I don’t believe anyone. I am not exactly depressed I just don’t like myself. My wife and two kids are well and that is what is important. I don’t like being pushed. My name is K.P.

Well, usually in writing I d try to be ‘honest’ but I don’t know what honest is at this stage. I imagined that I would go to a place where silence makes sense but it seems that sense comes out of choices. Do I have any choices?

The bike-rides remind me how much of a scared bastard I am. Though I am not a phobic man. I am a man that has forgotten something. Manhood at this primary stage is about forgetting. I ve kind of forgotten what I wanted to say.

Looking at the boys on the streets I don’t know if I find anything attractive in them. Some of them are cool but the kind of coolness I look to embody (male or female) seems ridiculous. How does one come to perform a detail of themselves to impress a crowd? A detail so important that cam become monumental in an art context in a point in historical time.

Getting lost like when falling in love, admitting a lack and everything. A lack that is an illusion. I guess we are looking for something that is constant. And what will happen if I die? If I was to die it would mean that everyone has lied. Shit.

I got a message from some man that fucked me 5 or 10 times 4 years ago; he says he is sorry about how he treated me. I am tempted to write back and point out how sex with him was dissatisfying. But then there is all this talk about satisfaction.

And what is commitment all about?

The first days was basically a deconstruction of our identities based on releasing or letting go of our female charms and undressing off our identities. That pushed me to some mental edge pretty quickly and I wanted out of that pressure. I decided to become someone expressive in filth. Fuck, I ve missed writing so much. I though I need to hold on to my sanity somewhat so I can deliver. The limitations of my body are pronounced. Not my tits or my curves but how I hold, carry it and how I feel about it.

And there is something major about exchange and dependence going on. The lack of time. The more there is the more it is not enough.

Three aspects:

1.Volcano. He is a guy that usually doesn’t know what’s going on, he is careless. What I like about him is that I don’t need to put much thought in him cause he himself doesn’t think much. I am also playing here with mocking somewhat the artist Del la grace Volcano who I should note I admire very much. The artist is nothing like my Volcano guy but I am drawing from the word volcano, explosive and aggressive, ready to spit out fire, if I ever wake up after centuries of sleep. Volcano is to do one thing at the moment, sing a song showing us all what he’s got which is: his unique ability to disassociate. As a kid he stayed focused to an imaginary world under all circumstances, he is a committed man and he will tell us his truth:

You spin me right round, baby
right round like a record, baby
Right round round round
You spin me right round, baby
Right round like a record, baby
Right round round round.

2. X. , mother’s lover. He is a painter. He lives in the 80’s where he is freshly divorced and has a son my age. He has a studio where I sit and watch him paint abstract. It’s really dirty and he makes space for me to sit and watch. I ask him what something at a painting is but I don’t understand/remember what he says. I want to find out how he makes love, if he gets her pregnant and if he brakes her nose.

3. I am silent and heavy. I don’t say much. I speak some but I don’t say much. I don’t need to say much. My decisions just come across, I just come across. Inside me is written ‘MAN’, in yellow and brown. That is privacy.  I have some serious problems understanding how others receive me in life. I make mistakes all the time. But I have this private certainty. A secret.

Something more adventurous is at play than how I carry my secrets around when I pass as female. I know how to pass as female, though i sometimes fail.