Far more often than I would like, my mind is plagued by terrible things like rape, murder, war, exploitation, violence, deception, dishonesty, brutality, corruption, and abuse. I think about how awful people are, all the lies we tell ourselves and to each other, all the destructiveness, selfishness, hypocrisy and bullshit, the happiness we display at the misfortune of others, envy, hatred, jealousy. Then I hear some song I love, I eat a delicious meal that someone else prepared, I ride in a car over a majestic bridge that an enormous group of talented people helped successfully together to build. I read a story about how someone straight up gave their motherfucking life to save someone else, about people across the world bringing medical supplies, support, compassion, community, clean water and food to other people who every single day don’t have even that. Out on my deck, I gaze over at Twin Peaks and witness a distant group of faraway strangers gathered to experience the exquisite view. They gaze out into this beautiful city, their final look at all that societal achievement, I watch them, I smile, and I feel glad. I feel a happiness and love for all those tiny people at a distance, I love them even though I’ll never know any of them, I smile to feel the immediacy and intensity of the love that’s in my heart, and I feel a kind of deeply beautiful sadness, because I am glad. Life is awful, yes, people are awful, yes, but life is so beautiful too, and people are also beautiful. All that darkness is constantly challenged and eclipsed by all that light. Because the sun is wonderful and beautiful equally when it rises, but also when it sets.
We are not here to use and to take, to criticize, reject, hurt, or abuse. We are here to share, and to love, and most of all to contribute. What are you offering, what do you have to give? Make what you’re doing every day in some way original and beautiful. Make it mean something, make it come from you.
Think it might really be time for me to change my million years email address. Explaining “pr.incest” to the uninitiated is persistently problematic and even at times kind of difficultly twisted. The inside joke and backstory to the handle has for the most part never truly been got, and attempting to capsule summary everything isn’t a straightforward situation when for example I am suddenly asked for my email address by a bright-voiced and unsuspecting office secretary over the telephone. Saying the made up word “pr.incest” proves itself typically awkward, especially as I usually have to say it twice. Normally I just spell the word out, “P” “R” “DOT” “I” “N” “C” et cetera and always I can tell that the person at the end of the line isn’t sure they heard me right as the word “incest” fully manifests. I never actually say the word and the brave person I’m valiantly conversing with never does either, we both just calmly spell the murderous and pestiferous thing out back to each other. Then there’s this weird unspoken moment where “incest” hangs luridly in the air. The conversation formerly courteous and carefree is now uncomfortably clouded by a jarring redirection toward contemplation of a widely condemned social sexual taboo. Christ. How do I get myself into these things. Saying goodbye to the name might be a bit sad but it’s also likely high time. Life after all is fluidity and change. Plus I will not miss the tangled debauchery I periodically receive in my inbox from random international middle-aged men across the wide wild world hoping with absurd and poorly articulated interest to somehow score a little bit of that super sweet incest. Shoulda known incorporating “incest” into anything would turn up more grief than glee, but spelling and explaining “Chrystal Mess” and “platypussy” also likely won’t make my life any more easy. Hindsighting as always, even before the facts. Jeez.
I have half a mind to become the first female contestant on that motherfucking show, I don’t even care if I win. I’ve long recognized I’m something like a ten foot tall ferocious Black Man Drag Queen inscrutably misbodied into a small unboxable Asian female form but enough about me right, if I was on that damned judges panel, Darienne, Joslyn, Laganja and Trinity would have long ago been gone and Milk would still be there. I had Milk pegged to be top 3 alongside Ben and Adore, all three of whom I of course adore. For sheer fishyness, sweetness and beauty too, April should still be around, Courtney IMO is a great disappointment but it does seem that the Latin, Asian and Big Girl Queens never win. Anyway. Back to Milk. Darling, if it were up to me, you’d be top 3, I very much enjoy you, despite my severe dairy allergy. That beard, that nose, Workroom Rupaul, such great and challenging output, my God. In a certain publicly private artistic interested spectator way, and as far as corners go, I’m in yours. It’s all you.
Been hard at work banging out continuous content at my blog and writing my notorious stories because Dylan’s threatened to send me to Trim Camp if I don’t start consistently creatively producing in earnest. Like everyone says, there’s nothing sadder than wasted potential, also, “Time Waits For No Man” and it disturbingly, shockingly, doesn’t wait for me either, even if I might actually be some kind of alien cyborg android hailing from the pre-bang Singularity of some other universal galaxy, speaking of which. Quantum mechanics is fucking crazy. Physics, space, music, math, consciousness and gravity, it’s all motherfucking goddamned crazy. Shit is real because actually it’s imaginary. I don’t think anything can get crazier than that. Regardless right. Life. Write, girl, write!
Dylan has still this relentless thing for t-shirts that are funny or artistic or ridiculous. I love to see him in printed ties and button ups but the boy never irons or has time to do things like laundry so he basically just keeps rotating between his favourite Ts. Some of these t-shirts are very recognizable in brightness or design so in photographs Dylan can come across as wearing the same thing on repeat. He got a picture with a happy fan once in one of his favourite t-shirts and then when he passed through that city half a year later, the same fan got another picture taken with him and brought her face back into a smile once she got over the disconcerting fact that Dylan was wearing the same damned T.
Fast forwarding to around now, Dylan keeps wearing his favourite long leather shorts from Japan with this amazing reversible Japanese silk gangster jacket I scored for him somewhere. He changes his t-shirt daily but the long leather shorts and the Japanese jacket are so memorable and eye-catching it does come off like the man’s outfit is impervious to change. One of the straight white male crew members made a friendly remark concerning this, Dylan maintained neutrality while we grinned. Some of the shows are several hours drive apart so many of the more passionate fans follow the tour and attend successive bookings. At one show I was present for, I overheard a surprised fan whisper to another, “ill.Gates still hasn’t changed!” I laughed privately to myself and later said, “Darling if even wild-eyed drunken male teenaged fans notice you’ve been wearing the same damned thing for days, something’s gotta give.”
In other words it’s time to get that sweet motherfucker some new badass threads. He has plenty now already but digging them out from his neglected suitcase shoved way and deep into the back of the bottom of the bay of a bus is apparently too effortful and lacks in thrill. Life on the road right. Less fresh on the flesh and a little more strife without the wife.
You are as good as your friends.
Dogs. It’s not size or age or breed that matters, it’s personality. With writing and to some extent all life what counts alone besides clarity, depth, originality and intention is style. If you who are preoccupied with connections or defined by material wealth, remember fundamentally that other people can’t do your shit for you and money can’t buy you style.
Living with 2 producers. Twice the number of songs I never wanna hear again.
Love is the greatest achievement in
the life of any human being.