dépaysement

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Punctuality and I have never been playground pals, no.

I don’t list it as a skill on LinkedIn and it would never be volunteered by people who know me as something I should sing about.

My body clock, my brain, and that beating in my chest seem to have an agreement going though. They must do. Because I go back to the smells, the smiles or the sads I’ve savoured or suffered through – and changed gear up and down for – come the anniversary of all things heartful / hurtful – without fail.

It’s like they will not tardy their annual agenda (which I was too late to get a copy of, see?).

April’s always arresting.

Being my birth month, I call it My New Year. And like some reincarnation rally, I almost-always go through some scorched-earth-policy strip-down before some seriously scheduled sulking (which I’m always on time for, obviously).

As per every year before, I’m gobsmacked that no one gives a shit about the level supreme my sulks are set at. So each year – like it’s a surprise – I come to terms with the signs:

I must stop.

See.

Suit-up.

And soldier on.

Check!

I did, and proceeded punctually to the precipice of my most recent New Year’s reinvention bash. There however, to my surprise, I was unceremoniously booted from Jackie Burger’s Butch Barnyard Bliksem. And to make matter’s worse, while I went back to ‘stop’ – to mend my ego’s misery – I had no time to love the ±15 other sudden-failures who boldly failed where no man had failed before.

Each one, sadly, and obviously, had to be booted too.

What struck me before, during and after my sulking was the sly albeit very very thin collective who sang soprano about us – the sinners’ shortcomings. But when mine sampled the same soprano song in serving a response, I failed terribly. I was simply:

  • counter-cultural
  • prickly
  • in need of professional help
  • a numpty

Adding hurdles to hurt must be the sorting hat life uses to identify the barnyard bliksems from the brave, because only as the barely-finished fingerprints had formed anew on them barnyard-burnt tips ‘o mine, and as I was leaving new office place, I suddenly rounded on that face.

The one that I found in that fellow.

The fellow I forgot all sense for.

The fellow I fell for.

Is it okay then that I cried all the way home? Finally.

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Your vulnerability is what makes you valid.

Knowing yours makes clear the coordinates of how you compass your complexities.

Ergo, realising that punctuality is not yours shouldn’t paralyse you – trust me.

The truth of yours is 24 carat perfection.

You don’t win or lose at History. Once it is, it is. His story. Her story. Your story.

Revisiting yours isn’t always by request. Sometimes things from yours will re-visit you. Just.

Given the patterning of my New Year’s Bliksems, I feel like I am my own Hadron Collider. And then the bang happens, and I collapse. Catatonic. And conspire with hope that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men will come galloping to be genial.

This is stupid. I am not an egg.

Somewhere underneath the obvious of these obstacles, I knew that this – Let the Light In, September 10, 2014 – was causing a commotion for a comeback.

Beats Like Bukowski.

Doesn’t life just?!

The pride-parade that says fine thanks when you’re really just fucked up.

I WANT THE PART OF YOU THAT YOU REFUSE TO GIVE.”

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m much more mature now than anyone I know (or could ever possibly come to know), or if it’s just a serendipitous surprise, but when I saw this quote, this time, I got so much more relevance from its rondure.

Whether by steering or by suffering, we are all a part of unrequited love in a way, some way.

Everyday and always.

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Between the quantities of the meekly-pedestrian versus them masters of poison, the impulse to quantify your vulnerability is no surprise.

But it’s also no excuse.

You cannot veneer vulnerability. Its authenticity is all-seeing.

So sit back. Or step up. You decide. Because your boat is yours to float.

Your vulnerability is everything that’s happened to you.

You have the right to turn that into something you voice, or something you vice.

 

#WritingStoriesDifferently

© Dylan Balkind

 

 

My Birthday Wish

It’s a strange time in the world.

As far as the species’ CV goes, we’re undeniably more advanced and innovative than ever. But, as a breed? A class? A kind? We seem to have steered ourselves into more of a classist and kind-less way of life than anything demonstrated through any Century and civilisation gone before.

Social Media means we’re more ‘connected’ than ever – but that’s just pressing a button, right? If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ve never been more disconnected. Somewhere along the line, fear outmaneuvered freedom, which is the most dangerous decorum to endure for any man among many. It is however – conspiracy theories aside – the perfect place to position the numbers, if you are the one/s seeking to proclaim power over them.

Why the topic?

Because it is alive and well rife and rampant.

Just recently, Indiana filled my radar with their confident Religious Freedom Restoration Act, which essentially means that any business can refuse to serve homosexual customers on the basis of their rights (within the religious context).

This kind of primitive posturing is the ominous wet-ink on the post-mortem of mankind.

I don’t say primitive because I’m looking to stoke the religiously loyal. I say primitive because, if being religiously loyal grants those who are, an entitlement to reverse humanity’s strides of acceptance, then the religiously loyal are stupid.

The Bible is not a bag of liquorice all sorts. You don’t get to pick just the parts you like, and plug-and-play them for a lifestyle you believe is ‘enough’ for a God-fearing follower.

Thankfully, most religious people I know aren’t like this – but the fanatics are out there, en masse.

The repercussions are relevant to me, as would gender bias or racial profiling be to those affected in times gone by … and still.

Because of the relevance, I got to wading through some of the hundreds of the most hesitant, humble and sacredly solemn confessions of nothing more than whom each one is…

Coming Out Stories.

Necessary?

Only because our ‘civilised’ custom decided it so.

It got me thinking about my journey, my coming to terms with my truth, and my coming out.

I know, I know… a complete shocker to all – me and my bad-ass brut self. But! Jokes aside, the familiarity of family (and some friends too) means that there are those, so close to the candelabra, that connecting the otherwise obviously-dancing dots, can be more foreign than forthright.

So it’s important.

It’s important to me.

Being able to was important, and I’d insist on the same privilege for every other LGBT person yet to cross their ravine.

If living was just natural in its nudges, our species’ CV would be filled with credentials of kindness, referenced relief, and profusions of philanthropy, weaving just wondrous histories layered with love from the lives lived.

Wouldn’t that be rad?

It’s My Birthday 

I am without doubt, an imposter among the 37 club. I don’t know what this age is supposed to feel like – and I definitely don’t act it. Still, in my lifetime to date, thank Jesus, Jehovah, Allah, Buddha, the Light – wherever you go when you close your eyes – the space to express one’s right to equality and therein live the same legit freedoms afforded most, hasn’t been completely conscripted into the crazy coop.

Ergo…

These notable assertions come with being aware of one’s own humanity – and then everybody else’s too.

That’s how respect works.

And perhaps the hardest part is in learning to own your own, so that where you can’t grant it to others, you may at least give yourself – and them – the space to collect and kiss with the kindred of theirs.

That’s brave. And bravery is beautiful.

It takes courage. And courage is compassion alive.

Living together is about sharing. And sharing what you have is how we glimpse what the soul looks like.

Yours isn’t supposed to resemble anyone else’s – because there is no common denominator when it comes to that.

So keep questioning your ‘unfairs’ for as long as you have to, because questioning is the only way to measure nerves.

Testing your own is about self-respect…

…and it’s out there where I’ll meet you and kiss yours with mine.

And so, this is My Birthday Wish:

Whoever and wherever you are, know that growing up doesn’t mean you have to let go of who you were when you wore smaller clothes.

Step off the landing.

Don’t wait to wear your wonderful.

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#WritingStoriesDifferently

© Dylan Balkind

If you’re interested, these are the videos the clips came from:

Coming Out Video LIVE

Coming out to Homophobic Parents

Coming out to Mom LIVE

Twins coming out LIVE

Interview with Indiana’s Governor

The Pizza Pilava

Joel Osteen on Piers Morgan

Real Men Talk

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