What is it doing without me? Have I done enough for it to stay? Love encourages me to get to the desk in the room where I work and even to shut the door from his love in order to get done whatever it is that I need to get done. Love is not here sometimes—is out working, or making a meal, or sitting in a far-off room, on the other end of a joke.
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Everything has been bought and made better here in the land of the plenty, the horn of the good. How beautiful a street is in winter! It is at once revealed and obscured.
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Here vaguely one can trace symmetrical straight avenues of doors and windows; here under the lamps are floating islands of pale light through which pass quickly bright men and women, who, for all their poverty and shabbiness, wear a certain look of unreality, an air of triumph, as if they had given life the slip, so that life, deceived of her prey, blunders on without them. But, after all, we are only gliding smoothly on the surface. The eye is not a miner, not a diver, not a seeker after buried treasure. It floats us smoothly down a stream; resting, pausing, the brain sleeps perhaps as it looks.
But I am not gliding down the surface of my thoughts as I make my way from the east side of my street down to the west, in part because I am not Virginia Woolf—which is to say, I do not go unobserved in the world of my street, free to observe in relative safety and peace. The May I see your I. I am not asleep to the fact that none of the other customers—usually affluent Europeans, yuppie mothers, and the like—are asked for anything other than their credit cards when they belly up to the electronic bar to make a purchase.
For those of us who are not them, the exchange of capital for goods becomes a kind of sick room: May I see your I. The sick room glows with blood, the blood that floods your face, your neck, and your back, as you hand over your I.
A fuck-you? And why not a fuck-you? Because the worker who asks you for your I. The transaction closed, the thing I needed, now bagged, weighs heavy in my hand like evil, like shame. Because by not looking at me— May I have your I.
The first time I experienced the May I see your I. There, I majored in theatre.
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To get to the school from my home, in Brooklyn, I took the I. I always wore ballet slippers then, and, frequently, tights. Sometimes I carried a bag—a kind of pouch—my mother had made me. A queer costume for her queer child. One day, as I hurried through the filthy labyrinth that was and is the I. Give me your I. The blood was pounding behind my eyes. Something—instinct—told me not to show my real face, the face of my fear and hatred. I was no longer myself. I knew what it was like to be almost annihilated, or have some part of your natural trust annihilated, by men.
When I was a kid, my boy cousins used to try to suffocate me with plastic bags. They wanted this faggot to die.
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Maybe that long-ago cop wanted this faggot to die. Below, some parade participants are sporting banners in pink, purple and blue, the colors of the bisexual flag. One man wears a t-shirt proclaiming "bisexual pride!
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The crowd erupts in cheers as uniformed members of law enforcement stride down the parade route, some holding hands. A new state law that takes effect in January eliminates cash bail for most misdemeanor and non-violent felony offenses. Under that law, Polanco would likely not have had to go to jail.
ET, June 30, For a limited time, investors who develop real estate or fund businesses in opportunity zones are able to defer capital gains on profits earned elsewhere and completely eliminate them on new investments in 8, low-income census tracts. The goal is to reinvigorate these areas. Top Tri-State News Photos. All rights reserved.