longer so sure of my ability to do these things. Now you do not want me to know. You want me to not know. I'm sure it's not even anything particularly secret. It's not me, particularly. It could be. Maybe I didn't listen enough, or for long enough, or in the right way. Maybe I didn't sit you down and say: "Hey, I'm listening, too." That would never have worked.

I think so often of the idea of transference, projection. I don't really know what these words mean, clinically, but I feel like I "get" them as concepts, in my own life. I'm deeply committed to my Analyst and I absolutely refuse to draw any conclusions about it, for fear of judging it. It's like: I never got into soap operas before, but. So that we are what we are afraid of. That something we find abhorrent in someone else could be something we fear to be part of ourselves. This seems fundamentally true. Of course. It follows that the thing you love is something you wish you had in yourself. You're jealous of someone else, you wish you were them, you love them. It's totally a kind of loving. I thought for a time that the thing to do was to become the thing you love, right? Be someone you would want to fuck and then fuck yourself. But I guess I was being kind of silly. Now I know that it's a matter of looking. Of paying attention, getting involved with the plot, like you would on a soap opera. It's a matter of engagement. Of viewership. You need to be caught up. You need to pay attention. You need to tune in.


Merry Christmas. The world didn't end, I guess. I'm at my parents' house in Alameda and I'm totally sick. I had been feeling like I was going to get sick all last week, but my circumstances this month didn't leave for a whole lot of down time to take care of myself. And now I'm totally sick. Probably yesterday was the worst. I really resent being sick while I'm on vacation, because I should be out having fun or giving all my focus to relaxing, but I can't do that. I guess staying at my parents' house isn't really vacation either. To my mind, it's not vacation if I can't pick what to watch on TV 100% of the time. Is that spoiled of me? Probably. My parents are adorable and dote on me constantly so I am very lucky to be sick here. I've actually never been on a vacation where I got to pick what to watch on TV 100% of the time. That's an impossible goal.

Thursday night I went to the Uptown, this bar in the newly swanky downtown Oakland, to see the Younger Lovers perform. They were so great! I'd only ever seen Brontez perform in New York either by himself or with a band of New Yorkers. The full Younger Lovers experience was so good! He said that they have a third record coming out soon. If you haven't heard it yet you should definitely get their newest record, Rock Flawless. My favorite parts of the show were probably the parts where the guitar and bass dropped out and it was just Brontez wailing over the drums. The drummer was sooo good.

I saw Loren Hell from the New Earth Creeps at the show, and I haven't seen him in YEARS. I've been thinking so much of the Alameda kids I knew as a young punk. Loren's Twitter Account is maybe one of my favorite's ever. HSe gave me copies of some of the newest New Earth Creeps LPs, I am so excited to hear them. I remember seeing them play at record stores, backyards, living rooms, punk clubs all, when I was younger. And being so impressed. I still am, I guess, but the whole project of punk rock.

After the show Brontez and Cotton and I went around the corner to a bar called the Layover, where there were those ubiquitous green lazers, along with some red lazers, which we both thought was really christmassy. We danced to salsa remixes and ran into Victor from Alameda, and then we all hung out in his friend's car outside the bar and then Cotton had to get the last BART train and I had to get on the bus to Alameda so that's what we did. Such a fun Oakland adventure. This new redeveloped downtown Oakland is such a trip. So much of my youth was spent riding busses through the bombed-out wasteland of abandoned department stores in downtown Oakland. It's totally bizarre to see these spaces re-imaged as upscale cocktail lounges, microbreweries, etc. I like it, but it just makes me feel a little disoriented. I think that making peace with feeling disoriented is a very Californian philosophical agenda. Probably not even refer to it as disorientation, I guess.

Friday I did some window shopping in San Francisco and Berkeley. It was raining the whole time, incredibly stupid of me to be walking around outside. Waiting for the 51B in Berkeley I had the really clear thought: "This is such a bad idea." I came home to rest for a minute, then my parents and I went to Cafe du Nord to see my little brother's band perform. They were so good! They opened for a David Bowie tribute band with three really rad girl singers. I liked it a lot, but I was feeling pretty ill by then. My darling elderly parents got to the club about an hour before the doors opened, so we had some time to kill. They came with me to the Walgreen's in the Castro to buy cold medicine. There was a really angry junkie there, screaming at the staff lady that none of the pills on the shelf were strong enough for him. He asked me what to take if I had pain and a fever. I said: "Aspirin?" He didn't believe me. I bought some decongestant and ate it with whiskey at my brothers' show. I had wanted, so much, to go to my brother's show then skidaddle over to the Mission to see NGUZUNGUZU and oOoOO and Boychild perform at the Elbo Room. But I felt super shitty, and I didn't want to have to hustle to the last BART train home, while I was so sick. And I tried to console myself by thinking that Nguzunguzu performs in NYC a lot and oOoOO was I imagined just DJing and Boychild comes a lot. Not a once in a lifetime opportunity. Still, a bummer.

Yesterday I did actually intend to do a lot of hanging out. Loren and Victor's new band Party Animal played yesterday in Oakland but I was too sick to go. I spent most of the day on the couch. I walked around downtown Alameda for a while. Bought my dad some leather gloves for Christmas at the hardware store. Went to a bunch of the fairly disgusting thrift stores. I used to find some T by Alexander Wang at the Salvation Army down by the bridge. So many gross 1990s prints, it was like a Rihanna photo shoot. I didn't buy anything. I came home and ate lots of cold medicine and stayed inside. I slept a lot. I guess I feel a little bit better today. There's so much I want to to do while I'm here. Mostly hang out with people. I hate being sick.


The Apocalypse Comes From Within

I felt so successful waking up this morning at 5am to get my cab to the airport. I packed in a rush and got there just barely on time. My flight was done boarding when I arrived. I drank a lot of coffee. I felt sort of sick. I still feel sort of sick. But it seems less like an infection than me just running myself ragged. Anyway the flight was boring. It seemed to be half cranky, disorganized elderly people who screamed nasty things at the stewardesses and dropped the books they were reading, and cups of milky coffee they were sipping, and half crying infants. I was infuriated, but did have to admit that I located myself squarely between the two. I got to San Francisco at 11:30am. I felt insane. My dad picked me up and he made me my favorite meal for lunch (sausage and peppers). I went for a jog along the beach in Alameda. The streets are lined with palm trees, which, for the Holidays, are decorated with red ribbon. It was surreal. I took a little bit of a nap, but I still feel jet lagged.

Already feeling ambivalent about New York. I feel so weirdly possessive of some things. Feeling sort of frustrated, the way I did when I was 21. Like I see a lot of shit happening, and I'm not part of it, but I feel like I could do it so much better. But unlike when I was 21, I don't feel this inevitable need, necessarily, to contribute? Just for the sake of doing something good? What fulfills isn't the same as what is fun, for me or for someone else. I guess what I'm saying is, like: I know what you're doing. I'm not impressed? That sounds mean. I'm grumpy! I'm under-slept. Like, what's so great about being special. You need to insert yourself into the world, that is an art project that will never be completed, will take you at least the rest of your life. There's another project hovering just above the one you're doing, and it involves less talking and more listening. It's less fun and exciting, and more interesting, sad, slow. Get on my level: the Apocalypse is not tomorrow 12/21/12. The apocalypse starts with you. The apocalypse comes from within. And I've seen it, and it's great. And I can show you, I can tell you all about it, if you just let me get a word in edgewise.

Anyway. I'm drinking gallons of coffee, wearing sweatpants at my parents' house. Going to have some dinner then get ready to go to a show in downtown Oakland, at a place called the Uptown, to see Brontez' band the Younger Lovers perform. I roped my original homegirl Cotton into venturing to the East Bay to join me. So I'm excited to go see a punk show and take the 51 bus home, just like I did when I was a teenager. I hope I can stay awake. Coffee, guide me.


Getting ready to get on a plane tomorrow morning for California, where I'll spend a week with family and old old friends.

I also need to work on a grant application next week. And I also need to write an article next week.

And I also need to write my show.

I need to sleep. I feel like I haven't slept in a long time. I'm seing my best friend BOBO for dinner in a few minutes. I'm really excited.

So much work to do. I like traveling because I use it as an excuse to a) buy magazines and b) wear only black (why?) and c) eat as much candy as I want.

OK I'll be there soon.


Mink Coat in the Seventh Grade

I had a pretty good weekend, I went to at least one Holiday party every night. I ate tone of really rich food, which I would normally not be into. Kind of letting myself go. It's Monday. I feel like Hell.  So I've been watching and re-watching the Lil' Kim interview on the Isaac Mizrahi show.

They constantly mug for the camera, rolling their eyes. They seem to turn and smile with to imagined audience. There is no studio audience. There is no laugh track. There are no viewers. I mean, there's us, watching the video, but we know that we're not really there.

Isaac: "You have a real sense of fashion, Kim!"
Kim: "Aww, thanks! You too!"

It's clear that they have only the slightest notion of who each other are. Which is okay. I guess Isaac has heard, maybe, one of Kim's songs, ever. She doesn't seem to know what he's about. They're both really good painters, though.

Isaac: "Would you rap for us a little something? Would you... say something?"

Turning Out Not To Be

Can your heart break more than once? When I was younger, I would have said no. Absolutely not. I would have said that it's like losing your virginity, that it can only happen one time. But now I don't know if that's really so true. I think maybe your heart breaking is more like coming out of the closet: it can happen over and over again. It's different every time.

As Gertrude Stein said: Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
(Adding: "Now listen! I’m no fool. I know that in daily life we don't go around saying 'is a ... is a ... is a ...' Yes, I’m no fool; but I think that in that line the rose is red for the first time in English poetry for a hundred years.")

It can be the same every time and also be different every time. There might not even need for there to be something that happens. Everybody's so dramatic. I want to play Fuzzy Bunny, that game where you stuff your mouth with marshmallows and try to say "Fuzzy Bunny". Whoever can recognizably say it, with the largest number of marshmallows in their mouth, wins. I want to stuff everyone's mouths up. Even/especially my own. I always thought that there would need to be something really huge to happen for my heart to break. Despite evidence to the contrary. At one point in my life I considered myself entirely washed-up. Dead inside. Hopelessly heartbroken. Over. Past the point of rescue. And this was because a boy that I liked didn't seem to like me enough, or in the way I most wanted (thought I most needed), and that slight disparity between what I thought I wanted (needed) and what I perceived to be happening seemed yawning and immense and immediate. And the issue was not that he didn't like me back, but that he didn't like me back enough. That I wasn't getting what I wanted in exactly the way I wanted it. And I thought it was the end of the world. And for better or worse, it wasn't. It turned out to not be.

But so, y'know, you feel like you see a pattern, so you try to break out of it. I feel like my heart breaks when I get really intense with people romantically. So that's easy enough, I figure, to avoid. No romance and therefore no heartbreak. Like like how viruses are transmitted through certain foods. Fine, just don't eat those foods, right? But heartbreak, like a virus, is constantly adapting. Developing immunities. Seeking out new vectors, ways into you. I thought that my making myself as small as possible and withdrawing more and more, that I would in this way insure myself against pain. That I could somehow mitigate the discomfort I know waits for all of us, over and over again. As if telling your Gym teacher, the barista at the coffee shop, the taxi driver, your parents, your friends, the people at the dog park: I am gay. My heart is broken. Again. I know. When will he shut up about it? It's not that we mind it, it's that you don't have to make it such a big deal. There is no insurance. There are no protective steps you can take to steel yourself against pain. Steele, yourself, against pain.

And then sometimes, it's so pathetic to admit, but you realize that maybe your internal organs actually are made out of glass. Fragile and hazardous if broken. Okay, the "heart" as I am using it isn't really an internal organ. But I do feel like it's not unlike the light bulb I changed this weekend. Too hot to touch; dropped, shattered, sharp. Best wrapped in a paper bag and thrown out. Best replaced with something sturdier, more eco-friendly. Something which is not used up, something which could last for longer. It takes so little to just ruin everything. Sometimes (this is my point) it doesn't actually take much of anything. Maybe it's just someone being nice to you unexpectedly. Somebody saying "Hey I can see you" and it is unbearable. I wish people,would be as mean to me as I feel like I deserve. I think sometimes they are, but then people will be unexpectedly sweet to me, and it does, it feels like, absolutely break my heart. The inconsistency. Or something not at all a slight will seem to knock me off of my feet, and then I become a narcoleptic. I'm needed, sorely, as a witness. A seat. My opinion is required. I'm wanted but only to serve another. To introduce you to some cute boy I know. To give you the attention you think I am giving myself, maybe even here, on the blog. To be more about outwardness. I feel myself becoming invisible; disappearing. It's not good and it's not pleasant. I feel myself becoming ether. Giving up, quitting, becoming less and less of a thing. Devolving into some kind of fog. Just going away, I guess. So to be acknowledged is painful. The acknowledgment not so much, the inconsistency. That does break my heart, new, again. It's so fucked up how sometimes things feel inevitable and also impossible. Like: "I can't believe that happened" and at the same time "It could not have happened any other other way." So it is with a heavy heart that I greet each new opportunity to shoot myself in the foot. I am blowing it. I am never not blowing it. But at the same time, the stakes are really low. I know it might not work, but part of me hopes it will: this thing of becoming invisible as a way of avoiding pain. I'm not being a chicken about pain, either. I've leaned into it all year. Really tried to get my hands dirty. So now my hands are dirty. How much better to not have hands at all.

As a kid I really loved the L.A. Arboretum. I haven't been back to Los Angeles since I was 9, which was a very long time ago. I really want to go back, but I don't know how I would get there, money wise, where I would stay, how I would get around (I don't drive) or what the pretense for my stay would be. The former me would book a reading or performance, but I don't think that would work anymore. For many years know, it's felt as if the joke of me was that nobody knew what exactly I did. That I didn't actually do anything. I've never denied this. It's just so much less funny now.


Trying that Trainwreck

I woke up extra early on Tuesday morning. Spent an inordinate amount of time washing my face, with two different exfoliators, shaving, putting on the assorted creams, lotions, balms. Tricks, etc. I had a breakfast of black coffee and just barely not yet ripe bananas. It felt really poor. Sitting on the yoga ball I use as a desk chair, eating the banana over a wastebasket, I remembered in Eileen Myles' brilliant Inferno, she describes a group of dancers getting ready for a performance, and notes how all of the dancers eat the same pre-show dinner, black coffee and a banana, from a deli. Reading that book, I thought how intuitively genius that kind of dinner is. Gawd, dancers think of everything. And Eileen Myles for being both grossed out and impressed by that meal. Her birthday was this week, Myles', so here is a video of when she was younger, reading a really amazing poem:

I don't care for poetry as such, but this video, this text makes me want to try to be a poet, because she's so smart and so seductive. She says so much in these few minutes. I don't know. I had read this poem before but only saw the video last week, on her birthday.

So I ate my poor dancer breakfast and hopped on the train. On Tuesday I was part of a nominally glamorous photoshoot project. The contract I signed in order to do it does preclude me from officially blogging, tweeting, or otherwise mentioning or disseminating information about it, but it was less interesting than one would think so we don't need to get specific. I'll post the results when they come out, if I'm in them. Tuesday's project involved a lot of waiting around. Which normally I wouldn't mind, but we wore our own clothes. There were free snacks, though, which is always nice. I suppose I could have been more social. But you know, I could have also had more fun, gotten to wear cooler shit, and been paid more. Life could be a lot different. It was kind of a "seeing-how-the-sausage-gets-made" experience. And not just for being in the background. Even on the rare occasion when I've been more or less the focus (such as during the ill-fated and mercifully disappeared European denim campaign I did a few years ago), even when I was the one being fussed over, it's still not so much fun. Not as much fun as it looks. How bizarre to be, that we all are, seduced by the appearance of fun. It's not fun, but it looks fun. You have to be able to deduce, though, that it's not fun. It's the appearance. Why can't we see through it? OK here's an example: for a group shot, they wanted people to look sweaty, so they sprayed all of our exposed skin with this weird clear sticky sunblock, to give the appearance of sweat. Illusions! Anyway it was a nice experience overall, we got paid and got to go home early. I felt defeated; depleted.

I high-tailed it back to my apartment, then sneaked out to the gym. I normally want to exercise for a full hour: 30 minutes on the elliptical, and then a 30-minute run. But I didn't have time on Tuesday  so I just did the run. I wonder sometimes if that's too much cardio. Sometimes my knee hurts. Am I overdoing it out of habit? This seems more than possible. I listened to the music I'm going to use for my New Year's Eve performance, which will be a really exciting PJ Harvey number. I'll be wearing a pretty dress. It'll be so great. Please Come See Me On New Year's Eve.

So after my too-short workout, I ran home to shower and get ready for this new meditation class, taught by my longtime internet pen-pal Caroline. In addition to being a meditation teacher, Caroline is a stand-up comedienne and fantastic writer. She's read at a previous iteration of FAG CITY, and totally killed it. I try to go see her perform whenever I can (and you should too). Her new meditation class at the Spectrum is great, in no small part because of her warmth and sense of humor. It's also really accessible; I'm obviously not the best-versed on Buddhist scriptures, so I really like getting to talk to someone I can relate to about the concept of meditation. And Tuesdays are really hard for me, so I like that this class happens on Tuesdays. And it's at the Spectrum, which is right near my house. This week Erin + Thee Irish Horse came. It was a good class, and exactly what I needed after a long day of mind-burning.

Afterward I bought a falafel sandwich. I went home and listened to Dee Dee Bridgewater's Afro Blue, which I'm totally obsessed with these days.

I burnt some Cedarwood incense and painted my nails grey. I read Toni Morrison's Jazz, which is maybe my favorite book of all time. I never re-read books but I re-read Jazz every few years. It made me fall in love with New York City. It's like having a fever, and it's like going to a performance. Is this the book that made me want to be a writer? Maybe. I'm not so sure I ever wanted to be a writer.

Why does everything have to be about wanting to be something, somebody?

Morrison's Jazz was the first book that made me really excited by the power of writing to do something new. To make new demands of the reader. I had never encountered a book before that reads you as much as you read it. It's kind of insane. For example, the first word of Jazz is the sound of the narrator sucking her teeth. "STH". Dreamy. Reading, listening to music, I tried that new Trainwreck and I fell into sleep, hard.


Dime Finder

I was complaining a few weeks ago about this experience I had where I kept noticing people dropping money, and I wasn't picking it up (for whatever reason). I explained it to my Analyst in terms of me not wanting to be the guy who depends upon luck. I don't want to be an opportunist. I don't want to think that my good fortune to relies on the carelessness of others. But last week, everywhere I go, I keep finding dimes. Eventually I started picking them up. Wasn't the first or second self-released Sarah Dougher cassette called "Hand-Made Luck"? I've always liked that title. You know, in between The Lookers and her first solo album on K.

I feel quite a bit behind. I have a ton of work I ought to be doing. I did basically nothing today, I bought socks. Last night was Sister Pico and Dr. Perez' birthday party, at a Karaoke place in Koreatown. I normally don't go in for that karaoke stuff, but I got really into it. The sake helped. That was pretty much all the socializing I did this weekend. I bought some new socks at Uniqlo today.

I once used to go out with this really, really cute boy who was into fashion. And on one of our dates, we had to kind of watch ourselves, because we were getting really drunk with dinner, and neither of us wanted to be hungover at work the next day. We traded hangover cures. I told him that when I'm hungover, sometimes eating an apple helps. I don't like green apples, so I don't know if they work, but for some reason eating a red apple helps me when I have a hangover. Helps me focus. My date said that when he's hungover, he goes to Uniqlo before work to buy socks. "Because" he said, "at least then, I know it's like... okay, I did something productive today." I asked him what he would do if he didn't need socks. "You always need socks," he said. I couldn't argue with that. I did envy his seemingly insatiable appetite for socks. I bought some today but I don't feel like dropping the $10 signifies my productivity. I'm still hungover. I also haven't had any apples.

I'm going to be in a group art show on WEDNESDAY which if you're in NYC you should come to. This is a really cute group of people, and I am so excited to be part of it. Shane Shane asked a bunch of NYC denizens to take photos of our nightlife escapades with disposable cameras. I am by far the least adventurous of any of the amazing folks involved, so my interpretation of "nightlife" may differ significantly from the rest of the show, but I think it'll be a cute time. I also haven't seen my photos, or any of the photos in the show, so it'll all be new to me. It's hosted by Strange Loop Gallery and the Bureau of Goods and Services - Queer Division. Please come!


12 artists selected by Shane Shane are handed a disposable camera to document themselves as they partake in the glorious nightlife...

With work from:
Hari Nef - Reve - Trey LaTrash - Jordan Fox - Max Steele - Jake Dibeler - M Lamar - Dusty Childers - Ben Rosenberg - Stephen Boyer - Alberto Cortes - Krys Fox - Leo Gugu - Shane Shane

Finally (and speaking of hangovers), a real highlight of the weekend is another episode of Saint Mx Justin Vivian Bond's DRUNK NEWS. This is officially my new favorite TV show, YouTube project, news source, etc.

It's Sunday night and I just chugged a bunch of maté. I'm cooking my lunches for the week. I dropped off my laundry. I'm taking off my ill-planned nail polish (I have some very glamorous meetings this week, for which I'll need to be both blank and "camera-ready"). I'm going to attempt to edit a story for the upcoming Birdsong anthology tonight, do a little bit of work on ENCOURAGER as well as finish my first-ever POEM for an upcoming issue of Scorcher, luxuriate in my botanical toiletries ("Je vais prendre une douche") and order Thai food before passing out early. I barely slept last night. I feel pretty gross.

But it's okay to feel gross!


Subjectivity is Seawater

Thinking about how we all develop these really idiosyncratic and occasionally brutal survival measures. We mix up these tonics to keep us awake, engaged. Thinking about how some people (I have friends like this) have to carry an epi-pen around with them, in the event of an allergic reaction. If they're exposed to a lethal allergen, then they have to inject themselves, or have a sure-handed friend inject them, with life-saving epinephrine. The catch there is that they have to be 100% sure they've actually been exposed, because the life-saving epinephrine, injected into a body who has not yet gone into shock, could be lethal. The sick, sad irony of the fact that medicine is poisonous. What we think will save us one day could very well damn us the next. I think this is kind of a sad thought. It's one of these Universals which I know, the Wise Boy shrugs and smiles at. "Isn't it grand? To be human? To be constantly fucking up? To be constantly scared? To be constantly faced with change? How great!" Fuck that.

What is another kind of medicine? Another kind of medicine is Subjectivity. I feel like Subjectivity is a vaccine, which we prescribe to our children. (We hate the kids, they are overpopulating our planet and we can't provide for them, so we kill them slowly). I think that I am like Jenny McCarthy, railing against the dangers of vaccines. But not exactly, because I dosed myself with subjectivity too, just to see how it works.

This thing of being able to identify with the world around you. This skill, this survival technique of locating yourself everywhere you go. Seeing yourself reflected in the eyes of strangers, in anonymous internet comments, in street traffic. This, we teach children, is how you learn to survive. This is how you learn to love yourself.

MY RESPONSE: Maybe, I think. Maybe, at first. Maybe when you're a baby. Maybe it's not so important to love yourself. Maybe the world doesn't always confirm you. Maybe the sooner you realize that, the sooner your "real life" can begin. You stinking little brats.

I think of it like this: subjectivity is like seawater. You can't get enough. It's dangerous. It used to be the way to live, it felt likem perhaps the key to survival, but I can tell you, from my perch. Here, from up on high. Here, in the future, Here, on the other side of 25. Here, on the other side of interviews and weekly profiles, ass-kissings. Here, at the precipice, I can tell you how sorry you will be to wind up like me, at the edge of a volcano with saltwater instead of blood in your veins.

We think we have enough blood, that we'll produce an infinite supply. We think of infinity too often. So few things which we casually and habitually refer to as infinite, endless, unlimited, are actually just really big. The world isn't going to become uninhabitable "someday" It's going to become uninhabitable within out lifetime. It's a slight distinction, but it is the distinction between: "Everything is going to be okay." and "Everything is going to be," Guess which camp I'm in.

I've been doing a lot of thinking and writing about this topic, this feeling, lately. The slick bruising that moves you from a security into claustrophobia. It's just that when you see yourself in the world around you, when your life depends on the world confirming you, then that leaves you in a very dangerous place. Not the good kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous where you close your eyes and walk into traffic. Sure, maybe God will protect you.

I don't want to give it all away, because I'm saving some of my best thoughts for this art show I'm working on. Isn't that funny? The idea of making art, of saving ideas. What is there to wait for? Once I start noticing this tendency in other people, this addiction to the seawater of subjectivity, I can't stop noticing it. I can see the gills. I can smell it.

I used to think of myself as something of a trendsetter. I thought people wanted to be just like me, which seemed like a cruel joke, because I've been secretly so unhappy. But then these dark and awesome realizations have been really pounding me in the last year, two years. And I'm so sorry, really sorry, to be here first. It sucks to be the first to know. It sucks to be the last to know. It sucks worse to be the second to last to know, and to have to tell you.

The risk might be so minimal. The stakes might be so much lower than I thought. Look: I'm probably never going to be a huge star. I clearly don't have the constitution to try. I've already failed. I live a secret abject life. I have a sex slave and he is me. I knew when my flippers crusted over, when I was tired of choking on dust, gasping for what you people call oxygen, I knew what I had to do, and I know it will have to occur to you as well. You will end up like me and you will, one day, find that the only way forward, the next method of survival involves locking yourself in the bathroom with a needle and thread and sewing your dirty, insatiably slimy gills shut.

I woke up this morning and the first thing I saw was Mx Justin Vivian Bond's DRUNK NEWS. It made me so happy. I love Justin Vivian. This is really the greatest.


"Kaddish for TV" from ENCOURAGER

"Gawd, I can't even remember a time before the Internet, you know? I mean, I can barely remember that time. And when I try to remember it, all I can think is: TELEVISION.

When I was a kid I lived in Los Angeles, and people used to put stickers on the back of their cars and a really popular one was a simple slogan that went like this: KILL YOUR TV

There’s such a sick irony to this slogan, to hearing it, remembering it today. In today's times. It's a shame. It's like making fun of a suicide. It is exactly that, mocking someone who is killing themselves, and that's not funny, right? R.I.P. TELEVISION. I loved her. I guess I should say VIDEO."


Street Lights / All for You

I've been here before. I know what this is like. I can do this! It's just, familiar. A hassle. Someone recently told me that experiencing a déjà vu is good luck. I don't remember who. But I reminded them that in The Matrix, which I just saw for the first time, a déjà vu is considered very bad luck; actually. It's a glitch in the Matrix, a sign that something's been updated. Usually auguring bad news. Imminent doom. I've been thinking a lot about LUCK lately. Anyway, experiencing a sort of idiotic déjà vu, dealing with the same shit I've had to deal with in the past, again. OK.

I miss La JohnJoseph. I found a postcard she sent me that says "JAZZ" on it and I put it up at my office cublicle. I feel a little bit nostalgic. I've been resting too much. My horoscopes all say, alternately, that either I need to make radical changes, which only I can engineer, following my true intuition, or that catastrophic, game-changing revelations will make themselves known to me and force me to adapt quickly. So far so good. Nothing major has happened. I have some inklings, of some things, but there's nothing to act on. My intuition is sharp! I don't know what I'm looking for but I'll know when I see it.

I love this song. It got me through some rough things. It was sort of the theme of the year. It's old, but it's been kind of my 2012 secret coping song. In the sense that my coping as such has been in secret. Even from me.

Wednesday night, we went out for drinks first at our friend Paul's house, then to the Metropolitan for Ladies night. I hadn't been there on Ladies Night in so long, it was fun. Also, the night before Thanksgiving is, I guess, a party time. I never partied around Thanksgiving, I always thought there would be nothing to do. I was wrong. Once, in high school, I saw Stereolab play on Thanksgiving. My family was pissed but they let me go anyway, and I'm glad they did, because a) the show was amazing, obviously and b) a couple short years later, Mary Hansen died, so I'm glad I got to see her perform with the 'lab before then. That had been my only real Thanksgiving going-out party experience but I set out to change all that this week. So Ladies Night at Metro was pretty cute. We got bored, though, and I went to that new party Les Garçons at Le Baron. I saw AndrewAndrew spinning the hits, the Gayletter boys. Lots of cute folks. What a fancy place, and what a cute party. Stayed up typically past my bedtime of course.

Thanksgiving was adorable and low-key. Two years ago, I spent Thanksgiving alone in my apartment, completely miserable and sad about the fact that I was by myself, and too ashamed to admit it or do anything about it for fear of being pathetic. Last year's Thanksgiving was unbelievably magic, for me. I literally cannot describe how perfect and over the top it was. This year, Thanksgiving was low-key, pleasurable, and easy. We went to Lola's house to eat a sides-only meal among a small group of friends. It was perfect. We drank and ate and relaxed and enjoyed each other's company, in the way I wish I could do more often. I so often want to have people over for dinner, I really ache to host dinner parties. But the ache is short-lived. I'm a lousy cook, I resent having to clean up after people. I think maybe I'd be a better dinner party guest. I need an excuse to buy sweaters.

Friday morning, fully engorged, I spent a long time at the gym, really working some issues out. I barely got home when I got a call from Miss Jiddy No-No, home from Grad School for the holiday. She came over, bearing some of this really crazy good vegan lentil soup she had leftovers, and we hung out for a bit, walked around Williamsburg. She's so gorgeous and funny, I love hanging out/being seen with her. After running some Friday errands I was desperate for a little action, party-time  but couldn't get anyone on board. So, I just went out by myself, the way I encourage other people to do but so rarely do on my own. There was a really fun and sort of crazy (for me) party on Friday called Trinity, at what looked like a reclaimed office space in midtown. I got there at about 1:30am, which is terribly late for me, but was pretty early for the event. There were a ton of really sexy kids. I mean: kids. I was probably 8 to 10 years older than everyone there. It felt that way. The bartenders made this great rum punch, and you could smoke inside, and the music was obviously fantastic. I was kind of in heaven. I actually like blending into the background. I like observing. I like not knowing anyone. The party was great, I was there by myself, but only stayed till 3am and made my long trip home to Brooklyn so I could get a Hana sandwich. That is how you do it. I didn't talk to anybody all night. That's not true; I ran into one person I know at the party but we just said hi.

Saturday I felt invigorated and woke up extra early to do my laundry, meditate, and water the houseplants. I impulse bought a ticket to Cloud Atlas. I liked it a lot, even though I had pretty much the worst seat in the whole theater. The whole underpinning of the thing, the collective/social life versus the individual life. It's an interesting proposition. I really liked it. It's kind of right up my alley. Incredibly long, though. And Susan Sarandon was so great. Why didn't she get to play all of the roles? She could have. She's fantastic.

After the movie I folded my laundry and then I met up with Sam and Tyler and we went to the Spectrum. There was a really awesome show that night, where we saw Shane Shane, Raul de Nieves, and Forced Into Femininity perform. Such cool, freaky queer performance art. I'm so excited by it. Simultaneously sad and happy about it: I love this! I wish I were always seeing it! Why isn't everyone, etc.? Very inspiring  After the performances it was a real great sexy dance party, as only the Spectrum can do. I had fun, it was local. Right near my house. Which is great.

I feel like I might be keeping secrets from myself, which is awful. But maybe just for now. Is it possible to be secretly in trouble? To be secretly upset? Could something be happening and you wouldn't even know? Maybe the only thing worse than being the last to know is realizing that you are the second to last to know, and it's your job to tell other people about it.

Some dominant themes lately:
- Navel gazing
- Self-obliteration
- Arbeit macht frei
- Repetition
- Fear, paralyzing
- Repetition
- Feeling sorry for the world, sorry for yourself
- I'm here to help
- I had an evil thought while I was at the gym last night. The evil thought: dance to the beat. They think I'm gonna do this, they don't even think it yet, but they're right. How to congratulate someone for something they haven't even thought to do yet. Raising children.

One final point: once I brought a guy home from the club and as we were getting undressed in bed he told me that we'd have to be careful, that I'd have to be gentle with him, because he was getting over an injury. As a rule, I'm always gentle. I didn't ask what his injury was (he seemed fine) but he told me anyway: he had been hit by a car, twice. I don't know what the time-frame was, but I guess pretty recent. We'd have to be gentle because he'd been hit by a car two times. Or, two different cars, actually. Two different times, recently.

I said "Wow, that's..."
And the guy interrupted me, as if we had a special inside joke together, where he'd finish my sentences. Like a 'jinx-you-owe-me-a-coke' moment. He thought we were gonna say the same thing and burst out giggling. What he interrupted with, what he thought I was about to say, was "...I know, that's too many times, right?"
I continued "I was going to say 'Wow, that's horrible, I'm really sorry.'"


Voice Alive

Spent most of Sunday re-reading Anthony Thornton's chapbook, THE WORLD OWES ME SOMETHING, a limited edition number produced by DAKHMA earlier this year. I got a copy when Anthony and I both read at the Swingers event organized by the lovely Joseph Whitt.

The chapbook is so good. I've long-admired Anthony's writing, across his infamous Twitter and his Tumblr account, and was always a big fan of the lady rap exhortations on his legendary (and sadly defunct) blog Li'l Dicks That Can't Fuck. I had heard tell that he was working on a chapbook in preparation for the reading, and was really excited to read his poetry. It does not disappoint. Anthony's writing is both magnanimous and catty, seething and sensitive. It's really dense; he takes his time. He's not in a rush.

From "Night of Pan":
The ineffable parent doles out
the Primal spanking.
Men are reconstituted
and forever anally punished.
I'm a big fan. Too bad that DAKHMA is no longer producing the zine and it is only being produced on a private basis. HOWEVER, I'm really excited to find out (kind of late to the game) that Anthony has put out a new chapbook (in PDF form) which includes the hits from THE WORLD... and the new chapbook is called Is my voice alive? 

PRESS NOTES: You’ve retweeted him, now really read him! Mystical, sensual, and anecdotal triads effortlessly whirl and ooze dark matter in Anthony Thornton’s debut chapbook of poetry, Is my voice alive? The title itself refers to the poet’s tendency to revitalize and remix the eroding Ineffable found throughout Western history. Read by moonlight.


The PDF is really wonderful. I may not be the most equipped to make this judgment, but these don't read like the poems of someone who's just starting out. They read like the poems of someone who knows that they're doing. Like that stereotype about a lawyer in a courtroom, he never asks the witness a question unless he already knows what the answer is. Of course his voice is alive. Of course the world owes him something.

I'm told there will be a website and a new print edition with artwork coming soon. Keep your eyes peeled.


I think maybe it is that my heart is too big. Maybe it is that my veins are too thin-walled. My blood wants to spill. I'm designed to turn inside out; it is inevitable. What is it? Why is it me specifically? It has to be this, that my blood wants out. My heart wants to jump out of my chest, all the time. I want to prostrate myself before you constantly and endlessly.

I think that this has to be it: I want it too bad. I want so much to show you how great you are, how eminently capable I am of loving and forgiving you. My generosity travels through time. You don't know me yet, but I forgive you. I want so much to send my love back in time, too, defend you from the cruelty of the schoolyard bully, somehow send my love for you to your lonely childhood, care for you in the way your parents simply were not able to. I want to make up for lost time. Let me take responsibility for your suffering. Let me know. I can know.

It is at least unseemly. The words I use most often are desperate, cloying, creepy, annoying, gross, pathetic. These are the words I use to describe myself. You won't hurt my feelings by using them on me, I chose them. (What is that book, is it Story of O, where the person brings their partner the tools they want their partner to whip them with? I feel like this). I know I am pathetic. I am truly desperate. I am unseemly, cloying, creepy. I do not have time for decorum, so it may annoy you. I refuse to pretend to be aloof. I won't even try. Let's give up the ghost. I want it too bad to hide it. There's no point. Why pretend not to want it? Why not announce your desires? Does this make you feel gross, that I am so forward? It doesn't cost me anything.

That's not true, it actually does cost me a lot. Kind of a lot. Maybe my wanting it (wanting you) so very badly, my outsized hunger precludes us from getting to know each other. Maybe I am so eager to please that I am not worth you deigning to acknowledge me. I think perhaps I do look my best when I am striving. How As the song goes: "When I get what I want, I never want it again." The medicine could be worse than the disease. I might be working too hard to keep you away from me.

I suppose what I mean is that I have it figured out. I know, it's okay. You don't have to tell me, you don't have to say anything, I understand. I bet you feel guilty, huh? I think you do, you must. Maybe just a little bit. Maybe you don't know it yet. I think you're scared to feel bad for me because then it reminds you what we might have this in common, right? This insatiable desire which threatens to undermine everything. I might be an example (for you) of what happens when you let desire run rampant. You might think that I am what happens when you set yourself on fire. You're right. Some of us want to be lit up. Some of us want to be heated, to be near the Flamers. But not me I have always known I wanted to be like a candle or a bomb, be the hottest, burn myself up. Right? Light your path. I am the footlights. I am on fire.


More You than You

Would that I could stay indoors all day, comfortable at a desk. Just... farming. Growing social capital. Would that I had the patience and fortitude to "like" enough personal observations, to connect just enough to build what felt like a real community. Would that anything felt good, or seemed worthwhile in that way!

So obsessed with the Ancient Greek idea of Oracles. Where, basically, it would be like a pit of volcanic vapors, and the witches or temple-maidens or whoever, would sit there huffing fumes, and warriors or citizens would go to the junkie oracle witches to hear their crazy ideas fro the future. But I'm thinking about this thing of living near the oracle, working at the temple, huffing magickal clairvoyance-inducing fumes all day. Does it ever lose it's thrill? It must. How could it not?

Having a fantastic case of the Mondays. All I want to do is go home to the gym but I can't. I feel pretty frustrated but don't have a really excellent reason for feeling like that. I keep dropping the ball, it feels like. I feel like a loser, or that I can't do anything right. That's probably okay though, for right now. I didn't meditate this morning. I didn't meditate all weekend. Sometimes I don't really see the utility in meditating. I feel like: what's the point of sitting with your feelings if your feelings suck?

It's like that Bill Cosby joke. Someone's trying to explain to Bill about how great cocaine is, how it just makes you more... you, it makes you a more salient version of yourself. "Yes," Bill Cosby says, "but what if you're an asshole?"

This is my whole trip with not wanting to remember my dreams. Like why bother? I don't have time for this pain, man. I was talking to this friend of mine about how to start a meditation practice that I could keep up with, and really stick to. And she said that she was talking about it with some of her meditation-school friends, and someone described it as not unlike brushing your teeth. Once you do it enough, you just realize that you don't want to leave the house in the morning without doing it. And that seemed to make sense, but I've definitely left the house without brushing my teeth before, in the past. Without any compunction. It's really hard to convince me that anything is a good idea. When I am in a bad mood it's all I know.

Anyway. My Open Studio presentation yesterday went really well, I thought. I told my friends that it was happening but I also told them that they didn't have to come, that because the trains were fucked up I would understand if they didn't want to come. That because it's the first open studio of the development of the piece, that they'd have many more chances to see the work, once it became a real thing. So, essentially, you don't have to come! It's totally ok not to come! But still, some friends came. And it actually did mean a whole lot to me to have some support there.

The Metropolitan's 10th anniversary party was actually fun and funny. A lot of familiar faces. Ryanna and I talked shop over the bass beat about 1980s punk rock, which we kind of always do? It was funny. I ran into so many people I hadn't seen in such a long time. Linda Simpson, my favorite drag queen in NYC and possibly the best most wonderful drag queen in the world was hosting the fun. And it was also her birthday as well.

I had one really cute interaction. I ran into this cute boy who I knew years ago. I don't want to embarrass everybody but suffice it to say he was good friends with another acquaintance of mine, and I always had a crush on this one boy, in the way where, like... I was already "acquainted" with his good friend and room mate, so I felt like he was off limits. Also the boy is way cuter than I am. Also the boy seems like he gets asked out a lot; he's a big flirt, he's adorable, everyone likes him. OK. So we used to live near each other, and I remember he and I took the train home from some cocktail party (it was actually the cocktail party to celebrate the NY premiere of a Bruce LaBruce movie, neither the cute guy nor I had been invited to the screening itself, if I remember correctly). The point is at the time the cute guy and I were sort of neighbors, and we took the train home together through the snow very late at night on a Thursday. I remember this night very explicitly because it was so long ago, and actually I had been pen-pals with PLD at the time and we were supposed to meet at this screening afterparty but he couldn't come. So I rode the train home with this cute neighbor whose friend I already knew. And the guy and I didn't know each other so well, but we like... made small talk on this long train ride, and when we got out of the train it was snowing. I never think snow is that romantic, but we did make out on a street corner when we parted ways for a few minutes. Then the cute boy got a boyfriend, for years, started running with a different crowd, I never saw him again. But I saw him on Saturday! And he was really sweet, and asked if I remembered him (um, duh) and asked if I remembered making out by the subway station.

Sometimes I think my reaction to a situation or a person is just mine. Like, I sometimes think I'm taking things too personally (I get that criticism a lot-- that I take things too personally). So over time I've just kind of gotten used to the idea that my perception of anything is mine alone, that it doesn't mean it actually happened, that I am crazy, that I'm the only one who sees what I see, etc. So it was really nice to have this guy who I've always lusted after affirm that this sweet, actually pretty innocent moment did happen. Like: I'm not crazy, that did actually happen, right?

The rest of the night was fun, too. Waiting in line alone at Hana Food at 4am, I saw Scott Panther and we were civil to one another.

This Mercury Retrograde thing of me not getting texts until hours after they've been sent is happening again, and I am pretty miffed about that. I guess I feel a bit better now that I get to leave work soon.

I'd still much rather be going home to the gym. To listen to the new Two Ton Boa single (so good!). Hey though, speaking of uplifting things and sexy boys, check out this delightful new video by Le1f and Boody, featuring miss Juliana Huxtable:

OK. I'm drinking only my fifth cup of coffee today. This is actually not at all a lot for me.


Counting Backwards / The Rice Cake of Feelings

I don't think I had posted about it here yet, but if you haven't seen it yet, please go check out this interview I did with Viv Albertine up on Noisey. Big thanks to EastVillageBoys for helping to nudge me to do it in the first place.

I'd been sitting on this interview for a long time, and I'm really happy with how it turned out. I tried to ask questions that she hadn't gotten a million times before, and I think I got some good nuggets. I'm so floored by her new album, The Vermilion Border, which I got yesterday.

Last night, I went to the MIX Festival to a midnight screening of James Brooks Caperton's brilliant film "High Bi Girls". It was so fantastic. I had seen snippets of it a few months ago, but I was so into it. I've known Jimmy for many years, since we were 13 or so. His band, The Judy Experience, is one of my favorite things ever. Here's one of their songs:

They have a new record just coming out now on Cochon Records, which my old homegirl Cotton made the art for. It's AMAZING. Also on the program was GB Jones' "The Yo-Yo Gang" which I had never seen before, and which was so brilliant. There was a dance party happening after the screening, one of those legendary epick MIX Fest parties which we've heard tell about. But I was exhausted, so after a few awkward hellos with some folks, I scampered home.

Today I went to see some of the other artists-in-residence open studio performances at BAX. They were so inspiring. I feel really humbled and grateful to be part of this program. My open studio presentation is Sunday. The trains are kind of fucked up this weekend, but the crowds were great. I had a good time.

Thursday night, I went to the BGSQD launch party/reading. I read my story "RINGO" and Joseph Whitt read, stud muffin wordsmith that he is. Also Ella Boureau read a story featuring Paul Ryan, which was so fantastic! The BGSQD space at 27 Orchard St. is adorable, and stocked with all kinds of wonderful queer books and art (including Scorcher). I'm tickled to have been part of it. I think I did my reading just ok. I feel so nervous about everything lately. Mercury Retrograde?

After the reading, Sam and PLD and I went over to Envoy's Chrystie St. space, to see SUPERM (Slave Mogutin + Brian Kenny)'s new show HEAVEN. There's gonna be a HELL exhibition soon too, but the pieces we saw on Thursday were great! Sensual and sexy but not actually explicit. A little bit unnerving and scary in cool new way. My take on it was that in the photo collages, you don't actually see genitals (or faces), so it's safe in a sense. But it's like how, I kept thinking about angels supposedly don't have genitals, or genders. Is that true? I don't know the first thing about angels, but the figures in the SUPERM show seemed, to me, to be about divine creatures. Angels always imply devils too, necessarily. Great show.

After Envoy, we went to Bluestockings to pick up miss Erin, who was there for a reading celebrating the release of the Sister Spit's new book on their own imprint at City Lights Bookstore. I missed the reading but got to see folks. We all hung out at Bluestockings, browsing for a minute, before going over to Julius' bar for the Mattachine party, where we met up with Nath-Ann and James Brooks. Fun dance-y evening. I could have stayed all night but I had to work in the morning.

Wednesday night I was in the studio, working on the new little selections I'm going to show tomorrow at the open studio. I gotta say, I'm so nervous. I'm worried that people won't get it, or like it, or both. I'm worried about a lot these days, I guess. Worrying is so much more filling than anything else. It is the rice-cake of feelings. I love Rice Cakes. I always think they're such a good snack. A good diet snack. They fill you up but don't bother you with anything along the lines of nutrition. They're a sort of 1970s way of depriving yourself. So, you know, right up my alley. But then I recently read an article by a nutritionist that rice cakes are the worst thing you can eat, because they're just empty carbs, and you don't really need them. They give you a false sense of energy, or something? Again, it makes sense why I like them. Worrying is like this. You think it's gonna help, it really doesn't. You think it will fill you up as a substitute for something else, a substitute for what you really want or what you really need. But it's a poor substitute. The only gratification to be had is one of self-denial. That's a hard way to live, constantly getting off on not getting off. Worrying is like that. You never think: "Wow, I'm so glad I worried about that. All that worrying sure paid off." Maybe there are exceptions there. Making art probably isn't one of them.

Tuesday night, I went to see the inimitable Dr. Vaginal Crème Davis do a performance/public discussion with Dr. Jose Munoz at NYU. It had been rescheduled from earlier before, because of the hurricane, and it was so much fun. Vag is of course an icon and a huge inspiration, and I was tickled to hear her share some of her trajectory, her story, her life in Berlin as an ExPat Goddess. Here's a cute photo of the two of us together, snapped by Conrad from USELESS.

Adoring! I never smile in photos, almost never.

She showed a clip of a film of Suddenly Last Summer, with miss Davis playing Katherine Hepburn's role. Now this is significant for a number of reasons:

a) Who doesn't love Suddenly Last Summer, obviously Vaginal Davis is a sensitive, nuanced, skillful actress, it was a treat in its own, of course.

b) Been thinking a lot about Katherine Hepburn lately. Last weekend, PLD and I were going on the deep end watching some clips of Katherine Hepburn being regal on TV. She's been on my mind all week. To wit:

I love the "very strong and very pretty" part. Such a Taurus! Also: "I'll wear it to your funeral". NICE, Kate. And that lead us to this wonderful Bette Davis clip:

It's so crazy how that final point she makes, that fame must never be your motivation, that you have to want to make work, to be unknown, etc. How that point seemed so obvious to her, and seems to irrelevant today. How many times have you had a conversation with someone in New York who says "I just want to be really famous"? I feel like I hear this a lot from people. I wish I had Bette Davis' self-assuredness so I could properly tell people off. But the good news is, I guess, if I hang on long enough, some day I will get Bette Davis' self-assuredness. I will, absolutely. It's only a matter of time.

c) There was another Kate Hep clip where she rearranges the furniture on a talk show, which was funny because the Vaginal talk had an adorable, meticulous stage set-up, which reminded me of the video. Thinking a great deal about how to make a space to be in, in the best possible way. What would that space be like? Then, how would you be in it?

Tonight is the Metropolitan's 10th anniversary party. I'm going to wear the Comme des Garçons shirt I got that says "GOLDEN BOY" on it. So weird to think that bar's been there for ten years. It feels ancient. But so do, I in a way.

I was looking over this blog, and over the last year, the thing that seems to appear on here more than anything else, more than any other phrase, is "I don't know". Sometimes rendered as "I dunno." How funny! As I get older, I seem to know less. When I was younger, writing this blog felt totally certain. Or, more certain more of the time. I really don't know, these days. I used to know. I used to think I knew. I think that felt good. Often it felt bad, though, too. It was just constant feelings. But not anymore. Now I'm a grown-up. I eat rice cakes and worry. I don't have time or space for real feelings. I'm kidding.

I feel like between the eclipse last week and Mercury being Retrograde and the holidays approaching, everything seems to be making people feel shitty. I think part of being so plugged in, as we are, across all these social networks, we're all sort of engaged in one long epick protracted conversation. I feel like I'm listening in. Anyway, this past week, it seems like so many of my friends are having a rough time. Really going through it. And up until last night, I wasn't. I felt, like, oddly left out, in a way. Like, where's my pathos? I felt a little bit proud for not being down in the dumps when everyone else is. I wanted to be the supportive one. I want to prove my durability, by demonstrating it, using it.

But then last night and today, I feel kind of shitty too. Just touching on all my old-fashioned neurosis of, like, not existing. Or only existing to give people stuff, like people only want something from me. And when I'm in a bad mood I feel like that. So it's a clue that I'm in a bad mood, when I notice this feeling. It's not that everybody just wants stuff from me-- it's that I'm nothing. The things they want from me are irrelevant. It's that I'm not real, the person they want something from doesn't exist. How can I be supportive or validating or say or do what you want me to, when I don't exist? How can I tell you that the person you're talking to isn't real? When I'm in a bad mood, I feel guilty, responsible for being unable to tell you how I'm not real.

But it's not an issue when I'm in a good mood. I'm still not real, but when I'm in a good mood, it's not so impossible to articulate. None of us are real. I have this mortal fear of disappointing people, revealing my nothingness. It's a total chicken-or-the-egg thing: how can I show that I am not real, when I feel so bad? and how can I stop feeling bad if I'm keeping this secret (that I'm not real, that none of us are real) to myself? I know, I sound like a crazy person. This is what I'm making art about, though.

I'm excited to work on this new project, and share it with people. I don't want to be popular. I don't want people to like me, because I don't exist. What I want is to make art that lays bare the terrifying and gorgeous facts of the matter: we are all not real, none of us are getting out of here alive. We're eating air meals and pretending it's delicious food. The Emperor's New Clothes. The thing about that is:

The thing about the Emperor's New Clothes is not that he was such an egoist  It's that the poor townspeople, the peasants, seeing him walk through the street naked, they noticed it. They noticed he was naked, because they were poor, they knew what it was like not to have any clothes. They recognized that you can be rich, be powerful, be beautiful, and still have an impoverished imagination. You can think and wish and ache and work and strut and you will still be naked. And if you've ever been naked, then you can recognize nudity when you see it.

We're not stupid. We know the difference between styrofoam and food.
We forget, but the choosing reminds us.


Bureau of General Services - Queer Division Pop Up Shop Opening

After getting to organize the fantastic Fag City reading on Saturday, I'm excited to read some of my own work at this awesome event this Thursday in NYC. It's an opening for The Bureau of General Services-Queer Division, who have a new location downtown.

I'm so excited to be part of this project and especially excited to be part of the event! On Thursday, I'll be reading one of my own stories (a newer one), and also reading are Joseph Whitt and Ella Boureau. There will be fantastic art and readings and people and I believe an open bar-- and it's all free. Please do come, kids.I will be selling back issues of Scorcher, so if you've been meaning to buy a copy and have been putting it off, now's your chance.

Strange Loop Gallery Hosts The Bureau of General Services—Queer Division Pop-Up Shop
November 15, 2012-January 31, 2013
Grand Opening Thursday, November 15, 2012
Strange Loop Gallery
27 Orchard Street
New York, NY 10002

Strange Loop Gallery Hosts
The Bureau of General Services—Queer Division Pop-Up Shop

November 15, 2012-January 31, 2013

Grand Opening
Thursday, November 15, 2012
6 to 9 PM


Strange Loop Gallery and the Bureau of General Services—Queer Division proudly announce our collaboration in bringing you the Bureau of General Services—Queer Division pop-up bookstore and event space at Strange Loop Gallery from November 15, 2012 through January 31, 2013. The Bureau of General Services—Queer Division will establish a permanent location in NYC in spring 2013.

Please join us at the grand opening of the Bureau of General Services—Queer Division pop-up bookstore and event space at Strange Loop Gallery on Thursday, November 15, 2012 from 6 to 9 PM. Event details forthcoming on the websites of Strange Loop Gallery and the Bureau of General Services—Queer Division:


Strange Loop Gallery is curated by artists Alesia Exum and Claire Fleury.
Each of their exhibitions is an original happening with a different theme and character. As installation artists, they create an environment to display the art in and turn each exhibition into an experience. Strange Loop Gallery is co-owned by founders Alesia Exum and Claire Fleury.

The gallery is located at 27 Orchard Street, between Canal and Hester, and is easily reached by the B and D trains to Grand Street, F train to Delancey or East Broadway, walking, biking, or car.

The Bureau of General Services—Queer Division is a queer bookstore and event space opening soon in New York City. We aim to foster a community invested in the values of mindfulness, intellectual curiosity, justice, compassion, and playfulness. The Bureau seeks to excite and educate a self-confident, sex-positive, and supportive queer community by offering books, publications, and art and by hosting reading groups, authors’ talks, and performances. The Bureau of General Services—Queer Division will provide local and visiting queers and friends with an open and inclusive space for dialogue and socializing. The Bureau of General Services—Queer Division welcomes you!

The Bureau of General Services—Queer Division (BGSQD, LLC), is co-owned by founders Donnie Jochum and Greg Newton.



The reading on Saturday was just so fantastic. I'm so thrilled with how it went. Look at the crowd!

It was packed. Jamie and Tony from Envoy set up the space beautifully, lovely Kyle agreed to bartend, and Bulldog Gin provided delicioua libations. I feel really overwhelmed and humbled to get the support.

AND THE REASON for the reading was the readers. I was so blown away with the performers, I gotta say, I'm glad I waited to get all four of these people on the same bill. It was my fantasy. I mean it. Kayla read two pieces, including this one, which totally blew my mind. I'm always wrestling with ways of addressing certain social or cultural themes, concepts. Some things feel too big or complicated to talk about: we experience these things but we don't have the ability to relay our experiences. Kayla's writing seemed to articulate something very subtle, nuanced, and beautiful. It was so cool to see her read it live and see the audience really get it. I was thrilled. Sam read an excerpt from his forthcoming memoir, which I'm now totally obsessed with reading, so I hope he hurries up and finishes it. I've long been a fan of Sam's writing on his blog, I knew he was smart and funny, but I was very impressed with the piece he read on Saturday. He relayed a few formative experiences from his childhood, interrogating his autobiography as vigorously as he does the paintings he writes about. I'm so excited and turned-on by people who clearly like to get into it. Who clearly have an intense engagement with what they're thinking about. I feel like with Sam's writing, he's not being a smarty-pants, because he's actually really excited about what he's talking about. He's not a show-off: he's in it. It's so great. Juliana read a few shorter pieces and absolutely brought down the house. I especially loved the way she frames her logic, her sentence structure. She makes multiple points at what feels like the same time. The idea of pace, of inflection. I felt like I was really paying attention to her performance, in a way that made me excited. The way people talk, how affect is a code. The crowd went wild, duh. Closing out the reading was of course Gio, who I am always glad to see perform. I've been a fan of Gio's work for a few years now, and I'm so happy he was part of the reading. He did a few pieces combining poetry/spoken word and singing. It was definitely the most punk rock thing I'd seen in a long time. I was really excited by the performance of something done in an almost caterwaul about conflicted personal feelings. (This is a quick interpretation). It was brave and sweet and funny and a little bit scary.

The whole night was so fantastic. I can't say enough how happy I am with it.
I don't really like to put on events super duper regularly, it's a ton of work. This one was absolutely easy, however, so maybe I'll change my mind.

I think it's really important to do events that are free and open to the public.

I think it's especially important, even in a media center like New York City, to make events happen where the only qualification for admission is affinity.

SO, thank you everyone involved and everyone who came out!

Friday night, I went to go see Miss Vaginal Davis' opening at Participant Inc.

It was so cool! A beautiful and trippy little space. I want to go back when it's not so fucking crowded! And have my own experience with the wonderworld Miss Davis has bestowned (however fleetingly) on us undeserving New York rats. At the opening, the gallery itself quite dark. It was pitch black and full of sexy celebrities, demimonde, etc. Vag's usual milieu. It was as if she brought the Berlin back-room darkness with her to New York. I'm so excited to see her talk with Jose Munoz at NYU tomorrow night.

OK That was then. The future is coming up next.


FAG CITY 11/10/12

FAG CITY is happening this Saturday! I'm so excited. Originally planned for 11/3, this event is now happening THIS SATURDAY 11/10/12:


Envoy Enterprises hosts the newest iteration of FAG CITY on November 10th in the basement of their new space on Rivington Street.

FAG CITY is a live reading and performance series organized by Max Steele, to showcase live readings by artists and writers working within and just beyond their usual metiers.

The event is sponsored by Bulldog Gin.



Kayla Morse is a Sarah Lawrence Girl and a post-grad slacker. She's been published in LowLog and Two Serious Ladies, and co-produced the zine HATE (WEBSITE)


Sam McKinniss is an internationally exhibited visual artist based in New York. Activated in 2007, Sam writes a blog called Weekend Party Update where he discusses art, romance, hanging out and whatever else appeals to him (WEBSITE).


Photo by Amos Mac.


Photo by Slava Mogutin.

Gio Black Peter ( Giovanni Andrade Paolo Guevara) is a New York-based performance artist as well as an ardent visual artist. He examines text and subject, truth and fakery, rebellion and authority. His subversive work has quickly earned him a name in the downtown New York scene of young emerging artists who participate in today's dialogue about the deconstruction of high profile, white box presentation and the desire to raise art awareness. At the core of Black Peter's thinking is the idea that the life of art depends on the viewr's willingness to suspend his or her rational thoughts and play into the believability of lies and realistic falsehoods. Familiarity and a seductive aesthetic draw the viewer back to Black Peter's art- a visceral exploration of vulnerability and self-reflection.

Since 2007, Gio Black Peter has performed and exhibited work worldwide, including: New York, Berlin, Madrid, Milan, Bergen, London, Antwerp, Tokyo, and Paris. He has also appeared as an actor in James Bolton's film "Eban and Charley" (2001) and Bruce LaBruce's film "Otto; or, Up with Dead People" (2008). He continues to grow and develop his range as an artist.

I'm so excited about the readers! I got my dream team. Saturday's reading features:


I'm Coming Up Cat Sized

SO MANY THINGS happened since last week.

For one, I saw Grace Jones perform. It was literally perfect. I almost can't get into it.

Also it was Halloween.

Most importantly, Hurricane Sandy came and tore up Eastern Seaboard. I'm totally fine, working at my job from a location in Brooklyn. All kinds of fun things I had been planning are rescheduled or postponed. I'm really frustrated. There's no subway service. None of this is new. I'm just saying: how different the world can be within a week. Your own (my) world.

Really though, the Grace Jones show almost makes it worth it.

On Tuesday night, I met up with Erin and Thee Irish Horse. We went to a bar in Greenpoint and then their apartment. Irish Horse made vegan pudding out of coconut milk and chia seeds, and baked brownies. We split a bottle of red wine. We watched Woman Under The Influence and it really upset and inspired me, the way that any halfway serious or decent depiction of mental illness does. For some reason, I thought the movie was going to be about a glamorous housewife's existential ennui, and I imagined that she would find herself liberated through sex.

I thought that the movie was going to be similar in theme and scope to Fear of Flying. It wasn't, really. I was really identifying with the main female character, long past the point where her sanity is called into question. And then before I know it, I feel like I am also a crazy person. I wonder if, on some level, that's the point of art (of this art). What a shitty point to make-- to make people feel bad. It made me sad, I guess, but I liked hanging out and the pudding was so good.

Then last light, PLD and my show as B0DYH1GH at CultureFix was canceled because the Lower East Side is still without electricity (and a subway system). We went to go see Jess Pap's band Heaven's Gate perform as part of the Punk Rock cover band show at Death by Audio. They were performing as Joy Division, and they were so great!

It was really surreal to be at a punk rock show, with people dressed up in costumes. Two tough guys in fake blood and devil-locks and sort of zombie outfits dancing while the Joy Division set happened. Jess wore a noose and sang in a deep voice like Ian Curtis'. All of a sudden the tough guys started moshing, and it reminded me of the way skinheads and nazi punks used to mosh to Joy Division. But then a tough byrd girl (look it up) in a French Maid outfit jumped into the pit. The crowd went wild. it was surreal. I was afraid I'd get hurt. I'm always scared of that.

Today I'm back to work. I'm having to reschedule and worry about so many things at once. I'm pretty bummed out about it today. I'm gonna hang out with Jiddy No-No after work though, so that'll be fun. She has a dog, but it's basically a cat-shaped/cat-sized dog.

I've been struggling with my Analyst. He called on Tuesday to say that we're canceling our session this week. I was nonchalant on the phone, and now I'm sad that we won't get to meet. We've been talking a lot about dreams. I almost never ever remember my dreams. For a long time this was by design: the only dreams I remembered were nightmares, and I would rather not know about those, so I didn't care about not remembering my dreams. But lately a number of things have happened or are beginning to happen (or have stopped happening) which made me think that I needed to be remembering my dreams.

After careful and thorough discussion with my Analyst about the fact that I can't remember my dreams, and am only sort of partially interested in remembering them, he told me that he could help me remember my dreams, that there were things he could direct me to do in the hope of remembering them.

But he's not going to tell me what these things are. Because he's not convinced that I'm ready to start remembering my dreams.

Maybe that's supposed to be some kind of reverse psychology but I didn't argue with him. Maybe I'm not ready, okay. Fine. In any case, I happen to know that one of the things you do if you want to remember your dreams (assuming you do want to remember your dreams, assuming that your dreams are beautiful and rich and not a series of horrible nightmares), is to keep a dream journal. Jiddy No-No recently got me a cute little notebook with a kitty cat on the cover (a kitty cat shooting lazers from their eyes). And I am keeping it on my bedside table with a green ink pen to write down my dreams, when I think to remember them.

I have two entries so far:

- "I am walking down the street and people are mad at me". That's as much as I remember of a dream I had a few weeks ago, and about as much as I care to remember. Yikes!

- But then last night I had another dream. Last night I had a dream that I was out with some friends of mine, getting into trouble. I don't remember what. But they were walking me home, and as we turned the corner to my street, I saw many trucks gathered around my apartment building. It was on fire. This is something I've often fantasized about. Someone outside (my friend departed) told me that there was no one inside, that no one was hurt. Or, actually, they revised their statement to say there was only a cat inside. Only the kitty. The cat was dangling from my room by it's claws, and then it fell. It scampered away across the street, and the crowd around my apartment took this to mean that the cat wasn't injured, but I knew better. I ran after the cat and found it across the street, where it had limped to a hiding spot underneath a car. No one seemed to care about the cat.

I picked it up and the cat was meowing frantically. It's back leg had been severed. It wasn't bleeding or gross, but it was apparent that the cat was very badly (if not mortally), injured. I was carrying it and listening to it cry and was really upset. I knew I had to take it to the hospital. Luckily there's one near my house I ran, cradling the 3-legged meowling cat. The vet's office near my house was closed.  I was filled with panic and the idea to simply abandon the cat occurred to me, but I envisioned it dying in the street, and the feeling of my heart breaking, anxiety and being the bearer and sole witness of the precious creature's pain and demise overwhelmed me.

I woke up. My apartment was unheated and freezing cold. My left arm was in terrible burning pain, I guess a mosquito bit my left elbow. I woke up shivering and scratching and very very sad. I thought about going to back to sleep. It was 4:19am. Instead, I wrote down the nightmare in my dream journal, in halting, scribbled all caps.

Someone. Someone. Someone.

SO old. I meant to post this all last week.

Was feeling inexplicably angry the other day. I guess I still feel that way. Miffed, I guess, at the basic unfairness of the Universe. Revealed ultimately through the fact that no one else seems to be freaking out about it. Tuesdays always put me in a bad mood. Tuesdays are my Monday. But, you know, I managed. I went home after work and went to the gym and worked out really hard. And had a protein shake for dinner and then went to go see Cat Power. I'd been looking forward to that show for so long. She didn't disappoint.

I'm reading this Susan Sontag novel, Death Kit, but my heart's not really in it. I need to be reading a new book. I've never been crazy about Sontag's fiction. I've actually never been crazy about Sontag's writing in general. I kind of thought it was a little bit snooty for snootyness' sake. I feel guilty, because I know I'm supposed to love her work, as a queer and a jew, but I feel like I'm, too stupid to be reading it. In college I remember telling a professor that I felt like I was too dumb to get Sontag's work, because my frame of reference was so different. The professor smiled and said "Ah, yes. She writes for the layman, but for a very very educated layman." So it is snobby, I'm not imagining that.

Anyway the novel I'm reading Death Kit is pretty okay (so far). Susan Sontag is really good at conveying the moral certitude of the failed suicide. Like "Why bother?" right? What is the point. The ennui. It's weird to have your feelings confirmed in a book. I forget, though, that I always feel this way, about every book I'm reading. But in Death Kit, the protagonist Diddy tries to kill himself. He doesn't seem like he really wants to die, he just seems like he doesn't want to be alive. It's not morbid, exactly, but it's the morbid end of the Spectrum of Boredom. Which I identify with. I like to see something like ambivalence or indecision pushed to a conclusion.

Really, this is why I like to see art and try to make art: because I'm trying to work out a problem that I can't work out in my "real life" so I blow it up to bigger proportions and deal with it that way. Like, I think it's cool or fun to read about boredom so extreme that you have to try to kill yourself. That helps me negotiate my own boredom (I don't want to kill myself). Once I made this performance art show about having a boyfriend who was a meat-eating panther monster, because I had a boyfriend in real life who was a sort of monster (a little bit). That seems like so long ago. By the time I finished the thing I wasn't even upset about the boyfriend anymore, so either the art-making thing did it's job or there's really no job to do and I'm just being romantic.

Another fantastic video TWO cute new videos from America's Favorite, Miss Baby Girl Cole Escola:

So cute, right?

One thing I've been thinking about a lot lately giving people bad news. I'll do pretty much anything, including lie without any reservations, to avoid having to give someone bad news. Because I feel like if I give people bad news then they won't like me. And, logically, if people don't like me, then the world stops revolving. I'm doing this for everyone. But honestly, I go through a lot of suffering, and end up making other people suffer too, to avoid having difficult conversations. To avoid disagreeing. I hate disagreeing. Some people like it, though.

What happens when you forget to wear sunglasses on your morning commute on the subway? What happens is that a yuppie in a yuppie outfit (that's sports coat and button down shirt open at the collar with no tie on) notices your tattoo and says "Sweet tattoo, bro. Do you play the violin?"
No, you say, it's form the cello. And you don't play anymore.
The yuppie says that he plays the guitar, and has been thinking of getting a tattoo about that.
You recommend that he gets the same tattoo as you.
The yuppie is uncomfortable and says "Okay. Well. Take care." but you're in a crowded subway car and have nowhere to go. It's a little bit awkward.

Now, though, the idea of a crowded subway car, even full of yuppies, fills me with longing.

There were so many really wonderful things about Cat Power's performance last week at the Hammerstein Ballroom. But this was one of the most touching parts. At the end of the song, when Chan is singing "Someone. Someone. Someone." and pointing out different people in the room, then herself. I almost cried.


Can you love something which does not reflect, validate or confirm your identity or sense of self?

Can you love something without becoming it?

Can you love something while knowing that your love runs the risk of potentially accidentally hurting, invading, destroying the thing you love?


We All Tired

I love this song so much. I forgot how much I love this song. I say this all the time, and I mean it all the time, but this is my favorite song. My favorite song right now, I mean. An all-time favorite.

New Dress.

Friday night we Perfect Little Daniel and I had B0DYH1GH band practice, for our upcoming Halloween Gala show at CultureFIX next week. Playing the hits both new and old. It's such a pleasant surprise to sit down and think: "What songs should we play? What songs do we even have?" and then to remember, one by one, how many really fantastic songs we have and are going to play. I guess it is, like so much else, a matter of perspective. If you stick with anything long enough, eventually you either make enough stuff you start to feel proud of it, or you develop and hone the capacity to regard it as worthwhile. That is some general advice. For free! But specifically, with regard to B0DYH1GH, I've always been exceedingly proud of our output, because we're fucking great. Everyone who's come to any of our shows has been blown away, and it's hardly difficult to see why. So it's a double treat. Easy to get into and hard to get out of.

*As a reminder, kids, you can download B0DYH1GH's first myth-tape, "PRETTY BEAUTIFUL" over on EastVillageBoys.

After band practice PLD and his room mate Diego and I drank my favorite wine, Mateus. I used to drink it all the time in college, but haven't been able to find it in New York City in many years. There's a sort of bizarre liquor store right next to PLD's house, though (it seems like it used to be a movie theater and now it's a liquor store) and they have a bunch of Mateus for some reason. So whenever I go to PLD's I buy a bottle of it.

We were talking about Dusty Springfield, and how Dusty used to like to drink Mateus too, because it's very sweet, very pink, very fizzy, and you can make lampshade base out of the bottle and it'd look so cute. Those aren't the reasons I started drinking it in college though. It's also very, very cheap. Like $5 a bottle cheap. Drinking some on Friday, through, it wasn't so great. Maybe it's that the stock they have at the bizarro movie theater liquor store is old, or maybe my palette's been refined over the years (not likely) but it seemed pretty gross. Anyway, $5 is a fucking bargain.

After wine, we went to Nowhere Bar for the first installment of Spunk Fridays, the new dance/multimedia/performance party thrown by dear heart Aaron Tilford of Spunk Arts Magazine. It was way cute, and I got to see Joseph Keckler there and it was nice. I did kind of chill out early, though, like a little fucking baby.

finally it has happened to me right in front of my face my feelings can't describe it

Some new things I'm excited about are that I have two new stories which are just coming out right now!

First, I have a new short story called "WONDER" in the new issue of Birdsong!

You can get your copy by e-mailing BIRDSONG.

Also, I am so thrilled to have a new three-scene story I wrote, called "THREE" in this new arts magazine but together by Gio Black Peter and Christopher Stoddard:

ONLY 350 COPIES will be printed, numbered, finished by hand and signed in blood.
CLICK HERE TO PRE-ORDER NOW before they sell out, and receive your limited-edition copy on 12-12-12.

Edited by Gio Black Peter and Christopher Stoddard, featuring: Antonio Mingot, Blake Butler, Brian Kenny, Bruce Benderson, Bruce LaBruce, Carter Harrington, Christeene Vale, Christopher Stoddard, Daniel McKernan, Drrty Pharms, Edgar Retro, Felix Werbowy, Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, Gio Black Peter, Jackee Word, Jason Napoli Brooks, Jessica Yatrofsky, John Weinrich, Jordan Fox, Lee Adams, Lonely Christopher, Mason Chambers King, Matt Lambert, Max Steele, Maxwell Snow, Michael Alig, Micki Pellerano, Miguel Villalobos, Paul Gunn, Richard Kern, Shisa, Slava Mogutin, Sleazy, Stephan White, Susanne Oberbeck, Travis Jeppesen, Tyler Stone.

SATANICA Magazine Promo One from gio black peter on Vimeo.

So that's cute, huh? Here's a picture that dear heart Walter took of me the other night on our way to go out dancing.

I needed a haircut so bad! Don't worry, I got one the next day.

This past Saturday night, I was a go-go dancer with Nath Ann at the SPANK loft party in Bushwick, right down the street from my house. It was just too too too much fun. I can't even. So much fun. Here's a picture of us having so much fun, by Christopher Gagliardi. I basically never smile in photos FYI so this is rare. Remember it.

And then last night I hung out with my friend Marcus, who just got his Master's Degree that morning. We met up with Sister Pico to go see Jess Paps' band HEAVEN'S GATE perform in Brooklyn. They were so good! You can hear their music and see some shine they just got from Spin.

I'm gonna go grocery shopping and eat dinner before going to this Taylor Swift tribute show tonight. Saving the gym for tomorrow, so I can burn off my excitement before going to go see the High Priestess Chan Marshall.

Sometimes I like to pretend that Chan is short for Channifer.