Peterson Toscano's A Musing

On the Road Originally uploaded by p2son . My recent trips have taken me to Upstate NY, Philadelphia and now Denver. Driving to the State University of NY at Oneonta, I stopped to snap this shot of a field with dry hay bales and new grass. The old and the new. The juxtaposition of the two looks lovely here, blending harmonously. This is not always the case though. After a recent performance of my "ex-gay" satire, a man approached me to talk about the show and his life. He reminded me of C.S. Lewis' description of visitors to heaven in his short book "The Great Divorce". The visitors to heaven lack substance. Ghostlike, they tread carefully on the hard grass which literally pokes through their feet. Some are no more than smudges, others spirit-like beings that if they chose to stay in heaven will eventually fill in and become whole. The man who approached me seemed to lack solid wholeness to me. He struggled to mantain eye contact and appeared shrouded...

Emerging Originally uploaded by p2son . Today I seek to center myself. After so much travel, and so much more yet to do, I feel stretched, drained, weary. I seek the balance of rest and reflection along with action. The action part comes easy but the Be Still Know God takes real effort. I pause this morning, breath, wait in silence, wait to emerge from tight, rushed places into an expanse of light.

Priscilla Originally uploaded by p2son . Priscilla and I arrived in Yaounde, Cameroon on the same Air France flight from Paris, and from the moment we properly met in the hotel lobby, we became fast friends and fellow adventurers. Priscilla is one of those people who draws adventures to herself wherever she goes. Her friends in Paris and her native country in the Mauritius Islands listen to her tales dumbfounded. "How do these things always happen to you?!? " Priscilla, intelligent, insightful and magnetic drew attention wherever we went. She defied classification. Was she African? European? Indian? She is her own person who knows her mind and heart well enough to risk going to new worlds knowing full well that her beauty can be as much of a liability as a novelty. Of course adventures always follow me too, and the combination of the two of us together has provided unbelievable stories that will fill many a dinner conversation for several months. Who knows I might e...

London Chapel Originally uploaded by p2son . Saturday night I appeared on the Faith Under Fire opinion talk show on the PAX TV network. The same people who bring you "Xtreme Fakeovers" had ex-gay leader, Alan Chambers and little ole me (as an "Ex-Gay Survivor") discuss the ex-gay movement. No question, I was terrified. "Stick to your story" a Quaker Friend advised. "No one can argue your story" So I told my story, and seeing the show on Saturday I felt amazed at how solid, clear and calm I appeared. For 17 years, as an ex-gay, I never felt that way. Ah, what some Light can do for a weary soul. To read a transcript of the show, visit Ex-Gay Watch--Transcript

Cameroon Cafe Originally uploaded by p2son . "The Look" drew me from across the room. We communicated volumes before we finally spoke. He: It is very warm in here. Me: Yes, it is. He: I am hot; are you hot? Me: Yes, I feel hot. He: The evening is cool, good for a walk. Me: Where can we walk? He: We can go to the river. Me: What is the river like? He: (smile) There is no one by the river.

River in Cameroon Originally uploaded by p2son . Nothing bad happened to me in Cameroon, well, yes, I had some trouble cashing my travellers cheques and I had a little diarrhea thing for a few days, but in spite of the fact that I presented a gay themed play in a decidedly anti-gay country, I met no resistance. In fact, I was treated with respect and genuine warmth. Not that everyone agreed with me, but unlike the citizens of Sodom and Gomorra who sought to take advantage and disrespect their visitors, Cameroonians treated me, the stranger, as an honored guest. The friendliness, the warmth, the embrace surprised me, but then it didn't. It's just like when I travel to Southern states in the US. Friends ask, "Are you scared about going down South? Something bad might happen." No, the only fear I have going South is that I won't be able to get a soy latte (but they even have Starbucks now in Huntsville, Alabama). The concept of treating the stranger as gue...

journey's end Originally uploaded by p2son . Sitting at gate in Paris Airport just wanting to be HOME. Just arrived in Paris on overnight train from Madrid. This trip I presented two of my plays and one original bilingual presentiation. Wow, and what wonderful people. No time to process...must concentrate on getting home which includes an 8 hour flight to JFK then a subway to Port Authority then a bus to Hartford then a taxi unless I can get a friend to pick me up. That would be sweet. More later

At the University of Yaounde, Cameroon Originally uploaded by p2son . Perfect proof that I not only survived my adventure in Cameroon, but prospered from it. Here I am at the university where I presented Queer 101 to a crowd of about 200 students, professors and visitors. Turns out I am the first openly gay man to stand up in Cameroon and share my story. And the response? Amazing. First off most had never seen a one-person play before, so they expressed great enthusiasm as I switched from character to character. I got loads of laughs (it's a comedy so that's a good thing) and great applause. During the short Q&A session, one man labored to ask me if I was gay myself. He seemed uncomfortable asking an even gave me permission to pass if I did not wish to answer. The room grew still and it seemed people leaned forward in their seats as I told them that yes, I am gay and how I wish it were a gay Cameroonian on this stage tonight instead of me, but sadly he or she woul...

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