While walking to work this morning I ran into a bit of trouble. It wasn't in the form of Tuesday morning gang bangers but rather a small little child, in a stroller armed with fits and juice.
The corner of 17th and Dolores is often tame. People who sit at Maxfields usually keep to themselves, and I walk on the south side of 17th so I can keep to myself. My morning two mile walk to work is a time where I meditate about the day ahead and prepare myself for the challenges of looking at porn.
About half way down the block from Church I heard a child screaming. The ping-ting shrill only a child can make that took me out of my happy space. I looked ahead and saw a mother on her cell phone and with her son in a stroller. It almost looked like he was seizing, contorting his body every which way to free himself from his stroller bastille.
His mother said in an I-never-have-watch-Dr.-Phil-voice, "Conner quiet, mommy's on the phone."
I approached with caution. It wasn't enough. As I stood waiting for the traffic to ease up and cross against the light, the kid threw his sippy cup at me. Upon impact the lid popped open and juice sprayed all over my jeans. I mustered an "ughhhh."
Mommy didn't even say anything. I was flabbergasted. She kept talking on the phone.
"Are you going to apologize?"
"Your kid just hit me with his juice."
"Hold on Marcie. What?"
"I said, your kid just hit me with his juice."
"Oh." She didn't care. By this time her son was twisting. He looked like Linda Blair in the Exorcist. I half expected pea green soup to come at me next.
The light changed and I stepped off the curb. "Lady your kid's a terrorist. It all starts with juice."
OK, so the Folsom Street Fair is happening today but I cannot be bothered to go. With as many people out in the Castro yesterday around 1 PM the thought of a large crowd makes me want hole-up and hide until tomorrow.
I can understand why people go to such an event, it must feel liberating to go out and be on display-- truly an occasion to bring what’s reserved for one’s bedroom (or dungeon as the case may be) and share with devotees and dilatants alike.
However working in “The Industry” sex is more or less an everyday occurrence. Fetishes are the norm and I see sex itself as not much more than commodity. Seeing people flogged or flaunting their latest purchase from Mr. S Leather and not getting paid weighs heavily as to why I’m staying away.
It's interesting how the mean things keep replaying in my mind lately. Walking down Van Ness in the winter of 2002, I came across a homeless woman sitting in the doorway of a business that had closed for the evening. She cried out to me, “Can you spare five dollars?”
I couldn’t help but choke on the amount. I'd heard of inflation and wasn't surprised it has spread to the homeless community as well, but five dollars?! Come on. I selectively became deaf.
As I made that decision the crosswalk light had changed and I was stuck on the corner right next to her.
“Fine,” she spat out, “don’t help me. Don’t even look at me! Pretend I don’t exist.”
Coldly I spoke my eyes straight ahead, “I don’t look at you because you’re ugly.” The light turned green and I went on my way. I felt like an asshole for saying that but I also laughed. It evened everything out.
Halliwell Manor from the TV show "Charmed." As most people know this is actually located in the Echo Park area of Los Angeles. Nick and I went there as part of our trip.
One street over is Kellam, and there's a super hot guy who lives there-- beautiful body, but he's not much faster than a sloth.
I need to take pictures of people... I'll work on it.
What is an autobiography without myth? Aren't my personal myths every bit as important as the historical facts that surround me? I believe so. I know so. Everything that comes into the space I occupy, which is much more than the physical and temporal space we know, is somehow changed by me. My lens alters everything and I add my spin, my own perspective, as pen meets paper or fingers meet keys.
Eirkur: A New Spelling of My Name is playing off Audre Lorde's spectacular Biomythography which she (re)creates herself. What is truth and what is fiction does not matter when taking in the work.
Emily Dickinson begins a poem by writing, "Tell the truth but tell it slant." All personal narratives are fiction as far as I'm concerned. All memoirists tell a version of the story as they see it.
Russian Poet Marina Tsvetaeva did much the same thing in her work, intertwining myth and historical facts mythologizing herself.
While I am less eloquent from the authors mentioned, I too am turning to the thought of biomythography/mythobiography. I seek to create my myth of identity and lead the reader down the path of to discover the purposes of this myth. This is not to write I won't be telling the truth. But as Dickinson also wrote, "The Truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind--"
Welcome to the newest chapter of my blog.
(PS: My archiving is messed up-- my old post 1/2003 - 8/2004 should be back up soon.)