I feel fine enough, I guess (considering everything’s a mess…)

shout into the void
wish to be seen, be heard
only emptiness looks back
not even echoes
to keep me company

i looked up the song for the sake
of making a quick joke about the day
and my inadvertent lack of green
but found instead that the words
hit harder
fit better
than i had recalled
or anticipated.

try to scream, only yawn
get me out of here
tell me this is just a dream
colder than it looks
attempt to discern
any meaning
any purpose

and wish, again, still
that i had a few bare-naked ladies
to pinch me


Once he reached for something golden hanging from a tree, but his hand came down empty.

I found myself daydreaming about fruit again today. Biting into a nectarine, feeling the exact point where the skin breaks and bracing myself for the flood of juice down my chin, anticipating the pulpy flesh between my teeth. Pulling grapes off the stem, sorting through the bunch to find the particularly plump ones; the long green ones and the black ones with the same shape but a more flowery taste, the big red globes with seeds and the smaller purple spheres without. Scooping from a quarter of a watermelon with a spoon, all the way down until there’s no red left on the rind. Bananas, still slightly green and firm, plain or maybe with crushed Fritos on each bite, or sliced into a sandwich with peanut butter and honey. Prunes — I used to beg my mom to get me another package, that cardboard cylinder full of chewy, sweet delight didn’t ever last very long. Apples, cut in half, core and stem and that little bit on the bottom neatly carved out — Fuji, Red and Golden Delicious, crisp and full of flavor. Cherries bought from the nearby orchard, dark and rich and sure to stain lips and fingertips. Strawberries from the same place, delightful when eaten fresh from their green baskets, and even better after being sliced up and left to soak in a bowl with brown sugar overnight in the fridge and served with heavy cream for a breakfast treat. Pears, Bosc with their rough thick brown skin and D’anjou with theirs in thin smooth green, both with juicy, bite-right-in goodness.

It’s almost 2 in the morning on a Sunday, and the only food I’ve had in over 24 hours is a couple handfuls of trail mix. After I finish writing this, I’ll probably pour a bowl of Cinnamon Life, and hope that The Rabbit has enough milk in the refrigerator to use on it. Most of the time, when I eat a meal, it’s because I ask her to drive me down the hill to the two fast-food choices that are nearby (and don’t close completely by 8 or 9 pm) so I have a whole lot of Jack In The Box and Taco Bell. Often when I go to either of those — which would be nearly a 25-minute walk without her car — I get much more than I can eat at once, and finish off the cold stuff by my bedside in the morning. Sometimes when I’m already out of this miserable gilded cage I spend too much money on sit-down dining because getting a chance to savor a hot meal seems worth it… especially if I end up with leftovers that don’t consist of another cold burger with a stale bun or burrito with a soggy tortilla.

I don’t eat enough. I don’t get out much, because I can’t get anywhere on my own unless I’m paying $15 to $20 or more for a Lyft, one-way, in order to go… where? Mostly that ends up being coffee shops and bars, where I spend even more money that I can’t really spare to sit someplace I’m not thrilled about being, just so that I can be anywhere but here.

In less than a month, I turn 37 years old. That makes 4 years I’ve been stuck in this place; it was never meant to be more than 4 months after leaving the apartment I’d shared with MFP… but since returning from my trip to visit Lime and losing her in the process, finding housing has only gotten more difficult in the Bay Area.

It’s now been a little over 2 years that I’ve been seeing my current therapist, though I’m not sure if that will last; she’s raised some valid concerns about her own limits, and as the two of us have been working toward getting me some other kinds of support, she’s expressed that without additional help from outside, she may be putting in too much of herself, trying to give me what I need when it’s beyond her capacity to do so. I hope I don’t lose her; the fear of that actually spurred me to do some work towards seeking additional help on my own, which I’d been neglecting. It needs to be done.

There’s a chance that, in just over 6 months, I may be going to my first-ever rock concert. Not positive yet, but if everything works as I’m hoping it will, I’ll be taking Again with me to see Erasure in August. It’ll be on my half-birthday if it goes as planned, too!

But for my birthday, if you’re someone who might consider giving me a gift… feed me. And be sure to include some fruit with the meal!

What is the music of life? Silence, my brother.

My maternal grandmother was moved early this week from the “independent living” place she’d been for the last several months into an assisted care facility.

She’s old. I think she’s in her 90s. Realistically, she probably doesn’t have a lot of time left. It’s already been years and years since I last saw her… and that was a literal lifetime ago. She’s never seen me, just the boy I used to be. And that may never happen now.

I’m trying not to think about that too much, because when I do, it hurts. And it leads to thinking about all of the extended family that I’ve never seen, may never see, nieces and nephews and cousins…

I hear a lot about the value of “chosen family,” and how it’s wonderful to have the opportunity to create your own association of people that you’re incredibly close to when your “family of origin” has failed you. That whole thing has always struck me as an attempt to find a pony in a heaping pile of manure — to find some way to spin a terrible situation as actually a really good thing to be grateful for. Maybe it’s just because I’ve never had much in the way of positive, close relationships, or because so-called “community” has frequently felt hostile and unwelcoming, but “chosen family” has never felt like a real thing, like a real possibility.

Growing up raised by Mormons, we called every other church member “brother” or “sister.” It was a title, a form of address, but I think it was supposed to evoke — and invoke — the same sense of “chosen family” that I’ve heard spoken of by so many queer people in the Bay Area. It never rang true, until…

Skyrim. It’s a testament to the quality writing and voice acting, I suppose, but honestly? Babette, Astrid, Festus, Arnbjorn, Nazir, Gabrielle, and Veezara… they all felt more like family as fictional characters than any real people I’ve dealt with. I think I could’ve been happy living with any or all of them.  It felt right, so perfectly right when they called me their Sister, and I cared for them as sisters and brothers. That’s the first — and only — time I’ve had a glimpse of what family might feel like. Of what home could feel like. And it’s just a fantasy.

Home and family are just fantasies.



Untitled poem of grief

The scent of silver solder
Mingles with the incense that I burned earlier
And the hint of rum I’m still considering drinking
Just a little more of.
Small comforts amid great loss;
The second time in less than a month that my
Attempts at solving some long-standing issues with my cellphone
Have resulted in large amounts of
Irreplaceable, valuable data disappearing.
I had planned to get myself out of the house
Rabbit out of town and a moment
(Not nearly enough) to breathe
But I hadn’t eaten anything all day and half of the previous.
Instead of escape I found myself
Trapped by technology
Malfunctioning, unable to hail a ride
Unable to summon food delivery
Unable to get out of this miserable little hell.
It’s been nearly 6 hours now
Of trying to get anything resembling functionalaity
From this damned device
And just now I find that the partial backup I tried to make
Seems to have vanished as well.
So much for “hey, at least I haven’t completely lost everything!”
So now begins
The long, laborious process
Of reinstalling and reconfiguring
Setting up and starting over
At least I have, for now
A modicum of solitude
Plenty of liquor,
And the scent of silver solder
Mingling with incense.


We have found a witch! May we burn her?

Edit: I’ve added a link to this post that was supposed to here, but was inadvertently omitted when I posted it.

I find it so completely mind-boggling that the simple private possession of words or images within an individual’s home is frequently enough justification to lock someone in a prison until they rot, to forcibly physically violate and permanently alter a person’s body, to severely restrict any and all forms of speech, and to subject them to a lifetime of constant, close surveillance — or even to kill them outright.

That’s to say nothing of the glee with which all and sundry gather to shame and mock and hurl every manner of bile and hatred when it is made known that so-and-so stands accused of having words or images deemed heretical and vile and of no possible value to any sane, rational, “normal” person. The near-immediate blow with which one such accused is left without employment, community, shelter, dignity. The cries for blood, the warnings to avoid evil ones like them, the insistence in scrutinizing an entire lifetime of complex, nuanced acts in order to find the malice and cunning and evil in every single thing a person has ever done.

I marvel at the apparent inability of so many people to reconcile “this person is claimed to be a word-and/or-image possessor!” with “I believed they had made positive contributions to society!” and to be unable to allow both facts to coexist — and to fall, nearly without fail, on the side of invalidating the latter because of the former.

I watch with wonder at the apparently intentional conflation of “having in one’s possession one or more words or images” with “has actively brought harm on one or more other individuals,” and the assumed implication that even if there is no evidence of harm, that a word-or-image-possessor is always so imminently poised to cause harm that they must unequivocally be prevented from carrying out this imagined harm for which there is no evidence beyond the accuser’s own projected discomfort with some particular words or other particular images.

Even where there is clear evidence that there has been measurable positive effect, that is inevitably spun into some form of harm; if a person possessing images or written words deemed by an arbitrary third party as indicative of witchcraft, or communism, or homosexuality, or belief in Islam, or dissatisfaction with a tyrant ruler, or of being a heretic — anything which is not the dominant narrative — makes the claim that there has been no wrongdoing, maintains that no harm has occurred, this is held up as an indication that they are damaged, broken, incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong, and they therefore deserve any punishment deemed fitting by those in power.

I’m reminded over the last few days that I have… I had… friends and loved ones who have, for any practical purpose, ceased to exist. There are some who were in my life and no longer are, because they were accused of privately looking at images or reading words, or perhaps had discreetly shared these alleged words or images with others who wished to see. I’m reminded that even those who are known and lauded for their positive contributions to any given community will be vilified, shamed, and cast out; they will have every possible aspect of their lives — no matter how personal or private — shouted from the hills so that it can be picked apart and weaponized with the aim of helping to further destroy their lives.

And I’m reminded again (though the thought is never far from my mind, believe me!) that there are many who know me who regularly call for me to suffer this same fate. Oh, mind you, they don’t know they’re talking about me; they’re simply joining in the spectacle of cheering with popcorn in their hands as other heretics are burned. If they knew the kind, caring person I am, I have no doubt that they would eagerly do the same to me. I have often said that there are many so-called friends who would love nothing more than to murder me for my thoughts if they knew them, and I think that most of these people have no idea how much they hate me.

I’ve been saying this for a very long time, in various ways, or at least dropping hints and leaving clues when- and wherever I’m able to do so. And fuck, it’s difficult to know that speaking loudly and directly is not a safe option. Here’s me doing what I can, again.

Posted in General. 1 Comment »
%d bloggers like this: