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That time at Reflections was new for me, being in a queer space and being present, enjoying it. Shame had been drilled into my bones since I was my tiniest self, and I struggled to rid my body of that old toxic and erosive marrow.
“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be,” Vonnegut wrote.
away when needed, pulling it out when beneficial, while patting themselves on the back. Hollywood doesn’t lead the way, it responds, it follows, slowly and far behind. The depth of that closet, the trove of secrets buried, indifferent to the consequences. I was punished for being queer while I watched others be protected and celebrated, who gleefully abused people in the wide open. “The system is twisted so that the cruelty looks normative and regular and the desire to address and overturn it looks strange,” Sarah Schulman writes in her required read, Ties That Bind: Familial Homophobia and
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We even had our own political party, the Pigeon Party—our manifesto was hard to pin down, but we’d wander the streets advocating for pigeon rights, interviewing any stray birds we found. They typically waddled away from our requests.
I resent that we were cheated out of our love, that beautiful surge in the heart stolen from us. I am furious at the seeds planted without our consent, the voices and the actions that made our roads to the truth unnecessarily brutal.
I was there doing press for X-Men: Days of Future Past, a film where I spent almost all of it sitting behind Hugh Jackman, an unconscious Wolverine, with my hands held on either side of his head, hovering by his temples. A lovely place to be every day, Hugh Jackman is so fucking nice it is annoying, one of the kindest people I’ve ever worked with, literally never have I seen him in a bad mood.
oh thank god
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The promenade, the middle tier just above, has a design similar to parks in Paris, long, wide paths, tree branches above, curling to meet. Old streetlamps frame the cement, standing proud, while exuding romance. Stunning cliffs and stone walls, festooned with vines and moss, reach from the promenade to the top tier, which runs along Riverside Drive. Can parks be emotional? Feels that way, its beauty is haunting. I read Riverside Park inspired Edgar Allan Poe to write “The Raven.” Makes sense.
