revelation came to me as though ventriloquized from a part of my consciousness hidden in the apartment. My hands sweat with it. Add this to the evidence that I’m innately and intricately fucked up.4 A pop psychoanalyst (which is to say that I read a bit of Freud in undergrad and queers are melancholics writ large, so I speak with experiential authority), I suspect that this kind of indefatigable longing can be the origin of an artistic disposition. “Loneliness is a kind of dysphoria with the world” is a refrain that repeats in my body of writing. It’s a hunch of mine that no one can apologize for or administer a cure for the racialized and sexualized condition of existential ennui. The sum of all political actors, of all the puppets of the state, can only render the apology an ever-engrossing work of fiction, an all-consuming atmosphere of white noise, something to which I would be bound against my will. Apologies for an engineered catastrophe, constrained by a fetishization of the present, threaten to pin me to reality, and I’m interested in something far more real. The cure isn’t conjurable in government offices. It’s a matter of time, of temporality. An anachronism, I’ve spent my youth in a tale of contradiction. My outsider status is the price I pay for a mode of attunement and perception that compels me to write into the airless grip of an unattainable object of desire. Utopia, of course, is an impossible love object. But as such, it is also an incitement to write, to run with pen in hand into the negative space of the future. Would I have it another way? What a danger to creativity, after all, to find oneself fitting neatly into the world!
If I’m a writer, it’s because to be an NDN is to be a concept that speaks. I live in the world of ideas because it’s the world of my people. If I’m a writer, it’s because to be queer is to worship loss—and what is a book but a losing game?
Back to fucking. When I first downloaded Grindr in 2014, I wielded the app like a weapon in a war of emotion. I was a soldier slippery with regret. In each new bed, hungrier than the last, I surrendered so much. I surrendered with fevered surety. To and from each bedroom I went with my wounded shadow hanging over my shoulder.
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