Thursday, October 28, 2010

Laughable.

Sometimes, I sit back and take in this whole gay marriage issue as the reality it is; a big-picture viewing of the situation at hand, rather than aching narrowly about the cruel, scattered incidents outlined in well-meaning newspapers, and folks, I just fucking laugh.


I laugh at the fact that no one in a position of real authority has been able to see how unfairly gays are being treated - at least, not for any longer than it took to get the 'gay vote' by pretending they did. As the iconic Karen Walker once said, "It's funny, because it's sad."

I mean, the sheer ludicrousness just gets to me. That human beings we've entrusted with the care, safety and representation of our communities can be legitimately terrified of what two people do in their bedroom! As though the mingling of a cock and an asshole sets in motion the chemical reaction which will unleash the actual Boogeyman. Get a fucking grip.

I laugh at how barbaric and sexually underdeveloped it makes our country look that we've mandated love with archaic laws and fussy, good-ol'-boy beliefs. I've come to accept that no one's religion makes sense, including mine - some believe in an ancient cat-headed woman who will protect them from afar. Many believe in an evil talking snake who made a naked girl eat an apple and an invisible father figure who can see every single person at every single moment, and "blesses" some with promotions at work while others suffer slow, debilitating, cancerous loss of bodily function. And me, I believe in nothing, that we all evolved from our respective masses of goo.
Because none of this shit sounds logical on paper, I could no sooner lobby for a law that said one must not step on certain unseeable atoms because they could become a person one day than I could SUPPORT a law that says, "No, you can't get married, wtf? You both have vaginas, what are you trying to pull!?"

I laugh at how our politicians come off as Disney villains; poorly fleshed out, lacking any realistic character development or substance, focused with pathetic exclusivity on a single, psychotic goal over which they tent their fingers and grin with jagged teeth, - make my family the one that counts, "keep them gays outta my sanctified marriage."

As though the saying of vows between two people they will never even meet will send their expensive doors flying off the hinges, and their living rooms will be flooded with thick-bonered men in pink boas who masturbate on the Victorian furniture while the women try to seduce their dog-faced daughters into labia piercings, because that's just what all lesbians do.

I laugh because it's very much like a sad, stupid dream, the kind you wake up from completely horrified that anything so nonsensical and brutal was taking place, but then smilingly chastise yourself about later for letting your imagination get the better of you.


But I always stop laughing real fast, because no one's waking up from this nightmare of ignorance and condescension any time soon.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Begin.

With such sudden enthusiasm, I want to travel everywhere, pack myself a suitcase full of precious, comfortable things and watch the scenery shift underneath me. I've learned that the sun feels different on your shoulders depending on where you are at the time; I want to feel the sun on me in Jamaica, looking down from an ornate balcony in Paris, sampling unusual delicacies on the streets of Thailand.

The anonymity of travel is so appealing. I used to disparage my fellow American for entering another country on holiday without knowing the language, but imagine the freedom this affords you - to spend those quickly slipping days obligated to no one and nothing, the complete removal from social situations you aren't prepared for - imagine knowing only enough of anything to get exactly what you need, and then spending every other second in blissful, left-alone ignorance. You become another part of the scenery. And how much more important is the companion you travel with ever going to be than during these stranger-in-a-strange-land exercises in emotional surrealism?

Lover and I were discussing just yesterday, with an attitude that swung between realistic and playful, how we will soon shun all responsibility and take to the streets, walk from one end of the country to the other as hobos and document the experience. I can't help but to romanticize the whole thing, to think, almost as if I'm intoxicated, that this is how it should be. That we would be discovered, that we would be so perfectly undone in a life without luxury.

I am so ready for an adventure. I have felt for years, even in moments so blissful they were obscene, that my life still hasn't begun; that I've been stranded in this outdated and malfunctioning version of myself because I haven't heard the gun go off yet, because the race simply hasn't started. I am so ready for an adventure.

I am so ready to Begin.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Need it Bad.

I'm going to need it bad this year, I know; I'm going to need it like oxygen and it will burn a little in me, a sadness, an absence, until I'm half-eaten with want. I'm going to need the quiet, the nostalgia. I'm going to need a dusting of snow, a bit of winter, a broad scatter of colored lights on faded white lawns.
I'm going to need Christmas this year.

Tonight I left work in a fog all my own; I was brisk and subdued by the day. I felt untouchable, sealed up, a blind man on a bus. I didn't expect to connect with much of anything. I was vulnerable when I slipped outside and the chill slapped at my cheeks.

This is it, I thought, surprised, woken up, one heel tapping in front of the other on my way to the car, this is fall, this is the season changing, and I was fine. I was in good company, with the sharp air, the still night and the aromatic exhaust waving up like cigarette smoke near my knees.

While walking I breathed, deep and deeper again, and remembered all the thousands of times I'd done that before, clutching my coat neck between all five fingers, head down, moving quickly. I imagined how many different periods of my life have been represented by this gesture - the one perfect holiday we spent as a couple with my family, the isolated moments of teenage undoing that I wore miserably in the breathtaking barrenness of Alaska, the oblivious, gift-thrilled childhood trips through mall corridors painted up in red and green with twinkling wreaths hung from each automatic door.

If you wanted to write me, you would write me at this time of year. If you wanted to write me happy.