I’ve been out of work for the past two days, sick with the weather inside of my skin. A thunderous storm has invaded my belly; I’ve been walking with a rain-stick, and it works, now I am in eternal dripping.
There were points where I thought I ought to go to the hospital. What if this is it; I will die of influenza. “Stay hydrated” my massage therapist told me, after my rubdown only days before. “I am releasing toxins, you must take care.” Had I known the result of a total body, I would have had less whiskey.
Yet, it’s been a great journey of healing and dreaming and breathing and teas and newness. Silence. Filled with silence, I’ve passed time with images of ancestors entering my body when on the Rivers of Honey stage, speaking to the crowd of women in a foreign tongue, and blessing our forms.
I’m recalling moments throughout the week, like running from StoryCorps to the Grad Center in Atlantic terminal train station, passing the “strength” of the Black gay community with ads of black men, holding each other. How Revolutionary! Everyday, I pass these men, bare-backed and hand-clasped and find myself in their images. Most days, I am in pride, exhilarated that we are large and in print. Some days, the message creeps in, that it is an ad about men, about disease, about prevention, about health, about the ramifications of the absence of this anomaly of an ad -how we are fallen soldiers, how most of us won’t see the billboard, how desperately we need an entire washing of ads like these in every city in America, every day of the year. I should be bored of the ad, instead of impressed by it.
The other day I snapped a photo, to keep it in memory.
Have you seen them too?