Me And My Arrow

15 million people in the world and me. AND you.

Went upstate with my lover last weekend. We rushed to Grand Central it was a madhouse. Got to Beacon, got the ferry to Newburgh where we were staying.

So many reasons not to remember. To forget. To sleep.

I've so often wondered if anything was even worth reporting, measuring, relaying, remembering. Blogging.
It's not about documenting it's aspirational. I've packed myself beyond comprehension. I've taken too many mirror pills, supplements, that reflection is impossible. That's how I've survived the pressure to change. By becoming the vehicle itself, for change. Not he driver. The chrome rims.

I've discovered so many good bands. Every Tuesday I download a handful of new albums. Right now Beverly, Whirr, lots more. I can't remember or keep them straight.

I can have this debate with you all b y myself.

So many instances I cannot bridge the gap. So many problems in my life stemming from, exacerbated by my inability to communicate. Or at least that's how it feels.

But there's so many things I need to talk about! And so many things I need to hear, so many things I've yet to understand.
I let a crowded subway car pass. I don't need to bother.

I walked in the muggy night and told my father all of my secrets, the recent embarrassments and shames.

I do and don't want to talk about it but I feel like I've been using myself as an example, hoping other people would too. Maybe it's not the best most universal tool in my kit.

Woke up this morning fired up and ready to write.

I extended my vacation one extra day, one extra night. I was stressed so I stress ate. Stress slept. And I woke up and meditated and feel like I want to take on the world.

Want to disabuse other queers about their feelings. Want to point out how narrow-minded obsessed and dangerously egotistical we've been. My community. The people I'd expect more from. But isn't that what family is for? To teach you to accept someone despite their faults?
Who else can be family.

I've dealt with bullies my entire life. So have you, probably. I've seen and correct me if I'm wrong here, how and where bullies come from.

I've seen someone go from loving me to wanting to hurt me. And then telling me it's the same thing. I've struggled to try to understand that.

I have sympathy for the bullies. So much that I usually just let them be.

But the bully is in me, too. And it's in you too. And we have to rehabilitate the entire world. It's a tough job but...

They say the most beautiful phrase in the English language is "Cellar Door." I disagree. I have two alternates.

I think the phrase "Dress Rehearsal" might be the most beautiful phrase in the English language.

Actually today right now I think the most beautiful phrase in the English language might be "You know what you have to do." I don't "know," personally, myself. It's an aspirational phrase.

But so then to the work. Do I really need to talk about it? How can I proceed here.

I was really feeling the Pride parade this year. Maybe because I saw my amazing boyfriend marching in the parade. But no. Event before he came I was choked up (seriously!) with the feeling of urgent, desperate love. Like many people (or not that many, actually) it feels as though we've reached a critical mass of people who want to share their feelings of exclusion their forbidden love rage and selves. We're sharing over this queer thing more than ever before. And it makes me want to sing or whatever.

But therein lies the problem. It's not enough. The goal posts have changed as they should. And even some of us like myself who thought we were fighting the good fight... it's not good enough anymore maybe. Perhaps it was never good enough. It used to be that my pointing that out (that it's not good enough, big enough to do that obsessively onanistic blind eye pleasure seeking) it used to be that my pointing that out made me an unredeemable asshole. But now I think maybe this criticism is better heard. But my goodness! Not today.

I'm working on a new zine and one of the pieces is about this, this feeling of turning into bully. Having some unrequited feeling go sour within you. To write about being rotten. It's okay.

The piece is about fear. The fear of feeling bad. Feeling bad is nothing to be scared of. Well, no nevermind scratch that. Feeling bad is EXACTLY something to be scared of. Maybe I'm worried that we're designing the future for who we want to be not who we are. Maybe I think I need to catch us when we're being self-centered. When we assume and operate from the idea that we all want the same thing. Maybe I want to be like that snotty little faggot from that Catcher in the rye book and keep us from going out of bounds, falling down, rotting from inside.

But I think I can do better. I don't know about you. I mean I do know about you, of course I do. I know you can do better too. But I'm using myself as an example, for right now.

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