Death

Death has been a constant presence throughout my life — from losing grandparents as a young child to my mother at nineteen. My own 21-year-old child, though, has been largely sheltered from it, and losses are now drawing closer.

After a year of physical, familial, and domestic disruption, I’m reflecting on my relationship to sexuality, fantasy, aging, AI, and gender in search of renewed creative flow.

Fourteen years since climbing out of the wreckage, and I’ve never felt more alive—despite the limp, the pain, the aging. Death is a constant companion, sure, but so is desire, vitality, absurd good fortune, and the bittersweet weight of knowing I’m right at the peak.

Infinity as a protest against death.

Writing reminds me I’m alive. And, that I’m dying.

I look better than I ever have. And no one (relatively speaking) wants to suck my cock!

Aha! Or, duh!

Remembering my mother.

I love working out with hot women. And I long to keep the evidence I have done so. But I won’t.

I never used to cry, but now, I dry at the drop of the hat. Here’s what’s made me cry the last couple of days.