32-year-old gay/queer cis white man leaves hometown in occupied central Canada for distant locales, posts photos and commentary
it is hilarious to me that you are the first person to ask this. TUMBLR, YOUR PRIORITIES
I can’t speak for the rest of the world but in australia, self-described trotskyists form the majority of our small, sectarian, hyper-visible socialist groups, and are rarely found outside them
you know the sort, endlessly smiling pamphleteers who can’t have an honest conversation with you, who are always trying to convert you to the party line, who if they hear you’re more of an anarchist try to pin you down as a follower of Bakunin or Proudhon and apply the party-approved arguments accordingly, and confuse recruiting browbeaten first-year uni students to their mailing list with building a movement
omg this happened to me and I didn’t even know it was a thing! This French dude at a hostel in Berlin was all “you’re an ANARCHIST?” and wanted to know what I’d read. He couldn’t handle it when I said I hadn’t read anything.
We discussed the student strike in Québec and he gave me his newspaper hahaha
TUMBLRINOS I HAVE BEEN LYING TO YOU
A dam burst when I arrived in Italy via ferry and I became unable to suppress thoughts of a theretofore-unplanned return to Montréal. I gave myself a couple of days to decide, consult trusted sources, and did it: went to Berlin briefly to confirm an appetite for it, and then to Montréal through a series of tubes, trains, and an ocean-crossing plane.
I postdated writings so local friends would be in the dark about impending arrival.
Exciting times around here. I’ll perhaps have to wrap up this space for now, still considering what sort of webs presences I’ll have in a city where stop-and-search has grown from mostly racist/classist profiling to include broad political profiling.
SO some Berlin to come, and then maybe a little farewell photo from the local fuzz? It was surreal to see such advertisements there and only retroactively notice their absence where I’m from. Much like smoke-in-the-air laws!
Because I stagger under the burden of a major white saviour complex, I was compelled to annotate the cover of copy of The Help left in the hostel in Florence.
I know that by appropriating critiques of The Help by people of colour I am helping to save them.
How Yoga Works could maybe have used annotating as well, but I couldn’t coalesce anything.
Technology and the totalitarian world it produces.
When you friend request, you friend request with Hitler!
Wireless LAN access is becoming popular. Even when offered for free, you will need to provide your name and contact details to the provider of the service to obtain an access code. This is because of Italian anti-terror laws. Anonymous access is not possible.
I did find a lot of this. McDirndl’s is often an oasis of open webs and free terlets, but not here. Fortunately, there’s still good old “default” and its chums.
What’s with the self-stereotyping of “we Italians”?
“You’re s-such a fuckwit!” she yelled as I walked away. I kinda was.
I’d climbed the Rampe di San Niccolò to the Piazzale Michelangelo, following the instinct-to-high-places. I was pulled to the northwestern corner where others were congregated; obvious photo-op is obvious, even into the sun.
As I tried regardless to get a good angle (but what are these photos for?) I realised there was a celebration of heterosexuality photography event in the midst. The photographer was giving orders and directed me to stand at the back.
“Um, he’s not in our group.”
Was it that that pushed me over the edge into obstinacy? I recall past incidents of resentment at certain uses of public space, and weddings have been known to set me off.
I fiddled with camera settings, ignoring the growing rumblings of discontent. Finally, someone broke: “Could you… we’re just trying to take a picture here.”
“Oh, did you buy this space?” I smarmed, twirling index finger.
I was cajoled into turning to face the camera and I said “Years from now, you can point to me and say ‘There’s that guy that wouldn’t move.’”
I was cajoled into facing away from the camera: “We don’t want you in our picture.”
I should have just moved! WTF!
Sometimes I don’t understand my own behaviour. Just moments before, I handed back a woman’s shoe that had dropped off the edge of the wall she sat astride. I’m not always a fuckwit, I swear!
I descended a level and read for a while. The sun went behind some clouds and the photo was much better.
Americans. Americans in Florence. Seven Americans in an eight-bed room.
Americans loud-whispering at 0100. Americans yelling at 0200.
Proud Americans drinking 14 beers. Proud Americans vomiting in the bidet. Proud American chunks in the bidet.
American men negging. White American men saying n***a.
14-beer Americans in the shower at 0230. 14-beer American water all over the floor.
Americans losing their phones. Americans late for the train. Americans in a panic.
Americans buying American flag t-shirts in Italy. Americans wearing American flag t-shirts in Italy.
Americans at breakfast. Americans denied ketchup for their fries.
Must I say? This is a joke! I know Americans are not all like this. And some Canadians are also like this. Some of my best friends are Americans! uh
There’s a fictional trope I can’t find evidence of on the webs that goes something like this:
He had long ago trained himself to sleep on command
CAN IT BE REAL
Because I could use such training. I’m needing sleep at unpredictable times and/or unusual locations. Though such training probably couldn’t help me stay asleep while a tiny kitten attacks my feet.
At least I can sleep on my back more than before.
“My God, you sound like some dreary French intellectual who’s just set foot in New York for the first time! That’s exactly the way they talk! Unreal! American motels are unreal! My good girl—you know and I know that our motels are deliberately designed to be unreal, if you must use that idiotic jargon, for the very simple reason that an American motel room isn’t a room in a hotel, it’s the room, definitively, period. There is only one: The Room. And it’s a symbol—an advertisement in three dimensions, if you like—for our way of life. And what’s our way of life? A building code which demands certain measurements, certain utilities and the use of certain apt materials; no more and no less. Everything else you’ve got to supply for yourself. But just try telling that to the Europeans! It scares them to death. The truth is, our way of life is far too austere for them. We’ve reduced the things of the material plane to mere symbolic conveniences. And why? Because that’s the essential first step. Until the material plane has been defined and relegated to its proper place, the mind can’t ever be truly free. One would think that was obvious. The stupidest American seems to understand it intuitively. But the Europeans call us inhuman—or they prefer to say immature, which sounds ruder—because we’ve flounced their world of individual differences and romantic inefficiency and objects-for-the-sake-of-objects. All that dead old cult of cathedrals and first editions and Paris models and vintage wines. Naturally, they never give up, they keep trying to subvert us, every moment, with their loathsome cult-propaganda. If they ever succeed, we’ll be done for. That’s the kind of subversion the Un-American Activities Committee ought to be investigating. The Europeans hate us because we’ve retired to live inside our advertisements, hermits going into caves to contemplate. We sleep symbolic bedrooms, eat symbolic meals, are symbolically entertained and that terrifies them, that fills them with fury and loathing because they can never understand it. They keep yelling out, “These people are zombies!” They’ve got to make themselves believe that, because the alternative is to break down and admit that Americans are able to live like this because, actually, they’re a far, far more advanced culture five hundred, maybe a thousand years ahead of Europe, or anyone else on earth, for that matter. Essentially we’re creatures of spirit. Our life is all in the mind. That’s why we’re completely at home with symbols like the American motel room. Whereas the European has horror of symbols because he’s such a groveling little materialist…”
— A Single Man, Christopher Isherwood. Finally read this, what took me so long. But it was the perfect moment, it felt so relevant. It’s the kind of book that makes me wish I were in a literature class, it begs for group dissection and discussion. What does it mean that the title character ranting here is a British ex-pat? And what about elsewhere in the book (day) where he mourns the emptiness of American consumerism? Who is the character and who is the author? The recipient of this rant never gets to respond.
A takes a lot of photos. So for a while I amused myself by taking metaphotos.
(Oops, saved this as a draft. This was over a week ago.)
Split, Croatia, winner thus far for most epic cruising locations. The rocky socket close to Mykonos’s five windmills is a worthy rival, but no one was there when I visited.
I met a man via iOS who tried to create a psychogeographical (not his word) archive of cruising in Split! He made flyers and talked to people, but no one wanted to contribute, haha. Reminds me of the reaxions I got when I solicited interviews for an FTW I did called Cruising (MSM).
He started a blog, here is some machine-translated Croatian from it:
Gay Beaches and štajge the only urban sites with LGBT (actually just gay) tradition in the region (specifically in areas of Split, and the whole of Dalmatia). However, the cultural maps of these places are not marked, except for the rare mention in the media these urban sites are invisible. Their existence on the edges (geographically and culturally - and abandoned dilapidated periphery zone) urban areas the situation is a metaphor for the LGBT community.
It was great to talk to someone with this approach. We unnerved the cruisers by standing around the abandoned bar, probably speaking more words aloud in ten minutes than had been in the preceding week.