Your government, breaking your heart

TUESDAY — Usually I take Tuesdays off, but this being Xmas and me selling sacrilegious stocking stuffers, I rolled the cart to Telegraph Ave instead, where many fish were sold. Insert amusing fish anecdote #352.

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Since leaving Mom and Dad's house, I've usually slept on futons, but here at Judith's house I sleep on a mattress. It's the difference between the Eastern and Western philosophies. The futon is very Eastern — simple and efficient, something to lay down and sleep on. The Western approach is that everything must be as complicated as possible.

A futon is full of cotton, while a mattress is full of springs. Give it some years, and the cotton might go flat, but it's still sleepable, and you can flip it over and it's fresh again. The springs, though, get misaligned after a while, and start poking through the soft spots.

That's what I'm sleeping on now — a mattress with loose springs that have become sharp, skin-piercing weapons that stab at me and draw blood. 

Every time a new spring pokes through and pokes me, I take off the sheets, peel back the mattress cover, and duct tape the lid of a tin can over the point of the spring. Then I then put it all together again until the next time my bed stabs me. Four tin can lids so far.

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WEDNESDAY — Gerry is one of the vendors on the Ave, and he's Mr Marijuana, so he doesn't like it when you take his picture. There's nothing he can do about it, though. The law says, if you're in public you're fair game for photos. I understand Gerry's objection, though. 

This afternoon, I noticed a man holding a camera and looking at me. We never spoke, he didn't say a word, but he stepped back across the sidewalk, focused, and snapped me sitting at my fish table.

Law or no law, that's fucking rude. I don't think he noticed, but there'll be a finger from me waiting for him when he develops that roll.

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When I came home from selling fish, my flatmate Cy introduced me to his husband, Peter, who's visiting for the next two weeks.

Usually Cy is kinda glum and quiet, and doesn't come out of his room much, but tonight he was in very good spirits, and I can see why. Peter is a cutie, with sparkling eyes and a British accent. He gets the accent by being British, which is why he and Cy can't be together.

This is the madness of the law. If I fell in love with a British woman, there'd be no problem. We could get married in either country and live happily ever after, because marriage trumps all the rules of immigration.

Peter and Cy, being gay, are not allowed that. Cy can't move to England and live with Peter. Peter can't move to America and live with Cy. They can't marry, and are not allowed to immigrate.

They're each other's husbands to each other, but to the law they're nothing, so they visit each other every few months on tourist visas, but other than that they live their lives alone.

How fucking stupid and mean is that?

How would you feel if you fell in love, and your nation said it was illegal? Your government, breaking your heart. If that's not enough to make you furious, make you a radical or an anarchist, your heart is harder than mine.

From Pathetic Life #19
Tuesday & Wednesday,
December 19-20, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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