Mine isn’t a project of forging connection… as in faking—lots of drag invokes cliché lip-synching of unoriginal content bookended with verbal black-facing so as to falsify a relation to the world… mine is rather a process of wearing my abject in public… feeling that way publicly… not winning smiles, because surely now is not a time for smiling? When people deny me access to radical identity I yawn. As if all processes of professional development in art or drag don’t disqualify that subjectivity. The working world for whom the world works is too supported by this labor scheme to dismantle it… you will never observe yourself being radical… CERTAINLY NOT HERE… and over time, most of your words will expire. Goddess, I repeat myself— But yes, you who feel represented, protected and made special by your National status are but a few White candles burning in a windy vigil for time long lost. Support and safety are only preservative approaches to the practice of life, which is finite. You’ve seconds remaining: We will not unencounter each other. You will simply lose this sense of self… a fleeting essence—not unlike god—whose presence you will recognize, doubt, avoid and cherish almost cyclically. You will be lost until found… bestowed upon goodness or condemnation by forces outside your control… perhaps then laid prostrate before an altar from time to time… an altar to something outside yourself… something that expands beyond territory… lose yourself in a space built to congratulate someone who is not you. Try it…
This is our Neoliberal popcorn moment of children popping up all over the world believing themselves soooo special and qualified in the midst of no work history whatsoever. Raised in Waldorf cults and endlessly channeling money from here to there… everywhere but anywhere that might resemble a culture of “sharing” anything other than an image of self as an enviable subject, a little brat with a self-worshiping gawd complex. It’s hard for our world of queer to recognize itself on the plane of uninteresting. Queer is exception that doesn’t speak well for itself, while the State is verbose exclusion. It’s only one single way of being read, when we know there are many readings of our moment. Geographies of decency are what homonationalists love to establish… all the while law is fickle… making history revisionist… you can always rewrite law, but you cannot rewrite the word of god. Relish now this permanence in which you might encounter a faithful body… in a world unfaithful… imagine now whatever process of outside-d-ness you’ve experienced, the bitterness it inspired and thus its unsavory taste now merely elsewhere on your tongue… taste not yet swallowed. Bitterness is a gift you’ve time yet to spit.
God sustains a soul in a world who will not feed it. We have to learn this… what god does that we refuse…. that we cannot… before we dismiss the power of faith: Have you ever watched someone pray over a lottery ticket??? It happens all the time. Like in The Color Purple when Celie writes her life letters to god… before switching to the woman she falls in love with… God exists as a placeholder… a recipient of her private pleasures, confusion and her even more dangerously private suffering. Imagine a time before the idea of instagram when a private life was broadcast only to god… not a puddle of followers… when you individual were not a deity but a follower of god…. when life’s turns were not your construction but rather a gift… something you couldn’t earn or deserve, and for which you can take no—absolutely no—credit. What do you do with all this proverbial credit you’re bickering about? Let’s just say we could prove you were the first blogger to bleach your genderqueer eyebrows… let’s pretend this was a provable position… what do you get on that ‘cred’? That’s hardly engaging conversation. I can’t praise you for such superficial race-to-space parameters of authenticity. So many people are too used to having a say in conversations… but no… these conversations will simply happen to us… without our say… these matters are not ours. Like, maybe it is just wrong to buy and apartment, even if that’s what your parents made you do with the money they gave you… maybe it’s still just wrong… can you live like that, just wrong? Not striving to be justified in being wrong? Maybe 2 apartments in 2 cities makes you 2 faced by nature… Perhaps you feel your greatness requires that kind of omnipresence… but in most cases I find these types just wish to avoid the lingering stench of their own rotten souls.
I will say it… A non-spiritual person isn’t a subject, and they can never become one because they’ve never been made to feel that way appropriately. The non-religious those who’ve never known god are only a cult of self. You’ll hear of spirituality among queers but only in the most washed out dishonest way… they take up the sanitized (read: somehow sane when made secular) Ti-Chi, witchcraft… gay shaman healers riffing off every world culture in the most surface albeit deeply racist ways just to create a scene in which they might jerk off and cry together… they claim karma instead of accountability… as if you shouldn’t do bad because you only want to avoid bad… not because harming others is just wrong… The religious devout assumes that state of faith above and throughout all other identities… profoundly unique today when all the other taglines of modernity become awash without faith to any one in particular. God is not a mere ingredient in your appropriation of self-care… If you don’t live in a State that cares not whether you live or die… one that kills you or lets you be killed without care… then you are not in need of self care because you are cared for however nominally you might like to indulge yourself otherwise. Self-care is not dying of a broken heart when your dad is placed in a fatal chokehold repeating I CANT BREATHE… when your child’s name is Kalief Browder… and you didn’t live because he just couldn’t anymore. The way Nationalist violence kills with covert strikes of unmanageable grief. White Nationals belonging… go ahead and suffer… you’ll survive. What of all the suffering for which there is no image to wake us? Or suffering whose images are classified top secret in production of that sacred space called safe where we feel we belong?
God gets argued away with theories of empowerment for man-kind and those who wish to reproduce a slightly updated version of that same unimaginative conflict of a self in the world. Intellectualism is mansplaining… it is full of itself, and itself alone… it justifies itself with only itself… an agenda of only its own… full of holes in its theory of storytelling and yet explaining, mansplaining, away as if these holes aren’t there… as if the soul merely skips over the hole… denying the gravity of the hole… denying that the hole can consume entirely the theory surrounding it… the theory becomes only the rim worthy tongue… wiggling like some mucus covered worm… the hole can take it all… disappear it… inconveniently shit it out again. The hole can take the entire story and make it dark… internal… internal is dark… gone without trace is devouring… not without pain pleasure pain… the way they are sisters 69. Remember dears you’ve done me no favors by listening to all this… so please release me the burden of dealing in your questions… which could only take generative form when posed internally as prayers answered by silence and alone time. A sense of correctness is the maximum we deserve, but only coupled with a hearted knowing of how deadly our error margin is, regardless our intention.