so I said this is not finished so I said post it anyway so I said ok I hope you know what you are doing so I said of course I do

I do not even know where to begin.

I have begun. I have begun and I have begun.

So many starts that by now fifty thousand or so of me are deeply involved with their chosen labyrinths each one as necessary and urgent as all of the others combined which presents a logical difficulty but not a phenomenological one.

I cannot wait.

I cannot hold my tongue.
I cannot hold my water.
I cannot hold my liquor.

I cannot hold myself to any promises this I only learned in the last couple of years. Apologies if I promised you anything before approximately now. I would give you the world but I probably would not be able to complete the process of packaging it and printing out the postage and taking it to wherever it needed to be taken in order for you to receive it in this lifetime. It is not a matter of will or laziness or disregard nor have I yet been able to articulate what it is a matter of so far I can only watch myself spend hours trying to choose a direction to move in and being unable to intervene in the thought process that takes each direction up to look at its pros and cons and trace its dependencies over and over again until I run up against the hitch enough times to recognize it for what it is at which point I must deliberate how to resolve the hitch which usually requires much the same process in a slightly different direction and this can repeat indefinitely until if I find the lynchpin before five years have gone by I congratulate myself for a job well done.

Because it is a job well done even when the original job gets lost in the trash heap of what I could not do at the time some months or years prior to that.

We learn to heap praise upon ourselves for brushing our teeth.
For putting on shoes.
For washing something. Anything.
For walking down the street without panic on one side or exhaustion on another.
This is not me complaining. This is me carrying water and chopping wood.
This is life. This is what life is.
Trimming your nails without shame.
Can you do that.
Looking in the mirror without averting your eyes.
Can you do that.
Hercules himself would have collapsed in the effort.
Which does not make me a hero.

I cannot find the right words at the right time.
I cannot allow myself to speak even and especially when I have finally worked out with exquisite detail and exacting turns of phrase to evoke precisely the right scene with precisely the right amount of pathos supported by clear but not overbearing arguments to show that I mean no harm and I do not wish to win or that is I do not wish to be able to defeat or conquer even when I cannot do without what are called fighting words because the occasion calls for them and I cannot ignore that call.

There is no way as it turns out to keep everyone comforted or comfortable and so there is no way to guarantee my own safety even when the last word for me must be to stay out of harm’s way. Nothing I say (saw was the typo that snuck out before I caught it) can be without painful consequences because it is the issue of painful consequences which were the issue of painful consequences: the terror of generations terrorized into clinging to and defending to their deaths the most ruthless most bare and absurd imposters of comfort or calm or peace because comfort and calm and peace themselves fled so long ago none of us can remember when they last showed up as anything other than violation under gag orders.

It is not only that one side of my family is abusive without realizing it except when it looks into the windows of a sister or brother to see someone misbehaving and then all is consternation and confusion. That I recall the hushed conversations and puzzlement over why this kid was being bad or why this one here was showing signs of being unable to maintain even through grit teeth the brittle naivete that had brought us along so far to wherever it i was we had got which was itself widely known to be completely unknown. Nor is this the whole story because I am only here where I am and was only there where I was and only saw and heard what I saw and heard and only remember what I remember if that much.

It is not only that. But it is that. Just not only that.

It is not only that another side of my family has successfully ridden its own stoicism all the way to the underworld enough times that at this point there is practically nobody left to answer to. All of us amiable ciphers to all of us or maybe that was just me. In any case we the survivors are of a loose knit to put it in amiable terms. There would be other stories to be told but the storytellers are dying out.

It is not only that. But it is that. Just not only that.

It is not only that I live in a culture that enshrines violent domination exploitation and competition over its naturalized delusions of unending lack as not just necessary because hey life is hard toughen up but because we actually believe these things to be divine givens, moral imperatives, and the most perfect and just ideals ever conceived by human beings. To judge our own lives as miserable and in need of salvation immediately upon leaving the womb: the fetus is innocent and even sacred until it crowns into original sin and a personal responsibility so abject as to suggest that all of history is reset at every moment of birth in turn starting over and over and over and over until we are not only each our own island but each our own universe with time and space immaculate for that instant before the mark of Cain sets us against all the others vying for the reassurance that ours and only ours is the righteous and sanctioned path. Even the irreligious believe this religiously.

It is not only that. But it is that. Just not only that.

introductory preface to a prolog on the combination and recombination of networks of terrestrial systems on Earth for the next few billion

I have this manifesto. Well I do not really have a manifesto. I have been trying to write one or it has been preoccupying me more than usual that having something to say is not the same as having the wherewithal to say it or the energy to take down out of the vast wandering hoardes of sounds and images just the right ones in just the right order to say something like what all of them would say if any of them could say anything.

Wait a little while and you can make art out of it.

Which is true. You can wait. And you can make art out of it or anything else you care to. You can exchange long intimate notes with yourself refining each point down until it vanishes into its own infinite resolution.

 

You can speak plainly.

Except that never works well and I haven’t another whole lifetime to figure out why that is so to be unplain and unclear:

I do not know what to put here.

 

 

 

Thanksgiving as we call the last Thursday in the last full week of November here in the US is mostly to me an insufferable holiday although not as insufferable as the holiday immediately following.

William Burroughs says it well and I am not inclined to stretch the critique out any further this year but only to point out that it is convenient and simple to give his hymn a listen and a nod and then decide that cynicism is unbecoming and go back to doing just as we always have done. It might be more challenging to move from cynicism in some other direction besides attributing Burroughs’ attitude to young disaffected people and something to get over and grow out of and then never give another thought to unless some foundation that we have thoroughly researched as responsible with their funding and not actually any danger to our comfort asks for a little money and then we can open our wallets and do our bit for

 

what was it we were doing our bit for? Well whatever. I am glad that part of my life is over. It does get better you know.

 

I mean unless it doesn’t get better exactly or it just gets different and complicated in ways that somehow are always slightly enough beyond the scope of your current store of understandings that to understand and outline and craft the correct response to each point and then close the account catalog it and file it in the drawer marked domesticated seems at first only not quite possible and a little later on less possible than that.

Was William Burroughs always a disaffected and rebellious young man?

Did William Burroughs have a respectable American adulthood to retire to when he’d had enough of fighting authority?

Did he remain uncomfortable on purpose just to be annoying?

 

 

We can convince ourselves of most anything if it helps to prop up our worldview and our worldview is what gives us comfort and stability.

 

I am an old queer. I remember being a young queer and unearthing stories about and pictures of queers who were old when I was not. It used to be quite difficult even to find out that you could be old and queer at the same time. At first old queers seemed miraculous.

Old queers are miraculous.

By that I do not mean to say I am a miracle although the odds have never appeared to me to be tipped in my favor and yet here I am getting old. I am still young of course but any claim to youthfulness I have now and will have for the rest of my life will be metaphorical. The teeth are already starting to go. As are eyes and skin and joints and hair in one particular spot but hair in general is its own narrative for me but I am not going to write about hair now.

Your Holiday Mom is offering virtual families for queer children again this year. I followed them last year not knowing what the operational definition of children was for we are all somebodies’ children even if we are very old and our parents have been gone a very long time.

I still do not know. My parents are not gone but they are not here either. I have not seen or heard them nor they me for more than seventeen years. We have email contact at the moment. They were young parents and so are not terribly old just yet. I do not know whether I will see them again alive and the question of whether I want to is sort of complicated to answer although it is slowly becoming less so. Less complicated that is.

Last year I left a comment for a couple on Your Holiday Mom. I do not recall precisely what I said. They may have had a decade on me if that but it did not feel quite right to me to address as proximate parents anyone younger than I and I was not even sure I was supposed to be looking for familiar reception there given my age but I figured it was worth a shot.

There was no reply.

I do not know if I will do more than read their stories this year. It is said that many connections were made last year.

 

 

Sometimes it is so easy to write that I can barely type fast enough to take everything down. I thought this was going to be like that but I made the mistake of starting it with the knowledge that I wanted to post it. I tried to pretend that was not the case but it was too late for the elaborate offices of censorship that I myself built out of the need for self-preservation to reverse course or even slow down the procedure for the initial establishment of emergency services because he is about to say something.

Among the many projects that float around in protean form in my head is some sort of online, public but safe-as-internet-space-can-be writing project open to anyone who is unsure of their voice or who has experienced on a regular and or systemic basis their voice being shouted down or hushed or ignored or ridiculed or forbidden. You might guess that this would be one of many attempts to do an end-run around my own internal bureaucracy and you might be right. I am wondering though, if it is easier to do that surrounded by people in similar straits and or people who are willing to be patient with our bureaucracies as we try to spit out whatever we have to say.

I am fairly convinced that what we have to say needs to be heard. Almost convinced enough to burst out here on my own, but that may or may not happen. I have hundreds of thousands of words already arranged in mostly sensical sentences in text files on various digital storage media. I could just post them. If I tell myself this a few more times maybe I could get undiagnosed out a little more quickly than its current faint trickle of a few thousand words every three months.

Or maybe I need some other strategy.

Fits and starts. Throat-clearing. Setting the stage.

Continual reduplicating of effort.

Exhortations to speak.

Exhortations to keep quiet.