What to Wear: Pride 2023 edition

I want to dress in sackcloth

drag noir

all black

a shroud

to mourn the death of

liberty and justice

the murder of fair decency

the silent suffocation some would subject us to

or shall we remain resplendent

arising prism hued

aligned with our true purpose

yet wearing one black armband

for those whose footsteps

are now only echoes

(June 12, 2023)

I’m so tired of fighting for the right to exist in my own body. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that stop me.

This body is a battleground.

No surrender.

Sentient Glitter

a black sphere streaks across a black background, trailing a purple and blue aurora like a comet streaking through deep space

“The thing is, none of that shit is real.  Nothing is real, and I can prove it.  Pick any molecule in existence.  If that molecule was a solar system, that is, if some atom in a molecule in a mitochondrion in a cell in your body was the size of the sun, its electrons are somewhere out past Pluto. Most of you is empty space. 

Wait, it gets worse.  I can prove you don’t exist.  Science is fantastic.  I mean, I get why people think they’re just making stuff up, because quantum physics is bonkers.

Because if you get down that small, if you’re looking at electrons, first of all you’re using the most advanced science we’ve ever scienced, machines the size of cities, billions of dollars of infrastructure.  And it still barely works.  You’re trying to catch ghosts.  Really you are because the only way you see quantum particles is smashing them into each other and taking a photo.

I’m not kidding.  This is science.  That’s what they do at the CERN super-collider, which is why they call it a collider.

But think about that.  They’re seeking the building blocks of all we know, and you’d think it would be obvious.  I mean, we’re made of atoms, everything is made of atoms, but atoms don’t really seem to be made of anything at all.

You can know where a quantum particle was, or you can know where it’s going.  You cannot, cannot by the fundamental structure of the universe, know both.  They’re like cockroaches: if you turn on the light they disappear under the cabinets. I mean it, if you locate a quantum particle, the act of looking at it makes it change direction.

Imagine you’re at a baseball game and you’re looking at something else.  Like there’s someone on the jumbotron who doesn’t know her nip has slipped or whatever is distracting you.  And you hear the crack as the batter hits the ball and so you look and you looking makes that sweet long drive to the unguarded right field suddenly in midair veer to the left and land in the midfielder’s glove.

That’s what doing quantum physics is like.  At a million bucks a throw.

Here’s the even worse bit:  in the end the odds of finding any one particle in any one given state or location are just that, odds.  There is no certainty at the bottom of reality.  Just chance.  Your particles come and go, fluctuate in and out of being, are at best potentialities that walk and talk and wear pants and think they’re in charge of some shit when you don’t even really exist. You are seafoam on an ever-cresting wave sweeping through time and space, sentient glitter that winks in and out of existence faster than you or I can imagine.

So why the fuck does it matter which bathroom I use?”

20 – Territory

a single upright square-edged boulder stands on a cliff edge like a sentinel, against a backdrop of the sparsely treed, pyramidal hills of Africa's Rift Valley

and there is in all of this a wish to disappear

to obliterate our old selves in a

burst of glittering gold

emerge phoenix-like from our own ashes

the pyre of history

the stubbled field of our ancestors

before the coming of the seed

I owe you nothing that you cannot

get for yourself

there is no debt between us

your unasked for gifts

left at the side of the road

leading to un-ceded territory

I owe you nothing in return

for all the nothing you have given me

as we meet empty-handed on the precipice

all of us straining for

a glimpse of

tomorrow

(2023)

This poem is part of a semi-published series called Body of Work, an ongoing dialog with identity and self-knowing.

Line Poem 7

abstract painting: a figurative image of three silhouettes of faces overlaid in shades of blue and white. From the main figure's head, swirling circles of light and shadow suggest otherworldly yet shapeless imaginings.

punished

by

data

and

I

want

to

ask

why

but

no

one

will

ever

answer

the

phone

chop

the

wood

boil

the

water

return

return

return

return

remake

rejuvenate

restore

your

native

hope

your

soil-grown

wantings

your

endeavours

reach

down

and

know

your

self

(2023)


What am I doing with these line poems? They say so little, tell so much, but I believe there’s a balance between poetry that is born of long thought, and that which tears through us, that grasps a mere tenth of our feeling yet makes it manifest in a form that others can see.

I want to work harder. I want to burn. I want to push and push and push until I reach a lie, then push beyond. I want you to break when you read them. I want you to be reborn.

Too cool for the crypt

My local shopping district, a cute and happily robust cluster of antique shops, fabric stores, and casual dining trends, hosted an event for World Dracula Day, celebrating the anniversary of the first release of Bram Stoker’s novel.

I thought, what better way to take advantage of the fact that I dress like (let’s be honest) Doctor Who on an extended 1889 story arc. Off I went to diligently assemble an appropriately sepulchral ensemble.  Aside from lacking long hair and having the wrong shade of top hat, I managed a very satisfactory homage to Gary Oldman in that grey suit (or Lucien Vaudrey if you nasty.)

In other words I looked great.  I look good in suits in general, and this outfit was so satisfying that I decided not to wear it to the vampire party. That is to say, I looked just how I like to look on the day to day, and the thought of calling it a costume was… 

It was fucking cringe, alright?  It felt like I was making a joke about myself. I am very, very aware that I dress differently than almost everyone alive (that’s much of the point) and so maybe I overthink my aesthetic, but there’s so little joy that we’re permitted in this economy that I’ve leaned way in on this thing that persistently brings me joy.  It seems to make other people happy too, for the number of compliments I get. Someone dressed in plus-fours and a waistcoat is not an ordinary sight.  You’re welcome.

But it’s just my ordinary clothes.  It’s not a costume.  Or if it is, then every single one of us are wearing costumes every day.

typical me, typical me, typical me

This is the larger truth, that we are all doing drag, every single day.  We *choose* how we want to look, even when we’re not aware of it.  Every time we get dressed, we are choosing which part of ourselves to present, depending not just on our moods but on the context, and if you don’t think that’s true, go ahead put on sweats and crocs then try talking to the CEO of your company the way you talk to the people you play sports with on the weekend.  If that’s the same person, congrats, you’ve won capitalism.

Regarding my excellent self in the mirror last Saturday, the serendipitous collection of grey apparel that when put one with the other seemed to have been made for the sole purpose of becoming this suit. I was too happy to want to stain it with the frivolity of pretending I wouldn’t dress exactly like this every day. I mean, the ultimate cop-out Hallowe’en costume is to just put on what you wear to work, right?  Costumes should transport, make fantastic, startle and confound.  This outfit was simply too good.

Bloody shame I’m such a snob, though.  I hear there were prizes.

Four poems about fire: #3

a hand holding up a white-framed instant photo. The photo is either undeveloped or a picture of a blank white surface

a city on a hill

a burning branch

a window shattered by a thrown brick

a layer of neural tissue two millimetres thick

a series of choices which, when stood beside each other, can only be seen as inevitable

a map with a white space in the middle

a feather you found on your windshield from a bird that was classed as extinct

a promise that no one expects you to keep

(2023)

Four poems about fire: #1

the night sky lit yellow and orange by a forest fire. in the foreground, smoke rises from a blue valley.

the sky is full of Alberta

that stalwart cloak of green

that DEW line shielding the eastern provinces from the

aerial assault of off-gassed methane

igniting in one long curving line and taking with it our

hopes for a safe and happy summer

as the sweetgrass dreams of grassy inland oceans

are buried by the silty ruins of the last great extinction

WHY I READ* ROMANCE

TL:DR because I don’t trust other fiction.

I toddled down a rabbit hole this morning.  I say toddled because I got myself out so quickly instead of losing 2 hours to doomscrolling.

I was following a series of increasingly strident flags declaring that THIS  is “the great gay American novel.”  And I mean, I like great novels and gay people and am interested in America and anyone who has the nerve to lift the curtain.  But like I always do, I started by reading the worst reviews. That’s where the gold is, the truth, the ick, or in some cases “this was too horny for me and had too many queer characters” in which case it’s a one-click buy. But sometimes it’s:

“FUCK. THIS. BOOK.” 

That’s a one-click read, that review. If it inspires such vitriol then either it’s a masterpiece or a steaming turd.

Ah.  The latter.

Because I’m absolutely not a little bit sorry, but The Great Gay American Novel is not allowed to be a goddamn Kill-Your-Gays trope.  Not a fucking chance.

We’ve heard those stories. They’re called queer history.  Despair, isolation, mental illness, and often the only defence is to destroy all human feeling in your soul so you don’t have to cope with the fact that if everyone knew you for who you are, they wouldn’t just hate you, they would want you dead.

Boring.

Boooooooorrrrrrrring because it’s horrible and spiritually deadening and it still happens in real life all the time and so we don’t need a 700 page novel about a loser who spends the whole book being awful to everyone and experiencing zero emotional growth but he just happens to be a gay man in a book about gay men so that makes it THE GREAT GAY AMERICAN NOVEL. It just feels like more trauma porn: look, here’s a walking, talking tragedy, let’s zoom in closer on all his faults. Now closer. NOW CLOSER. 

Look, I haven’t read this book and under no circumstances will I ever read it (ok, a million dollars but I get half in advance.) I am basing my opinions on one review and the blurb of the book. And an interview in which the author said they didn’t believe in psychology and that people who were broken should essentially just stay broken.

That’s when I realized I’d *never* read the book, nor probably anything else this author has written. The way to help someone who is broken is to see them, hear them, love them, help them. “I see your pain.  Your pain is real.  Pain ends.  I trust you. I believe you.” You don’t shrug and then take character notes.  I refuse to read 700 pages about someone who refuses to grow, who gets no help, and whose main characteristic is being an irredeemable piece of shit.  Just sounds like a novel about straight people.


*and write

Balance is bullsh!t

Daily writing prompt
How do you balance work and home life?

It’s funny that this came up as a prompt the other day. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to accomplish my goals both professionally and personally, and as much as we all laud the concept of balance I’m starting to think it’s a joke.

When I think about balancing, I picture someone on a tightrope. Arms extended, eyes locked on the horizon, physically committed to a ludicrous, massively dangerous task for other people’s entertainment.

I did just write a novel about a tightrope walker, so yes it’s a strong echo in my mind but that also means I know what the metaphor means. And I don’t know if it should be a goal.

For one thing, it’s fucking impossible. You can do well, giving yourself more or less equally to all your wants and responsibilities. And maybe that’s a neurotypical thing, to be able to plot your life carefully then follow it through, but that’s not in my wheelhouse, to employ boardroom language. I can’t actualize that paradigm.

I’m losing interest in the idea of balance. It’s really difficult to relax while balancing. Balance is a state of tension, of holding in place. It requires hyperawareness of the body and the ability to ignore everything around you. If you find a place of stillness, you cannot move from it or you will collapse. That sounds–that is–exhausting.

That sounds like capitalism: find one thing and do it till you die, never quitting or questioning, while faithfully replicating your DNA to provide capital with more human resources and supporting the rentier system of the 1% that holds the rest of us hostage by giving them back in the form of household spending and debt all the money they loaned you as wages.

The ideal work/life balance is No Work, All Life. I don’t mean, let’s all be unemployed.* I mean, why is work not life? Why are jobs so shit? Why have we bought into this massive system of pitting our economic needs against our human rights? Who the fuck wants to be an actuary? I would expect a single digit percent of actuaries chose that career because of some deep inner calling. For everyone else it was because they weren’t pretty or clever or rich enough to get to do what they want with their lives, and so they put on a suit and sit in traffic and eat a packed lunch and try not to jump out the office window. If that’s your life why even be alive? So you can give your children the very same future?

TL:DR Modernity is delusional. Baked into the core of our culture is the idea that *this world as it is right now* is the best we can do. That Starbucks and Exxon Mobil are natural and inevitable, that the only improvement possible is making the whole world like America. Delusion, delusion, delusion.

Fuck the work/life balance. It’s a joke, it’s a yoke, it’s a rationalization for letting capital skim the cream of labor’s efforts. For our collective good we need to seek a way of life where our work is worth living for.

An ideal work life balance? The least work possible at a job that won’t cost me my life.


*We can talk about health care and education as necessary jobs as long as you want to discuss why we underpay and understaff both these professions.