Junker Flirt

March 4, 2009

The plywood sign stated:
There is no cure for writer’s block
There is no land of tolerance.

I captured the message’s essence in my lens
Sitting atop of my dirty used bicycle seat with the flat tire named junker flirt
She was my axiom for freedom
Escape.

Hours later, substance lead me to a site downed in illusions of brown and white sullen hills.
The candle burned the lens
The image remained.

I remain.

Writer’s block is not the danger, somnambulist states colonizing our sexual liberations and libations is what I fear.

A precarious being of love and my grandmother’s stories.

I have joined the queer migration—the pervert infitatda.

I share my apologies with you for my absence. These lapses are familiar, but they serve as time of anti-capitalist production.

I am in the last moments of graduate school and I often fear what the future has in store for my mind-body-soul.

I have returned to a similar defense: running away.

Philadelphia is not far—two hours detached from what I call my home, but it’s a respite for the moment.

For the next few days, I will try to find myself once again in a space where I feel safe: the academy.

Roberto told me in Montréal that understands why I love to learn, why I live in the academy.
Tonight’s speech by Gayle Rubin will be my sermon, and she my leather-daddy preacher.
I hope to be able to internalize some trace of her presence. I am in search for inspiration and courage.

Saturday I climb on top of that tower and wave my bandera, like the boricua nationalistas.
I will be a panelists at a conference sharing my research into Ayaan Hirsi Ali, the woman who marked my life years ago.

I never met Ayaan, and may never will, but I will be offering an intervention into her position in Dutch politics in relation to Gender, Islam, and Multiculturalism in the Netherlands.

I don’t have the answer to writer’s block…the story has already been written.
I have been taken over by the fear: the prospect: no land of tolerance.

I share with you all my consciousness in motion, in transport to a place where I hope to begin to resist the orientalism of sexuality.

I’m going to rethink sex.

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