Life is quantity over quality. And the quantity is, actually, a direct reflection of the quality. The only freedom you’ll ever find lies in the constant cramming of experience into your life.
“the content of cat calls is so circumstantial. like if I’m on my bike it’s all “wish you’d ride me too sexay,” but if I’m in a blazer and heels it’s all “damn girl you take care of business.” these men are ~commenting~ with cat calls and it makes me think they just are in desperate need of a creative outlet.
buy some markers bro and stop harassing me”
“cheers to the queers, applause to the whores, and a huck huck huck for a jolly good fuck”
“there is a law that just has passed through congress today named for a women who was killed by an undocumented person. a straight tragedy. the murderer deserves to feel the consequence of his actions and the arms of justice should strike the dude hard. but this law punishes a group of people … can you imagine a law that punishes all white men because white men statistically kill more women than any other group of people. would you call that fair. would you call it just. just trying to appeal to those who are not convinced by moral arguments. this is a logic based argument. punishing a group of people based on a shared characteristic that has nothing to do with the crime that was committed is called Discrimination. Even if you can’t stop being an asshole At least try to stop being an idiot.”
“what is or isn’t life”
“i’m riding to rockaway — thinking of you — and why I didn’t stay”
“Rode my bike home with a 102 degree fever today, needless to say, I was delirious.
I felt the weight of the unexpectedness of life and everything, the traffic, the burning in my legs, my lightheadedness, the snot dripping down my face, my sunglasses slipping down the bridge of my nose, seemed to compound the feeling.”
“I was in yoga, had my feet in the air, blood rushing to my head, pretty focussed, and my sweat was dripping into my eyes. So I shut my eyes, and I instinctually gaze, with my eyes closed, to the middle point of my forehead just above my eyebrows. This is supposedly where your third eye lives. I automatically look to my “third eye” because when I was younger I had a crazy hippy dance teacher who had us, from the age of twelve, meditate and learn how to teach yoga and crazy breathing exercises and stretches and the whole nine yards. So especially when I’m already in that sort of setting, my “””enlightened””” side comes out.
So I look to my tHiRD eYE, and I see a white light, and then next thing I know the light is in my chest. And then your face appears in my mind’s eye. I didn’t have thoughts about you, I just saw the light and saw your face. You were just there. I wasn’t thinking about you, you were just there and I felt this feeling in my chest and it trickled down and up all through my body. It was a feeling of a mixture of love and gratitude. But it didn’t really exactly feel like either of those things. It was more, but less, all at the same time.
But bike riding home, I did start thinking: I am so lucky to have met you, and to have experienced you for all you are, and to have gotten to see your country, and to have experienced us. To have experienced a love that crosses culture. To have gotten to travel with you. You have taught me so much about the world, I can’t imagine someone ever teaching me as much as you. You are easily the most interesting person I’ve ever met and it’s very possible that you’ll always be the most interesting person I’ll ever get close to. Your impact, your place in my life . . . I am so grateful for everything. I can’t find the words.
I feel a chapter, or maybe even a book, closing. But I’m not sad. It’s time, and it feels right. All I feel is joy that I got to have you.
And you’re not just special because of the specialness of who you are: you’re special, because somehow, across all the bridges, we worked. All the boys in past few years I know were with me, at the end of the day, for that sense of comfort, rather than to be with me. And this is clearly something I’m causing (not them) because obviously I’m the common denominator here. But that wasn’t you; you were always so interested. You loudly appreciated my personality. You saw me at my very, very worse and you stayed. And you never judged. And you listened. And you chose me everyday. And I saw versions of you I didn’t like, and I, outside of my usual norm, never wanted to run.”
“There is nothing wrong with being “woke”. Knowledge is power and the first step in combating the evils of society is to understand what is going on. Where lies a problem is when your “wokeness” simply results in a stroking of your own ego and does not serve as inspiration to mobilize and take action. Any action, even if it’s tiny! If you are “woke” and do not use this knowledge to help the issues you now are so aware about, you have simply replaced your ignorance with an over-inflated ego and a false sense of superiority. The man who reads a pie recipe may be closer to having a pie than the one who hasn’t. But if all you do is the read the recipe, at the end of the day, you are both just two pie-less men in a world that desperately needs some pie.”
the thing is
if it was about filling a role
or serving a function
there are people who would serve that function
a lot better than you
but that didn’t matter because
the whole point was
that it didn’t feel like I was
filling a role
it felt like I got to
and now that I know
that feeling wasn’t real
I’m not sure what’s left
and whatever is left
I’m not sure is enough
and I’ve spent the summer with unbounded level of humanity. A vast of humanity that is impossible to explain, even to those people living right beside it. Impossible to explain to glass city dwellers looking at the pacific ocean. Explaining to humans what other humans go through is impossible. I’ve seen it my friends eyes, in my family’s eyes, when I explain the work I did in the past, and the work I’m doing now. The eyes glaze over. The eyes stop looking at my eyes. The eye focuses on the plant in the window sill, the soy sauce holder on the table, the bong on the counter. But it’s not just the work itself, it’s where the work takes me. I sit in sunset park, an area more bustling with culture than might be imagined in the money center of the world. But would anyone meet me there? An unfair thought, people have met me there, people will meet me there. I guess I’m thinking of a certain type of people. A type of people who wouldn’t care about the 3 men smoking cigarettes in front of the pawn shop, the locally owned auto body repair shops that seem as busy everyday as a shell gas station, or the lady who sells mangoes and esquites on the corner of 4th and 36th, or a place where english is hard to come by. I go to family court in downtown brooklyn, where the floors are filled with screaming babies, child support wars, young people sitting quietly hoping to be appointed a guardian, men wearing gym shorts, lawyers in suits speaking in raised voices, attorneys speaking softly to clients whose fate has just been decided by some fool in a collar. I sit next to the young girl we are representing and her great aunt who we hope to get appointed as her guardian. She’s wearing white shirt and has painted on her eyebrows and she’s nervous. Her aunt has come straight from her night shift in a factory. The work takes me to court in Queens. I take the J train all the way to its last stop in flushing. Standing beside me on the train ride there is a man in white tank top, with caramel skin showing off his biceps, his gold chain around his neck looks heavy, I glimpse a fake louis vuitton belt. I think he’s beautiful. And in another life, he might have been beautiful for me. I’m taking the J train all the way to its last stop at 7 in the morning, to sit in front of a bleached haired bitch who uses her authority to order us to get everyone in the household fingerprinted and the home inspected because the crime, of course, is the fact that a father wants to make a better life for his daughter, not that a hooked nosed, slimy, ironed haired, cremlin gets to decide her fate. I ride this train this morning to try to make sure a 16 year old girl does not get forced back somewhere where she’s been raped by gang members. Raped. By gang members. Who will rape her again. I’ve been raped. I talk about these things, and eyes glaze. They gaze elsewhere, they glaze over, and the mind wanders to protect itself from horrors it doesn’t want to hear. And maybe it doesn’t need to hear. People pretend to be interested, they nod, they grimace at the right moment, but at the end of the hours, there is absolutely no point in sharing these stories. I know people are indifferent to the other’s suffering; we are mammals, we are driven by self-preservation first and foremost, and this is why I never share my suffering. But systemic issues, I’ve always naively believed that people might want to listen. But why would they? They weren’t born to fix the problems of others. They weren’t born with the required burden of knowing about the world; none of us were. It’s this insane or inane or irate or engrained desire of mine to share. Everyday I feel like yelling at the world that everything is going wrong. But what’s the point of yelling? What’s the point of yelling at someone who lives in a glass city on the pacific ocean. Who sees a sea of happy white people prancing around, and doing yoga, and wanting equality. It’s easy for there to be equality when the difference between the sects of humanity is minute in comparison to a city and a world where the differences are stark and right next to each other. Outside of a glass city, children are dying, women are raped, and no one wants to help them find asylum. But I am no hero. Not even close. I am a mouth piece, a thought piece, doing minimal work within this cursed system and at the rate I’m going I’m going to end up burnt out. So then instead, I’ll end up working somewhere intellectually stimulating where I can nerd out but where it’s cushy so in my free time I can sit, create art, travel, write about my feelings towards injustice, and not care about the man on the train in the gold chain. I’m too sensitive for this work, but not sensitive enough to muster up the strength to do it forever. I’d end up in a puddle of tears that although, in its reflection, you might be able to see all the faces of the people I’ve helped, but my souls will be completely melted and I’ll be absolutely and terrifyingly alone.
I love when it rains and I’m going somewhere where no one cares about my appearance.
I walk outside with no umbrella, no hood, no jacket, no make up on, and I let the rain just fall all over me.
And I cry.
And no one can tell I’m crying;
it’s just more water streaming down my face.
I get to cry alone, but surrounded by people.
And I love the feeling.
and the crevices of the
held all the memories
onto back screens
of rose coloured petals
that only bloomed
if a child was
to climb out of
the valley. And when
that child got her guts
and climbed, Every
greater than the
first lotus flowers
in the garden of eden.
The petals sang floating
golden string choruses
of a thousand cellos.
The nectar inside was the taste
of a feeling when you touch
fingertips for the first time. And it
happened—the whole world was gifted with new
sense—because a child was brave enough to climb out of a valley.