As a young person, I would study the faces of those who worked behind fogged triple-layered glasses, those whose eyes were pointing to no where in particular, at certain times in multiple directions, and I would wonder what life moment exactly brought them to this place, where their eyes merged with their insides, looking only inwardly, but very distant from the objects that hover or stand still or wave incessantly to be seen, young people, flying trains, opportunities, love, anything that is energy and life.
As a young person I’d consider that the catalyst was consistency. And that consistency can breed a horrific state in human nature.
Saturn is surely returning. On yet another trip outside of my daily routine, I rode the Megabus from DC, after celebrating Black Pride with Jade Foster. She sat on a panel with writers who also happened to be astrologists. Yolo talked about his rising and the writers concurred that a part of being a writer is the act of knowing that it’s what you are born to do, for the love of it and the pain of it and the broke-down lack of lucrative response, that at the end of the day, when your eyes burn with lack of direction, all that you can see are the words, the stories, the realities sculpted in verse.
As an adult now, I see the opposite of faces. I see the people who at every turn jump to meet your eyes. Instead of being cornered in their own monotony, they can be pulled into any direction, hoping for you to find the inside of themselves that they have either lost touch with or never manifested.
These new Faces I see act as if life is a cook-out for community that all people will receive each other in extreme greeting. That you want to network, and offer your services in exchange for theirs. These eyes have become synonymous to the male gaze, like knives, seeing and seeking to cut through to the center of your own monotonous empty glare, wanting your attention,
oh, Mami, please, look at me,
sweetness, come lemme hold your hand,
Eh, darlin, can I have a bite of that…
It is identifiable when it is just as familiar and begins to cut with the same precision,
hi, what work do you do,
oh, the lesbian librarian, so nice to finally meet you,
hey, you seem young, what is your purpose,
you work for Rivers, I perform too,
oh, what have you published?
Sometimes the points of collision aren’t through words, but just through the gaze. And once upon ago, this gaze meant everything. When seeing a woman on the opposite end of the train platform, and you meet eyes with her, this was the only semblance of community. We’d hold onto that gaze, never breaking its tight mold.
But, now, Saturn is showing me that I am a writer, and a lesbian seems to replicate herself in every major city, that black girl with locks and a mohawk and a mission and a clever curve in her voice. That sexy of color-butch with swagger, always in a relationship, but greeting with a particular smile when her girlfriend has gone to the bathroom.
In an embrace of the stare and the monotony and the eyes are these words, deadline, and all.