Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Anhedonia

I've done this for the last time, in humbled areas, in reverie
of doggy-dog lifestyles.
I've passed on glances, on peculiar men without heads or without dolls,
picking themselves off like squished beetles on bedroom floors,
where those long dark nights spit on in seclusion,
and how I would pay them too - pay them for all they've been through.

Dreams go by, but thoughts do not
- I thought I caught what he had got
- No just a living draught
- what Joe and jesus both had sought
- I'd think a candle buy a cock


Wishing like the summers do,
bedrooms white, and midnights blue,
if peace be gone then peace be true,
no one else but you, you, you.

- - -

When does love morph into insanity? When is it too much to think those thoughts, that they keep you up at night when all else is silent, when all else has closed their eyes to the world and who they hold dear to them. Aye, aye, my empty bed, empty even with me in it, keeps me trapped . . . even my dreams cannot let me go. Please my heart, let me go. Let me go . . .

Sunday, June 26, 2011

The Top Ten Smiths Songs that Represent Gay Themes

The Smiths, lead by lead singer Morrissey and lead guitarist Johnny Marr in the 1980s, changed music forever through their unique, sullen, and melodic sound that popularized the independent British rock scene to a scale never before imagined. And although the Smiths are heavily listened to today, I believe that many of the listeners ignore the fact that many if not most of The Smiths' songs feature homosexual themes and undertones that are the main spirit of the music. Hell, it is almost never mentioned, not on Wikipedia, not in common conversation. It is just another example of playing down one man's beautiful art - an art that is inextricably and amazingly, gay. Many gay teens will cite The Smiths as their favorite band for the most part because, strangely, for once, there is a group that understands our pain, and sings our lives. As Morrissey sang in his song, "Panic," ". . . burn down the disco . . . because the music they constantly play, it says nothing to me about my life," most of the love songs in this world that are heard publicly would never feature gay lyrics. And so in my opinion, Morrissey, who has through the years constantly denied or remained aloof about his sexual orientation, transmitted through his elegiac, melancholy lyrics, the suffering and tragedy that most homosexuals deal with when it comes to love. And in a time when I suffer through a love for a straight boy, I give you the top ten songs that most represent Morrissey's homosexuality, in the most beautiful and powerful way.

10. "The Queen is Dead" (The Queen is Dead - 1986)

Main Line: "And I was shocked into shame to discover / How I'm the 18th pale descendant /Of some old queen or other..."

It would be nice and all to assume that this Smiths' masterpiece is simply a satire of British lifestyles, and that Morrissey is complaining that "life is very long when you're lonely" simply because he's melancholy. In fact, Morrissey's most depressing lyrics carry a gay tone that is very understandable. When Morrissey references to a 'queen' (a slang term for homosexual), he is really diving deep into a theme that is very common in his lyrics - the inability to find normalcy, at least in that time, for living as a gay man. His words, "has the world changed or have I changed," resemble an age old question, has the world simply gotten worse, or is it my fault that I am a homosexual? All of us ask this question, and Morrissey is only further channeling his anguish into a song that is falsely upbeat.

9. "Still Ill" (The Smiths - 1984)


Main Line: "Does the body rule the mind, or the does the mind rule the body? - I don't know."

One of the more depressing songs that the Smiths have made, Still Ill in my opinion carries a sturdy melancholy that depicts the life of a gay man who has not fully come to terms with his sexual orientation (another commonality with Morrissey and his lyrics).

8. "The Boy with the Thorn in His Side" (The Queen is Dead - 1986)

Main Line: "And if they don't believe us now, will they ever believe us?"

Morrissey never comes fully outright with his sexual questions (except perhaps in "Handsome Devil" :]), and in this song he sings of the problems that homosexuals face when others cannot accept the fact that they are gay. Gay people, most simply, just want love; Morrissey sings "The boy with the thorn in his side / Behind the hatred there lies / A murderous desire for love." I also crave this love with a passion that sometimes drives me insane. And as homosexuals, perhaps sometimes a worse tragedy is that many will not accept or validate our existence; simply ignore it, or they won't believe it is our identity, but simply a choice. This is a definite issue that I have with my mother, who at the moment still believes I can be 'saved.' I do not know if Morrissey was putting this question on an open level with another human since he was very private, but I do believe he fought it within himself.

7. "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore" (Meat is Murder - 1985)

Main Line: "But that joke isn't funny anymore / It's too close to home / And it's too near the bone . . . More than you'll ever know  . . ."

Ironically, when Proposition 8 came around in 2009, I was a stark supporter of it. Why? Back then in my Freshman year of high school I was still a blinded individual; I hated homosexuals, and I did not believe they deserved any rights because it was a 'sin' in my eyes. Over time, and much introspection and confusion, I realized why I hated myself; It was because I was gay. As Morrissey sings, there were times as gay people where we were the bullies; we made jokes. Now, it seems as though the world is very conflicting, very critical, and hatred is all around us. It is so very painful to feel so isolated in this manner. I believe when Morrissey says, "I've seen this happen in other people's lives, now it's happening in mine," he is talking about the feelings of suicide . . . something all of us must overcome when we realize that we do have the right to live.

6. "How Soon Is Now?" (Meat is Murder - 1985)

Main Line: "You shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does . . ."

The Smiths' most popular song is also one of their most pro-gay. Pro-gay in the usage that I mean Morrissey is actually screaming out his right for love. As homosexuals, many of us will hear people say that we should stay in the closet, stop being flamboyant, that we should be accepted, but not tolerated to an extent that is equal to our heterosexual brothers and sisters. In this song, Morrissey employs one of the most amazing metaphors I've ever heard for homosexuality: "I am the son and heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar." Morrissey quickly reminds of us the past illegality of homosexuality, whether it be Oscar Wilde's imprisonment, sodomy laws, or even in the current world today, with countries like Uganda proposing witch-hunts for gay people and their friends that includes death sentences. Morrissey does admit in the song that his 'hope is gone,' but I believe "How Soon is Now" is a powerful display of gay pride - and that's a lot, coming from him.

5. "Pretty Girls Make Graves" (The Smiths - 1984)

Main Line: ""I could have been wild and I could have been free, but Nature played this trick on me . . . I've lost my faith in womanhood."

I used to believe that my inability to feel the supposed 'natural' feelings of a teenage boy towards women was because as a child I was victim to the sexual abuse that my father would impose upon my mother. I believed that I was simply 'afraid' to touch women; I did not come to terms that I would much rather kiss a boy than a girl. In this song, Morrissey depicts perhaps his true sexuality: his conflicting bisexuality, or rather, his former (or current) inability to cope with what he feels. Yes, many songs of the Smiths feature heterosexual themes, such as "Sheila Take a Bow" or "Girlfriend in A Coma" (though I do believe this song too is a metaphor for something more understandably gay . . .), so it would be unfair to say that ALL of the Smiths songs have gay themes only. Here, in "Pretty Girls . . .", the theme is strongly felt. Morrissey is apparently on a beach with a woman who tells him to "give into lust," whereas Morrissey can only say, "I'm not the man you think I am," and continues to state that he has "lost [his] faith in womanhood." And as another man on the beach takes her hand, a "smile lights up her stupid face." If there is any song I can relate to on a broad scale on how a confused boy can feel before he realizes his true destiny of homosexuality, it is this song. Ironically, later on towards the end of the song, you can hear him sing "hand in glove . . .," a clever reference to another song on the album that more blatantly features his connection to gay love.


4. "What Difference Does it Make?"  (The Smiths - 1984)

Main Line: "All men have secrets and here is mine, so let it be known."

Arguably the best Smiths song of them all, this song reflects the rejection that many homosexuals will face when their friends and their family do not have the moral or emotional capacity to love them the same way once they are finally out of the proverbial closet. A tragedy of the bigot heterosexual community, Morrissey sings strongly that despite all of the pain, the "prejudice," he is "still fond" of those he has told - those that have pushed him away. When my love for another boy was discovered this past year, and he found out, I was quickly treated like a disease. And while I never expected him to love me in return, he pushed me away. And as Morrissey asks, "What difference does it make?" What difference does it make that I am gay?

3. "This Charming Man" (The Smiths - 1984)

Main Line: ""Will nature make a man of me yet ? / When in this charming car / This charming man"

Morrissey's classic about become infatuated with a married man in a car in the midst of a mundane afternoon is one of the more beautiful songs that I have heard in my life. Both characters in the song are puzzled over the possibility of each other's handsomeness and homosexuality - as if such characteristics did not truly exist (and trust me, all of us feel that way some day or other - that is why Dan Savage created It Gets Better :] ). The song's intense sense of joy coming from this connection is riveting, for such fellowship and love is what we crave the most.

2. "Hand in Glove" (The Smiths - 1984)

Main Line: "Hand in glove, the sun shines out of our behinds. No, it's not like any other love - this one is different because its us."

A masterpiece of any type of music - gay or straight - this one is most definitely, and wondrously, gay. Whether it be the references to anal sex, rejection from society, the isolation, the 'queerness' of it all - what makes this song more radiantly homosexual than all the rest is the fact that it is not self-loathing or sorrowful as the other songs. In fact, it gives a big fuck you to the haters of the world, and proclaims, if I dare say it, that their love is better than all the rest. I can only agree, not on the statement that gay love is indeed better than straight love, but simply because this love is fond, true, and it goes against all odds to survive. I only wonder who Morrissey is referencing to in this song as the love that keeps him strong . . . I could only wish I had mine to hold on to in my "rags."

1. "Handsome Devil" (Hatful of Hollow - 1984)

Main Line: "And when we're in your scholarly room, who will swallow whom?"

Let me get something clear. If a popular band was to release a 'straight' version of this song in this day in age, trust me, it would not be played on the radio. If anything, this song is a true symbol of society's ignorance towards the existence of homosexuality. "Handsome Devil" features Morrissey's love for an apparently irresistible schoolboy. Where fellatio, sex, and secrecy are so cleverly put into euphemism by Morrissey's poetic (and sexy) lyrics, this song no doubt reminds the viewer, if they are poetry fans, to Ginsberg's τεθνάκην δ’ ολίγω ’πιδεύης φαίνομ’ αλαία, a poem of homosexual love that is unparalleled. This song will leave many gay fans wondering, "how can this guy sing this stuff and still say he isn't gay?" Ah, but he's been saying it all along. You only have to listen to find out.

- - -

Sadly, the Smiths have come and gone, probably never to reunite. However, what is left behind in their albums is a collection of music that is like no other. Euphemism is slowly falling away in our society for homosexuality, but it will still take more time. But without Morrissey, such advancements, (and the thousands of gay teens that can relate to his life), would never have been possible.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Let's Go New York!

"They want what you want, a chance to be a little less alone in this world . . ."

This video gave me hope. I know in about ten years, twenty years, gay marriage will no longer be an issue for bigots to descend on as a threat to the 'family.' Thank you Keith Olbermann for your great words.

The Forest of the Strange Violin

"Life is heavier than the weight of all things." - Rilke, from the poem 'The Neighbor.'

Is it my destiny to feel so alone?

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Death of Hyacinth

Let us call him Henry. No. David. David.

I have always believed in the law of attraction, of those things that they teach you in The Secret . . . that if you think something enough, if will happen. Positive mental energy. The universe as your God. That sort of thing. Yes, I believe if I will it enough to happen, David will wake up one morning as a homosexual, come on to me on our next meeting (who knows when that will be), and we will embrace as we will always have been meant. That is the world I believe will come to pass eventually. Over time, his relationship with his foolish woman will come to pass as a mere mistake, and I, the obvious greater of two persons, will be seen as the rescuer of his repressed sexuality. O yes, I, the great and developed __________ will become his lover, and lovers we will be.

Great, isn't it?

Today I purchased more Hollinghurst and some Kafka. I've always disdained Kafka but today, I chose him to join the others in my room, and together, I have created quite the intellectual storage house of literature. Now all I need is someone to read with, for a lonely bed brings to sleep the one who reads. Haven't you ever seen The Reader? I would imagine sex is 10x better when after reading some Pynchon.

Yes, I am quite melancholy and suicidal tonight. No, I will never kill myself. I am not that despondent. My body won't let me do that. It will just keep torturing me with lonely masturbatory activities at 3 in the morning after reading A Wrinkle in Time. The life of the Reader/Writer is indeed a tragic one. No wonder so many smoked, drank, killed themselves, etc. O Sylvia, I feel your pain.

I need to read more Rilke, Nabokov, and Capote before my life is over, however. When I finally finish Wallace's Infinite Jest that has been sitting like the Bible on my bookshelf for over nine months, then I will be ready to die. Until then, call me Jude.

Suitcases Laced With Men

Movies inspire me to write characters, because I believe most human beings (teenagers, adults, old men) in this realm of existence are very shallow, very cold, devoid of the genetics of literature and art. They love, but do they know what love is? Of course not, and neither . . . neither do I.

Even my love, the boy who shall not be named, is shallow. The emotionless lips that entrance me touch a part of my soul that violates me. My soul says, he is not of your words, your poem, your life. And I must fight against fate. I have hope. I have selfishness and woe, and happiness within the fact that one day he could awake with the same notion as I, the same notion I had that summer ago, the same notion that killed my mother and gave birth to the sinking hole in my bedroom. Do I have hope, then? Or is my heart just too, too much alive for the day that erases it?

There is a distinct fear. I am a body. I am a cigarette. I am the ashes falling from a burning field, as though one small planet has been turned upside down, dashed upon the ass of a dying Greek god . . .

Aren't we all in pain in some way? How am I in any way special?

If I am going to write this novel before I die, then perhaps I must kill myself first. Am I the writer, or am I the person? I must tell you; both are incredibly different images.

Who There, Holds the Candle Within My Head

No one knows I am writing these words. Yes, I had another blog. It is a large, vast collection of my various melancholies and transformations produced from the time that I was a fake heterosexual to a horrified homosexual. Not horrified because I thought my love was retched. No. Horrified because my eyes were ripped open from their sewn embroideries, those green lipped tongues that rectify the passing of cars, the shutting off of lights, the understanding that night is night because all brightness has morphed into darkness . . . yes, I had morphed into a darkness never before loved by my heart. And I had loved the dark for so long for so insipid of reasoning. Now I am but this trapped fool who thinks that his problems are that absent of humanity. No, there are other people like me I know, homosexuals . . . but are there other people like me, who stay up at night absorbing the lead within the atmosphere, built up by the breaths of other people, those breaths that feign words of comfort and understanding . . . like a burgeoning asteroid belt, my headache swoons with craters and chunks of dense humanity . . . O how I love him, and how I shouldn't, and how it is all so wrong, so wrong, so wrong, and I am not of his world . . . and not even the world of the great heterosexual void . . . no, beyond that world, that galaxy . . . I am beyond all of theirs. It is not the veins of narcissism, it is the crying out of a boy who is not a boy, who is not a person . . . take me love, I need not the admiration of the world, but just one, one single human being . . .

says the writer as he watches the rain plummet

Desire

Have I begun my final search for beauty in this grasp of time? I feel the weight of change upon my head, upon my body, and my heart. It is so heavy, like the universe shriveled into a stone to be worn on the neck of Atlas, the day of his death, the day of all eternity that must come and go . . . Oh, Tantalus, how you must be sickened by the taste of your own son in your mouth . . . or were you simply distracted by beauty, by love, by power? Were those sickened by your love wrong to send you to immortal suffering? How about now? How may I be tested in this world where what I love is not real? I send my friends to bed cut into pieces, awaiting for me to devour them when their hands can no longer protect their lovely faces . . . The joy of it all is within their eyes, the last look absent of understood control, of peace, of freedom like all things in the cosmos that fly past the colors of an abrasive humanity . . . like Jesus crying out to his father, who he cannot find . . . Capote . . . Oedipus . . . all of us who are not sons of one man, but of all who have stayed up at night to hear the stars tell their secrets . . . I am the city, I am the oceans, I am the undead living . . . hear my cry as I offer up my kin to the gods who will reject me . . . forever will I push up the universe, forever it shall know my name . . . Desire.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Ghost Images

Perhaps it isn't my fault my mother is a ghost. Perhaps it is not my fault that she walks around this apartment as her faded self, an afterimage of a photograph that I cannot realize is the present day, our present existence. I do not think it is my fault entirely. She is not well. She is not herself as she once was, if she was ever well. Perhaps I was just too much of a child to think of my mother that way. But it is all that I have known. I cannot help but feel both frustration and so much sadness at her. Not because she cannot grasp my life, what I told her all those months ago, this distance, the truth of the world . . . but because I think she is so sad inside, so tormented, and I cannot help her. I love her. But I think I have killed her. I really think I have.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Big Lies

That's right. I am back, motherfucker.

It is sick, but there is a small enjoyment I feel in attracting teenage women to my ambiguous sexuality. I cannot attract men apparently, since we are A.) all in the damn closet or B.) I am really, really ugly, which means all these women have fairly poor taste. But I mean, come on, a writer, with pale skin, long hair, who is iconoclastic and smart? Who wouldn't want that? I want my queer intellectual. Which is why I am going to do something very eccentric and unique when I graduate high school. I am going to come out, and I, the gay writer, will go to New York, and rally my homosexual brethren! Isn't that just an original idea?

"Fate Tells Big Lies." - Ginsberg

The issue with most of the problems in the ongoing civil tension between homosexuals and the Fundamentalist group of the world (well, there is no reasoning with Fundamentalists, since you know, they don't have any reason), is that haters do not understand how it is to be a homosexual. They are clinging onto a rite that they think they must protect the world from us, the scourge of the planet. Despite what science and psychology says, they keep on marching. And hell, we'll keep on marching too. But I am going to write a novel, a novel I hope that clears the airwaves, and sends a message to somebody that equality must be put into action. 

Action. I think that is lacking amongst our leaders of today.

Tyrant With a Glove

I am currently reading The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst, a novel set in England during the 1980s, during the rise of Margaret Thatcher, AIDS, and open homosexuality. The society that Hollinghurst depicts (at least from my initial, half-way-into-the-book point of view) is a contrast between the rich and the poor, in which both have their hypocrisies, their fallacies, and their dark sides. It is like the Gatsby of the 1980s, except this Nick (Nick Guest is the main character - 21 year old Oxford graduate) is a homosexual, and one who is like a fly on the wall of society, never obviously criticizing his counterparts, whether straight or gay, but the reader, in the outlook of his display, can feel the rising level of insanity amongst the other individuals. Hollinghurst depicts magnificently the feelings of a homosexual who is out of the closet, but is still ignored by society. He is in love with his friend, Toby, who is a heterosexual, but limits himself to self-loathing homosexuals and people that in themselves are not free. Nick, currently, is still trying to become accustomed to his homosexual life, a life that frightens him as much as it scares him. Most ominously, the novel does not speak at all of Nick's own family; he is living with a wealthy MP (member of parliament) and his family, and is in awe of their life of rich ignorance. This is a curious novel that, at least in my own opinion, portrays brilliantly the tragic thoughts and feelings that a gay person feels within a hostile urban world. He feels invisible, trapped. What I think is most interesting is Nick's apparent search for beauty . . . the title, The Line of Beauty, references to a term in art where a curved line used for painting is more beautiful and more vivid than that of straight, rigid lines. It is most often used in accordance with painting people, and in this case, it seems as though Hollinghurst is trying to uplift the gay spirit, covered with stereotypes and derision, which is in reality, most wondrous and beautiful. 


One of the characters of the novel, Leo, Nick's first lover, lives still in his mother and sister, who are devout Christians. In the awkward scene, where Nick comes over to meet them (with Leo's sister most condescendingly skeptical of Nick's intentions) as a platonic friend, I can relate dearly to Leo's pain. All the mother can speak of is her love for Christ Jesus, and how he can cleanse all our sins. I wonder if Nick comes from such a background. In one part of the section, Nick reveals that his parents are indeed devout - which is a stark contrast from the Feddens (the MP family), who do not condemn but do not publicly address, his homosexuality. 

I can relate, as I am sure many other gay youths can, to living in a Christian family (or any other pious religious family that condemns homosexuality, for that matter). As Augusten Burroughs says, he does not relate to the 'gay community.' He does not feel 'pride' in being a homosexual. But he does think that those who grew up in a house of evangelicals, who had to hide their individuality, those people should be proud. So instead of hiding, and feeling scarred, we should be proud. We should feel empowered. We fought against what was being told to us. We went above a corrupt societal belief. We found ourselves, and we will live our lives, despite this current loneliness, this current pain. My brothers and sisters, I wish the best for us, no matter where you are. You are loved.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Woody Allen Blues

Aha! A breakthrough! It is 9:32 P.M. as I write this, and I am officially in the euphoric state of my self-diagnosed manic depression. It is wonderful! It's like having an orgasm with your favorite food in your mouth, and Pavarotti is booming through the stereo speakers . . . and why look at that, it's Morrissey! Except he is naked. Of course, he is wearing that "I'm Asexual, buddy" shirt, but that doesn't matter. Look at that hair. Anyways, enough about 80s queers. This is the 21st century, isn't it?


Oh I wonder if one day all of us bipolar homosexual teenage prodigies will get together and watch Annie Hall in our slippers and sip some coco, as I am right now. It would be great if our parents dreamt as much about Keir Gilchrist (I cannot stand men over the age of 20) as we did, while listening to Kurt Cobain and reading Sylvia Plath poetry. No, sadly, existing in the flesh is Jesus as usual, perhaps the most homosexual religious figure in all of existence. Who else wandered through deserts and cities with 12 men, no women, and had extreme issues with his mother, denying his sexual quandaries? Sounds like a self-loathing queer to me. Alas, call me a male Anne Sexton. This is indeed the Ballad - err, no, the Confessions (that's more like it!) - of the Lonely Masturbator. 

There are just two things I can't deal with, and yes, they keep me up at night, in case you are wondering. One is I can't fuck my best friend, who is a heterosexual, and two, I am horribly unfunny. Have you ever had to be unfunny? It's rather terrible. Suicide inducing, actually. Apparently I'm like watching Budd Dwyer deliver a baby. Hell, I'd laugh at that. Perhaps the truth is upon me, and I am a sick pervert. I mean, sure, I'd enjoy personally inserting a bible into Michele Bachmann's anus, as I'm sure anyone living outside of Minnesota (all 2% of us) would, but apparently I am a disturbed child. The sickest part is that I have to pretend that I am not unfunny, and that I am actually quite humorous. And if I am not funny, I know I would be a wonderful person to love. But I can't even be that. I have to fake it. I'll say, "Why yes, Alvin, that female's set of breasts are quite satisfactory. Why, I think I'd just love to place my hands on them and fluctuate them in a rhythmic pattern. Why, I am so aroused inside, Alvin, I just can't take it! Why don't you tell me more of your sexual adventures with Tracy? As a normal teenage boy, I'd really appreciate it!" (This is when I keep smiling while silently imagining Alvin with his clothes off) "Why yes, Alvin, go on . . ."

I know. I know what you're thinking. The world does not need another unfunny politically inactive gay writer. David Sedaris has that chair, but hey, I am not him, and I am not Augusten Burroughs either! I'd say if I was older, I would be a daring politician. But living in Suckcity, USA, I don't think that's possible, where the only thing on anyone's minds is what type of toilet paper they get to wipe their asses with. "What time is Mad Men on, David?"

But where in it all can I find my place? My niche? What am I as a writer supposed to do? We're supposed to make our lives, our shitacular lives funny. Yeah, but what if I don't want to be funny? What if I want to cry with someone holding me? What if I, dare I say it, want to fall in love? Wait, my friend, wait. It gets better. Yes, I know it gets better. Later. But what about now? Thanks for the advice, amigo. Don't forget to shut the closet door on your way out.