Precisely Not I

I always sit here and scribe. It is one of the few places I can feel not here, not precisely in this city. I can stare down the wide boulevard with the old women in sweats scoffing and pretend I am back in another country where my mohawk is equally disdainful. The dogs barking in the distance are chasing me again like they did that summer of the new doberman next door. That wasn't here but rather in a suburb of green and turquoise and short, wide houses.

But as I sit here I am equally in another place not all together real. It is the memory of one branch that never happened, a simple future not meant to be. I pass him unnoticed in the night. I do not stop for early morning passion on the deserted streets. I keep walking to the bed of an ex-lover yet to leave. I sleep and dream of this day of ocean winds riding ahead of marine fog and old women scoffing. The sun skews perception: this is not precisely me. I am alone and writing but I am not looking up. My curiosity is for the hidden story on the page and not in the inquisitiveness of observation. I am not noticing the hideous mismatched stripes everywhere or the Giants' fan winking. Not I is scribbling some other story I cannot read or decipher.

But that is not me nor am I there. I am simply here with a bit of coffee left in the cup and a boy passin by in a hot pink t-shirt wearing a sparkly blue Diego backpack.

I like it here even with the scoffing women. I like how the sun casts long and the man preaching salvation keeps moving along. I like the briskness of afternoons in early fall captured between the ocean and the bay. It is magical here, and I can imagine. It is why I visit and remember the not to be futures: to feel.

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I Beg You: Do Not Read This Trivial Meandering

      
These thoughts that manifest externally as if the sun has plucked them from the creases of my brain and planted them as some bird of prey, bright orange the same color as the bitter mood of yesterday's discomfort, turn. This is too much for me -- the days spent wandering, the racing of possibility. I yearn for the days of blank computer screens with fingers madly typing with nothing but an order to compose. Then, it emerges -- forever emerging -- almost like an archeologist exhuming their fist dinosaur bone, a feeling of discovery yet to be achieved.

A story, possibly about a boy whose own father has left him to be found somewhere among the redwoods -- the only place the boy has called home -- is threatened. It is being torn down like all great trees are, turned into planks and pulp. He digs his way to its roots and plant himself like so many seeds. He's never found. He is killed mindlessly as trees uprooted pierce his heart. Blood spills consecrating this future mall. Haunted, it closes only months later. The boy is left to wander empty hallways more hallow and dispirited than his dead redwoods.

Or is it meant to be something other than a ghost story? Is it meant to be fact uninterpreted and unbiased? Then, these trees are not sacred. Rather they are just trees like so many other things alive that can never speak for itself, know no heart beat, and therefore are just that: things devoid of emotion or feeling. They are just things to be consumed and any thought otherwise is strictly editorial. If it weren't for its sacrifice, I couldn't even write this in my notebook of empty paper. So even as I scribble I am hypocritical. I am western.

I am nearing the end of his tale, and all I do is weep. Facts are sorrow. They never tell the story I need to hear, and simile is a language corrupted by extremism. The sun did not pick my brain, and my bitterness is not orange. Words escape ability to communicate. So why are you reading this frippery? What hope do you have at understanding my significance?

That isn't necessary. The boy is but a circumstance just like the Soviet soldier holding a baby raising his sword to the motherland crushing the swastika. I am fearful that it will run away and find another home; I want it to be mine. I want to own and hold it and destroy it if the fancy strikes me like the passing whim of the child who plucks wings off the dragonfly or captures the firefly until its light goes out. Innocence breeds cruelty. I wonder what that baby will grow up to be.

Again you continue reading. I continue typing at this blank screen imagining you as you stare and eyes dart confused that I am speaking directly to you. It makes you uncomfortable. I can tell even if I will never watch you read. Writers don't speak to readers. They speak of themselves as if they are as important as the moon is to the tides. We are not. You are important. It is your interpretation that compels me to create the boy in the first place' it is why the Soviets built the statue. I am merely a conduit between existential imaginings and adventitious judgment. You judge me. You must judge me. Otherwise it is just a baby in his arms and a crushed symbol beneath his feet.

So what is the meaning of this? How are you synthesizing the possibility? There is so much underneath, between, amongst, above that goes unnoticed, that is still hidden in the blankness. I have only carved out one small undefinable thing; it too has no emotion or feeling. Should it be consumed? Do you claw and scrape and tear it? But it is on your screen and therefore is as intangible as the symbol. Destroying it means destroying a thing of yours. There is beauty. There is meaning. Where does it reside in you? What have you gutted?

The boy lurks. He has grown and is now a man. He is that Soviet soldier who once was the baby in his arms. The woman who weeps -- a whole manicured lawn separating them -- turns away. She cannot watch like you do. Her bravery is compassion despite the razed redwoods. She will not witness the mall. Will you? Will you visit the ghost of her son/spouse/brother/lover/father? Will you let the memory and imagination haunt your hallowed shell? I think not. It is why you read versus type at this blank screen. Does that discomfit you?

I beg you: continue your reading, even this trivial meandering. You made it, and I am desperate for your attentiveness. Don't let me become the boy; I promise I will make you her. She is so much more powerful. She is that blossoming bird of prey picked by the sun from the crevices of our collective acumen. She is orange, green, white, pink, sharp lines, and prickly points. Become her. Embrace the compassionate bravery of turned away glances.

Are you still reading? Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away.

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Clatter Obstructs

The cool ocean wind as it coasts to Oakland picks memories of forgotten falls, carries them to nose hairs, transports smells to that part of the brain that longs and seeks and sometimes yearns. The crisp immediacy beckons Lake Ada on October days when leaves as if in time lapse change green, orange, red, yellow, brown, then die. This is that and all other moments wrapped in a scarf of stark black and white warming veins and arteries confusing a heartbeat that knows no difference between contrast. All are the same. And each distinction is only a grain of sand passing through my wide spread fingers.

The light distilled by swaying leaves that will never change color and might never die disjoints time. The trick of memory and travel converge on a life meant to wander, to be stuck between objects and subjects, to always be on a bus that has no destination and never stops. You are here in the back seat waiting. Always waiting.

(S)he rummages through garbage with (her)his basket obstructing that bus forcing its stop, and you leave. It is your only chance. And you are confronted by (his)her poverty, (her)his homelessness, the stench of unbathed days. This is where you are supposed to be, and yet it is rejected so thoroughly by uncontrolled repugnance. Vomit, but not of the stomach variety, spills out of mouths, a sign of our collective distaste for things that confront and force discomfort. We never want our sphere invaded by others not invited. There was safety on that bus. Why did you leave?

Interrupted. A phone rings begging an answer that you are not ready to give. We wait for that moment when all is revealed unable to see the revelation of our current state. A revolution scratches under skin and irritates that state. You scratch not knowing, and I watch. I am (him)her as (s)he stacks cups and bottles of plastic and tin. We are the trinity: you, s(he), me. That is the beauty of English: first, second, third person implied in singular terms and yet contained in all. You, (s)he, me are our and we and they and you.

The sand that falls from wide spread fingers, each single grain multifaceted, collects its hope. I, s(he), you walk past it unknowingly each time we don't stop. There it is waiting to be found. It is in (her)his cup resting in (his)herbasket. It is what forced the bus to halt fleetingly.

We still don't see it.

We never will.

Clatter obstructs.

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The Taoism of Ensemble

  
I am a member of OutLook Theater Project. I got here on a winding road of increasing leadership that started as a production assistant. Like almost all things I'm involved in, I mold my self to the opportunity. Most of the time this means putting pieces of my self on shelves, charging ahead full steam, and taking on a "holder" role. I good in these positions.

However, the "holder" is not sustainable. It always inevitably leads to resentment, a mismatch of expectations and reality, and anxiety. Holding is tiring work, especially when what you are holding is as hard to grasp as water, as shifty as sand. I don't want that role, and I need to find a way so I don't play that part.

OutLook is in transition. We finished our first major work which took two and a half years to produce. A collective sigh was released at the end of This Many People, our original play about LGBTQ elders. There was a sense of accomplishment, pride, and celebration. We had done it!

And then there was, "What's next?" and our personal lives. The combination of reclaiming our own person as swell as uncertainty at our collective future meant we needed to plan, to actively work things out. The challenge was our personal lives were full, so we had to wait more than two months to come back together. This is not ideal when you have had success and want to keep momentum going.

In the space between our ending and our planning, an opportunity emerged with the Council of Churches of Santa Clara County. I had recently become unemployed, so I had some extra time to contribute to the project. I stepped up and decided to coordinate the event: a booth at San Jose Pride exploring the intersections of spirituality, sexuality, faith, and gender.

Coordination is a tricky thing. It enables the "holder" in me. My process of creation always involves listening to as many people as possible and finding connection between work, vision, passions, and art. I feel a tremendous amount of responsibility whenever I hear someone. I want to ensure they feel included in whatever emerges even if they don't want to be a part of it. Sometimes, it can be immobilizing. Always it produces anxiety.

After listening to a number of different people, I wrote up a plan for our booth. It was actually quite easy to compose because so many people had so many wonderful ideas. I shot it out to all involved and waited for feedback. I needed to know if what I proposed made sense, if it captured nuance, if it was as pluralistic as possible. Silence. For two weeks, silence. Our event date was swiftly approached. My anxiety grew: was this the right plan; did I offend someone; are people really committed to achieving this vision? I was fine coordinating, but I knew I couldn't do this alone. It wouldn't be pluralistic if I did.

As part of our OutLooks future planning process, we assigned ourselves homework during our two months of "down time". One of the assignments was to define ensemble as we are an ensemble theater company. I work best in groups. I like the accountability and inspiration of others. While ensemble is a newish word for me,  I much prefer collective, I know ensemble and collective are on the same die as coop, coalition, and collaboration.

I set to the task of defining the word in three distinct ways. First, the project with the Council of Churches was my experience in ensemble. I knew for my definition to hold meaning to me I had to feel it somewhere in my body. The second was to read, read, read. I opened The Second Book of the Tao. I reread sections of The Essential Gandhi. I continued reading Memories of the Future. I started reading The Collaborative Habit. I opened the dictionary and looked up definitions. I knew others would have better words than I. I just needed to find them. Third, I needed to mine my life. I needed to thoroughly dig into the recesses and find my history and memory of ensemble.

Combined, these three things transformed me. I am more my self now than when I started this journey.

The silence I received after sending out my proposal bothered me deeply. I felt like I was not part of an ensemble. My memory and body raced, and I was swept back to times when I "saved" programs by doing the job my employees failed to do rather then me holding them accountable. I was that sad little boy who stood on stage wanting to be part of the theater but was still harassed within the confines of what I hoped was a safe space. I was the "young one" at the conference planing table being silenced by elders because they "knew better". I was hurt, and in that hurt a black anxiety grew. It was only moments away form rearing its ugly head. Something had to be done.

A couple of days later, after hours of processing with my husband and best friend and growing uneasiness in my belly, I crafted an email drawing lines in sand and questioning whether or not we could achieve our goal of a booth at San Jose Pride. Immediately, there was response. People were shocked there was a question of commitment. This was definitely a go: money had been spent on the booth.

I still felt uneasy. I needed a solution that was realistic. With only a few weeks to San Jose Pride, my original proposal for a two day booth would not be successful. Nor was I willing to put more of my self forward if others weren't going to give in equal measure. I was reacting with a tit for tat. That, too, did not feel good or right. How could this be an ensemble if I was retreating to the stance of a frightened snake ready to bite? Only poison could come from this, or so I thought.

After a few brief phone calls and some internal readjustment on my end, a compromise was reached: we would only do a Sunday booth. This meant less resources and less time. It meant more focus. Once this solution was agreed upon, another email was sent confirming details. Again, I jumped to wanting feedback. I wanted to make sure what I captured was accurate and confirmed our agreements. Again silence. Again anxiety.

For two days, I dragged my books around with me pulling them out and reading and rereading passages. I was hoping the wisdom of others would change my perspective. I went and sat at Ocean Beach on a foggy cold morning bundled head to toe. Quotes started popping out at me, and I madly copied them in my notebook. Two in particular struck at me and caught me in the nape of the neck. The first is from Memories of the Future. "A correctly constructed talent is a constantly maintained balance between what one is given and what one gives back." The second is from The Second Book of the Tao. "The Master uses his skill to harmonize with both sides, and rests in the Tao, which makes all things equal." They swam through my blood stream and infected my heart. They planted themselves in my heels and sprouted out my finger tips. Then, I read, "You save the world when you save your self." (From The Second Book of the Tao.) Chills, and not the chills from the wind rushing off the ocean, rippled my body. Change was coming. I still didn't know what that change would be, but I knew it was almost here. It hit me on my journey home from the beach.

I sat on the bus anxiety coursing through me. There was something brewing in me, and I also knew I needed to take action to keep the booth on track. There was tension all over and within me. It manifest in palpitating heartbeats and shaking hands. I needed to let it all go. My body was telling me so. I reached into my pocket to grab my phone. I was going to send an email right now, so I could get a response. It worked the first time, and it would surely work again. As I ran my thumb over the keyboard, my heart changed, and I pulled out my hand leaving the phone in my pocket. My hand was still shaking.

I looked around the bus conscious of how packed it was. Then, I did something I have never done: I decided to meditate right there in my seat. I straightened my posture, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. The hard plastic beneath my ass creaked its response, "You are in a public place." I acknowledged it by closing my eyes and quietly saying, "You will wake up at your stop refreshed."

Then, I listened. I listened to the shaking hand and fluttering heart. I heard the argument of the person next to me in full detail. I noticed the automated voice announcing stops. As I listened, a blackness enveloped me. It wrapped me in a warm calmness whose roots were in both anxiety and hope. I didn't need to deny my nerves and fears. I let them be what they were. Everything else took care of itself. This primacy transformed my view of self and ensemble. I opened my eyes. We were at my destination. I stood refreshed and exited the bus.

As I walked the block home, I realized what my response to the boot, to ensemble, to my anxiety was: silence. Simply, silence.

As mentioned earlier, I was asked to define ensemble. Based on my experience with the Council of Churches project, reading -- endlessly reading -- and mining my life, I have realized two things. One, It means listening to it all and letting silence be a response. Two, it means we have as much internal work to do as collective work to do. 

For we all have our anxieties, fears, nerves, and patterns and they are beautiful and make us whole. It is not all about inspiration and vision. It is about presence. For that I must be present in my self. Then, and only then, can I be part of an ensemble. 

As for the booth, it was a smashing success! Everyone contributed. Everyone. All held equal weight. I just needed to get out of the way so others could find their balance.

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The Manifesto of Jason W

  
This post was inspired by my work with OutLook Theater Project. As part of our annual retreat, OutLook asked it company members, "What do you want out of OutLook?" I started journalling my response. Then, I realized this is what I need out of anything I am involved in. So it has become a sort of manifesto in what I want to accomplish in my life and how I want to accomplish it.

Read on dear readers, and I hope you enjoy The Manifesto of Jason W.

*****
I love the written word. I love performance. I love rhetoric. I love media. I love narrative. I love storytelling. I love community. I am not an actor.

I want a vehicle to translate literature I write into multi-media performances that transform non-traditional venues into spaces of creativity, fun, community, inquiry, and inspiration. I want to be bold and large in the creation of these works innovatively applying performance into life. I want to explore experimental techniques and deepen my inquiry skills. I do not want boxed art.

I am willing to give my whole self including my vast administrative skills in return for input into creative direction and pay for grant-related work. I am able to donate five hours per month specifically related to large picture planning and development. I am looking to be part of a team where each member holds equal weight and responsibility. I am not looking for inequitable power distribution.

I need regularly scheduled meetings to ensure accountability of work getting done. I need a dedicated pool of people who step up and step back in equal measure and have ideas, support the work of others, and seek connections between ideas to create depth and breadth. I need fun, exploration, creativity, passion, communication, and commitment. I need to feel and know that those doing the work are also seeking ways to connect that work beyond a singular organization finding opportunities to strengthen, grown and transform the queer community and identity. I need a balance of selfishness and selflessness. I do not need flakiness.

When paid, I want the pay to be an equitable, strategic investment. I want pay parity across the board for any and all work done. I want budget transparency. I want a not for profit model that actually pays people what they are worth. I want to leave the field and society at large in innovative ways to create performance and to build a model of economic revenue that invests that revenue back into the community. I do not want business as usual or to buy in to the non profit industrial machine.

I believe we can achieve all of this. I believe that doing so will take work. I believe that a strengths-based approach is a foundational model we can build upon, and that we must also address the work that needs to be done even when no one at the table wants to do of has the current skill set. I believe accomplishing all of this will take years. I do not believe it is impossible.

I recognize that to realize all of this means putting some things at the forefront and other things on the back burner. I recognize that we are a group with multiple voices and perspectives, and we may not share the same vision. I recognize that there will be compromise. I recognize that feelings will get hurt. I recognize there will be challenges. I will not recognize that al of these things cannot be overcome.

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Audaciously Celebrate: What We Need to Do Post Proposition 8

 
Yesterday was historic: love won. It was also a missed opportunity. Instead of celebrating audaciously, partying recklessly, dancing madly, and loving loudly, Gay Inc. organized a bland rally and march in the most boring of places: the Castro. There were beautiful moments -- a lesbian Jewish wedding for one -- and gorgeous people and an air of victory, but it wasn't celebratory. I'm concerned.

We struggle day after day to live, survive, and love. Our political wins as a community are rare and microscopic. We have yet to advance any major civil rights legislation on the national level. We still get gay bashers legally showing up at our funerals. Time and again we face adversity after adversity and we still show up, challenge norms, and push boundaries. We are a resilient people.

To put is simply: we won! We won on so many levels that the only thing to do is celebrate; to rejoice with our whole beings and show the world what the victory of love looks like; to inspire those who have fought for years and those just joining the fight; to transform our anger at injustice into a fete of freedom. It is not the time for politician political grandstanding, organizations demanding donations, or protesting as usual. We need a party!

Judge Vaughn Walker's ruling yesterday structurally paved the way forward for our legal battle on the federal front. It is a lengthy 138-page document that strikes down Proposition 8 on two fronts: a violation of equal protection and due process clauses. This alone it victorious. It is also only the tip of the iceberg. Embedded into his judgment are 80 statements of facts on gender and sexual orientation. These facts systematically and legally debunk all of the conservative Christian arguments against homosexuality. Judge Walker even calls out the validity of the research on which these arguments have been made. These statements of facts can and will be used in almost all of our legal battles moving forward. That we now have legal language that disproves the Religious Right, not just researched facts, is the most historic piece of yesterday's ruling. Like I said: we won!

I tried listening to figureheads up on the platform at the intersection of Castro and Market streets yesterday. I strained my ears as the speakers quietly projected speeches about how "the fight isn't over" of "this is only the beginning". I wanted to be engaged, but these tired phrases and blase' colloquialisms mean nothing. Yes, I know the fight isn't over. No, it isn't the beginning -- in fact, it is far from the beginning. I want radical celebration. I want screaming, hugging, dancing, joy. I want pride.

I ran into friends at the rally and march. We hugged, hung out for a minute, and bitched. I wasn't the only one wanting something different than what Gay Inc. organized. At some point, a friend said something close to, "When I found out, I had to go into the SF MOMA store to find someone I knew to celebrate with. Sure, she was straight, but I needed my hug." I felt the same way, and I was standing next to my husband. Yet here we were standing in the middle of hundreds of queers all looking like lemmings waiting for permission to party. Is this the legacy of the gay machine: that we need permission?

Each of us holds responsibility for not jumping into the middle of Castro and dancing or turning to our neighbor and hugging him/her. I could have walked in to Twin Peaks and said something to compel the patrons of the packed bar to get out in the streets instead of sipping cocktails. I didn't do any of these things. Instead, I stayed in my comfort zone of personal judgment. I stayed a passive participant holding a sign handed to me by Equality California. I was waiting for permission instead of making my own. I could have done better. I could have done more.

Gay Inc. can also do better. The Castro, which a noble and historic staging ground, isn't the heart of the queer movement any longer. Queers are integrated into communities of all sorts around the Bay Area and beyond. We live in Bayview/Hunter's Point, the Mission, the Sunset, West Oakland, Richmond, Daly City, Vallejo. We are black, Chinese, blue collar, nurses, poor, homeless, Christian, unemployed, wealthy, potheads, Salvadoran, sober, Buddhist, Jewish, young, elders, positive, artists, police, business owners, radicals, conservatives, monogamists, polygamists, and everything in between. We need a celebration that honors this incredible and beautiful diversity and pluralism. We need rallies at 16th and Mission, Stonestown mall, Union Square, Grace Cathederal, on Ocean Avenue in front of Voice of the Pentecost. We need music and art. We need to use our strengths. We need the drag queens dressed to the nines and the dykes on bikes and the punks with signs filled with cursing. We need a massive outlet for our expression. A rally with the same old speakers rattling off tired talking points is something we do not need.

Let's, for a moment, review some of the significance of this victory:

1.) Judge Vaughn Walker was appointed by President Ronald Reagan not by some "liberal activist".

2.) Ted Olson and David Boies, plaintiffs in the Proposition 8 case, were on opposite sides of Bush versus Gore.

3.) "Sexual orientation is commonly discussed as a characteristic of the individual.Sexual orientation is fundamental to a person’s identity and is a distinguishing characteristic that defines gays and lesbians as a discrete group.Proponents’ assertion that sexual orientation cannot be defined is contrary to the weight of the evidence." -- From Judge Walker's Rulings.

4.) "Individuals do not generally choose their sexual orientation. No credible evidence supports a finding that an individual may, through conscious decision, therapeutic intervention or
any other method, change his or her sexual orientation." -- From Judge Walker's Rulings

5.) Proposition 8 was ruled unconstitutional against the federal constitution.

Regardless of its appeal or the its potential result, these few facts matter and they matter in core, fundamental ways.

First, this issue has gone beyond Republican and Democrat. While lead Republicans in the House and Senate are vehemently anti-gay and anti-transgender, their base is shifting. The Tea Party is holding a certain base of Republicans hostage, but there are also liberators in unexpected places like Roy Ashburn, Meghann McCain, and Laura Bush. Democrats while talking out of both sides of their mouths -- "Personally I believe marriage is only between a man and a woman, but I support repealing DOMA -- are finding their own words being used against them by both liberals and conservatives. The real of who is for and against gay marriage and gay rights is no longer the same as that of the 1990s. It is a younger, more connected, and more savvy realm. We need to party in this realm.

Second, we now have a legal precedent upon which to build a case of gay and transgender civil rights beyond gay marriage. Judge Walker's statements of facts about the evolution of marriage, definition of sexual orientation, and gender constructs and roles show how much the United States of American has changed. And it does so legally. Color me crazy, but a legal document that acknowledges, "Gays and lesbians have been victims of a long history of discrimination" and "Religious beliefs that gay and lesbian relationships are sinful or inferior to heterosexual relationships harm gays and lesbians." means that we have progressed as a society -- Religious Right, Tea Part, Fox, and NOM be damned!

This is radical! I want our radical response!!

Yesterday's rally and march missed that opportunity. We played it safe still fearful of outside perception and media coverage that could taint our image. We held ourselves to constructs of what it means to protest. In some ways, the winning of this case solidifies our buy-in into mainstream constructs of being. That is why our response to this win is so significant: we cannot just reenforce the status quo. We must be brave, brilliant, and creative. We must not conform. We must dance and sing and dress up and make noise. We must celebrate!

I celebrate this win with all of my being. It is the most radical thing I can think of to do. I feel victory in the tips of my toes. I weep at the struggle it took to get us here and the struggle it will continue to be. I write this piece not really for readers but for my self. I have to make sense of this and celebrate; audaciously celebrate.

I know this isn't the end. I know we still have hard, significant work ahead of us. I also know that if we don't celebrate our victories we won't have anything to celebrate. For it is in these moments when we must inspire, connect and love. That is the queer thing to do.

So...If you see me in the community, expect a hug, a kiss, a shimmy. For we won! We fucking won!

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Compassionate Mirror: My Reflection of Q/queer

  
I have skirted the borders ever since childhood. I was always the queer. In fact, I was SO queer I got my tailbone broken in a game of Smear the Queer in the sixth grade. Needless to say, Queer and queer mater in my life. They are an essential component of my being as vital as blood and oxygen, as rejuvenating as my daily morning coffee, as fundamental as religion. I was queer because others called me that. I am Queer because I am.

I wasn't popular. Hell, I was called "faggot", "weird", "queer", "funny", "different", "odd", "freak, "fruit" almost every day. No one wanted my friendship. Everyone wanted my attention. They wanted me to see them, their pain, their cries for visibility. These peers were scared, hurt, reactive creatures running on instinct and urge. They lashed out because they knew no differently or had experienced the abuse themselves or because they just needed someone to be lower than themselves. I was an easy scapegoat because I was loud, flamboyant, theatrical, pushy, and poor. I was the kid in the 1980s K-mart clothing that took musical theater. I stood out in a suburb of white. And if I could be seen, even with all of my queerness, others wanted to be seen. Jealousy is a strong force.

I am/was privileged as an outsider and Q/queer. I get/got to see people not as they project/ed themselves to the masses but as they are/were. This space in shadows, borders, edges, and alleys is powerful: I am honored with people's truths. It also bears an incredibly responsibility: to be a compassionate mirror.

I haven't always been a compassionate mirror, and the weight of this responsibility has grown over time. In fact, this responsibility started only as a mirror regardless of form. Sometimes that meant only reflecting that which I heard paraphrasing it word for word until recognition washed across faces or confusion compelled them to leave. Other times, I was like that fun house mirror completely distorting the image often in unflattering and violent manners. Compassion came only as a result of seeing so many truths; often truths that conflict and harm.

Everyone is messy, disjointed, searching, and conflicted. Everyone has capacity for transformation. I have worked with white folks unpacking their privilege and watched them completely break down -- guilt flooding over faces -- as they finally bodily realize the impact of racism. I've witnessed a seventh grade African-American young man move from throwing around "That's so gay" daily to checking his peers saying, "Don't say that. You can't say that here." My mother went from trying to ban the Halloween books in my Catholic elementary school library to coordinating volunteers for an HIV/AIDS affordable housing developer.

These transformations have and continue to transform/ed me.  I never expected empathy for the white woman weeping over the loss of her reality of the young man yelling "faggot" at me or for my mother who sent me to a shrink to become straight. Yet in each of these reflections I see my self: a terrified white man fearful of his loss of power; a young man wanting to hurt others because I hurt; a caregiver fiercely protecting their stead against the corruption of the outside world. Time and reflection grew compassion.

Compassion at its basest level is queer: strange, odd, unusual. It is weird to respond to epithets with an open ear. Instinct urges fight or flight. Letting that instinct run its course silently in the background while remaining in the moment conflicts with our nature. Everything pushes a reaction, a movement, a decision. The queer thing to do is the thing no one expects: to love utterly, completely, wholly, openly, unreservedly. It is also the hardest thing to do. Living queerly is work.

I began writing this piece in response to OutLook Theater Project's, a queer ensemble theater company for which I work, need to begin defining queer. We are in the process of figuring out strategic directions and next steps as to how we will show up in the world.

I started the task by reading loads of articles on queer theory and the essentialization of sexuality in identity. Most of what I read was from the mid-1990s to early 2000s. Almost all of them grappled with the evolution of identity, politics, community, economics, social change. There is a tension between the historical use of the word as an epithet and the reclamation of it by younger generations who view it as an open, fluid, and inclusive term for sexuality and gender. There is a difference between queer -- a particular way of being that unsettles assumptions and preconceptions of sexuality and gender -- and Queer -- a reference to a diverse and broad LGBT... community. Queer theory grew out of feminist theory and gay and lesbian studies as well as any other studies that construct, deconstruct, and reconstruct identities and aesthetics. These are helpful in my understanding of queer and Queer in relation to community and identity. They are not very useful in my understanding being.

To find being, I had to mine my life. I had to put a mirror in front of my self and study its features peeling back the layers, looking deeply and inquisitively at the muscles, joints, organs, values, valves, passageways contained within this body. I had to listen quietly as my mind spun tales of faggotry, otherness, and pain. There I stood raw and naked yet fully clothed a hint of make-up from a party the night before. I am all of these people I was. I am every age I used to be. I am all of my lessons yet to learn. There staring back at me is queer, and it has absolutely nothing and everything to do with sexuality and gender.

These are the essences of Q/queer to me: loving fearlessly, transforming radically, and compassionately mirroring.

I am honored I was asked for my definition. It forced me in front of this mirror, and I love utterly what I see: flaws, scars, tears, and all.

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"You're So Young"

    
"You're so young," reached my ears, and I wanted to burst out, "Fuck you!" I wanted to scream until my vocal chords burst. At least then I would physically be silent rather than socially. Instead, I smiled and treated it as a compliment.

I walked home anger boiling, tired of hearing that phrase. It reached my ears many times a year. It always seems more an insult than a compliment meant as a phrase to put someone in place. Or at least that's how its been used frequently in my life. I don't believe it was meant that way. But meaning sometimes has little to do with feeling. I felt hurt.

Toxicity grew. It stayed under my skin causing patch red itchiness, which I scratched until it scabbed. I snapped back to policy meetings where I was the tokenized young adult representative asked for violence prevention ideas only to be told that I was too naive; too young. I remembers workforce development teams where, as the youngest person at 30, my suggestions wouldn't work because they were "too out of the box" even though I had over five years of experience. I was sixteen again advocating for a letter in theater against the principals advice of "You're just a kid. You can't make it happen." Each one compounded the other. I was on fire. I was tired. I went to bed.

Tossing, turning, throwing blankets crowded dreams. A dark restlessness grew wanting an explosion. I woke early sad and went to work. Tuning in meant hopefully tuning out. It didn't work.

I left the apartment hoping wandering would replace restlessness. It, too, didn't work. "You're so young" kept repeating. "You're so young. You're so young. You're so young."

I know it was meant as a compliment. It was a comment from a elder meant more for them than for me. I just didn't hear it that way.

Maybe I need to listen better. Maybe I need to grow up. Maybe I need not replace my reaction with a metered response. Maybe I just need to be happy about being the youngest.

Soon, I won't be.

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A Yielding Start

  
Just start and the rest will come. I know this now. It is not something I have always known. I used to be distrustful. I used to wander aimlessly with arms flinging and flailing hoping for a life vest or boat to rescue me; something other than myself to rescue me. It comes, but only sometimes, so I have learned to let go, trust, open up, lend a hand, show up. It doesn't mean I have stopped flinging or flailing. It just means I have found comfort there. The same comfort I find in solid ground and a firm direction. Or the same comfort I find sleeping next to my husband.

Again, I am at a crossroads, a point leading in multiple directions with varied outcomes. I have recently been here. I have actually been here many times in the last few years. each time I feel out trying to find a way. Then, a step or two. I may circle back, feel again, and take a new step. I may stay where I am at too. It all depends on circumstance and intuition. Rarely, it relies on fact. Those are messy and always changing.

I have never found a dead end. Finding one would require me to believe in death, and I am still too catholic to believe end equals death. It is more of a cul-de-sac or a holding patter, something that can be perceived as final or terminus but isn't I guess the Catholics would call it Purgatory, but there is too much negative connotation to that word. Calling it that implies a hellish type of atonement upon arrival. I prefer my atonement while in transit. It allows for a certain amount of course correction.

This crossroads is slightly different. All the others included a certain frame or reference point, some guide post that at least marked space or time or location or some other defining feature. I have ripped out, torn down, and destroyed the guide post that once was here. I mutilated it to the point of unrecognizable, undefinable, unreadable. It happened so slowly that I only realized it was destroyed once I looked for it. Then, it was too late to hope for it to be there. So, instead, I stand firmly waiting for my foot to lead itself or another passerby or just resting in this moment. I don't yet need to move. And if I am not compelled, then why move?

I am excited to see how the next few days, weeks, months, years, decades spread outward, contract inward, spiral. I have a feeling, somewhere between the back of my eyes and in the depths of my belly, that I will be here for a while. I will become momentarily an observer yielding to the tides and currents rather than shaping them. I will travel with the least resistance possible making my self obscure and hopefully obsolete. I shall shrink and expand.

All I have to do is start. Again and again start. The rest will find its way.

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Held Breath, Exhaled Home

  
He was reflective, contemplative, alone on a bench surrounded by budding trees and block-long concrete apartment complexes. His scarf wrapped tightly and pipe in hand, he inhaled and held. He wanted to exhale as the bikes zipped past unseen and the u-bahn unloaded below. Pupils dilating, he saw the microscopic growth of possible flowers blooming. Lungs expanding, he tasted the air laden with rain. He didn't want it to end, so still he held.

The old woman with her paper shopping bag and her yapping dog silk draped over her head walked past. There was no recognizable acknowledgement. There was nothing. He wanted something. He wanted to be seen if only momentarily. He exhaled. Still nothing. She was gone.

He sat on that bench alone as the night grew and the sliver of moon ascended. He finished his bowl with two drawn breaths. Then, he stood, and the world changed. He was no longer alone in the park. He was one of the masses trapped between where he was and where he was going. He liked it there. Almost more than on that bench.

He stalled. He held. Then, he went home.

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Berliner's Spine Popped

        
He approached me casually in German asking something of me I couldn't understand and yet obviously flirting. That is a language beyond words. The gentle bodily intonations that spark and catch on receivers unseen and universal. I smiled.

He spoke again in English. This time more animated expressing back pain from manual labor. His whit tufts of hair perfectly matched his loud red shirt and scuzzy black pants as he asked for my help. I obliged smilingly and stood.

He turned me around and ordered me to stay, arms firmly planted at my sides. We stood back to back. He pushed his arms through mine as he chuckled slightly and pushed on my back. I hoisted him. Spine popped. He smiled. Danke.

He spoke of art and pot and wooden pipes perfect for smoking and wanting to share. It smelled of tobacco and dried longing. I opened my hand and received. We both smiled.

He left the cafe and hopped on his bike. As he bent over to unlock the lock, I was greed by striped underwear and thick white legs gazing at me from a gigantic tear. Unaware he smiled. Aware I smiled. Together we understood.

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Whistleblowing Review

 
He said he would finally give me a review after three years of no reviews on my final day of work. I was excited to finally know what he thought of my performance. I was nervous too. I hadn't had a review because he was afraid of me. I scare people in authority or in supervisory roles. I see though their lies and misdirections.

I sat at the conference table taping my last receipts as I waited for him to arrive. His boss joked about not being reimbursed because I was too late in submitting them. We didn't have a joking kind of relationship. He took and misappropriated grant funds on two grants they received based on my work. I shot him a glance of "Back the fuck off". He nervously giggled and said he was kidding.

He was twenty minutes late. Not a great start. We went into the small  office for the closing interview. I anticipated what would be said of me. I was a pain in his ass and a whistleblower.

"I didn't have time to get to your review," he said.

He knew about my departure for a month. I don't know why I expected him to do his job. I had been picking up pieces of his work for two years. It is why I blew the whistle. Only the whistle was never heard. He was a "nice" guy. People liked him. That outweighed him forgetting to file a restraining order against a former employee that threatened to come to work and kill me because "I was a fucking faggot and was going to burn in hell."

I stood up and said, "If you don't have my review then there is no point to this meeting." I excused myself and left.

He got a promotion after that. They really liked him. He knew how to take care of the problem employees: quietly push them out.

I saw him a year ago at a meeting. He looked the same: clueless and white. I smiled. While my road had been and was rocky and undulating, I had conviction and ethics. I didn't need his approval. For if he approved, it meant I too was clueless and white. White? Sure. But clueless? Well...maybe sometimes. But that is a different story.

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Fact Lost, Emotions Burst

  
We sat around a table square in shape and posture. It wasn't about exchange. It was about proof and facts. I screamed inside confined by walls unseen and demanded by power. It was too much. I silenced myself fearing voice would sway confidence.

They were looking for a victim. They were looking to shed blame onto someone else. My silence proved and opening. "Delay, delay, delay," they said.

I burst. I exploded. And with it screams of emotion spilled. Fact was lost.

I was furloughed the next day.

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Labyrinthine Corridors Snaking

   

We went to the sex club looking like two trannies, but one of us was a bio-girl. She was my girlfriend, and we were looking for some casual open sex. It was time to try something new. 

We wandered the labyrinthine corridors snaking our way through dungeons with men bent over being fucked by strap-ons, MTFs making out in corners, and women cuffed to walls being spanked with riding whips. Each turn offered a different encounter. We kept walking. 

We stopped at a cushioned bench beckoning us to recline. She unsnapped her red and black bustier revealing her perfectly shaped c-cup breasts. He nipples teased calling for a flick and a lick. We began. A crowd grew. 

It was exhilarating and titillating making out in front of a handful of men. Pants unzipped and semi-hard cocks were pulled out. We wanted more, so she pointed to one of the men and batted her lashes. He read her signal correctly and approached pants still closed. She reached out and grabbed. he obliged letting her unbutton his jeans and stroke his growing hard on. 

The vodka swirled in my head. The fuzziness expanding matched my blond frizzy wig falling off my head. My fishnets caught on one of the silver sequins on her heels causing a ripple of holes up my leg. The ripple found its way between us as I reached out for his cock. She presented it to my lips, and he backed away, zipped up, and proceeded on. 

The crowd dwindled. They wanted only her. They wanted the illusion of possibility and exoticism. They couldn't hand the touch of a drag queen. The always present stubble was a too tactile reminder I had a dick. 

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No Regrets

  
I find little to nothing in my life I regret. Regret would mean I was wrong. I've made mistakes, but I am not wrong. I've hurt others. I've made poor choices. I've taken risks resulting in tragic outcomes. These are moments like all other moments in my life. They hold no more or less weight or sway than the lovely decision to marry my husband or the exciting decision to publish my writing. In fact, these point shape who I am. I constantly look back on them and learn new lessons.

Take the seminary for example, something that could be a regret or at least regretful. While in it, my lesson was cut it of, let it go, break up with your faith if you want to live. After seminary, it was do whatever you can to disrupt the church including speaking ill of it and brining safer sex conversations into its walls. It was a reaction of pain, one I hoped to inflict in equal measure to the hurt I felt. There was no limit. Now, it is reflective still tinged with pain and anger but beyond it was well. It is a detachment that allows me to have conversations of faith without loud outbursts.

Regret is like being stuck in an emotional loop. It re-traumatizes you because your experience of the event never changes. Yes, the facts of the event don't change. I went to seminary for one semester, which can be imperially proven. But the story changes.

That is liberation. That is something beyond the initial experience. That is something others can never manipulate. That is why I don't regret anything or almost anything. If I did, I would lose my liberation.

And that is something I would regret.

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Shifting Sands of Sinking and Elevation

  
There are moments of utter clarity that mark time in a manner relative. Those moments shine like a beacon pointing to a truth yet unknown. It is a constant shifting, a movement of sand beneath the feet that cause sinking and elevation in equal measure. These are the moments I love. These are the times I am free. It doesn't mater whether it is a step backwards or forwards because both steps lead to the same outcome. That is destiny. Easily redirected. Never changed.

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A Vacation to Proposal

      
We made our way from San Francisco to Seattle to visit his best friend. It was our first vacation together. A road trip was a risky venture, but would prove whether or not we could actually get along. You can lean a lot sharing such close quarters.

We drove past Mt. Shasta up to Crater Lake in Oregon. We found a seedy motel in an abandoned mining town. I think we heard mice in the walls. We had a hamburger in the only restaurant open that wasn't fast food. We kept reaching out to hold hands or trying to kiss, but pulled back realizing where we were and unsure of safety. It was night and hard to get our bearings.

Then, we headed to Mount Hood and Portland. We spent a day and night taking in the blue-collar city filled with brick buildings. The architecture reminded me of my family and unions. From Portland, it was a straight shot to Seattle. Along the way, we found this kitschy diner off the freeway that loved collectible ceramics. We just had to have this hideous cat with polka dots all over it. It was meant as a gift, but now resides on a kitchen shelf.

The trip was going smoothly. I found myself falling more and more in love with each passing day. He was tender and considerate as well as determined to ho things he liked and also willing to trudge though the snow to find a creek off the freeway when I just had to take in nature. He was a fabulous travel partner. He was a fabulous partner.

We went out drinking one night in Seattle. All of us were laughing and joking and singing along to the music being played. Or at least I was singing along. I couldn't keep my hands off him, which made him uncomfortable and skittish. He just looked at me and kissed me. more drinks. More laughter. More affection.

We stumbled back to out friend's apartment. His friend was gracious and gave us his bed. We spooned and had restless drunken sleep. We both woke early in the morning still drunk. I leaned over and whispered, "Will you marry me?" He told me to ask him later when I wasn't still drunk.

It was a great first vacation. We drove back to San Francisco in record time stopping only close to the Oregon border at a hotel on the beach. We drove down dirt paths through redwood trees at sunset. We kissed and held hands and gazed into each other's eyes. We did all the stereotypical romantic things. I wanted to marry him He still wanted to wait until after the trip to decide.

I started searching for a ring immediately when we got back. I looked everywhere but couldn't find one. Then, I walked in to a little boutique on 16th Street specializing in all things skulls, and there in one of its cases was a custom silver skull ring. I bought it grinning ear to ear.

I walked home nervous. It had only been about two weeks since we were back. I didn't know if it was too soon. I threw up a little bit on 18th Street getting closer to home. I almost threw up again on 20th Street.

I knocked on the door and got on one knee. He opened it and turned red. In my hand was a small black box. He opened it and said yes.

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Back Alley Brothers

 
He wanted both of us. My e had yet to kick in, and I was hesitant. I also never had had sex with my friend although everyone thought we had. My friend was eager and willing. he was in perfect balance with his drugs and alcohol.

I downed a few shots of tequila as the music beckoned dancing and 80s nostalgia. My friend sold our story of two gay brothers that laid with each other biblically. Our admirer admired us even more asking how much he'd have to pay for our attention.

It wasn't new territory to me. It was for my friend. He was a slut not a whore. I was both. So my friend brushed aside price settling with "If both of us like you, there is no cost."

He paid for a few beers hoping to loosen me up knowing I was what was getting between him and his threesome. It didn't work. I was still wound up unable to comprehend having sex with my friend. He is attractive. He just was my "brother".

The old fit man followed us to the next bar with promises that there would be some reward. I wanted nothing to do with him sexually, but I loved teasing. He was frustrated and hard showing it in his agitated voice and through his 501s. My friend chuckled and grabbed.

We were outside next to the bar in a small alley with the fog-lined air blowing hard. He unzipped his pants demanding a blow job saying it was owed to him; he waited long enough. My friend started obliging. I turned and waled away. He only wanted both of us, so he pushed my friend off and zipped up.

My friend and I brushed the story aside as drunken antics, but it started us down a path. One that ultimately resulted in a break-up. He realized I wouldn't want him sexually. I realized he wanted me sexually. Those unspoken desires divide friends, and result in other things better left unsaid.

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Justice Rarely Found

   
We went to see a show at one of the venues on Market Street on evening. We exited somewhat disappointed by enjoying the evening none the less when we saw a white yuppie-ish woman pushing a black homeless woman over. The cops descended on the conflict like pigeons to breadcrumbs. They immediately went after the black woman.

I looked at my friend debating what to do with only hunched eyebrows and slightly squinted eyes. Her return gaze said "Keep to yourself". The brief look was all I needed to enter the middle of the conflict. When she said no, I always said go.

"Excuse me, but I am a witness. I saw what happened," I interjected to the police. An officer, not the one cuffing the homeless woman, approached with an air of annoyance and the body language of "Back the fuck off." I persisted.

"The white woman," and here the supposed "victim" started shifting on her feet, eyes darting between me and the woman she pushes, "started it all."

"Excuse me sir, but we don't need any help right now."

I was befuddled. My only interactions with police until that point was casual. I was in my early twenties, and I tended to only see the side of the police meant for white folks: "law enforcer", "hero", "authority". I hadn't yet witnessed the "selective enforcer", "racist", or "authoritarian". That was the land of literature, movies, news articles, and research papers.

"But she," and I pointed to the white woman, "started it. She pushed the other woman."

"If you don't back up right now, you too will be arrested." His voice deepened and grew gruff and blunt with no hint of truth-seeking.

"But she started it. What don't you understand about that?"

The white blond woman started crying. My friend pulled my arm begging me to leave; she had seen this side of the police before and knew it was time to go. The officer started to grab my other arm. I pulled away thanks to my defiance towards authority entering dangerous territory. I was about to ask for a badge number and the station he worked out of when my friend hailed a taxi and demanded to leave.

As I entered the cab, I noticed the homeless woman with her face on the ground crying, an officer's knee in her back. The white woman was telling another police officer she'd like to press harassment charges. I felt helpless, distance growing between me and the incident.

I wanted justice terribly. I wanted to lend a voice where I could. But I realized that justice, especially institutional justice, is rarely given or found. Rather, we find justice in those small moments of voice even when they aren't heard. And institutional justice? It resides only in the lands of Batman and fiction.

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Friends, Lovers, Fiances, Enemies, Fiances, and Then...

 
She was wrapped in a towel and freshly showered when I first met her. I was unexpected and met with a nervous giggle that escaped pursed lips. My grandparents were there helping carry luggage as I coughed green and and ran to throw up. She excused herself as we made our way to my new bedroom. The sagging mattress tossed on an industrial metal frame was one of two beds in the large wooden room. It was to be mine although not quite yet.

She reemerged clothed, and my grandparents asked her for a hotel room and a hospital. We departed with a "Thank-you" towards Lombard Street.

I returned a few days later feeling slightly less sick and more consciously aware of the screaming and chair throwing. She wasn't there to greet me. Instead, I was welcomed dryly by the director from his first floor office. His dog yapping should have been a warning cry; I should have heard its pain and story. But my headache made intuition impossible, so I stayed.

Eight months of screams, bites, feces, transformations, trauma, and love occurred. It was abusive and kept me contained fearful of quiet and stillness. I also gained a close, close friend as only abuse and trauma can create: the woman in the towel.

We both stopped working at the same time and became roommates. Then, we became lovers. It was unexpected, familiar, and beautiful. It was also cyclically unhealthy.

After six plus years of being friends, lovers, fiances, enemies, and fiances again, we ended it. She ended it. I accepted it.

For all its abusive start, cyclical middle, and rocky finish, she showed me love. It prepared us for what was next. For her, grad school and a job in economic development. For me, falling in love all over again.

This time I learned: cruising dark alleys is no more riskier than meeting in a group home.

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Wildly Laughter

  
He dances wildly arms flailing; free. The lights flash and spin as he pirouettes and leaps. He lands with a thud on the floor catching his toe on someone else's shoe. Both tumble creating a new dance: laughter.

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Mirrored Perfection

   

She stood in front of the mirror fussing with hairspray hoping it would go just a little higher conscious not to look like a hooker. Suburbanites hate hookers.

Perfect hair signaled personal perfection reflected in daily dusting, hourly vacuuming, and unending cycles of laundry. Everything was a reflection of everything else, so nothing was supposed to be out of place. It was suffocating her. It suffocated me. 

It became more than either of us could handle. She'd cry downstairs in the unfinished basement behind the tiny bathroom hoping no one would find her. I rebelled with messy drawers that were easily closed and by hoarding discarded wrappers in school lockers and backpacks. It led to four or five years of silence.

Her hair is unkept as she looks in the mirror, so she throws on a hat. The dusting is sporadic; the vacuuming is only weekly; the washing machine is silent. She works downtown among the hookers and drag queens and dykes and druggies providing respite and care for those with HIV/AIDS. She breathes freely. 

So do I. 

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Gashed, Burn, and Loved

  
They were rough with deep gashes and hard looking burns from the shrink-wrap machine. They caught on smooth surfaces like sandpaper against pantyhose. I didn't want mine to be like his. I wanted dainty as if they had never seen the sun or manual labor. I was better than his. Or at least I wanted to be.,

Mine aren't dainty, but their not as rough as his. They've done and see a lot; manual labor is low on that list. Their soft smoothness is gone replaced by a chafing dryness. I love them and I would be lost without them; left wandering a landscape void of shape, color, depth, life. They create.

He no longer burns them on the shrink-wrap machine. His 50 plus body and quick temper at authority pushed him out. He's happier. They're happier. They love the motion of the back and forth mopping. The love the familiarity of manual labor. It is etched deep within his hands.

I watch mine scribe across a blank page and I see the lines of black ink and penmanship etch memories and stories. He gave me that gift with each gash, burn, and scar. I am forever indebted to labor and love.

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Truth Is Not Fact

    
This piece is a slight departure from previous The Space Between... writing styles because it highlights the intended purpose of these posts. Hope you enjoy.

***
I'm not sure what to write about today. I know I want to write, and I am happy that I have been writing, but ask me what to write this morning and I'm at a loss. I know I need to generate/mine my life for more The Space Between... topics. There really should be endless material. But the stories of my mind and memory are only loud in spurts. Then, they fade. Finally, they are gone, and I am left only with echoes and reverberations of detail and emotion. I am left by myself looking backwards with everything out of focus unable to discern one event from the next moment from another time altogether. It makes capturing anything near impossible.

I remember my mother crying hysterically in the basement, but I do not recall how she got there or why she was crying. I remember breaking bread at bible school with second graders, but have no memory of when it occurred or what happened before or after. I remember emotions surrounding the fight that ended our six-plus-years relationship, but ask me why we broke up and the only thing I can tell you is "It was time."

These bits and pieces are beautiful and real. They hold more truth than the facts of the events or the details of my life. They are like the colors on a painter's palette: they inform the image that emerges but are not the image itself; they influence and shape direction and choice; they work together to craft story, theme, character, and setting. These moments hold an essence that must be conveyed, and fact will never convey that essence.

The Space Between... stories are never fact. I make absolutely no claim that the details are correct. Hopefully, they unveil a truth: that we as humans are complex, intricate, and connected.

I wasn't sure what to write today. But I think I found it.

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Manic Panic Blue

  
A party was thrown in our honor for actually making it through high school at the Hyatt or Marriot or some other mid-priced hotel in Minneapolis. It included music, giant Subway subs, and a numerologist. It also included a number of us who didn't really care about/for graduating or our high school or too many of our classmates. Graduation made us feel rebellious. Luckily, we planned ours ahead of time.

Two of my girlfriends and I were determined to change on this night of celebration and transition. We went through a large list of possibilities ruling out most. Piercings were painful and potentially unsanitary. Tattoos were a little too permanent let alone needing to find an artist available for graduation parties. Mutilation was untidy and included blood -- yuck. Goth make up would've resulted in a beating. So all three of us decided semi-permanent hair color was the easiest and least potentially lethal thing to try. It required only dye, a sink, and a little time.

We snuck into the ladies' room with a jar of Manic Panic blue. There was nothing unusual about me being in the bathroom. I was already considered a fag without coming out, so none of the other girls said a thing. We opened the jar and began painting our hair. After the allotted twenty minutes of setting in, we rinsed in the hand sink splashing royal bluish water everywhere. Blue ended up on the mirror, faucet, hands, counter tops, stalls, floor, scalps, faces, and toilet seats. Little color actually took to our hair. Seeing our mess and reflections that looked no different than before we entered minus the new blue sheen to our hair, we quickly exited excited by the change that no one else would ever really notice. It was lucky no one noticed because the bathroom was a gigantic disaster and there was no way we were going to clean it up. (Oh high school rebellion and egocentrism.)

The rest of the night ended pretty uneventfully. I was told by the numerologist that I would leave Minnesota to travel starting in my early twenties. (Check.) I watched a hypnotist make the jocks and cheerleaders do really embarrassing things -- things that surely would have resulted in  a black eye or broken nose had I done them. I did my best karaoke to "Love Shack".

My mother picked me up and actually noticed the bluish tint to my almost black hair. She was mortified. You would have thought I actually did hire that tattoo artist to carve permanent goth make-up to my face. She couldn't wait to scrub it out of my hair.

The next week I found hair bleach and Claire's and fell in  love with the color "auburn" and stainless steel studs.

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Risk Exposed

  
There were moments of extreme clarity amidst the swirling confusion of drugs, booze, and exposed cocks, but the moments weren't enough to actually snap him back into safety. They actually made the swirling and risk even more fun because it meant he was really loaded. He needed to be trashed. A black eye from a fight he broke up earlier ached as a reminder of the risks of his job. He reached out and grabbed the man next to him. All he wanted was to not be protected.

They walked to a back corner away from the prying eyes and heavy panting. Flashes of the flash mob descending on the cafeteria played like slides in his head. Mixed between the fists violently raised, screaming taut faces, and black and white uniforms were stills from skinhead bareback porn filled with bashings and rape fantasies. He pushed his companion against the wall and removed his pants. The man shocked by force hoped for more and pushed back. A young man, tears streaming down his face, in the middle of the mob screamed, and as he ran to his aid a kneed connected with his eye. He fell to his knees and opened his mouth.

There was more tossing and punches and flashes and anonymity. There were riskier risks and blacker blackness. He left crying and sticky.

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Eighth Grade Limo

 
There were only about 20-something of us that graduated eighth grade together from our Catholic school. Less than half were boys. It was a day of expectation and celebration. I wanted some candy as a reward for making it through, so I walked to the drug store only a few blocks away.

As I walked home, a loud scream reached my ears, and I looked up from my Lick-A-Maid. An extended limousine passed by and hanging out of the windows hurling insults at me were all the other eighth grade boys. They secretly planned their celebration without me.

I ran home without looking behind me tears streaming down my face. My father forced the story out of me. He scoured the neighborhood for the limousine and boys and chewed them out for not even attempting to invite me. Their excuse: we were poor and probably couldn't've afforded it. Really, they all just hated the fag.

I still had to go to graduation that night. The pictures make me look happy, and I was somewhat happy. I was happy to finally be done with them. Only we weren't done. My father forced them to apologize.

Seeing his display of authority, I smiled. And the picture snapped.

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Lightning Inside

  
Thunderstorms rolled in from all directions causing anticipation and hiding in basements. He wasn't scared. He loved electricity, so he dashed upstairs, out the back door, and into the lightning. He wanted to be struck. It would make him special. And anything to make the physical pain as real as the emotional pain was welcome.

Lightning didn't strike him. Instead, he was forced in doors.

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Cream Cheese Puffs

  
We went to a Vietnamese/Chinese restaurant that served cream cheese wontons for dinner. He stared at me from a table behind my parents the entire evening. I flirted back. He was in his 50s. I was 15.

Our meals ended at the same time, and we found ourselves at the cashier together. My father paid the bill as I excused myself to the bathroom after batting my lashes at the person the authorities would label a pedophile. He followed slowly behind me.

The bathroom door had a lock, which he swiftly locked behind him. Pants unzipped. Our cocks were hard and in each others' hands. Nerves caused gagging, and I left.

"You were in there quite a while," my dad said.

"I had to go number two."

"I hope you washed your hands."

I hadn't.

I masturbated to the lingering smell of old man cock on my hand until my mother forced me to shower a few days later.

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Indulgences and Drag Queen Divinity

  
She went on a crusade when I was in the fourth of fifth grade to ban all the Halloween books from the library. They were my favorite books and included the How to Draw...Monsters book that I checked out and tucked in my drawer. They were as Satanic as Aerosmith, which she also banned me from listening to.

I was stuck with the Disney records and Alvin and the Chipmunks spinning round on the Playmobile record player. Those and anything Charlie Brown. They were wholesome and innocent and weren't tainted with sexuality of non-conformity. Monsters and Halloween were just too scary.

It confused me because all the years previous Halloween was a celebration. It was the time I could finally put on a costume and make-up. I think that's what did it: I enjoyed it.

The effort failed. The Halloween Party was a money maker (although a small one) for the church and that overruled Satan. It is kind of the same thing as indulgences: pay and the church will overlook or forgive anything (except homosexuality).

She moved on to R-rated movies, rock and roll, and anything sci-fi or horror related. So many things were Satanic: Buddhism, the bastards who made fun of me at school and sent me home in tears, not playing sports, cigarettes. Candy-coated, rose-colored innocence was the only thing I was allowed to experience. I was not that. And counter to all her protection, I still found 1-976 numbers, Playgirls, Hellraiser, much older men. No matter how many boundaries and borders were constructed, I found a way around and between them. Nothing worked.

Time passed. I came out. She turned progressive. Sin evolved. It was no longer the black and white of righteous childhood. It became the murky gray of Daedalian adulthood.

Now, she's working as an administrative assistant at an AIDS hospice in Minneapolis. Spirituality is more than Catholicism. Drag queens are divine. And her most recent concern was her costume for Sci Fi Bingo starring Miss Richfield 1981. (I suggested 1950s sci fi chic.)

Times and people change. I just hope we don't burn our new found wings.

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Fucking Faggot

    
The three of us packed ourselves into the white Chevy and drove to Las Vegas for New Year's Eve. We were excited to spend the night among the throngs of  revelers in the City of Sin for we carrier ours like badges upon a Girl Scout sash. We met our other friends at the time share we shared on the strip. It was somewhere among Caesars and MGM and New York, New York. We were in the heart of it all and ready to ride the veins and arteries out into the meat and muscle.

I threw a little eye liner and shadow celebrating the freedom promised in billboards and commercials: "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas". My friends put on their New Year's best, and we departed. 

We ended up at Barbary Coast hoping for a piece of San Francisco. The light spun and the clank of the slot machines echoed. My friends grabbed a table and I rushed to the bar wanting something to dull the excessiveness. 

"We don't serve your kind here," the bartender barked. 

"What" was all I could muster.

"You're kind. We don't serve it," he replied without even looking at me. 

An argument or a fight wasn't in me. I turned around and returned to my friends asking them to please leave. They pressed me for what happened. 

"Not right now," I said. "Once we're outside."

They kept pressing so I finally told them what happened. They were ready for a fight. I begged them just to leave. Finally, we were out in the snow among the other revelers.

As we walked through the streets "Fucking faggot" kept anonymously reaching my ears whispered by people we passed.

"I'm going back to the room. Can I grab someone's key?" I asked after some back and fort with my friends, all straight, about how I should have stood up for myself.

"We can all go back," one of them replied.

"No. I'm fine. I just want to be away from everyone." My depression settling in.

"No. We'll come with you," another said.

We pressed our way through the crowd and midnight struck.

A few years later one of my friends on the trip asked me why I didn't do anything.

"Honey," I retorted. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

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The 100th Post

  

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A Good Clean Towel

  
I was drunk and desperate leading to impaired judgment and lowered expectations. He had been cruising me for years. Alarm bells rung every other time thanks to his standing-in-shadows staring. All I wanted was some rough, throw-me-around sex. The kind with bruises, bites, and pulled hair. My alarms ringing meant potential violence. Tonight, I stalked him.

The back ally of Powerhouse with its dim lights and smoke-laden air provided enough cover to try him out. He threw me against the wall and bit my neck. I moaned excited by the prospect of unintended consequences. He unzipped my pants assuming permission freely given. The tequila swirled in my head. Permission was gone that night replaced instead with instinct, need, and power. Momentarily, it was exactly what I wanted: escape beyond the boundaries of borders and control.

I followed him out of the bar to his car parked in the alley. He threw me against the rust and continued his forceful passion. I succumbed letting him push me into the messy car strewn with used napkins, bits of food, and stacks of text books. The smell inside was the first moment of recognition that something might be amiss. I opened the window, and we drove to his Alamo Square apartment.

The stench of rotting meals reached my nostrils as he opened his apartment door. I pretended it was the smell of stale tequila on my breath and entered dreaming only of the bed and hopeful for fisticuffs. I found both. The sex was disruptive-to-neighbors hard and loud and messy. The kind that requires a shower and clean towel. I only got the shower.

I stumbled towards the bathroom guided by a small path of empty floor. Magazines, journals, more scientific text books, clothes, empty chip bags were strewn beside the path. The dizziness of booze and sexual release made navigation amongst these obstacles nearly impossible. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the grimy bathroom and turned on the shower. The glaring florescent light amplified the dirt and mess and specks of toothpaste on the mirror and walls. More alarm bells were silenced by the pitter patter of water hitting my scalp and running down my back. He joined me in the shower for more sex and bruises.

The water turned off, it was time for the clean towel. Instead, he rummaged through the crisp, crunchy, crusty towels on the floor.

"This is the best I have," he said as he handed me a towel that once was white and now was a leopard print of coffee, cum, and piss-yellow stains. It was molded into the shape of discarded hope. I tried to dry myself, but the towel was so hard I only spread filth over my clean body.

The sheets crunched as I laid down. I put everything - the smells, the textures, the ache from the bruise on my arm, the dreams of more - from my head and fell asleep to him sitting up staring at me. I was woken up by his loud snoring and put my clothes back on. Quietly, I tried to exit. The alcohol worn off, the place was even a bigger mess. This night of uncontrolled, violent release was the only night we'd share. While not a neat freak, I needed a clean towel.

He woke up as I was opening the door. He wanted to see me again, to be animalistic again, to share a relationship. I only smiled and left.

He continued stalking me, but this time it was no longer kept to the shadows and alleys and back rooms. It was open and hostile filled with longing stares that lasted past the point of comfort and to the point of invasion and uninvited touches all over my body. At first I was polite smiling and accepting his advances but clearly defining boundaries by stepping backwards and pushing hands away. He didn't understand these subtle signals, so I moved to a more direct approach: telling him to "fuck off", my default phrase for assholes.  That didn't work either. He heard it more as a challenge, so his advances became even more intense.

Finally, one Sunday afternoon at The Eagle, I had enough. He had been following me for hours, and the packed Beer Bust provided cover and excuses for his staring and "accidental" fondling as he tried to squeeze by me. On one pass, he tried to start a conversation. It was my opening.

"Stop fucking stalking me. I will never sleep with you again. You couldn't even offer me a clean towel. Go away and leave me alone! You have no chance in hell. You're filthy!"

He finally moved on.

And I still have a very deep appreciation for clean towels.

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Concrete Cube

  
He hid in the small cube of a storm shelter tucked behind a closet in the basement. The cold concrete cooled his raging temper. The six walls confined his violent outbursts. The gray replaced his red. He only emerged when he was finally calm.

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A Warming Stillness

  
They posed for pictures grins wide and kisses puckered with their dying grandmother who looked in her nineties but was in her sixties. The cancer wilted her hair and sunk her skin. The drugs killed the little sanity that remained after the stroke. Grandma was as unresponsive as the static photo. I stood aside preferring a quiet moment away from flashing lights and captured death.

I just held her hand. It was all I knew or could muster. I didn't really know her even though we lived less than a hundred miles apart. I sat there feeling her soft loose skin warming with each passing moment tuning out the conversations about haring San Francisco and football games behind me. This was my quiet moment with my aunt before she passed.

She snapped awake and pulled her hand out of mine. A flash of confusion turned to clarity which brought a deeper sleep. I kissed her forehead and we left.

She left the hospital the next day and returned home. She died about two hours later. I don't have a photo to remember her. I have my memory and that moment of warming stillness, and it makes my own mortality a little less scary.

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My Dad's Tears

    
His temper exploded and threw me against the wall. I was pinned there staring into his red ready-to-burst-with-tears eyes. He wasn't himself any longer, but he looked like my dad. I hated him not for the explosion but because I still felt small and childish. I was small and childish.

He let go and turned away embarrassed by the outburst and anger. He promised himself no more, but biology and upbringing got in the way sometimes. I cried partly because I was scared and partly because guilt was stronger than anger. A couple seconds of violently kinetic silence, and we returned to our supper. The meal passed and so did the silence.

He cam to me crying one night, or I found him upstairs crying. He had spoken to his mother, and she revealed the true nature of his conception: to keep his alcoholic father around. He looked just like I had, and I hated him then too because it was easier than empathy. He was a small child.

He visited California because his sister was sick and dying. My husband and I took the train to San Jose to meet him for the afternoon. We exchanged hugs, and I saw those same tears behind those same brown eyes. We both stayed silent, but this time it was the silence of empathy and understanding -- the kind of silence that is needed in times of death and decay by are rarely given. Then, we ate lunch, visited my aunt, and watched a crappy movie. He dropped us at the train station amidst more silence and contemplation.

"I love you, Jason," he said as I exited. I've heard those words many times before, but this time I understood them.

I love you too, dad.

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Wonderlette Guy

 
It was sick and wrong and quite possibly the grossest thing I have been a part of recently, and I absolutely loved it. From the infected stocking cock to the rotting plastic buck teeth to the incongruous Rogers and Hammerstein music and the 50's glamour of the back-up dancers (that included moi!), I was among those outcasts, degenerates, and freaks that are San Francisco's drag scene. I have intersected this scene for more than 12 years. I have not been a part of it. Saturday night changed everything. I found home.



You can check out another performance of "Wonderlette Guy", Saturday, February 13th, 2010 at Bootie at the DNA Lounge.

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Piss Trigger

  
I worked in a group home for severely emotionally disturbed youth ages five to thirteen. I also lived there. It was a how I moved to San Francisco: an internship promising exciting and challenging work in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I had babysat, done a short stint in Minneapolis Unified School District, and worked for the YMCA. I thought the group home couldn't be too much different. I should have see the bronchitis and stomach flu I caught on the plane ride here for what they were: a portend of things to come.

I shared a room with another intern. He met his girlfriend, who also shared our room unofficially, while working there. They were your typical middle-class do-gooders: blond, white, East Coasters who would eventually become private school teachers or accountants or business people in suits. Their late night sex kept me awake a number of times. I never said anything, choosing instead to retaliate by masturbating as they came.

My roommate and I shared more than orgasms; we also shared responsibility for a room of four boys. I was their guardian Wednesday through Saturday. He parented them Saturday night to Tuesday. Our strict styles were complimentary and left little room for disruptive behavior, but they boys still managed an explosion or paroxysm or discharge at least once per shift. In the battle of nature versus nurture, their "supposed" nurture unleashed their animalistic nature. Our job was to redirect or contain their very nature so the boys could at least be open to nurturing. It tended to be sad and downhill thanks to the less-than-a-year cycles of interns that mirrored the youths' cycles of violence and distrust.

The thrown shit, perfectly aimed stream of piss, black eyes, wrestling youth to the ground or pinning them to a wall, padded room with a magnetic lock, waking up to screams of "Fuck you!" or "The Days of the Week" song, disclosures of sexual abuse from a seven-year-old took their toll on me. Conflict, on one level, became easier because it wasn't as bad or extreme as anything I experienced at work. A little normalization goes a very long way. It also unlocked triggers: the things I just wouldn't put up with outside the confines of the group home and the safety of a white padded cell. Piss was a trigger.

It started in a manner that I thought was innocent; later it turned out to be intentional. I can't recall how I met Jimmy, but he was the first boy I courted in San Francisco. I loved his smooth brown skin, deep chocolate eyes, and tempestuous temperament. He was familiarly dismissive, and I needed his attention. I believed I could crack his petrified persona. It was more a project than a relationship for both of us.

We went out one night to Hole in the Wall for cocktails and pinball. We both had a mutual admiration for The Twilight Zone machine even though we were horrible. It was my turn, and he left to wander the hallway-shaped and -sized bar. The flashing lights, beeps and whistles, and buzz from my Corona helped me forget the conflicts and problems at the group home. I had become bored with masturbating to the sounds of my roommates fucking. I didn't want to wake up to the sounds of chairs thrown at windows. I just wanted a good night's sleep. I was anticipating our night together at his apartment as we spooned and played with each other between stretches of restful sleep.

I was kicking ass at The Twilight Zone. The score increasing, my spirits raised. Then, a random guy approached the machine interrupting my game. Distracted, I hit the flipper button a moment too late and the pinball fell into the mechanical gutter along with my good mood.

"What the fuck!" I yelled at him. "Back off!"

He stood there wearing his denim and smug expression behind a facade of innocence. He apologized but didn't move. My friend returned laughing and smiling eager for his turn. I stepped aside and the uninvited guest touched my lower back. I spun around while slapping his hand away and screaming, "Fuck off!" He leaned in and whispered, "I want to piss on you."

Another "Fuck off!" was all I could muster.

Our guest never left our side. Jimmy laughed at each of his advances. I continued slapping hands away and screaming various versions of "Fuck off" or "Fuck you" or "Go fuck yourself". At one point, I pulled Jimmy aside and begged for his help in getting him to go away. Jimmy responded, "Chill out. It's only a bar. Where's he going to go?"

Our gamed ended and so did my time at Hole in the Wall. I gave up on a quiet night with Jimmy and resolved to smoke a joint and take a Benadryl for a hopefully uninterrupted night of sleep. Jimmy followed me outside. So did the asshole.

Jimmy pleaded with me to stay. I said no. The asshole unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. "Will you stay if I piss all over you," he asked as he moved closer. I snapped and punched him. Besides my brother, I had never hit anyone. Sure, I had been in a number of fights, but I  was always on the receiving side. I felt powerful.

He immediately stumbled back shocked by the contact of my fist which didn't match my skinny legged royal blue silk pants. As he rubbed his cheek, he muttered, "God. I was only kidding. You're friend put me up to it."

Jimmy was laughing hysterically. I looked at him and proclaimed our relationship and friendship over. While there were many times before where he skirted the line or walked its wide edge, it now had been crossed. I was instinctively decisive and final. I loved that freedom.

I worked at the group home another few months until my internship ended. I had more shit thrown at me and more piss aimed in my direction. I broke up many fights. I even wrestled a young man to the ground in J-Town Peace Plaza. I never lost my temper.

Many years after leaving the group home, piss was no longer my trigger. I found that out one night while cruising a large muscular man who stood in shadows holding his crotch, eyes darting back and forth. He blended nicely into his background; you had to be looking to find him. I saw him and approached unsure of the risk but eager for release. He whispered what he wanted in my ear, and I giggled. I was intrigued and obliging. We walked behind the abandoned car wash on Sixth Street, and he pulled out his cock, bladder full. I put my face in his stream of warm salty piss. He smiled and got hard making it impossible to pee. He zipped back up.

We ended the evening in the bathroom of his hotel room at the Palace naked and wet. He was gentle and accommodating always asking permission for the kinkier things. I always said yes. I was safe. An orgasm or two and a shower later, we crawled back into bed and fell asleep spooning.

He gave me his number and asked to see me again, but we both knew we were travelers in the night. The morning and sun brought with it a different reality: I obliged to get over my piss trigger. Satisfied, I handed the slip of paper back to him and kissed him on the cheek. While I may have been the bottom in the bathroom, I was on top this morning.

"Sweetie, Last night was divine. Let's keep it at that," I said as I exited.

I've never been pissed on since.

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On Fire with the holy spirit

  
The Holy Spirit entered my body as they laid hands on me and screamed in tongues. We were in a hotel in Pensacola, Florida, here for a youth ministry retreat on Catholic evangelism. It was a growing movement, and they needed an army of Catholic soldiers ready to take to the streets preaching the word of God. Ours were souls most at risk for we were at that tender age, puberty, where the devil, or hormones, tempt at every corner. They were going to save us, and in return we'd save others.

We were a rag tag crew of mostly kids with which no one else played. We had a common identifier: outcast, nerd, geek, queer. The adults didn't fair much better. One leader was a large woman with short black hair. Looking at her, you knew she had gone through exactly what you had, the teasing and harassment, but she met the world with sparkly eyes and a smile. She was nice, and I wanted to be nice too. If she was here, obviously I was meant to be here. Looking back at the pictures, you'd think we were actually going to a queer camp. Only large steel crosses hung from our necks.

The bus made its journey southward stopping at Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, Iowa, and then Memphis to see Graceland. We prayed a lot, but I had yet to speak in tongues. Something kept blocking the release. They called it Satan; I called it sanity.

Along the way, I developed a deep affection for and connection to this community. It was easy to count myself among them because they understood the feeling of being queer. Sure it might not have referred to sexuality, but it did pertain to that unique experience of revelation that something about you truly is different. That moment is so profound. It moves you to another place from which you can never go back. Each and every one of us felt different in our homes and lives. Here, we were "normal". Or as normal a group of evangelical Catholic teens can be.

Our travels ended in Pensacola, and I still hadn't spoken in tongues. I was one of the rare ones, even among this motley crew. I was beginning to feel like an outsider, and so my mania set in. Jokes started spewing and obnoxiousness ensued. It actually fit right in. Evangelicals are nothing if not manic. In fact, speaking in tongues requires hysteria and frenzy in equal amounts. I was finally on my way towards revelation. All I needed to do was let go of rationality. My body chemistry would do the rest.

If you have never spoken in tongues or done drugs, it is hard to truly imagine what the experience is like. If you have done either, you've experienced the same thing. It is just that you got there a different way. I was in my early teenage years, and, thanks to my own conservatism, hadn't tried drugs yet, so I had nothing to compare it to. In the moment, it was blissfully divine.

I stood in the center of a small group of youth and adults. Each person placed one hand on me and raised the other towards heaven. Prayer started in English with one of the adults.

"Dearest God in heaven, our Lord and Savior. We are here today beseeching your blessing for your disciple Jason. He is your vessel, dear Jesus. He is open to your love and kindness. He is in awe of your might. He is here to serve, almighty Lord. Please bless him with the gift of the Holy Spirit. So he may experience all of Your greatness, power and might!"

As he prayed, the other surrounding me whispered their prayers with closed eyes and faces turned upwards. Their whispers were inaudible and intelligible, spoken in the language of the Holy Spirit. Each hand on my shoulder, head, arm, waist, back, or neck conducted heat and electricity. My body tingled and sparked. Something was coursing through me. I felt it in the tips of my toes and in that place behind the eyes. The place that opens your third eye.

The leader of this laying of hands burst out loudly in tongues and ignited the volume of the others. I was swimming amidst a whirlwind of indecipherable sounds and overwhelming emotion. All of our difference, otherness, and awkwardness made manifest. I was the eye of this hysterical storm, the walls of which were shrinking. More hands were laid on me. More electricity coursed through my body. More prayers were offered.

The tickle behind the eyes intensified to full-grade migraine complete with flashing white light. I was surrounded by clouds lost among the fog trying to find the sky and Son. The tongues were transformed into the song of the heavens, and I listened quietly. Peaking over the horizon was God. I found Him. I was saved. Tongues spilled from my mouth.

My body convulsed. I was caught. They laid me on the hotel room's bed. My face was flush red, and I was sweating profusely. Someone grabbed a wet towel from the bathroom and dabbed my forehead. I kept muttering unaware of what I said still staring at my Lord as He bestowed blessings, revelations, warnings. I awoke with a profound need to proselytize.

The next bit is a haze, but I ended up in the streets of Pensacola, Florida, preaching the word of God at the top of my lungs for all to hear. It was summer and dark, so it was late. I had no fear. God released that. It made me reckless. Luckily, there were few people on the street and most ignored me. Those that didn't thought I was a loon and made their feelings known. I didn't care. I was doing God's work.

I wandered the streets for an hour or two and snaked my way back to the hotel. I was on fire - the Holy Spirit in all corners of my body. I jumped in the pool wearing all of my clothes hoping to cool myself while screaming in tongues. Everyone greeted me with compassion and love and curiosity. I was no longer someone who wanted to be among them. I was someone in communion with them. We now all had a common experience to share. The seal broken, I spoke in tongues during every prayer and laying of hands.

I haven't spoken in tongues since that trip, but I've felt the fire of the holy spirit and communed with god. Something was unlocked during that trip: a desire to be myself including all the mania, frenzy, and hysteria that accompanies living a true existence. My truth may not be Catholic evangelism, but it does hold a deep reverence for existential experiences rooted in emotion. For it was that exact same feeling I had when I finally came out: a complete release of self.

It is why I am still coming out today.

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