is it wrong to not care about the little furore over the removal of gay posters in brisbane bus shelters? because i really couldn't give a fuck.
i guess what makes me care less (and also feel quite agitated), is that people are getting angry, emotional, and somewhat 'activist' over this. but it's a kind of activism that means you have to 'like' and 'post' rampantly on facebook. it's a sad activism. she who posts loudest is the one who feels the most, right?
and i'm annoyed that it's quite militant. and i'm (just a little bit) aware that my response might also be militant. fighting anger with anger.
like in many segments of the social world there really is no discussion here. you're either a redneck or a progressive. you have no choice not to be outraged or supportive of such devastating oppression. oh please!
as a man who fucks men i guess such ads are aimed at me. but i don't identify with these images; if anything i quite despise them. i don't need to see posters of two people in love while i'm waiting for the bus. i don't need to be reminded that 'my people' are a species that prioritises fucking. and i don't enjoy the gay poster boy aesthetics used by acon/qahc/vac. there's a certain brand of fag here, and it's not appealing to me at all. so sure, take the posters away, i don't mind. and maybe ask some questions about what's being marketed here. what does it mean to sell gay sexuality back to the gays?
what does it mean to sell (predominantly) white, clean, middleclass sexuality to the queers on the street? i'm not suggesting that i'm not these things; i am suggesting that these are not the standards that i wish to salute, protect, or even 'tolerate'. gay health advertising is not my favourite thing, so the more that posters are defaced and challenged (and rendered unsatisfactory), the better. but who has a moment to contemplate this amongst the shouts of homophobia?
an instantaneous politics of 'shut it down now' cannot have time to reflect on what's being sold by a dominant discourse of 'rights' and 'protection'. do we have the right to disagree? do i have a right not to care? must i always be a traitor? in a loud politics of victim vs. oppressor, where our sexual preferences (as in what we 'like') define our being, then maybe i can't be constructed any other way.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
notes from underground
"I stood in the falling snow, gazing into the hazy darkness, and thought about it."
once again i try to work from home but fail. i do a couple of small jobs, clear a few emails, eat a couple of breakfasts, and then i see that he's online. brazos delgados. i say hello.
more than two hours later i'm saying that i should go. i'll return to my breakfast and my feeble attempts to work. he will return to his x-box race.
for the first time we heard each others voices and we marveled at the strangeness. of course we sound different. he has a drawl, rounded vowels, and a higher pitch than i imagined. he sounds warm. at times he's sarcastic. he's still everything i want.
it rains all day, and all my plans to leave the house don't eventuate. the cat is restless and so am i.
tonight i finish dostoyevsky's notes from underground, and wedged into my thoughts is this sentence: "Without power and tyranny over somebody I can't live".
once again i try to work from home but fail. i do a couple of small jobs, clear a few emails, eat a couple of breakfasts, and then i see that he's online. brazos delgados. i say hello.
more than two hours later i'm saying that i should go. i'll return to my breakfast and my feeble attempts to work. he will return to his x-box race.
for the first time we heard each others voices and we marveled at the strangeness. of course we sound different. he has a drawl, rounded vowels, and a higher pitch than i imagined. he sounds warm. at times he's sarcastic. he's still everything i want.
it rains all day, and all my plans to leave the house don't eventuate. the cat is restless and so am i.
tonight i finish dostoyevsky's notes from underground, and wedged into my thoughts is this sentence: "Without power and tyranny over somebody I can't live".
Sunday, May 29, 2011
brazos delgados
scenes from a weekend.
friday night: i'm at a pub for D's birthday. i went alone. at one point D (somewhat drunk) says 'come and meet my sister' while attempting to take my hand. my fingers stiffen and do not accept his hand. during the evening his friends suss me out and ask me to define my relationship with D. i can't tell them that we fucked a few times and then he went cold on me, yet he sometimes flirts with me and makes me want to kiss him.
saturday morning: i'm sitting outside, amongst plants, speaking to J on the phone. the cat sits on me and i tell J that this is unusual. he says she often sat on him. i suggest that she feels his presence and is attempting to get close. i stroke her fur while we talk about ways that our paths might cross.
saturday afternoon: upstairs at the café he waves his arms around. two skinny men who speak a similar language. we talk academia, teaching, our politics and struggles. it's a nice moment in my day. we are knitting a bond with our words and gestures. we part on glebe point road, my hands in pockets.
saturday early evening: we meet at zanzibar, but i'm not sure why he suggested here. C is visiting from melbourne. i want to hug and kiss hello, but there's too many straight men watching too much football on the tv. we move to another table and here we embrace. we talk about men. in discussing my pseudo boyfriend i ask for advice.
saturday night: my pseudo bf meets us at the pub and he's awkward. we're awkward. we leave C and make our way to his friend's party. we eat pies, we buy wine in erskinville, we piss through the wire fence by the train line. the party is small and i'm surprised to know someone - a young man whom i spent most of the night with, chatting about pop music. on the way home, pseudo bf says he was a bit jealous. i'm drunk and so is he. it's cold but i don't feel it. we hold hands but i don't feel it. he says he's not sure how much i like him. i can't remember my response. perhaps i just closed my eyes and dreamed of reno, nevada.
friday night, saturday, and sunday: i chat to a young man from reno (via mexico). we talk about his skinny arms. he wants to fix them at the gym, but i like his arms. i also like his humour, which is like mine. we give ourselves to one another in written words. we pour each other into gaps that we carve into our lives. he tells me about the empty space in his bed where i'm welcome to sleep. words flow, and i want him more and more. he's too young, too far away, and too beautiful, but i can't stop wanting him.
in today's spanish lesson he teaches me 'pon tus brazos delgados alrededor de mí'.
friday night: i'm at a pub for D's birthday. i went alone. at one point D (somewhat drunk) says 'come and meet my sister' while attempting to take my hand. my fingers stiffen and do not accept his hand. during the evening his friends suss me out and ask me to define my relationship with D. i can't tell them that we fucked a few times and then he went cold on me, yet he sometimes flirts with me and makes me want to kiss him.
saturday morning: i'm sitting outside, amongst plants, speaking to J on the phone. the cat sits on me and i tell J that this is unusual. he says she often sat on him. i suggest that she feels his presence and is attempting to get close. i stroke her fur while we talk about ways that our paths might cross.
saturday afternoon: upstairs at the café he waves his arms around. two skinny men who speak a similar language. we talk academia, teaching, our politics and struggles. it's a nice moment in my day. we are knitting a bond with our words and gestures. we part on glebe point road, my hands in pockets.
saturday early evening: we meet at zanzibar, but i'm not sure why he suggested here. C is visiting from melbourne. i want to hug and kiss hello, but there's too many straight men watching too much football on the tv. we move to another table and here we embrace. we talk about men. in discussing my pseudo boyfriend i ask for advice.
saturday night: my pseudo bf meets us at the pub and he's awkward. we're awkward. we leave C and make our way to his friend's party. we eat pies, we buy wine in erskinville, we piss through the wire fence by the train line. the party is small and i'm surprised to know someone - a young man whom i spent most of the night with, chatting about pop music. on the way home, pseudo bf says he was a bit jealous. i'm drunk and so is he. it's cold but i don't feel it. we hold hands but i don't feel it. he says he's not sure how much i like him. i can't remember my response. perhaps i just closed my eyes and dreamed of reno, nevada.
friday night, saturday, and sunday: i chat to a young man from reno (via mexico). we talk about his skinny arms. he wants to fix them at the gym, but i like his arms. i also like his humour, which is like mine. we give ourselves to one another in written words. we pour each other into gaps that we carve into our lives. he tells me about the empty space in his bed where i'm welcome to sleep. words flow, and i want him more and more. he's too young, too far away, and too beautiful, but i can't stop wanting him.
in today's spanish lesson he teaches me 'pon tus brazos delgados alrededor de mí'.
Monday, May 9, 2011
lost words
i've been quiet. i'm trying to break the flow of a self-focused contemplation that is at the core of this blog. i'm seeking to move away from self. i can't divorce my self from my words, but i can try to project my contemplations further than me. solipsism is rampant. i wonder if an alternative approach is possible.
or maybe i'm just bored with my self to the point that i seek drama elsewhere.
i'm not going to write about my day, my men, or the conversations that i make, because these don't matter today.
i've developed an addiction for reading and watching news footage from the "The Arab Spring", and in particular, the conflict in Syria.
facebook is different now. Each morning I find dozens of videos taken from handheld cameras in unknown Syrian cities; of protests, or buses passing below someone's window, or close-up footage of men bleeding and dying. these videos are not yet edited or spliced into 'news footage'. they're in arabic so i can't understand the context or the voices speaking. but i can understand screams, songs, chanting. i can hear tones of anger or hope.
this morning there was a man with blood on his chest and face, and other men screaming, holding him, praying for him. another person films him, with a shaky camera hovering above, flinching and stumbling around the scene of blood and screams, inserting another body (my body) into that space. soon, the camera is spinning around the scene, capturing every direction and all shapes and colours, and i grow dizzy. i'm unable to comprehend what i see. but i hear the cries, and i sense that my incomprehension is shared among those at the scene. i don't know what's happening, and nor do they. how can this be comprehensible?
i fall into this footage and i'm dizzy from the action that whirls around me. some decades ago, i could not be part of this dazed experience of war and loss. this reminds me that yes, this is painful and immense, and yes, this is happening. and perhaps the clean edit of a news story, or a feature film depiction, is part of the problem in how we come to narrativise war and loss, because these are constructions that do not resemble the moments found here. why should we make sense of these things? why feel like we can understand what's happening? what happens if we agree that we cannot?
or maybe i'm just bored with my self to the point that i seek drama elsewhere.
i'm not going to write about my day, my men, or the conversations that i make, because these don't matter today.
i've developed an addiction for reading and watching news footage from the "The Arab Spring", and in particular, the conflict in Syria.
facebook is different now. Each morning I find dozens of videos taken from handheld cameras in unknown Syrian cities; of protests, or buses passing below someone's window, or close-up footage of men bleeding and dying. these videos are not yet edited or spliced into 'news footage'. they're in arabic so i can't understand the context or the voices speaking. but i can understand screams, songs, chanting. i can hear tones of anger or hope.
this morning there was a man with blood on his chest and face, and other men screaming, holding him, praying for him. another person films him, with a shaky camera hovering above, flinching and stumbling around the scene of blood and screams, inserting another body (my body) into that space. soon, the camera is spinning around the scene, capturing every direction and all shapes and colours, and i grow dizzy. i'm unable to comprehend what i see. but i hear the cries, and i sense that my incomprehension is shared among those at the scene. i don't know what's happening, and nor do they. how can this be comprehensible?
i fall into this footage and i'm dizzy from the action that whirls around me. some decades ago, i could not be part of this dazed experience of war and loss. this reminds me that yes, this is painful and immense, and yes, this is happening. and perhaps the clean edit of a news story, or a feature film depiction, is part of the problem in how we come to narrativise war and loss, because these are constructions that do not resemble the moments found here. why should we make sense of these things? why feel like we can understand what's happening? what happens if we agree that we cannot?
Saturday, April 30, 2011
unknown places
J came around this morning. i was in bed reading that author whose other book he borrowed from me. the one he returned all scratched up and worn. he felt bad about that but i said he shouldn't. i love that it has his fingerprints all over it.
i'm sad that he's leaving town. i should be happy and excited for him, but i can't be. so it's a slightly sombre coffee and chat today, because i can't not think that this is the last time we do this. somehow i find myself telling stories about my wild aunt. his eyes shine. perhaps he is my wild aunt: elusive, driven by unknown forces, running away to unknown places.
as a child, aunt christine was my favourite. until my parents told me she was crazy. though they probably used the word 'troubled'. in telling the story today, i realise that i want to know her once more. i feel sad for her troubles, which weren't troubles so much as differences, which her family tried to extinguish.
christine was never good with men. she often ran away with the wrong man and returned with bruises. or maybe pregnant.
i don't know J's man, and have only heard the difficult stuff that has tainted my view of him. i want his wrongness to be a reason for J not to run away with him. but maybe i'm just pretending that these 'don't go' feelings come a place (of rational judgment) other than my own emotional need. because when we talk, sitting in my lounge room (or in the park, or at that café, or standing on the street below my window), it feels really good. and really good is sometimes really hard to find.
not sure if you'll read this J, but thank you for all your lovely words and hugs. i'll see you in paris. x
i'm sad that he's leaving town. i should be happy and excited for him, but i can't be. so it's a slightly sombre coffee and chat today, because i can't not think that this is the last time we do this. somehow i find myself telling stories about my wild aunt. his eyes shine. perhaps he is my wild aunt: elusive, driven by unknown forces, running away to unknown places.
as a child, aunt christine was my favourite. until my parents told me she was crazy. though they probably used the word 'troubled'. in telling the story today, i realise that i want to know her once more. i feel sad for her troubles, which weren't troubles so much as differences, which her family tried to extinguish.
christine was never good with men. she often ran away with the wrong man and returned with bruises. or maybe pregnant.
i don't know J's man, and have only heard the difficult stuff that has tainted my view of him. i want his wrongness to be a reason for J not to run away with him. but maybe i'm just pretending that these 'don't go' feelings come a place (of rational judgment) other than my own emotional need. because when we talk, sitting in my lounge room (or in the park, or at that café, or standing on the street below my window), it feels really good. and really good is sometimes really hard to find.
not sure if you'll read this J, but thank you for all your lovely words and hugs. i'll see you in paris. x
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
thirty six
so this is thirty six. but my birthday is postponed because today (which will start after i sleep) is too full for such matters.
today is me finishing this chapter and preparing that lecture. thursday will taste sweeter.
i hope at thirty seven that i won't be writing such chapters. i hope at thirty seven that this thing will be done, made, finished, gone. i will file it away under 'over and out'.
but of course, not all of my wishes are granted. my boyfriend for a day project is not going ahead. perhaps it was built to fail. maybe i need to wish for something i really do want, because i don't want a boyfriend. all my fictional and future BFs just aren't cutting it. parisian lover hasn't replied to my email, bike boy is in the waiting bay ("let's leave it til may") and boyfriend for my birthday never bought a train ticket.
i've no time for boyfriends or boyfriend projects, but perhaps i can resume other projects on thursday. yes, on thursday i can sit with paper and scissors, and resume my cutting of naked men.
here's a preview, courtesy of mila's igadget:
i want a boyfriend about as much as i want to write another thesis. actually, no, anything would be less troublesome than thesis. thesis steals my sleep.
today is me finishing this chapter and preparing that lecture. thursday will taste sweeter.
i hope at thirty seven that i won't be writing such chapters. i hope at thirty seven that this thing will be done, made, finished, gone. i will file it away under 'over and out'.
but of course, not all of my wishes are granted. my boyfriend for a day project is not going ahead. perhaps it was built to fail. maybe i need to wish for something i really do want, because i don't want a boyfriend. all my fictional and future BFs just aren't cutting it. parisian lover hasn't replied to my email, bike boy is in the waiting bay ("let's leave it til may") and boyfriend for my birthday never bought a train ticket.
i've no time for boyfriends or boyfriend projects, but perhaps i can resume other projects on thursday. yes, on thursday i can sit with paper and scissors, and resume my cutting of naked men.
here's a preview, courtesy of mila's igadget:
i want a boyfriend about as much as i want to write another thesis. actually, no, anything would be less troublesome than thesis. thesis steals my sleep.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
happy holidays
it was difficult to wake up. and it took a few attempts to leave the house and get to the pool. but eventually i got there. and the swim was great. and the raspberry and sour cream brioche was amazing. and the coffee hit the spot. good morning? yes it was.
then back at home i realised that i've lost my glasses. the new and rather expensive ones. i spent the following hours calling and searching. they're not at that person's home; they're not in that share-car; they haven't been found on a bus... fuck knows where they are.
then my computer at uni doesn't boot. then it does but it's really slow and i make the mistake of rebooting it. the IT person doesn't show up. then the coffee shop person didn't understand my order. i repeated it, she nodded, but i'm pretty sure black coffee shouldn't be cloudy. i drank it, even though each sip felt like a punch.
my feet are dragging and my eyes are foggy. i've given up trying to improve this day. i'll just write my thesis now.
then back at home i realised that i've lost my glasses. the new and rather expensive ones. i spent the following hours calling and searching. they're not at that person's home; they're not in that share-car; they haven't been found on a bus... fuck knows where they are.
then my computer at uni doesn't boot. then it does but it's really slow and i make the mistake of rebooting it. the IT person doesn't show up. then the coffee shop person didn't understand my order. i repeated it, she nodded, but i'm pretty sure black coffee shouldn't be cloudy. i drank it, even though each sip felt like a punch.
my feet are dragging and my eyes are foggy. i've given up trying to improve this day. i'll just write my thesis now.
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