Peterson Toscano's A Musing

cameroon-22 Originally uploaded by p2son . I make no promises about blogging my trip to Cameroon and Europe, but it seems like the right thing to do. I even bought a digital camera for the event. As far as I know, I am the first opening gay perfomer to publically present in Cameroon, West Africa. From what I read, they are overtly homophobic and, according to one journalist I spoke with, it is nothing short of stunning that I have been invited to present my play, "Queer 101". Waiting for my Air France flight to depart to Paris, I feel unease, anticipation and joy. This is my dream life, to travel the world presenting my original work. But travel like this is hard work. You should have seen me trying to decide what to bring. Four nations, three climates, two plays and one ME to carrry all my shit!

ardhanarisvara Originally uploaded by p2son . This weekend at the nation's largest LGBTIQ youth conference, I met Sam. Immediately my Western-trained, binary mind went to work. Is Sam male or female? Gay or Staright? TRANS or INTERSEX? It wasn't enough to know that Sam writes Poetry and Sam listens to the Ramones (& 10cc, Britney Spears and Bizet) and Sam started a GSA last fall. Why when a friend has a baby my first question is "What is it?" and not "Who is it?" or even "How is it?" Even those with Bible-phobia can see the beauty in Galatians 3:28, "In Him the distinctions between Jew and Gentile, slave and free man, male and female, disappear; you are all one in Christ Jesus." I hope I never learn "what" Sam is, unless Sam wants to tell me, rather, I hope I can experience, even in small measure, the wonder of WHO Sam is.

Russell Originally uploaded by p2son . 26 years of quiet energy, uncommon intelligence with genuine humility and that dry, dry wit. Old soul in such a young body; such a young unformed body of writing to his name. Arthur Miller died at age 89. His first success as a playwright: age 33 Russell, snuffed out Regardless of supplements, Chinese herbal remedies, Anti-viral inhibitors, In spite of his husband Kevin's love and all our prayers. I miss his handsome face, his Eastern Tennessee drawl which reminded me of large, lazy tobacco leaves browning in the sun. Who would dare plow under a field of knee-high sunflowers? How you would have towered over us, shaded and sustained us. I mourn the words you will never write; Russell, I mourn the loss of you.

The Fox from "The Little Prince" Originally uploaded by p2son . Recently while visiting a friend in Bayamon, Puerto Rico, the attendant at a small museum locked us inside while he went out for lunch. He didn't realize we were upstairs. It would have been okay if it had been a cool museum with dinosaur bones or moon rocks or tribal masks, rather it contained nothing but trophies, plaques and newspaper clippings extolling the work of Bayamon's mayors. Some honors come with the job even if one does not deserve to be honored. It got me thinking about the dreaded "Prize Day" when I attended high school. Once a year they gave out prizes to students with the best grades, best attendance and best performance. Each year I feared I would get nothing until my name was called and I had to stand in front of the whole school to get a stupid pin that basicially signified that I showed up for band practice. Yes, some awards are given just for showing up. What about...

Frida Kahlo's "The Little Dear" Originally uploaded by p2son . "I drank to drown my pain, but the damned pain learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good behavior." Frida Kahlo

Cat's Eye by James Maxwell Originally uploaded by p2son . In Puerto Rico, when a cat is in heat and moans that mournful awful cry, they say she is crying for her lover, Raul. Upon hearing such a cat in Bayamon, PR, I wrote the following poem. La gata grita, "Raul! Raul!" The sound of midless burning for sex. Exhausted she drags her ass around el barrio. "Raul! Raul! Raul!" Raul feo. Raul viego. Raul infirmo. Take me. Split me in two. Llename con tu crema. Coat my burning insides with your salve. Comfort my rawness. Raul, Donde estas?

Quaker writer, Fritz Eichenberg, once wrote: "Art can deepen our sensitivity, heighten our devotion, give meaning and expression to our longings for the Eternal,give us a senseof beauty and the deep satisfaction of being creative, co-creative with God. Art can also have a cathartic effect. It is something essentially good and a worship in itself, if we only open our hearts to it and let it do its work... "We seem to deny now that man (or woman) was made in the image of God and that we are meant to be creative too, each in his (or her) own way. We cannot live without art and not pay the penalty of facing spiritual starvation..." from Daily Readings from Quaker Spirituality, Templegate Press, edited by Edward Cell

Upon Reading Meridian Originally uploaded by p2son . I shoo off your advances. I whore around so you cannot keep me as your wife, But when we marry, I freeze, stitch up my pussy, and drive you to fill other holes. I fill my own hole with shadows of lovers who shape my insides, but never settle. I keep the walls too slick for colonization.

Ghost Ranch Originally uploaded by p2son . I communed with spirits today-- some may say with ghosts. I saw echoes of O'Keefe in the New Mexican red, purple hills. I climbed Chimney Rock with Russell, a lost artist I hope to find in me who will perhaps speak through me one day. Another ghost strode ahead of us, Resolute, Resplendent in intellect and art. I rushed forward to reach him as he spread himself thin among the snowy clouds. Georgia offered a rare smile, one so often trapped in her wealth of wrinkles, and took my hand.

Ancient God of War Originally uploaded by p2son . Bloodthirsty ancient God Is your lust for death yet appeased? The dispensation of animal sacrifices passed, under this new epoch of grace, why do you hunger still? Living and dying by the sword we embrace the vengeful God of antiquity-- that wrath filled relic-- And we tread under foot the blood of Jesus, the Feminine Christ who labors to birth a revolution of Relationship.

Georgia O'Keefe in New Mexico Originally uploaded by p2son . He called you a bitch, like he knew you-- like he knew what motivated your artist heart. If you were a man, they would call you eccentric, particular, genius. You wanted space, a room of your own, Solitude, and he calls you a bitch-- Diva maybe, but not bitch. You wanted privacy to keep prying eyes from your infant works. Isn't every mother protective of her young?

Moonlight, stillness, Forgotten Whisper by Eva Lapka Originally uploaded by p2son . In the Quaker meeting for worship we gather in silence. We must labor to enter into stillness though. Put aside burdens and concerns, the "could have said" and "should have saids" Unlike most who worship in churches mosques synagogues Quakers do not have leaders to instruct us. We look to the Light within, the Teacher within. We must bring our minds back from wandering. Be like John the Baptist and go to the wilderness. We then give each other and ourselves the GIFT of stillness within. Then we wait, listen and speak out of that stillness

The Lavender Language Conference American University, Washington, DC Queer socio-linguists and anthropologists swap theories on how language oppresses and liberates (sometimes at the same time). They dig and dip and dive into the fray of Egyptian gay men's pronunciation and the use of female pronouns when addressing each other. They explore homophobic speech among Chilean men and the use of speech acts by poor, lesbian African-Americans (in order to stave off welfare cuts so a daughter can go to school instead of work) Scholar-as-activist. Each wears the role differently, unsure of how to disseminate the work (like delicate dandelion floaters or molotovs thrown into the classroom, through the TV screen, into the heart of America?) Their theories, their ideas, their passion, stir my artist heart to save our country from the madness that grips common sense and mutates Southern hospitality and poisons Christianity.

Rich Kiamco Originally uploaded by p2son . Being an invisible double minority, as a boy, Richard purchased a sewing machine and began to design. By high school he made all the prom queens' dresses to the dismay of his conversatvie, Mid-Western parents. "Richard, why don't you want to be a doctor?!?" On stage Rich creates new worlds and recreates old painful ones that he fearlessly revisits, even as they break his heart. His healing hands, hearty laugh and quick smile propel him into human arts with a generous sprinkling of the divine. He is quickly becoming the most visible invisible person I've ever seen.

playin' in Stamford Originally uploaded by p2son . As a boy, I had a pair of ceramic football bookends. On the outside of each football-half, a player displayed his prowess. One was charging with a small football and the other was kicking another ball. Our life gets separated by BOOKEND-LIKE experiences. These are life experiences that reoccur in a similar fashion months or even years apart. For instance, you may be a parent and remember the moment when you held your first child (or a niece or nephew!) Years later you may hold your first grandchild (or grand-neice or nephew.) The events are similar, but the person having them experiences years of living, relationships and knowledge in between. Life offers repeat opportunities where we have a chance to relive the joy of a first time or get to do things differently the second time around. In the Bible, we see a bookend experience with Peter when he first meets Jesus. Peter...

Quaker Meeting House Originally uploaded by p2son . Lynn J., a fellow Quaker, exudes beauty and light. Her flawless skin--rosy, porcelain--reminds me of a soft English rose I once photographed on a rainy February day near Oxford train station. Delicate Silky Hardy in all sorts of weather. She once faced bitter betrayal, and even her body plays cruel tricks on her as she leans on her walker, shaken by MS. Her peace testimony soaks her bones, upholds her smile and propels her from bed (even when her body pins her undercovers) Her face responds to suffering, not by growing hard and sallow, but miraculously exudes more beauty and light each day.

Age 7 Originally uploaded by p2son . Age seven, I spent the summer at Sasha's Boutique amidst the purses and antiques and costume jewlery. I would play with Sasha, the cat and talk to my cousin Grace who owned the store. Amazing Grace. Could she tell how much I wanted one of those purses? I loved that place so much that now I own the building

(from "Queer 101", a theater piece I wrote for HS students. The character, Chad, ends the piece with this poem) You wanna be an Activist? Change the World? Be yourself -- without apology and without shame, walking hand in hand in public with the one you love knowing that is a loving act of Protest. You want people to change? Laws to change? A global trasfromation into a shimmering butterfly society? Then You must change, be yourself be Real Knowing that the most powerful activists in the world are those people who are unashamedly Themselves.

On Sunday, while I was in Huntsville, AL for a performance, I attended the Huntsville Friends Meeting (Quaker). The gathering met in the private home of a lesbian couple. In fact, I was the only male in a group of 14 worshippers. I loved the way the women made room for everyone, being certain everyone had a seat, even people who hadn't yet shown up. We sat in a rich silence for 60 minutes. In the middle of that silence I centered myself and thought I'd be real spiritual and let the "Light" search me out and do some work in me. Here is the result: In my mind I constructed a prayer, "Lord, I am open to see what is wrong with me." Out of the silence I heard, "Friend, let me show you what is right with you."

The low-carb craze proceeds relentlessly in the US. Now every store sells low-carb pasta, reduced carb non-dairy creamer and of course nearly carbless bread. I’ve tried the low-carb bread with its extra chewy, spongy consistency. It’s a lot like the real stuff but not quite. It looks and smells like the bread I’ve devoured since youth, but after three slices—dressed up with almond butter and apricot jam or faux turkey and soy cheese, it still does not satisfy, does not provide that starchy comfort, that real food feeling I crave. It’s nothing new though; I’m used to this feeling of dissatisfaction. I’ve consumed low-carb Jesus all my life. I don’t mean those bone-dry wafers the priest adhered to my tongue during my Catholic youth. (I couldn’t even wash down those woodchip-like hosts with wine since the cup was reserved for the sole use of Father Justin and his altar thugs.) No, Jesus with reduced carbs is not just a Catholic offering. This low-carb Jesus transce...