Someone to Watch Over Me
Some people believe in guardian angels,
or that Jesus looks down from on high
to cast a protective gaze over us.
Some think that ancestors from beyond the grave,
keep their eyes on us (which sounds morbid to me).
But maybe we look over ourselves.
Maybe we travel back in time to when we were children,
--broken, lost, confused, abused, disillusioned
and we visit our former selves,
walk the twisted paths that mishaped us,
to find our wandering child,
then we sweep down in angelic mercy
(or fury)
drive back the darkness,
embrace that child,
feel the pain,
share the load,
weep the dirt out of the wounds,
and create a new reality.
Bus Ride to Delusion
Sitting on the bus, he feels white, feels proud of himself for being aware of his whiteness, of pondering this fact as he shares the bus with people of color and poor whites.
Technically he belongs to the category of poor white--no money in his account, rent way past due; he lives in poverty, but his roots sprung up and reach back to the suburbs.
Not poor, just struggling to move on to the next step. He knows he will find success. He expects it; it is expected of him.
He is in this world, but not of this world
He can turn to scores of white people who will trust him, assist him, believe in him even though he habitually lies and steals.
And when he rises economically, socially, personally, will he acknowledge his privilege and the power given to him freely (but at great cost to others) or will he delude himself and us into thinking that anyone on that bus can do the same as he if they just try hard enough?
"I was there and I got myself out--so why can't they?"
But was he every really one of them, or just there for the ride?
Sliding
I think about the things we never say.
The longing
spilling out of your eyes,
the questions
that never reach our lips.
Firmly strapped
into your straight jacket
you smile and
gird yourself
for the day,
Keeping busy enough
not to think,
Fighting off feeling.
A lion tamer
with whip and chair,
beating back the beast
as the crowd
watches you breathlessly,
wishing to believe that
the man in the cage
feels
no fear.
Gay Evangelism
Conservatives routinely accuse gay activists of trying to convert young people to homosexuality. It's all part of the diabolical "gay agenda". None of it is true, at least of the dozens of gay activists that I know, none of them want to change anyone's sexual orientation. We hope to change people's attitudes to make the world a safer place for LGBTIQ folks.
From having been an Evangelical, Born-Again, Pentacostal, Conservative Christian, I think I understand why the Religious Right slander the queer community. They look at the world through their own world-view. They want to convert the whole world, so they assume the rest of us want to do the same thing.
As an Evangelical, I was taught that my highest call was to share the Gospel of Jesus in hopes of leading many to Christ. At school, on the job, in my neighborhood, I was on the prowl to "save souls". My church gave me license to exploit any opportunity "for the Kingdom". I was in a life and death struggle to rescue people from the devil's clutches.
I believed this and felt that God expected me to use my position of authority at my job in NYC to advance the Gospel.
As a gay activist, I see things very differently. I do not want to convert anyone to Gaydom. Rather I want people to discover who they are and run with it. If you are gay, great. Straight, great. Bi, great. Just be yourself without shame and fear.
Many straight men fear gay men because they believe that the gay men lust after straight men in the same way that many straight men lustfully look at women. This may be a valid fear; I've seen (and experienced) that sort of lust.
But the fear that Conversatives have that we are an army of Gay evangelists seeking to devour the youth of America does not hold up.
Spring?
They say it is just the spring.
Winter's vice loosened,
I felt summer lean tight against
My hungry flesh,
Lick the back of my neck,
Redden my face.
Just the spring,
and
You.
What are you dumping in the river?
If there is such a thing as a 'collective consciousness,' I envision it as a river with each of us sitting on its banks.
We draw from the river of common thoughts, concerns, ideas and opinions, and we pour into it our own contributions.
I ask myself, "What am I putting in this river?"
Is my contribution wholesome and creative, or am I dumping toxic wastes of racism, anger, lust, unforgivenss and fear?
Just like all the chemicals we dump on our pristine suburban lawns, (toxins that then run-off into rivers and the water basin) we can poison the cosmic waterways with negativity. We can also change the world for good.
Our thoughts and words and prayers matter, and make a difference.
My Girlfriend???
This is the Malta Man. He's part of a billboard that stood outside my hotel window in Yaounde, Cameroon. Big smile, thumbs up. Gee I can use his advice right now.
You see, I somehow got a girlfriend in Cameroon, well actually two. Both are named Sabine, or at least one is.
Okay, short version:
I met Sabine on-line when I searched for people in Cameroon through a pen pal site. Initially we corresponded about her country, the food, climate, basic stuff.
Then as my arrival date loomed nearer, the e-mails changed in tone, became more longing with specific requests for cell phones and such.
I arrived in Cameroon and decided that I would not see Sabine until the end of the week and invite her to my show. I figured once she saw me prancing about as five different queer characters and heard me announce publicly that I am gay, that that might cool off the love she had for me.
She arrived and spoke no English. I speak minimal French. Even so, she saw the show and I assumed she understand that it would just not work.
Then she began to call me at my hotel, leave messages, show up at the front desk. I deftly avoided her until one morning, while shaving, she called from the front desk.
I washed my face, packed up my French verbs and stomped downstairs to settle this once and for all.
A woman in her late 50's met me. I never saw her before in my life. She approached me and introduced herself as SABINE. Sabine?!?
Apparently the REAL Sabine. Turns out, this newer Sabine was the one who first communicated with me via e-mail with the help of her niece, Gladys. At some point Gladys stole Sabine's identity and started writing to me directly in Sabine's name.
It took lots of fancy footwork in French to figure out this scenario and I am still not certain I have the complete story. I flagrantly used my friend Priscilla as a covergirl to gry to get Sabine to back off (which pissed of both of my brides-to-be).. But as I left, the "Real" Sabine slipped me a provocative photograph of herself. Clearly she didn't get it.
Yesterday I received the following e-mail, "Hi my darling , i' m so happy to write you this letter. I was so happy to be with you in my country , and i hope that we will be together once again; I miss you so much , and i want to read you again . I want to know if you finished and darling i want to meet your pictures that you must sent me i will send you the picture of my son charles . big kiss , i wait your letter. tenderly , sabine" (yeah right, which Sabine? And will I have to adopt Charles?)
Clearly she doesn't get it. Oh Malta Man, whatever shall I do???
Colorado Morning
April 30, 2005: Snow!
No, it is is not what I expected. Didn't I get enough snow this year already? Okay, I did escape to tropical locations in Puerto Rico and West Africa, and England earlier this month was a spring time marvel, but still, Colorado is suppose to be the second most sunniest state in the US.
Eight days and nothing but clouds, rain and SNOW.
Seeing the snow in large clumps on the trees intrigued me. It took days to figure out why.
The trees had buds on them. Under the thick cover of snow, deep rose color buds and emerging green leaves pressed on in their relentless march to summer.
The snow will not deter them, nor should it deter me.
self portrait CO
Some people are more introspective than others,
(some of us morbidly and even vainly so)
but when I look inwardly, my world begins to make sense or else it gets turned upside down.
George Fox wrote, "Just as there is a world outside, there is a world within."
I've been looking inwardly lately, forced to by difficult early morning dreams and dreary weather keeping me indoors. Most of what I find does not make much sense yet; perhaps some things never will.
Home View
After 6 weeks of travel,
I get to watch the world
from my own window.
I feel
dull,
listless,
spent.
Time to refresh, relax, rekindle the fire.
Activists in Colorado
I just spent nine days in Colorado touring with my show in conjunction with a peaceful protest of Focus on the Family in Colorado Springs.
Living in Connecticut (where gay civil union was just legalized) I don't feel the sting of oppression that many queer people experience in the US, but in Colorado the oppression is palpable. Queer people get fired from their jobs just for being gay, (CO is one of 36 states that does not protect gay people on the job)
Chester & Dan (in the photo) seemed an unlikely production team for me as I toured, but they set up most of my gigs out of their strong sense of urgency to engage people in dialog about queer issues.
Dan's sister, Esther, is also a serious activist. She shared with me
The 12 signs of a Facist state I read them and felt the chilling reality come over me. I live in a facist state. Like Franco's Spain, where they killed queer, politically vocal artists like Federico Garcia Lorca, I live in a country that has begun to target its own citizens as immoral and dangerous.
It is true that violence was needed to stop the Nazis, but so much more could have been done before it got to that point. The hardworking, family values German people after a world war, a depression and a leadership that filled them with fear and lies, caved in. Not all, but most.
I see myself as an artist before an activist, but I need to wake up from my slumber and not trust that someone else will speak out.
