Pieces of Pain, Pieces of Perfection

Thanksgiving I spent a lot of time alone, plans having cancelled, after some quality play time that left me doubting a lot of my previous conceptions of what types of age play really are okay for me... I needed to digest, and I did, while watching ShortBus at the Dendy. This movie made me cry. Flashbacks to shooting porn in 2002 looking down over the hole in the ground known as ground zero. Flashbacks to that pain. The step by step suicide scene left me shaking, and the moments of raw beauty made me smile- just what I needed. It also is lovely to see friends of mine (Tristan and other DO folks) fucking on the big screen.Afterwords the Brisbane Beat Cop and I had great conversations and coffee, and I caught the bus home. Just what thanksgiving needed to be for me. No fancy dinners, just a meat pie snuck into a movie and some solitude.Friday We ran around like mad getting the last props needed for the planned L'Erotica shows. 8 more meters of chain, paints, poster board, cigars, blood cleanup gear, then came home and made posters and did my nails after catching up for dinner with Cub and the whole crew then back home for the three of us (T, H & I) to watch porn of me from Germany while making signs, packing for L'Erotica, and then dealing with the drama of a runaway cat.Saturday showed up too soon, and off we went to The Forum for the walk through. Saturday was a performance and ego nightmare for me. I ran through the repelling, walked through the space, cleared the scenes with the stage manager and the person that I was told spoke for the venue, set the lights for our showsd out in the audience... then caught a cab to newtown in time to grab a burger before getting 4 hours of hair appointment done. The mohawk turned out stunning, the spots however were a bit silly and the black trim around the edges looked horrid in my opinion, and then they feathered the hawk out and went on about how I looked like a parrot and minutes out of the appointment I was staring at my beast of a parrot head freaking out alone in the streets on the phone. The hair ended up looking amazing with the makeup and wardrobe, but yeah, bad 30 minutes. Little Rach and I met up and headed to the train station, with me paicking up crap plastic flowers as a mock forgive me present for Hunter. Subway sandwich goodness, walk home, being hit a lot with bad purple fake flowers, laughter, then home to get dressed, get packed, do everyones makeup. We ordered a taxi for 9:15, a big one for 5 of us plus gear, but two taxis showed up at 8:45 when we were not ready to go. At 9:15 only one came back and Hunter and I took it and told Tam, Rach and John to meet us at the venue when the next one showed up.5 minutes of peace between the waves.There are moments where you look back and go "ya know, I shouldn't have poked a god/spirit"- but I did. The plans for L'erotica were extreme, and I had made a commitment to do a public ordeal to someone, and thought that the plans and lack of me knowing what all of them were matched well with what was needed. Declaring something an ordeal changes the cards on the table. Looking back, it was the ordeal I needed. But the night- sucked on a personal level.The venue was quiet- hard to get anyone to interact with me as a roving performer. They'd changed the layout since the walk through, so my planned installation space was now somewhere no one would be. We did our first scene on the empty dance floor, with folks watching from above as Hunter pummeled the chained beast to bits (thus the current black eye). Then up to grab gear for the second scene, repelling from the mezzanine to the dance floor upside down and being used as a pinata. 2 minutes into the inversion and I hear folks down below in yellow vests screaming at Hunter that there was a security issue and that I needed to get down now. I flipped right side up and climbed back up instead of repelling down as planned.I went to the stage manager when I found out the security issue was me. Over the course of the rest of the evening I spent a lot of time in negotiation with the venue management, the stage manager, the security gaurds- I ended up having a security gaurd named Dean (aka Queeno) getting assigned to not let me out of his sight unless I was in the green room lest I do something "dangerous". Flashbacks to Dangerous To Children Street Theatre. I got fed up and just tied myself to the security gaurd and laughed about it. Blood, out. Suspension, out. Heavy SM, out. Watersports, out. Basically- anything on the stage, the insurance was covered by the event. In the audience/roving, insurance was covered by the venue, and they refused to let me take any chances. The person who we had cleared stuff with had had no right to clear anything at all, and that there was just heaps of misinformation. Just a week and a half prior my stage show had been cancelled due to no fire... with me not on stage, it meantthat *every* stage show was suspension. EVERY one. At every turn I was shut down from doing anything- we did manage to get in a chain masturbation and chain whip installation as a third show, with Dean watching on 6 feet away... but yeah, all the plans, gone. I crashed emotionally- I was unacceptable, unusable, and I just had a really horrid performer night. The stage manager sent me home, after the MC yelled at me for asking if she knew was going on. (I'll talk to you when you learn some manners, she said, for what, calling her by her name and asking hey, do you know what is up?)The bathroom clogged, folks were smoking in my changing room, and my period started back up.We caught the cab home. I didn't loose money or anything for not doing the shows, we tried a thousand approaches, but still- my ego was stripped away, ripped away, and I went home looking like a spotted parrot to trance myself to sleep.Sunday Hunter, the Brisbane Beat Cop and I headed to Gurlesque which was a really fun show, and I *may* be doing the December show. I love human artistic creativity. Drinks, fun, great conversations, fondling fag boys- I had a wardrobe crisis beforehand, but rocked up in stockings, skirt, cock and binder, and it was perfect. It was nice to see Satomi, Midori and her partner out and about away from stage time.Monday was a recovery down time day, after some hot private play and important conversations, before heading out to grab dinner with Cub. Some deeply needed ideas and conversations at Happy Chef and the Newtown Hotel, before I took some more solo time for me- wandered the streets, unwilling to go home. I just needed to chill, to exist, to take myself on a date- so I did. Then I headed up and had fabulous political conversations with Kit, the Melbourne Butch, up at the sex shop, before finally dragging myself home. Embarrasment moment- when someone you had hot sex with 6+ months ago at Inquisition says "hi" and you have no idea who they are. I figured it out a minute later, but, whoops.Yesterday was my birthday. 27. Hunter and I headed to newtown to catch up with friends, be casual, relax and eat gelati for a bit, socialize with other friends, and teh Sooz gave me candy. Yesterday was a sugar coma day, lots of candy candy candy. I went 7 for a while, it was good. Then in the evening after sushi and dim sum we caught a ferry to Manly Bay. Even though Hunter and I played beforehand at No Holes Barred, Manly was where he and I, waiting for Cub, had some really amazing intense conversations that led to us falling head over heels for one another. So Manly has become a joke of ours, "We'll always have Manly"- and so we went back, just he and I. Sunset over the water. Sea breeze. Petting puppies. Pushing each others buttons. Laughter. Tears. We walked to the rocks at the end of the beach and as he stood above I stripped down to bare skin on my chest and wandered out rock climbing.Men are allowed to go topless in our society, hot days and sweat pouring. Being told that I need to keep my shirt on at the beach is one of my hard times. But I was alone, not really, folks saw, but no one said anything- because nothing was the matter. Wind against my chest, in my hair, wind against my bare back, and it was right. I want to go back to Manly in a few years some time after my chest surgery- it is home.Home. Its hard to say, but I have very few places that feel like home. Sometimes Capitol hill or Hawthorne can be home-like. They, plus the UDistrict, are definately my stomping grounds. I have stomping grounds in London too, around Leicster square and Soho. I have stomping grounds in SF, up and down the Haight and along the waterfront where I can feel the water splash up. I have a slice of home Marin county at Jay's temple. I have a slice of home watching chickens at Jaklr's place. I have a slice of home sitting on steps in the UDistrict watching drug dealers go by as I listen to music and smoke a cigar. I have a slice of home in Gleann Cholm Cille, Donegal, climbing the hill to the ruins, or looking down over the cliffs.But on the ferry ride to and from Manly, I finally got it. That overwhelming sense of home. When I was 18 I had a joke that home is where the deodorant is. Growing up as a kid "home" was not somewhere I wanted to be, I ran away alot, I dissociated myself from the word home.But I get it. In the space between the waves, I got it.On the ride away from Sydney by ferry, Hunter told me:Melbourne is a stripper. She'll take your money, she won't fuck you, and deep down she actually cares about you, and she knows when its time to send you home.Sydney is a filthy glittery whore. She'll take all your money, fuck you up the ass, leave you broken bruised and bloody, and you'll do just about anything to come back, and let her do it all over again.It's not how I feel about her. But Sydney, no matter how much the scene politics piss me off, no matter how unsure I am that I can make the finances work, no matter how much she stresses me out- she is home.Pieces of Perfection.Back in Sydney we walked down to the Museum of Contemprary Art, as I'd been talking with Cub about my degree stuff the day before, and Hunter had asked if I'd been into the MCA. Instead of going in with me, he waited outside as I wandered up to the huge stone edifice, past the blooming flowers, and asked the gaurd if I could go in. They were closed, private event. I looked at him wide eyed and spoke of working at the V&A, and he let me in, in my sandy jeans and boy scout shirt, punked out hair. I stood in the foyer and looked around, breathed in the dust and marble, and felt, again, like home. Gods I miss Museum work. I miss carrying boxes of paperwork on my head past rows of cold marble statues looking back at me with marble eyes. I miss having my tea with mesopotamian men. I miss arguing the political impact of Dadaism on the post WW1 european moral compass.Afterwards We sat at the water, and I found a sweater abandoned on the ground. It was too small for me so I cut open the neck whole with a blade and stripped down, put it on. Years ago I did not have a sweater fetish, but I got it finally when I came buried under a heap of sweaters during a shoot with the Furry One. At L'Erotica and Gurlesque Hunter and I finally revealed to each other a trio of very intense fetishes that it turns out we share, and one of them, it turns out, is sweaters.Then back home. Toilet moments, frozen, out again- this does not matter today. We made the intent that my Birthday would be sacred time, my time, and no one could break that. He would stand sentinel for me.Hypnosis. Toms Boys. Gills. Water. Breathe in, swim for the surface, grab my hand, run for a bus. Smoking scenes, floor candy, sand. Sugar coma.Pieces of Pefrection. Pieces of Pain. Next week I'll get my baby ink done, a reminder of trials and dedications. My face is bruised from L'Erotica, my hand is bruised from slipping on the rocks and catching myself going down. My heart is bruised from L'erotica. My soul is lifted up.