(excerpt)
The bodies in the ER
death hath warmed over
uneven parcels in ashen wraps
smuggled from their lives
disposed in shelves by triage
ready for immodest auscultation
naked brood hanging
amidst a humid jungle of catheters
pendant nests expelling shrieks
of throbbing sleep deprivation
ambling the corners
which Dickens would have recognized
The Poseidon is a cursed vessel that always teeters but never fully capsizes, a semi-drowning, a plane falling in a lost autumn leave motion to the water, the flight attendants are nurses and the Poseidon is how I choose to call the Fast Track ER at St Paul’s Hospital, a true inner city hospital in Vancouver BC.
The story of this Poseidon has for me a flicking forked tongue, the medical history of gay men and AIDS in Vancouver and my tortuous medical fight with HIV and now with Hep C. I have been a good slut, partied hard, and cannot regret it, my body misses the grinding now and then, addicted, and charges its levy for the memories accrued: the guilt, the exhilaration, the numbness and the thrill of knowing that I have put myself in body and mind altitudes and valleys. This body also takes its toll for these spectacular acrobatics, the pooling of fluids, the friction of limbs, the obscenity of learning to stretch the skin wide.
First of all, thanks to everyone who either commented or e-mailed me to commiserate on my recent job loss or wish me luck in finding a new one. You must be a powerful lot because I had a new job in less than a week.
What am I doing? Well, I'm working as an administrative assistant at a dialysis clinic in a long-term health care facility. Quite a switch from staff writer to health care administration, but just like any port in a storm, any job during a recession will work. And I got it through my friend, John - proving beyond any doubt that it's not qualifications that gets you jobs, it's who you know and how good your timing is. The paycheck is similar and the hours are actually better. I'm not getting paid for writing, but at least I'm getting paid. You can't argue with cash. Not only that, but I'm still doing freelance work for Out Front Colorado, so on the whole, I managed to escape this whole episode relatively unscathed.
Last week, however, was a long hard slag. You know how that first week at a new job is - getting used to a new schedule and a new routine, finding a new route to work, meeting new people, fucking up new tasks, no full paycheck until you work a whole pay period, new bosses, new pecadilloes. I hate being the new kid on the block, too. At least I knew how to write - I know nothing about dialysis.
Social issues trend. Some of it is media-driven, some celebrity-driven. Some issues simply grab interest in ways others do not.
For example, breast cancer has been the health issue for women in the past decade. Yet lung cancer is actually the primary cancer killer of women. And heart disease trumps both.
In the early- to mid-1980s, when former President Jimmy Carter was deeply involved with Habitat for Humanity, homelessness was the issue du jour.
Yet as 2008 draws to a close, with an economic recession/depression that put a half million Americans out of work in November alone, homelessness is barely mentioned, even though, according to homeless advocates, it is on the rise.
According to the most recent U.S. Census reports, there are 4 million homeless in America–slightly more than one percent of the population. But homeless advocates say that number is far lower than reality and that the number of homeless in America will likely double in the next year or so, due to the current economic climate.
When most of us think of homelessness, we think of the unwashed schizophrenics mumbling to themselves and lying on park benches. These are the homeless people of the 1970s, when mental institutions released vast numbers of people into their own care, to mixed results. Some thrived, others ended up on the streets, unmedicated and unable to care for themselves, but with nowhere to go and no one to care for them.
If I had a magic wand
That worked in the field of careers
I’d make it so I could sit with people
Who are dying
Hold their hands as they crossed over
Be with them if they were alone
Or give the families a break
Or give the dying person a break
From the families
Some people refuse to die while a family member is in the room
I’ve met the family and I don’t blame them
I wouldn’t charge anything
Just take donations
Mostly I’d take next to nothing
But once a year some rich family member would pony up with $30,000
Enough to get by in San Francisco, just enough
To count myself among the richest people in the world
All I want to do is watch people die
I want to make friends with death
I want to practice
I want to turn the world upside down
I had many bad night sleeps the year I changed my HAART and was using. I wake up. Feel like someone has messed me up with roofies last nite and had his way with me, I like it but...the hangover is living with drugs. In my twentieth year of living with HIV, I should have unimpeded access to high-tech drugs that don’t give me nightmares. My God given right. They said I would conjure up the most tantric and sexual dreams on this new antiretroviral cocktail—ever. Instead, I have hallucinated of a gagging Terry Schiavo – euthanasia is so 1980s. Who does that now? – rabid throngs of protesters screaming “no gay marriage”, Dan Savage delivering pithy sexual advice to really dumb teenagers blown by the galvanizing finger of a misogynist, Larry Kramer condemning me for incubating superbugs, and a homophobic and anti-communist church leader looming from a balcony with Michael Jackson’s veiled baby swinging over it. What an unpleasant, febrile, digital collage of the noticeable rise in fundamentalism everywhere. Wow! I must speak to my doctor at once. Drugs give me mental flatulence.
Randy comes over my house to go to Critical Resistance and I say this might be the last time I wear my hair like this, because I can’t find a spray that I’m not allergic to. But I also can’t find a new style that I like, something where my hair is down it just feels too understated and I feel like all the flaws on my face are magnified, like the bags under my eyes and it’s stressful because I’m going on tour and when I’m on tour it’s so important to feel like I can do something like my hair, I mean get it perfect and then feel like I can face the world, I mean face the world without feeling like a complete mess. So I keep trying all these new styles, but the other thing is that they make my face look too square, I mean I need to get a new haircut to figure it out so that the bottom is rounded and that will probably make a difference, but I need to figure it out first because I can’t go to get a haircut and just say what do you think we should do, I mean what do you think I should do, I mean I like to know exactly what I want ahead of time, so that I don’t end up hating it.
I forget how frantic I am at this time of the day, rushing to get out of the house I mean I’m not rushing but I keep talking in circles maybe I am rushing I’m not sure if I’m more frantic because Randy’s here or if I’m always this way it’s just in my head so I don’t notice as much. We get the bus and the BART right away, and right when we get off the train there’s Joolie, coming from the conference, and she gives me a great hug, says you look wonderful, which is nice to hear since I was obsessing. Although then I’m thinking will I look as good when I cut my hair, I mean I kept my hair really short for years and even shaved it all with clippers for a while but now I feel like that kind of style makes me look too severe.
It’s kind of fun being in Oakland – I go there so rarely, so I’m always somewhat surprised that it’s really a different city – the spacing of buildings, the air, the way people look at you, the foliage, the light. We’re walking towards the event, which is right by Randy’s house, and when we get close I realize there’s a stream of people and I remember Randy says no one walks around here so I know we’re all going to the event. We’re right along the lake, which I’m sure is polluted as hell but everything looks so sedate here with the sun lowering amidst the buildings reflecting the watery glow.
June 26, the date my three-year stint in Korea came to its end, was one of the happiest days of my life. I loaded up a taxi with my excess baggage, hugged my friend Raymond farewell (I’d been staying at his apartment for my final few days, since my home had been about an hour south of Seoul), and headed for Incheon Airport. The reality of imminent departure struck me again and again: when I handed in my Alien Registration Card at passport control, when I changed my stash of Korean won to Thai baht, when I boarded my Korean Air flight to Bangkok, when the flight attendants bowed in unison to the seated passengers as the plane pushed back, and (bliss!) when liftoff pressed me back into my seat. I was going to spend about six weeks in Thailand before moving to Hong Kong to start a new job (and new life). Appropriately, I had an exit-row seat. Could the FA in her jumpseat opposite me see the tears welling up? Did she put 2 and 2 together?
Cleveland's weather has delighted over the last few days, once the remnants of Hurricane Ike passed. Monday (or Tuesday--I can't remember which) started out cloudy and gloomy, turning sunny and hot by the end of the day.
Overall, though, there is a nip in the air, and the leaves seem ready to turn their russet autumn hues at the drop of a hat.
The coming of fall brings one thing to the minds of young men everywhere, one seasonal groupthink experience...
IZA.
Impending Zombie Apocalypse.
We all know it's right around the corner. Sooner or later, probably sooner rather than later, hordes of cannibalistic flesh-hungry ghouls will prowl the streets of our cities, our towns, probably even a few cornfields, with one overweening desire: to sink their teeth into arms, necks, legs, buttocks, whatever body part they can get their moldering mitts on.
Now, being the poor child that I am, I cannot afford to stock up on enough firearms and ammunition to stop the undead hordes that will undoubtedly home in on my cluttered apartment, filled with the ravenous need to feed on me and my cats.
In fact, I can't really afford to buy a BB gun to take pot-shots at neighborhood youths, so stopping an undead horde that will undoubtedly home in on my cluttered apartment is probably a bit more than I could comfortable handle.
Of course, even without firearms (and I do have a few cop friends who could probably lay their hands on some in an emergency...), one can still at least make an effort to defend oneself.
I mean, just because you're not Dirty Harry, it doesn't mean that you have to simply give up, strip naked, cover yourself in barbecue sauce and wade into a crowd of shoulder-biters.
I love food and I’m not real fond of most exercise, so as each new year comes and goes it gets harder to stay in shape. We do take nice long walks down to the river every night after work. And I love sex, which if done well should burn a lot of calories. And I just bought a new jump rope. And Ian and I are starting to play tennis again on weekends. Again for me. It’ll be new for the Ian. But don’t let this fool you. I really don’t like to exercise.
After decades of smoking I quit in 2005 and, without much trouble, have been a non-smoker since. (In case you need help, that “without much trouble” included nicotine patches, a loving understanding husband, and many years of Bupropion, which when used for depression really sucks for most folks but as a smoking aide, hey, no panic attacks really helps…)
When Ian and I made the final decision that we would close the store I had a bit of breakdown and I cried cried cried. I cried because I was sad we would be closing the store but I also cried releasing all of the angst that the move to Ohio had caused us both. Then I walked down to Walgreens and bought a pack of cigarettes.
Man, oh, man, did those first couple cigarettes taste good! But not many after that. Long story short(er), five months later I’ve quit again. And without the patches or Bupropion this time. One or two bad days where I was no doubt a real asshole not being counted, it’s not been so bad. But I automatically gained weight the last time I quit. Will it happen again?
As mentioned in my last post, Ian does indeed have poison oak poisoning along both of his lower arms and one leg, and as of this morning a little on his chest. Since I’ve never been poisoned by it or been around someone who has this is intriguing, for me, I guess, since to Ian it’s irritating and painful and scary.
He appeared to get it from clearing out and landscaping around his mom’s house where we’re staying. Once you really look (and know what you are looking for “leaves of three, let them be”) it’s obvious that it’s everywhere both as vines and shrubs, green and red. Word to the wise when visiting woods in northern California: watch for the stuff.
Apparently the poison is either acquired directly or through contact with something else that has touched the plant. In this case I’m sure he accidently pulled some with other plants when he was clearing some overgrowth and carried it away since the areas under attack match that idea. But that means Chloe or Notch could bring it the poison to us almost as easily…
You have a short time of around two hours max to wash this poison oil off. If you don’t, it begins its attack. It gets into the bloodstream and can come out almost anywhere on the body but usually appears where the original touch happened. The rash starts but then eventually begins to bubble and ooze, oozing a sap if you will, the end result after oozing and drying and medication and oozing and drying being something that looks a little like human bark. No, really, bark.
What’s Invert(e)?
Well, Invert(e) is a hold-in-your-hands journal that Greg Wharton created to take the place of his online journal, suspect thoughts. That was a pansexual playground of authors and artists that colored outside the lines in whatever art they created. Invert(e), this blog, is similar but not quite the same. This time, “queer” as a word, concept, identity, social construct, religion, revolution is the theme on which artists are invited to vary.
Invert(e), the name itself, is a play on an old-time-y term for queers: invert. Uranians was another coined-to-name-queerlings-before-the-jury-pigeonholed-everyone-into-the-homosexual corral and those identity rustlers—the trannies, the fairies, the bi-all-means—threw open the gates. But it sounds like someone from Uranus, and we welcome them to blog here when not jetting back and forth between the Io9.com-esphere and Captain Jack Harkness’s bedroom.
But why a blog when there's already a journal?
Because Greg and I don’t have a house in realtime anymore where we can throw a party and invite everyone we’d love to have there. And even if we did, not everyone could come. (It’s much cheaper to commute in cyberspace these days.) So, here’s our new house party and you're invited to revel in the dancing on the kitchen table or the fucking in the closet or the fighting on the front lawn.
It’s kind of like a kinkier, dorkier, queer-er version of Hugh Hefner’s old Playboy After Dark TV series meets the rancid right’s Free Republic (NSFW or NSFRT—not safe for rational thinkers)—but without that embarrassing rancid right smell.
So, if you want to know the secret connection between Camille Paglia, South Ossetia, and the Jonas Brothers, Invert(e) is the place to read all about it and become enlightened. Or a great place to find the recipe for McCain-endorsement-free homemade lube to use on your next Manhunt.net outing. Normalcy makeover tips? Ms and Ms and Ms Bigfoot sightings from the astral plane? And photos confirming the plane was flown by Rachel Maddow? We’ve got it all here!
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