Eclair: What would you say to someone to convince them to read your writing?
hard question! my words are my craft. proverbs 12:18 likens them to swords, but i see them as a solid unit. one sword that i’ve spent my lifetime sharpening. even if it proves to be the bluntest weapon in a pile of blades heaped at your feet, wouldn’t you like to see how deep it cuts? may surprise you.
Orientation: Links to three of your writings that you think best represent you?
i... for ease of access: 1, 2, 3. i have written things that represent me better, as a person, alas they are not on the blog.
Rabbit: Do you feel successful as a writer?
no. absolutely not. just as well –– i suppose success would make me even more complacent than i already am ;-)
God: First line of your fav. thing you’ve written?
answered! for context, it was the first line of a lovenote. i do have an alternative. i recycled this rolling verse from an opener that i wrote in my youth, i’m fond of it and it’s actually on the blog:
2. GOD: jesus said i am the way, the truth, and the light, but he can’t make you see the light of the stars like i can, and he may have created love but he didn’t make it like we did, and don’t you dare tell me you believe in your bible more than you believe in us because we’re raw in the way that he understands: he turned water into wine and you need me to stop your eyes watering and make you whine, so come back to bed; and stop relying on your father to show you what love is when i’m right here
Babylon: Are there any recurring themes / imagery in your writing?
religion: god, angels, bibles. family, my brothers, my mother. queerness. driving, i always find myself writing about driving. transitions in general, the journey.
Vervain: What's your aesthetic?
wild flowers, traditional drums, unlaced sneakers, the ocean illuminated by a soft mango sunset. liminal spaces.
Minotaur: If you get writer's block how do you deal with it?
to answer honestly, i don’t. i rarely get writer’s block and when i do, i don’t really deal with it. i’m privileged to never have writing deadlines, therefore i never really disappoint? i abandon ships readily and freely and i never feel pressured to write. i just... live and then writing happens as a result.
God: First line of your fav. thing you’ve written?
i. to you, who knows how to hear all the languages people don’t know they’re speaking,
Lineage: Which writers have affected your craft?
affected is such a broad broad term: possibly every writer that i’ve ever read has had a bearing on my writing, both consciously and unconsciously. from shifting my ways of thinking to perhaps reinforcing ideas i’ve held deeply within myself, to causing me to refine and perfect my little opinions and wayward ideas… of late i’ve been returning to walt whitman and frank o’hara. the idea of the great american poet both frustrates me and fascinates me. i enjoy nizar qabbani, kate zambreno and shinji moon immensely. i really recommend bone tongue by scherezade siobhan, i love love love and think about it often. i strongly believe that poetry is moving forward with time, art in general. when i first started seriously writing, i remember albert camus nearly caused me to tear my hair out with frustration –– that urged me to write more.
in terms of my academic craft… the old greats: durkheim, weber, foucault, bourdieu, haraway, du bois, said, baudrillard. and then more specifically tobias kelly, avery hunt, boellstorff, james clifford, adam kuper, spitulnik… this list is also extensively long, i apologise. i read an article by sara dickey about mass media and anthropology in 2010 which turned my head upside down. i’m still reading, always reading.
His eyes didn’t know they were looking, lest of all what they were looking for–– But from time to time, he’d feel a random spike in core activity. His circulatory system went into overdrive, working at twice the speed his lax body was used to. His pupils would dilate and he’d turn to look around, suddenly frantic, desperate to locate the source of his congenital high. Even though the instances should have been alarming, due to the nature of his three second flutters, he’d forget. Shoichi went through the motion, got carried away with by the tide of subtle extremities in life and moved on, carried on living as per usual. After permanently relocating to Japan they were far scarcer in any case. Naturally, he assumed something in the British weather gave him palpitations. However, the fluctuating vertigo returned with a relentless fever the second his feet touched South Korean soil. In a crowded coffee shop it rolls over him, causing a tremble from head to toe. Fighting the urge to sweep the room with his gaze proves futile; he stares and searches until the jumpiness subsides. And then all is seemingly forgotten, as a stranger politely asks about the tattoo on his left hand.
That night, he dreams.
Everything is extraordinary: the warmth of the Texan sun, the grainy sand on the roof of his mouth and the putrid stench of camel shit sweltering in the heat. He can’t see himself but he feels bigger, bulkier, sturdier. His shoulders are definitely wider and donned with leather. No need to inspect the surrounding area because he knows it, like the back of his tanned hand, he knows where everything is. On a weathered wooden bar, in a glass that has the fingerprints of another stamped all over it, his finger of whiskey awaits him. He knows to grasp it, tilt his head back, and take it in one swig. It burns on the way down but his face doesn’t crumple. Dancehall girls shoot him awe-filled glances yet he doesn’t blink. Old Western sultriness personified.
The slap on his back takes him by surprise, but instead of reaching for his handgun, the corners of his mouth curl up into a soft smile. He glances upwards and is greeted by the most beautiful set of eyes he’s ever seen. He instantly knows that he wants to take the boy into his hands, kiss the golden forehead lines the sun has gifted him with, wrestle him to the ground and give him a spanking for being so gosh darn pretty. The words fly out of his mouth before he can think, sounding melodic and familiar, filling his heart with... Longing. Longing to live the fantasy forever.
“’Bout time, Rodeo. Was startin’ to think the cattle ‘ad eaten you alive.”
Her head lifted, her blinking languid as she processed his words in her mind. Eyes widened some, attention taken by him rather completely. Strange, she mused, tearing her gaze away from his face, hiding hers behind the curtain that was her hair. Normally, her doting older brother would say the same thing and she wouldn’t have such a response, but– was it his voice? The way he gently told her that she didn’t have to go, after she implied that she felt the need to get going, after spending pretty much the entire day hanging out in his place–see, if there’s anything anyone needs to know about her, she’s rather curious; she loves hearing other peoples’ stories–and it just so happened that Shoichi had a lot, considering he is well-traveled.
Another thing was that she is rather t r a n s p a r e n t–as evidenced by the way her hands fumbled with her face, seemingly hiding the faint pink glow that began to spread across her cheeks. “…are you sure, though? I mean, everybody has their own personal time, and it’s been hours since I arrived and bugged you for stories, so..”
In the uncomfortable minute it takes him to realise that she has spoken, he idly watches her from the edge of window sill. It’s his favourite position –– a cold sheet of glass between his frail frame and the rest of the world, it evokes a feeling of omniscience and unattainable power. The sunset gives his hair a golden tint and, like he’s aware of it, he runs his fingers through the inky black ends. Shoichi, the daydreamer, surveying the world he itches to run around in. When he snaps out of it, he looks at her with rounded eyes and warmly dismisses her fears of being imposing. Of course she’s welcome. It’s not just Japanese hospitality, Shoichi lives for human contact.
“Hmn? Of course! A couple of hours in the grand scheme of things is but a blink. Would you like some tea?” Irregardless of her answer he leaves the sill and glides over to the small kitchenette with the intent of hearing a sweet high whistle from his favourite kettle. Was it his Japanese, British or Old-Soul flair that lifted his spirits at the mere thought of a kitchen appliance? Probably a culmination of all three. The second she’d walked in he’d offered her a cuppa but it didn’t cross his mind that hours later she’d be sick of it. “I have many more stories, as do you I’m sure.”
1. CUL DE SAC: teenage abandon caused me to sneak out of the glass backdoor in plain sight ma, and i raced round the bend, feet tasting of concrete, mouth searing with swear words, just to see him; and our minds went around in circles, in circles like the pavements we walked; and i miss the way his arms looped around my neck in a circle and his pupils dilated, bigger circles, when i pulled away from his collarbone; and i wish i could forget ma, but you can’t un-feel the bliss of autumn nights like that: my cul de sac, as christened king of the block, lined with the brown beer bottles of folklore, and only one streetlight worked but it turned the streets we strolled down gold: my first epiphany bathed in yellow and circles and circles
2. GOD: jesus said i am the way, the truth, and the light, but he can’t make you see the light of the stars like i can, and he may have created love but he didn’t make it like we did, and don’t you dare tell me you believe in your bible more than you believe in us because we’re raw in the way that he understands: he turned water into wine and you need me to stop your eyes watering and make you whine, so come back to bed; and stop relying on your father to show you what love is when i’m right here
3. DALMATIAN: i know so many people who are afraid of dogs but still hang off the arms of those bitches, well i’ve repented and i don’t self-harm no more
4. CAMPFIRE: only in the blessed digital age can you live through a shiny flat screened television, i’ll admit to liking our era that much: a thin cable to the modem is my umbilical cord and i only need one but i want two dozen; i’ve got one of those electronic fires in the living room that has moods and it’s become my favourite person: doesn’t speak just cackles quietly and spits none of that fiery nonsense; it’s clean and efficient and i played chubby bunny too much as a kid to still like marshmallows
5. WEST COAST: ’m tired of americans assuming that they’re the default and everything applies to them: we reminisce rock beaches and fairground rides and clumsy mules and red and white parasols and an unused bottle of sunscreen, and the ocean isn’t as forgiving in england: the tide licks your feet all shades of pink to get your attention; the salt water is jealous of the boy you’re scared to let go of lest you lose him to the wind; the seaweed wants to anchor you to the shore and turn you into an example
6. GLITTER: if you’re not wearing nails, you’re not doing drag
7. SWIMMING POOL: a moment of silence for the poor unfortunate souls who’ve drowned at the hands of the schooling system; their lifeless bodies floating to the surface to become a statistic: an unemployment figure, a suicide rate, an alarmingly high percentage of those on minimum wage tucked away in your bi-weekly newspaper; some of the worst bullies i’ve encountered are parents, and teachers have blood on their hands; we let our kids suffocate under false promises, we do
8. GORGON: i always confuse gorgon with gargoyle: my brother’s feet are so deformed that they’re grotesque and i amuse myself by giving them personas that belong to the guardians of notre dame: only i can make him laugh after a long day with extensive monologues and great creativity; wikipedia says gorgons are female creatures; wikipedia also says gorgons derives from gorgós meaning terrible: and i’m not surprised the two definitions go hand in hand: we rewrite history to blur out the bad parts when we can’t turn them into legends and epics and morals and stories; my mom has medusa’s eyes, she can turn any man into stone, i’ve seen it
9. CITRUS: this is not about the sharp taste of a lemon, it’s the subtler sting of a peach flavoured realisation; she asked me shoichi, why do you always write about boys, and i didn’t reply then, but: anatomy is my forte, i studied geography in order to get less lost, and i use men as markers just to make them significant in my journey; i convince myself it’s a kind gesture not an innate need to make sense of myself, through the zest covered mouths of others, sugar-coated reality and all that shit
10. BOMBER JACKET: a wolf in sheep’s clothing, intended to exaggerate the geopolitics in our great transatlantic nation: but a boy slips on the symbol unknowingly and conforms to an ideal before his conscience is fully cultivated; wake up america, smell the coffee europe, we’re more than allies and we’re feeding capitalism our sincerity
11. WHITE SHEETS: i never slept on them as a child, but used the laundry room as my repertoire of capes rather: never felt so proud when my dad dusted my shoulders, tied the knot, and told me to save the world: white was my thing; and now the hotel room’s complete with the hauntingly cosmic echo of stevie nicks bouncing off most plastic surfaces, before eventually travelling from the bathroom, never sounds tired; and we wear the white sheets i love; i hear that dull buzz an electric razor makes when you commit to a bad decision as i sit on alabaster sheets drenched in sweat and the smell of us; white’s not usually my thing anymore
12. DETROIT: sounds french and innately mispronounced: you’re supposed to be soft around the edges, whisper it like a promise in the dark; it rolls off your mother’s tongue like a parisian pastry, sounds expensive, and i know you smell the backstreet burning and i know you feel the erratic pulse of a city gone awry but be gentle, be kind, dee-trois
no warning sirens when the cops pull us over and tear down the walls of our dwindling jerico; we’re out of our teens but the silence is still not stifling and the heat radiating from under the bonnet is just fine: we’ve unlearned fear in a way that the rest of our cohort haven’t mastered quite yet; what strikes me is that bloodshot eyes and knuckles dusted with purple became a normalcy for me at one time, and i lusted for the grey smoke sauntering from between your lips, which did lose its novelty eventually, and the commentator of the evening in neon yellow and black had no sting, exasperated ‘cause he expected us to shiver in our boots in his wake and we were one of his kind, has a potbelly and a pig’s nose in my memories; children dream of becoming noble things, don’t belong weighted down with metal: ‘my id isn’t fake’, ‘go home, kid’
His tongue will hum—ever a hive of bees, Remember how you cracked open my
ribs and found what was lodged there?
She will say, It certainly wasn’t honey.
He will say, And yet, you keep coming
back for more.
Bianca Spriggs, from “All That Glitters” published in Muzzle
i got so angry i couldn’t write yesterday, just saw red and crushed the pen on purpose, couldn’t crawl to a laptop out of fear, i apologise to nobody but myself
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