Project Blackout: Day 1 on Crack

So here we are. I’ve crash landed onto the incomparable CrackBerry… It feels nice. I am typing like a true 07BritneyBitch… Did Brit have a CrackBerry? I’ll have to ask the sisters (gays).

Ya know, this phone used to be the go to phone for any CEO. It was a major staple for business bros everywhere. Now I, along with maybe 10’s of others on this planet, can truly be the CEO of my own life. And speaking of OWN…

Oprah.

That’s it.

Oprah.

Taking control. Leaping into a heap of faith and seeing which way I fall out. Because I’m going to fall out, boy. Get it? Fall Out Boy. Another ’07 thing. Anyway, I’m obsessed with typing on this thing. The keyboard clicks are real!!! Feels like a clicky good time for my thumbs to click clack and tell good stories.

Because that’s what I was worried about. Forgetting how to tell good stories. Forgetting how to live and be and stand proud as me. Like Ariel in The Little Mermaid, I felt like my voice was being syphened out of me. And The Sea Witch? An underwater monster of just not knowing myself. And its not that I’ve completely lost my sense of self, calm down Sheila, it’s just that I recognized that a large part of my being- my brain space- was spent exhausting itself by poking around different touch screen squares in a tireless pursuit of seeking assurance.

I was living my life as if on a game show where the winner takes home a lifetime supply of validation. And in the end, like Dorothy with the ruby slippers, I had to make the first click into realizing that validation must first come from knowing myself COMPLETELY- and then loving it over the rainbow and back in time for supper.

Day 1: Reigniting hunger.

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STARVED

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For the first time I am writing the title in large letters before starting my jots of thoughts.

I guess I really want to remember why I bolted up out of bed at 2am, emblazoned my room with the death of light, and scrambled about with no glasses on trying to locate a pen and paper.

The answer?

STARVING.

This has been remarked and regarded upon so much it feels cliche.

STARVING.

Trusting my gut that something needs to come out so I can better access my emotional cavities and compulsive need to write out long run on sentences.

STARVING.

The idea of what if and if not. Using those ideas as dangerous way of guidance.

STARVING.

The ideas themselves.

STARVING.

Not giving enough credit to your credibility of knowing.

STARVING.

The marvelization at the epitome of your own made up words.

STARVING.

When density overrides and brains are shut off. 

STARVING.

The uniformity of comfort and the enslavement of doubt.

STARVING.

Repetition as a means of survival.

STARVING.

Consciousness of survival as a means of death.

STARVING.

My unique joy in starving.

STARVING.

My rapid ebb and flow between starving and hungry.

STARVING.

When enough’s enough.

STARVING.

Even though you’re never complete.

STARVING.

When confusion takes hold.

STARVING.

When step turns to stumble.

STARVING.

When moments begin only as a memory of once.

STARVING.

The recognition of flexibility in truth.

STARVING.

The full circle and the finale of breath.

STARVING.

Yet another realization of you.

Upholding The Rabbit Hole

You see,

you see yourself.

A breath.

A crack.

A smile.

Smiles seep you…

Down the rabbit hole.

You forgot to wish your Grandma a Happy Birthday.

Fuck.

Fuck is your favorite word.

Favorite thing.

Favorite pastime.

Now time.

Shame time.

Then time.

If you were to pass yourself standing on the side of the highway,

where would you begin?

It’s you.

You know it’s you.

Looking up.

But where do you begin?

If you start here:

Now.

Your body dysmorphia,

Your body exploits,

Your body…

Always wins.

Treat it that way.

Focus becomes your fragment to reconsider.

Reconsider it.

Time to cherish encodes itself.

Decode it.

Circle of light widens.

Bigger with each exhale.

Exhausted out of the rabbit hole into

Dawn.

Laying on the freshly perspired grass,

You find the soft grace,

The incidental silk,

And the smooth ride towards

Now.

Painting You Cold

How lonely do you feel?

How much loneliness do you create for yourself?

How do you support and combat the idea of self reliance?

I’m asking myself these questions as we head towards colder months.

When you have to live and die with yourself,

when you have to face that reality,

what instincts do you have?

Is your first thought about a stranger you haven’t met?

Or is the first thought about you and all the lovely things you have yet to put in front of yourself?

The things that aren’t named Mary, Dick, or Jane?

There is purpose and there is goal.

Your mission impossible is to combine and make possible the one step,

the one foot in front of the other.

Maybe a stumble leads to a stub,

leads to a collapse,

and finally leads to the answer which was in your face the whole time.

Maybe the whole time your answer wasn’t your solution.

However you detect the connection for self assurance,

I challenge you to force the through line between you and your surroundings.

Paint your reality in such a way that the you is reflected,

and the you becomes undeniably noticeable when people look into the specks of your eyes.

Find ways to increase your detail.

Embolden your craze.

Heat the cold and-

Widen your stance.

You’re curious.

And that’s always enough.

And Fuck You, But Love Me.

Mommies boy. Do you know how you soothe? Do you feel your heart pump such beautiful vibrations when you speak? Your taste and wisdom seeps, but your intuition soars when you walk. Don’t let it crumble. Don’t let yourself make yourself crumble. Don’t run your mind incessantly, and don’t wonder if you’re enough. You always are. I love you.

And fuck you, but love me.

When I was little, I was obsessed with space. I always had glow in the dark stars and shit. Actually, after my parents divorce I had a whole room of outer space.
Then I had a pet rat, Ratty Boy (aka Gus), who basically chewed the room out.
But that’s what rats do.
They think a cardboard Jupiter looks like a tasty Snickers McFlurry, and I whole-heartedly agree. Saturn also looks like a fun dessert. And stoned or not, I know what fun deserts look like.
They just look more fun stoned.

And fuck you, but love me.

I wonder what people think when they think they know what they don’t know they really think.
And when We know what they think.
When We question them,
When We cut their wings,
And yet still give give them a declaration.
We still give them 200 when they pass GO;
Or at least 49.

And fuck you, but love me.

The saddest part of my childhood may not have even been my parents divorce.
Or moving out of my Mom’s house and into my Dads.
Or being bombarded about my budding sexuality from grades 6-8.
I think the saddest part of my childhood was watching Simba lose his father, Mufasa, in The Lion King.
At that age, at least fortunately not for me, a parent dying was not something I could fathom. I could only feel and cry with all the other little kids who laid peacefully in the hands of Disney for all those years.
Feelings and crying built up the interior that still runs and hides itself when held up to a mirror.

And fuck you, but love me.

I’m writing now in order to not cry.
Feelings rush over and now my dreams of an ocean are clear.
My dreams of hiding and seeing my mother be shot in the back.
My dreams of silent booms that fall on deaf ears.
My dreams of after and eternity.

And fuck you, but love me.

Goodbyes should never cross sour lips.

And if you say it sour, you live with the taste.

 And fuck me, but love me too.

And then, smile. (You’re good, how’re you?)

You’ve noted you’re in a hole of grave proportions, but the depth makes it comfortable to stay asleep.
If you can do it in your sleep, then why wake up?
You will write and write and not produce. You will speak and speak and not act out.
Your dreams are a matter of living with yourself and maybe you’re not ready to do that. And you see others around you that are also not ready. And will maybe never be ready.
And maybe that’s their legacy. Maybe running from themselves is their predetermined fatal flaw.
Maybe it’s yours.

If your work is cut out for you to change the alignment of your stars, then you know you must start today.
But when tomorrow looks so much better, what then?
When the pill is hard to swallow, how do you stop yourself from gouging the entire bottle?
You wonder how much of ourselves we are supposed to live with,
and,
in the purest, simplest of forms, how much suffering must exist to keep balance?
How loud are the inner voices of others?
How much of their conscience is being ruled by an illumination of false pretense?
And if all went dark, how would that play out?
How would you play out?

You have to wonder the toll that will eventually need to be paid.
You have to know when enough is enough,
even though,
you are surrounded by so many people who will never fathom enough being enough.
Greed and filth clasp hands and whisper to each other sweet justifications.
They justify one more step.
One more stumble.
One step forward, two steps back.

And then, smile. (You’re good, how’re you?)

 

Dear Gays: Let Us Not Foster Another Omar Mateen

Alright, let’s cut the shit right off the bat. This is a lot of things, but here is what the following words are not:

  1. An imposition of “hetero-normative” values or ideas. Drop that.
  2. An insecure broadcast of internalized homophobia. Drop that.
  3. A shaming or intolerance of behavior. Drop that.

The words written here are to, quite simply, put our money where our mouth is.
The words written here are to discourage exclusivity and superiority.
The words written here are an outcry to prevent fostering another Omar Mateen.

“Oh Evan, that is so dramatic. That man had so many issues that could have never been thwarted or avoided.” OK, but…
If love (always) wins then we should stop treating our love as a prize to be received.

If we are going to call ourselves a community, then we must stand up and act as one. LGBTTQQIIAA is a lot of fuckin’ letters and those letters cover all of our brothers, sisters, and fellow human beings around the globe. Our omnipotence of love can stretch to every corner of this acronym if we stop acting like we are special. A vigilant family will love and accept all their members (even that weird, drugged out cousin who thinks he can time travel through his taco).

We are long overdue in putting a stop to this boy’s club mentality. Sex, money, style, and social class cannot make up for the lives of 49 family members who were lost, 53 family members who were injured, and an entire globe that has been shaken to its’ core. None of us are enough. None of us will ever be enough if we cannot ignite bravery to look into each other’s eyes and try to understand the unity of what we are all hopelessly roaming this Earth for.

It’s time that we truly start looking out for each other. On Grindr, on Scruff, on Tinder or in person makes no difference. The cold, hard fact of anyone’s journey is that we all want to feel included. We all want love to win, and that ideal can only be championed through acknowledging that we are all here for the greater good of moving the world forward. When we exclude, when we judge, and when we ignore the spectrum of who we are: that’s when we foster, and yes, endorse damaged humans like Omar Mateen.

Wake up. Know. Love. Repeat.