Recife was a city at night for me. The time I had off was mostly at night and so I mostly saw things that were available at night. The city was sparkles and night lights. This suited me somehow.
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Monday, April 24, 2017
Sometimes work and life mix up in just the right ways. My workmates wanted to take me out to dinner in Recife before I would start working and I said yes. The goal was to go to a place that was close by, just in a town a bit over from Recife, so we met outside the hotel and the plan was for them to drive me.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Thursday, April 20, 2017
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
I went to Brazil.
Brazil is a set of stories.
The stories of the voyeur.
I did not interact with Brazil as much as I would have liked to. I was still learning how to interact when I went.
The middle of a move, the middle of a transition, the middle of everything. It was so much. But it was an important time.
My visa came in almost literally hours before I was to fly. I worried the entire time. I hate being without my passport for any length and two weeks was a long time. In the middle of that time I went with my acknowledge lover, Hellion, and a spanking bottom we shared to a club for spanking under the stars.
I smacked at least one person in the face.
We had a very good time. It was a time that was worthwhile and one I may never recreate.
It was the ending of a long time in New York, the New York club scene, the New York social scene.
I was surprised at how many people knew me.
I was excited for Brazil.
Now, we have come to the time for those stories. Digested moments. My life.
My life is nothing, sometimes but the synthesis of moments. All lives, really, are nothing but the synthesis of living: it only becomes tedious when you don't recognize the power that lies in 20 minutes of living. Ignore that, and you become nothing but compounded banality. Recognize it, and your life becomes magic.
Brazil was a serious of moment.
It was magical.
Monday, April 17, 2017
It's down time.
The best way to describe the space in-between. I'm in the airport so often now that I'm almost as well known as the flight personal on my favorite airline.
I spent a great deal of time in lounges.
I spend a great deal of time thinking.
It is an odd thing to travel so hard and so often and so well.
Right now it's downtime. Time to catch up on some stories. Time to tell the tales there are to tell.
Time to see people, really see people, instead of see through people. There are the masses that have come and gone, but then there are those that are slowly becoming a part of something greater.
A larger whole.
Real companions during downtime.
In the meantime, I miss at least one part of New York more than I can stand. This I need to write about, too.
Friday, April 07, 2017
I'm on the road again. Leaving Glasgow soon to go back to London. This trip has been full of work and I doubt I'll do anything much more interesting than that between now and the long flight home. The upcoming visit to Hellion has me so excited I can barely stand it.
However, since I'm going back to London I might go again and try to find one of the bathroom bars, or maybe the same bathroom bar I went to last time. Bathroom bars, what will the world think of next. Well, at least this was something that had been thought of. Last year when I was in London my boss at the time pointed it out to me.
"I thought I might take us there."
"What's there? The subeway?
It looked like a subway box, they way it stuck up out of the ground, but apparently it wasn't a subway box.
"That is a bathroom."
"You wanted to take me to the bathroom?"
"No, it's a public bathroom, but now it's a bar."
So at some point in the past a bunch of public bathrooms in London were converted into little bars and restaurants. This one, as it turns out, had been converted into a bar and as far as I could tell mini cabaret. I'm up for it, but not really with co-workers. Fortunately we didn't go there.
The next night I got away from work early and decided to have a look.
Tuesday, April 04, 2017
Gillian Anderson is 48 years old.
Gillian Anderson is one of my heroes. Has been since agent Dana Scully really started to give holy hell to geeky Mulder. Mulder and Scully have probably done more to define what I, as a bisexual, am attracted two more than any other superstar. Discounting the fact that Debbie Harry was my first crush and Jim Morrison my second.
Gillian Anderson has been doing a lot of work lately. I've been in love with all of it, but the piece I've found the most interesting has been a show called 'The Fall'. It's dark, it's a DCI show, it's got murder and death and serial killers and Gillian Anderson.
In the first episode her detective meets a another dective that she wants. She sees him and she knows she wants him. She doesn't really introduce herself. She barely has his name. She starts and finishes the conversation with her hotel and room number. As I watched I swooned. This woman, who she is right now, I want to be this woman.
He comes to her room. He dies, as he must. Later she is confronted by others in the department. He was a married man. Didn't you ask. Didn't you know. She is beautiful in her defense.
Man fucks woman. Subject: man; verb: fucks; object: woman. That's OK. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject; man: object. That's not so comfortable for you, is it?"There was a part of me that wanted that level of confidence and fuckall. To just do what I wanted to do without considering how it might appear. The politeness of it.
In Seattle I go out with the New Yorker to dinner at a place called the Brooklyn Seafood Room, or something like that. Because of course. He is buying, the food is good. The waiter is cute.
The water starts hitting on me from the minute I sit down. He makes me feel desirable and sexy and amazing with every dish he serves. He lets me know he's interested and I'm interested back. Why should I be. Why can't I be.
People don't do this, I think.
People don't just go back to their hotels with strangers.
Woman fucks man, I think.
The New Yorker pays for food. We stand and start packing our bags to leave.
"A moment. Give me that." I ask for the bill fold.
"I paid?" The New Yorker looks confused.
"My business card."
"What are you doing."
"Leaving my number."
"Are you serious."
"He's cute and I'm single, why not?"
"He's not going to call."
"Wait for it."
We leave. I go back to my hotel. The New Yorker to his. My phone rings fifteen minutes later. There is a knock at my door twenty minutes after that.
The door opens.
"I don't really want a conversation."
"I didn't come here to talk."
Never have I felt more alive. Never have I felt more unreal. Never have I felt more that I have achieved the power of my heros.
Woman fucks man.
Saturday, April 01, 2017
This has becoming a defining feature of my life, to be on the road. Travel. Travel. Travel. Go, go, go. This does things to a person that are difficult to explain for many reasons. First, you lose connections, everyone is at the end of a flight and the end of a flight could be the end of a relationship. Everything is a singular moment.
My life feels like a collection of singular moments strung together making something, making meaning, making time pass, making reality come together before I lose the thread of it on a flight in a distant country.
I am so many places now.
This year I have already covered five countries and ten cities. It's barely April and I will keep going. Who is to say what the end of the year will have wrought. After the work, the hours, the years invested in making something like a career I have managed exactly what I wanted to manage. There is a sense of success.
I HAVE ACHIEVED SOMETHING.
But what have I lost to achieve?
The thing that is most striking is the human element. The human connection. How do you connect with people when your life is 24 hours on the ground.
How do you connect with people when the modern age is staring into small screens, social media, internet transience. Social media is the death of socialization. I no longer socialize with the world around me as the world is lost in their boxes, in the bright shiny lights. I miss the conversation in a bar.
I miss the stranger as friend.
I've found a new freedom in my age and in my travels and have found it harder and harder to connect. To find connect.
Still, I wouldn't trade it. What does that tell me.
Eight hour layovers. I know the airport well enough to treat it like a second home. Not even just one of them. All of them. All of them. I know them.