Journal entry 1

•September 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

My girl friends tell me that I don’t know ho to play the game, and they are right.  I spent my teenage years in the closet about liking girls and only daring to imagine beyond the extremely conservative social life my parents’ seemed comfortable with.  I went to college, lived in a women’s dorm, came out, started dating someone, and fell into the rapid socialization of queer radical often poc “down” and really concerned with being down liberal arts community.  To be sure I learned nothing of heterosexual norms and my world was almost all biofemales and trannies. So when I started to realize in my mid twenties that I was in fact attracted to a guy in my master’s program, I had no idea what to do.   I approached it the only queer way I knew how, allowing intense friendships and intimacy and fluidity, and before he barely knew I liked him he was in a committed relationship with (of course) the woman I had confided in about my feelings.  So began the trajectory of the next ten years.

My friends tell me that I am too giving, and guys know it.  They keep all the power, and I don’t demand anything different.   While it’s not a critique someone aligned with black studies and an artistic and intellectual legacy of strong women wants to hear, I know it’s true.  In many ways I’m at a loss of how to play the game, just because I don’t know.  I have come far enough along to be a little bit aware of when someone is playing it around me, but that’s about it.  I’m always in the dark.   The other problem is that I have a commitment to the dark, not to ignorance per say, but to that dark queer space of sociality that is wary of claims to power.  I am surrounded by intellectuals and artists who are committed to the fugitive, to disturbance, difficulty, the margins, and the monstrous, and I am often humbled and inspired by hearing and reading their thoughts on the possibility of impossibles.  But I have also found that there in the midst of the celebration of a desire for “some what of something other,” there are all kinds of investments in power.

I listen to a professor talk about the beauty of the instrument and the kind of social and community of the one who is instrumental and instrumentalized.   It is beauty, but then in a moment, they do not want to be instrumentalized.  They do not want to be played (as it were).  And I understand the hesitancy to want such a thing, but I wonder. I do really wonder.   What is it like to live a life where you are open to being powerless and played. I can’t claim a complete abdication of power or claims to power, but I can say that the critique I get so often about not playing the game and my failure to comply is bound up with a divestment (perhaps innate to who I am because I certainly can’t take credit for any concerted effort) in certain claims of power.

Catechresis

•April 14, 2013 • Leave a Comment

if

she just won’t conflate me

for every truth, mix match

socks, slide from body to

body, from pearl

to wisdom, from whistle

to an empty – cleanliness

make a bear into a man

a cat into a woman

have a marsupial child, say

this may not be an actual

this may not be your hand

i love this maybe

the hand of Moses over the rock

the helping hand of caring

Ngos and girl scouts and Joshua

and Aaron. she may be talking religion

may be talking to me

if

you wish a story

let it be. this palms out

having to give

Tried

•February 16, 2013 • Leave a Comment

for Dorner

let’s drop it at the end of a long fight, i tried

a do not disturb sign hung and sliding

off the handle.  it can’t hold a place

in the perpendicular. at the end,  just one man

-

this participle has been through a whirlwind

the toss tumble of the sheets and having been clean

they will never find you innocent just because

they will never find you

-

but jewels have come out like steak: bleeding

little tidbits of the family sad about the fire

the cabin, the car, the rage and the stolen things

including justice in the smoke, and silver linings

-

but they won’t let it rest at ashes, must get at

the single gunshot wound to the head

head bowed with ashes, I fast and root

for openings, a soft point, some little thing

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (2013)

•February 14, 2013 • Leave a Comment

tulips

The Fact of Blackness

•January 26, 2013 • Leave a Comment

but I am pretty

sure where ever there is

trash and impossible

organs whistling out

a long digestive howl

; a bend of machines

and now  fabric tied on

a different limb is all

the rage– where a sweet

ugly comes up out of not

 

“My Stars!,” You Used to Say

•January 18, 2013 • Leave a Comment

It’s been over ten years still sometimes i forget

the shadow passing under the table legs

and the cluster of notebooks is not a cockroach

or monster but a cat.

 

It’s been more than some years still sometimes i forget

the rattle of the heat turning on and begetting

sharp melodies under the blinds is not your voice

not cat, not a monster

Coffee and Storm

•January 11, 2013 • Leave a Comment

IMG_0472

In this storm at least one person died in a house fire (and it’s curious because this storm was in the summer, and just a couple of weeks ago, this place caught on fire–the proprietors and customers are all okay).  Another person died by tree accident.  I know it’s not a mass tragedy.  I know it’s blasphemous in some ways to say so–and I am grateful that we want to remember all those children–but it is hard to deal with knowing that as people sat on pins and needles to know just how old were the kids who got shot … there is a silent, unintentional I’m sure, implication–that our mourning seems to expire at a certain age.  That after a certain age your death is not a tragedy, except perhaps to some few who have gone around wanting to know you and love you.

 
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