The Blur of it All....

So Fast, originally uploaded by Green Eyed Grin.

This Weekend was All a Blur! It was AMAZING!! Kisses, Coffee, and Extraordinary Desserts! It was as if Joy and Beauty and Love were thrown into a Pot and stirred until some Magical concoction exploded in a mess across the ceiling! We tried to figure it out. We tried to put our sentiments into words, but none of them quite fit. We tried to capture images to prove the things we felt, yet they never really worked. But every once in a while, we would catch a glimpse of ourselves in the mirror and see time moving in fast forward. So this is what they mean by whirlwind romance!

Catch 22

Jesus was a fool: An idiot who thought that he was the son of God, a Pussy who believed that Peace and Love were power, a moron who fought to simplify the complex, and some self-important narcissist who thought that he could change the world . . . and they killed him for it. And his all powerful father, (God of heaven and earth) let him Die. And still nothing has changed. So how smart is that?

I use to be Devout. I use to be righteous. I use to pray that God would make me more Like him; I use to hope that someday I would embody the example and be like Christ in the world; I use to turn the other cheek, pray for my enemies, and act like the mysterious wind upon the water: passive, strange, and beautiful . . . but I'm a fucking Genius and I'm thinking maybe Jesus didn’t have such a good idea.

I'm not sure Deity is quite the right path. One of my biggest problems is that I think I’m too good. And I am. I’m fucking AMAZING! I'm so Fucking Beautiful I even Have the Tattoo. And there is legal documentation that proves that I'm smarter than you. And as far as spirituality goes, I’ve got that in the bag. I'm saved; I'm a fundamental Practicing Christian who rarely ever lies; I have a darkly painted history that makes me empathize with sin; and such an acute awareness of my own frailties and attributes that when I balance them out . . . and hold them to an evolved perception of a Unitarian concept of a non-dualistic “ALL Loving” God who is part of, and greater than, a humanistic logic based ideal; I already know that my soul has been guaranteed.

Imagine what it feels like to know that you are never wrong; that your thoughts, your actions, and even your emotional tirades are Gold? And on top of that you’re pretty?

I'm a Fucking God! I'm the Second Coming of Christ. I am a Revelation! The Spirit made Fire and Flesh! I'm Jesus with a new Name. Fuck That! I am Corey!

But you don’t have to read The Bible to know what that means… (See there I go again assuming you’re my equal; you’re not, so let me explain) The second coming of Christ is also the Apocalypse: The destruction of everything that is. Or everything I care about, which is all that really matters anyway. For two truths cannot exist at once. Because when you are God, YOUR will be done . . . and there can only be one God. You see God and Life are synonymous. Duality creates conflict; and conflict creates destruction; and destruction creates chaos; and chaos bleeds entropy; and entropy eventually must come to an end. “Do not eat from the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil.”

God can only be singular.

That’s where Jesus Got it Wrong. That’s where the message Got Lost. Jesus wasn’t God; He was a Sinner, an Idiot, and a Fool. He was flawed and limited and flesh. He was a Dumb-ass Martyr who tried to do his Best. And like a retarded six years old finally thrown into the real world, he had to learn the hard way that his best wasn’t good enough.

There is no power in being like Jesus. There is no gift in being touched by the divine. Nothing is accomplished by being Passive, and Caring and Kind; No change in being a Prophet. No hope in knowing God. No insight in seeing the pattern of proverbs and parables and metaphors. No reason to believe in two realities . . . because Love does not live beyond Death. Jesus was the son of God. He was Love manifest into Flesh. Jesus was the Human Messiah: The Prince of Peace, and the Light of the World. Jesus was a beautiful noble man who thought himself God; and to prove him wrong, they broke his Body, damned his Soul, and corrupted his incorruptible Word.

I’d rather be a Fool.

The Matrix

Originally Published: HIV Plus Magazine, July/August

I am a creature of introspection; an internal being that navigates the frantic waters of the external world by exploring the deep depths of my personal tides. I am always looking within. Always searching inside; asking the questions: “Who am I?” “How can I be better?” “How do I feel?” “What do I know to be true?” “Am I being honest?” “What do I believe?” “What does God think of me?” “Who would I be if all that defined me changed?” and “How can I still be beautiful?”

And now for something different. . . “No man is an island unto himself.” Or so I’ve been told. According to The Matrix, the world is not designed by our perceptions alone, but is a complex network of wires and switches where each component contributes to the creation of the whole. . . . And sometimes we are told what to feel. Now I obviously don’t (completely) believe in a movie’s description of existential existence, but for some reason lately so many of my conversations with friends, family, and loved ones have been about how the world perceives them, and how that perception is negatively affecting their lives. . .and to be honest it’s really hard for me to relate. Here I am Queer, Black, Poor, and “Dying of HIV” (not really, but that’s what most people think), and they think THEIR life is meaningless, horrible, and hopeless, because they are fat and loosing their hair. REALLY?!!! Is the fact that some people would find you more attractive if you were two inches taller really that important? Am I missing something? Have my internal spiritual wanderings left me disconnected from some quirk of reality that says that my personal joy lingers on the opinions of strangers? Am I caught in a technical malfunction of this “integrated virtual perception system” that has blinded me to the (not so) simple truth that: I am only as good as YOU think I am? Well Fuck You! “Operator I need an Exit!” I’ve got much bigger problems than the fact that “Glasses make my face look crooked!”

If my self perception is subject to public consensus, then I'm screwed! Besides the fact that I'm a Big Ole Sissy, a Nigger (Feel free to replace with Negroid if that word makes you uncomfortable), and a Welfare Baby; I'm Dying of AIDS for Pete’s sake! Even my mother doesn’t like Black People, so imagine how hard it would be to convince a stranger that I am NOT “dying” of HIV? And more importantly, I could give a shit! This is not the Matrix, (As far as I know) my life is not bound by the programming of a machine, and WE do not share control of MY identity. Thank GOD!

Common knowledge cannot be trusted, public opinion is dumb, and most people will never ever know who I am; I can barely grasp the complexity of my situation myself, and I know all the details. It’s ridiculous to think that others could correctly appraise my value, even if given a in-depth list of my beliefs and talents; my friendships and loves; my tragedies and tears; and my times of Beauty and Joy (let alone with superficial descriptions of my weight, hair fullness, and medical records). So though this moment of seeing me through other people’s eyes was fun, I think it’s far more valuable for me to search my soul and find out what I think of myself! And I suggest you do the same.

Friendship Lament (Rant)

I need someone to talk to.
I need someone to listen.
I need someone who wants to speak.
I need a friend.

A real honest to goodness, balls to the wall, now and forever, “I understand you” and “This is what I think” . . . friend. And I'm not talking about the kind of people that you can count on, the kind that you can laugh with, the kind that will be with you when you are alone. I have plenty of those. I have many beautiful people who fill the spaces of my life, but I have no one that talks to me.

Really talks to me.

No one listens to the concerns of my soul, they don’t communicate to the higher functions of my cerebral cortex, and they don’t giggle at the absurdities of considering the spiritual components of my physical heart.

“I am Corey’s medulla oblongata and I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

I want to translate binary code into its original Greek and transcribe the subtext into basic HTML but the mere proposals of those kinds of conversations are quickly shut down. And I allow it. I go without. I argue on their behalf that perhaps they are topics that have no interest for them; that perhaps their world is designed to not need to know such things; that perhaps they are fundamentally incapable of comprehending certain ideas; or perhaps that I'm just all-and-out wrong, and have an unhealthy preoccupation with overly complicated concepts (Now THAT I don’t believe for a second . . . but it’s possible). So to keep the peace, and appease the masses, and reduce the awkward silences; mostly I swallow my need and continue to talk about the mundanity of our lives; about Television and Celebrities, and Clothing and Food, and how much we love each other (or other overly emotional interpersonal clichés) . . . while the things that are (most) important to me go ignored.

I feel shunned . . . abjured . . . lobotomized . . . and locked away.

I'm standing in a crowded room full of color and life, with loved ones and strangers moving about me as I bleed. . . they know I'm starving, they know I need, they hear how loudly I scream, they see the flesh pulling from my skin . . . but they will not look at me. They will not engage; because no one wants to get involved. . . (Okay so maybe that’s a little dramatic but it’s the first image that came to mind.) Basically my needs are not being met.

Our relationships are so one sided that I do not miss them when they are gone.

I saw Vashon’s mom the other day and my heart hurt at his absence. I remembered the conversations into the early morning about God (or the Theory of God) and Einstein’s perspective on the matter; about the legalities of a fundamental right, and the miscommunication of truth; about sexuality and identity, and the malleability of the two (And how we would laugh together through the most intense oppositions.). . . And I yearned for that again. And then I thought of her. . . The one who made me understand the complex dichotomy of beauty and social perspective, and how grace and introspection where intertwined; the one who could dance like tribal drums, cast spells in Cuban tongues, and softly whisper universal edicts while tears streamed down her face showing the authentic fragility of power.

I miss her.
I miss him.
I miss that.

I don’t have that anymore. No one holds my hand as I try to find order in the oblivion of chaos . . . no one collaborates with me, no one plays with me, no one deciphers with me the pattern of the anti-matter to matter ration equation while balancing the unknown factors of the Jesus Predicament when compared to the Old Testament’s Job Scenario (Over French fries and a milkshake). I have no friend. I have no equal. I have no balance. I have no person to run to when I come across a frayed edge of existentialism that I can’t quite wrap my brain around. Those that I would call they shut down; they get bored; or they look at me like “Please not again!” So I shut up. I turn it off, and I wait until I'm alone.

“I love no more. (end of line)”

I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of it being me against the world. I'm tired of using kiddies’ gloves. I'm tired of making excuses for them; of offering altruism to a situation that feeds no selfish need. Why do I have to be your friend if you are unwilling to be mine?

Oh wait! Is that a question too complicated? Is the premise too personal to touch? Am I pushing the boundary of our relationship? Do you still have nothing to say?

Well Fuck You! I'm tired of going without!!

I need a friend who will listen to me when things bother me, who will talk to me when things go wrong, who will follow me on my obtuse thought tangents and help me align the foci without batting an eye.

Because that’s what friends do:
They listen to each other.
They talk to each other.
And they understand what the other has to say.

BLINDSIDED

I cried about it today. Not about him, but about it: The situation. About how hard I tried, how easy I thought it would be, and how just when everything seemed to be going so well, the Universe conspired against me. I never have those kinds of conversations (at least never from my end); you know the ones, the kind that are choking and unsure; filled with unsaid emotion; and dirty with delayed introspection. And yet here I was sharing water, fresh baked bread, and Insalata Caprese, on the patio of an Italian restaurant in ..West Hollywood.. in broad day light fighting to breath between the breaths; and drowning from the bubbling forth of lingering liquid hurts I did not know were flowing below the surface. Me!!! Mr. Corey Consciousness!!! The guy who knows every emotion he feels at every given moment; why he is feeling it; and what the fruition of that emotion will eventually bring, while simultaneously processing the validity of continuing to feel that particular pathos, was BLINDSIDED; overwhelmed by the utterance of a simple compound-complex sentence: “I tried my best, but my best wasn’t good enough.”

It didn’t work. And it wasn’t my fault (which by no means means it was his). It’s always my fault . . Or at least I'm often partially to blame. But in this I am completely absolved. My hands are clean. I'm not talking about responsibility; that’s a burden that is never lifted. Both people always contribute to the trajectory of the relationship regardless of who did what to whom and why. It is the simple mathematic equation found in the ripple effect. Chaos and Order intertwined. I no longer use the word blame. I no longer judge the situation. And I no longer wonder what’s wrong with the other person. Because they like me, are perfect.

This is about me and God. This is about God and I. This is about us. About the Promises I made, about the bargains we negotiated, and the unspoken vows that bend my pocket of reality into something that I can comprehend long enough to purposefully and knowingly offer my portion to the trade. And I was Abel. I gave my best fruits; I gave my firstlings; my purest milk, and my most gilded piece of mettle. I gave the best of my best’s best! And still my body lay broken and bleeding in the forgotten fields.

“Where is Abel?”
“I do not know.”
“What have you done?”
What do you do when your best is not enough?
I guess that is when the tears come.
That is when you release the reigns and let go.
And I do.
I have.
I will.

It is a familiar lesson of which I recollect the process. But I did not know how much it would hurt this time; how profoundly it would affect me, and how humbling it would be. With all my skills; all my “feminine” whiles, all my rules; all my ability to affect, manipulate, and fascinate the male species I cannot make them do that thing.

Not Love.
Love is easy.

That I mastered in my Twenties. My mother taught me when I was twelve. That I can do with my eyes closed. I can make a man adore me, buy me jewelry, move me in, purpose marriage, change his religion, and alter the way he sees the future. Love I can do. But there is something else: some illusive magic that I just can’t seem to weave; some lesson of legerdemain so ancient that my tongue can’t touch the dialect. It is lost to me. It is not mine. And perhaps it never will be.

Today I cried about it.
And it felt wonderful.

Pretty Creatures

The thick rich blood moved slowly down the delicate frame of his face; the completion of ancient ceremonial tradition like the sacred painting of the Passover doors, forever marking him as other. As different. As special. As strange. Kacy Mitchell was an Abomination; a Perversion of the Natural Law and a Monstrous bit of Dark Magic that challenged the order of things. Creatures like that should be destroyed; cast out; and made examples of. This was bible. This was oral tradition. This was the way it had been done for hundreds of generations. And the boys of Middle City High took their Jobs very seriously. There was no remorse, no touch of compassion, just a flood of violent white righteousness as they took to their campaign of doing damage. They wanted to Break his Wings, Dampen his Sparkle, and beat the Pretty from his face, because Kacy Copper Mitchell was a faggot: a boy who liked to wear pink, who laughed like a girl, and glowed with the fullness of his emotions. No one wants to see that. No one wants to know that something like that exists. Boys are hard and rough and made of metal. And Metal is deadly to Fairies!

The first hit burst open his lip, the second opened a gash above his eye, the third made him double over, and by the fourth he had started making sounds.

The Antithesis of You

Some people are meant to be hot grease and bubbling chaos. Some people are meant to be impotent and inert; stuck in the moment. Some people will never know anything for sure; will never perceive the world beyond their own perceptions; and some people are proud of that. Some people are meant to be Clichés.

Hold your tongue, don’t say it, edit.

Some people will always be almost; on the perimeter, smirking from the sidelines: able to see, process, and understand the argument, but never quite willing to participate fully in the conversation without shutting down. Some people will never flower:

Roses, Tulips, Orchids, and Gerber Daisies.

Some people will never be Romantic Comedies, Disney Sound Tracks, or The Stupid Fuck that does that thing to get that girl; and lives happily ever after. Some people are just broken pieces of granite.

Fuck You! Douchbag! Retard! Faggot!

Some people don’t agree. They will always be the quark model and never string theory. Some people cannot exist on multiple planes of existence. They are segmented slices of linear logic incapable of temporal projection or inverted teleportation. They are on the corner of 2012 with the closet door shut and the gun shoved up against their soft pallet preparing for the Age of Aquarius the only way they know how. Some people are gory masses of grey matter.

Black T-Shirts, Bloody Fingers, and Festering Bits of Infection.

Some people are all dark substances, failed dreams, and harsh realities; burnt porcelain plates of cigarette ashes and empty cups of coffee. They cannot help but witness millions of people cry in unity and love, and laugh at the silliness that humanity is capable of. The intermeshing of souls and the magnetism emitted by the collection of personal light is not something that they can see. So to keep from going mad alone and choking in the dark, they make a keening sound; contort their faces; and contract their bodies in the semblance of a laugh. Some people are jackals. They tease. They make brilliant intellectual quotes; and pretend to be better off.

We Love You Michael!!

Some people will never appreciate the color Pink. (or pastel blue, or neon green, or canary yellow) Some people are gender incarnate, race incarnate: tradition undefined. Some people are bound by the geographic borders of their father’s thoughts. Some people are anomalies within the uniformity of space; they are all make believe, half truths, and blindly painted pieces of obfuscation. They are wedding rings and boyfriends, unsaid sentences to questions that go unasked. They stand in the pool of surrounding waters drinking up the nourishment of the fairies and sprites that play on the banks, but when danger comes they become mud and wood and leave the rest to bear the slaughter. Some people are not loud. Some people do not define themselves. Some people think that means something.

Nobody. Nothing. Cipher.

Some people are a collection of techno-babble. Some people are vinyl records. Some people are obscure references. Some people are furtive glances. Some People are words on a blank page. Some people are simple truths. Some people are black muscles in Pink Shirts. Some people are Bi-Boys with Brown Eyes. Some People are just Good Men. Some People say “I love you” and mean it. Some People know when to let it go, some people know when to hold their tongues, some people process in private . . . and some people don’t.

This is not about you.
This is about him.
And me