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

silly song sequence

It’s ridiculous to continue talking about it, stupid to keep thinking about it, and completely insane to keep puncturing holes in your left ventricle; hoping that the pattern of the polka dot will alter the rhythm of the beats and somehow change the song. But I'm an idiot. I'm put together with brightly colored block pieces that only seem to look pretty in one particular configuration. God has obviously created an alternate reality for my personal life fashioned after a 1950’s twilight zone episode where the pride blind hero sits in a diner unknowingly telling his “one true love” that he refuses to choose her; and as she cries heartbroken and confused, he kisses her cheek, stands, takes a nickel from his pocket, and finds the perfect goodbye melody from the jukebox that tragically sets his scenario into infinite loop; and though I am starkly aware of how the sequence plays out, heart heavy and weary of seeing the same lesson present itself, and adult enough to understand that a person offering to sit quietly by your side and simply share in a meal is no small find in this loudly laughing world, still. . . I LOVE THAT SONG! And I will do anything to hear it again; even if it means slicing my wrists, cutting off my nose, removing my entrails from my gut, and kicking my boot into her face over and over and over again until I can hear the semblance of a melody that reminds me of a song that proves that someone somewhere once loved me. Who needs love when I have the song? To steal a device: Michael (who will have his turn soon. His time is far overdue; and the collection of words that will represent my thoughts will never due him justice; for I am just not that brilliant) was sitting with me in a diner the other day, and he said “Corey I think you are too fond of that song. Give him a chance. I would hate to see you find yourself alone when time runs out, and your thirty minute episode has come to a close.” And I couldn’t even hear him become the song was playing so loud. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s never just one thing with me. No one ever understands. I'm always juggling so many double edged swords, and bouncing blue balls, and old flames, that to add a partner to the circus act would only double the chances of failure. So I juggle alone. I follow the beat of my own drum. And when and if (or if and when) I get hurt, it will be my fault . . . . and God’s. After all “If God is the DJ, Life is the dace floor, Love is the rhythm; you are the Music. You get what you’re given; it’s all how you use it!” And what if I was given the role of eunuch: the loveless, the sacrifice, the one who will have but will never find? I think I would be okay with that (because the song is so good). I think I could live (well) with that! And perhaps someday the machine will brake; my functions will fall apart; the girl will finally grow a pair of balls, become a boy, grow up, be a man, and do something other than just sit there! Or maybe I’ll stop being such a sadist and refrain from kicking beautiful people in the face for doing things that they don’t know they’re doing wrong in the first place… But It’s ridiculous to continue talking about it, stupid to keep thinking about it, and completely insane to keep puncturing holes in your left ventricle; hoping that the pattern of the polka dot will alter the rhythm of the beats and somehow change the song.

Hands Tied

In my defense I wanted to be there. I wanted to offer oversimplified answers to complicated issues; hear his frustrations, and listen in excitement to the riveting stories of the daily tedium of waiting for the mail to come. I wanted to kiss his forehead and rub his tummy as I pretended to give solace to a situation that was not mine to change. I wanted to take advantage of his time away by playing house over the weekends; ordering take out on Fridays; holding each other in our dreams as our spirits bonded by sharing secret intimacies that only come from bodies kissing crevices through the night; and waking early for breakfast on Saturday mornings to try out that new neighborhood café. I wanted to pay his hourly wage with lazy days and silly conversations about Batman, Battlestar Galactica, Script writing, Bruno, So You Think You Can Dance, and the affect of Atmosphere on the growth of the human soul. I wanted to supplement our finances, and take care of the transportation; I wanted to prove that I could pay an equal portion and do my best to pull the slack; to be a boy for a while. I wanted to put our grown-up pants on and man-up; proving that we were as good in the worst as we were in the better. I wanted to pucker my lips, cross my eyes, flip my wig, and say: “I got you babe!” I wanted to find the blessings in the chaos and turn to each other in the turmoil, so that when the moment passed (as they always do) we would be stronger on the other end.

But in his defense he didn’t see that as an option. His natural nature is to shut down. He was overwhelmed and felt like his hands were tied . . . and I wouldn’t wait.

But this is the world we live in. . . It is imperfect and flawed. Accidents happen. People lose interest. Things get lost in the mail. Circumstances change the way you were previously able to engage. And established self perceptions prevent us from being fully present for the other person’s needs. No need to blame. No need to change the truth of the situation. We simply need to take a moment to acknowledge the frailty of the things we believe to be so preciouse, and take nothing for granted; for this is the world we live in: truth is inconvenient, distance separates, intentions rarely count, and sometimes shit happens.

This I’ve learned to accept.
This I no longer fight.

But were the world mine. . .

To Be Continued.

Good

I am inconsistent. My emotions are an alcoholic liar: fun and buoyant; full of life and love, and then quickly turning mean; saying things you never thought I’d say. . . But I speak often and I rarely hold my tongue, so listen closely because adjectives move quickly, and the nuances are often hard to hear, if what I’m saying is hard to hear. Favorite word number 26: Mercurial. This is important. It could change your life. If I say it, I mean it; but that may not be what I mean. If I feel it, I feel it always; though other things have veto power. - I love you I take it back No really I love you But I don’t think we should be friends any more I don’t think you see me I don’t think you trust me You are unable to assuage my fears I need to feel secure You make me feel taken care of I don’t think you are very attractive but I think you are beautiful We should always keep in touch Please stop calling me I need a physical representation of our emotional connection otherwise you are a waste of my time I expect a lot from you because you are more than I could have ever wanted Your smile is delicious Your touch makes me weak Your mind makes me think of God and I hate it when you do that This is rare and special I’ve had this before I can offer you the dream I’ll make you happy for years I will never leave you “You are obnoxious, full of yourself, too insecure for words, dumber than a box of hair, cheap, and now you can’t even get it up? I have no need for you any more!” – As I always say, if you don’t have something profound to say, don’t say it. If you can’t articulate at any given moment every aspect of your identity, then you don’t yet truly exist; because knowing is half the battle. And if you don’t know, then you’re not even half-way there; and who has time to talk to children anyway? Most of them are stupid. . . Even as a child I was brilliant, and far more aware of the complexity of conflicting personality traits than I should have been. I had very little patience for simplicity. I quickly understood that most people weren’t who they pretended to be and few people could acknowledge the truth of who they were. So for me, the good guys were always liars, hypocrites, or people too dumb (or too scared) to look below the surface; but the villains…. Villains have always been my favorite. Not the ugly obvious demons that are grotesque distortions of evil, but the brilliant beautiful perversions of duality that make you hate them AND love them (depending on what face they choose to show). I have always seen myself in them, and wanted to be more like them; because they where not afraid to reveal the truth: That there is no one “no not one” that is good. The List: Fleur Delacour, Draco Malfoy, Kate from John and Kate Plus 8, Number 6, Jean Claude, Eros, Heathcliff and Catherine, Iago, White Queen, Dark Phoenix, Lestat, Sylar, and Judas. These are who I call my favorites. At six I wanted to be a Vampire, and I have always loved the word Bitch. I'm not sure if this is a warning, a confession, or my way of seeking informed consent; but I am not compassionate. Kindness is not my natural state. It takes huge forces of will, mental contemplation, and spiritual gestation to keep me on a path that leads me to consider your best interest; and that choice can change at any minute. The calculations of my stream of consciousness to the thirty-second digit of Pi does not change, but how I will continue to see you is like the certainty of a roulette table. So choose your words wisely, spoil me often, and if you see me in an archway on a hot summer night smiling sweetly under the glow of the soft moonlight. . . Run.

Easy.

Who is this Person? No really, who are you? You are not this easy. You are not this uncomplicated. And you are not this quickly satisfied. Thoughts, thoughts, everywhere but not a drop to think! You? You have always been a thinker. Always been a person who reveled in the world of intellectual contemplation, using logic, introspection, and forethought as a tool to find clarity; but more often than not, finding yourself caught in turmoil, DRAMA, and metaphysical confusion. You have always been a high maintenance “female” who finds faults in the most amazing and beautiful men; emasculating, criticizing, and quietly changing them into a man your Grandmother would love. Your grandmother was not the Nicest Lady. . . And Corey you can sometimes be a bitch. You are spoiled, demanding, and you always get your way (yes ALWAYS). But as hard-willed, inflexible, unchanging things often do; you’ve changed. Or perhaps something’s changed, or perhaps he’s changed, -the universal not the personal- or perhaps everything is exactly the same and you just haven’t noticed yet. See? That last sentence, that’s what you are used to; finding issue with a situation that has none. Filtering the impurities of the moment through the prism of your “brilliant” mind until the fractals of the thought have been split, reflected, and polarized, into a spectrum of complex colors and perspectives that are infinitely different, and yet fundamentally the same. And then you choose. . . You choose the one that seems most interesting; most tragically beautiful; most epic, romantic, and difficult. You make it hard; which seems fitting, because life is hard. Love is hard. “Love hard.” -not the statement but the command- These are things that touch the Aura of God. . . and they are Hard. Until they are not.

And this is not.

And that means something.

I think.

The Fall.

Some people Trip, some people Stumble, and some people Fall.

Say Something Beautiful...

Say Something Beautiful..., originally uploaded by cromacom.

Yes!

Yes. Question, “Yes”; Question, “Yes”; Question, “Yes”. His yes’ are my favorite! They come in rapid fire repetition without hesitation or reticence; as if he had been waiting a lifetime to answer so. . . And then he smiles like a ripe watermelon; juicy, wide, broken open, and delicious. I want to dig in with both hands, eat my fill, and save the seeds for the coming years. You know what they say about black people and watermelon! But what do they say about bi-boys in boxers? I guess that’s what I need to figure out; or maybe not. . .

Perhaps this time I’ll just enjoy: Visit comic book stores; Tease film choices; Eat Thai food; Play in the rhythms of conversations that go from the metaphysical to the mundane and back to the blood born, Contemplate the construction of a masculine friendship that could actually mean something; and Explore the digital intimacies of twitter, flickr, texts, and blogs! Perhaps this time I’ll just laugh with the person sharing the breath of the moment, without having to know “Why?” or “For how long?”

I'm comfortable with this. I'm comfortable with him. And I’ll be comfortable with whatever will be created.

Three years in the making, and who knew we were missing out? But then again I don’t believe in coincidence. . . I am a devotee of Order; a prayer to the Divine Design. I tend to deconstruct the structure of even random happenstance, just to know how it was made . . . but this time I don’t care! I'm going to learn a lesson in his yes’ and just take things as they are, linger less on the labels, and learn to go with the flow; Say yes to his concepts of Chaos and see God in a different way. I want to pay attention to how he treats me, listen to what he is needing, and offer what I can. I want to tickle his ribcage, kiss the taste of tobacco, and just be silly with someone my own age . . .

I’m so over complications: top and bottom, straight and gay, boyfriends and friends, intellect and intimacy, disease and disclosure, right and wrong, should be and could be, either-or. This is about integration! And saying yes in rapid fire repetition until no’s are no longer necessary, because there is nothing left to fear. This is about eating watermelon until the flavor engulfs your mouth; and the juices flow down your chin; and you are so lost in the pleasure of the moment, that you never notice that the seeds have flowered, the vines have twined, and you stand in a beautiful patch of living green that has grown wild and free around you.

I use to be a creature of conflict and dichotomies; of confrontation and discord. But lately I’ve been hanging with this guy from Long Beach who opens my door for me AND talks like my best friend. . . and for now that’s good enough for me.

Duplicity

I collect pretty boxes: Beautiful, brilliant, charming, generous, noble boxes that nurture my spirit and validate the essence of my soul. A kaleidoscope of colors and shapes in various depths and personalities filled with magical substances designed to reflect the mercurial nature of my personal evolution. The boxes are all the same. Masterfully crafted from rare and preciouse minerals like: carbon, air, and sodium; each intricately unique, meticulously made, and priceless in the construction of their structure. I want to find them all. To meet as many versions of myself as my mind could hope to endure, before it collapses upon itself, and no longer recognizes itself as itself. Because by each I am profoundly changed; and daily made anew. The content of each container keeps me curious to find the next. . . But there is only one box: one source of satisfaction and insight; one fraction of the whole; one love; one collector searching for one object to collect. It’s the illusion of multiplicity that keeps us lost in the confusion of insecurity; Screaming: nothing is ever enough, no one is ever the one, we are not like them, and I just don’t feel connected. We are trapped. Confined. Constricted by our limited sense perceptions into thinking that: “I am alone, and I need another pretty box.” But the truth is that there is only one box. There is only one thing. There is only one consciousness. Everything is the same. He and she and her and him, are all you and I. So the love is never lost. It is always there. It has always been there, and it will always be. Just close your eyes and breathe. . .

God

God is Life
God is Love
God is Me
God is You

A Woman.

I am not gentle and docile. I am not soft-spoken and nurturing. I am not traditionally domestic, or classically feminine, and yet I demand to be treated as such. But who am I to ask for such favor? The truth is: I am not a woman. I am not the last creation of God, I was not designed as the perfect male companion, (all sugar and spice and everything nice) and men don’t see me so sweet. The curves of my hips do not make them weak in the knees, my gentle features do not calm their spirits, and they don’t feel the need to take care of me. And who can blame him? The melodic tones of my voice do not remind him of his mother, my chemical composition was not made to assuage his biological cravings, and I do not naturally sublimate my own needs for the needs of him and his son. I am not that kind, I am not that caring, and I really don’t give a shit. I am not patient enough, and my pussy powers are limited. I have not been blessed by the gifts of Aphrodite, or touched by the legacy of Helen of Troy; my face will never start a war, nor will the fruit of my loins spawn a faith that will change the course of the world. I am not so beautiful, not so graceful, and my tits don’t stop traffic. I get it! I am not the fairer sex, so my requests are not so fair. But knowing doesn’t change anything, because I want it more than ever. Treat me like a Princess. Touch me like a lady. Just pretend that I'm a woman . . . even if my dick is bigger than yours.

The Meaning of LIFE

We call them choices; and yet they are laughable in their ignorance. I mean how do we know? I'm confident, I am secure, I am honest in my awareness of what I am willing and able to give in this season of my journey; however I am by no means sure, and I would be an idiot to say otherwise. I know the limitation of my logic and the immaturity of my emotions. I am a child. A three years old deciding his future's fate, yet unable to comprehend the depth of such a decision. But we are held to the choices we make and our LIFE progresses accordingly. Is it really that simple? Is it really that cruel? Am I really left to my own devices when dealing with issues of LIFE, LOVE, FAITH, and DESTINY? Seriously?! Getting what I deserve I can deal with (after all I’ve been working on my meta-spiritual karmic resonance for a while now) but getting what I choose . . . that I'm not so comfortable with. I'm selfish, and spoiled, and judgmental, and arrogant, and frustrated, and tired, and impatient, and insecure, and self hating, and emotionally and intellectually stunted. My choices are more likely than not to lead to disaster than joy; and yet still I choose. I constantly choose who, what, when, why, and to what degree. I deny men an opportunity because they don’t say my name with the inflections that I have come to expect, and I tell friends that they are that no longer because they thought that shade of green was blue. I want to know if I chose my choices right. If I am better off without, or if I have brought about my own tragedy. Will I be thirty-five and useless; forty-one and alone; fifty-three and pathetic; or sixty-seven and feeble, with no memory of a long term? I refuse. I will not be that guy. But how do I change the course that I have set when I do not know what I am doing wrong? Or worse than that . . . when I think my choices are true? How do I step outside myself and do what’s best for me, when it’s my soul that’s telling me what to do? It’s silly really . . . that he would put something as preciouse as my LIFE in my hands, when I hardly know the meaning of the word.

Drowning. . .

I keep waiting for him to come and save me; for him to find me and help me keep afloat. For him to be spiritual and brilliant and generous; and dominant enough to tell me no, yet never use the word. I keep thinking that he will arrive just in the nick of time, with light eyes and a bright smile, and quickly say "Take my hand!" But he hasn’t come . . . or he's come and gone. And when I had him I didn't know who he was. So I guess now it’s time I learn to swim; or simply row the boat ashore.

Nice Guys. . .

Nice guys finish last for a reason. They are too easy to break. They are honest, caring and vulnerable, with a fragility that leaves savage hearts feeling guilty. Who wants that on their conscious? Their beauty bares a heavy burden. Risking the responsibility of turning yet another good man bad, I'm not sure they are worth the effort of learning to love someone well. Their gentle eyes make me think too much, and yet telling them goodbye makes me ache. I'm done with pedigree and culture; well spoken men with brilliant minds, who offer open hearts to their partners, are not my cup of tea. I wind up hurting them anyway so I might as well get it done immediately. I tell the best ones to go fuck themselves and if they are lucky I’ll try to use them first. I judge and weigh their substance against false systems, to try and cheat them of what they’re worth; and what’s funny is that they never question it, because they think we are as pure as they. Sex is a different matter, for that is where they hold the cards. They are always better than the last; offering things he could not see; tapping into your innate urges, nice guys were designed to fulfill your needs. But wicked whiles can trick their raw intimacy; for where for them sex is both flesh and spirit, for you sex can still be just sex. So just moan and say you like it at the time, then play on their gentle jealousies: Criticize and emasculate; convolute, and dramatize (keeping emotional distance is a necessity or eventually YOU WILL FALL). What you never want is to find that you love them . . . the way that lyrics love a song; for then you are trapped, locked, and stolen from the person you want to be, for together you are made better than who you are separately. True love is made of equals; nice guys deserve nice girls, and I'm not sure that’s something I am able to be. Nice guys finish last for a reason . . . and I think it’s because there is something broken inside of me.

Relax

My therapist says that I have a tendency to over scrutinize, articulating the context of the situation until the chink in the armor becomes the Achilles Heel, and I find my reason to bail. He says I should just go with the flow; enjoy playing in the fantasy, and just see where the current takes me.

Conflicted

I send mixed signals. I offer conflicting statements as part of my singular thesis in hopes that you are enlightened enough to process the subtle nuances contained in the duality of my thoughts. I am of two minds; like two spirits measuring one against the other until my opposing natures are balanced equally against its counterbalance and the totality of my essence stands centered on extreme ends. I don’t know what I want, and yet I state my needs clearly; knowing that even as I decipher the urges of my soul, the consummation of my desires still may not bring about my pleasure. I am yearning for my satisfaction, but I also find satisfaction in the yearning; as if wanting makes me greater. So in the invocation of my personal identity I am constantly calling the universe to create and recreate on my behalf; and in my patient waiting for the culmination of my destiny I have become spoiled. Conflicted. Two tongued. Ravenous.

Make him Handsome, Successful, Spiritually Connected, and Sexually Aggressive. Make him Intellectually Adept, Socially Competent, and Connected to Culture and Community. Make him blue eyed, seven inches and hairy. Make him a Top that is in tune with his emotions and comfortable with my complicated history. Make him believe in the complimentary role functions of traditional values, with a healthy understanding that all things are temporary and that forgiveness is the perfect foil for human frailty. I want him to be confident and considerate and contemporary, and. . . and. . . and. . . and . . . and . . . Until the design of his character is so concise that there is little room for error. But of course I want him to be completely imperfect as well; I want him flawed enough for me to offer some insight to his substance, lacking enough for me to contribute to our growth as a couple, and blemished enough for me to help in the evolution of his soul . . . yet not too broken that I cannot fix him.

But I come with no expectations; for I need no man to complete me. And love is not love if it distracts you from your own personal growth. And this year my energy is focused elsewhere. I need to write. I need to perform. I need to apply for grants, and propose projects. . . I am sewing seeds of success, and I have no time for a man; and yet I am well on my way to having one. How did that happen? And what does that mean? I get my wires crossed, and I get lost in the shuffle. I make things more complicated then they need to be, I have conversations too heavy for the circumstances, and I revisit situations that most would choose to forget. I believe that every passing thought has purpose and that every interaction has higher meaning; so that if I am not presently processing the bumbling movement of existence, life tends to have its way with me, and I find myself in the fullness of a cosmic convergence trying to get my bearings . . . and enjoying something that I did not know I wanted while being frustrated by the exact things that I systematically chose. I wanted him to fuck me, but I didn’t want to have sex. I wanted him to be straight, but I needed him to be gay. I wanted him to understand, but I didn’t want to tell him. I want us to have the same spiritual source, but I want to be the moral superior- I'm so tired of being a 32 year old boyfriend. I want to be a 32 year old playwright in an off-Broadway production in ....New York....; franticly searching nightclubs for someone to do our costumes. . . It’s time for the next phase. It’s time to make a move. It’s time to write about a character named Richard Corey. It’s time to reinvent the Multi-character Monologue. It’s time to piece together a plotline . . . to use spoken word, experimental movement, and quiet A cappella to teach the fundamentals of Love. It’s time to write in third person-first person perspective, and design a kick ass female lead. It’s time. It’s time. It’s time . . . It’s time . . . It’s time . . . It’s time. . .

365 Extra (Divinity)

365 Extra (Divinity), originally uploaded by Green Eyed Grin.

He Said My Body Was Beautiful...And I Believe he Really Thought so. I just Wish that I could See it. Then Perhaps I could Recognize My own Divinity.

Complex Nature

I pray for clarity insight and wisdom. Let me see what pieces are yet to be fit, and give me glances into the complexity of the puzzle. Guide my actions and inform my mind. Temper my feelings until the time it is safe for them to ignite into flames. Let me be aware. Let me be present and allow me to see the dynamics moving behind the scenes. If this is your blessing then it will come. If you have weaved the pattern of the universe to bring me this, then it will be mine; and there will be tingling and kismet and Love; and my capacity to challenge and question and self compromise, will not change the end you have ordained. But is this your blessing? Is this your offering of good faith? So knowing of my inner being, that you would create such an intricate melding of dark and light that I could have both and either in the blink of an eye? Am I called to be courted by both a wholesome creature of daylight and a ravenous prince of night, to match the interworkings of my own complex nature; satisfying each, when each, needs nursing? Have you Spoiled me, like a sticky handed child granted his every desire, or will it resolve as the plot moves, to find itself winding wildly off path, and pulled powerfully to the darker fringes of the relationship? Will I loose the sweet creature of the day; corrupting his beautiful blue brown eyes with the hungers of the dark until I am left with the one I would not have chosen alone? Is this the danger? Or have I convoluted your generosity with judgment and fear of my pseudo-sinful nature? Can we have it all? Or must we sacrifice our deformed and twisted private thoughts for our perfect and pristine public wishes? Or perhaps this is just a bargaining chip . . . and I must stop engaging as if Love is all or nothing; as if humanity is complete in its structure.

Learn to stand in your power as a man, and begin to negotiate as an equal. Stop caring so much about everybody’s feelings, and be completely selfish in what you need. Ask. Demand. State clearly and concisely what you will, and will not do, once you find out what you will, and will not do. This is the year of achievement. This is the year of art and career. Broken hearts mend, and egos heal, but integrity must never be compromised. Just say it. The time of pining over someone else’s imagined perspective is over. If you are going to be someone else’s bitch, you should at least be able to negotiate the terms.