The best thing about writing this Blague at this particular juncture, besides the pure venting, is not wanting anybody to read it. Not advertising it. Just doing it. And saying whatever the fuck I want to say. Condescension. Condescension. It’s something that can seep into relationships and experiences unless you nip that shit in the bud. I have gone on record many times by saying that people either celebrate you or tolerate you and you do the same to them. Celebration is the only way forward. First you must celebrate yourself. Then you can celebrate others, fairly easily.
I have felt the weigh of others condescension. I have. So have you. And I realize I have had a much a part in inspiring acts or shows thereof as those who are acting or showing. It’s just the way it goes. I have often allowed others to feel superior because it has served a purpose but it has exacted a price. And I’m absolutely done with it. One of my truest friends in the world is one of the richest and most famous. I don’t need anything from her. I just want to be free to be friends with her. But there are creatures among us who think they’re famous or wealthy or more talented (and somewhow this makes them better—a phenomenon we’ve all fed into) and when they use words like “aw” or “hon” or “doll” you know you’re stumbled upon them.
I’m feeling that for my next birthday, in little over a month, I’m going to pull a Bilbo Baggins and disappear. I won’t even have a party. I’ll just disappear. If we need to be the change we want to see in the world then I want genuine experience to characterize my change. I want to be free of the aw and the hon and the doll. I want to be free of the unreturned text, phone call or dinner invitation. I want to be free of the fabricated social heirarchies designed for revenge against feeling marginalized in middle school. I want to break free of the tyranny of the innuendo and the masked insult or sideways compliment.
I know there are no geographical cures but still I find geography helps. Certain places make us feel away just as others are triggers and push our buttons. I’m not gay and I’m not straight so my very presence in Provincetown is like a square peg in a round hole because, especially and ironically in Ptown you better know on which side your sexual bread is buttered. Why? Because the place is built on gay people having needed a place to feel safe. And the straight people there are distinguished by their small size in number and their scruffy embracing of diversity, that isn’t really all that diverse. The transexual community has had the most recent glaring spotlight—to varying degrees they are a population who are allowed to be both or neither. But bisexuals aren’t cut the same slack. The irony being that bisexuals are probably the purest expression of human sexual realness. I think, in the world of LGBTQ, being bisexual is the bravest thing to be. Because we have no community inside the community.
I didn’t mean to veer in this direction but I guess it’s where I’m going. Just because I don’t need to send all my friends a list of what pronouns to call me doesn’t mean I don’t have distinctions. I am all distinctions. I am not about anything that moves. I am about being open to loving people of all genders. Naturally. Well, I think, naturally. Who knows? When you grew up in the seventies when parents didn’t watch their kids and you were laid bare to sexual advances or, yes, attacks and those attacks become the norm who is one to ever know the difference between nature or nurture on that score. But who the fuck cares. We don’t care if it’s David Bowie or Joe Dallassandro because, why?, they were talented or beautiful enough that we could suspend our prejudices against bisexuality just in case they might decide to like us? Fuck you. Fuck all of you. (Isn’t that what you think I want to do?)
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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