I am not a robot.

Smiling fuckers

I am not an angry person. I am, generally, not an unhappy person. However, I am not a person that just goes around with a shit eating grin on my face. People confuse that for anger. It's not.

I am a cynical asshole. Doesn't mean I am not happy.
:)

Oh(insert something about gender here)

Community

Not the show.

I've never had a lot of queer friends but I always felt comfortable and welcomed at the gay bars.
But since starting hormones, things have shifted. I am no longer perceived as part of the community. I am up to a point.... the point when I start dancing with a girl. Then, suddenly, I am the hetero. Or the gay guy in denial. Either way. I am not a part of the community. Celebrating our uniqueness, our queerness. I am just some straight dude.

Identity. Always shifting. From rich to poor from poor to rich. From gay to straight. From girl to boy. Boy to girl. boi.

Shift. Shift. Shift. We are moving. and a shift.

It's a volcano-inside your gut

I've felt anger that eats away. It eats away my compassion.
I've felt anger that was too powerful to describe. but that's been awhile until today.
It overtook. It overtook me.
It grabs, rips and burns.
Burns inside. Calm down.

The photo is of the editors of Original Plumbing-the FTM zine!
Check out the magazine about FTM culture: http://www.originalplumbing.com/

Reality: Fact from Fiction

I am driving in rain, my windows are fogged up and I am bent over trying to see through a small space of visibility on my windshield. It's night time. None of the buildings look like Bethel Ave. but I have a vague understanding that I am driving on Bethel. Henry sits in the passenger seat. We are heading to our apartment. But we pass it because I can't see well. I make a U-turn and I notice to my left the moon. It's on the ground and it's huge. And there are windows... lit windows in it. All over it, they are huge windows. And then a ghostly figure comes up behind me and suddenly I am standing in the road and it says, "What are you doing?" in a voice so loud that it wakes me up.

I woke up feeling strange. Terrified. I felt like someone needed prayer (my pentecostal roots showing through) and so I called my mom at 4 a.m. She told me that she felt like God was waking me up because the rapture and tribulation was soon. She told me I needed to come out of my homosexual lifestyle. I needed to be delivered. She wanted to pray with me. I said okay. She prayed for 5-10 minutes. Sobbing and praying. And at the end she told me I needed to cry out to God. I didn't say anything. You could hear the heartbreak in her voice, the defeat.

I laid in bed and thought. I felt my 9 year old self start to question my 'lifestyle.' Wondering if I should be delivered. The weight of my love a sudden burden, a sinful distraction. How soon was the end? It all felt real again. My sinful life, the rapture, the tribulation. In order for someone to believe they need to be delivered, they have to believe something is grossly wrong with them. Something so terrible that it requires a community, a mob of prayer. I would have to hate myself to believe that I needed to be delivered. And I use to. I refuse to go down that spiral again.

I have to separate the fact from fiction. Their stories from my reality. It's hard sometimes when the very essence of your childhood centered around these stories. These frightening stories.

It puts you on an edge that overlooks insanity.

the digital past

one thing I love about digital is it's ability to take you right back to 2004. I just plugged in my old iPod mini and shit.. first off I called it Agent Mohawk's iPod. Tehehe. And the songs.. Oh geez. A lot of them were not my songs, Thanks, dawn new for the 80s rock.

Anyways, I love looking through old blogs and old songs, old technology.. see who I was. Who I'll be.