a.funnytimeofyear.com

Crooked Nosed Jennifer shunts her back up against the wall, hands splayed with a look of terror spread across her prematurely aged face. The look on her mug says someone’s coming towards her with a knife, or better yet, she’s about to make a crude homophobic joke, hollering “Backs up against the wall!” to the remaining members of the cash office. This is, of course, all aimed in Uncle Ben’s direction – the man of which she is so visibly pursuing, with the flicking of her lifeless hair, and her hideous laugh that pierces ears and purposelessly shrills at the wrong moment. I take this in a bad way which is, of course, understandable, and I scowl and watch this half-wit of a woman jump around shouting “Bums to the wall!” If looks could kill, she’d be a fragment of a human implosion, I swear. I’m leaving this place soon, anyhow, and I suspect that I shall be missed as much as I miss my fellow co-workers (not at all.) There’s Jelly Beans Gill, with her big belly, big bum, big boobs, and big eyelashes coated in thick black mascara. She’s partial to blurting out “Fuck ‘em!” when talking about customers in a close proximity, and she coos “Allo darlin’” when I walk through the door. Of course, there’s Scrawny Dan, the bane of my existence who wants to divulge every wilting piece of information about my gay relationship, so that he can, no doubt, spread it as soon as I leave. Oh, how I’ll miss his greasy throwback hair, his vast, expanding forehead. His sharp features resembling something of the rodent species. Indisputably, he shall remain a haunting figure in the unwinding path that is my future.

In four days I’m accompanying dear Foalface to her End of Education prom. In true fashion we shall arrive in Loser Style, her being the general loser and I being her accompaniment, the Gay Date. I am partially scared and somewhat excited about the whole ordeal, as I fear that we may become gossip for the other children to giggle at. I’m expecting a Romie And Michelle welcome, complete with mass ridicule, but we’ll see how it goes.

I have never had a pleasant, accepting male friend before. All of the male friends I had previous to the past two years either had multiple personalities (“Hello, I’m Mr. Nice.” / “Fuck you, queer!”), were extremely homophobic (which went down well, no pun intended), or were just .. weird. This is why I am slightly uneasy about Spencer visiting my home tomorrow. Ladies and Gentlemen, Spencer is, for the first time in my life, a LOVELY, STRAIGHT, MALE. I guess I’m just waiting for him to beat me up, call me a homo, or simply anally rape me. For that, I’ll just have to wait and see (oh pleeease let it be the latter, come on!)

And so the time came, passed, and left impressions that I still cannot quite decipher. It was a strange feeling to meet the “in-laws” after so much time, especially when my relationship was shrouded in secrecy. When other adults are present they are generally in relation to me, where everything is open. Some of my family may know that we exist as this monosexual couple (and I suspect that they do not like it), but there is never an element of awkwardness.

On first greetings her hands were dirty with garden soil, mine sticky from summer icecream fun. She looked older than I had imagined and although previous hearings of her morning voice had led me to believe that she was an authoritarian, her clothes took me down an alternate path. Soft pastel blues and pale whites, garden flip flops with exposed feet. She smiled and I reciprocated (although ever-so conscious of the growing mark on my front tooth from a previous breakage), an awkward hello splurged from my lips, followed by a half-hearted hug that lacked intention. Banter was made, banal after-party conversation before we swiftly exited and made our way to solitary spaces.

It wasn’t so much that the whole experience was awkward, or uncomfortable, just extremely different and restrictive in my ways of personal expression. Never in my life have I felt so aware of my self-image. My presentation, look, bodily modifications and attitude. And although I made no real outward and noticable change to the way I acted, something inside was telling me to be someone different. To not be brown skinned. To not have stretched ears, to not be the product of a broken relationship. When I made comparisons to our home lives and visible upbringings, it was evident that we have come from different worlds. In my world we wear underwear on our heads whilst cooking dinner. We get drunk and cry together, before re-discovering happiness and stability. In his world they eat as a family and keep photo albums dating back years (I have no recollection of ever seeing a photo album in my house.) In his world happiness is fuelled by conventionalism - in ours, fluoexetine, amitriptyline, diazepam and dothiepen.

It wasn’t that I desired that lifestyle, or even disliked it — it just caused me to make fleeting observations of an alternative family structure that I have never been a part of. And sometimes, just sometimes, I had to wonder if it were all just a setup. If ignorance really is bliss, then maybe that is the key to their sucession (that is, until I came along.)

When questioned I felt that I wanted to justify my dysfunctional presence in their functional lives. I wanted to show that you can come from different paths, shine from a different facet, and still walk the same route. I wanted to show that we can all make a place for others in our lives, if only we would open our minds.

Tomorrow, my dear friend Catherine is taking a giant leap and flying many thousands of miles to meet a slightly dishevelled friend of her’s, whom she has never met before. We both have a rather distaste for American lifestyles, so I’m sure this shall prove as an interesting experience for her, and I look forward to the wealth of photographic evidence she shall return with.

The last few weeks have been hard on us both. I’ve been violently moody, swinging from chirpy cheerful to malevolent, and at times, so has he. Seven months ago I braved seeing Cat Power alone, and this time (tomorrow) I shall be attending with Him and Rupa at my side. I’m a little perturbed at the thought of perhaps having to hide my tears (last time I didn’t — I was in the presence of strange tattoo’d lesbians who were also sobbing) from them both, but I’m sure this shall resolve itself accordingly. I recall there being a large amount of pretty gay boys so I may be forced to oogle if the supporting act was anything like the last (Scout Niblet - die.)

I’m always reflective of what was happening a year ago when I strike certain points of the month. A year ago I was sipping red wine in secret gardens of Soho with Miss P. A year ago I was seeing Ani Difranco for the first time. I was mixing red wine and coca cola, gobbling popcorn. I was visiting gay clubs for the first time, photographing strangers and sending secret parcels. I was discovering my body, other people’s bodies. I was stumbling upon beauty. A year ago I was less than I am now.

And every time I think of where I was, one year ago, I can’t help but think of how much I’ve grown.

there’s a new series up at visua.foto (which is incidentally now back up). i’m particularly proud of this series. also, there’s more prints for sale. please buy some, as i’m particularly poor recently? i don’t charge much, honest.