I don't want to be known for my writing or clothes.
I want to be known for my anger.
Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.
My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.
My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.
The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.
And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.
And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.
Because our anger is valid.
We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.
Jamie. Gay. Genderfluid. Polyamorous.
Cursor made by: jamiecooksays.tumblr.com
We are stranded 5,000km away from home. Our airline canceled our tickets. We have no way to go home. We need your help. We are in dire need to return home immediately to formalize our stay in a country where we won’t get murdered.
PLEASE HELP AND/OR REBLOG!
this is for the fandoms I’m part of
My hand is still numb in the places he’s touched me and my mind plays tricks on me, saying he’s here when he’s not and I keep lighting cigarettes as they keep going out by themselves as the hours seem to be pushing me towards 1 a.m. again as I actually bother doing pancakes and I feel seeing him as if I should leave a plate for him and not touch it, as it is for the dead.
As I sit I just pull the curtains open and I stare and as I look down to cut the pancakes, I see from the corner of my eye a gray fox jumping in and as soon as I look up it’s gone, but I feel watched, as if he’s standing against the window sill and as I look down the curtains move and that’s when I close them, stuffing my face with pancakes before fear takes my hunger away.
I feel a brush against my neck and I really wish I had alcohol.
One minute early the noise comes back and I yank my jacket off the doorknob and pull it on fast, jumping two stairs at a time, as the noise gets faster and harsher and now up the stairs to see no children this time, just blobs of white, the geese now with blood spilling out from their necks, croaks coming out, as the man has his body leaned back on the bench, head leaned back as well, eyes closed and the geese blood stops spilling and the gray fox from earlier strolls by, rubbing by the man’s feet and I notice his high heeled shoes. He opens his eyes, the blood entirely gone and all noise erupts as the blurbs get whiter and whiter until he smiles softly and it’s daylight again
I light a cigarette, not even having enough strength to go outside and in half an hour, it’s over, the silence is graced by the children, the ice cream van and the laughter. As I stand up and slowly walk over to the window, I wonder if a staircase would await me, but instead I just hear it louder, the hissing, as if time would pass and water is no longer in the equation. I grab a cardigan, pulling it on as I head out, past the communist utopia graffiti and I slowly feel fear upon my tongue as I just make a mental note to head towards the odd monument with the beaten up tombstones around it with a fence and that’s when I see a bunch of blur at first I just feel the shiver, how it passes, as if the children were arriving and then as I walk, towards the pond, upper on the stairs, the pond is all dipped in dark and the birds seem to be laying dead-
and then I see a head turn to look in my direction.
All the noises stop and then the sprinkler bursts with a bunch of white emerging all of a sudden, the sand, the sprinkler, all start yelling in their own noises, the children show up transparent, chasing after each other and the man himself seems to be dipped in air.
Reasons why im a bad friend:
• i get too attached
• i will complain about all...
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