Voyager Now

stevie voyager nowcoda: ran into his knife for the last time last night last time last night. or did he run into mine? i forget who’s stabbing who these days. all i know now is no more, no more, no more, ain’t gone be like that more. no more, no more, no more, ain’t gone be like that more.

fuck a segue. fuck it making sense to anyone else but who i wrote it for. fuck him, too. 

forgive me but i am feeling dramatic and pretentious these days so i must go lowercase. sounds so nice, betta say it twice: forgive me but i am feeling pretentious and dramatic these days so i must go lowercase.

come with me. promise i won’t bite. 

journey within
vacation time and it is a good time to get away. as you can see from my last post, this here self-satisfied scribe is through and through and through. and then some. being a recovering rescuer/protector is a bitch because, well, it’s all i know. the impulse to reach out and save someone is seductive. second nature. strong. and frankly, i am challenged by the very idea of the absence of these impulses. no, terrified. what to do when when i no longer feel the need to rescue or protect? will i lose friends? will i lose me? will i leave my job? will i leave new york and never return? after all, i am superman. and where exactly am i supposed to put this cape?

one of the results of my newfound desire to be rid of my sucky sucky saving folks ways is that i must articulate my needs and wants more clearly so that folks know exactly what’s on my mind. and not lie so much. well, maybe just a little lie to keep you near when i’m lonely, horny and in need of attention

because you are pretty and wonderful and indispensable in my life, right? you mean so much to me, and i can’t go a day without talking to you, right? you make the world go round, right? please tell me over and over how lucky i am to have you in my life. talk about yourself constantly because you know i like it, right?

one of things i foresee in the not-so-distant future is letting go of the really rotten people, idiotic ideas and terrible things currently cluttering my tricky broadcast signal. too much static in my attic. brace yourself, reader, for uncomfortable changes in this very unreliable text, and a bevy of stream of consciousness rants on their way from my colon into your mind. scat with me.

journey wary
january promises to be a crazy month, so this boy will need and appreciate some r&r. this week alone i need to write four articles, six reviews, deal with a range of v.e. press tasks like getting our books into selected bookstores, confer with Glen and Cheryl about upcoming readings and events; generate ideas for new ways to move product, etc; take three important meetings, one with a perfectly awful man whose energy is yucky yucky yucky yucky; complete a five-day fast, clean my bedroom, wash clothes, see my therapist and cry for 50 minutes, read with a friend while he prepares for his general’s; sit still for 5-10 minutes a day to clear my mind; and try, try oh so hard to keep focus and be kind and not bark at whoever happens to be in my way because i need folks to stay outta my way for a few days. or help me, whichever’s more suitable or convenient, just please, choose, and stay with your choice. stevie: patience. patience. patience. patience. when i come back stuff will be tapping its toes waiting for me, stuff itching and sweating to be written, done, hung, caressed, kissed, thrown away, ignored, fettered out, discovered, mourned over, laid to rest. oh, and i’ll be 41 years old the 15th. i just swooned.

journey abroad
next week i will pack my glad rags and hop a plane to amsterdam for seven days to see if it’s a country that i want to live in. all i know now is that they ain’t been nowheres nice to muslim population recently. my research has turned up scary don’t-let-the-terrorists-win attitudes towards muslim folks, as academics at the
university of amsterdam make the heady claim that they have identified potential extremists as 16 to 18-year-olds of moroccan and turkish origin with a high school education. whathef**k? the article goes on to say that these teenagers would be socially isolated and display a deep distrust of the political system, quoting the newspaper ‘de telegraaf.’ but the following comment clinched it for me. “these people do not form a threat for dutch society,” the researchers stressed, and added that the youths may not actually become extremists. then what, pray tell, was the point of naming the article “1,400 amsterdam muslims are potential extremists”? i’ll tell you why. 9/11 and most specifically, the murder of theo van gogh, a dutch filmmaker whose controversial film, “submission,” critiqued muslim culture. in 2004 van gogh’s murder widened the gap between religious communities and inflamed tensions.   this is country where there are almost one million muslims among its 16 million people. it will be interesting to see how amsterdam actually lives up to its image as a free, tolerant country. black folks who live there told me folks in amsterdam like to think that they are liberal but really, they got niggers like er’body else in the world and that serious class, race and religious abound. just like home. seven days, yaw. let me see what i can find out.   

that went on longer than i planned. sorry. couldn’t help myself.

stevie voyager now IIfun stuff ahead. boat rides on the canal, museum hopping, a quick trip to haarlem, bars, parties, and all kinds of freak sex joints that after a wild few months as a bachelor may be just what this doctor dick ordered. double up on the condoms, namor, we’s going to do some amsterdamage. (don’t mind me i’m just talking shit because i can. or maybe not.) looking forward to meeting up with friends elspeth kydd, a filmmaker living and teaching in bristol who is coming down to meet me for the weekend, and ajamu x, photographer and activist (rukus!) and co-founder of the queen’s jewels, an archival project in england to collect and preserve black lgbt life in the uk. when i go to london, i usually shack up with mu at his flat in brixton, and take in the sites between museum and bar hopping. back in 2002 i had an opportunity to see a matthew barney show. all i can say is that it took a lot of vaseline. i might also have an opportunity to meet cheryl dunye, who i had wanted to connect with a few years back. remember watermelon woman? how about my baby’s daddy? she directed both films, the latter not being representative of her work. 

journey words
spent some time in connecticut (stamford) recently around the holidays writing, writing, writing, sleeping and eating. can’t wait to do it again. the whole idea of going away to write and not doing anything else is so romantic to me. this inaugural stint made me quite aware of my thinking that if i am not producing, i am nothing, nothing, nada nunca, which feels godawful. part of the writing process sometimes might involve watching ducks swim on a man-made lake outside your hotel room, or taking in a whole season of six feet under (of which i love a fucking hole in.) but i will need to sit with that thought for a while before it actually takes hold in my consciousness and becomes practice, not just theory.

so, the results of that day (see, habits die hard) is that i managed to edit an essay on being light-skinned and the idiots who worship it, and i also drafted a new collection of poems, but mostly i took in hours of nothing but writing, writing, writing, sleeping and eating, largely unfettered. and watching ducks. when i come back to the states i plan to find another place to write during one of my free weekends. anybody want to host me for a few days? i’ll be good and quiet and give you cash for your trouble. we can watch six feet under

my life, my life, my life, my life!

coda: ran into his knife for the last time last night last time last night. or did he run into mine? i forget who’s stabbing who these days. all i know now is no more, no more, no more, ain’t gone be like that more. no more, no more, no more, ain’t gone be like that more.

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