March 29, 2004 - 11:26 p.m.
drifting between warm sheets,
limbs drape across shapes that defy geometry. Thoughts run their course and circle restlessly, but come to rest on one set of shapes... and i try to forget them, but am drawn back,
out of sleep by the thought that i may forget these images... unless, as i remind myself, thoughts are indeed cyclical.. i will come to them eventually, back round to these shapes and the perpetual disdain that attends my thoughts of imperfectly drawn circles... circles that keep some out, others in... i remember the circles we ran in.. running into each other.
now, not even language can breach them.
We fool ourselves into thinking that life runs in lines.. but circles overlap, crowded and unclear, irregular and disgruntled... i am by these borders, disillusioned by the permeability of these clear distinctions... remember, i can see you on your side... i see and too often i hear sad refrains that call me back to those carelessly drawn moments of arms circling bodies that draw together in imperfect moments. Now, in this moment. we do not speak because lines are like walls, immoveable unless you imagine them. We revel in our distinctions, our distinctness from one another and build boxes around ourselves, create boxes filled with checkmarks and exes... X marks the spot, somewhere in these shapes i have many spots that are checked... checked out and found.
wanting.. more somehow,
i am left wanting more from these definitions that seem bound by themselves and their clearly drawn alliances.
My shape is natural... it is earthly, laden and heavy, pregnant with... pauses that question,
heavily.
I am irregular, badly drawn.
I'm not bad she says, batting her eyelashes... i'm just drawn that way.
"I'm a pixie i'm a paper doll i'm a cartoon" but still, this pictures me somewhere inside a box,
inside a strip... a succession of boxes.
my life, stripped of meaning.
our boxes mutate and become boxes, devoid of right angles,
shapes that speak politics, coloured pink, blushing to speak of all our sexual energy, characterized by three corners.
Just shy of four, but not to the exclusion of it.
Coloured and shaded, veiled by our political voices, we are shaped into fierce armies that point accusingly at... one another. The arrows inverted, self-accusing, ask,
What queer am I?
I am circling this question.. unable to answer it, because i am not queer like these shapes,... my queerness is by association to these boxes, cubes, cirles and cages.
Locking me out... locking me in
to their meaning.
I am without meaning outside of this social sphere.
I am without meaning inside of any shape.
I am without myself, outside of my skin. Elastic, i am wrapt in sheet of cotton, pressed against the smooth, but sharp shape of you. Self-reflexive triangles jab and question this intent, puncture the edges of these concentric circles.
The world is not revolving.
It is being stacked. Layer upon layer of meaning.
And i don't get it.
