Taking no prisoners. Including herself.


(To make your very own custom candy heart, follow this link.)

Oh, dear.

I’ve fallen behind in my poetry venture. Blame it on the weather. There was [gasp!] sun here in the city. It was February. It felt like summer. Can I be blamed for spending some days in the park rather than writing Odes to Trannies? Please, dear readers, forgive me. Please.

(What’s that? No one has been reading anything since the Craigslist dates? Oh, well, then. No worries.)

Despite no poetry, don’t think I haven’t been ruminating on the subject. It’s funny, though, because tonight this morning I look out my window — the streets already cleaned, vacant of the usual white noise buzz that hovers just outside — and there is no one about. This, a rare occurrence; there is always, always someone there; always always someone to watch; always always someone to occupy my attention.

Interesting, how on Valentine’s Day it parallels so closely that I, also, for the first time, have no one romantically in my life. (I always, always have before).

This is not a sob story! This just is. But this condition, of being alone, of being merely an observer to others being alone and how they handle their alone-ness has made me acutely aware of the spectrum and diversity of the ways in which human beings can relate to each other.
Here I am, Little Miss City, feeling very connected and most sympathetic to online daters and prostitutes. Go figure. Either that, or I am a true graduate of Berkeley, Politically Correct and all, and I am having Delusions of Empathy. Who knows.

But something in these observations has made me believe these things — prostitution, dating, poetry, money, loneliness, power, love, and what-have-you-I’ll-make-connections-between-anything-just-try-me — are connected somehow, and at the root of all of them is the sense that we, as human beings, have something fundamental in common; that, by the very nature of being alive, we can relate to each other on some sort of deep level, to the point where perhaps it could be defined as an utter sense of similar objective — we’re all just looking for love. For acceptance. For contentment. For a fuck.

Oh, sure. It’s manifested in a medley of different ways. Some of us are needy, lonely, heartbroken, depressed; some are utterly self-confident, content, loved, privileged; some are addicted to sex; some addicted to love; some just plain addicted to addiction; some, still, are after money, or drugs, or greed, or power, or food, or a deep, aching desire to write really bad poetry.

But doesn’t it seem relevant that somewhere, below all that, each of those desires and wants and needs are fundamentally the same? Isn’t that, by definition, the essence of empathy?

Hell if I know. Here’s some more poetry:

Tonight I’ve named you Candy. You have beautiful glossy bubble gum lips, and your heels light up red-blue, red-blue, red-blue with every step, step, step you take.

[Night five: no idea]

more, more with that click
it’s become my nervous tick
there now, Candy: one more trick

How are you tonight, dear trannie? I almost got up the courage to speak to you today. We passed by each other, like two ships in the night: me, on my way home from work; you, on your way to — you looked at me ever-so briefly, almost caught my eye, but diverted sharply. Is it because you sense I was not worth your time? I’m not sure, but my eyes lingered longer. I felt the words nearly fly off my lips: “might I have a moment of your time?” (oh, I’d pay you, certainly. Just to talk? Would that be okay?) I want to pick your brain a bit. If I’m not too presumptuous in saying, I think it’d be the easiest hour of work you’ve ever had.

[Night six: Limerick]

There once was a prostitute, trannie
Who went by the nice name of Candy
She strutted her stuff
Perhaps liked it rough
And her resemblance to a woman? Uncanny.

Okay, now I’m almost hurt. I walked right up to you, all direct-like, and you turned your back to me and faced your pimp. At least I think that was your pimp. Wow. I feel really bad writing that (“pimp”); like I’m irreverent and sarcastically insulting to your profession. But I don’t know how else to describe that guy who always stands in the doorway of the apartment complex next to mine and watches you walk Post Street from afar.
Step, step, step.

[Night seven: e.e. cummings inspired]

there once was for me (a
love, certain then, perhaps of
something I once fell upon) shores of youth
;something in you triggered it. Perhaps it
was the desperation I, felt
you felt
I felt, and how
the only, other, time I’ve ever felt such desperation,
was when I was Willing to allow myself
the (insatiable, surrendering, drowning flavor) / (pleasure-privilege)
of love.

(what is this?)

§125 · February 14, 2006 · Love Project, Tranny Prostitute · · [Print]

Leave a Reply