From Rodale’s Home Design Series: Baths (1987)
when shit goes down w/ the queers, when queers are reminded that subjectivity can be subsumed and erased under an amorphous shared identity that attracts manifest hatred, there are only certain pairs of arms i want to hug. many of those pairs of arms are thousands of miles away, and there is no guarantee that my arms have come to mind, no guarantee of hugging back. my “community” is so nebulous, so dispersed, and diversified that it doesn’t resemble anything like a community from the outside. though, in my private constellation, my singular web of fiction, i sense those humming orbs–them–those bundles of memories, emotion, and recognition–recognition–that are more perceivable on days like today than they are on other days. for what it’s worth, across canyons of living, of types, traversing images, perceptions, time, in the absence of cognizance and deserted by “truth”, i’m here.
