It wasn’t long ago that someone wanted to promote me as a “gay writer” or a “Gay artist” and introduce me to the “mainstream arts community”. I am a writer and I make jewellery and “Unfunctional Art”; art that doesn’t really have a purpose but the artform does. I have dabbled in both long before I “came out” as being gay. Being gay has no bearing whatsoever on either. If you are looking for ; or expecting me to write homoerotic stories; you would be wrong in expecting it from me. If you expect me to create a beaded tallywhacker; you would be wrong yet again. The thing is this. I have known people and still know people in the arts community; however, I do not have to drop names; casually or otherwise.
My writing subject may or may not mean much to you. My writing and beads may hold “no real artistic merit”. My writing has been given both praise and criticism. My beading has helped raise funds for local charities and made me feel good in doing so. I have a folder on a USB stick of both positive and negative feedback. I keep that and read it to keep a level head about me. My intention is not to be reknowned or famous as a “gay artist” I am a craftsman in training attempting to do; what I love to do, what puts me at ease. Anxiety alleviators. Being described as a “gay” anything only adds to the anxiety. Gay is who I am – not what I do.
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On Fashion
I am leaning against the concrete wall with the sun beating down on me. My brow and forehead sweating. I am facing Kendal Avenue with a five story apartment building directly in front of me. A grey haired woman leans on a TTC pole; wearing a white floral top, canary yellow slacks, burgundy sandals with stars and crescent moons cut from the leather. A lavender, pink and green cotton bag hangs over her shoulder. The highlight of the bag is the huge pink flamingo standing on one leg. I flick an ant from climbing on my chest. Damn. I stepped in gum. A stretchy Pepto-Bismol colored strand of elastic material stretches from my shoe to the sidewalk. I move my foot more to see how far it stretches. Two feet; maybe three now. It snaps, slowly recoiling to not the sidewalk, but to the sole of my shoe. The woman moves from the bus stop; away from the sun. She wears a bracelet full of funky charms. One much like I could have made. She wears three rings on her left hand and is still one of the few that wears clip on earrings.
A man rides his green bike past, as the 127 Davenport bus stops and picks up the woman. The man is a mish-mash of fashion. One, he like so many others calls his own. He wears black fishnet stockings with a rose motif under blue jean shorts. He wears black Nike runners with red swoops. He tops it all off with an old CN rail engineer cap and wears a black, metal studded dog collar around his neck. He takes a seat between two elderly men; both white haired and wearing suspenders with slight pot bellies, sitting on the cedar bench outside the apartment across from me. The double- deckered red bus passes by. It is a rainbow of color of polo shirts, tee shirts and tank tops. Urg- I hate polo tees. The sun shines off a bald man’s head.
I look down and see ants covering the gum on the sole of my shoe. The right shoe. I scrape it off with my pen cap and toss it onto the road. I wonder what time it is now. I have to be somewhere at 11:45. I couldn’t have been sitting here for two yours yet; but sometimes, somehow I get lost in my writing. Sometimes though; I want to get lost in it and not come out. In my writing at least; I can direct myself to where I want to be. Where I am happiest.
I look myself over. Black and silver Bata shoes from a secondhand store. Blue jeans with tattered hems. A vintage white men’s Chanel shirt with blue print design; free,courtesy of the food bank. Salt and pepper hair. More salt than pepper. No gel. No mousse. No hairspray. Just wake and go style. A neck hoop of metal nuts, amber square beads, tiger striped oval beads and a few others. No cologne. No after shave. I believe that if a person keeps clean, there is no need to smell like one fell in a vat of scented chemicals and alcohol. I am not one who is out to impress others, or smell like a whorehouse or the counter of the cosmetics at The Bay.
It is 11:30. I just asked someone who was wearing tan sandals and cargo pants. I hate sandals too. The way they trip trop clip clop on the sidewalk.
I have to go now. Time to set down my pen, close this book and get to things in the real world; but then again; what is real and still, I have no idea what “fashion” is.
Fashion is- Fashion is what you make it I guess.
To bad the fashion moguls seem to dictate what to wear-THEIRS while they; themselves wear others or maybe like me; they wear freecycled or second hand.
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Shadows cast from moonlit sky
I sat in my white poly-resin chair on the asphalt driveway out front of our apartment building; hoping to get some writing done. Something I have been putting off for far too long now. I hadn’t much more than a paragraph written when it became too dark to see what I was writing. I turned the page and left my journal open to a fresh new page. The leaves of the mulberry tree above me rustled in the breeze and the moon shone through branches; casting fragmented shadows of light onto the page. The dark portions are in fact the fragments of light cast upon the paper from the glow of the moon. I traced a line around them. What I had thought to be complete darkness was anything but.
Realization set in. No matter how dark our surroundings are; there are glimmers of light. Of hope. Sometimes we just have to search a little longer. A little harder.
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I sat on the railway timber having a cigarette (one of my last as I plan on quitting) after stopping for a Tim Horton’s coffee. A man on a mobility scooter sat eating the last of his bagel with egg; crumpling up the waxed paper wrapper and throwing it towards the garbage receptacle,missing; landing on the red mulch beside it. I offered to pick it up.
“Only difference between me and a Toronto Raptor is they get paid more” He laughed
“When they suck , they chalk it up to being an off day” He told me about his grand kids. One boy and one girl. One three and one six.
“one is Canadian-Jamaican and the other is Canadian Guyanese. Throw in my newfie background and the wife’s Portuguese and you’ve got pretty well the United Nations. When my 6 year old grandson asked me what race he was when people asked; I told him just to say “I am of the human race”
“Kids don’t care about colour unless they hear parents or others talk in a negative manner. Color or country or religion shouldn’t distinguish us from others. We should be based on our standing and character”
I just sat there listening; taking it all in but I already felt the same way as he did on the topic at hand.
“aren’t you going to ask me why I am in the scooter?” he asked, through sips of coffee
“If you want to tell me; sure, but I’m not going to ask. That scooter doesn’t change your character either” I said and he laughed
“There are assholes in scooters too” he said
“Maybe so; but I’m not talking to an asshole. I am talking to you” I responded
“Seems like I am the one talking and you are listening” he said
“I am more of a listener than a talker” I replied; putting out my cigarette and taking the last sip of coffee. “ I tend to come off sounding stupid when I talk” I added
He balled up his coffee cup and threw it at the garbage can; missing again.
“It’s not about how many times you miss the target. It is more about having a target to aim for. It’s the one in a hundred that we may hit the target that makes us feel good; forgetting about the other ninety-nine times. Gotta Scoot!” he said; heading out of the parking lot onto Davenport Road.
“Obey the traffic lights !” I joked
He turned back; waved and yelled “Find a few things to smile about”
I had just met one. One reason to smile. One more reason.
all @Joe Lethbridge 2012
