Call My Ass Tigger!

Last night, after spending a couple of hours listening to the local comedian superstar Brad Loekle heckle the Tony's at Therapy Bar in Hell's Kitchen, I said goodbye to JT and his friend Josue and Roger and his friend Jeremy, and I headed home.

I was in bed and asleep by 9:30pm. Praise Jesus.

I was determined to get a full nights sleep, something that has eluded me for more than a week. So, last night I took a couple of over-the-counter sleeping meds, and I slam dunked into the land of Morpheus.

That is until about 1:30am when I woke up, made my way to the bathroom, and regretted all of the thai peppers and fish sauce I'd put on my lunch earlier in the day. Two words for you: Ass Lava. 

Funnily enough, I almost didn't make it to the bathroom because when I stood up the world was doing its own damn dance. Shadows were throwing down a mean samba, and I felt like a motherfucker that had never drank a V-8. I walked crooked all the way to the bathroom.

Welcome to the world of HIV medication.

My entire body, from my spirit to my ankles were vibrating like the Mississippi Mass Choir. I mean, it was what I call double O C (OUT OF CONTROL!).

It was so extra that I ended up taking two more sleeping pills to get back to sleep.

I woke up this morning doing what I call the Tigger...I basically bounced all the way to the bathroom. I was doing the huckabuck in the shower, and I swear I did the Roll Bounce all the way to work. It was too damn much.

Now I've been told this will die down in time, but I sincerely am not a friend of not being able to control my extremities.

Folks have been amazing, and I've received lots of love and advice. But no one's advice could prepare me for the after affects of a nuclear bomb being let off inside your skin. It's no joke people. And not the most fun ride I've had. It's like coming down from a great high without experiencing the actual euphoria. All the drama with none of the pleasure.

I am so happy that ACT-UP kicked ass for years to make sure that meds like these exist. And I am glad that it guarantees me a long ass life unless I do something really dumb or get hit by an alien death beam from planet Tiggerroo.....but there is a cost to these meds...I am happy to pay it...but I ain't so happy to feel it.

Healing Touch

Too many of my friends and loved ones know what it is to grow up in homes where violence is ever present. Too many of the people I care deeply about were physically, emotionally, and/or sexually abused by care givers who took too much and left deep scars in their lives and spirits.

I am a survivor.

I grew up, raised by my step-father, my Mom's second husband, who was, because of pain from his own childhood, an addict that used his hands and feet to beat out his rage into the body of my Mother and me. My earliest memories are of the day his mother died, a woman to whom I was very close, and the day when he beat my Mom unconscious in front of me outside of our home while my Mom was eight months pregnant with my little brother. Those memories are 30 years old, and they are still fresh in my mind. I can see the twilight, the concrete stairs leading down from our house to the street, I can see the screen door that I am looking through, and I can see my child hands gripping the mesh and crying as I watch my Mom lying, unconscious, below. I remember thinking that a car was going to park on her because she was laid out exactly in a parking space against the curb. I can not see my step-father in my memory, but he is present as a disturbance in the air as he rushed up into the house. I remember him yelling at me to go to my room, and I can even see the wood paneled walls of my bedroom.

Some children's minds bend around the memories and bury them. My mind has always done the opposite. I can reply each instance of fear and pain and trauma and rage like an old familiar VHS tape.

I have done much work to heal from that past, and while my spirit has come such a long way in its healing process, as has my mind, those memories also exist as very real trauma in the body. From ancient philosophy to modern medecine we have ample proof, science, reasoning and faith that tells us that the mind, body and spirit are interconnected in subtle ways. Any doctor will tell you that to heal from trauma, one has to rehabilitate all three.

Five weeks or so ago, I worked up the courage to ask a beautiful man from my gym out for coffee. It took me about a month and a whole lot of gumption to finally, haltingly, almost dropping my cell phone, if he would like to get coffee sometime. I almost fell off of the pec machine when he said yes and flashed me his diamond smile.

It wasn't long before he shared with me that he was a massage therapist with both a private practice as well as the staff massage therapist with Cirque du Soleil's new show Zarkana (GO AND SEE THE SHOW...IT IS AMAZING!). And it was during one of our very first conversations that Keith, that's his name...Keith Stiles, shared with me that he is a survivor of childhood emotional, physical, and sexual assault and violence. He also expressed to me, and later wrote a blog about, how his own experiences with childhood familial assault and violence informed his work as a massage therapist. For him, massage is a sacred practice and his practice a place of healing. In that place there is no room for the crossing of sexual boundaries neither on the part of the client nor that of the massage therapist. You can read his blog posting where he articulates clearly his point of view, and it is a point of view that should be shared widely. Massage is a healing art, it is a sacred art, and it should be held as such just as any Western medical practice is respected.

As Keith would label it, he and I have been "hanging out." I decided when I met him and found out what he did for a living that I would never ask him for a massage. In fact, only once, when I pulled a muscle in my back, did I even bring up the subject of him perhaps rubbing it for me, and by the time I saw him, it was done hurting, and I did not bring up the conversation again. My friend Dawn is a doctor, and I don't ask her to check me for hernias (plus, I grew up with her, so the thought of her telling me to turn my head and cough makes me giggle). So, I surely wasn't going to ask Keith to provide healing services to me.

Instead, a couple of weeks ago, I posted a note on my FB group guiding folks to Keith's blog about his practice, his experiences a child, and how he defines his healing space and the expectations of massage therapists and patients. I had recently been trusted enough and given the privilege of experiencing the stories of several friends of mine, some new and some old, that are all survivors of child sexual abuse (CSA). These six individuals, organized by the brilliant and stunning Amita Swadhin, working in partnership with Ping Chong and Company, put together a theater piece called Secret Survivors, and they graciously provided an interview for my blog some months ago before the show went up at the theater at El Museo del Barrio. For anyone that has survived any kind of physical abuse, sexual or otherwise, to trust someone else with your body, especially something as initimate as a massage, takes tremendous trust...a trust that some survivors are never able to give to a stranger. But because I know that trauma lives in our tissue, I decided that it was important to provide my community access to massage from someone that has also been to some of the places that they have been in their lives.

Then, a week ago, Keith asked me if I would be willing to write about the connection between his practice and being a survivor and publish it on my blog if he gave me a massage. I was extremely nervous, but I agreed. This afternoon, at 1pm, I was blessed by his hands.

Not to disclose any personal details, but he and I have seen each other in all of our "glory." But walking into his apartment today, I was a client and he was a service provider. From the beginning of the massage to the end, he took no liberties, he violated no boundaries, he assumed no privileges. When it came time for me to undress and get under the sheet, he left the room. Just as he would with any client, he arrange the sheet so that potentially vulnerable places were covered while he worked. His hands, his energy, and his spirit were about providing me with healing.

I have had several massages in my life. Every therapist has had to tell me to relax, to allow them to move my body, and to not tense up.

Today I fell asleep.

I was aware of his presence and his healing work, but I was betweeen wakefullness and sleeping, and I was able to allow him to move and arrange and do the work that he has been highly trained to do. When it was done, he thanked me as he would anyone else, and he left the room again, so I could get dressed.

He blessed me with healing and with respect, and he honored himself and the healing space he has created to do the work that he does.

Shortly thereafter I had to leave for a meeting with Bebe Zahara Benet, Will McNair, and DJ Baker. When I sat down, the first thing out of Will and DJ's mouth was that I looked young and relaxed and that I was glowing. One of them said that I looked like a child. I think, maybe, it's because that child that has lived with hurt for so long was touched with joy and love, gentleness and healing. I am so very grateful for the healing experience of StilesMassage, and I recommend his practice to anyone but especially to those that knew violence way too young.

Brandon and David's Eyewitness News Report: Man Taken Down on 52nd Street

HOLY SHIT!

This morning, David and I were enjoying our morning coffee, eating our oatmeal, making faces at the dog...when David (who is a gay Mrs. Kravitz) was doing his morning peek-a-boo out of the studio window. We have windows that face down 10th Avenue and down 52nd Street...so we can get a clear view of any of the crazy that happens down below.

Well this morning, David declares that a man has a gun. All of a sudden cops show up from everywhere. They jump out of marked cars and unmarked cars (although I don't believe there was an unmarked undercover taxi cab this time...cuz yes...they have those in NYC...sneaky bastards). The man is about three quarters of the way down the block towards 11th avenue...all of a sudden...dude turns and runs towards the river. The cops take off after him. Not two minutes later, the guy (looked like a black guy in a black hoodie) is walking down the middle of 52nd Street waving back and forth across his body what looks like two large lead pipes. He is swinging them heavily but relatively slowly back and forth. Cops are in front of him with guns out and they are backing away from him. Cops are running up behind him hitting his arms and jumping back. Another cop car swings up and a cop bum rushes the guy, a second later there are 20+ cops piling on top of the man and weighing him to the ground.

I have no idea what led up to the man going nuts and the summoning of police, but right now, 52nd Street is blocked off from 10th to 11th, there are at least 20 police officers on the street, and they had a heck of a time getting dude up off the pavement.

Never a dull fucking day in New York City.

A bright orange ambulance pulled up after about 10 minutes, they strapped the guy down and hauled him away.

This is Brandon and David...eyewitness report...signing off.

The City That Never Sleeps...But I Sure As Hell Do

Sometimes I look out of the window and I think..."Holy Fuck! That's New York out there." As if, magically, I went to sleep in South Minneapolis and woke up in Hell's Kitchen. It doesn't help that there is a secret underground railroad from the Minne-Apple to the Big Apple. Half my damn graduating class from college is in the city somewhere, and almost once a week someone from home sends me a text or an email and is like..."Yo Trick...I am at the Starbucks in Times Square...bring yo ass."

So far, just shy of five weeks in the City, things are going okey dokey. There have been some bumps...of which I have already blogged. Why, this very day, I had a PTSD episode...had some minor palpitations...and worked it out by sauteing some salmon and making tostones. When in crisis...go gourmet!

Each your heart out Paula Dean.

I am thoroughly enjoying this here city of mine. David and I are carrying along nicely. I once told him that a significant portion of the issues in our relationship that did not revolve around his ex boyfriend (which in and of itself accounts for 98.9% of the drama...incidentally the same amount as the genetic similarity between humans and chimpanzees)...was due to the distance. Distance breeds insecurity, uncertainity, and broke ass bank accounts.

The insecurity and uncertainity has largely been managed...the broke ass bank account is another matter entirely. But I digress (of course...I can digress...it's my blog). David and I play nicely together (most of the time). We have fallen into an easy rythym that manages to not be boring. We follow a pretty standard schedule every day, but there is enough variety in that schedule that I do not feel the urge to run full barrell at the nearest wall just to see how it feels to bounce off. Now where did I put that helmet...

Of course...monsieur y yo have had a modified open relationship for this first period. Only a little steam room good times. In the next few weeks we will be exploring the outside play...I am nervous as hell but I will deal.

Also, there are a ridiculous number of beautiful men that walk by every day. Sometimes If feel like I have died and gone to a hot ass buffett. David has one of the most delicious booties in the world. It is like the cherry on top of the sundae....but I like to eat the sundae too...if you know what I mean ;-). In the end, things will be just fine...David has some weird genetic mutation where he almost never feels jealousy. I, however, come from a complex racial and ethnic heritage...most of which are known for things like challenging people to duels and fights to the death over a wandering eye...or...in Left Eye Lopes' case (God rest her soul) burning down the houses of motherfuckers that step too far out of line. I have managed to manage my celosidad by talking to David about it. Of course, I am a little bitter that my first planned hook up was ruined by the Evil Ex. Forgiveness is for yourself and not for others. Remember that.

Forgive me. I been drinking.


In the end, I am excited about NYC and its possibilities. I will be even more excited when I have a job and can take advantage of those possibilities. This place ain't cheap. And while I don't have champagne tastes (this pinot is for you Eartha!), I do like a nice reisling. From the Minneapple to the Big Apple, I find that, like a little green worm, both apples are home.

Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

A week ago, I was on my way home from a conference in Los Angeles where I met with a cadre of professional and lay people interested in issues of net neutrality and media justice. In the room were everyone from an elder who was just learning how to use to the internet to Parul Desai--a fierce communications lawyer with Media Access in DC. A week later, I am sitting in David and my studio (mostly David's), preparing the final arrangement of my manuscript, It Ain't Truth if It Doesn't Hurt, in my new home city of New York, NY.

Getting here has been a journey.

The first time I declared that I was moving to New York was in 2002. I was looking for a job, and I had a a promising lead at the Gay, Lesbian, Straight Education Network (GLSEN). I thought the job was a slam dunk. It was coordinating the National Day of Silence (NDOS). NDOS was founded by Jessie Gilliam in 2006. I knew Jessie and coordinated a NDOS at Warren Wilson College in 2006. I was one of the first folks to organize a NDOS event. Makes sense that I would be a shoe in to coordinate the program. Well. It didn't happen. Thanks Christopher!

Then, in 2003/2004 I visited my friends RJ and Jeremy. And I declared once again that I was moving to NYC. Life and circumstance conspired against me in that instance as well (plus, well, Jeremy is crazy---love him...but he is nuts). Finally, last summer, the Liberty Tree Foundation was running out of money, I had to find a new job, I applied for five in NYC...and ended up getting one in the Bay. And then, after some interesting experiences (please note the editing right now...oh lord)...the work in the bay didn't work out...and my man said...pack your shit...and get thee to the City.

So here I is. I feel as if the Universe was letting me have a glimpse of my future life here, but it was also letting me know that I was going to be here on its time and not mine. Hell, I have been coming here on and off since 2000. I partied at Limelight. I partied at Roxy. I partied at Crash before it moved to Manhattan. I have watched West Harlem go from Dominican ghetto fabulous to gay. And I have been here enough to know that when white folks start making up the majority in Crown Heights that some shit has really broken off.

I am excited about the possibilities of New York. Now its time to make a strategy around taking advantage of the city. From the Minne-Apple to the Big Apple...it's time to put that shit in blender, make some apple sauce, and spread it all over my body.