AND THAT'S WHAT IT WAS. Running away was supposed to be arduous, maybe treacherous. And although it was terrifying, when it came to the rough-and-tumble-hitchhiking-living-out-of-a-knapsack lifestyle, I lucked out. There was a small house, there was a big house, there were a bed and a couch respectively, and each night I played out mild nightmares of prodigal return.
I was high every day. I was drunk every night. And in my sleepy mornings in between desperate glasses of water, my headspin caused the makeshift sleeping bag glide against the floorboards. It felt as though a reckless inertia was driving the particles of my body away from each other, which made sense since - as far as Rockland County is concerned - I've vanished into a black hole anyway.
And there you were the whole time, unfalteringly, unwaveringly beautiful. Like watch you in the car when you close your eyes to sing along beautiful. Like hazy teenage trips to the back of my mind when I would trace the shapes of girls for the first time. Now at 19, I'm old enough to feel embarrassed about it but young enough to clumsily hope for more.
We couldn't always hold hands in public, but we could make out in your car. And we did. In a very specific way. Like gravity, like collision. Like the way two teenagers make out in an airport parking lot, hungry and impatient, because that was who and where we were. An agreement made in a fever dream. We felt scared, but never alone. We felt right (we were right). We felt stupid ("We are so stupid"). We felt big (it's still true).
Because I knew that if I knocked long enough at the curve of your ribs, if I lingered just a bit, your anachronistic heart would wake, answering me suddenly, and I would be granted permission to live within the walls of your body.
And you didn't even come with any weird surprises. Not even a tacky winter coat.
In my time here I learned to talk to animals. I feel like that makes it sound like I fell flaming from the sky into the desert, where I was rescued by Bedouin people and given special powers. Or like I'm Eliza Thornberry (and however she got her powers, I don't really remember). In actuality, I just met a dog that didn't know she was a dog and a cat that thought I was a cat. Animal-queer is what Charles said. And I thought it was funny. And then I hid behind your best friend because the cat kept hissing at me.
--
Postcards from Mexico.
Postcards from Dallas.
Postcards from the road.
I am in none of these places, not right now, but they are from where I'm sending my love. It's unrequited, the way we all secretly like it, because there's no return address. Because there's no return, not really, anyway.
I just can't believe I left all my underwear at home. Scratch that, I can't believe I left all my underwear where my parents live.
I'll eventually have to trek it back to the East Coast. And if I could go back on wheels, I would. Fuck, If I could go back on foot, I would. I would send my love not from the places I am, but from the places I've been, so even if you try to go looking, you'll just find tire tracks and whispers, if that.
This is my pledge to never stop moving.
(If anyone feels so moved to read more on the adventures, check out my Autostraddle piece toooo).
Showing posts with label adventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adventures. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
I Was Going to Google It, But I Thought We'd Have a Conversation Instead
I WANTED to document 30 minutes of an amphetamine crash.
These are the most unproductive moments of my life. My heart has never beat so fast, and my eyes have never moved so slow. I'm darting. I'm shaking. I'm drafting notes.
Is this a panic attack?
The sun doesn't rise until 6:38 a.m., did you know that? The fuck is that about? Did you know I'm a little more than a mile from campus, and there's thunder and lightning and rain, and that might make it dark for a little longer? I think it will, and I don't have an umbrella or a hood or an excuse.
No, really, is it?
Hours ago my heart felt like it would swell until it exploded. MY BODY WAS ALL CAPS. I was so excited. I love(d) you all, I want(ed) you to know it. My arms tingled. My thoughts chased after my words, which tumbled carelessly and endlessly out of my mouth, my eyes were bright. I laughed into your collarbone, I told you all how much you meant. Now, alone at 5:09 a.m., an amphetamine rush is only panic. My mouth is dry. I don't want water. I want water. I have to get up for water. No water. Where is my love now, where are my thoughts? I have no more words; the insomnia stole my words. Where are all those whom I've neglected for fear of missing? Where are all those whom I've avoided because they kept calling, unknowingly waiting for my anxiety to subside? Where is everyone now that my hands are shaking and the sun's still hiding and the clock moves two minutes forward only to fall one minute back?
-
I think I have effectively broken every basic rule my parents have ever given me. All at once.
I think I look like an asshole when I try to dance like a hipster. I think everyone looks like assholes when they try to dance like hipsters. But I think I do it wrong, so the asshole-ness is extra. Like, I get a gold sticker.
-
By the way,
Sorry I stole the sheets from your bed.
Sorry I didn't let you know what was going on. I didn't mean to, or not to.
Sorry I was drunk when you saw me. Sorry I'll be drunk next time you see me. I'm actually only a little sorry, but I know I should be more sorry, so here's my apology.
Sorry I did exactly what I begged you not to months ago. Sorry I cried then. I cry easily; it's a little stupid and a lot embarrassing.
-
What if we made fewer confessions and told more truths?
-
Sometimes there are nights that disappear into haze. Maybe you forgot what you were on.
Sometimes you wonder where you were all night, and then you wonder where you should have been, and you wonder if you should have been the source of the noise. If you should have been making the floorboards creak and wail with your jumping, if if the walls would have been happier to echo your voice. Entire portions of night disappear. Where did they go? More importantly, where did I go? I think that I stopped existing for just a little. I think I got lost in an alcove; it was pretty dark, y'know?
-
I think that I live far away from home, though I don't really know what that means.
Hometown nostalgia tricked me in those last few days, made me think it was real. Made me desperate to be seen before I disappeared. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be wearing skinny jeans and plaid, I wanted all of you to see how the band of my boxer briefs peeked out the top of my pants. I'M GAY, I wanted you to know. I'M GAY, and I was gay when you knew me, but now I'm not sorry, and no one needs to tell me it's okay and that I'm okay and that high school doesn't really matter, because I always knew those things. It's just that now I believe them.
Leaving was sad. Leaving was final.
They said you'd go to college, and you'd come back, but you'd never come back. I think I'm going a little farther this time.
Sorry I didn't let you know what was going on. I didn't mean to, or not to.
Sorry I was drunk when you saw me. Sorry I'll be drunk next time you see me. I'm actually only a little sorry, but I know I should be more sorry, so here's my apology.
Sorry I did exactly what I begged you not to months ago. Sorry I cried then. I cry easily; it's a little stupid and a lot embarrassing.
-
What if we made fewer confessions and told more truths?
-
Sometimes there are nights that disappear into haze. Maybe you forgot what you were on.
Sometimes you wonder where you were all night, and then you wonder where you should have been, and you wonder if you should have been the source of the noise. If you should have been making the floorboards creak and wail with your jumping, if if the walls would have been happier to echo your voice. Entire portions of night disappear. Where did they go? More importantly, where did I go? I think that I stopped existing for just a little. I think I got lost in an alcove; it was pretty dark, y'know?
-
I think that I live far away from home, though I don't really know what that means.
Hometown nostalgia tricked me in those last few days, made me think it was real. Made me desperate to be seen before I disappeared. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be wearing skinny jeans and plaid, I wanted all of you to see how the band of my boxer briefs peeked out the top of my pants. I'M GAY, I wanted you to know. I'M GAY, and I was gay when you knew me, but now I'm not sorry, and no one needs to tell me it's okay and that I'm okay and that high school doesn't really matter, because I always knew those things. It's just that now I believe them.
Leaving was sad. Leaving was final.
They said you'd go to college, and you'd come back, but you'd never come back. I think I'm going a little farther this time.
About that thing, about my parents, about how we fucked it up. We just fucked it up, this thing. That they always saw their lives, secure and prosperous, without lesbian daughters or heartbreaking arguments or silent stalemates. We should have been sad to see each other go; instead, I think we're relieved. How does that thing happen? That thing where your life wasn't what you wanted or expected or believed? Does it happen to our unhappy, middle-aged parents? Or does it happen to us all?
-
But hey, what am I scared for? Hey Brandon, didn't we realize today that everything, every moment has already happened at some point in time? All of this has already happened; somewhere it's done. It's just a matter of getting there. I'm worried about 6:38 a.m., but that's okay, because by 7:38, I'll know. It's just a matter of getting to 7:30. Life will just happen until then; we'll get there. We'll know.
-
5:33 a.m.
Street lights still glowing orange. Can't tell if it's raining, can't see through the blinds. Weather.com says it's raining. Guess I'll have to trust that. I wonder if, when I get outside in an hour, I'll be trapped between places, locked out of one apartment, a mile away from the next. It's going to be raining, which is too bad, because I wanted to walk along to the sunrise. Maybe I should memorize these directions, just in case the newly inked napkin melts through my fingers on the way.
-
But hey, what am I scared for? Hey Brandon, didn't we realize today that everything, every moment has already happened at some point in time? All of this has already happened; somewhere it's done. It's just a matter of getting there. I'm worried about 6:38 a.m., but that's okay, because by 7:38, I'll know. It's just a matter of getting to 7:30. Life will just happen until then; we'll get there. We'll know.
-
5:33 a.m.
Street lights still glowing orange. Can't tell if it's raining, can't see through the blinds. Weather.com says it's raining. Guess I'll have to trust that. I wonder if, when I get outside in an hour, I'll be trapped between places, locked out of one apartment, a mile away from the next. It's going to be raining, which is too bad, because I wanted to walk along to the sunrise. Maybe I should memorize these directions, just in case the newly inked napkin melts through my fingers on the way.
Monday, August 3, 2009
When Faraway Things Seem Close
This post is long overdue.
Originally intended to be a cross-post with Emily, this was written by both of us at various points throughout the 24 hours leading up to Pride Weekend. Intoxicated and driving around my hometown and the surrounding highways aimlessly, we stopped at a CVS to purchase a notebook. And by that I mean I got nervous, shoved two dollars in Emily's hand, and made her go buy a notebook. I don't think we kept this up as long as we intended. Nevertheless, I present to you the chronicle of two really anxious girls overwhelmed by possibility. And Tegan and Sara a little bit.
---------------------------------------------------
I'm working on a lot of things right now. While you wait anxiously for them, check out how the rest of this weekend turned out by clicking my link at the top or reading Emily's exceptionally beautiful coverage of the same event. You could also do both.
Originally intended to be a cross-post with Emily, this was written by both of us at various points throughout the 24 hours leading up to Pride Weekend. Intoxicated and driving around my hometown and the surrounding highways aimlessly, we stopped at a CVS to purchase a notebook. And by that I mean I got nervous, shoved two dollars in Emily's hand, and made her go buy a notebook. I don't think we kept this up as long as we intended. Nevertheless, I present to you the chronicle of two really anxious girls overwhelmed by possibility. And Tegan and Sara a little bit.
---------------------------------------------------
June 26 2009 10:30 pm (Emily)
I GOT INTO Katrina’s house last night at 1 am. I went 24 hours without sleep and woke up at 1 pm.
We drove around Rockland aimlessly listening to Tegan and Sara which was so epic it cannot properly be described. We should ideas and dreams and things that would make us happy. I’m having an I-Thou relationship with the road. The roads in America are all the same.
We have the same idols and we constantly bring the conversation back to autostraddle. We auto-dance. We are auto-hot. We are auto-blazed, auto-drunk. We auto-win.
We don’t know how to get there. All we know is that City Girl is the best Tegan and Sara song and it’s possible to be nowhere and not lost at the same time.
The road is magnificent.
-
June 26 2009 10:45 pm (Katrina)
WE'VE BEEN ON the highway searching for the overlook for about 20 minutes. It probably would have been only ten, but as I am probably in no condition to be driving, I’ve been going at a steady 40 mph on a 65. This adds a new element to auto-blazed.
I look over at the clock. 10:40. There is so much night to be had. It reminds me of DC, of the apartment, where we’d be too high on uppers to sleep but too stoned to have a real conversation. It’d be 2:30 and we’d feel like the night was so new. 10:40 is so early and I wonder if this is what it’s like to not know you’re young.
If someone asked me how long I’d been young for, I’d say my whole life. If you asked me when I’d stop being young, I would tell you that’s not up to me. When does one stop being young? Do you wake up and know, or is it something that only occurs in retrospect? And if youth is defined by behaviour, I plan to always be young. If growing up means giving up your voice and forsaking your selfish desires , and well... being no fun, then, regardless of the number of years we've actually been around.. well, I’m gonna be forever young. So suck it, Rod Stewart.
-
June 27 2009 1:51 pm (Emily)
DRIVING IN THE CAR with Katrina’s parents. We’re listening to The Clash. My heart was pounding at the beginning, thoughts like “holy shit” kept going through my head and I almost forgot where we were going. To be honest, when “Rudie Can’t Fail” came on I felt relaxed, it was a little sound from home, something familiar. Because everything here is new. Every step I take is one into the unknown and it is both exhilarating and terrifying. In fact the past two days have been exhilarating and terrifying and these next two should be so intense I’m expecting my heart to explode at any time.
Except I’ve got this feeling we’re all in this together and together we can deal with anything.
Katrina joked about me sleeping in the car to avoid questions but now her brother is passed out next to me.
We’re about to get on the highway and it’s end to end traffic. My heart begins to pound again. I just want to get there.
I don’t know if the nerves are from pretending to be from Boston and going to AU or from meeting autostraddle and really Riese really. Both options are plausible.
I am having a heart attack again. We are on Lexington.
2:34 pm we are on the corner of Lexington and 56th.
-
June 27th 2009 2:44 (Katrina)
WE JUST DROPPED EMILY off at Brooke’s which means we pulled off this incredible charade.
Waking up at a quarter to noon and laying on top of the sheets listening to “City Girl” on repeat, we knew we wouldn't be this still again.
Tegan and Sara were singing about me when they said “I know you’re scared even though you say that you’re not”. They know this as I try to stride confidently through my house in my baptism-ready dress and heels, sending secretive, self-assured smirks to Emily, trying to convince her we’ll make it through the car ride.
We will, and we do. Off I go to the house of God.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Also, if you just read that and thought to yourself, "Well that was cool, but I'd prefer it as a stoner comedy," here's a badly edited video that was never really supposed to see the light of day, due to its bad jokes and continual breathless laughter over nothing.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
They Call It Way Too Rowdy, We Call It Finally Free
It's like my notebooks threw up on my wall.
My notebooks hide the contents of my head, thoughts, scrawled out in code, meanings revealed by ink color or placement on the page, once sandwiched into a leather binding, are now hanging up over my desk. Pinned up against the wall as if they escaped from my notebook and found themselves disoriented by the explosion with which they were released.
My lists are on my walls. I can look at them all at the same time. Even if I can't understand what they're trying to tell me. They're overwhelming, but as they sit there staring at me, they remind me...something's happening.
Something's happening. Something's fucking happening.
I should have known it because lately I've been so restless and eager and anxious in the very best way, but also in a way that totally keeps making me nervous. Toward the end of the school year, I used to do this thing where I'd take present me and look back on past me, and almost feel envious. It would never be distant past me, it'd just be like...me three months ago before I knew that such-and-such was going to happen, like I never knew I'd stop caring about money or I never knew I'd end up on the floor of this total beatniky apartment, or hey, I never knew I wouldn't regret coming home for the summer.
Anyway, what really characterized the me in the past was that she never knew that her life had the potential to go somewhere else. I mean, she knew that there was growing to do, and that growing meant change, but this girl never felt what I feel now...like I'm on the brink.
Things just keep fucking happening.
Before I was always expecting my luck to run out or for things to slow down or for me to try to have to be a real person. But it's been all ups. And I'm finally starting to believe in it.
What I'm trying to say is, I just had one of the best weekends everever, the weekend that was supposed to be the peak of my summer, and though I did go through this two-and-a-half day period of real/fake/real devastation when it was over, what I'm beginning to realize is that what happened this past weekend isn't over at all.
So here we go. Starting off with a little vocabulary:
gaygrounding (n) - a common punishment for teenagers of the homosexual persuasion, where the subject in question is not forbidden from leaving her home, but from leaving her home to...do gay shit. This may include Pride events, hanging out with that girl with the short hair from down the block, or secretly running downstairs to watch Logo every time the parents leave. This last part, of course, still continues, as that is the point of secretly running downstairs. Gay grounding is usually highly ineffective and tends to promote increased homosexual behavior, but with a sexy, vindictive edge.
See: X, KC Danger
Gaygrounding is what I narrowly escaped this weekend after a blowout of sorts with my parents that almost kept Emily out of my house and me out of a momentously absurd pride weekend.
But. There are some things that are worth modeling through it for.
And one of those things is Autostraddle.
I think I mentioned before a few of the reasons why I love this fucking site and how I can't possibly believe I'm lucky enough to be working (I've been told that's sort of an inaccurate verb, interning perhaps?) for them. It always turns into gushing. Just to be sort of repetitive, this place isn't just a website, it's a community. A community run and organized by some of the smartest, wittiest, most interesting, self-assured, and unapologetically fucking crazy (and potentially superattractive, who knows, oh wait I do) queer ladies I've yet had the privilege of knowing. Like, I thought in a group of lesbians, there's always the one really cool girl who sort of rallies and carries the rest. But in this group it's all of them. And they're the ones giving a new kind of lesbian, bisexual, or otherwise inclined women a voice. They can have fun and get shit done. And it's just nice to know that that exists.
Oh, and did I mention that the interns are totes bomb-ass too?
And did I mention that both those groups of people hauled ass to New York (or, y'know, bused in like 20 miles like me) for dinner and a parade and a spoof on Tyra mail and a Rodeo Disco Party? Because that happened. And it was glorious.
Here are the vague concepts:
1. Meeting People from the Internets
So bitches always be like, "Isn't it weird that you don't really know any of these people? Like, won't that be weird?" Well, let me answer that for you. I do know these people, and they are weird. And crazy as shit. But there's too much love to deny it. The thing about meeting people on the Internet and then meeting them in real life is that you've already got it out in the open--we're weird. Like, yep, we exist pretty functionally in 3D, and maybe we've got jobs and friends and school and shit, but at the end of the day, I don't have to second guess what you're doing, because I read it on Twitter. I didn't have to be there for your last significant experience. Read it on your blog. Let's just talk about it, how we're all kind of weirdos who feel the need to broadcast our lives online. And we're unapologetic, because we wish other people would do it too. Give 20 people like this a weekend together, see what happens.
2. Drunk
The number one feeling of the weekend. There was little/no time to not be like this. I think most of the interns ingested their daily amount of grains through liquids this weekend. But why not? I mean what better way to get to know someone than by getting all loud and getting all touchy and getting all honest and covering each other while peeing because the line in the men's room is shorter and ending up in a room full of juice bottles in the corner of Stonewall Inn? Were those last parts just me? Woops, sorry then. What I'm trying to say is good times all around.
3. Persistence
In flyering alwaysalwaysalways, in getting up before noon despite wicked hangovers, in believing that eight people can stay in one hotel room. In fighting gaygrounding because we that what we did wasn't wrong. And in sneaking back into a bar over and over again, only to be escorted out by the same cowboy bartender three times.
4. Embarassing Honesty
I've got this tendency left over from DC that goes like this: amphetamines + alcohol = rambling honesty and an abundance of feelings/the need to tell them all to you. And so I did. Sitting outside Mason Dixon for two hours while the party reached its peak and eventually cleared out, Emily and I were visited by various members of Team Autostraddle who shared a number of drunken gems and relics from their young gay past (no, we totally heard everyone's coming out story, and it was all really cute, especially since everyone was in cowboy hats). We sat out there for two hours and watched everyone go by, half dazed, never sober, always talkative, and half in love with everything and everyone and the feeling of a dream finally realized, though realization didn't mean an end.
And it's all just so fall-against-the-wall-and-take-it-in-because-what-if-you-never-feel-this-new-or-real-again. ((But you do and you will and you know it, but you don't thikn you're allowed to admit it just yet)).
5. Withdrawl
It was like having everything happen at once. And the fastest of events make for the slowest of goodbyes, and after two straight days of being surrounded by peoplepeoplepeople (rather, girlsgirlsgirls), waking up alone in an all-too-spacious bed just doesn't do it. All day I can talk and work and run around my town, but when I finally stop, all it is is, why is my bed so big, and why am I the only one in it? And where are the other ten people I've attached myself to in these two days? And why aren't we getting stared at in public? Where are those naked feathered guys who walked behind us in the parade? Why aren't the following my car around? (Actually, if someone could arrange this, that'd be great). I miss everyone; I never wanted them to go back to 2D.
Everything's a little duller now, a little muted. But at the same time, everything's a possibility. Everything is what it could be, or could be again (and again and again), because maybe the apex is just a plateau, and we're all just really into climbing.
My notebooks hide the contents of my head, thoughts, scrawled out in code, meanings revealed by ink color or placement on the page, once sandwiched into a leather binding, are now hanging up over my desk. Pinned up against the wall as if they escaped from my notebook and found themselves disoriented by the explosion with which they were released.
My lists are on my walls. I can look at them all at the same time. Even if I can't understand what they're trying to tell me. They're overwhelming, but as they sit there staring at me, they remind me...something's happening.
Something's happening. Something's fucking happening.
I should have known it because lately I've been so restless and eager and anxious in the very best way, but also in a way that totally keeps making me nervous. Toward the end of the school year, I used to do this thing where I'd take present me and look back on past me, and almost feel envious. It would never be distant past me, it'd just be like...me three months ago before I knew that such-and-such was going to happen, like I never knew I'd stop caring about money or I never knew I'd end up on the floor of this total beatniky apartment, or hey, I never knew I wouldn't regret coming home for the summer.
Anyway, what really characterized the me in the past was that she never knew that her life had the potential to go somewhere else. I mean, she knew that there was growing to do, and that growing meant change, but this girl never felt what I feel now...like I'm on the brink.
Things just keep fucking happening.
Before I was always expecting my luck to run out or for things to slow down or for me to try to have to be a real person. But it's been all ups. And I'm finally starting to believe in it.
What I'm trying to say is, I just had one of the best weekends everever, the weekend that was supposed to be the peak of my summer, and though I did go through this two-and-a-half day period of real/fake/real devastation when it was over, what I'm beginning to realize is that what happened this past weekend isn't over at all.
So here we go. Starting off with a little vocabulary:
gaygrounding (n) - a common punishment for teenagers of the homosexual persuasion, where the subject in question is not forbidden from leaving her home, but from leaving her home to...do gay shit. This may include Pride events, hanging out with that girl with the short hair from down the block, or secretly running downstairs to watch Logo every time the parents leave. This last part, of course, still continues, as that is the point of secretly running downstairs. Gay grounding is usually highly ineffective and tends to promote increased homosexual behavior, but with a sexy, vindictive edge.
See: X, KC Danger
Gaygrounding is what I narrowly escaped this weekend after a blowout of sorts with my parents that almost kept Emily out of my house and me out of a momentously absurd pride weekend.
But. There are some things that are worth modeling through it for.
And one of those things is Autostraddle.
I think I mentioned before a few of the reasons why I love this fucking site and how I can't possibly believe I'm lucky enough to be working (I've been told that's sort of an inaccurate verb, interning perhaps?) for them. It always turns into gushing. Just to be sort of repetitive, this place isn't just a website, it's a community. A community run and organized by some of the smartest, wittiest, most interesting, self-assured, and unapologetically fucking crazy (and potentially superattractive, who knows, oh wait I do) queer ladies I've yet had the privilege of knowing. Like, I thought in a group of lesbians, there's always the one really cool girl who sort of rallies and carries the rest. But in this group it's all of them. And they're the ones giving a new kind of lesbian, bisexual, or otherwise inclined women a voice. They can have fun and get shit done. And it's just nice to know that that exists.
Oh, and did I mention that the interns are totes bomb-ass too?
And did I mention that both those groups of people hauled ass to New York (or, y'know, bused in like 20 miles like me) for dinner and a parade and a spoof on Tyra mail and a Rodeo Disco Party? Because that happened. And it was glorious.
Here are the vague concepts:
1. Meeting People from the Internets
So bitches always be like, "Isn't it weird that you don't really know any of these people? Like, won't that be weird?" Well, let me answer that for you. I do know these people, and they are weird. And crazy as shit. But there's too much love to deny it. The thing about meeting people on the Internet and then meeting them in real life is that you've already got it out in the open--we're weird. Like, yep, we exist pretty functionally in 3D, and maybe we've got jobs and friends and school and shit, but at the end of the day, I don't have to second guess what you're doing, because I read it on Twitter. I didn't have to be there for your last significant experience. Read it on your blog. Let's just talk about it, how we're all kind of weirdos who feel the need to broadcast our lives online. And we're unapologetic, because we wish other people would do it too. Give 20 people like this a weekend together, see what happens.
2. Drunk
The number one feeling of the weekend. There was little/no time to not be like this. I think most of the interns ingested their daily amount of grains through liquids this weekend. But why not? I mean what better way to get to know someone than by getting all loud and getting all touchy and getting all honest and covering each other while peeing because the line in the men's room is shorter and ending up in a room full of juice bottles in the corner of Stonewall Inn? Were those last parts just me? Woops, sorry then. What I'm trying to say is good times all around.
3. Persistence
In flyering alwaysalwaysalways, in getting up before noon despite wicked hangovers, in believing that eight people can stay in one hotel room. In fighting gaygrounding because we that what we did wasn't wrong. And in sneaking back into a bar over and over again, only to be escorted out by the same cowboy bartender three times.
4. Embarassing Honesty
I've got this tendency left over from DC that goes like this: amphetamines + alcohol = rambling honesty and an abundance of feelings/the need to tell them all to you. And so I did. Sitting outside Mason Dixon for two hours while the party reached its peak and eventually cleared out, Emily and I were visited by various members of Team Autostraddle who shared a number of drunken gems and relics from their young gay past (no, we totally heard everyone's coming out story, and it was all really cute, especially since everyone was in cowboy hats). We sat out there for two hours and watched everyone go by, half dazed, never sober, always talkative, and half in love with everything and everyone and the feeling of a dream finally realized, though realization didn't mean an end.
And it's all just so fall-against-the-wall-and-take-it-in-because-what-if-you-never-feel-this-new-or-real-again. ((But you do and you will and you know it, but you don't thikn you're allowed to admit it just yet)).
5. Withdrawl
It was like having everything happen at once. And the fastest of events make for the slowest of goodbyes, and after two straight days of being surrounded by peoplepeoplepeople (rather, girlsgirlsgirls), waking up alone in an all-too-spacious bed just doesn't do it. All day I can talk and work and run around my town, but when I finally stop, all it is is, why is my bed so big, and why am I the only one in it? And where are the other ten people I've attached myself to in these two days? And why aren't we getting stared at in public? Where are those naked feathered guys who walked behind us in the parade? Why aren't the following my car around? (Actually, if someone could arrange this, that'd be great). I miss everyone; I never wanted them to go back to 2D.
Everything's a little duller now, a little muted. But at the same time, everything's a possibility. Everything is what it could be, or could be again (and again and again), because maybe the apex is just a plateau, and we're all just really into climbing.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
There's Blood In My Mouth 'Cause I've Been Biting My Tongue
My parents know this: I came out on January 3, 2009.
My parents do not know this: I was scared, but I was not sorry. I waited a long fucking time after I was ready to come out to actually come out. While I was waiting, I did everything I could to prepare myself for the process. This ranged from pamphlets and other forms of literature to talking to friends about their own experiences and watching every damn Logo special on it. Also watching and memorizing that episode of The L Word where Bette tells her dad that God made her just as she was (I'm not sorry to say that I paraphrased her in my coming out conversation). I was ready for any argument they had to throw at me.
They don't know that it was the most empowering night of my life because it was at that moment that I realized that, with or without their approval, I was finally completely and totally unashamed and unapologetic about who I was. And I was happy. I was living it like I wanted. And I had a support system. And the sky was clearer than I had ever seen it, and it told me to just drive.
Six months later, after not mentioning it at all since that one Really Bad Conversation that finally caused me to run away to Rachel's house, a dinner table confrontation occurred.
It was pretty much the same old patronizing/denial deal about how they don't think I'm really gay because you can't know if you're gay if you've never tried not being gay and also if you're gay you can't have weddings or have children because you're gaygaygaygaygay.
In addition to this, my mother (oh also, my dad, while he doesn't approve of my "choices" or "lifestyle" is very rational and has promised to love me no matter what, should I eventually come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, gay) lamented over the fact that she had no idea how I, being raised in her household, could possibly have taken on such a set of values that allowed me to be like this. To be accepting and open and happy with who I am (I asked this)? She claimed that she was not prejudiced. I said it was okay if she was because everyone has their own prejudices and both my parents happen to come from an extremely conservative Catholic country, and whatever, that kind of wack shit happens there anyway. And then she finally admitted that no, she does not hate gay people, BUT she has worked hard and sacrificed so much so that she could one day see me get married and have kids.
1. WHAT.
2. Gay peeps are on the way to doing that now, don't'chaknow?
3. WHAT.
4. Listen. I'm sorry. But even if I were straight, being someone's Wife and having their kids would never ever be the measure of my success in life. It's just never been my dream. And I don't really appreciate my mother basing my value on whether or not I can attain this goal that I don't even want to pursue. I respect anyone who really, truly wants this, I do. But fact of the matter is that I don't. We've all got our own aspirations, and this just isn't one of them for me. Never has been. That's that.
They also said I couldn't possibly be happy like this, and that I was being way too closed-minded about the whole situation. As if it had never occurred to me to date men. Well yeah, I had never though of that, thanks for the suggestion, brb, being straight now! But no, really. I can pretty confidently say that I am one of the most sexually open-minded people I know to accept the label "lesbian." I'm not going to go into details about this, but you can ask Rachel because she gets all the phonecalls in the aftermath. Also claiming that I am not happy is just ludicrous. Because fuck, I am happy. I am like lay-spread-out-on-the-floor-and-stare-up-at-the-ceiling-and-just-sigh-because-I'm-so-happy happy. I said it before. I'm living it like I wanted.
But wait, there's more!
You see, I'm aspiring to be a professional gay, and I happen to be having the most mindblowing interning experience at a website that's allowing me to pursue this (I'd drop the name here, but I feel like this is kind of a negative context, so I'll sit and think about that, plus I've probably talked about it a shit ton to anyone who's reading anyway). Like fucking wow. Never before have I had the honor of being around such confident, intelligent, witty, (and coughsuperattractivecough) and self-assured queer women who are out simply unapologetic about their sexuality. It's what I've been working to be, even before I ever realized I was doing it.
My parents wanted to know why I insisted on living this lifestyle and told me that it was a choice. And yeah, sure, being out is a choice. But it's a choice to be honest and happy and just plain satisfied with my life. And in that sense, it's not really a choice at all.
The reason that one of my great goals in life is to create visibility for queer women is because shit like this, shit that happens with my parents, happens all the time for girls who are coming out. And they shouldn't have to feel ashamed about it. And they should have role models. And they shouldn't be afraid or feel alone, even if they can only get that reassurance through the Interwebz (I'm also a big believer in this).
ANYWAY.
This was supposed to be a big gay weekend for me. My Montreal buddy, Emily, is coming down tomorrow for Pride festivities, and the whole intern team is going to spend a big gay weekend together etc etc. Clearly my parents aren't going for this.
The plan is that, in about an hour (when we're both all tired and honest), I'm going to go talk to my dad and basically ask him permission to peace the fuck out this weekend. If it's a no, then I'm doing it on my own, runaway urban backpacking style. My life's been so fucking ridiculous lately. These past 6 months have proved not only that I am strong enough, but that I am just plain lucky enough to dodge and bob and weave through all the tight situations that I've encountered (this is saying A LOT).
This weekend is going to be a most excellent adventure, and goddamn, I can't wait.
My parents do not know this: I was scared, but I was not sorry. I waited a long fucking time after I was ready to come out to actually come out. While I was waiting, I did everything I could to prepare myself for the process. This ranged from pamphlets and other forms of literature to talking to friends about their own experiences and watching every damn Logo special on it. Also watching and memorizing that episode of The L Word where Bette tells her dad that God made her just as she was (I'm not sorry to say that I paraphrased her in my coming out conversation). I was ready for any argument they had to throw at me.
They don't know that it was the most empowering night of my life because it was at that moment that I realized that, with or without their approval, I was finally completely and totally unashamed and unapologetic about who I was. And I was happy. I was living it like I wanted. And I had a support system. And the sky was clearer than I had ever seen it, and it told me to just drive.
Six months later, after not mentioning it at all since that one Really Bad Conversation that finally caused me to run away to Rachel's house, a dinner table confrontation occurred.
It was pretty much the same old patronizing/denial deal about how they don't think I'm really gay because you can't know if you're gay if you've never tried not being gay and also if you're gay you can't have weddings or have children because you're gaygaygaygaygay.
In addition to this, my mother (oh also, my dad, while he doesn't approve of my "choices" or "lifestyle" is very rational and has promised to love me no matter what, should I eventually come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, gay) lamented over the fact that she had no idea how I, being raised in her household, could possibly have taken on such a set of values that allowed me to be like this. To be accepting and open and happy with who I am (I asked this)? She claimed that she was not prejudiced. I said it was okay if she was because everyone has their own prejudices and both my parents happen to come from an extremely conservative Catholic country, and whatever, that kind of wack shit happens there anyway. And then she finally admitted that no, she does not hate gay people, BUT she has worked hard and sacrificed so much so that she could one day see me get married and have kids.
1. WHAT.
2. Gay peeps are on the way to doing that now, don't'chaknow?
3. WHAT.
4. Listen. I'm sorry. But even if I were straight, being someone's Wife and having their kids would never ever be the measure of my success in life. It's just never been my dream. And I don't really appreciate my mother basing my value on whether or not I can attain this goal that I don't even want to pursue. I respect anyone who really, truly wants this, I do. But fact of the matter is that I don't. We've all got our own aspirations, and this just isn't one of them for me. Never has been. That's that.
They also said I couldn't possibly be happy like this, and that I was being way too closed-minded about the whole situation. As if it had never occurred to me to date men. Well yeah, I had never though of that, thanks for the suggestion, brb, being straight now! But no, really. I can pretty confidently say that I am one of the most sexually open-minded people I know to accept the label "lesbian." I'm not going to go into details about this, but you can ask Rachel because she gets all the phonecalls in the aftermath. Also claiming that I am not happy is just ludicrous. Because fuck, I am happy. I am like lay-spread-out-on-the-floor-and-stare-up-at-the-ceiling-and-just-sigh-because-I'm-so-happy happy. I said it before. I'm living it like I wanted.
But wait, there's more!
You see, I'm aspiring to be a professional gay, and I happen to be having the most mindblowing interning experience at a website that's allowing me to pursue this (I'd drop the name here, but I feel like this is kind of a negative context, so I'll sit and think about that, plus I've probably talked about it a shit ton to anyone who's reading anyway). Like fucking wow. Never before have I had the honor of being around such confident, intelligent, witty, (and coughsuperattractivecough) and self-assured queer women who are out simply unapologetic about their sexuality. It's what I've been working to be, even before I ever realized I was doing it.
My parents wanted to know why I insisted on living this lifestyle and told me that it was a choice. And yeah, sure, being out is a choice. But it's a choice to be honest and happy and just plain satisfied with my life. And in that sense, it's not really a choice at all.
The reason that one of my great goals in life is to create visibility for queer women is because shit like this, shit that happens with my parents, happens all the time for girls who are coming out. And they shouldn't have to feel ashamed about it. And they should have role models. And they shouldn't be afraid or feel alone, even if they can only get that reassurance through the Interwebz (I'm also a big believer in this).
ANYWAY.
This was supposed to be a big gay weekend for me. My Montreal buddy, Emily, is coming down tomorrow for Pride festivities, and the whole intern team is going to spend a big gay weekend together etc etc. Clearly my parents aren't going for this.
The plan is that, in about an hour (when we're both all tired and honest), I'm going to go talk to my dad and basically ask him permission to peace the fuck out this weekend. If it's a no, then I'm doing it on my own, runaway urban backpacking style. My life's been so fucking ridiculous lately. These past 6 months have proved not only that I am strong enough, but that I am just plain lucky enough to dodge and bob and weave through all the tight situations that I've encountered (this is saying A LOT).
This weekend is going to be a most excellent adventure, and goddamn, I can't wait.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Have a Great Summer
There's no best part about quite literally not living anywhere, because every single part is the best part. I mean this totally and completely. I carry my life on my back, I have absolutely no responsibilities, I fall into the stories of the people around me, drink beer, and live my life so well that I cannot even comprehend it. My every day is enhanced by the excitement and mystery of where I'll fall asleep that night and what I'll do when I wake up the next morning because for once, I am free of obligations and may really and truly do anything.
I'm calling it urban backpacking.
(Partially because the only reason I can afford to do this is because of my privilege and my parents' permission, but whatever. It's the end, not the means).
The worst part is that, being the last one to leave of those who are leaving, I have to watch everyone go. I have cleverly evaded this by occupying myself just enough so that I've managed to not say goodbye to the majority of people who have meant the most to me this past year. And I would almost feel guilty about this, but I don't. Goodbyes don't mean much to me at all. I mean, they do, but not nearly as much as my time previously spent with a person that made an emotional goodbye expected or worth it at all. I don't say goodbye because 1) they're rarely permanent, and 2) I don't want the last time I see a person for quite a while to end up being some awkward, fumbling, sad attempt at a summary of what our friendship has meant, and 3) you already know that I want you to have a great summer. That's basically it. I love people too much for goodbyes, and my verbal skills often fail me, leaving me with a lot of regrets and "I wish I had said's," and that's not anything that anyone needs to bother with.
The last time I saw you, I probably just left it at "later."
Because that's really all it is, you know?
I'm calling it urban backpacking.
(Partially because the only reason I can afford to do this is because of my privilege and my parents' permission, but whatever. It's the end, not the means).
The worst part is that, being the last one to leave of those who are leaving, I have to watch everyone go. I have cleverly evaded this by occupying myself just enough so that I've managed to not say goodbye to the majority of people who have meant the most to me this past year. And I would almost feel guilty about this, but I don't. Goodbyes don't mean much to me at all. I mean, they do, but not nearly as much as my time previously spent with a person that made an emotional goodbye expected or worth it at all. I don't say goodbye because 1) they're rarely permanent, and 2) I don't want the last time I see a person for quite a while to end up being some awkward, fumbling, sad attempt at a summary of what our friendship has meant, and 3) you already know that I want you to have a great summer. That's basically it. I love people too much for goodbyes, and my verbal skills often fail me, leaving me with a lot of regrets and "I wish I had said's," and that's not anything that anyone needs to bother with.
The last time I saw you, I probably just left it at "later."
Because that's really all it is, you know?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The Gospel According to Tyrone
I finally made some resolutions I could keep.
1. Start a conversation with every person I bum a cigarette off/from.
2. Make it happen. Anything, by any means necessary.
The basic outline of Friday goes like this:
Brandon and I, broke as all fuck, are standing outside CVS smoking with the homeless people (is there a politically correct term for them?) who sell Street Sense. After warning us about the fact that the Bloods have arrived in Tenleytown, he tells Brandon to show me a good time tonight (I mean, we are a radical queer couple after all), and tell us that, with no money, we've got two options: go to Hains Point and watch the planes go by, or go down to Georgetown and sit by the Potomac. It'll clear your mind, he says. It's just you and the water and God, you don't need anything else. And don't forget to thank God every day when you wake up. And if you wake up one day, and you can't see, thank God anyway, because you woke up. Ten heart attacks and fourteen strokes down, Tyrone still sees it fit to sit on the corner and preach the word.
He simplified religion in what is potentially the most effective way I've ever heard.
1. Keep holy the Ten.
2. Love and respect.
3. Preach a little word.
4. Take care of God's children.
Brandon and I head back to the dorms to polish off our five-dollar bottle of Andre, pick up various supplies, and then head to Tenleytown to pick up the G1 bus down to Georgetown.
The details aren't too important. Just know that we were broke and stoned, and we spent two and a half hours wandering through the city under bridges, through dark French-looking alleyways, across Georgetown's campus (holla at Village C), along highways, down trecherous stairways (it was like a MOUNTAIN, I swear), and across and incredbily vast bridge to Virginia and back. We also encountered a number of belligerent preppy drunks.
I can't express how far from the water we were when we first got there. But it was essentially seeing a point in the distance and making the decision to get there no matter what. It was getting what you want.
Finding the water after all that time is indescribable. The closed park we wandered into was surreal. I had never seen so much newness in one place. The stainless benches sat on the edges of patches of straw; the park was so new that grass hadn't even grown yet. Under the harsh white streetlights, the blackest asphalt I have ever seen gleamed and shone, leading us to the Potomac River.
It didn't need to look like anything when we got there. It didn't need to be grand or vast or endless in its possibility. Knowing that it was there, and we were on the edge of it, and that we had found it simply by seeing it and standing at least fifty feet over it an hour before was enough. The things that you get when you ask and the things that you get when you just look blow my fucking mind.
Plus we sort of found God.
I guess it's all held in the idea that truth and belief are only what you make them. The truth is only what you can get enough people to believe, or what you can get the right people to believe. And so if you believe in God, then Zie exists for you, and that's all that matters. And if Zie does exist, then Zie has given us the greatest gift of all: for us to be able to create Hir for ourselves. God created us, and in creating us, gave us the ability to create God as whatever image we see fit, and whatever we need.
It took us an hour and a half to walk back to school. We made in at about 5:30 and smoked inside a hollow sculpture. You have not been high until you have been high inside art.
I believed in God on runways and starting lines. Zie found me again by the Potomac River.
You don't need to believe it, but I guess that's the point.
1. Start a conversation with every person I bum a cigarette off/from.
2. Make it happen. Anything, by any means necessary.
The basic outline of Friday goes like this:
Brandon and I, broke as all fuck, are standing outside CVS smoking with the homeless people (is there a politically correct term for them?) who sell Street Sense. After warning us about the fact that the Bloods have arrived in Tenleytown, he tells Brandon to show me a good time tonight (I mean, we are a radical queer couple after all), and tell us that, with no money, we've got two options: go to Hains Point and watch the planes go by, or go down to Georgetown and sit by the Potomac. It'll clear your mind, he says. It's just you and the water and God, you don't need anything else. And don't forget to thank God every day when you wake up. And if you wake up one day, and you can't see, thank God anyway, because you woke up. Ten heart attacks and fourteen strokes down, Tyrone still sees it fit to sit on the corner and preach the word.
He simplified religion in what is potentially the most effective way I've ever heard.
1. Keep holy the Ten.
2. Love and respect.
3. Preach a little word.
4. Take care of God's children.
Brandon and I head back to the dorms to polish off our five-dollar bottle of Andre, pick up various supplies, and then head to Tenleytown to pick up the G1 bus down to Georgetown.
The details aren't too important. Just know that we were broke and stoned, and we spent two and a half hours wandering through the city under bridges, through dark French-looking alleyways, across Georgetown's campus (holla at Village C), along highways, down trecherous stairways (it was like a MOUNTAIN, I swear), and across and incredbily vast bridge to Virginia and back. We also encountered a number of belligerent preppy drunks.
I can't express how far from the water we were when we first got there. But it was essentially seeing a point in the distance and making the decision to get there no matter what. It was getting what you want.
Finding the water after all that time is indescribable. The closed park we wandered into was surreal. I had never seen so much newness in one place. The stainless benches sat on the edges of patches of straw; the park was so new that grass hadn't even grown yet. Under the harsh white streetlights, the blackest asphalt I have ever seen gleamed and shone, leading us to the Potomac River.
It didn't need to look like anything when we got there. It didn't need to be grand or vast or endless in its possibility. Knowing that it was there, and we were on the edge of it, and that we had found it simply by seeing it and standing at least fifty feet over it an hour before was enough. The things that you get when you ask and the things that you get when you just look blow my fucking mind.
Plus we sort of found God.
I guess it's all held in the idea that truth and belief are only what you make them. The truth is only what you can get enough people to believe, or what you can get the right people to believe. And so if you believe in God, then Zie exists for you, and that's all that matters. And if Zie does exist, then Zie has given us the greatest gift of all: for us to be able to create Hir for ourselves. God created us, and in creating us, gave us the ability to create God as whatever image we see fit, and whatever we need.
It took us an hour and a half to walk back to school. We made in at about 5:30 and smoked inside a hollow sculpture. You have not been high until you have been high inside art.
I believed in God on runways and starting lines. Zie found me again by the Potomac River.
You don't need to believe it, but I guess that's the point.
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