When I speak of these people, I speak of myself

Next week, I'll be working on a feature story for Boing Boing. I'm doing it for a few reasons, but the main reason is because of a feature story Lisa Katayama wrote for Boing Boing, "The Last Hospice." In it, she wrote about why she volunteers at an AIDS hospice: "I do it because I like to face my fears, and death is the one thing that I fear the most." I thought, That is a good way to live, so I looked for something that interested me and that I feared, and there it was. Mostly, I've found it's people I over-identify with that I fear. Like drag queens. (This story is not about drag queens.) Or transsexuals. Or transvestites. This is not to say I scream and run the other way when I see drag queens, transsexuals, or transvestites -- in fact, I have spent some fine times with all of those types of peoples -- but it is to say that I find them mildly frightening. And also midgets. And that I think this is because I identify with the transgendered, because I feel like being a woman is a lot like drag, being so tall and all. And I feel tiny on the inside sometimes, like a midget. (This story is not about midgets.) There was a TV show on a while ago about people with OCD that made me so nervous I couldn't watch it, but the idea of what they did was right. As long as you keep indulging the anxiety, it's real. But if you can befriend it, you can be its midget drag queen.

The truth about editors

I get an email from an editor. A book editor. She's seen The War Project. Her email says, congratulations on this amazing project. The "C" isn't capitalized, I note. Do you have a book deal? she inquires. She signs her name, so I google her name. Most of the stuff written about her is on Gawker. A series of posts describe her as shouty, or troubled, or troublesome, and there's one from someone who used to work for her that says the only time the editor was nice to her was when she was maybe drinking or something. She is best known for editing a best selling book by a former vice president. I email her back because it's an average day, and what else is there to do? I don't really like editors, or agents, but I do it anyway, knowing I will eventually regret doing so, but a) who knows when and b) I can blog it. I don't have a book deal, I write back. She wants to know where I live, so I tell her. I would love to discuss this with you, she writes. Because this is how agents and editors are. They would love to do things, and they think things are absolute amazing, and they all write with this sort of breathless anticipation like all their internal clocks are ringing the alarm on This Should've Been Done Yesterday. I send her my phone number and tell her when to call, but she never calls. Several weeks later, I get bored, and I send her an email. Are you still interested in this? I say. Her email says, absolutely. The "A" isn't capitalized, I note. She asks me if I can talk on the phone the next day. I don't respond right away, because I'm tired -- of editors, of agents, of phones. The next day, she writes, did you get my response? She sounds breathless with anticipation. would love to talk sometime tomorrow. I send her my phone number. She never calls. I wonder what she's doing. If she's out partying, or super busy, or if she ever gets sad. I wonder if she's lonely, if the ex-vice president calls her in the middle of the night and tells her that he misses her, that if she would let him, he would be her crazed sex poodle forever.

Love junkies

I wrote a story about male porn stars for The Good Men Project.

If you thought these men wanted to be studs, you were wrong. If you thought they were in it for the sex, you were soon corrected. If you thought they were in it for the glory, you were to find otherwise. They weren’t in it for any of that. They were in it for love. Only for love would a man dedicate his life to the sausage-making enterprise that is the porn industry.

[Love Junkies]

Love is a drug

There’s only one sun & there’s only one you
& me & the us that I see is maybe something
only I see. I drove myself one hour into the future
& left you behind. But it’s cold here & even if
the stars shine they don’t shine the right way anymore.
All I can tell you is that there are so many brightnesses
& I want to look at them all with you. All I can say
is that I can’t chart this dark sky alone.
We’re both too old to have bodies that shine anymore;
but there’s this persistent glow & it’s light enough
to see our way by if we let it work like that.
There’s a whole big cynical world that doesn’t need us
to need each other. But there’s a song on the radio
that raises the hair on my arms, that pumps
my heart full of love & the name of that amazingness.
I’m watching the winds tear through
dark grass blades & I know there are no words
to get you to feel that wind. I closed my eyes for a second
& saw a girl say she only wanted to know if she were
kissing someone for the last time & I’m scared
she already made up her mind right then to let me go. -- [Via & Via]

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