Remembering Butler (First Encounter)
The first book I read by Octavia Butler was Lillith's Brood (or Xenogenesis). I got it from Twice Sold Tales. Rye and I were about to go to SC and were looking for reading materials. I got that book and Clive Barker's Books of Blood. You see, I really had no other choice but to totally adore her. I know literature when I am reading it and it is upsetting my entire world! I have read it four times since that fateful day in May 1999. I curled up on my mom's couch and read it. I read it before bed (I LOVE reading before I fall asleep... a habit I don't do much anymore because the light makes Ryan grumpy... TV light my Taurean doesn't mind, but my BearLamp light and silence... and he's tossing and turning and that vein pops out in the middle of his sleep forehead) every night leading up my singing at Natalie and Pam's wedding (where I sang *shudder* Shania Twain's "From This Moment" and then Amel Larrieux's "Makes Me Whole") and even when we got home (Kris' home) drunken and giggly... and when I finished it... I felt, well, changed. That's the mark of a good book, I think.
I tell you all this because of this really stupid kid who pissed me off, but really, nothing can change my love for Butler, alter it, reduce it, limit it -- even some pseudo-intellectual who believes reading two books, one of which he liked, is evidence enough to form an opinion -- an educated and thus valid opinion about La Butler ("La" is a prefix given in true snap-queen, B/black fag Diva style...).
A re-reading is in order.
GAYlindo and Big Butt Weir
It's Not Right to Put Johnny on the Spot
This is a response... you can read the OpEd if you want or skip it.
Why *isn't* it "right" to put Johnny on the spot about his sexuality? Who's right?
You know, I was willing to agree with the idea that Weir shouldn't be made to say the words, "I am gay," until I saw that Rudy Galindo was involved.
Do you know Rudy? He was a poor Hispanic guy from a trailer park in TX who was, perhaps, the first brave male soul to come out in figure skating history. In fact, he is also HIV +. If Weir's "showing but not telling" makes him an interesting story today, it is only because of Rudy Galindo. Galindo was never supported the way Weir is. People always talked about how flamboyant Galindo was, but never what a great athelete he is and how brave he was to be as out as he was and to skate as he wanted to.
Per usual, I see something hidden here... or a privilege being extended here... one that seeks to make one of these two gay skaters exempt while one of them was never allowed to be exempt... one that is granted to one of these gay skaters because he is white.
As the article states, it isn't difficult to put two and two together in regards to Weir's sexuality. However, as an out person, I know there is nothing more life changing that being able to speak the words clearly, "I'm gay." After that, then you can remake your life in anyway you want, in anyway you deem fit and possible. Might as well come all the way out of the translucent closet, Weir. Long time viewers, like me, knew you were gay the first time you skated in senior competition. We were thrilled. However, back then, when your jumps didn't, I said it was because of your lush and plump booty and knew you would come back strong.
What really stikes me as funny about Weir, and maybe about all the young queers coming up, period, is the way in which they all seem to think they are the first ones to do anything and never look to their elders to see what was done. Instead of Rudy talking to the media, I wish he had spoken to Weir. Instead of Weir pulling a young version of B.O.Q. (bitter old queen -- forgive me for the terminology), I hope he talks to Rudy. That would make me happy... because Galindo was given the shortest stick possible... and we ALL know he was not the first fairy to strap on a pair of boots, nor will Weir be the last. However, what Galindo reminds us is that we can't celebrate as if he was the first -- he wasn't. He's the first white one. Amazing how that can still mean something although we say and make noise that it doesn't.
But also, there is no precedent regarding when someone can speculate about someone's sexuality. None at all. In fact, most people think everyone is heterosexual (which is why I think heterosexuals should have to come out... however, the unpopularity of this position makes it clear to me that perhaps the reason why hets don't come out is because sexuality is complicated. Don't take my word for it. Take the word of the white guys on Craigslist M4M who cruise for sex with another man because "my wife has gone away"....) unless they say something to the contrary. For some people, like Galindo, Weir and even myself, our closets are pretty translucent anyway. You can see inside, see the pink ribbons and shiny tiara even while we try to deny it or at least keep it covered (or on the "DL" -- to go all the way there in yet another expression of the dreaded term). For people living in translucent closets, closets no one would be "surprised" -- putting the words to it instead of struggling in some strange Liberace existance is a GOOD THING. I know I wanted to straddle that line. I wanted to "be" but never "say" -- never own it, never claim it in fear people wouldn't like me anymore. I found some people like me because of it. Some people hate me because of it. But there are some people who like *me* because I'm thoroughly me.
Besides, there's a feeling of liberation that comes with owning. Galindo was not a good or even great skater when he was with Kristy Yamaguchi, being a sad, closeted queen (sometimes, I think pairs and ice dancing guys are the gayest of the all... well, maybe now. Then... I think of Jeffery Butte and go, "Hmmm...."), however, once he came out, embraced himself fully, his skating was *phenonmenal*. Doesn't mean he didn't choke sometimes, but it does mean being able to be himself fully made for a more complete skater. A skater who was using the ring to communicate a point-of-view, to create art, not to prove strategic prowess (Ok, watching Plushenko jump was... marvelous, but it was skating without a point. It was not transcendent).
I guess my ultimate point is... what is served when we allow people who are *this close* to just BEING out to stay in that comfort zone? When Luther Vandros died, no one really knew who he was, who he loved. It made some of his scratch our shaking heads... because Vandros didn't have "any love" -- he had *his* love. Who was that? Weir has *his* love -- and he is not merely a "someone." Do we really want to conspire to keep this child closeted when he is chomping at the bit to come out, to REALLY come out? It could be the thing his self-esteem needs... to know he can do it and that there are so many people who support him... should we really allow ourselves to allow Weir to be closeted? I mean, he's begging for it. His nickname is "Twinklebell" for crying out loud.
*grins*
I love Weir as much as anyone else. But I don't think anyone understands the situation as much as those of us without a real closet to hide in in the first place. Besides, I don't think being "gay" should ever be regulated to something that "isn't important" because I think love is always important. Call me a romantic, but I like knowing who my friends are screwing and developing emotional attachments to... it makes me human. I like knowing that the cute queen I see on my TV is really who he seems to be and that it isn't some publicity ploy. I like seeing cute queens, like Galindo, skate free and liberated... free of gendered conceptions of the men's skate.
I don't think the question about Weir's sexuality is unnecessary. He flames all over the set whenever he can. Might as well complete the rotation and sail out of it clean and certain -- owning who he is and who/how he loves.
names, continued
John O'Quinn
... it dawns on me... bed, with Ryan, after braving the arctic winds in Seattle... better idea than throwing contextless names into the Universe.
I wish I were Grant Morrison... no, I want to bite Grant. I want to write about my own life the way he writes about ... shit... whatever the fuck he WANTS to write about.
... Y'all... I am Grant Morrison's Bitch. Hi. Nice to meet you.
Also, LOVE Y: The Last Man !!!! It's speculative fiction and if you are a fan of Octavia E. Butler's Patternist books or Parables or even Lilith's Brood (or Xenogenesis), you might want to give a look-see. And please read _Fledgling_ in the hopes that she wants to make it epic and share something really amazing with us. I could use a bit of amazing. How about you?
My cats and my peeps are happy. Soon, perhaps, my man and I will be happy, too.
... it really does feel different when you are seized by a beautiful man who kisses you with passionate aplomb and you know you are with the person who makes you happy. Yeah, I still wonder, sometimes, if he will always make me happy, but some things... you have to put on faith... the faith of your heart and gut to lead you in ways your mind doesn't understand. But perhaps I should never understand Ryan the way I "understand" me... it means... there's still hope for me yet in my own thwarted effort to love unconditionally... damning all those with Venus in Pisces all the way who are probably wondering why they are being blamed since they are all fucking doormats.
*huffs*
I have a busy day tomorrow. I should really meet it with sleep.
*nuzzles to anyone reading*
Quentin Ergane
a la moment
Thinking of my dick as an "angry inch" is very comforting to me. I imagine one more way in which I am freeing myself from the construct of dick size... because, as long as everyone's happy, who cares?
Right now: Yami snores happily on my couch.
Brandon is asleep in a cocoon beneath her.
I am drinking a tea fusion of Pitta, Bedtime and Egyptian Licorice, and behind me, a baritone singing in some language unknown, but as beautiful as Yami.
I feel... incredible love towards the world. I feel... incredible peace within the world. I feel... a part of something larger than myself even when I am not aware of it (you know, those... vast non-periods).
I am drinking this blend from Boris. My Staub, from Ryan on my 29th birthday...
29 is a really fucking horrible year -- don't let anyone fool ya.
However, getting past it is SO worth it. Life starts to look... I don't know.
As I get older, I begin to understand the one thing my father had to offer me that my mother could not give: Kindness. My father could have taught me how to be kind towards other people. How to find the higher road where I was not being used and was asserting my will... and yet not so harsh, so fraught with changes of tide and sea shell, that I would forget to speak directly instead of depending on a heart, so transparent... because really, I communicate my mind through my face... I communicate my heart through my voice... although I am still working to really hear it... to hear it pure before any of the shit I put on it...
Anyway, my father could have taught me the kindnesses my mother could not manage. And that is not a diss towards her, but I remember the kindnesses I shared with her as being very distinct spots along our mother-sonishdaughter relationship. I mean, she JUST figured out how to SPEAK to me and then it SCARES her when I listen. I can't win. Can anyone win when it comes to their mothers? My father could have shown me the kindness of not needing to win and to detach and focus that energy inwardly.
David would have done that.
I think this is the first time I have ever identified something positive he could have contributed to my upbringing.
It feels... really odd.
Freeing.
Liberating.
Grounded.
I met someone I did not like and realized I should have known better because the person who liked him was a shallow (... I am trying to watch my usage of the "b" word. I am starting to notice how easily it rises to my lips when I feel threatened by a woman or female. It is more a defensive posture, but one that is complicit and one that has to be looked at... I wonder if showing the places I have to think around and blah helps my reader to understand... I edit. I can do work, cut it out for myself, make it so you can't see it, so... it is work... I don't always show my strings. Why should I want to? You bitches are VICIOUS!
Anyway...
I wanna know where:
Charles Payton
Cody Fogel
... *totally blanks* There are so many people!
Why don't we hold on to each other more instead of writing off and dismissing too quickly?
*raises hand*
Cuz I'm a failure.
(and, really, there's nothing wrong with that -- for once.)
Moon in Taurus in the 12th Opposing a 6th house Sun in Libra cusp Scorpio (or "The Pit")
Officially, I don't hate people anymore.
After a FIVE HOUR struggle against my inertia, I roused myself from my comfort, showered, trimmed this funny little facial hair I have, and went out into the world. It was good. No, it was really good. People are so much cooler than I give them credit for being.
Brandon saved my life tonight, but then, from the way I understand it, I saved his one night, too. It makes me feel really good, to know I *do* do good in the world. It makes me feel really good to know that someone is brave enough, at least once, to speak their truth and make sure I hear it through any and all protestations and... *sighs*
I came home after jotting numerous notes in my journal, taking care of some of the emotional life stuff I ignore. I had the time. The 85 takes the long way around.
Met Meghain (I dunno... she spells it some non-traditional, different variation way I don't completely understand yet. But I will. I like her. Scorpio with a swatch of blue glitter above her eyes) and we all went to her place and smoked in the laundry room. It was too funny and cool.
Can I just say that I love the deaf community here -- or what I know of the deaf community here. I shock myself by how much sign I retain, but also, how easy communication is if I give into it and trust myself. I like people who don't take communication for granted. Oh, maybe they do... but can't with me because I am from the "hearing" world. And they sense my truth: I am really interested in communicating with them.
I spent the night being quasi-felt up -- which was fun. Then on a couch with Dave dissing and purring and having a good ol' time. Then back upstairs to shake my ass -- which is exactly what I did. I love that Fridays are hip-hop night at R-Place... not only for the plethra of brothas and sistas in the place (really, it's the only place, besides Re-Bar's Pandora's Box nights which are like the last Saturday in the month.... *decides to mark that in my calendar....), but for the danceable music. Of course, I had to ask some drunk baby dyke to make up her mind where she was going to be so I didn't hit her, but I had a good time and then went outside with Brandon and Dave (who took that moment to go home... but he wasn't really having any fun. He was feeling all shy and quiet, I think) so Brandon could smoke and I didn't smoke... at all. Didn't even sneak a puff, although I thought about it. And when Scott thrust his tongue o' glory down my throat, the taste in my mouth grossed me out when I noticed it in aftermath.
I *love* "Ode to Divorce" by Regina Spektor.
"Can ya help a brotha out?
Can you help a brotha.... out?
Can ya help a brotha out, out, out, out, OUT.
So break me to small parts
Let go in small doses
But spare some for spare parts
There might be some good ones
You might make a dollar
(There might be some good ones)
There might be some good ones
(You might make a dollar)
You might make a dollar
(There might be some good ones)
There might be some good ones"
I hate those "kissing a smoker is gross" commercials. If the person is hot enough, if they actually know what they are doing when they kiss you, you won't even notice the smoker taste till way later.
*grins*
Anyway, I came home on a cloud and decided to go to the store because I was not done with the night and I didn't want to be alone. I decided to wake Ryan. Why not? He knows who he signed on to. *grins*
"Brush the hair aside
Faces are visible
It growes a flower in
Tell me it is true love!
Music plays for me
I've never heard it this way before
Strange...
Tell me it is true love!
I have fallen in love
Mirror showes a beautiful tree
Beautiful me
Tell me it is true love!" - Hanne Hukkelberg, "True Love"
I must stop being ashamed of being who I am in fear someone will think I am weird. Um... I AM weird. But within my own world, I am the sanest, most sensible person alive.
(This Jason Mraz revisioning of Bjork's "Unravel" is marvelous brilliance.)
So, I woke him up and waited for him and didn't mind a single moment. We walked to QFC in constant conversation and ketchup (catch-up) -- and he wasn't even visibly grumpy which I was thankful for... whether he was grrr! I'm sleeping or not, he came with me and it was every bit the magic I wanted it to be. Sometimes, those huge things make all the difference. *grins*
I know so many people would have cursed me out. I can imagine telling people the story of coming home at 3 in the morning and waking your sleeping partner up... just to go on a walk... there's no emergency... but I wonder if that is a limitation/restriction/line... He seemed more confused than angered and once he realized we were going out into the world, he climbed on my board. With one ear plugged with my iPod (sound turned real low), the other listening to him and thinking and sharing... it was like a movie.
(this just as The Postal Service starts singing about "
Such Great Heights" ... I have to take a moment to rawk out with my proverbial cock out...)
The weather in Seattle has been depressing. I am giving Elliott Smith's
XO a revisitation. No, this is not the smartest move in the world -- but someone's gotta be risky emotional... for the sake of our community. Yeah, that's some sloppy attempt to get into that ol' Aquarian sun.
Brandon made me remember tonight that the vision is the most important part. The vision and the epiphany.
So, I don't hate the world anymore.
But I gotta move.
Because my inertia is scaring me.
I should figure out what I am going to do re: My lacking spiritual life.
*ugh*
But it's time.
*rolls eyes*
Time for Saturday morning cartoons. *grins*
"Ain't got time to die!"
Prometheus
Lately, I have been a little machine of hatred. No, really. Just hatred. I start off with the BEST of intentions. To love humanity. To be a good person. To let go and let love. And at every crossroad, I am made to face... my hatred.
Maybe it was watching Bush stand up there and lie to America about the state of our Union. Maybe it was the confirmation of Alito. Or maybe it was the feminist bone in me that kicked in when people started implying, due to Coretta Scott King's death that the only thing she did with her life was to marry Martin Luther King, Jr. and keep alive the flame of his legacy and raise his children. (That really pissed me off and luckily, other people felt it, too, and commented.) But lately, I cannot shake my hatred of other human beings.
I have been up all night with this machine, using it to reach out and talk to other people while I rip cds to put on my iPod (in case you are interested: Spy- Carly Simon, Blood - This Mortal Coil, Horses - Patti Smith, Blind - The Sundays, XO - Elliott Smith, and Treasure - Cocteau Twins) and I can't escape my hatred.
Yesterday, I woke up at a decent hour (9 am) and fell back to sleep. Now, I am not worried about being depressed or anything like that because I am taking OTC Simply Sleep and not falling asleep as I should -- overriding it by not going to bed, keeping my mind active, etc. But I did sleep all day yesterday and the sleep was delicious. I had dreams that were vivid and varied. Lux came in a couple of times, one time, I thought he was coming in because he needed to be fed, but no, he wanted me. I petted him and talked to him and fell back asleep. I have a huge sleep deficit from when I was on prednisone (the crazy-making steroid), so I logged some good sleep.
Rye came home and I awakened briefly to smile and give into the tiredness and slipped back into dreamful sleep. Then I felt I *should* wake up and I did although I felt the pall of tiredness still over my body. I got up and *bam* there was food before me. It was 6:30 pm. I ate and Rye and I talked and laughed about nothing serious until 8 when American Idol came on... and then Veronica Mars... and then Project Runway (which we missed the initial 17 minutes because cable is being dodgy here in Seattle where we had a wind/rain storm). So all of this passed without a hitch. No hating of anyone. Then Rye went to bed and I logged into my chat program.
My "friend" Rob isn't talking to me because of some shit he created in his mind and I am supposed to provide a way, I guess, for him to save face, but whatever. Dennis is never around. David didn't respond, but I think it might be his birthday and shouldn't I find out? I kept forgetting to look it up because our computer is extra slow, extra crashy these days. I searched for Diamanda Galas's Sporting Life, but couldn't find it. I was extra careful in my searching. As I searched I realized it was entirely possible I loaned it to Brandy to whom I no longer speak. I considered contacting her before I realized I would rather buy a new copy of it (besides, I need to catch up on her body of work again... the new stuff looks jood [hahahah]) rather than open that can of worms. And that, my friends is how I know, in retrospect, that Venus is now out of retrograde. I don't find anything novel in the re-establishing contact with anyone I knew as of right now. I pray this lasts for a while.
Anyway, I started burning cds when it became evident having IE *OR* Firefox open was just causing everything to rip slowly. So I turned them off and went to this chat client I have exclusively for gay.com.
Now, by this time, it was about 2:30 am. I like to watch the old school X-Men cartoons and then crawl in bed with some really off-the-wall movie from the On Demand menu and set the sleep timer while I leech Rye's sleep warmth. *smiles* But I drank a pot of Tazo Passion and forgot to take a zantac before hand so, when Gargoyles started, there was a fire trying to creep up and I knew all plans for sleep, despite the sleep meds I took, were off.
Why it doesn't occur to me to do things like... oh, say... study for the GRE, clean my kitchen, straighten my files, throw away shit -- I have no idea. Maybe because I fear it would bore me to sleep? But I decide to go to gay.com. Gay.com in Seattle is like the last place a B/black person in, but since Yahoo has taken away all personal chat rooms, what is an insomniac (by hook or by crook) to do?
Now, it will come to no surprise to anyone that my hatred of people grew nearly automatically. I did get to talk to a young brotha named Victor who is orginally from South Carolina and we have made verbal affirmations to hang out. Also, one of my old friend, Anthony Alford, contacted me via myspace... but...
You know... I don't want to talk about this anymore.
To be continued....
