I feel bad. I think I am depressed. There is that feeling in my stomach, heavy, like a stone pulling me down.
They say that it is most common for people to get depressed in February. It's the middle of winter. People don't get out as much. There is statistically less sunlight. People do not get sufficient Vitamin E. That makes them depressed.
I am wary of medicine's tendency to make every physical, emotional, or mental ache pathological. There is medication for everything. Attention Deficit Disorder is a perfect example: this drug is given to children who are hyper-active, limited concentration, and the need to constantly be in motion. Those "symptoms" don't seem pathological to me. Those "symptoms" describe what it is like to be a child. Aren't children supposed to be full of energy and verve?
So here I sit. Depressed. Blogging. Trying to figure out what is the cause of this feeling, this stone in my stomach, that is making me sad. Maybe it is just natural. No one seems to question the pathology of feeling good, why should we treat feeling bad any different? I doubt that this feeling will last forever. I have felt this way before and it pasted with time. Just like the times I am, for no apparent reason, feeling really good passed with time. Maybe it isn't pathological, maybe feeling low is a natural and healthy part of being alive.
Or maybe I just haven't got enough Vitamin E...
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
Putting It Together
I steal. Bits of choreography. I watch music videos, reality tv dance competitions, Broadway shows and I steal. Maybe that's too harsh. I borrow.
"Do you feel like less of an artist when you steal," he asks me. He isn't afraid to be critical. He loves me.
I work at a pizza place. At this independent delivery joint we serve pasta and sandwhiches and salads as well. My boss has always maintained that we do not "cook". We are not "chefs". We assemble. We compile different ingredients on a bed of spinach or arugula, or spelt crusts, or whole wheat wraps. We mix and match different flavours to wow the taste buds and satisfy the appetite. I feel I have a similar approach to art.
The novelist does not make up new words. All language is learned by borrowing, or should I say "stealing", words that we hear as children. The novelist, the poet even, makes their art by mixing and matching different words to wow the read and satisfy their ned for literature.
The musician uses an instrument used by thousands of people for many many years. They play notes and chords that are a part of an established repetoire. The ballet dancer has set positions that have been establish for centuries. My art is no different.
If then all creative works are built upon "stolen" pieces. What is creativity?
Creativity is not the pieces, but the manner in which they are put together.
Creativity is not the what, but the how.
"Do you feel like less of an artist when you steal," he asks me. He isn't afraid to be critical. He loves me.
I work at a pizza place. At this independent delivery joint we serve pasta and sandwhiches and salads as well. My boss has always maintained that we do not "cook". We are not "chefs". We assemble. We compile different ingredients on a bed of spinach or arugula, or spelt crusts, or whole wheat wraps. We mix and match different flavours to wow the taste buds and satisfy the appetite. I feel I have a similar approach to art.
The novelist does not make up new words. All language is learned by borrowing, or should I say "stealing", words that we hear as children. The novelist, the poet even, makes their art by mixing and matching different words to wow the read and satisfy their ned for literature.
The musician uses an instrument used by thousands of people for many many years. They play notes and chords that are a part of an established repetoire. The ballet dancer has set positions that have been establish for centuries. My art is no different.
If then all creative works are built upon "stolen" pieces. What is creativity?
Creativity is not the pieces, but the manner in which they are put together.
Creativity is not the what, but the how.
Friday, January 26, 2007
This Is An Outlet of Expression
There is no reason for me to write this. I find no need.
Over the past months I have been privileged with other means of artistic expression. My thoughts manifest themselves in the world through other outlets.
Is it not the medium that matters, but the act? The act of art? The act of creating?
Is the medium merely the craft? The craft being an act that requires a certain skill set to accomplish. I am competent at the craft of writing - the craft of sequencing words in order to communicate thoughts and ideas. I am also competent at the craft of theatre - the craft of telling a story through dialogue, movement, music, sets, and costumes upon a stage. Is art that which exceeds craft? Is art the act of expression, regardless of the medium?
Yet this lonely Friday night the only company I have is words. No theatre. No dance. And I don't know how to paint.
There is no need for me to write this. Other outlets of expression await me tomorrow. The day after. If I am patient...
The honest truth is that I am not patient. So I write.
There is a need for this. I have found it.
Over the past months I have been privileged with other means of artistic expression. My thoughts manifest themselves in the world through other outlets.
Is it not the medium that matters, but the act? The act of art? The act of creating?
Is the medium merely the craft? The craft being an act that requires a certain skill set to accomplish. I am competent at the craft of writing - the craft of sequencing words in order to communicate thoughts and ideas. I am also competent at the craft of theatre - the craft of telling a story through dialogue, movement, music, sets, and costumes upon a stage. Is art that which exceeds craft? Is art the act of expression, regardless of the medium?
Yet this lonely Friday night the only company I have is words. No theatre. No dance. And I don't know how to paint.
There is no need for me to write this. Other outlets of expression await me tomorrow. The day after. If I am patient...
The honest truth is that I am not patient. So I write.
There is a need for this. I have found it.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Franco-clone
Advertising does not escape the multicultural paradigm that rules this country.
The commercial I shot today was shot in both french and english. The four principle actors had francophone doubles (or maybe we were there anglophone doubles...), while the rest of the actors were silent and need not speak french nor english.
My francophone double and I shared a jacket. Between takes we handed a green H and M fall coat back and forth.
It was odd to look upon my Francophone advertising double.
By the end of the day, I grew to despise him.
He was MY double. I was not HIS double.
He would not out perform me in this thirty second advertisement.
The commercial I shot today was shot in both french and english. The four principle actors had francophone doubles (or maybe we were there anglophone doubles...), while the rest of the actors were silent and need not speak french nor english.
My francophone double and I shared a jacket. Between takes we handed a green H and M fall coat back and forth.
It was odd to look upon my Francophone advertising double.
By the end of the day, I grew to despise him.
He was MY double. I was not HIS double.
He would not out perform me in this thirty second advertisement.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
My Coded Closet
I am trying on many different jackets. Each one slightly similar to the one before, maybe just a different shade of a non-descript grey-green. They have crafted this ensemble with careful attention. Nothing "too much". It must look "real" or "natural". They are aiming for "Canadian", but not "too much" to seem stereotypical, but not too subtle to seem ambigiuous. These clothes in this carefully chosen combination are masculine, but young, stylish, but not chic or trendy, striking, but not offensive. The blue jeans are not too blue. The sweat shirt is new, but not too crisp. They have yet to chose the jacket.
I have been cast in a commercial. Wardobe for these things is very particular.
After selecting several options (pretty much leaving them at the place where they started), I change back into my own clothes. I sit and wait for them to let me know that I have nothing else to try on.
"Is that what you wore here today," the director asks me.
"Yes," I answer.
"I like that. It looks more real," he muses. "Try this jacket with what you wore in."
I try the jacket on. They agree this should be another option.
"When you come in to shoot on Monday, bring these clothes with you. We might want to use them."
Am I masculine, but young, stylish, but not chic or trendy, striking, but not offensive?
Or are these just the clothes that I wear?
I live in a coded world. Advertising has permeated every pore of this urban existence. Even, without me knowing it, my own closet.
I have been cast in a commercial. Wardobe for these things is very particular.
After selecting several options (pretty much leaving them at the place where they started), I change back into my own clothes. I sit and wait for them to let me know that I have nothing else to try on.
"Is that what you wore here today," the director asks me.
"Yes," I answer.
"I like that. It looks more real," he muses. "Try this jacket with what you wore in."
I try the jacket on. They agree this should be another option.
"When you come in to shoot on Monday, bring these clothes with you. We might want to use them."
Am I masculine, but young, stylish, but not chic or trendy, striking, but not offensive?
Or are these just the clothes that I wear?
I live in a coded world. Advertising has permeated every pore of this urban existence. Even, without me knowing it, my own closet.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
BAH
I feel bad. I feel awful.
_________________
Justice is holding a grudge. Forgiveness is letting go of them.
_________________
Justice is holding a grudge. Forgiveness is letting go of them.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The Pathology of Love
Is is not human to want to be wanted? Love is commonly listed as a need for humanity along with food and shelter. The Beatles even claim that "Love is all you need." Love is beautiful and should be freely shared. Desire, on the other hand, is sinful and forced into privacy. Desire seems to complicate ideas of love and its necessary role in human life. Desire can exist legitimately in society only accompanied by the guise of love. Love has two feet to stand on. Desire, if not held in love's embrace, seems to be lying ready on its back.
The worst possible scenario is one that involves an unequal exchange of affection: a lover loves and desires their lovee, but the lovee does not or can not match that love (if they love at all) and/or the lovee does not or can not match that desire or the lovee is only interested in being loved and desired with no interest in reciprocity. Is love and desire as economic as described above?
Do love and desire only function if their is equality of exchange?
I want to be wanted. I desire to be desired. I love to be loved. Yet, without adhering to the economy of love, my wants and desires seem unnecessarily complicated. It is not that I do not respect or enjoy the company I find myself in with my random romances. I am eager to acquaint myself with others and explore the complexity of their individual humanity - get to know them, their minds and bodies, their way of life, their social behaviour etc... But I do not find it necessary, in this process of acquainting and exploring, to reciprocally love or want them in return. (Desire is integral in order to pursue sexual intimacy, which is always a requirement in my romantic relationships.) Yet, under the hegemony of this economy of love, I am forced to consider if my need to be needed is not a human need, but something pathological. Am I psychologically or emotionally abnormal to need to be needed? Or is this only deemed abnormal by a society that is ruled by marriage and monogamy? Can not I, as a healthy and responsible human being, be wanted and desired and loved by another, even if I do not reciprocate the same feelings with the same passion and intensity? Is there not other people whom enjoy wanting and desiring and loving just as I enjoy being wanted and desired and loved? Is it pathological to continually be involved in economically unequal romantic relationships?
Maybe I have little interest in wanting or loving these persons, because I know I have someone whom I want and desire; unfortunately this person can not at present offer me the company that I need, so I look elsewhere for actual physical companionship. Maybe, as a homosexual, I refuse to live in the cage of monogamy established by the tyranny of Christian marriage... Maybe I am willing to express the plurality and fractured nature of human existence through my love life...
Maybe this IS really a psychological and emotional pathology...
Here I am. It takes two to tango, but my dancing partner isn't around to twirl me about the dance floor. So I am looking for other partners who'll dance with me for a short while. I don't want to dance with any one person too long. I want to take advantage of my opportunity to dance briefly with everyone who is willing to dance with me. Yet, if everyone is looking for a partner for life and I am just looking to dance for a song or two, am I, until that happy day when my beloved and I will be re-united, destined to being dancing with myself?
The worst possible scenario is one that involves an unequal exchange of affection: a lover loves and desires their lovee, but the lovee does not or can not match that love (if they love at all) and/or the lovee does not or can not match that desire or the lovee is only interested in being loved and desired with no interest in reciprocity. Is love and desire as economic as described above?
Do love and desire only function if their is equality of exchange?
I want to be wanted. I desire to be desired. I love to be loved. Yet, without adhering to the economy of love, my wants and desires seem unnecessarily complicated. It is not that I do not respect or enjoy the company I find myself in with my random romances. I am eager to acquaint myself with others and explore the complexity of their individual humanity - get to know them, their minds and bodies, their way of life, their social behaviour etc... But I do not find it necessary, in this process of acquainting and exploring, to reciprocally love or want them in return. (Desire is integral in order to pursue sexual intimacy, which is always a requirement in my romantic relationships.) Yet, under the hegemony of this economy of love, I am forced to consider if my need to be needed is not a human need, but something pathological. Am I psychologically or emotionally abnormal to need to be needed? Or is this only deemed abnormal by a society that is ruled by marriage and monogamy? Can not I, as a healthy and responsible human being, be wanted and desired and loved by another, even if I do not reciprocate the same feelings with the same passion and intensity? Is there not other people whom enjoy wanting and desiring and loving just as I enjoy being wanted and desired and loved? Is it pathological to continually be involved in economically unequal romantic relationships?
Maybe I have little interest in wanting or loving these persons, because I know I have someone whom I want and desire; unfortunately this person can not at present offer me the company that I need, so I look elsewhere for actual physical companionship. Maybe, as a homosexual, I refuse to live in the cage of monogamy established by the tyranny of Christian marriage... Maybe I am willing to express the plurality and fractured nature of human existence through my love life...
Maybe this IS really a psychological and emotional pathology...
Here I am. It takes two to tango, but my dancing partner isn't around to twirl me about the dance floor. So I am looking for other partners who'll dance with me for a short while. I don't want to dance with any one person too long. I want to take advantage of my opportunity to dance briefly with everyone who is willing to dance with me. Yet, if everyone is looking for a partner for life and I am just looking to dance for a song or two, am I, until that happy day when my beloved and I will be re-united, destined to being dancing with myself?
Monday, December 11, 2006
Dancing With Myself Or A Rose By Any Other Name...
I am dating myself. I am not dating myself in the ways of Skinny Rabbit (I am not that egotistical - Skinny Rabbit, you know you indulge in your egotistical ego! Yet here I am, singing a song of myself). I am dating someone with whom I share a name. That is not to say that I am dating another BedroomPrince. Bedroomprince is merely one of my many multifarious identities. The name I speak of refers to the non-virtual, "real life" version of BedroomPrince. From this adventure in dating identical autonyms, the multiplicity of the identity of human beings begins to appear with indefinite clarity.
For the purposes of this mere post, and in order to keep BedroomPrince's non-virtual "real life" title anonymous, I will take on the alias Sigmund. As of this weekend, Sigmund is dating Sigmund.
I should first describe the events of the evening in which I, Sigmund, met dear Sigmund. It was the Saturday following the last week of term, filled with multiple essays and papers to be written on a variety of, seemingly disparate, but ultimately related subjects. I had found myself with nothing to study nor read, and no particular errands to run. Online I found a dear friend, whom I had shared a number of intimate moments with, just as bored as I. This friend just happened to be named Sigmund as well (this is another Sigmund, not the Sigmund I am currently dating). Like most Saturday nights, I was particularly randy, and so I invited Sigmund over to watch movies, with the hope of us getting it on, as we are want to do. Sigmund arrives: we watch one movie in the living room, then watch another in my bedroom when my room mates arrive at home, and then, because of an upset stomach, he leaves. I still haven't gotten my rocks off, which takes me to the local chat room where I begin my hunt. After signing in, I almost immediately receive a message: it is Sigmund (the one in which I am currently dating). I know Sigmund from a long, long time ago. When I was a child of twelve years of age, I was in a musical play in my hometown (All the World's a Stage and Men and Women merely players!), and dearest Sigmund, as cute now as he was when I first fell for him, was the pianist accompanying me. Since that first moment of attraction, I have seen him at many seemingly random events throughout my life; once he played a concerto with our hometown's symphony orchestra, later I saw him on the street of the city I currently live in, then two weeks ago I saw him at the bar, and tonight, he is messaging me online. I couldn't be happier. I finally get to live out my childhood fantasies and kiss my first crush. That Saturday night at midnight, we meet for drinks, make our way back to his place for some more wine after last call, and the next morning I awoke next to him (I got to live out much more than my mere childhood fantasy. I didn't have those thoughts when I was twelve - not yet anyways). And now, after a night of watching the latest Woody Allen movie (Woody Allen seems to play the same role in every movie he directs), I am back in my apartment relating this all to you.
Despite how smitten I am with Sigmund, I am constantly forced to try to reconcile how we are the same person, we are both Sigmund, but so very different defined by the myriad of our subtle, and not so subtle, complexities. A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but if it smells different, we give it another name, don't we? Yes, I am Sigmund, but with so many people on this planet who share my name, my name doesn't seem sufficient in defining who I am. Yet if someone asked me who I was, who I am, the answer I would give would be my name. I have always felt that I connect, on some mystical level, with my own name. But here I am, writing not as Sigmund, but as BedroomPrince, readily accepting that one name is inadequate in defining who I am. Who am I? I am Sigmund. I am BedroomPrince. I am many things (I contain multitudes.) Sigmund refers to me, just like the letters c-h-a-i-r refer to a chair. Yet Sigmund refers to so many more identities than just my own. Language fails us once again.
So yes, I many ways I am dating myself. Sigmund is dating Sigmund. I am dating Sigmund. Sigmund is dating BedroomPrince. BedroomPrince is dating S------. I am sure if I desired to name all my multifarious identities, this list could go on forever. But not everything needs to be ruled by the tyranny of language.
What's in a name?
So much, but at the same time, nothing at all.
For the purposes of this mere post, and in order to keep BedroomPrince's non-virtual "real life" title anonymous, I will take on the alias Sigmund. As of this weekend, Sigmund is dating Sigmund.
I should first describe the events of the evening in which I, Sigmund, met dear Sigmund. It was the Saturday following the last week of term, filled with multiple essays and papers to be written on a variety of, seemingly disparate, but ultimately related subjects. I had found myself with nothing to study nor read, and no particular errands to run. Online I found a dear friend, whom I had shared a number of intimate moments with, just as bored as I. This friend just happened to be named Sigmund as well (this is another Sigmund, not the Sigmund I am currently dating). Like most Saturday nights, I was particularly randy, and so I invited Sigmund over to watch movies, with the hope of us getting it on, as we are want to do. Sigmund arrives: we watch one movie in the living room, then watch another in my bedroom when my room mates arrive at home, and then, because of an upset stomach, he leaves. I still haven't gotten my rocks off, which takes me to the local chat room where I begin my hunt. After signing in, I almost immediately receive a message: it is Sigmund (the one in which I am currently dating). I know Sigmund from a long, long time ago. When I was a child of twelve years of age, I was in a musical play in my hometown (All the World's a Stage and Men and Women merely players!), and dearest Sigmund, as cute now as he was when I first fell for him, was the pianist accompanying me. Since that first moment of attraction, I have seen him at many seemingly random events throughout my life; once he played a concerto with our hometown's symphony orchestra, later I saw him on the street of the city I currently live in, then two weeks ago I saw him at the bar, and tonight, he is messaging me online. I couldn't be happier. I finally get to live out my childhood fantasies and kiss my first crush. That Saturday night at midnight, we meet for drinks, make our way back to his place for some more wine after last call, and the next morning I awoke next to him (I got to live out much more than my mere childhood fantasy. I didn't have those thoughts when I was twelve - not yet anyways). And now, after a night of watching the latest Woody Allen movie (Woody Allen seems to play the same role in every movie he directs), I am back in my apartment relating this all to you.
Despite how smitten I am with Sigmund, I am constantly forced to try to reconcile how we are the same person, we are both Sigmund, but so very different defined by the myriad of our subtle, and not so subtle, complexities. A Rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but if it smells different, we give it another name, don't we? Yes, I am Sigmund, but with so many people on this planet who share my name, my name doesn't seem sufficient in defining who I am. Yet if someone asked me who I was, who I am, the answer I would give would be my name. I have always felt that I connect, on some mystical level, with my own name. But here I am, writing not as Sigmund, but as BedroomPrince, readily accepting that one name is inadequate in defining who I am. Who am I? I am Sigmund. I am BedroomPrince. I am many things (I contain multitudes.) Sigmund refers to me, just like the letters c-h-a-i-r refer to a chair. Yet Sigmund refers to so many more identities than just my own. Language fails us once again.
So yes, I many ways I am dating myself. Sigmund is dating Sigmund. I am dating Sigmund. Sigmund is dating BedroomPrince. BedroomPrince is dating S------. I am sure if I desired to name all my multifarious identities, this list could go on forever. But not everything needs to be ruled by the tyranny of language.
What's in a name?
So much, but at the same time, nothing at all.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Beauty Is Not Freedom
There is something ineffably beautiful about the tyranny of the ballet aesthetic.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Brad from Thailand at Work
Me - Oh Brad! Thanks so much for taking my shift. You make me so happy I could go down on you.
Brad - What does "go down on you" mean?
Me - Give oral sex.
Brad - oh. Then what is go up on you.
Me - Nothing.
Brad - What does "go down on you" mean?
Me - Give oral sex.
Brad - oh. Then what is go up on you.
Me - Nothing.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Fragments Unrelated
I have cut caffeine out of my diet. Since I have cut caffeine out of my diet, I have been consuming much more Musical Theatre; I listen to Original Cast Recordings constantly. I have also been crying a lot lately as well. This does not bode well.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The new Manager at MacDonalds is very beautiful. Deep blue eyes, full lips, high defined cheek bones, a strong masculine jaw line, broad shoulders and a slim waist.
Beauty within the MacDonlads corporation seems to be a Paradox.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The people I hate will most likely be successful for the exact reasons why I hate them. This is why there is no justice in the world.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Something always takes the place of missing pieces.
That does not mean that this puzzle is complete.
I can't make out the image the myriad of pieces attempt to show me.
Nothing is clear.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The new Manager at MacDonalds is very beautiful. Deep blue eyes, full lips, high defined cheek bones, a strong masculine jaw line, broad shoulders and a slim waist.
Beauty within the MacDonlads corporation seems to be a Paradox.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The people I hate will most likely be successful for the exact reasons why I hate them. This is why there is no justice in the world.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Something always takes the place of missing pieces.
That does not mean that this puzzle is complete.
I can't make out the image the myriad of pieces attempt to show me.
Nothing is clear.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Crying at Lunch Time
There are tears in my Campbell's Mushroom Soup.
I added Rosemary too. It's better that way.
I added Rosemary too. It's better that way.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
You Don't Really Like Beethoven
Grey's Anatomy, Crime and Punishment, a university class in Music Appreciation, following the NHL, and even some sexual relations. The list goes on I'm sure.
The list above refers to television I watch, books I've read, things I have learned, and even people I have slept with in order to increase my social capital.
Social Capital: that which gives an individual leverage in social interaction; outlets to create rapport through common interests or experiences; stories or anecdotes that are amusing, shocking, and/or outrageous in order to capture the attention of others in a given social situation.
I would argue, as I am sure it has been argued before, that most of what we do is motivated, either consciously or subconsciously, by the desire to increase one's social capital. The problem that follows is trying to distinguish what the value of these pursuits is beyond their social capital. Do I actually like Grey's Anatomy, or do I merely watch it and so my room mate and I have something to obsess over?
Most fear acknowledging that their love of Beethoven, at least where their love originated, is a product of wanting to seem cultural and artistic in the eyes of friends and colleagues. Admitting the universal motivating force of social capital makes one seem dishonest or insincere. If social capital does motivate all our pursuits, we are only hypocritical if we do not acknowledge it's influence. It is only dishonest if we DON'T concede to the influence of social capital.
It may seem cynical. It may take all the fun out of classical music and the literature of the canon. It may cause doubt and second guessing. But even this Blog is a product of paying with social capital.
The list above refers to television I watch, books I've read, things I have learned, and even people I have slept with in order to increase my social capital.
Social Capital: that which gives an individual leverage in social interaction; outlets to create rapport through common interests or experiences; stories or anecdotes that are amusing, shocking, and/or outrageous in order to capture the attention of others in a given social situation.
I would argue, as I am sure it has been argued before, that most of what we do is motivated, either consciously or subconsciously, by the desire to increase one's social capital. The problem that follows is trying to distinguish what the value of these pursuits is beyond their social capital. Do I actually like Grey's Anatomy, or do I merely watch it and so my room mate and I have something to obsess over?
Most fear acknowledging that their love of Beethoven, at least where their love originated, is a product of wanting to seem cultural and artistic in the eyes of friends and colleagues. Admitting the universal motivating force of social capital makes one seem dishonest or insincere. If social capital does motivate all our pursuits, we are only hypocritical if we do not acknowledge it's influence. It is only dishonest if we DON'T concede to the influence of social capital.
It may seem cynical. It may take all the fun out of classical music and the literature of the canon. It may cause doubt and second guessing. But even this Blog is a product of paying with social capital.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Gay is Culture
"Do you even like Britney Spears?," he asks.
"She is annoying most of the time. Except when I am drunk on the dance floor."
"She is my guilty pleasure," he replies.
He is my dental hygenist. I see him about twice a year in which most of the time his hands are poking at the teeth inside my mouth. Conversation rarely occurrs.
"I wish I had tickets to Barbara Streisand. God I love her!" I gush.
"I have never been a big fan. I mean, she is a great vocalist, but she is just not my style. I am more of a Madonna fan."
This is what always happens. I sit in the dentist's chair and he comments on whatever is on the tv. He prefers MuchMusic or MTV. In the moments his hands are not in mouth, I response to his pop music commentary.
"I went to see Madonna in New York." he tells me.
"Wasn't that during New York City Pride?" I ask.
"It was the week before I think. I can't remember."
I know very little about this man. The relationship between dental hygenist and patient remains elusive. Yet, his hands are in my mouth.
"Do you ever go to DanceCamp at Fly Nightclub?" he asks.
"I am more of Buddies man myself."
I know very little about this man. Yet, I know he is gay. I do not know if he sleeps with men. I assume he does, but that does not mean it is a fact. What I do know is that he loves Madonna, has a critical opinion of Babs, is aware of Pride, and frequents gay nightclubs. These facts do not tell the sexual preference of my dental hygenist. It is possible that many men whom engage sexually with women loves Madonna, has a critical opinion of Babs, is aware of Pride, and frequents gay nightclubs. What I do know is that my dental hygenist is gay. Not gay sexually, but gay culturally.
In an age of fluid sexuality, the homosexual is dead. Men who sleep with men at one moment are fucking and marrying women the next. But no matter who they are fucking at any given time, if they liked Madonna before they probably still do today.
Gay is not sex.
Gay is culture.
"She is annoying most of the time. Except when I am drunk on the dance floor."
"She is my guilty pleasure," he replies.
He is my dental hygenist. I see him about twice a year in which most of the time his hands are poking at the teeth inside my mouth. Conversation rarely occurrs.
"I wish I had tickets to Barbara Streisand. God I love her!" I gush.
"I have never been a big fan. I mean, she is a great vocalist, but she is just not my style. I am more of a Madonna fan."
This is what always happens. I sit in the dentist's chair and he comments on whatever is on the tv. He prefers MuchMusic or MTV. In the moments his hands are not in mouth, I response to his pop music commentary.
"I went to see Madonna in New York." he tells me.
"Wasn't that during New York City Pride?" I ask.
"It was the week before I think. I can't remember."
I know very little about this man. The relationship between dental hygenist and patient remains elusive. Yet, his hands are in my mouth.
"Do you ever go to DanceCamp at Fly Nightclub?" he asks.
"I am more of Buddies man myself."
I know very little about this man. Yet, I know he is gay. I do not know if he sleeps with men. I assume he does, but that does not mean it is a fact. What I do know is that he loves Madonna, has a critical opinion of Babs, is aware of Pride, and frequents gay nightclubs. These facts do not tell the sexual preference of my dental hygenist. It is possible that many men whom engage sexually with women loves Madonna, has a critical opinion of Babs, is aware of Pride, and frequents gay nightclubs. What I do know is that my dental hygenist is gay. Not gay sexually, but gay culturally.
In an age of fluid sexuality, the homosexual is dead. Men who sleep with men at one moment are fucking and marrying women the next. But no matter who they are fucking at any given time, if they liked Madonna before they probably still do today.
Gay is not sex.
Gay is culture.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Professor: Mind And Body
I have always found him attracted. That is to say since I first saw him at the first day of classes two weeks ago. Not that it matters when I first found him attracted, what matters is that I found him and continue to find him attractive. Today, I notice he has a new haircut.
Professors are very particular creatures. Their purpose and appeal, for the most part, is cerebral. Their identity, from the perspective of the student, is a product of their intellect. They are academic animals. Being such cerebral creatures, it is an odd experience to confront the professor as a physical being.
He walked into class with a new haircut. He is not just an intellectual academic mind. He is more than "professor". He has hair and toe nails and blisters and is susceptible to the common cold and will have crows feet at the corner of his eyes in years to come and will show many other symptoms of being a living body. He is not just "professor". He is human being.
He is my professor. I have always found him attractive. Even with the new haircut.
Professors are very particular creatures. Their purpose and appeal, for the most part, is cerebral. Their identity, from the perspective of the student, is a product of their intellect. They are academic animals. Being such cerebral creatures, it is an odd experience to confront the professor as a physical being.
He walked into class with a new haircut. He is not just an intellectual academic mind. He is more than "professor". He has hair and toe nails and blisters and is susceptible to the common cold and will have crows feet at the corner of his eyes in years to come and will show many other symptoms of being a living body. He is not just "professor". He is human being.
He is my professor. I have always found him attractive. Even with the new haircut.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)