(or, An Eye, an Ear, and a Mouthful of Tidbits) My Men Alive! and Passersby – As I look out on the New York Harbor from my high rise aerie – after that guy gripped my ass, and before this view will be engulfed by greed and glass in the golden age of these vulgar read more..
My Men Alive! and Passersby –
As I look out on the New York Harbor from my high rise aerie – after that guy gripped my ass, and before this view will be engulfed by greed and glass in the golden age of these vulgar gilded cages – I’m pondering the potentiality of a new world ordered by an individual’s ability to be unreservedly messy, taken by beauty while fumbling toward truth. Sloppily, slippery, like unrestrained sex, without the sting of indecency – or illegality – in springing into one’s intrinsic perfection, not taunted by hometown bullies-cum-NYPD or tyrannized by the likes of Homeland Security.
It’s been emboldening that as the Feds, out of an inward cynicism that accompanies an outward criticism, preposterously seek to rile up a preponderance of naysayers of prostitution, a surfeit of yaysayers have surfaced who display the bravery of looking within themselves to contemplate the issue in order to relate to – even celebrate! – those who practice this trade with awareness. Several organizations, such as Lambda Legal are advocating for much more than anatomical autonomy. They propose that we protect disenfranchised people from this operation (this agency!) that hinges on religious fervor in its rejection of, well, reason.
I have unquestionably been affected by the aforementioned, but prefer to gently passage frontward with zero desire to rebel against any alleged opponents while feeling less fearful of them than I did before. Coming of age in a bigoted, dogma-driven ecosystem of egotism was so, so tough and, given that I’ll be coming to terms with this eternal rage for some time, I don’t have it in me to feel any sorrier for myself as I contemplate younger men who lost their livelihoods and have nowhere to turn to, as family and society (this sweeps way past Manhattan) refuse to accept their whole humanity. As a once teenager who ventured in off-and-on again unofficial escorting whilst living hand-to-mouth, and suffered the mindless heartlessness of condemnatory mentors and peers, it’s excruciatingly personal as I live my little middle class existence with added time on my hands and fewer men in my home to know that the next generation is confronted with such a redundant injustice.
So, yeah – I found myself a tad derailed by the (perspicuous!) anti-promiscuity posturing behind the RentBoy raid, so apologize for stonewalling the upcoming, porn-imploding episode of our sensationally relatable “Skill Seekers and Fantasy Finders” series. Do stay tuned this coming Friday, and prepare to read between the lines as you eavesdrop on inter-entry dialogues as though Eve ourselves dropped the fruit of knowledge simply so we’d have to kneel down to pick it up, just to dust it off.
As I did after the devastating earthquake in Nepal, I’ve been picking from my overwhelmingly unread bookshelf. Minutes ago I put down the most awe-inspiringly outstanding book I may ever have read: Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth (with Bill Moyers). Now, I am eyeing The Qur’an, which lies alluringly on my desk, and is sure to come next.
Interestingly enough, it was presented to me the other day by one of my younger paramours who arrived to revert to days gone “bi” in Catholic secondary school – this time being more wholly “in with the jocks”! Here I am, unorthodoxly showcasing long socks and the Irish soccer uniform he lent me alongside this hallowed item at the top of my Amazon Wish List with the fee for a two-hour sex coaching session tucked into it, which I placed away to return to after my Floriday of Orthodox Jewish smoochin’:
Oh, yes – and, of note, a few weeks ago I was interviewed by a friend and fellow coach, Rick Clemons, who I met at Camp Good Life Project this time last year. I intermittently chip in an “Absolutely!” as one would offer up an “Amen!” whilst clearly caffeinated, but I hope you’ll enjoy a fruitful fumbling upon tidbits of truthfulness. In my experience, there is a great advantage in being an aspirant – and so this leap into the podcasting sphere felt empowering, and I trust it serves some good purpose. You can listen in here.
Autumn is fast approaching, and it’s already proving to be a space for reflection and refinement. I find myself reaching back to reacquaint a youthful me with the God of Abraham without trembling in fear yet simultaneously stepping into a future of silicon uniting with carbon, ensuing in an altogether new life form.
I’m wondering how I can let my head, as well, be space-bound without stretching with such strain to ensure all of me remains grounded.
Anyhow – I cry in fits and starts. The cracking continues. The light burns from without as it began within. It’s the most precious of moments.
A simply stupefied Adam
PS – Recently, the artist to the supreme court stumbled upon “Man Alive!,” which pointed to my gallery, and inspired him to render “Simply Adam” splendidly – which now underlines this letter. All this love-fueled laboring in life and at the laptop has led to “fan art” that does yours truly justice. Wow!
PPS – Below is a photo of my eighth grade school ID and a lyric I scribbled out instead of attending to my English teacher’s lesson on a particularly downcast day. What a testament to trustingly, tenaciously keeping one’s chin up!
PPPS – And to lift you up post-surveying the verse of a 12-year-old schoolboy from Delton Kellogg Middle School, savor what I’ve come to dub my “seasonal anthem.” It’s as though the tidal synths of childhood summer breaks in northern Michigan have synthesized with the high-pitched, rippling vocals of last year’s July in northern India to buoy me in a time-collapsed, space-enhanced wilderness of wonderment under the moon and in that boat on Ganga Mata. Oh, this on-repeat, ear-poppingly rapid epoch!
is there anywhere that i can go
to escape the world’s madness
and the hindrances that drag me down so low?
to wipe away this sadness, to drive away all fears…
i’d go anywhere
is there anyone who truly cares
about my muddled feelings
and that has a loving heart meant to be shared?
i need some gentle healing, a rag to dry my tears…
i’ll take anyone
ev’ryone has a heart that can be opened, like a flower in bloom
ev’ryone can recognize the beat of their soul’s own tune, and its doom
is there anyhow i can let go
of this cross on my shoulders
and these burdens that strike me blow after blow?
to crumble aching boulders, i’ve lived in pain for years…
so i’ll say anyhow
(Additional artwork – those exquisite watercolors – are from Jean-Pierre Weill’s heart-expanding, out-of-print children’s book The Well of Being.)
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