Recently in Life Category

Last week, I saw Zun’s photo and thought “Yes: THIS is the reason I’m doing this!” But would the mere existence of a stunningly beautiful photo of Staceyann Chin be enough of a reason to include it in the inaugural issue of this project? Probably not. I asked for and was graciously permitted (Thanks Zun!) to use it, but could I just publish this photo without any context? No. Riveting context would require, at the very least, knowing that she just published The Other Side of Paradise, her first book of memoirs earlier this year. Even better if I could get my hands on a copy to read it, quickly, before even approaching her or her PR crew. Of course my public library didn’t have a copy yet. Alrighty then. The big kids (well, the taller ones) got to ride the more thrilling rides; I was never the kid trying to pass on tippy-toes … but here I am, feeling what it must feel like to walk through that gate the first time. Prohibitive list price be damned.

It’s a rainy Thursday morning in Harlem (although monsoon might be a bit more descriptive of what we’re experiencing *LOL*) and I’m taking stock. I’m not nearly as self-sufficient as I want to be. The easiest way would be to commit myself to The Job, but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. (Yes, I’m still looking.) That in and of itself is a difficult enough prospect, but I’m also noticing that no one I know seems to have found that stride either - especially up here in Harlem. I know people who have jobs they don’t mind, but I don’t know anyone employed at doing what they really love doing. That’s always been my focus.

The last time I had sex was over a month ago. Nothing to write home about but judging from the way he was kissing and moaning and carrying on, he might have another opinion. Nope, this is not about prowess but clarity - not trying to fall in love, just trying to enjoy a fleeting sexual encounter with a guy I’ll probably never see again. It was the kisses I noticed; he clearly was feeling something I wasn’t. He was also wearing a wedding band.

Online social networks are kinda scary. For one, there are the corporations behind the scenes. I think I understand a little about why they’d want to protect themselves - the Internet is global, so they’re global corporations - but assuming ownership over other people’s content is more than a little shady. If someone left a comment on my blog and wanted to later delete it, I wouldn’t say “No, I own it now and you gave me person to do whatever I wanted with it when you left it on my site.” I’d probably just go ahead and delete it. After all, my blog is mainly about my opinion. Sure, I want blog about things to make people react and interact - if I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t blog.

I’ve been a freelancer for a while now, but one without a real strategy for how to make it actually work. I’m rethinking that strategy a bit. Part of it involves touching up my own site and developing more of a presence on sites like LinkedIn. I’ve had an account there for years now, but can count on one hand the times I logged in. It just didn’t seem like either anything worth putting energy into or that I wanted to manage.

Which brings me to the other side of online social networks - managing the connections I make with other people. That’s even more difficult for me; I can delete my account from a corporation’s site much more easily than I can click a button that instantly defines both me and the person on the other end as less than the friends we once were. But people change - and sometimes people grow apart. I hate having to be the person to say “Look, what’s going on between us?” but that has a way of falling into my lap much more often than not. Sometimes, it’s just too much.

Maintaining my LinkedIn account (which I’ll link to once I’ve edited my profile) is primarily about being available for freelance gigs, but there’s still a person on the other side of that account that I’m linking to - or that I choose not to link to. Not quite the same as less business-related social networks, but still not the same as dealing with a faceless corporation. I know that I’ll just have to take it one step at a time.

This post was originally going to be much more detailed, but I thought twice … then thrice. It’s so easy to become nothing more than a response.

My laptop’s dictionary/thesaurus lazily defines affluent as ‘having a great deal of money’ and as a synonym for wealthy. It’s a very abrupt definition: you can almost feel the anxiety of the person whoever wrote it, as if s/he had to go to the bathroom and was running out the door with pen in hand.

I almost didn’t go because I didn’t feel like pretending to be smarter than I really am, around a bunch of my folks, all in the name of ‘our recovery’ (all the sighing is so much more convenient that way, I guess). I don’t want to be shady; I’d rather shine a light, as much as I can, as tired as I am. I went because I knew there’d be people there who know how to love me, to hug them and maybe shake the hands of a few people I don’t know. If you don’t know me by now, well, there’s always the archives …

Some people use the word ‘mecca’ to mean an occasional hotbed of visibility (and debauchery). I’m talking about a neighborhood where we could greet each other walking down the street and actually talk to each other. Atlanta? I’m not so sure about that anymore. For one, everything’s so spread out and isolated. And every time I’ve visited, the other Black gay men I noticed were either scurrying home to their own cul-de-sacs or drunk at a bar. Or drunk at the mall. Um, not quite what I had in mind …

I have food
I can’t eat
I can’t sleep
I’ve tried to sleep
I can’t sleep
I have to sleep
I need my rest
but I can not rest
yet.

They say it’s presumptuous
to call yourself an artist
or to call yourself brilliant
but I am an artist
and I am one
of the most brilliant people that I know.

That’s why I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep when I know
that I can make a difference
that I have made a difference
that I can make more of a difference.

I can’t sleep when I know
he’s performing tonight
at fucking Madison Square Garden
while somewhere in another square
someone is begging for help
someone is begging to be saved
someone is begging for her life
someone like me.

I’ve been bashed, too
but we go on.

I haven’t slept much
I don’t like the way I look
I need a haircut
and a shave
and a job
and to clean my house
I am furious
I am shaking as I type this
I don’t like the way I feel
but we go on.

I still want to do my best.

There is a new urgency surrounding the latest episode of a continuing crisis; I’m referring to the videoclips of the recent gay bashings in Jamaica and relating them to Buju Banton’s performance here at Madison Square Garden tomorrow evening. (If you haven’t heard about any of this, please refer to Terrance Heath’s blog.) I am concurrently working on resurrecting my podcast series in order to respond in protest, so be on the lookout for that.

However, the purpose of this particular entry is not to talk about the specifics of that.

I’m writing this at around 4am on Saturday morning. Yesterday I spent most of the day emailing and calling people that I know personally in my community in the hope of garnering a response greater than any that I could undertake by myself. I did not leave Harlem. I started out by making a deposit at my bank to fund my domain renewal and my upcoming global telecommunications. I walked over to Halal Roti Plus (one of the sponsors) in an attempt to engage in a productive dialogue with owner Don Grant. When I arrived, I was greeted with the same poster that I’d previously seen around Harlem promoting tomorrow’s event, but Mr. Grant was away at a doctor’s visit and was not available for comment. I crossed the street to inquire about community relations at the Amsterdam News. I walked back down 125th Street past the Apollo Theater to the Harlem State Building. About a month ago, I ran into the wife of State Senator Bill Perkins at a local restaurant and she encouraged me to physically go and remind the Senator’s chief of staff of some photos I’d taken of them during an event he sponsored this past February in celebration of Black Style Now and Fashion Week. I did just that. His chief of staff gave me her business card as she was leaving the building with the Senator. I took the opportunity also to tell them about Buju’s upcoming performance (and our Internet-based response); she hadn’t heard anything about it and actually thought he wasn’t performing anymore. We continued walking east on 125th Street and relayed to them as much as I could before going back home to organize a bit more. At the end of the day, I ended up conferencing with Tokes Osubu, executive director of Gay Men of African Descent for my podcast. We accomplished that, however, we both agreed that the need is ultimately so much greater than a response to Buju’s latest machinations or to any specific crisis.

It is time, to coin a biblical phrase, to separate the wheat from the tares.