"Sissy Meditation III"

Being Queer a Sissy is to have a particular sensitivity to the world. I say "Sissy" because not all homosexuals are Queer. Some fuck like them, but are not remotely them.

I was a Sissy when a young boy. I was called "Sensitive" by my Mother, and Aunts. Other things by boys at school. When I was seven I knew I had a different seeing. A Sissy's seeing.

There was a day in fall. The Sky. The Colors, and swift Clouds of October. I sat in my backyard for hours I think. 

Just watching.

I was uplifted taken away by the wonder of it. This in essence is Queerhood Sissydom. Sissyhood is the ability to be lost. So lost in beauty, and gentleness that you forget who you are where you are when you are.

This done without effort. For Queers it just happens.

In most boys, and men it's beaten out of them. It's gone.

However with us it's different. It's who we are. Threaten us beat us all you want we don't lose it won't change 'can't' change.

The Sky will always be beautiful to us, and we will always say so. We will always be taken up, and lost in it.

I wonder how many Queer Sissies have been martyred for loving the Sky for loving Color Sweetness, and Gentleness.

(I wrote the below as a dovetail this the meditation.)

"Falling Into the Sky"

What would it be like if you fell into the Sky.

You're going to this place, and that 

while above us Eternity.

Forever, and Forever ,...Tomorrow, and Tomorrow.

Above the Trees above the Towers beyond the Clouds.

I think of falling into Eternity falling into Forever.

One foot in front of the other. One step then another,...

Then,...Falling.

Falling into Heaven.

"Pages"

YOU KNOW THAT YOU 'LOVE' LITERACY, AND HISTORY. IF THE BURNING OF THE LIBRARY AT ALEXANDRIA THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO 'STILL' PISSES YOU OFF. UPSETS YOU, AND FILLS YOU WITH A DEEP RESOLVE THAT 'NOTHING' LIKE THAT WILL 'EVER' HAPPEN AGAIN!

It's 'one' continuous human culture from the Ice Age to now. Not the separate outcrops official history tends to describe. So all of our work cave paintings to holograms tell our ongoing stories. 
This is why the destruction of art hurts so much. 

As story character "Mr. Spock" said in the "Trek" episode "The Cloud Minders",..."The Destruction of Art is a Loss for All." 

The burning of books by political extremists. The dynamiting of sculptures by religious fanatics. The deleting of poetry prose essays articles by hackers is a destruction of a sacred portion of our collective cultural memory. 
One that's been on going for more than 20,000 years.

"So now it's Fall"

How our little seasons do fly. As I mentioned earlier I'm now far closer to 100 than to 20. You hang around that long you tend to see things differently.
How I love the changes of season. The whole world shifts to a new mode of reality. Bud to bloom to seed to winter sleep. I guess this is why I can't live in a place with only one season...no matter how pleasant it might be.

I need to see the world evolve before my eyes. Also now that I think about it. The present living generations are blessed, and a bit cursed to see an actual "Planetary Climate Change" in their lifetimes,...amazing. That, and a transformation are great as the start of the industrial age. The information digital age.

We'll adjust it as we adjusted to everything else. That, and whatever comes after.

Later era's will see the mid-20th through the mid-21st centuries as an Ages of mixed-Miracles. An age of Changes, and not all for the better. Yet an age that changed the world.
I'm actually Hopeful. ...yeah annoyed, and generally terrified, but hope as well.
Hope for this planet, and for the demented bi-peds that insist on stumbling all over it.

"I Can Explain,...No Really"

Way back in 1974 I gets this call from Abbie Hoffman when he was on the lam from da Feds. Well he tells me about that fucking giant UFO them feds is sitting out in Montana. He gives me coordinates the works. Sez he want's me to give the low down to the Dali Lama. Then I hears shots on the line,...bleep!

Still I has to get this shit to the frigging Dali Lama in bleeping India,...I ain't been west of Chicago at the time. While I'm standing there with a dead phone in my hand, and a possible dead Abbie at the other end.
A large pouch tied to a brick shaped like a birthday cake comes fly'n through my window.
Aw Com'on! Anyway I Opens it, and there's a note from Holden Caulfield who everybody, and their indicted uncle thinks is fictional,...but ain't.

There's also a ticket to Geneva with a re-route to Somalia then another direct to New Deli. That plus a load 'a passports, and a big bunch of money,...cash! Holden sez to contact some Midwestern crooked politico fixer named Clinton in Geneva. Btw there's a gun in that bag too. Ol' Holden sez to shoot the "fixer" once business is done...bleep!

I ain't shoot'n shit.

I took the dough shit canned them hot passports which probably would've got me stuck up against the first handy wall, and split the hell out'a there. Every phone booth I ran pass was ringing...they had me spotted covered sighted, and bleeped up the tail light with no grease in sight!
Fuck, and I thought I was gonna get laid,...another story.

*To be continued.

"Off World"

I have a great longing to have lived, and grown up in wilderness. I think this is the first lifetime I've lived in a big City. That is if recurring lives are true. This is also I think the first time I'm male. I just never got the hang of it,...so to speak.

Most of my longings are for wilderness. Farms meadows.
My family had a dairy farm down South for generations. So I missed my rural destiny by just a few decades. In the life cycles it was time for me to push on,...into a vast City Nation.

I had children too...in those other lives. Many lives as a mother.

That is very clear.

In this present life I was always the one to care for the children of family. I had a child with a dear friend long ago. The little one didn't make it. Miscarriage. There's no grave. Our industrial values didn't allow for one,...it was just tissue.
I dream of him/her sometimes. The child appears as one or the other in my arms.
About our farm though. If we still had it my brother, and I would have been running it. We'd have passed it on to our kids by now. Grand kids learning the trade now as well.

So farms behind me in this City World I'm living in now.

Perhaps the next life will be "Off World". I'll let you know.

"...all we have"

Scenes from a life. Mine. Not unlike yours. The sun peeking through my kitchen window. It prisms, and cascades color over everything. Who would have thought a toaster could be so beautiful.

My floor becomes a yellow brick road. My calendar from the Thai take-out an illuminated manuscript. That, and all of my meds lined up, and lighted from within.

'Almost makes waking up worthwhile.

I remember lying in bed as a child, and listening. The branches outside my window heaved like the ocean. The house creaked, and moaned like a ship. My curtains billowing like sails.
I slipped into sleep. Into deep deep dreams. Dreams of brigantines sailing seas of green gems, and skies full of shooting stars.

Moments.

Blessed moments.

They are all we are.

They are all we have.

"Geisha Inc."

A pal was telling me that them geisha gals ain't exactly thick on the ground over there in Japan. This since to get into the training one needs the introduction from assorted big shots. Politicians rich guys or the mafia. Also after you get in it's insanely expensive so only children of the very well off are geisha.

What a drag.

So I figured I could fix this...with one of them "Kick Start" money things. I'll start a franchise of cut-rate Geisha Academies. Sort of like them car or air conditioner repair school scams. 

(Copy for my Geisha School commercial.)

"Yep come to " Aunt Kiko's Geisha Refinement Academy" Outlets all over the Tri-State area. We'll have you in white powder a kimono, and saying "Hello Sailor" in no time. Financial assistance available. Apply today have your 'Geisha Dreams' come true!

All sizes life-styles genders orientations, and till now unknown, and or unique identities welcome!

On public assistance? Currently incarcerated? No problem. We can work a deal!

We speak Russian/Мы говорим на русском!

Ask about our Veterans special rates!

We speak Creole/Nou pale Kreyòl!

Si Habla Espanol!

Apply Today!

"2028 C.E."

I find a forbidden copy of "Wild Boys" by the now declared criminal 20th century author William Burroughs. This in a used book stall. I'm amazed there's one still around. I mean after the "Literary Purity, and Religious Freedom Act" was passed. 

I paid in Bitcoin script, and hid it under my shirt. I took it home turned out all the lights. I climbed into my hall closet with a flash light. I crouch, and slowly open to the first page.

Suddenly police dogs barking a chopper hovering overhead with search lights stabbing through the curtains. The sound of boots stomping up my building's stairs.

Life in Tomorrowland.

"~V~"

Years ago I did a treatment for a children's story. I read some of it on the air. I never got it to work though. The story was a good one, but just didn't jell.

That is till I realized it wasn't supposed to be a story...not exactly. "Beulah's Window" was a descriptive few lines in the middle of a long confused narrative.
I scraped away all the static, and let those few line free. Yes I've posted this a few times here,...but I just likes it is all.

"Beulah's Window"

The window was a symphony of dreams. The window was composed of dozens of shards. Cast off bits of stained glass that Beulah the Forest Woman, Beulah the Witch, Beulah the Angel had assembled into Magic.

As the afternoon sun played across it. Here was illuminated a hand fragments of clouds. There a lily there a smile. Then a yellow crescent moon.

Throughout were floating embers of deep blue bright reds shades of gold fragments of turquoise. In it's upper portions were bits of alabaster doves, and a spray of purple, and rose.

Such was Beulah's Window.

"Wake"

The below video by Kevin Toolis  so reminds me of my Mothers wake memorial back in 1988 at our house. My Ma had touched so many lives. So many loved her. There came more than 400 at least over the day to our simple brownstone on an ordinary Brooklyn street. 

A City Councilman also a friend intervened to have the police not ticket double parked cars for the duration such was the crowd. 

I remember my brother, and sister ushering people to different parts of the house to distribute the weight, I had noted the upstairs floor was slightly bowing,...the first, and last time that ever happened. 

The people so many from all of our lives also many not known to us, but who loved my Ma. She was an administrator in a teaching hospital. So had encouraged generations of young students to become doctors no matter the obstacles. 

They came in numbers. 

So many from all the many parts of a well lived life came. Yes we sang we prayed we laughed told stories remembered, and let her go. Yet kept her memory. 

So we in our way had a vast Irish Wake for my Black Creole Chinese mother.

(...I had posted this, and the video on my FB page. I decided to put it here as well.

 I find that I have two entirely different groups following me here, and over there.)

"Whispered Blood"

Well as I said elsewhere. Here I speak a truth that's for now still unspeakable. I may not get invited to the "New Afrika Bar-B-Q" after this.

Blacks kill more blacks than anybody else in this country...by the way I'm a Colored person. Have been for some time now. Anyway in Chicago near 1500+ blacks have been killed this year,...mostly by other blacks. Multiply that by all of the rest of the country just for this year, and it becomes a ponderous number. We'd be looking at the body count of a small war.

Count all the violent deaths of blacks by blacks from the last ten years, it starts to approach American casualties from the first few years of WW2. You hear that...WW2.

We slaughter each other.

Our lives do not, and for near a century haven't, and don't matter to each other. There's all sorts of reasons for that. Tons of reasons most of them even true. We're sort of unique in behavior for an ethnic minority in the world...but then our treatment here was also a tad unique...even for an enslaved people.

Not only are we despised...but we profoundly despise ourselves. Hair straightener or skin lightener anybody?

The awful thing the so-so-so sad thing about it is we all...that's all of America accepts this as just how it is. I can tell you as a Negro or Black or Hip Hop Niggah or Afro or African American or African...all of the before are some of the various names we've given ourselves...you know we're fucked since we don't even know what to call ourselves...that unique treatment again.

Right I can tell you our internal genocide is never spoken about...unless someone we know is butchered...even then the 'why' never really comes up. So it's a custom accepted by us all,...for now. Like Lynching was. So what is to be done?

"Gandhi said there are 1000's of doors that lead out of hell,...you only have to choose one."

"Houseless"

These are from my notes written during my year of being "Houseless".

"Time passes strangely. A minute is a year a week a second."

"My previous life has become an echo of an echo."

"I wander the frontier of an unknown country".

I had once planned to do a one person play about my time of living outside. My Houseless year of near a decade ago. My going out into the streets alcoves, and parks.

However after I got back in. Into a secure home behind my own door with my own key. I found I just wanted to forget it. All of it. Who would want to pay money, and sit through such a thing...I sure wouldn't. Not just then at least.

I needed time.

Just as survivors of war need time. In fact when my brother found out ,...I told no one what had happened. After hearing of my experiences my brother John a decorated soldier told me that I was a "Veteran" now.

In that I'd spent a year in constant danger of losing my life or sanity as he had.

Time.

This past decade has been more than interesting for me. So many great lessons learned. The Houseless year. The forced retirement from my career. My Great Famine of 2016. The loss of family, and so many friends.

Much lost, but so much more gained.

A play a book or just an essay.

I will soon do one of the above about my life, and times.

"Ephemeral"

I've been dreaming about my decades long career in broadcast. Specifically dreams about doing shows. Much as soldiers dream of wars conductors dream of concerts, and mystics children dream of gawds.
Just now I dreamed of being in studio with old friends. Some of them now gone. It made me wonder if we did any good. Did we help at all?
I hope we did I think we did. I mean in that time for those people. I think yes.

It doesn't matter if we're not personally remembered. In that medium it's rare that anyone is. Our contact was intimate, and on the whole to the good. At least as best we understand the "good'. In the sort of performances we gave. A kind no longer really done. A one on one with a person in the deep of night...you, and them.

Each member of the audience was being spoken to individually. It was a command performance for folks in the sanctuary of their most private places.

I told stories from my life, and related them to the world as it was then. I wrote stories, and performed them. I deliberately played music that I both loved, and hoped would help the folks get through the night. We did this. There was a crew of unique brilliant people speaking into the night. We shared intimate space for a few hours in the depths of the dark once twice or several times a week for yes decades.

Margot Adler whom some of you know from NPR started at the same public station I served. I remember things I heard from her on the air that she said near 40 years ago, and they still matter.

What we did mattered.

I have no awards or trophy's. These were rare in the era I worked in. Now there are awards ceremonies in the industry for wiping your butt, and flushing. What we have. What we were given is more ephemeral, and more lasting. We touched hearts souls. We informed were informed gave laughter hope rage confusion insight the whole catalogue.

It was what it was, and still lives in those that were there to share it.

Amen.

"Days Go By"

I was on a chat where the problem of how to get by if you woke up as the only likely person still on the planet. Well there may be others, but widely separated. Say out of the current 7 Billions of folks you wake up on an earth with 60,000 thousand. This scattered all over the globe.

Well first things first.

Where do they keep the antibiotics in drug stores? Also how do I get fresh water for the rest of my life. This is the sort of stuff a person would be working on. This assuming that Zombies or crazed bikers gangs don't also survive close by, and show up to ruin your day.

Water would be easy at first as the water system will run for some time. At least till the pumps, and power lasts. If you're in a region with hydroelectric you're good for a few years. Most other places only a few weeks to a month.
One must learn to think long term,...very long term. Your life depends on it. This is why so-called primitive folks tend to do this. End of the quarter thinking in this environment will be very fatal. So very long term planning if one wants to go on. However,...

Profound mourning, grievous loss would be a big part of your empty world. At least at first. If one learns to live with this lonely reality the practicalities will assert itself.

A safe place to live.

Did the wildlife come through the event. If so you'll need to learn to hunt some. Eventually protection from them. Canned or dried food is only good for at most five years. You'll have to be a farmer/hunter. If you're an urbanite you'll have to learn these skills. This can be done with experience, and reading. Life in the city will be too dangerous in a year or less.

Find a cabin.

Good drainage a field of fire,...just in case. Tools seeds a root cellar all the preindustrial basics will have to be done. If you've had a basic education, and paid attention you'll know what books you need for this.
I think a very young person of the 21st century may not make it past two or three years. ...if that.
They wouldn't even know what questions to ask.
They'll die of infection or food poisoning. Perhaps even a predator attack.

I'd say the best survivor would be in their mid 20's to their early 50's. Before or after that it gets seriously dicey. So food water shelter. Btw the commercial seeds will start to go bad certainly within six to ten years. This is why a medium plot farm will be your savior. You'll need to harvest not just the crops, but their seeds, and have a surplus of a year perhaps two of dried veggies or fruit. This will be hard work. Seriously hard work, but can be done. You'll do it because you'll know your life depends on it.

Prepare for storms or other natural disasters that could wipe your homestead out. Again take care where you decide to settle. You'll learn that a flood plain is called that for a reason. Be near a stream not a river. Rivers flood. Ponds or streams are safer also their fish will be a major calorie source.

Do art.

Paint draw write sing dance this will keep you both sane, and physically healthy. Me I would do one man portrayals of the classics, as well as commercials,...this especially from the 1950's. This would amuse, and center one's sanity. Remember you are alone in this world. Except for your cats, and hunting dogs.

Our survivor might go exploring from time to time.

Maybe going to towns for new tools or perhaps items to amuse. She or he may have a classic Land Rover

kept tuned up for this. A good four wheel drive all terrain ride. This could last for some years. After the gasoline no longer clicks.
A Rover can use other mixtures...so I've read.
Also one would have to know where you were, and how to get back to your homestead if you broke down. Map making, and reading will be a life saving skill.

Remember there is 'no one else'. Only 'you' can save you.

How long one lives will be the same as with our ancestors...dumb luck, and your hard work. If the survivor was say 26 at the time of the Event they again with "luck' could live into their 50's certainly,...that is if they wanted to.

A possible reason to go on would be company.

12 years into this farming hunting gathering performing artistic life perhaps a change. A hunter gatherer group might pass through the area. They may have started out many hundreds even over a thousand miles away which is why it took so long for them to stumble on your farm.

This meeting unlike in the films, and books with their marauders would be a pleasant encounter.

You'll trade laugh fuck, and they'll move on. Though now they know you're there, and they'll come back a few times a year as their journeys take them again through the region.

In time others might show up.

Same thing. Laugh sing dance perform some plays for them. The older folks will like the commercials. You'll trade fuck, and they move on. One day some of these bands come back with your daughters, and sons if you're a guy. You'll have theirs at the homestead if a gal.

I can see an annual solstice meeting of clans developing.

This as your children, and grandchildren even great grandkids return to your homestead for the festival.  This if you live past 60. Remember they'll be having kids when they're 13 in this era. If this were me I can see myself taking my extended distant families around the farm in my aged Land Rover.
The little ones amazed having never seen a car actually running.

So humanity at least in the first post Event generations live in peace.
In the future villages towns city states.

Though this time we might get it right.