Sometimes I walk outside, and I feel like I never left San Francisco. It doesn't feel bad or good, just familiar but more frantic, like my life has sped up and the things that give me energy -- press for the book, interviews -- still leave me in that fallen-down aftermath. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised at all the good press, but it doesn't stop me from feeling caved-in every day and so much to do, to keep it all going, to keep myself going.

Click file And then the events -- beautiful while they're happening, but then there's the aftermath -- no, not fallen-down, more broken-down. The exhaustion becomes that pain in my sinuses, between my shoulder blades, the way I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about an interview, one that just happened or one that might happen and I dread leaving, having to travel more, before rest I hope rest yes rest is what I'm after, even if this satisfaction comes from non-rest I mean I'm trying to rest but it doesn't quite work. Now I need to go back to the laundromat, to get my laundry out of the dryer -- it didn't seem as chemically horrifying as before -- it's the same laundromat, since I'm staying on the same block. The other night I walked right past this building, and I was almost at my old building before I remembered. The people who were in front and then behind me thought I was following them, or wait though they were behind me and then in front of me, right? That's how you follow.

Here it is...

I don't know how they do it, but some of these health food stores in San Francisco manage to have terrible produce. Not all of it, of course -- but, often, it's way worse than the produce in New Mexico. And, get this -- almost all the produce in New Mexico comes from California! And, even better -- they like to give you bunches of greens that are half the size here, for the same price.

I feel like I'm always rushing around here -- I guess that's big-city life, right? I enjoy the convenience, the way I can just walk out my door and soon I'll be somewhere, but the awful air still feels like an assault. My sinuses are a catastrophe; my voice is getting raspy, and I’ve only had one event so far. Another event today, I guess I should get ready.

The other night, I gave a talk for Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz's class at the California Institute for Integral Studies. Or, I thought it was going to be her class -- she asked me to talk about Nobody Passes, since she's teaching it, so that's what I prepared for, but then it turned out that most of the people there were instructors at the school, or people from outside -- the director of the school too, I guess. It was pretty interesting -- I gave a bit of an introduction to the book, and then I said well, since we are at the California Institute for Integral Studies, where I'm guessing part of the goal is to integrate practice with premise, I thought perhaps we could go around the room and each of us to talk about one way that we are passing today, the comfort and discomfort this is giving us, and what it would mean to let go of that passing.

This allowed for me to talk about how awful I feel, to talk about fibromyalgia and chronic pain and exhaustion and doing these events anyway, and then I thought people brought really interesting topics to the conversation -- intellectual, intimate, political, poetic. About class privilege, Southern hillbilly identity, aging and not having to pass as much as not hating this country, needing to pass as a grad student, flaunting wealth in order to protect oneself from bullying at school, being a psychologist and choosing when to share your own mental-health struggles, motherhood mythologies, existing in feminine spiritual spaces while seeing oneself in between categories of women, feminine, female. The violence of the male/female binary, passing as different racial categories but always getting to a place of not passing -- "the non-passing of non-passing, passing of passing" -- leaving people behind based on educational attainment and searching for connection, leaving locations behind, assumptions based on male presentation, refusing to pass as invisibly HIV-positive, the idea that passing lies in the eyes of the other, the psychiatric industry and its violence, gender analysis of passing that erases racial passing histories, passing as turning one's back on one's community, people who don't have the luxury of passing, colleagues of an African-American professor who want him to pass as anything but African-American, passing as human, hidden homophobia, racism, and classism; passing as male even though identifying as trans, or as a particular kind of male.

The best part is the way that this opened up the intimacy of the room. Then people wanted me to talk about Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots, which brought on a lot of discussion, and one thing I noticed is that I got much more relaxed when everyone else was sharing too, I mean that part didn't hurt my body so much. Once we got into the more presenting/discussing part, I got more exhausted -- also, there's a point around one hour where I always suddenly lose all my energy. But have to push forward anyway -- that's always during the Q&A, and the Q&A is important, or it feels important to me. Things to think about, as I get ready to do more events.

Well, of course. We’ve always been here, flipping through dusty page after page, trying to find representations of ourselves that were honest and unafraid. Before we went to the bars or took a peak in the bushes, we turned to books for inspiration and stimulation. The books we found were often filled with stereotypes or, even worse, bad writing. But we’ve kept coming back, and even today, when the Internet is supposed to make connecting so easy and online cruising has become so respectable (and horrible), we’re still searching the library for those revolutionary texts that are going to let us know that we are not alone, and give us the tools to challenge the status quo. And now, finally, a book that is not afraid to flaunt its faggotry in all its flaming glory

From its provocative title onward, Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots? is the sort of book that confronts its reader and makes demands of him. It asks him, for at least a moment, to open his eyes and see the world from the point of view of the authors of any of the 29 essays collected here, and in doing so risk being offended, angered, saddened, entertained, pushed, throttled, frightened, confused—or all of these things at once.

Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots? comes at the reader like a sudden slap, a sucker punch; it holds nothing back. It is a collection in which the individual life experiences of the authors become, in the reading of them, universal, in that they have the power to move, to communicate, and to educate anyone experiencing them.

What the reader will not experience in reading this volume of well written, passionate, even hectoring essays is boredom. For each of these essays represents terra incognita, an unknown realm ripe for discovery.
Read the rest here

Here it is...

The romantic details:

THE BIG BOOK LAUNCH
Valentine's Day 2012 – Tuesday, February 14, 6 pm
San Francisco Main Library
100 Larkin St
San Francisco, CA
A delicious discussion with contributors Jaime Cortez, Tommi Avicolli Mecca, Debanuj DasGupta, Booh Edouardo, Eric Stanley, Harris Kornstein, Gina de Vries, Horehound Stillpoint, Matthew D. Blanchard, and your lovely host Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore

And yes, the Facebook invite

Please tell the world!!!

As soon as my doctor's appointment is careful, I feel better. I mean: my sleep was so awful last night, it just seemed too overwhelming to go to a two-hour doctor’s appointment to talk about how awful I feel, trying to feel better. I scheduled the appointment a month or so ago and it was hard to get, supposedly the doctor will have more information about heavy metal toxicity, but hopefully I'll get that information another day.

Today I just want to rest. It's a good day for resting -- cloudy and cool, better without plans. Although, I called my new feldenkrais practitioner, just in case he was available, and he is -- now I just have to decide whether I want to go in. I guess I do. Maybe that will help the pain between my shoulders. I just did a breathing lesson, and that did calm me. I thought maybe I would go to that weird thrift store on the upper Polk, to see if they have some cute blouse/vest-type things to wear for my events. I realize that the ones I usually wear actually hurt my body because they squeeze too much and are too short really, then I hold everything up and it hurts so I guess I only have one special outfit with me that doesn't hurt, definitely need a few more. Okay, I'll go there first, then to get some produce down the street, and then to feldenkrais. That sounds like a pretty good day.

"29 visceral essays celebrating defiant nonconformity and subversive flamboyance – writing that afflicts the gay mainstream while comforting the outcast rebels, fierce queens and gender-redefining queers who birthed Queer Lib but are now forsaken by it"

I can't sleep here; my life is a mess. Lying in bed every night so far at 5 am wired to all hell. Before I got to San Francisco I was sleeping; I need my sleep in San Francisco. I wake up into headache and gloom, but then somehow on the fire escape something shifts -- this is the second time today of the fire escape, and I'm doing my morning meditation scanning the horizon away from the sun, which means towards the wall of this building and there’s that brick building next door, all the colors of red and gray and black and putty, turn more and the blue sky, that triangular shadow I remember from my other view, the one from my apartment before and then back across the wall of this building, sunny shadows of fire escape ladder and maybe the air is okay, soft even if it still smells like fabric softener on the second breath.

Here it is...

After feldenkrais, I'm walking down Market Street and I notice the arches of my feet hurt -- I haven't felt that in a while, and I realize it's from walking on so much cement, asphalt, hard flat surfaces and I start to miss my walks down dirt alleys in Santa Fe. I guess that's one thing that helped -- this particular pain went away, used to hurt me especially whenever I walked downhill, happens a lot in San Francisco. And the air: it's disgusting. Even when I got to the top of Nob Hill, where I always felt the air was so fresh, yes it’s moist and blowing in from the bay, but still there’s that underlying smell of car exhaust -- I guess I'll have to get used to that again. It's not like the fresh air and Santa Fe helped me in any meaningful way, but my eyes did get used to looking at everything in a different way, softer, the sky a part of what’s down here.

I guess it is pretty here when I let my eyes roll over the sun onto buildings, oh there’s the blue sky and even the moon, the views of hills and the downtown skyline. Noe Valley, a neighborhood I've always hated because of its cultural hideousness -- affluent and trendy straight couples, babies everywhere, retired New Agers -- not a good combination. But it is beautiful -- all these neighborhoods are beautiful, but so gross in their varieties of class striving and that's why the Tenderloin was the neighborhood I liked the best. Still like the best, even if one thing I notice about San Francisco everywhere is the fashion consciousness -- aviator and wayfarer sunglasses everywhere, nerd chic, an endless variety of ‘70s and ‘80s tragedies. Preppy with facial hair in all different varieties -- just back from the mall; just back from Paris; just back from the sex club. That one at Whole Foods is pretty cute -- the kind of form-fitting khakis that probably cost $300, a blue button-down shirt fitting just right, another $300, trim facial hair, smooth hairstyle that emphasizes a softness. That's what I'm attracted to: the softness. At least in this case.

Nerd chic also comes in all different varieties: grade school with the big glasses and cobalt blue leggings; those square Gucci black glasses on the high preppy fashion types; the oversized ‘70s glasses on the fashionistas and everyone else really, trickle down trickle up it's all fashion -- interesting to study, and not interesting. But what about doorman nerd, pompous preppy nerd, punk nerd, serial killer nerd, nerd diva -- and, of course, old-school briefcase nerd!

First impression, driving into San Francisco from the train station at night and yes, in spite of the grossness of what all the buildings represent, this skyline has gotten more attractive. Nearing Glen Park and we aren't even in the city yet really, and I'm noticing that every space is taken, little houses and apartment buildings squashed right against one another, no space left. I'm starting at Katia's house for the first night, when I go on a walk the air feels so fresh, views from every corner because every corner is another hill. When I wake up, there's a garden in the back and I step onto the deck moist from the morning fog or maybe this is a drizzle, whatever it is I love it.

This is a different San Francisco, not the one I ever lived in. After 10 pm there's no one out on the street; even in the middle of the day it's almost quiet. But then I'm back to the San Francisco that's familiar, a sublet on the same block where I used to live. Walking around, I don't really find it pretty anymore -- yes, there's amazing graffiti; yes, there are a lot of interesting people to look at; but also I notice that the only trees look stuck, and there’s that thing about no space between buildings again, somehow now that seems strange. The air is disgusting -- car exhaust and laundry detergent, even in my seventh floor apartment. Especially in my seventh floor apartment.

That same view that I used to love so much -- now I'm not sure. Yes, I can see far away, but even when it's quiet there are kids screaming on some rooftop playground, police sirens, trash chutes, someone yelling, pounding of metal against metal in the distance, closer now. But, it's amazing how I can go outside and find what I need, I mean I know where in the neighborhood or at least nearby to go to get drain strainers, probiotics, a soap dispenser, toilet paper, water, a replacement for one of my favorite CDs that got scratched up when it got stuck in my stereo.

Familiarity: I haven't gotten to the top of the hill yet, where I know the air is fresher, coming in from the bay. Donna, the feldenkrais practitioner who I planned appointments with a few months in advance, to save me from falling too far, calls to cancel all the appointments. They installed six smart meters in front of her door, and the radiation from the meters or whatever it is made her so sick that she has to leave the city for a month to figure out what she's going to do. This world that we live in can be so hideous, so heartless in the details, relentless in its pursuit of poison, poison at any cost, poison me and now I need to find another feldenkrais practitioner, so much for advance planning to take care of myself.

I do like this apartment -- except for the fabric softener and car exhaust and smoke and tandoori ovens in the air. I climb out on the fire escape just like in the old days, good or bad I'm not sure but at least I have sun. There's a sun deck on the roof here, but I started to get paranoid about the building manager seeing me out there and I'm guessing he doesn't know I'm subletting, right? Not sure if I should ask the person I'm subletting from or just avoid the roof, the fire escape is more convenient anyway, right? Reminds me that I need some sort of place to sit in the sun in my apartment in Seattle.

Oh, did I mention this headache? This headache. This headache, this head, ache. I did find a feldenkrais practitioner, not just in between these paragraphs but before really, I mean there are a lot in San Francisco but some of them don't call you back and most of them are hard to get to, so hard that I wonder whether the struggle to get there and back cancels out the positive effects. This one is in walking distance, even though I think he just finished his training. I'm going this evening, that's pretty exciting.

Oh, and my sleep -- suddenly it's worse: all wired in the middle of the night, what a mess. Makes me think it's something about the electrical grid or cellphone towers, everything concentrated together downtown because otherwise my sleep has been kind of okay on this trip, saves me from complete catastrophe but now. But now. But now hopefully it's about to get better.

Yes, sitting at the computer ruins my life, that's another thing I notice. But I need to sit at the computer. In a week or two I'll probably be used to San Francisco, maybe sooner even, but I'm starting to think that Seattle will be a good balance for me now -- a balance between the convenience and excitement of the city, and the calm that I need. Better air quality -- that's for sure, I'm going to love the air when I arrive. And, maybe I don't need a view of the skyline, that's what I'm wondering -- a mountain view might be even better. Funny, right when I wrote that I started to miss the city. Here I can see the San Bruno Mountains that used to amaze me, but now they just look like nothing. In comparison to what I used to see. The light glitters off all the car windshields on Potrero Hill in the distance and I'm not sure whether I think it's pretty but then the light starts to soften, the sky gets misty and I watch the pigeons and seagulls on the tops of buildings: maybe this is pretty, just let my eyes relax and see it.

I'm so glad I'm here for a month, time to maybe recover in one place, at least in some ways. And then more travel, I'm already sick of the travel. Sick from the travel. Not sick -- worn out. Sometimes hopeless. Too much pain. When I get to Seattle I will rest, yes, rest. Although I guess first I need to find an apartment. My neck hurts -- my back, jaw, head, shoulders. Time to do some feldenkrais, to get ready for feldenkrais.

One more time at the beach and I want to savor it, this feeling under my feet, chilly air and then the water, not as chilly as I thought, so soothing the water that little kid feeling yes that little kid feeling yes. I wasn't planning on bringing the computer out on the train, but then they advertised WiFi in the parlor car -- really, WiFi in the parlor car? No, not really. But now I have the computer out.

Thinking about this sinus headache in the recycled air. Thinking about traveling and how it destroys me. Thinking about why. Why? I just want to go home. I don't have a home.

Soon, San Francisco. I'm not looking forward to San Francisco -- a month in San Francisco, what will that feel like? Will it feel like home? I don't have a home. Not now. When?

A month in San Francisco, Davka asked if it felt haunted. I'm not sure yet. I mean I'm sure, but I'm not sure what it will feel like. Staying on the same block where I used to live, a sublet. I did like that block: where I used to live, it felt like home, at least in my apartment, or sitting on the fire escape in the sun.

A relationship with the clouds, that's what I'm developing. What I developed in Santa Fe: hopefully this will help in Seattle. On that fire escape in San Francisco I used to watch the clouds too, so it started before, before Santa Fe. On the beach in Santa Barbara, watching the sky blend with water blend with clouds and then I'm gone, on the train, moving too slowly towards a place where I don't even want to be really. Maybe after I rest? What does that feel like -- rest?

Actually I slept well in Santa Barbara, but every time I check in and think how do I feel: sadness. Sometimes relaxed and sad, those are the good moments. Not usually. Travel: but then the train station with Davka, you see how travel can bring you to these people. To you. To me. To us.

I want to dream, but I am traveling. Travel is the place for dreams, like when the train starts and we are on a cliff overlooking the ocean and suddenly I don't feel so awful. For a few minutes. And then. I feel awful.

Davka says such beautiful things -- about me, about my work, about honesty in a place of pain and I am hopeful. I want to be hopeful. I try to be hopeful. Sometimes I am not hopeful. Davka and I take pictures -- the two of us together, some of them I don't like and some of them she doesn't like and some of them neither of us likes so we delete most of them but now I'm hoping that I still like the one that we liked. The most.

Maybe that's part of the train starting, on a cliff overlooking the ocean and honesty in a place of pain but suddenly everything brightens. And then it's gone.

Here it is...