<$BlogRSDUrl$> Gay Canadian X Party Boy

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

This was from a post when I started my Blog over a year ago! I was looking over my old posts and though this was worth sharing again! If you haven't read my posts from a year ago and are here now I think this is something worth sharing again!

My feelings have changed since then and I have come to have a sense of peace being HIV+, I'm no way 100% finished dealing with it! I do feel that I have got to the point now where I have stopped punishing my self for it!

Post from April 2003
I found this on the net somewhere and thought in a way it described my feelings in a way about being HIV positive....
I reworked it and edited to fit a gay mans life
I hope you enjoy it!

the body of knowing an other
The body of knowing another is quite a different thing from the body of sex. I crept into a room of moans pricking my ears. I did not know what he looked like. I did not feel into his body of knowing.
He was quiet in intent in action in bed. He said he was tired. We discussed relationships. What exactly is that? They forget to clarify their positionings.
Usually I begin with a play of words and an exchange of intention. Words turn into kisses turn into touches turn into tumblings and turnings under hot sheets. Usually I begin with the body of knowing which is quite different from the body of sex.
My friend and I, we have interesting karmic patterns. Somehow, men wander into our lives. We have an instant triangulation formula. I feel jealous at times. He feels jealous at times. We play with power. We play being powerless.
I wonder how much he knows about the body of knowing. I would like him to enter into it. We would like to enter the metaphor of love. He seems untouchable somehow. Yet I touch him, I kiss him. I cathect him. What is it about his age, his untouchability?
I am unsatisfied. He is too. We imagined we were born for this. In this fantasy of mastery, we were born amidst idealizing and convicting gazes and adorations. We were born with this challenge of moving beyond glamour. We have nothing so we do this. We have nothing to do with that or the other. We are in it because of those gazes.
The glamour of sex shimmers like a tigers shadow. What happens when he has no words to frame his experiences? Just his pink feelings. What happens when I have no words or reason for being here with him?
We have not quite entered into the sweating body of sex. I do not even know if words turn him on as they do me. Perhaps it will be an erotic monologue. Metaphysical masturbation.
My friend told me he felt perfectly capable of being in relationship with an ugly person. A physically ugly person. An internally ugly man is a different creature. Maybe an opposite creature. He and I got on well. We had such a strong connection. One day I woke up with him beside me feeling subtly ill. His appearance made me ill. I struggled with that for a number of weeks. Eventually it all got too much and I ended the affair. We got on exceedingly well.
If you close your eyes when having sex you can be with anyone you want. Open eyes are a different thing. I wonder if he closes his eyes at the point of orgasm? If so, where does his spirit go?
When I get to the point of equanimity in this ocean of cathexis, who will I be? The waters are too turbulent to reflect any one clearly.
Wanting the Mirror, I became his. My reflections initially pleased him. I am becoming obsessed with the Mirror. It has fogged up and I cannot see the body of knowing.
As a child I broke several mirrors. That is when I learnt about karma. Seven years of bad luck! It frightened me. So now I take great care of my mirrors. I do not have a mirror in my room. I have not had one for years.
Men are forever looking into mirrors. I can learn something from that. The mirrors are a substitute for our lost gaze. A stand in for my gaze. So they are a substitute also for something behind my gaze. Something so fundamentally already. Mirrors tell these men about my desire. And who told me about desire?
When he was a child he learnt a lot from dinnertime rituals. Mother and father at two ends and kids on the side. He learnt to eat whatever was placed before him at the same time every day for all those years. Then he left because of the other. The others desire was too much his desire for him.
Now I encounter him in the midst of his beauty and he is quiet. So much so that I cannot see a mirror and so my hunger for words pulses sickeningly. I am waiting with a customary impatience to enter the body of knowing. It may never come. I may never come.
It has only been four days. How swiftly the hunger arises! Black words spat out of hungry mouths! What is the white page? The White Page is a Void. It swallows my thoughts and desires silently. I often feel the need to vomit these words out. My desire is never silent. My desire is like a blue breath. A Blue Breath can be the most exhausting breath. Blue carries so much. The blue train trails a string of desire. Desire occurs with distance. Distance is significant. For certain people, distance creates a space of allowance. Absence is an affair of the heart but distance is the greatest aphrodisiac.
Tonight my friend kissed me on the lips and we danced through the blue evening. He has never kissed me on the lips. We danced drunkenly. In seven weeks, his bags and his body will be in an aero plane. I will not see his for an indefinite length of time. Time stretches like elastic into an unending future. Occasionally, memories of the future rubber band into the present. Those will be the times when we remember the unspoken.
When memories of future sneak into an unsuspecting present, we are surprised.
I miss him and yet I do not. I wonder how I can miss him when his movements are the unfolding of his perfect being his diamond mind? It is necessary for mysterious reasons for you to leave? Distance is necessary as much as the other is dead.
You are beautiful you know. I have always thought so. This is a long overdue letter. It is only now that I can type in these black words. It is only now that the blank white reveals himselfĆ‚Ā… an open space of zero. It is only because of distance.
Because you are beautiful, I find it difficult to maintain any boundaries between our spirits. Infidelity? I do not know. Because you are beautiful, you remain in my heart. My heart is a garden for the beautiful. There are also side entrances for the ugly. The only difference between evil and good is time. And distance.
What will Time inscribe into our narratives of togetherness? Words elude me now.
Our determination to know you created you and me. Can you remember the first words we exchanged?
Some people train to listen to others talk about a sense of otherness. This otherness is the most defining characteristic of our time together. But this continuity may not be what you think it is! In the same way, this dream is necessary. Some people train to become big Ears and these big Ears pressed to the ground of our unconscious glow red hot.
Our continuity latches onto the blue train. We become passengers in each other. The grooves of mind lock seductively. You know what the blue train is. For this reason, you love music that much more.
Goodbye dearest friend. We will realize each other almost before the other does the self. And that is all in accord.
Time confuses me tremendously. The rate at which others walk into my life warps my perception of the intensity of movement. The other is a man. I am always moving. Always moving through. The stops are marked with names and dates. Dates are meaningless because of their function as memory cues. The rate at which we talk ourselves into intimacy intimidates me.
Memories are emptier than sky. I spent some time with him last night. All we had before us were historical images of one another, verbalizing accusations and concerns. He cannot see that I am change. I cannot help but speak to that part of him that lives eternally within me. Somehow our eyes peer into each other, seeing that part of us living eternally inside the other who is dead.
Words I put to his feelings were hurled back into the spaciousness from which they emerged. We spoke too specifically. Metaphors liberate the interpretive field. He could then see the self he wanted to see more clearly. I could then speak the truths I needed to speak to the other in my self. Thus we connected in the ambiguities of intention and meaning. We summoned the time before the mirror broke.
I drew forth the Moon. My fears occupied this position. I am afraid of raw tides of emotion. Petrified of cycles. Of death. Of Kali. The King sits upon turbulent waves, wielding the trident of intellect against the onslaught of feeling.
He called us spiritual whores. Terror behind the mask of commitment is a hallmark of our generation. This cold dread of intimacy is our watermark. I fear the obliteration of the other in my self. This fear is a fear that projects itself in a sequential progression leading to heartbreak. I dread the others human needs and desires. I dread my own inadequacy in the face of perennial human needs and desires. I loathe the very mirror I broke.
Where do artists draw the line? At the level of our skin? When I touch your skin, I feel one with you. I almost feel the you that I am. I feel you more sometimes than I feel myself. It is more comforting to feel your solid sexual physicality sometimes. And then it is terrifying also evoking i-mages of dark rituals of blood sacrifice.
What a thing it is to carry death through the doors of a relationship. It broke my heart. It broke my heart precisely along the fracture lines. Heartbreak is radically individual. My heart breaks because it dreamt of breaking. It is little related to the relationship or love. Far less the human. However, he conspired with my heart in its dream of breaking.
Heartbreak is also a demand. My heart broke because of a pervasive slumber. He was still half asleep. I tried to wake him but his fears were like chains binding him to the bed. He lay there naked the entire time. Enticing. Holding a false promise. Yet he was inside me all the same. The image of his chained naked was already there.
Heartache is a mirror. Heartbreak is a forced entry into the body of knowing another.
Tonight he was dressed exquisitely. He is slick and difficult to define. He refuses to create a space of allowance, of desire. He is ambivalent. He will take it either way.
Earth red black charred green. Scarred along the heart. Heartbreak signifies decay. How do we mourn the worlds and words expiring around us? Heartbreak is a forced entry into the body of knowing our world. This entry is death. Earth is Deaths temple.
Fire swift glowing melting. Someone said to him, we can burn our pain like fuel for evolution. The image of a burning crucifix invaded my mind. There was no Christ on this Cross. I know he stepped off a while ago. The dream my heart had of breaking was his exit cue. He no longer needed to die.
Air soothes earth scars. Heartbreak breathes in the whirring silence of wind. Over time, even the abortions of intention are swept away.
Almost beyond my desire he reached inside. He wondered what to do with him. He consulted the I Ching:
Chia Jen: The family. The perseverance of the man furthers.
I: The corners of the Mouth. Perseverance brings good fortune. Pay heed to the providing of nourishment and to what a man seeks to fill his own mouth with.
He works with metaphors. He walks with people down these corridors. He watches as they struggle with him grappling with myriad threads and at the same time weaving with devout discipline.
Intimacy is moving through the needles eye. We are intimate camels. I can feel the threat in your knowing and understanding. I watch myself as defenses arise. Is he afraid of being apprehended in the gaze of understanding? Is he petrified of such illumination? Am I recoiling from the sun?
On contact with sunlight, my body melts into a tender relaxation.
Today I finally contacted water. We meditated on a stream. I waited for a day and a night for this stream. Now unexpected people bring this to me. Now the unexpected is brought to me.
A Blue Breath can be the most exhausting breath. Blue carries so much. The Blue Train trails a string of desire. Desire occurs with distance. The mans distance is significant. Distance allows necessary phantasies to breathe.
What is it that my fear seeks? The water is inviting precisely because I have seen those sharks just the other day.
The other pushes my head under water so that I once again confront the radicality of my own alienation. I almost drown in it. Yet the myth of knowing beckons still. I am propelled towards this lure of knowing the elusive man. He is long time dead.
In actuality I confront my own dreaming childhood and his very real absence. A lesson in the impossibility of knowing an other.
The seduction was born in my first realization of the other; in my first confrontation with this extremity of solitude. It is a seduction of knowing. Desire for entering the body of knowing an other. It was born when I first looked in the mirror. And then it broke.
There where I engage and attempt an interpretation of these others, they cease to be and we fall into the gaps of the real. Interpretation is death.
Horrifying space all the more horrifying when the one who has fallen with me sits oblivious of this horror, blind to this fall. He seldom sought to interpret. He seldom confronted his death. His fended off masochistic urges.
Anxiety riddles me when first we remove our clothes. Fortunately, desire steps in to the rescue. Heaven forbid, we might once again fall through crevices into the real. Are we abyss meeting abyss as someone mischievously put it.
Signaling danger, signaling death, anxiety propels me into flight. Ninety nine lives even would not be enough.
Z has become my favorite discursive object. My anxiety is so intimate in my cathexis. My cathexis is a desire to interpret. This desire is my interpretation and our death.
Stepping out of this discursive field is indeed frightening. Because Z is still alive! Z is not dead despite murderous interpretation. As it is, his continuation imposes upon me a glimpse of our discontinuity. His survival presses me into a black hole with all its traumatic reality.
Engagement continued after fragmentation. It seeks to abate my anxiety. I flee from the window of the real in Herculean dialogue. Can I make him a subject?
Writing reassures me in a remarkable way. It is my science of avoidance.
Full stop.

Let me know what you think about this, I find it very good, One day I hope to be able to put to words my feelings in such an amazing way


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