nearly civilized

April 2, 2008

Esthero’s Dragonfly’s Intro:

If the world is nearly civilized
Then I’m the red-haired faerie child
Of whom the pirates prophesies
Would bleed songs until the lyrics died
But I’ve been busy with my unborn child
I sent him aborted songs to wrap his unformed limbs in

I’m Grace Jones in this sin thing with my titties out prowling this tee-dot club
Eyes on a Reebok thug, looking for soft boy parts to make my mattress cumfy
I crush their bones into melancholy melodies
As gifts for the brokenhearted girls who’s stereos pump me

I’m a grown-ass woman with little girl features
A Jewish cornbread macaroni pie like your Mom makes at green eyes
I fall to pieces, Patsy Klein faerie preacher

I’m at the hip hop show head-bopping in the back
Smoking anything that’ll burn
During intermission, I’m in the club bathroom
Hold up in a stall praying in earnest for Jeff Buckley’s return
(Thank heaven for you, thank heaven for you, thank heaven for you)
I’m a studio rat, designer geared, Toronto kid, Hollywood brat
Bad gal, war child, bookworm, Sierra Leone activist cat
I’m a wikked little gal
Who don’t take no back chat
Unless it’s in the dark
I might be in the attics now
But a mother fucker just moved out of Regent Park

But look into my civil eyes, really
I’ll sing you all some civil lies
And take you from your civil lives
And show you that I’m civilized
Nearly, nearly, nearly.

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Esthero is the shit. Check her out and support her music if you’re into it.



March 30, 2008

Sorry its been so long since my last post: I’m on spring break and sick, so I have not even been near my macbook. But I just wanted to share this with all of you before I improve enough to make a full post.

This is what happens on Saturday nites at diners in NYC! (I’m the one in the black shirt and short hair, my youtube debut)


March 20, 2008

I just need to say: YASSS, werk!

Pluma Gay

March 19, 2008

I found it again!


Borderland Bodies

March 19, 2008

A few weeks ago, I mentioned a conference I attended at Sarah Lawrence on Black Power, Black Feminism. I was asked to write a creative response to my experience at the conference –but I felt compelled to pull on some of my previous experiences and writings to elucidate the conditions of a particular interaction I had with a panelist:n34605179_31196365_610.jpg

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March 15, 2008

Emanuel Xavier is one of my favorite contemporary writers. I was looking through some poems, just to serve as some inspiration for a piece I’m working on…and I came across this poem from Americano. I wanted to share it with you. If you think this is good, I hope that you will go out and support his work…(this means buy his books!)

By Emanuel Xavier

Emanuel, you know I love you, but I need you to be more affectionate. I don’t understand why you pull away when I try to hold your hand in public? I know you love me too but it makes me feel insecure. There’s nothing wrong with public displays of affection. It’s important for people to see two men or two women in a loving relationship. Society will never accept us if we hide our love like there’s something wrong with it. You, out of all people, should be aware of this. I mean, what are you so scared about? Do you really think I’d ever let anything happen to you?
I was six when a group of guys chased
what I thought was a girl
toward my stepfather’s parked car
outside our Bushwick apartment
Lifting myself from the back seat
young and curious
Mami rolled up her window as the young man smeared with make-up and blood
banged on the other side of the glass
crying for help
The mob caught up to him
someone pulled him by his long hair
dragged him to the hood of the car
smashing his face into the cold metal
Sometimes, I can still see his eyes
staring back at me in horror
I was introduced, for the first time,
to the words marica and maricón and faggot
It’s so ironic that in your writing and performances, you come across as so revolutionary and strong, but out in public, you’re so private and reserved. People look up to you and you need to take a stand. How could you get up on a stage and read the stuff you write about and then be afraid to be yourself with your lover out on the streets?

I was eleven when two men kissed outside the Manhattan store Mami had just finished shopping in
handing her bags over to me to block my view
blocking the love
Her purchases ending up on the floor
Mami ending up on the floor
pushed out of the way by some thug
Her bags, her body, beneath me
Opening up the view
to see a group of men replacing the two previous
cursin’ and punchin’
kickin’ and spitting’
howlin’ and laughin’
before Mami got up
and shoved me into her breasts to block my view
blocking the hate
Look, it’s not like we have to be on top of each other everywhere we go but it would be nice to have people realize we’re a couple every once and a while. It’s confusing. If this relationship is going anywhere, you need to work on being more affectionate.
I want so much to touch you
fall asleep in your arms
on the back of the bus
huddling together in our own little world
where the bumps and potholes
add joy to the ride
I want to kiss you out in the open
even if it means our brutal death
because our blood will feed the cracks between the concrete
weeds will grow to remind this world that nature
will never be completely destroyed
You’ve survived so much and yet you’re so scared of what people think. It doesn’t make any sense at all. A real man is someone like Stacy Amber that could live his life on a daily basis and not be afraid to walk the streets in a tight dress and high heels.

I was sixteen when a guy chased
what I thought was a girl
toward my trick’s parked car
outside the West Side Highway piers
Lifting myself from the front seat
young and angry
John rolled up his window
as the young trannie smeared with make-up and blood
banged on the other side of the glass
crying for help
The guy caught up to her
before I stepped out of the car
pulled him by the hair
dragged him to the hood of the car
smashing his face into the cold metal
Sometimes, I can still see his eyes
staring back at me in horror
He was introduced, for the first time,
to the words change and revolution from a faggot
I just want you to be a little more affectionate. You can’t keep hiding behind, “That’s just the way I am.” That shit don’t fly with me.
I was twenty-seven when you came into my life
I had never felt more comfortable and safe
with anyone in the world
You were the first to ever challenge me
to realize that sometimes sacrifice
is the only way to salvation
to recognize that true love
requires strength and compromise
If only I had reached out
in public
to hold your hand
Emanuel, you know I love you, but this isn’t working out. I can’t live like this. I need to be with someone who is not afraid to be themselves out in public. It’s really important to me. I want to be able to kiss my lover at any given time. I need someone willing to take that risk.

Considering my upcoming master’s thesis on Queer Nationalism in Cuba, I was ecstatic to find this essay I wrote in 2003. I suppose that even five years ago I had some idea that I wanted to pursue this topic deeper, but my analytical tools were certainly limited at this point–I was only a sophomore. Although this essay is too broad to fit under the purview of my thesis, I may decide to clean this essay up a bit and present it at a conference. I know the essay is a bit long–and requires a lot of editing, but any comments would certainly be appreciated 🙂

By the way, I couldn’t post the citations. If anyone wants them, just let me know.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about performance and politics. During the “Black Power, Black Feminism” conference at Sarah Lawrence, I attended a panel on the Black Arts movement and I was provoked to start thinking differently about art and politics. One panelist noted that during the Black Arts movement, dancers were not respected as a “serious” art in terms of social politics. Dance was perceived as frivolous apolitical action—and not a true art in light of the movement. Yet, the panelist argued that dance was by far one of the most politicized art forms during the movement, and also one of the most accessible considering that the only tool required is the body. Something else that only requires the body is sex, but this action is hardly understood as an art. Sex is certainly a performance, no matter how many people are involved. And art is certainly also performative, but what about pornography? Can pornography also be art? Before I even begin to consider this question, it is critical to start with deconstructing what we even deem as pornographic. In light of the performative scope of my inquiry, I would like to commence with a videographic introduction.

He has a point. Let us embody this problematic as the foreplay to our work…But I’m going to take this slow.

My first love.

March 7, 2008

In 1989, I began a love affair that has lasted 19 years…with Janet Jackson. As a five year old, I was enthralled by the heavy base beats, soft voice and amazing black and white music videos of Rhythm Nation: 1814. I was not totally aware of the depth of the album’s lyrics, but as I grew older, I not only developed a better consciousness of her message, but a soundtrack reflecting the limitless highs and bottomless lows of my lived experiences.

Four years later, I danced alone in my room to janet. I released my pre-adolescent worries singing everything from “That’s The Way Love Goes” to “Because of Love”. I was shaken by the naughty lyrics of “Throb” and “Anytime, Anyplace”…those songs always required me to don my headphones out of embarrassment. I even broke the wall one evening while practicing my choreography 🙂

Last week, Janet’s lastest album, Discipline, was released…and its amazing! I definitely suggest for everyone to check it out on iTunes (this is a greener and cheaper option to CDs).

The music video to her second album single, Rock With U, was just released yesterday. I am in LOVE with it. Janet is definitely giving me everything I need. Especially from 3 minute 15 to 3 minute 22. Check it out!


March 3, 2008

During the first night, I was terrified of the novelty of my new surroundings. I attempted to breathe in the exotic chilled nocturnal breeze, but my lungs lacked the capacity to accommodate such a miraculous air. I sensed my body being galvanized a revolution of unimaginable sorts. I was not in control. A warring sense of chaud and cold began to encompass my entire being—it was a most extraordinary feeling of euphoric panic. I was outside of my domicile, experiencing the first of my many panic attacks in Canada. The air was the catalyst of my culture shock. My body, without any knowledge of this alien environment reacted irrationally. I vomited on the driveway.

I wrote this last year. But something has transfixed me. I’m not blocked…

I want to transform my writing.

I need to find the voice to speak, simply. Where can I locate the words to set me free from this complex? I’ve been thinking about tools. Audre warned us about the tools–they won’t dismantle that fucker’s house. But I am filled with fear that I have been overcomed by that fucker–he raped the voice out of me. and I’m not going to let him have it for one more second.
Audre, cuentame, how did you do it?