Transparent Duck

Everything I'm desperate to keep, leaves.

[writingrainbow]

Third places are my Roman Empire — and these vital spaces are going to be even more meaningful as our social media platforms are threatened, altered, and become safe places for bigots.

Third places for queer and trans people, people who organise or mobilise their communities, are essential and precious. We need to (re)create, adapt, gather, and protect outside of the spaces that drain our energy and dismiss our dreams.

Let’s get together 💜🤍💚

[writingrainbow]

[writingrainbow]

[sixthcigarette]

“Out of sight still on my mind Stuck in that split second at the highest reach of the pendulum swing when the seat falls out from beneath you before sitting back into the downswing But we’re too old for carnival rides”

— R.B.

[sixthcigarette]

RuPaul has been spouting off transphobic sentiments for a long time & his show frequently plays up racist tropes & portrays Black queens as loud, angry or ineligible for the title of best drag queen. But this season of drag race has me navigating how to ensure I show my disdain for his comments & also supporting a queen that brings back the nostalgia of being a little queerling growing up & learning how to live my best life. Check out my piece about the importance of queer spaces, the shared tragedy we all share after the summer of 2016 & the vital nature of representation. If it resonates, throw some claps on it!

[sixthcigarette]

Being a queer kid during the holidays means eating leftovers alone on a metal stool at 4am listening to the freezing rain anticipating a third day rendezvous with an ice scraper Being a queer kid during the holidays means writing a wish list with nowhere to postmark and collecting gifts for yourself that will only ever be wrapped in department store plastic bags The only place with something special waiting underneath is the frozen building overhang with an icicle plummeting from it’s branch the moment you pass below And even though you are a staple among your closest friends’ excursions you are quickly reminded that your assigned seat is not transferable Inquiries about travel plans are combatted by assertions that it will be figured out later even though the soonest trip you are planning to take is to the alcohol store down the street Each chance of snow feels like a challenge to see if the tread on my tires is as eroded as my eardrums as soon as I hear carolling from the diner’s overheard speakers Where rough drafts of New Year resolutions include utterances of take-backs and re-dos and the smell of peppermint makes my earlobes burn Being a queer kid during the holidays means not getting to lick the cookie batter off the spatula and having to explain to the old man in a red apron outside the automatic door why you aren’t interested in contributing to a little metal bucket that clinks conveniently loud when someone is careless enough to only drop their coins because who was ever saved by a few useless tokens Wondering if a box-unit air conditioner would be an inappropriate place to hang a stocking because it’s the nearest thing to a mantel and keeping you warm Or what they do with all those unclaimed pine trees that weren’t shaped quite right, or didn’t have enough branches or hadn’t filled out to look like how the advertisement said, the unusual trees that slant in obscure directions and don’t fit in their predetermined corners of the house, what happens to the trees that no one wants

Pine Needles, R.B. (via sixthcigarette)

[sixthcigarette]

Disrupt. Discord. Dismantle.

I am a disruption

I am a disruption

an eruption of trope-laden anger

aggressive, antagonistic and arrogant

and I can’t imagine why…

[sixthcigarette]

High, unbound and horizontal,  comfortably cushioned against each other, satisfied with our rounded features, concentric and sprawled across the king sized bed, morphing lethargically yet emphatically into a contorted mangle and tangle of intentional touches and heaving our hefty heart houses in a spit-like rotation until we collapse back into a mumbling, fumbling hillside on the soft-washed sheets  Our movements are so  complimentary so resonate they heal they hang on the nerves  in a way our sweethearts of troubles past  could never choreograph  Affirmation is our dance,  enacted through adoration  for shapes that others would too soon deny categorization,  or demand it It's not until we're upright that gravity takes some creative liberties and we're back to double, triple checking our sutured silhouettes in the mirror and tugging ourselves into a tirade as we exit our apartment Our encounters with the outside, severed from our little brick-lined arena pushes refused parameters back into place, forces long-ignored limitations back into position and suffocates and constricts A claustrophobia endured daily, compressed and compounded through the ritual navigation of being, or being denied being and so we reminisce, replay, rewind our evenings without stipulations, our mornings rid of requirements, our weekends void of ultimatums and try to remember what it feels like when you're permitted to breathe.

Apt #319, R.B. 

[sixthcigarette]

Must Be Nice…

Must be nice

“Must be nice

not staring down at the image in your wallet

and wondering who that is,

reading a name that makes you cringe

and handing it to the bartender, cashier, clinician

evading inquisitive looks, just waiting to be handed your drink, bag, bottle

Must be nice

not feeling coerced by a notarized piece of paper,

by dichotomous and arbitrary meanings assigned

to colours and toys and clothing

and behaviours and ideas and actions

and bodies.

Must be nice

walking out the door

on time and unflustered

in the first and only outfit you put on for the day

never regretting the friction of the selected layers

never tugging at the misshapen, haphazardly hanging articles

Must be nice

getting letters, bills, junk in the mail

and knowing it belongs to you

opening the envelope without concern

that the contents aren’t meant for a different person

and the message inside isn’t tainted by the mailing address on the front

Must be nice

having harmless interactions, introductions, encounters

without being addressed as someone else

wondering who that leaves you as

if you’re who you are, but you’re always called otherwise

and internalizing if you’re anyone at all

Must be nice

not having to grin through others’ learning curves

and bear the stuttering hhhs and sshhs and thhs

that seldom stick the landing

with the correct bookend of -er, -e, -ey

but the stampede of apologies funnels out with no hesitation

Must be nice

not getting gridlocked

in front of dueling double doors

debating the severity of your basic needs

compounded by looming legislative loopholes

and a perpetually missing door number three

Must be nice

to have a clock in, duck out career

procedurally smitten within cubicle walls

orchestrating good intentions through non-confrontational keyboards

cognizant of no other else’s confines

besides the one you feel has been placed on your microaggressive mouth

Must be nice

to have meaningless, untethered, reckless relationships

that don’t have propensity for ending in

blocked numbers, reported accounts, on the spot deal breakers,

next day news headlines, short-lived social media sensations,

outbursts of violence excused and protected as panic, and don’t forget — death

Must be nice

not feeling compelled to teach others

how to treat you, how to call you

how to make room for you, affirm you

how to embrace you, uplift you

how to see you, how to love you

Must be nice

entering the world everyday

with a stride that could never be put on trial,

with a gait that could never be called to question,

with a voice that’s the correct octave, the purest undoctored timbre

that isn’t played on repeat for the next non-profit tithe plate

just for you to be scooped up among the other tokens

and tossed toward a cause that doesn’t even use the same currency,

that could never properly spend you, but always manages to expend you,

with a confidence that the earth will continue to contain you

with a certainty that your steps will meet pathways readily placed before you

with a disregard for gated gray areas that will never impede your personhood

Must be nice

to never convulse from

the pumping of an impatient knee

the drumming of antagonized fingers

the heaving of ritually wrapped shoulders

the bellows of exasperated sighs

the tittering of tongue pops and teeth tsks

an unraveling symphony of warning signs

that your barometer arm is reaching perilous pressure

as you’re enveloped in an onslaught of insistence

that they will do better

next time, that it will get better

next time

that it will improve

incrementally, that change

doesn’t happen

in a day, that everyone

learns at their own pace,

you just have to

be patient,

you just have to

calm down, you

must be nice”

[writingrainbow]

Tonight’s introspection: “Why are you, you?”

[sixthcigarette]

Please stay, at least for awhile. I'm overdue for someone consistent.

R.B. 

[sixthcigarette]

You cannot implore someone to show up in their wholeness when you only create space for a fraction of who they are.

R.B.

[sixthcigarette]

Being a queer kid during the holidays means eating leftovers alone on a metal stool at 4am listening to the freezing rain anticipating a third day rendezvous with an ice scraper Being a queer kid during the holidays means writing a wish list with nowhere to postmark and collecting gifts for yourself that will only ever be wrapped in department store plastic bags The only place with something special waiting underneath is the frozen building overhang with an icicle plummeting from it’s branch the moment you pass below And even though you are a staple among your closest friends’ excursions you are quickly reminded that your assigned seat is not transferable Inquiries about travel plans are combatted by assertions that it will be figured out later even though the soonest trip you are planning to take is to the alcohol store down the street Each chance of snow feels like a challenge to see if the tread on my tires is as eroded as my eardrums as soon as I hear carolling from the diner’s overheard speakers Where rough drafts of New Year resolutions include utterances of take-backs and re-dos and the smell of peppermint makes my earlobes burn Being a queer kid during the holidays means not getting to lick the cookie batter off the spatula and having to explain to the old man in a red apron outside the automatic door why you aren’t interested in contributing to a little metal bucket that clinks conveniently loud when someone is careless enough to only drop their coins because who was ever saved by a few useless tokens Wondering if a box-unit air conditioner would be an inappropriate place to hang a stocking because it’s the nearest thing to a mantel and keeping you warm Or what they do with all those unclaimed pine trees that weren’t shaped quite right, or didn’t have enough branches or hadn’t filled out to look like how the advertisement said, the unusual trees that slant in obscure directions and don’t fit in their predetermined corners of the house, what happens to the trees that no one wants

Pine Needles, R.B. (via sixthcigarette)

[sixthcigarette]

"Don't invest in people, invest in the movement," he said. But how, do you build a picket fence, parameters, with planks made from humanity's vessels?  How does one account for inevitable disappointments, how does one buffer for impending pitfalls, inabilities to accommodate  unconditionally? Such earnest investments,  people,  raw materials for boundary lines  established with an unforgiving earth,  much simpler to haul to the construction site  than wealth and unweatherable fastenings  Yet so unsustainable,  people,  obstinately uncommitted to their appointment in the structure,  objecting obligation, adding instability to insecurity,  appropriating positionality,  people,  assemblages of assumptions and syntax,  offering both where not asked,  and withholding either when advantageous,  but so, inexhaustibly important,  people  so much so that not investing,  simply trusting in the motion, and the mechanisms,  is to feel empty, disassociated,  and absolved of one's own wholeness To exonerate the priority of  people  is to lend oneself to  existing in a subjectless society  without mouthpieces for the proverbial we,  and without receptacles for one's own personage Investing,  means conceding to the chances of  losing,  of becoming both reliant and resentful of people of condoning sweeping generalizations  and misinterpreting itemized instances as expansive indications  Perhaps, investing in people,  and only people,  provides too may opportunities for collapse Perhaps, then investing  people into the movement,  instilling the  movement,  into the people,  allows us to invest more fully,  in people's propensity  for propelling the  movement.

People in Motion

[sixthcigarette]

I am infamous  for orchestrating either a torrential downpour or initiating a drought.  I do not know how to contain collected drops of rain in keepsake buckets,  instead I saturate my upturned umbrella and send waves above the heads of those keeping me afloat  or I  pull the buoy back, dry up the sea  leaving nothing but sand beneath the boat I am a wish(ful think)ing well primed with pennies for my thoughts and no pail large enough to hold them.

R.B. 

[sixthcigarette]

Sometimes I worry I gravitate Toward impermanence And impossibility, That I’m drawn to parlour tricks And disillusions That I try to grasp onto foggy wisps And running water That I try to wrap myself In silhouettes And sound waves I try to remold the immalleable Untangle the tightly knot Dismantle the firmly wielded But still I position myself In front of the ever-advancing cogs Hoping to wedge myself Succinctly within the tarnished gears Of the finely-tuned, well-oiled machine And as my rib cage splinters and cracks I realise my frame is too weak And no matter how many times I cling to the concrete I can’t handle anything real

Solids, R.B. (via sixthcigarette)

[sixthcigarette]

I came home To a town Where nothing had changed But everything was different Time spent with you Lays strewn across The floor Like empty film canisters Beneath a projector With a burnt bulb When I am reminded of you The dwindling frequency Begins to feel like Losing the placeholder In your favourite book You try to find exactly Where you left off But you always end up Revisiting familiar scenes Or skipping too far ahead And when you finally land On the last words you heard You know there are scenes You could have experienced In the time it took To start from the place where they left

R.B. (via sixthcigarette)