I was in a post-Funk downspiral, my blues overshadowing the colorful existence I've created for myself in DC. Sometimes it's far to easy to lose sight of your blessings. a health scare or lonely night can make one overlook how much life has to offer those willing to let the lessons show up through the pain. so I reached out. it was some aol ramble to a friend about needing more substantive connection with brothas who were willing to dig deeper than usual chat about the state of the "scene" or struggles of securing someone as warm and lasting as fantasies about the knight. i knew that time in West Virginia would be great, if only just to get away from the city and be amidst nature-- something I sorely miss, being an arkansas, country-boy. but i ran into some people there; familiar faces I'd seen at the club or on personals pages that reduced our essence to a headline like "down to earth brotha... seeks blah thug blah". and we went so much further to discern what lies beneath or titles, our jobs, our struggles, our educations, our anxieties about loving and longings for it... and I left with some 15 new friends, all unexpected gifts for having held on long enough to have them show up. Noir Reflections-- a retreat for black men sponsored by Us Helping Us-- was about finding pieces of myself in brothas who each shared something similar and yet, were a whole lot different: a drummer, the blunt devil's advocate with multiple personalities, a courageous quiet spirit who "opened up", and in doing so, gave us permission to do so, a brilliant, strong, and wordly long-term dis/ease survivor, a wrist reader, an closet actor and poet, a pharmacist, a "don't ask, don't tell" active duty military officer, and three wise men to guide our journey. I seldom am at a loss of words for experiences, but one of the brothas who attended the retreat felt inspired.... and shared.... and took words out of my head and heart and let them guide his fingers. i honor bruh lawrence in sharing his poetic articulation of our collective blessing with you:
Just Bruhs
loving, holding, knowing my thoughts
owning our bond like a hot wheel car from childhood
old and weathered with many play miles
it sits on my shelf as manifested memories
no one else knows its worth
but i do
i re-collect the moment of first encounters
i smile
warmth engulfs me knowing that first encounters were judged correctly
cool immediately overtakes me
i am reminded of a break
i choose the warmth...it brings me back to who you are
who i am learning you to be
right now i see a depth i could drown in
is it love, lust, friendship...?
Definitions R constricting
suffocating terms that run away a moment in time
turns fleeting possibilities into something crushed
i acknowledge this
I am allowed to title it for now
as
Just Bruhs
Monday, February 28, 2005
Heteros Though, Can't Tell from Our Clothes/Scaring Girls in Sacramento!"
So they pick me up from the airport in Sac and we head to downtown for Food and "Faces"; and this str8 (white) girl, when we inquired about places to eat, told us: "it's kind of a gay over there, but the food is good". And we, much to her surprise, replied "Perfect!, We're Gay!" And she gaggath, and Butta said (under his breath): "Burst, Bietych!"
4 reasons why I miss Oakland, California
...and yeah, i know,.... one of them is why I miss NYC: l-r: ButtaFlySoul (NYC), SoulNubian (Oakland), Solis (Oakland), PointfiveFag (Oakland) of Deep Dickollective.
"People All Over the World"......RECOGNIZE!
Deep Dickollective in action at UC Davis (Feb 19, 2005).
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
DC Dis/ease
tossing and turning
like my stomach
that won't keep food down
(3 days straight)
I remember everything
except to take meds
that may be doing
more harm than good
tired of this dis/ease
stats going in the wrong direction
first-time high blood pressure
and I have not been
this afraid in a while
that my body
like mother earth
may be too exhausted
might be crashing on itself
body
has forgotten how to feed itself
broccoli
arkansas well-water
mother's cheerful dialect
somebody from Oakland missing me
like I miss Lake Merritt
or good sex
body
has forgotten how to hold itself
well enough
to push its recovery
ahead of any thoughts
that I am down-spiraling
running from something
faster than my feet
and lost
not knowing what I need today
beyond peace.
like my stomach
that won't keep food down
(3 days straight)
I remember everything
except to take meds
that may be doing
more harm than good
tired of this dis/ease
stats going in the wrong direction
first-time high blood pressure
and I have not been
this afraid in a while
that my body
like mother earth
may be too exhausted
might be crashing on itself
body
has forgotten how to feed itself
broccoli
arkansas well-water
mother's cheerful dialect
somebody from Oakland missing me
like I miss Lake Merritt
or good sex
body
has forgotten how to hold itself
well enough
to push its recovery
ahead of any thoughts
that I am down-spiraling
running from something
faster than my feet
and lost
not knowing what I need today
beyond peace.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Insomnia
eyelids almost
but not quite
heavy enough
to take me
from the dream i live to dream
into the dream itself
i long
to smile
with such happiness
i drool
and am proud
of the traces
on my pillow.
my mouth
craving
somethin' sweeter
than honeycomb,
or butter pecan
somethin' sweeter
than memory of a lover's insistence
or his seduction
to come
be
remembered
in this here present
my touch
wanting to feel
something softer
than keyboard clicking
something
pre-linguistic
something simply
less calculated
than the calculus of poetry
or its failure
to hold my hand
write me the poem
no one has written
me
thoughts of this thinking
fumble
like some deferred cuddle call
some awe-inspired calling
a third chapter or 7th breath
waiting to ex hell
at 2:00 a.m.
and counting...
my body
caresses itself against the mattress
arms fold under arms
that have promised to hold me
better than others have
let me slip away
tonight
I am feeling
not so strong
un-sexy
like tomorrow is taking too long
to give birth to my next smile
(what I would give to smile
as effortlessly as I spell it)
my insomnia
is the body's insistence
that these arms will not trick,
tease, sex
this body
into thinking I am enough
tonight
I cannot save myself
hold myself up
measure the distance
between the drum beats of my
he-art
tonight
i reject others
who would love
to try
to love
tonight
i want to be
enough for me
tonight
but i am not...
don't
feel safe enough to cry
stong enough wait for night
to come
as surely as it passes
so eye stay up
like the yawn waiting to come
with mourning...
when eye done grown
so tired
of being open
that eye curl back
into the promise...
of a new salvation
and the darkness morphs
into a chance
to maybe
do it better
next night
but not quite
heavy enough
to take me
from the dream i live to dream
into the dream itself
i long
to smile
with such happiness
i drool
and am proud
of the traces
on my pillow.
my mouth
craving
somethin' sweeter
than honeycomb,
or butter pecan
somethin' sweeter
than memory of a lover's insistence
or his seduction
to come
be
remembered
in this here present
my touch
wanting to feel
something softer
than keyboard clicking
something
pre-linguistic
something simply
less calculated
than the calculus of poetry
or its failure
to hold my hand
write me the poem
no one has written
me
thoughts of this thinking
fumble
like some deferred cuddle call
some awe-inspired calling
a third chapter or 7th breath
waiting to ex hell
at 2:00 a.m.
and counting...
my body
caresses itself against the mattress
arms fold under arms
that have promised to hold me
better than others have
let me slip away
tonight
I am feeling
not so strong
un-sexy
like tomorrow is taking too long
to give birth to my next smile
(what I would give to smile
as effortlessly as I spell it)
my insomnia
is the body's insistence
that these arms will not trick,
tease, sex
this body
into thinking I am enough
tonight
I cannot save myself
hold myself up
measure the distance
between the drum beats of my
he-art
tonight
i reject others
who would love
to try
to love
tonight
i want to be
enough for me
tonight
but i am not...
don't
feel safe enough to cry
stong enough wait for night
to come
as surely as it passes
so eye stay up
like the yawn waiting to come
with mourning...
when eye done grown
so tired
of being open
that eye curl back
into the promise...
of a new salvation
and the darkness morphs
into a chance
to maybe
do it better
next night
Monday, February 14, 2005
Where Love Is?
i'm still looking... but I think I might be on to something in my search. the following was written almost two years ago. Interestingly, I was very much in love with someone and we were really struggling to come to some resolve about how we imagined love... our similarities and differences and our challenges in spite of and because of those things. It's been two years and who woulda thunk I'd still be single (mr. serial monogamy?)
anyhow... this poem makes me a little sad today. i've really loved anyone I've ever loved... and sometimes i remember what that felt like... even when things weren't at best, but you wanted to try and try again to make things work.
maybe next time, huh? maybe there'll be a next time... and if not... i still got lots of love in my life
__________________
Where Love Is…
Tim’m
02/02/03
Where is love?
if not between the falling in and out
nestled there firmly affixed to the heart
like a first joyous gaze upon a first love
or patience for a favorite meal...
if not somewhere
between the first and last line
of a cherished poem.
Where is love?
if not underneath a memory
of a first night hug or kiss or last glance back
before the eye met you
and merely anticipated
a gracious givingness of the heart
to even a perfect stranger
willing to surrender a smile...
Where love is...
is straddling the space
between be mine and be you
pulling you close and letting you go
me being happy and we being happy.
Love often chooses not to choose...
once released it can never be returned
Unconditional
love gets burdened by
expectation, anticipation, selfish longings
delusions of fairness, reciprocity,
or possession.
Love just wants to love
have it be accepted without explanation.
It is not so very different
than other loves.
Humble
it demands no speciality...
for it accepts
that it is no less special
than what it is:
the shine glistening rhythmically
with the water's shimmy on a lake
the pitch of a laugh
that rises and falls
with the release of a breath.
Love is there.
anyhow... this poem makes me a little sad today. i've really loved anyone I've ever loved... and sometimes i remember what that felt like... even when things weren't at best, but you wanted to try and try again to make things work.
maybe next time, huh? maybe there'll be a next time... and if not... i still got lots of love in my life
__________________
Where Love Is…
Tim’m
02/02/03
Where is love?
if not between the falling in and out
nestled there firmly affixed to the heart
like a first joyous gaze upon a first love
or patience for a favorite meal...
if not somewhere
between the first and last line
of a cherished poem.
Where is love?
if not underneath a memory
of a first night hug or kiss or last glance back
before the eye met you
and merely anticipated
a gracious givingness of the heart
to even a perfect stranger
willing to surrender a smile...
Where love is...
is straddling the space
between be mine and be you
pulling you close and letting you go
me being happy and we being happy.
Love often chooses not to choose...
once released it can never be returned
Unconditional
love gets burdened by
expectation, anticipation, selfish longings
delusions of fairness, reciprocity,
or possession.
Love just wants to love
have it be accepted without explanation.
It is not so very different
than other loves.
Humble
it demands no speciality...
for it accepts
that it is no less special
than what it is:
the shine glistening rhythmically
with the water's shimmy on a lake
the pitch of a laugh
that rises and falls
with the release of a breath.
Love is there.
Friday, February 11, 2005
PlayBoys.... PlayGirls... In the Night!!!!
tim'm with michael christopher, damien, and chad at February "Front Porch"
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Loving A Blakkboy, Learning Me
so I spent a few days in NYCity as a panelist for an NYU/NAACP Black Solidarity Conference, conjoined with a benefit performance for J-FLAG sponsored by NYU and Amnesty International. Much of my time in NY was spent in Jersey; exploring the beauties of being platonic with a blakkboy I have found it extremely difficult not to love as deeply as I know how to love. make sense? So this weekend was our breakthrough... an opportunity to see one another differently, and still recognize and relish all that the years between he and me has taught we about how to be.... in love... and not... and friends.
We're both single now... but I had shared this letter some time ago with a friend or two and was reminded about it today... just after my return from NYC.... allowing the joy of friendship and the courage to get beyond my own passion guide my next steps... to more clarity about myself.... or those I may choose to try loving. I realize, more than a year after this initial letter was written, that it says a great deal more about me than it does about him... So I'll protect him, in this case. I'll call him "blakkboy", cuz that's what he (still) represents to me: a reflection of the gift of love that I long to give especially to myself.... black boy or not.
11.02.03
Blakkboy,
This is the letter I have not been brave enough to write. Yet nothing here should surprise you if you know anything about my eyes and how they look at you. Especially when you are there and me, here, I remember you best: brown and luscious and ebony and oil scented like the king I peeped on Christopher back in ’97. I have been in love since. And I am well aware that these feelings don’t make much sense. If I didn’t believe in spells before, I do now. For I have not been able to shake your touch… the rare and erratic moments when you indulged the possibility of filling the void that has been here since I first saw you. You are magic, and it troubles me that other men who’ve hurt you do not see this. It sometimes hurts me to know that I do and cannot be with you.
There is this immense capacity within me to be greater than I know is even imaginable. And when I’m with you I’m closest to this—as radiant as the sun. I glow in the potentiality of a life with you and in the resolve that I have not settled. I’m reminded most of this absence when I’ve tried to fill it with others who can not love me conscientiously as well as you do without even trying.
I need someone in my life who can dance with me and explore strange soul sensibilities in record shops. I need someone in my life who will inspire me to save for trips to the Dominican Republic, Brazil, London, or Capetown. You inspire something in me that believes love can be borne out of, especially, the empty spaces. I close my eyes and remember our dance and it is a shelter for every pain I’ve endured. I close my eyes and think of you and give myself permission to cry while driving. I wipe the tears into a grin. How silly I must be to think you’d ever be with me?
I have wondered if prayers or fasts can really make things happen. I suppose I have tried them all. And I sometimes think that someone like you will appear; and I’ll call you up, and you’ll know, unlike the times before when I’ve claimed finding love, that I truly have found another spirit in the universe with eyes, spirit, rhythm, and softness like yourn. I’ll be ecstatic to tell you that such a person exists; for no creator in my imagination would create just one of you. I’m not suggesting that there’s another you in the universe. I am perhaps suggesting that my heart will not know the difference, should I find the right person. I’ll be able to feel that same glow and happiness. And indeed, if only for moments, I have experienced this potentiality in others; albeit fleeting.
I know that my poetic superlatives have often made you uncomfortable. You somehow feel that you don’t deserve them. That I tell you of your perfection does not mean that I don’t see imperfections. It’s just that the imperfections are necessary to your evolution into yourself, as whole and perfect as you were born. You are Cassandra Wilson’s lazy run down the Mississippi, Omar’s perfect stretch for a note out of his range, Nina Simone’s unintended wail cracking into a melodious run, Ron Trent’s unintended, extended remix of Oya’, Rux, or Primitive rhythms. You are Kahlo’s imperfect eyebrow connection that Diego’s finger traced to discover something greater about the thickness and texture of black. You are Basquiat’s patient indifference to post-modern praise of his “Famous Negro” masterpieces. You are the only man I have longed to love in spite of his imperfections; and this is painfully perfect. Almost as sweetly imperfect as it would be if you someday accepted an invitation to be, and stay, and grow alongside me: one who has always been willing to be your friend, even as my heart longed for more; one who monitors your night-breathing or gives you space when you so infrequently desire it.
Blakkboy, you are a song I danced to and cried with and never heard again. You are a second wind. And however you should respond to this plea written bravery (e.g., “Tim’m, you off the hook”)…I will never forget that whoever is trying to love you….or me, that there is something special and enduring between us. I know you love me, and I don’t take for granted opportunities to tell you that you’re loved. I won’t forget you, in spite of my imperfect desire to express longings for things I dare to dream-- things I want but may never have. You remain: mine, friend, lover, blakkboy. You are a reminder of the beauty life holds for dreamers who remember that life, despite the madness, offers many beautiful possibilities.
Your boy,
Tim’m
We're both single now... but I had shared this letter some time ago with a friend or two and was reminded about it today... just after my return from NYC.... allowing the joy of friendship and the courage to get beyond my own passion guide my next steps... to more clarity about myself.... or those I may choose to try loving. I realize, more than a year after this initial letter was written, that it says a great deal more about me than it does about him... So I'll protect him, in this case. I'll call him "blakkboy", cuz that's what he (still) represents to me: a reflection of the gift of love that I long to give especially to myself.... black boy or not.
11.02.03
Blakkboy,
This is the letter I have not been brave enough to write. Yet nothing here should surprise you if you know anything about my eyes and how they look at you. Especially when you are there and me, here, I remember you best: brown and luscious and ebony and oil scented like the king I peeped on Christopher back in ’97. I have been in love since. And I am well aware that these feelings don’t make much sense. If I didn’t believe in spells before, I do now. For I have not been able to shake your touch… the rare and erratic moments when you indulged the possibility of filling the void that has been here since I first saw you. You are magic, and it troubles me that other men who’ve hurt you do not see this. It sometimes hurts me to know that I do and cannot be with you.
There is this immense capacity within me to be greater than I know is even imaginable. And when I’m with you I’m closest to this—as radiant as the sun. I glow in the potentiality of a life with you and in the resolve that I have not settled. I’m reminded most of this absence when I’ve tried to fill it with others who can not love me conscientiously as well as you do without even trying.
I need someone in my life who can dance with me and explore strange soul sensibilities in record shops. I need someone in my life who will inspire me to save for trips to the Dominican Republic, Brazil, London, or Capetown. You inspire something in me that believes love can be borne out of, especially, the empty spaces. I close my eyes and remember our dance and it is a shelter for every pain I’ve endured. I close my eyes and think of you and give myself permission to cry while driving. I wipe the tears into a grin. How silly I must be to think you’d ever be with me?
I have wondered if prayers or fasts can really make things happen. I suppose I have tried them all. And I sometimes think that someone like you will appear; and I’ll call you up, and you’ll know, unlike the times before when I’ve claimed finding love, that I truly have found another spirit in the universe with eyes, spirit, rhythm, and softness like yourn. I’ll be ecstatic to tell you that such a person exists; for no creator in my imagination would create just one of you. I’m not suggesting that there’s another you in the universe. I am perhaps suggesting that my heart will not know the difference, should I find the right person. I’ll be able to feel that same glow and happiness. And indeed, if only for moments, I have experienced this potentiality in others; albeit fleeting.
I know that my poetic superlatives have often made you uncomfortable. You somehow feel that you don’t deserve them. That I tell you of your perfection does not mean that I don’t see imperfections. It’s just that the imperfections are necessary to your evolution into yourself, as whole and perfect as you were born. You are Cassandra Wilson’s lazy run down the Mississippi, Omar’s perfect stretch for a note out of his range, Nina Simone’s unintended wail cracking into a melodious run, Ron Trent’s unintended, extended remix of Oya’, Rux, or Primitive rhythms. You are Kahlo’s imperfect eyebrow connection that Diego’s finger traced to discover something greater about the thickness and texture of black. You are Basquiat’s patient indifference to post-modern praise of his “Famous Negro” masterpieces. You are the only man I have longed to love in spite of his imperfections; and this is painfully perfect. Almost as sweetly imperfect as it would be if you someday accepted an invitation to be, and stay, and grow alongside me: one who has always been willing to be your friend, even as my heart longed for more; one who monitors your night-breathing or gives you space when you so infrequently desire it.
Blakkboy, you are a song I danced to and cried with and never heard again. You are a second wind. And however you should respond to this plea written bravery (e.g., “Tim’m, you off the hook”)…I will never forget that whoever is trying to love you….or me, that there is something special and enduring between us. I know you love me, and I don’t take for granted opportunities to tell you that you’re loved. I won’t forget you, in spite of my imperfect desire to express longings for things I dare to dream-- things I want but may never have. You remain: mine, friend, lover, blakkboy. You are a reminder of the beauty life holds for dreamers who remember that life, despite the madness, offers many beautiful possibilities.
Your boy,
Tim’m
Monday, January 24, 2005
Arguing Afrocentrism and Affection for Ass: griot notes
someone on okayplayer posted a question about whether or not one could be both afrocentric and homosexual. I had a lot to say during that thread, but the following rebuttal to one of the more naive afrocentric participants is most amusing:
I was responding to these comments (which are intended for people generally), so did not reference "him" specifically, but rather a "he" to give context to my responses:
_________________________________
he said: yes. i was more identifying the source of the taboo and a culture that isn't greek or roman that had homosexuality. in new zealand, again, fa-afafine people tend to end up all out gay and pimping themselves. i see the current manifestation of mass media gay orgie irrsesponisble sex and drug consumption as a hard core escapist symptoms of very real depression. you don't have that in samoa pre colonialism.
I'm sayin: you don't have "mass media" and a drug "industry" in pre-colonial anything?!? I wont' point out which logical flaw this is, but the analogy doesn't hold piss.
he said: would you define homosexuality as the desire to engage in sexual acts with others of the same sex and that alone?
I'm sayin: I'll only speak for myself, since I think it's a range of things for different people. there is no singular source for same sex desire. as for me, it speaks to my emotional desire for romantic companionship with men (with or without sex, but generally leading to sex, as it is, even for most heteros, the consumate expression of romantic love between two adults). the sex act alone does not establish sexual identity. I know plenty of straight men who suck a dick now and then, but they are not "gay" because they don't identify with the sexual identity...they only indulge the act. and I think it's an important distinction. Also... i didn't have homesex until I was 19. i knew I was gay as early as 5. most straights know they are straight long before the first sexual act. it works the same way.
he said: for men, is homosexuality when you want to stick you penis into another mans bum and vice versa? on a very basic level i object.
i'm sayin: thanks for sharing. I'll consider your objection for a nanosecond when I'm out getting my mack on.
he said: if you want to argue that anything is unclean, anal sex is unclean. animal sex, child sex, bum sex. not clean.
i'm sayin': sex, you could argue, is unclean. bums can be cleaned, as the vagina must be cleaned. cleanliness is a very, very good thing... unless you've had a bad experience and are speaking first hand. i been diggin boys (pun intended) for some 15 years, and have (generally) not dealt with unclean bums. when there is an issue, it can be quickly and respectably resolved. all asses should be regularly washed: gay, straight, male, female... Also, anal sex is not exclusive to homosexuals. many, many, many straight people love it.
he said: i think it's great to love your friends, but i don't see the physical consumation of that love as anything more then severely damaging, and in the case of men, illogical. and that's what homosexuality is. bum sex with other dudes. no bum sex. i think that bum sex is demeaning.
i'm sayin': your phrasing here is very suspicious. illogical is your transition from one statement to the next, not the homosex between friends. what is heterosexual marriage if not sex between friends (I'd hope)? maybe that explains the divorce rate.
he said: i know that i can get more physical spiritual and mental enjoyment from a game of basket ball or a musical jam then sex with anything or anyone.
I'm sayin': I could agree with you here. homosex is not tantamount to my self-concept or identity, except for the ways that heteronormative culture and its enthusiasts impose their traditons and belief on my kind. i would prefer a romantic and sexual life that wasn't politicized. unfortunately, people like you make that difficult.
he said: and i think that's the problem. trying too hard to impose my life style on others to their detriment. i think the over politcizing of homosexuality would be to the detriment of black people and thus damaging to african spirituality... although if we can make it through crack, cointel pro, and 400 years of slavery, maybe this too is just another test to triumph over.
i'm sayin': so we shouldn't politicize blackness or africanness either, right? so politicizing of identity is just plain wrong? again, the politicization of identity is often the reaction to identity oppression, and that alone. when I'm with a group of folks who ain't trippin on my liking guys, I'm not thinking.. who am I gonna have to bust in the face... and i'm cool. it's not until someone gets testy that I start to have defensive thoughts.. LOL. but the point is that, my gayness, like my blackness are beautiful and perfect, as they are... until around people who question this... and I can choose to internalize the majority opinions about blackness or gayness... or love them both. I am proud of my gayness BECAUSE I am a proud black man... an honest man, a man of integrity, a man who believes in truth... i ain't goin go out like no punk/ LOL
he said: on the other hand, i know some people who are just gay.
i'm sayin': like me?
he said: but look at this. in a gay parent house hold, there is an increased chance that the child will 'choose' homosexuality as a lifestyle.
i'm sayin: actually studies suggest otherwise. there IS an increased chance that children won't feel like they will be ostracized, kicked out of the home, these children will likely be less prone to suicide, if gay. hey... I was born to heterosexuals (I think... I actually haven't asked them about their sexual orientation...and we tend to assume, perhaps wrongly, that our parents are, necessarily, straight).
he said: i think it drives another wedge into the rift between man and woman in the black family. i understand what gays are pushing for. if they were not discriminated against, perhaps they wouldn't have a wounded spirituality. or be physically wounded/threatened with impunity on the part of their attackers.
i'm sayin': i think you have no idea what gays are pushing for. see...there are a lot of us... and there is no single agenda... because a lot of us don't agree with each other... or have differing beliefs and values..... you should understand this, being of african descent. gays, in some ways, are like black people.... we use the (blanket) term as a convenient mechanism for political or cultural solidarity, but blackness, like gayness, signifies different things to the vast number of people who identify as such (respectively and/or simultaneously... as in my case).
he asked: do you honestly advocate homosexual marriage and the raising of children?
i'm sayin': I'm not sure how I feel about marriage... but if straight people get to get it wrong half of the time, why not gay folks? I don't know if it's for me. the idea of possessing anyone as property and the contractual shit seems to get in the way of my notions of unconditional loving... but I do feel that the healthy and functional rearing of children has less to do with the sexual orientation of parents and more about preparation for children, self-sacrifice, and other basic principles like love, understanding, and economic stability. funny how heteros can be str8 crackheads and have a better chance of raising kids that two functional professional culturally conscientious black guys who love each other and their children.
he said: how does it work, kind of like "she hate me" but the opposite?
i'm sayin': see, you really lose points for even referencing that (Spike Lee) piece of trash. "she hate me" was the highly romanticized dreamscape of a impotent man who wants to have a harem where he can play king and dicktate "quasi-lesbian" fantasies. nothing more. any real queer person of color would have found it as ridiculously laughable and unrealistic as I did. It was an entertaining movie... to see that this is how some straight men conceptualize their sensitivity to the "gay" issue...
he said: a womans eggs are valuable! it takes nine months to make a child... would you only choose from lesbian females?
I'm sayin': 9 months??!? didn't know that. man... get outta here! personally, i plan to adopt, so this isn't relevant for me. I do know of gay men and lesbians who are deciding together to have and/or raise children. some straight people are cool enough to help with the process as well... .providing sperm or carrying a child into term with (or without) contractual parameters. children deserve committed, loving, nuturing parents. 9 months in the womb, or 9 months of a legal battle and tons of paper work and quality assurance visits... and it's hopefully a beautiful black child in the home of some loving parents. that's what's up?!?
he said: isn't that just way too much? we have so many obvious problems in the black community at home and at large that why do we need this as well? would there be more or less instances of child molestation? is child sex next? and then animal sex?
I'm sayin': you are a bit late of this as a "new" problem. it's always been an issue. i suppose you'd prefer that we continue not talking about it like black people have for the hundreds of years we've already been here on earth... but it's not new. As for child molestation, child sex and animal sex? those are catagories that I, neither a pedophile nor proponent of beastiality, can speak to. you're heading into an illogical slippery slope here with no clear and necessary relationship between same sex desire between consenting adults to sexual acts that are non-consensual. maybe some of your hetero friends know more about child molestation or beastiality than I do?
he said: because there are people out there who think that's ok. there are people who want to fuck animals. and kids. and they do. are these people sick? where do you draw the line? what about golden showers and scatt and all that nasty business? is there a straightforward code of conduct in the homosexual arena? will the socialization of homosexuality create such a code? what about the rent boy thing? doesn't that suck (no pun intended) that youth have to submit sexually to their teachers and benefactors? it seems wrong to me and indicative of a social sickness.
i'm sayin': wow... seems you are much more informed than me about sex fetish... see these are catagorically unrelated, and not sexuality specific, so... again... there is no clear and necessary relationship to homosexuality: r kelly or woody allen might have an answer for you. I don't think that homosexuals have contributed any more to sexually deviant behavior than heterosexuals. two consenting adults who want to bum fuck is sex between consenting adults: gay or straight.
what I said last time: >lastly, I don't see how homosexuality is necessarily seen as a threat to the perpetuation of the black race. many or most black gay men and womyn I know are having and raising black children (or considering it).
he said: well, if they are raising their kids black and proud of their african heritage and with a militant mindset filled with knowledge and upholding african unity and not overtly imposing their beliefs on them (which is very hard not to do!
I'm sayin': why is it hard not to do? i was raised by hetero parents who (now) support my decision to live my life as a gay man. why is it hard to imagine gay parents who wouldn't support straight kids. our children are not clones of us... they will come to make their own decisions about how to live. we provide a foundation...which I'd hope was not grounded in what the children will come to desire sexually, but more fundamental things: culture, spirituality, heritage, education, etc... as for militancy... which is often the foundation of fundamentalism... I won't be raising any of my kids to be "militant"... rather, I want them to recognize and fight for justice, for all people.
he said: children do as you do not as you say!)
I'm sayin': well me and most of my gay friends have straight parents, so I guess that blows your argument.
he said: then i suppose it's more good then bad. would these people have two or three children and devote their time and energy to raising them adequately? many of the problems i'm citing don't have homosexuality as a sole cause. i think in general the lack of community culture and education amongst black people is leaving us out there in the wilderness for any wolf to come along and steal away with.
I'm sayin': and I'd agree with you here... thus, consider yourself a bit more educated on blacks (Afrocentric or not) who are same sex desiring. There's who afrocentric based movement where people identify as "same gender loving" as opposed to gay... as a way of marking the distinction between an afrocentric approach to same sex desire and the onslaught of media notions of gay as euro. I don't necessarily subscribe to it, but know a lot of people who are in it: rastas, yoruba clergy, black muslims, etc... people are clearly in the dark about how "gay" manifests in the African diaspora. go to any Afrocentric flea market in most urban US cities.... you'll see plenty of us, if you take the blinders off... we look just like ya'll .... for the most part. I think that's what scares ya'll so much.
he asked: let me ask you this, would you sacrifice your sexual lifestyle for africa?
I'm sayin': no. my sexual lifestyle IS african. embracing myself is embracing africa, is embracing my desire. these things are inextricable... and it's unfortunate that many of my brothas and sistahs on the continent have to struggle to do the same, in hiding and hunted down by gov't authorities. africa will never be whole until it starts to address the holes.
he said: it just doesn't add up...
I'm sayin': like most of your arguments are on some 1+1= hetero, type shit? ahhite man... i'm no calculus genius, but all i've said adds up quite well for those willing to accept the verity of variables that are the basis of my very essence.
I said before: >seems like folk trying to rationalize their hateration. >denial and disillusionment are the enemy of collective black >empowerment. heteros could gain a lot if they'd access the >minds, energies, and talents of some 10+ percent of their >population who've been reduced to half-men and half-womyn >because they choose not to pretend to be heterosexual. >
he asked: were you ever molested or improperly dealt with by an elder or a member of the white 'race'? were you just born gay? if such is the case, if you are not a product of a dangerous environment, and are just gay, then so be it.
I'm sayin': I had virtually no contact with white people until middle school. no improper dealings with elder whites. as I've suggested before... born gay, as I see it. born a perfect child of the creator. so be it. so it is. dig or not.
he said: a female ancestor born a man. it happens, i guess. if your ready to die for africa and her people, then so be it. we'll work the rest out on the other side.
i'm sayin': not a female ancestor born man.. just balanced... receiving guidance from both male and female ancestors as I tred this wilderness called North America. they've guided my steps beautifully thus far. I am a man. I am every expression of man you'd expect in a man except that I desire men like myself (masculine, resolved about their blackness and sexual identity, prepared to kick ass if it comes to that)... I do not view women as my sexual/romantic companions any longer. at one point I was succumbing to social pressures and the vast acceptabilty and comfort involved in hetero pretending. but, ultimately, i think that "pretending" causes more problems than it solves. some afrocentrists would prefer a DL African diaspora where we continue to endanger our women and blame them for our unwillingness to be truthful with ourselves. that needs to stop. Africa simply needs to come out of its constipated closet. Shit stinks in there.
he said: please hear me. i may sound over zealous, but i am honestly trying to find out the best way home. and i am willing to listen.
I'm sayin' though... finally: don't follow the yellow brick road, yo. or the any afrocentric bible. follow what you heart tells you is just and fair and right... and in the spirit of love... and you (probably) won't go wrong.
peace.
tim'm t. west
african in america, warrior, poet, emcee, revolutionary, activist, teacher, guide, griot.
I was responding to these comments (which are intended for people generally), so did not reference "him" specifically, but rather a "he" to give context to my responses:
_________________________________
he said: yes. i was more identifying the source of the taboo and a culture that isn't greek or roman that had homosexuality. in new zealand, again, fa-afafine people tend to end up all out gay and pimping themselves. i see the current manifestation of mass media gay orgie irrsesponisble sex and drug consumption as a hard core escapist symptoms of very real depression. you don't have that in samoa pre colonialism.
I'm sayin: you don't have "mass media" and a drug "industry" in pre-colonial anything?!? I wont' point out which logical flaw this is, but the analogy doesn't hold piss.
he said: would you define homosexuality as the desire to engage in sexual acts with others of the same sex and that alone?
I'm sayin: I'll only speak for myself, since I think it's a range of things for different people. there is no singular source for same sex desire. as for me, it speaks to my emotional desire for romantic companionship with men (with or without sex, but generally leading to sex, as it is, even for most heteros, the consumate expression of romantic love between two adults). the sex act alone does not establish sexual identity. I know plenty of straight men who suck a dick now and then, but they are not "gay" because they don't identify with the sexual identity...they only indulge the act. and I think it's an important distinction. Also... i didn't have homesex until I was 19. i knew I was gay as early as 5. most straights know they are straight long before the first sexual act. it works the same way.
he said: for men, is homosexuality when you want to stick you penis into another mans bum and vice versa? on a very basic level i object.
i'm sayin: thanks for sharing. I'll consider your objection for a nanosecond when I'm out getting my mack on.
he said: if you want to argue that anything is unclean, anal sex is unclean. animal sex, child sex, bum sex. not clean.
i'm sayin': sex, you could argue, is unclean. bums can be cleaned, as the vagina must be cleaned. cleanliness is a very, very good thing... unless you've had a bad experience and are speaking first hand. i been diggin boys (pun intended) for some 15 years, and have (generally) not dealt with unclean bums. when there is an issue, it can be quickly and respectably resolved. all asses should be regularly washed: gay, straight, male, female... Also, anal sex is not exclusive to homosexuals. many, many, many straight people love it.
he said: i think it's great to love your friends, but i don't see the physical consumation of that love as anything more then severely damaging, and in the case of men, illogical. and that's what homosexuality is. bum sex with other dudes. no bum sex. i think that bum sex is demeaning.
i'm sayin': your phrasing here is very suspicious. illogical is your transition from one statement to the next, not the homosex between friends. what is heterosexual marriage if not sex between friends (I'd hope)? maybe that explains the divorce rate.
he said: i know that i can get more physical spiritual and mental enjoyment from a game of basket ball or a musical jam then sex with anything or anyone.
I'm sayin': I could agree with you here. homosex is not tantamount to my self-concept or identity, except for the ways that heteronormative culture and its enthusiasts impose their traditons and belief on my kind. i would prefer a romantic and sexual life that wasn't politicized. unfortunately, people like you make that difficult.
he said: and i think that's the problem. trying too hard to impose my life style on others to their detriment. i think the over politcizing of homosexuality would be to the detriment of black people and thus damaging to african spirituality... although if we can make it through crack, cointel pro, and 400 years of slavery, maybe this too is just another test to triumph over.
i'm sayin': so we shouldn't politicize blackness or africanness either, right? so politicizing of identity is just plain wrong? again, the politicization of identity is often the reaction to identity oppression, and that alone. when I'm with a group of folks who ain't trippin on my liking guys, I'm not thinking.. who am I gonna have to bust in the face... and i'm cool. it's not until someone gets testy that I start to have defensive thoughts.. LOL. but the point is that, my gayness, like my blackness are beautiful and perfect, as they are... until around people who question this... and I can choose to internalize the majority opinions about blackness or gayness... or love them both. I am proud of my gayness BECAUSE I am a proud black man... an honest man, a man of integrity, a man who believes in truth... i ain't goin go out like no punk/ LOL
he said: on the other hand, i know some people who are just gay.
i'm sayin': like me?
he said: but look at this. in a gay parent house hold, there is an increased chance that the child will 'choose' homosexuality as a lifestyle.
i'm sayin: actually studies suggest otherwise. there IS an increased chance that children won't feel like they will be ostracized, kicked out of the home, these children will likely be less prone to suicide, if gay. hey... I was born to heterosexuals (I think... I actually haven't asked them about their sexual orientation...and we tend to assume, perhaps wrongly, that our parents are, necessarily, straight).
he said: i think it drives another wedge into the rift between man and woman in the black family. i understand what gays are pushing for. if they were not discriminated against, perhaps they wouldn't have a wounded spirituality. or be physically wounded/threatened with impunity on the part of their attackers.
i'm sayin': i think you have no idea what gays are pushing for. see...there are a lot of us... and there is no single agenda... because a lot of us don't agree with each other... or have differing beliefs and values..... you should understand this, being of african descent. gays, in some ways, are like black people.... we use the (blanket) term as a convenient mechanism for political or cultural solidarity, but blackness, like gayness, signifies different things to the vast number of people who identify as such (respectively and/or simultaneously... as in my case).
he asked: do you honestly advocate homosexual marriage and the raising of children?
i'm sayin': I'm not sure how I feel about marriage... but if straight people get to get it wrong half of the time, why not gay folks? I don't know if it's for me. the idea of possessing anyone as property and the contractual shit seems to get in the way of my notions of unconditional loving... but I do feel that the healthy and functional rearing of children has less to do with the sexual orientation of parents and more about preparation for children, self-sacrifice, and other basic principles like love, understanding, and economic stability. funny how heteros can be str8 crackheads and have a better chance of raising kids that two functional professional culturally conscientious black guys who love each other and their children.
he said: how does it work, kind of like "she hate me" but the opposite?
i'm sayin': see, you really lose points for even referencing that (Spike Lee) piece of trash. "she hate me" was the highly romanticized dreamscape of a impotent man who wants to have a harem where he can play king and dicktate "quasi-lesbian" fantasies. nothing more. any real queer person of color would have found it as ridiculously laughable and unrealistic as I did. It was an entertaining movie... to see that this is how some straight men conceptualize their sensitivity to the "gay" issue...
he said: a womans eggs are valuable! it takes nine months to make a child... would you only choose from lesbian females?
I'm sayin': 9 months??!? didn't know that. man... get outta here! personally, i plan to adopt, so this isn't relevant for me. I do know of gay men and lesbians who are deciding together to have and/or raise children. some straight people are cool enough to help with the process as well... .providing sperm or carrying a child into term with (or without) contractual parameters. children deserve committed, loving, nuturing parents. 9 months in the womb, or 9 months of a legal battle and tons of paper work and quality assurance visits... and it's hopefully a beautiful black child in the home of some loving parents. that's what's up?!?
he said: isn't that just way too much? we have so many obvious problems in the black community at home and at large that why do we need this as well? would there be more or less instances of child molestation? is child sex next? and then animal sex?
I'm sayin': you are a bit late of this as a "new" problem. it's always been an issue. i suppose you'd prefer that we continue not talking about it like black people have for the hundreds of years we've already been here on earth... but it's not new. As for child molestation, child sex and animal sex? those are catagories that I, neither a pedophile nor proponent of beastiality, can speak to. you're heading into an illogical slippery slope here with no clear and necessary relationship between same sex desire between consenting adults to sexual acts that are non-consensual. maybe some of your hetero friends know more about child molestation or beastiality than I do?
he said: because there are people out there who think that's ok. there are people who want to fuck animals. and kids. and they do. are these people sick? where do you draw the line? what about golden showers and scatt and all that nasty business? is there a straightforward code of conduct in the homosexual arena? will the socialization of homosexuality create such a code? what about the rent boy thing? doesn't that suck (no pun intended) that youth have to submit sexually to their teachers and benefactors? it seems wrong to me and indicative of a social sickness.
i'm sayin': wow... seems you are much more informed than me about sex fetish... see these are catagorically unrelated, and not sexuality specific, so... again... there is no clear and necessary relationship to homosexuality: r kelly or woody allen might have an answer for you. I don't think that homosexuals have contributed any more to sexually deviant behavior than heterosexuals. two consenting adults who want to bum fuck is sex between consenting adults: gay or straight.
what I said last time: >lastly, I don't see how homosexuality is necessarily seen as a threat to the perpetuation of the black race. many or most black gay men and womyn I know are having and raising black children (or considering it).
he said: well, if they are raising their kids black and proud of their african heritage and with a militant mindset filled with knowledge and upholding african unity and not overtly imposing their beliefs on them (which is very hard not to do!
I'm sayin': why is it hard not to do? i was raised by hetero parents who (now) support my decision to live my life as a gay man. why is it hard to imagine gay parents who wouldn't support straight kids. our children are not clones of us... they will come to make their own decisions about how to live. we provide a foundation...which I'd hope was not grounded in what the children will come to desire sexually, but more fundamental things: culture, spirituality, heritage, education, etc... as for militancy... which is often the foundation of fundamentalism... I won't be raising any of my kids to be "militant"... rather, I want them to recognize and fight for justice, for all people.
he said: children do as you do not as you say!)
I'm sayin': well me and most of my gay friends have straight parents, so I guess that blows your argument.
he said: then i suppose it's more good then bad. would these people have two or three children and devote their time and energy to raising them adequately? many of the problems i'm citing don't have homosexuality as a sole cause. i think in general the lack of community culture and education amongst black people is leaving us out there in the wilderness for any wolf to come along and steal away with.
I'm sayin': and I'd agree with you here... thus, consider yourself a bit more educated on blacks (Afrocentric or not) who are same sex desiring. There's who afrocentric based movement where people identify as "same gender loving" as opposed to gay... as a way of marking the distinction between an afrocentric approach to same sex desire and the onslaught of media notions of gay as euro. I don't necessarily subscribe to it, but know a lot of people who are in it: rastas, yoruba clergy, black muslims, etc... people are clearly in the dark about how "gay" manifests in the African diaspora. go to any Afrocentric flea market in most urban US cities.... you'll see plenty of us, if you take the blinders off... we look just like ya'll .... for the most part. I think that's what scares ya'll so much.
he asked: let me ask you this, would you sacrifice your sexual lifestyle for africa?
I'm sayin': no. my sexual lifestyle IS african. embracing myself is embracing africa, is embracing my desire. these things are inextricable... and it's unfortunate that many of my brothas and sistahs on the continent have to struggle to do the same, in hiding and hunted down by gov't authorities. africa will never be whole until it starts to address the holes.
he said: it just doesn't add up...
I'm sayin': like most of your arguments are on some 1+1= hetero, type shit? ahhite man... i'm no calculus genius, but all i've said adds up quite well for those willing to accept the verity of variables that are the basis of my very essence.
I said before: >seems like folk trying to rationalize their hateration. >denial and disillusionment are the enemy of collective black >empowerment. heteros could gain a lot if they'd access the >minds, energies, and talents of some 10+ percent of their >population who've been reduced to half-men and half-womyn >because they choose not to pretend to be heterosexual. >
he asked: were you ever molested or improperly dealt with by an elder or a member of the white 'race'? were you just born gay? if such is the case, if you are not a product of a dangerous environment, and are just gay, then so be it.
I'm sayin': I had virtually no contact with white people until middle school. no improper dealings with elder whites. as I've suggested before... born gay, as I see it. born a perfect child of the creator. so be it. so it is. dig or not.
he said: a female ancestor born a man. it happens, i guess. if your ready to die for africa and her people, then so be it. we'll work the rest out on the other side.
i'm sayin': not a female ancestor born man.. just balanced... receiving guidance from both male and female ancestors as I tred this wilderness called North America. they've guided my steps beautifully thus far. I am a man. I am every expression of man you'd expect in a man except that I desire men like myself (masculine, resolved about their blackness and sexual identity, prepared to kick ass if it comes to that)... I do not view women as my sexual/romantic companions any longer. at one point I was succumbing to social pressures and the vast acceptabilty and comfort involved in hetero pretending. but, ultimately, i think that "pretending" causes more problems than it solves. some afrocentrists would prefer a DL African diaspora where we continue to endanger our women and blame them for our unwillingness to be truthful with ourselves. that needs to stop. Africa simply needs to come out of its constipated closet. Shit stinks in there.
he said: please hear me. i may sound over zealous, but i am honestly trying to find out the best way home. and i am willing to listen.
I'm sayin' though... finally: don't follow the yellow brick road, yo. or the any afrocentric bible. follow what you heart tells you is just and fair and right... and in the spirit of love... and you (probably) won't go wrong.
peace.
tim'm t. west
african in america, warrior, poet, emcee, revolutionary, activist, teacher, guide, griot.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
he-art
i want to find the wholeness in the hole
mend my heart’s deferred agility
breathe muscle and mass into it
till it beats on beat with my sensibility
lately it has been sounding flat-lines
dimming my sunshine
shamelessly stuttering my moon’s lullaby
therefore rendering it b-9
before belittling bystanders constantly vexed
who wouldn’t know he-art if it stopped
dead cold in their chests
so i’m looking to attest the tests,
arrest their underdevelopment
circumspect the madness
breathing fire through my pen’s sadness
i’m reaching back beyond myself
to begin again
be my own best friend
own heart physician
witchdoctor and prayer-circle
own emotional technician
i got red dirt clay fingers
writing words to spool thread
through heads stupidly sucking on next blood
from the living dead
but enough of butter cuts
from punk ass fools
who talk loud but never lodge
in live inside the POZ
and they won’t win a war with God
still there is nothing more horrific
than to not feel feeling
not dance when house music
has always been your healing
starve yourself of metaphors
when poetry has been your salvation
walk among rebelutionaries
who think their anger builds a nation
there were no boxing gloves
soft enough for my hardened black fists
so i dismiss the faggot diss
to bring real realness with a twist
and dare revolutionaries to dream bullets
braver than my words
come harder than the cross i bear
crucifix for a thug turned nerd
the new gunshots i pop
not jellycaps for bloods that bugg
but words i hope will heal my heart
rewrite myself as love
mend my heart’s deferred agility
breathe muscle and mass into it
till it beats on beat with my sensibility
lately it has been sounding flat-lines
dimming my sunshine
shamelessly stuttering my moon’s lullaby
therefore rendering it b-9
before belittling bystanders constantly vexed
who wouldn’t know he-art if it stopped
dead cold in their chests
so i’m looking to attest the tests,
arrest their underdevelopment
circumspect the madness
breathing fire through my pen’s sadness
i’m reaching back beyond myself
to begin again
be my own best friend
own heart physician
witchdoctor and prayer-circle
own emotional technician
i got red dirt clay fingers
writing words to spool thread
through heads stupidly sucking on next blood
from the living dead
but enough of butter cuts
from punk ass fools
who talk loud but never lodge
in live inside the POZ
and they won’t win a war with God
still there is nothing more horrific
than to not feel feeling
not dance when house music
has always been your healing
starve yourself of metaphors
when poetry has been your salvation
walk among rebelutionaries
who think their anger builds a nation
there were no boxing gloves
soft enough for my hardened black fists
so i dismiss the faggot diss
to bring real realness with a twist
and dare revolutionaries to dream bullets
braver than my words
come harder than the cross i bear
crucifix for a thug turned nerd
the new gunshots i pop
not jellycaps for bloods that bugg
but words i hope will heal my heart
rewrite myself as love
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Letters, Public Disclosure, and the Discontents of (De)Contextualization
i remember his letter. as warm and comforting as recycled long-johns my mama "scent" along with her love. i remember that it made me smile. i was scrappin for some trace of a boy who wasn't so scarred by love that he could adequately respond. i've lost sight of that hopeful energy. i was heartbroken beyond the break: the house i was building with someone, a mansion memory; the man who welcomed me to share it, as haunting as an imaginary best friend who promises never to leave but does. i loved a'shar more than he'll ever recognize. never thought I'd actually bring a man home to moms and say "he's it". so i'm still healing.
this letter was my new friend's disclosure-- I suppose some response to the various revelations in my "red dirt revival". when you write memoir, you are sometimes not prepared for people who will think they know you because they've "read" you-- people who will fail to see you beyond their "reading" and who will not make room for your 7th breath or the ways you overcome your own self-circumscription. through the warmth of his letter and the exchanges that followed, I did feel that i'd gained a friend. i was appreciative. i get a lot of letters and while I know I don't respond to them all with letters, I do know that I've said "thank you" in some small way; and if I have not, i hope that it was charged to my disorganization or schedule and not my heart.
we had a number of conversations by phone about his letter. a writer, i struggled with how to respond to it. there was something in it that hinted to a desire for a deeper knowing. and perhaps i could not find the courage or cop-out to say, "I'm not attracted to you that way", or simply, "i have not found courage to try to love again." so I kept his letter near my ritual space where I prayed for time and isolation to be band-aids for my heart-hurt. i'd resolved that the only person i could love was some black boy i'd claimed as my soul mate back in 1997 and who continued to make knight "appearances" (shining armor if he happened to be "feeling me" at the moment). it felt safer to try to love somebody whose love was so crudely unrequited and non-reciprocal. i wouldn't have to be the "bad guy" and could continue sulking in self-indulgent pity with my "black men ain't shit" manifestos. but i have to wake to myself everyday. I don't believe that "black men ain't shit". That would be suicide. i do remember entrusting this new friend with some very private thoughts about my longings for a reconnection with my unrequited soul-mate, not as a hint of my unavailability, but was a way to share a piece of me beyond the ways I showed up in my artistic products. I feel that the ways we respond to unrequited love are, perhaps, the greatest testimonies or our capacity to love. it's ironic now. this letter about my loving some other boy wasn't about him, so i suppose it didn't count towards the getting to know each other *credits*. he claims that I don't know him. I don't think he knows me either.
we continued to have conversations, email, IM, though the phone calls died down between the thousands of miles between us and other preoccupations. i didn't consider that my non-response to his letter would be a thorn in our friendship. it would be the psychoanalytic "event" through which all other actions would be judged. i don't tend to operate that way-- holding people to the expectation of my desire, so it's tough for me to understand. i have been the victim of my own failure to act as others have desired. I'm a believer in "compersion", in the excesses of unconditional loving-- even when everything around us suggests that we love "because" or love "in order that". it's a task to check your expectations of those you love... realizing that no one really owes you anything... and that not getting what you desire, has everything to do with you, and less with the person you desire. my friend, who'd written this beautiful letter, surely had a preconceived notion of what would qualify as a response. I don't know that anything short of reciprocating his desire would have sufficed. I am sorry for the fallout, for miscalculations in my judgment, maybe even for the intensity of my preoccupations after a failed relationship and the pitiful attempts to be with someone who didn't want me. I am not sorry for not feeling the same way.
we recently saw each other again. he continues to be a supporter of my work, though i'm not clear anymore if it's about his own phantasm of the ways I satisfy his desire for me or if he's genuinely interested in me beyond the ways i'm consistent with his envisioning. he recently made it clear that he does not like hip hop, which, because I am an emcee, i found interesting... and this spiraled into a conversation about the ability to like or love people outside of our projections for them. it explains why he never responded about the (complimentary) CD i sent to him-- another inadequate self-disclosure I didn't get right. he's made comments before of people not being who he desired them to be... and it occurred to me why I might have been fearful of responding to his letter. His "aggression" is about a dynamic. it's the father the little boy is so afraid of not pleasing that he becomes stuck on stuck-- unable to find the confidence in his agency to displease, move beyond what others want for him, become his own man. he knows someone else i'm close with and has articulated his distaste for this person for not corroborating his desire. it's a thread in his way of thinking that honestly baffles me. for whatever ways I've longed people to show up for me, I have not held them as failures or inadequate for not doing so. people get to be the people they are, where they are, and I have to own what's going on with me if i cannot accept them for that.
we discussed these differences. i felt i learned a lot about him in that conversation, for all the ways we differ in our approach to "knowing"... but i did not anticipate that my suggestion that he was "aggressive" would become the decontextualized subject of his blog. I honestly felt a bit hurt and misrepresented, though he didn't disclose my identity. it was if he was looking for a jury of empaths to corroborate his feeling that "it's [my] loss", or that I wasn't deserving or worth the friendship in the first place. And he did get that: a chorus of sirens rebuking the non-responsive ghost of letters past. but it felt really wrong. I'm a bitter, aggressive, black phaggot sometimes. so I'm ghostbustin'.
all in all, i still have love for the guy. i don't think we will be able to have a functional friendship anytime in the near future. he seems to be always looking for my failure to show up in accordance with his "desire"... and so i remain like the letter i still haven't found words to write: hesitant, cautious, scared of misspells, bad grammar, or just plain not getting the answer right. it's not "aggression" it's the dynamic of those who cannot accept people where they "be". And I've had to own that my response to it, is MY shit! I'm working on clearing my eyes of the stench. i need to smell myself more clearly. LOL. I've been a good friend, I have a lot of people who love me, and I'm very deserving of a lot of good things. Now i just gotta really believe it so that people's blogs don't become emotional setbacks for my progress.
i have learned a bit about myself through these recent disclosures. this big little boy, like that letter that I may someday find words to respond to (whether or not it meets his "approval") is, very simply, a work in progress.
tim'm t. west
1.12.05
this letter was my new friend's disclosure-- I suppose some response to the various revelations in my "red dirt revival". when you write memoir, you are sometimes not prepared for people who will think they know you because they've "read" you-- people who will fail to see you beyond their "reading" and who will not make room for your 7th breath or the ways you overcome your own self-circumscription. through the warmth of his letter and the exchanges that followed, I did feel that i'd gained a friend. i was appreciative. i get a lot of letters and while I know I don't respond to them all with letters, I do know that I've said "thank you" in some small way; and if I have not, i hope that it was charged to my disorganization or schedule and not my heart.
we had a number of conversations by phone about his letter. a writer, i struggled with how to respond to it. there was something in it that hinted to a desire for a deeper knowing. and perhaps i could not find the courage or cop-out to say, "I'm not attracted to you that way", or simply, "i have not found courage to try to love again." so I kept his letter near my ritual space where I prayed for time and isolation to be band-aids for my heart-hurt. i'd resolved that the only person i could love was some black boy i'd claimed as my soul mate back in 1997 and who continued to make knight "appearances" (shining armor if he happened to be "feeling me" at the moment). it felt safer to try to love somebody whose love was so crudely unrequited and non-reciprocal. i wouldn't have to be the "bad guy" and could continue sulking in self-indulgent pity with my "black men ain't shit" manifestos. but i have to wake to myself everyday. I don't believe that "black men ain't shit". That would be suicide. i do remember entrusting this new friend with some very private thoughts about my longings for a reconnection with my unrequited soul-mate, not as a hint of my unavailability, but was a way to share a piece of me beyond the ways I showed up in my artistic products. I feel that the ways we respond to unrequited love are, perhaps, the greatest testimonies or our capacity to love. it's ironic now. this letter about my loving some other boy wasn't about him, so i suppose it didn't count towards the getting to know each other *credits*. he claims that I don't know him. I don't think he knows me either.
we continued to have conversations, email, IM, though the phone calls died down between the thousands of miles between us and other preoccupations. i didn't consider that my non-response to his letter would be a thorn in our friendship. it would be the psychoanalytic "event" through which all other actions would be judged. i don't tend to operate that way-- holding people to the expectation of my desire, so it's tough for me to understand. i have been the victim of my own failure to act as others have desired. I'm a believer in "compersion", in the excesses of unconditional loving-- even when everything around us suggests that we love "because" or love "in order that". it's a task to check your expectations of those you love... realizing that no one really owes you anything... and that not getting what you desire, has everything to do with you, and less with the person you desire. my friend, who'd written this beautiful letter, surely had a preconceived notion of what would qualify as a response. I don't know that anything short of reciprocating his desire would have sufficed. I am sorry for the fallout, for miscalculations in my judgment, maybe even for the intensity of my preoccupations after a failed relationship and the pitiful attempts to be with someone who didn't want me. I am not sorry for not feeling the same way.
we recently saw each other again. he continues to be a supporter of my work, though i'm not clear anymore if it's about his own phantasm of the ways I satisfy his desire for me or if he's genuinely interested in me beyond the ways i'm consistent with his envisioning. he recently made it clear that he does not like hip hop, which, because I am an emcee, i found interesting... and this spiraled into a conversation about the ability to like or love people outside of our projections for them. it explains why he never responded about the (complimentary) CD i sent to him-- another inadequate self-disclosure I didn't get right. he's made comments before of people not being who he desired them to be... and it occurred to me why I might have been fearful of responding to his letter. His "aggression" is about a dynamic. it's the father the little boy is so afraid of not pleasing that he becomes stuck on stuck-- unable to find the confidence in his agency to displease, move beyond what others want for him, become his own man. he knows someone else i'm close with and has articulated his distaste for this person for not corroborating his desire. it's a thread in his way of thinking that honestly baffles me. for whatever ways I've longed people to show up for me, I have not held them as failures or inadequate for not doing so. people get to be the people they are, where they are, and I have to own what's going on with me if i cannot accept them for that.
we discussed these differences. i felt i learned a lot about him in that conversation, for all the ways we differ in our approach to "knowing"... but i did not anticipate that my suggestion that he was "aggressive" would become the decontextualized subject of his blog. I honestly felt a bit hurt and misrepresented, though he didn't disclose my identity. it was if he was looking for a jury of empaths to corroborate his feeling that "it's [my] loss", or that I wasn't deserving or worth the friendship in the first place. And he did get that: a chorus of sirens rebuking the non-responsive ghost of letters past. but it felt really wrong. I'm a bitter, aggressive, black phaggot sometimes. so I'm ghostbustin'.
all in all, i still have love for the guy. i don't think we will be able to have a functional friendship anytime in the near future. he seems to be always looking for my failure to show up in accordance with his "desire"... and so i remain like the letter i still haven't found words to write: hesitant, cautious, scared of misspells, bad grammar, or just plain not getting the answer right. it's not "aggression" it's the dynamic of those who cannot accept people where they "be". And I've had to own that my response to it, is MY shit! I'm working on clearing my eyes of the stench. i need to smell myself more clearly. LOL. I've been a good friend, I have a lot of people who love me, and I'm very deserving of a lot of good things. Now i just gotta really believe it so that people's blogs don't become emotional setbacks for my progress.
i have learned a bit about myself through these recent disclosures. this big little boy, like that letter that I may someday find words to respond to (whether or not it meets his "approval") is, very simply, a work in progress.
tim'm t. west
1.12.05
Monday, January 10, 2005
Friday, January 07, 2005
New Year 05: Resolution?
New Year: Resolution?
What does it mean to be guided by sign and song? 2004 is a loose end longing for closure. I am a journeyman searching for someplace I can call home. I am living in DC but it isn’t yet home. Oakland wasn’t either. Oakland was a blanket safekeeping fears I could avoid and with people who would protect me with their pens and manifestos. I had to leave that warrior tribe to expose myself more fully to my weaknesses. This year I resigned from a job I loved that grew to weigh on my heart with the burden of compromise. I wanted more for myself and the students I taught than to guise greatness. I risked certain comforts in doing so and was more afraid about it than I let on. I grieved over this family of 14 and 15 year olds that I’d lost for much of last year. There was something genuine in their expression of unconditional loving that I trusted—above blood and romantic attachments. I suppose they didn’t have to love me at all: just do homework and follow the rules. But in some small way they encouraged me to teach beyond those parameters. Education would be about growing from all the lessons our world provides. I was so often vulnerable enough to admit that I didn’t know something that they admired the process of truth-seeking. It wasn’t so much about finding truth—but the process of wanting it—the sensibility for knowing like when you know your mother’s love or that your heart isn’t where it should be. I am so thankful for their lessons.
I did feel abandoned for a bit. I traveled to NYC twice to sing out the pain, but only left with a longing for dirty pavement, the edge that comes with 24 hour bodegas or house music havens hypnotizing my feet till sunrise. March 2004 through August was this purgatory limbo where I felt very uneasy with my position in life. For all of my noted accomplishments and loved ones, I did not feel love. This time I’ve owned that it’s my shit. I am deserving; but there’s a bitterness about times past when I’ve most longed for it—unrequited or failing to fall for me in the ways I’ve fallen so furiously into it. Through this I’ve learned that even grown folk need new starts.
So I met this chocolate boy in NYC who made me believe that there was love for me somewhere beyond Oakland. And I realize now that it was not at all about him—seductive as his softness was to me. It was about growing uncomfortable with the particular comforts of my past life. I’m not suicidal anymore. I have a great handle on my health and HIV. I plan to live to get a ripe old age—even as I feel that the earth is sick of us here. I know that I’m among those people who will provide roadmaps to our heaven.
In 2005 I’ll be shedding a consciousness of poverty or “just getting by”. It’s my calling to have abundantly because I have the good heart to share generously in ways that can improve the quality of life for so many beyond me. I’m gonna be more happy in 2005 and more resolved about shit. My music deserves to be heard and will. My writing will find needed investments to flourish; and I’ll take myself more seriously as an artist. I will claim that I am, first and foremost, an artist who has gifts to offer in other areas, but who wants, more than anything, to scribble and sing and dance in ways that solicit the sounds and stories of others. I’m a gatekeeper.
I am no longer afraid of being alone. Tonight I am here writing in the house of a friend I love beyond the ways friends are told they can love. There are many men in my life who I love deeply—and womyn too. I honestly don’t know that I want to restrict this loving to whatever artificial, contrived boundaries we create when we “do” relationships. I have and will always love with passion and intensity; and I do hope to someday find (or be found by) a complement. But I do know my residue. And it’s some shit that demands, not therapeutic talk-through, but more time. Time to wake alone from time to time feeling that I am waking with the most amazing, loving, sexy black man there is.
This year I’ll creep out of fringe shadows of celebrated critical review and do a few things to popularize my presence. I’ll remain humble and consult my mother about love and business matters. I love her more than my sporadic contact would indicate.
Nothing is promised, not a next page, nor the pen with which to stain it with ramblings. My soul is continuous though; and so it has returned to accomplish more than I’m currently aware of. It’s a large task and I’m being prepared for the magnitude of it with each challenge or obstacle. Happiness in 2005 will be butter pecan banana cravings in soft pajamas: action flicks with brothas I love and who love me. It will be oatmeal in the morning while I rush to get to work on time, so that I won’t have to work on the same way this time next year. It’ll be sharing the stage with one or a few icons who respect my contributions to the world we are resuscitating.
I have a lot of healing to do, a book to write, more than a few people to forgive, many songs to write, a home to create for myself, teaching to do, and great sex to have in more abundance. I must remember that I am never alone. There’s a raw passionate, turbo energy that says LIVE, LIVE, SCREAM, DANCE, SHOUT, be more fully aware of the ways that you touch the world and are touched in return. This is a very happy time—even as my introspection and stirring in sleep sometimes seems to indicate otherwise. The ball dropped just blocks from here 30 minutes ago. I’m gonna go party and start practicing being happy and smiling more. It’s bound to manifest my most profound hopes and dreams.
Tim’m T. West
01.01.05
12:30 a.m.
What does it mean to be guided by sign and song? 2004 is a loose end longing for closure. I am a journeyman searching for someplace I can call home. I am living in DC but it isn’t yet home. Oakland wasn’t either. Oakland was a blanket safekeeping fears I could avoid and with people who would protect me with their pens and manifestos. I had to leave that warrior tribe to expose myself more fully to my weaknesses. This year I resigned from a job I loved that grew to weigh on my heart with the burden of compromise. I wanted more for myself and the students I taught than to guise greatness. I risked certain comforts in doing so and was more afraid about it than I let on. I grieved over this family of 14 and 15 year olds that I’d lost for much of last year. There was something genuine in their expression of unconditional loving that I trusted—above blood and romantic attachments. I suppose they didn’t have to love me at all: just do homework and follow the rules. But in some small way they encouraged me to teach beyond those parameters. Education would be about growing from all the lessons our world provides. I was so often vulnerable enough to admit that I didn’t know something that they admired the process of truth-seeking. It wasn’t so much about finding truth—but the process of wanting it—the sensibility for knowing like when you know your mother’s love or that your heart isn’t where it should be. I am so thankful for their lessons.
I did feel abandoned for a bit. I traveled to NYC twice to sing out the pain, but only left with a longing for dirty pavement, the edge that comes with 24 hour bodegas or house music havens hypnotizing my feet till sunrise. March 2004 through August was this purgatory limbo where I felt very uneasy with my position in life. For all of my noted accomplishments and loved ones, I did not feel love. This time I’ve owned that it’s my shit. I am deserving; but there’s a bitterness about times past when I’ve most longed for it—unrequited or failing to fall for me in the ways I’ve fallen so furiously into it. Through this I’ve learned that even grown folk need new starts.
So I met this chocolate boy in NYC who made me believe that there was love for me somewhere beyond Oakland. And I realize now that it was not at all about him—seductive as his softness was to me. It was about growing uncomfortable with the particular comforts of my past life. I’m not suicidal anymore. I have a great handle on my health and HIV. I plan to live to get a ripe old age—even as I feel that the earth is sick of us here. I know that I’m among those people who will provide roadmaps to our heaven.
In 2005 I’ll be shedding a consciousness of poverty or “just getting by”. It’s my calling to have abundantly because I have the good heart to share generously in ways that can improve the quality of life for so many beyond me. I’m gonna be more happy in 2005 and more resolved about shit. My music deserves to be heard and will. My writing will find needed investments to flourish; and I’ll take myself more seriously as an artist. I will claim that I am, first and foremost, an artist who has gifts to offer in other areas, but who wants, more than anything, to scribble and sing and dance in ways that solicit the sounds and stories of others. I’m a gatekeeper.
I am no longer afraid of being alone. Tonight I am here writing in the house of a friend I love beyond the ways friends are told they can love. There are many men in my life who I love deeply—and womyn too. I honestly don’t know that I want to restrict this loving to whatever artificial, contrived boundaries we create when we “do” relationships. I have and will always love with passion and intensity; and I do hope to someday find (or be found by) a complement. But I do know my residue. And it’s some shit that demands, not therapeutic talk-through, but more time. Time to wake alone from time to time feeling that I am waking with the most amazing, loving, sexy black man there is.
This year I’ll creep out of fringe shadows of celebrated critical review and do a few things to popularize my presence. I’ll remain humble and consult my mother about love and business matters. I love her more than my sporadic contact would indicate.
Nothing is promised, not a next page, nor the pen with which to stain it with ramblings. My soul is continuous though; and so it has returned to accomplish more than I’m currently aware of. It’s a large task and I’m being prepared for the magnitude of it with each challenge or obstacle. Happiness in 2005 will be butter pecan banana cravings in soft pajamas: action flicks with brothas I love and who love me. It will be oatmeal in the morning while I rush to get to work on time, so that I won’t have to work on the same way this time next year. It’ll be sharing the stage with one or a few icons who respect my contributions to the world we are resuscitating.
I have a lot of healing to do, a book to write, more than a few people to forgive, many songs to write, a home to create for myself, teaching to do, and great sex to have in more abundance. I must remember that I am never alone. There’s a raw passionate, turbo energy that says LIVE, LIVE, SCREAM, DANCE, SHOUT, be more fully aware of the ways that you touch the world and are touched in return. This is a very happy time—even as my introspection and stirring in sleep sometimes seems to indicate otherwise. The ball dropped just blocks from here 30 minutes ago. I’m gonna go party and start practicing being happy and smiling more. It’s bound to manifest my most profound hopes and dreams.
Tim’m T. West
01.01.05
12:30 a.m.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
