Tuesday, November 30

seeing the circumcised in a whole new light...

Monday, November 29

dear ____,

Eat shit and die.

mr. dean

Thursday, November 25

inspiration during a snowstorm

Avi was an avid church goer, not because he believed but because he was seeking passion. Some churches didn’t have it, but the small southern Baptist church on the outskirts of Kansas City did. What it lacked for in size it made up for in devotion. The parishioners of this church were the kinds of people who attended at least three times a week, volunteered with a mission group, and watched evangelical tv while eating dinner. Their answering machines said “Don’t forget that Jesus loves you!” and they told everyone they met that they were Christian. They were truly and fervantly passionate about their beliefs.
Every Sunday Avi would sneak in, take a seat in the back, and watch as a hundred people praised, sang, worshipped, and prayed. It was amazing to him to know how strong the connection between all these people were, to see their threads of life stretch upwards and meet together, all loving God. It was the ultimate groupthink.
Usually, his timing was perfect: step in right as the service was starting, leave as soon as it was finished; no one had a chance to notice he was there and speak to him. He preferred it that way in most situations. When people spoke, they asked questions. When people asked questions, he had to answer them—and it wasn’t always pleasant.
It was late November and someone new was at the service. Avi noticed the moment he walked in the building; the dynamics were different. There was a boy, front row, 18 years old, senior in high school, birthday was yesterday, son of Mary—probably the most passionate and involved member of the church—his favorite color is orange and his cat’s name is— Nice kid. Not religious. Avi sifted back through the information to find his name. Daniel.
The reverend talked scripture and morals for a good two hours like normal. When the final prayer had ended, Mary stood. “I’d just like to remind everyone,” she said, “that our Thanksgiving potluck will be tomorrow. Please bring a side dish or desert, and of course your love of Jesus. God bless.”
Her eyes caught on Avi and she immediately hurried over to him, her son in tow. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” she said. “I’m so happy that God has brought us a new brother in worship. Aren’t you, Dan?”
Daniel mumbled an agreement as Avi offered his hand to Mary. Instead of shaking, she wrapped him up in a hug. “Jesus was a hugger,” she said, smiling. “Nothing so impersonal as a handshake for a brother.”
“I’m Avi,” he said. “I’ve been coming to services for awhile, but never really met anyone. I’ll be coming to the dinner tomorrow, though. There’ll be plenty of time to get to know everyone.”
Mary’s grin grew even bigger. “Do you hear that, Dan?” She elbowed her son out of his stupor. “Someone your age will be there!”
The reverend approached at Mary’s side, and she excused herself to talk to him. Daniel and Avi were left on their own, to Daniel’s obvious discomfort. “Well,” he said after a few seconds of silence, “I better get going.”
Avi looked at him pointedly. “You have plans after the dinner.” He tried to say it like a question.
“You probably shouldn’t come. It’s supposed to snow. Could get snowed in.”
“It won’t snow.”
A smile touched the corner of Avi’s lips. “It will. See you.”

Monday, November 22

christmas list

I'm browsing State Line Tack and have an ever-growing list of things I absolutely need. For example:

The Blok Training System

A new saddle pad (orange, of course)

An English bridle for Aster (horse size, though it may be a little too big)

A new crop since mine met an unfortunate end (green)

This thing because my spot in the tack room is way out of control

Not to mention a couple rubber buckets, bucket hooks, stall signs, bridle holders, maybe a couple of these, and don't forget a trunk for everything else I have.

And people think horse ownership is expensive!

Sunday, November 21

i need a new project. must start writing again.

I've spent a couple hours reading through pretty much all the documents on my computer, all the stories I started and bad poetry from 2002 and shit I thought was important enough to save. I find a document called "lanie" and wonder what the hell that is, I've never had a character named Lanie and--

Lightbulb. I once had a reader named Lanie.

The document is password protected (once upon a time I was hiding everything from people, what was up with that? I'm such a paranoid depressive) so it takes a few tries to remember what my password was back then, but after all I've used the same two passwords since I owned a computer so it's not that hard to guess.

It's an instant messanger conversation from August 7, 2002. With Lanie. Discussing something that I had recently finished writing, this 30-page monster that was True Sins of Everyday Men (the title started out as a joke and never got changed, though it has little to do with the story). It took me a year of unbelievable sacrifice. Yes, writing is hard! I don't care what you believe. That was back when I thought eventually I'd write something to be published, eventually I'd write something novel-length and it'd actually make sense. It's not that I've given up on that, I just suddenly attained other ambitions and Zoloft so I don't write as much anymore.

Anyway, here's the line from Lanie that made me want to start writing again: "you come for the porn, you stay for the story." She also says (yes, I'm just repeating this for an ego boost), "I read your stuff and I'm sitting there in awe" and "Do you know you're just wonderful? I want you to know that."

I miss people who cared about my writing. I miss caring about my writing.

I'll think of a new project soon enough. Maybe something more real or gritty or something. Maybe that musical about the hack group. It'll be good and worth it, I hope.

Friday, November 19

jane's rough touch might break them

Those of you who know me know that I hate apathy more than anything. Apathy in regards to me most of all: loathe me, love me, be disgusted by me, worship me; I don't care, just respond in some way. Show that I have touched deep enough for you to react, I have hit a nerve and parts of you are numb with the intensity of it.

Nothing is real to me and so I feel free to push your buttons, challenge your views, turn your life upside down as long as you return the favor. But most are too focused on the silliness in their own lives, the irrelevancies, that they can't even consider that none of it matters--at least not in the way they think it does. It doesn't matter that your girlfriend has dumped you, really, it doesn't. In the scheme of things it's just another choice someone made, just another variable in life for you to solve. Life is a learning experience. All of life is creating yourself, learning who that person is, and it'll never happen when you are concentrating on sex and drugs.

Yes, I'm bitter that people don't meet my expectations.

Once upon a time I knew better, because I didn't believe a challenger existed. But now I know he does, how perfect we are for each other and how perfect it is to resist, argue, debate, make 180 degree turns, change our views, laugh at philosophy, create our own and then disagree, affect the lives of people around us with our hands and our minds and our hearts. And so I yearn for every interaction to feel as good as this one, for me to be a changed man with each person I run into, but everyone is cloaked in a thought barrier I can't seem to pass.

And to try to explain would be like the Hive Queen putting things in human terms; it is too difficult and my attention is busy on other worlds. My conversations don't come in English anymore, can barely be translated, because I have moved on and found my home. I am touching the gossamer web, have been for so long that I can't imagine anything else, and it isn't breaking. I have found my will and my heart and--I've found my body. On the outside I am cold but on the inside I'm warm with my found adulthood, my Third Life. Welcome to it.

Thursday, November 18

peter wiggin is hot

You know how writers are. They create themselves as they create their work. Or perhaps they create their work in order to create themselves.

Wednesday, November 17


I watch only for Olivia. If I weren't gay, I swear I would stalk her and marry her eventually. She might be too old for me but our children would be beautiful. Thank God for women with guns.

(I also like the red-headed lawyer, though I don't remember her name.)

Sunday, November 14

I was thinking about something important a moment ago, and then I forgot what it was. While I stared at a cardboard Red Lobster coaster (I stole it), I remembered that that something was sex. Sex isn't important but my thoughts about it certainly were. Unfortunately, they were in another language and my hands are too cold to translate right now.

You have permission to think about sex and say something really profound about it to me. I want to know. I want to hear your deepest secrets.

(He smoked some pot today and told me that I am the most beautiful person he's ever met. Then we went to bed to thaw. It got really cold really fast in Nowhere.)

a well-bred woman

by Mervyn Taylor

She leaps to her feet
condemning the cops
who shot her son.

She turns into something
primitive screaming
the American word for

a man who sleeps with
his mother, whose mother
is a female dog.

She puts her hand over
her mouth as she hears
the keys rattle and they

are let out to walk free
on the green grass outside
the courthouse where

no lion is waiting
to eat them though she
prayed for one, no owl

hooting at the noonday
sun, no calamity like a
building waiting to fall

on the black sedan
that drives away
down the highway.

The reporters ask and
she tells them Amadou
is a common name

in her country, it is
like stones on the road
and there are many

fathers named Diallo.
They all rush out when
they hear the drums

saying your son
your son your son

Amadou they look

everywhere in the home
in the compound
in the cassava fields

down by the riverbanks
where the crocodiles
steal the goats

They search until
they remember the one
who went to America

Then they hug
the remaining Amadous
and weep

Thursday, November 11

why am i doing this to myself?

I don't have an answer, but I'm about ready to give up.

This is not getting me anywhere. I can't pretend that I am achieving anything.

I want some fucking pizza and I would seriously kill someone if I could get some and not gain weight.

I haven't left the house in days and it's killing me just to be awake, just to be sitting here with a tiny bit of soup in my stomach and twenty empty diet cherry coke cans in front of me. My heart hurts and my arm is numb. I might've had another heart attack, but if I did I don't even want to know. If I go back to the hospital they'll give me IVs and a stomach tube and Ensures and 400 calorie cookies.

I can't do it anymore but I can't get away from it either. Stuck. Weighed 81 this morning. I promised myself I wouldn't go below 83. Oops.

Today I thought of taking a bottle full of Stackers. I don't want to kill myself, I don't really want to die all that badly, but maybe an accidental death would be ok. Maybe it would be ok to get swept up in a tornado or run over by a car or get confused about how many pills packed full of stimulants you're supposed to take, yeah, it would be real nice to swallow 23 of them and go to sleep in a twitching stupor and wake up in the light.

Ok. That was pathetic and I'm done.

why i don't eat

Just kidding. People like this are more likely why I hate everyone and would've made a great MSNBC special about people who shoot up schools. Ok, that was supposed to be flippant but I don't think it turned out that way. Sorry.

StatueInAnHour: I am easily annoyed by gay men who seem to think they are more intelligent, intersting, deep, and important than the general population...
StatueInAnHour: Especially when they dont have the looks to back it up.
StatueInAnHour: Later kid.

And to think he quoted Wicked in his profile like he was good enough for it.

Wednesday, November 10

in my head today

"13" by jennifer murphy

you cannot fall
in love with a man
who has HIV
she said
you cannot fall
you cannot fall
you cannot fall
in love
and statistics
and statistics say
he is doomed
he has been positive
13 years
he is 32
he is covered in tattoos
and when he moves
he looks
like a living painting
he looks
like a chunk of the Sistine Chapel
he burns like shrapnel
through threads of my skin
and HIV and HIV is
and so is cancer and I
am in remission and it
could come back
and kill me
and life
is also fatal and you
could be hit by a taxi
or my fist
flying across this
heap of vegetables
and he could be alive
for another

Thursday, November 4

thy kingdom come

All night I am plagued with dreams of death and dying, and he wakes me up several times to hold me close and kiss me. He thinks the dreams are about my death, which isn't that unlikely, but when the phone rings we know better.

He says nothing but "yeah" and "ok" until he hangs up the phone. He switches to talking with his hands. "Grandma died," he says. He isn't crying yet but just wait.

Grandma, the beautiful, strong woman who first got past all the bullshit and politics to welcome me to the family. The woman who fought cancer for thirteen months when she was told she only had six, only because she knew we weren't ready to let go. The woman who taught me to play "chopsticks" on the piano despite knowing I was deaf; she loved music so much she wouldn't cut anyone out. The woman who took us to church services and then told us to ignore them, our love was the real thing. She is the woman who gave me something to go home to--a home at all.

He didn't ever cry. We both know that she's not really gone. Because of all the methadone and the million other drugs she was on to control the pain, her mind was already not with us.

Those of you who pray, please keep her and our family in those prayers tonight. For those of you who don't, mention the passing of a great woman to someone you care about. And, of course, don't forget to say that you love them immensely. She deserves that much.

Wednesday, November 3

what this election means

Said eloquently and beautifully (as always) by Trey.

I stayed up late last night chain-smoking on the porch with my boyfriend and a radio. We talked a lot and were quiet a lot, him interrupting with updates on "decision 2004."

We were chain-smoking because we agreed to quit smoking all together if Bush won. I don't know why we agreed this, but we did, and while we both wanted very badly for re-election to not happen, we were rightly afraid it would. And what the hell would we do with a carton of cowboy killers then?

I woke up at 9 o' clock this morning with no decision yet; Bush still 20 votes away, Kerry right at his tail. By the time I got out of my first class it was over.

The hack group had a couple heated arguments, but mostly they were ambivalent arguments because a bunch of stoners have a hard time being heated about anything. Toby and I and Johnny Depp sat in the corner in the cold, holding hands and watching our breath. This day felt momentous, yet at the same time it felt like nothing. Every other day, except better because I'm back on my medication.

Toby says something with the quiet of his hands that hits hard and where it hurts: "I may never be able to marry you."

Thank you to the 51% of Americans who thought with their Bible instead of their humanity. That is what this country was founded on, after all.