It took me longer than expected to write this post because I didn't want to write this post. Plus, I couldn't stop hula-hoop dancing and doggie style two-stepping to Goldfrapp's “Number One”. I am better now, and I really do feel like I am number one. For now, at least, I'll be just fine until next full moon arrives.
Yes, I was born this insane with a hula-hoop for a brain. My stepmother, who I adore very much, thought I was insane and angry as a teen because I was gay. When you came out, she said, that explained everything. I looked at her like what, because I never came out. I just do what I do because I am who I am. I didn't say anything to her. I just smiled and spoke under my breath because that's what I do because I don't want to be angry any more at any one because anger is too easy (and fun) for me. I also didn't want to burst her Hubba Bubble. What I wanted to say to her was this: I was angry because_____________________________________. And that's the truth.
Scissors are dangerous like life is dangerous. The morning Brandon got killed on his motorcycle on his way to see his father in Fort Pierce, he called me and said, When I get back, let's meet for a drink . Fine, I said, let's. We had run into each other at Joe Allens, a restaurant he had been working at on South Beach. He was a painter and I bought his first painting. I still have it. It is hanging behind me as I write this post. Brandon and I lost touch after he divorced my friend Nina. Even though we lived within 500 yards of each other, we lost contact, all communication was cut, severed, because we cut it. The day he died, he called me just a few minutes before he was killed which was just a few blocks from his father's house. This phone call took place about 127.6 miles away from South Beach where I answered his call in my kitchen. This phone call was the closest Brandon and I had been since we met.
I've walked into strange places where, say, a DJ spin spins beneath a canopy of scissors and walked out because I am afraid of heights, of danger, of people and places that take me out of my center of gravity. When danger enters my life like an uninvited ghost with scissors, I use to run. No more. Because there is beauty in danger if you give it enough time to reveal itself.
The photograph above accurately represents my frame of mind when I shot this frame of mine several months ago during the Wynwood Art Walk. Every day, I remind myself to just breathe.
I believe in Depeche Mode and the policies they set forth in “Enjoy the Silence”.
I believe in the sprit world. I believe in the possibility of ghosts.
When I watched Ladytron's video for “Tomorrow”, I cried at the end. I don't know exactly why I cried, but I did, and it felt right. I think I cried because the ending of the video, the last scene, reminds me that we are watched by the spirit world and by those who have vanished from the visible light. These ghosts, or spirits, angels perhaps, watch over us and keep us afloat as they float above us in perfect symmetry.
It is true. No one hears your cry when you are in your own world. That's right, Shakespeare's Sister, sing it proud:
The full moon is a day old. My laptop almost slipped off my legs and crashed on the floor. I caught it. When I sat back on the sofa, I looked into the mirror ball and could see the reflection of my face and Brandon's painting merge into one.
--Neil de la Flor
