There’s still a faint ringing in my ears after hours of hip hop music at “Hustla,” Vancouver’s monthly queer hip hop party. For a while, I felt at ease. Limbs were slack, moving animatedly to many beats I already seemed to know in my body. But somewhere self-consciousness and doubt seemed to creep in. When exactly I’m uncertain, but innate movement seemed to go rigid as I focused on my dislocation, on my position as outsider in a group whose members knew each other well already.
Every expectation I seem to have about all of these social situations seems to be incorrect. I can never get in the groups on this journey, at least so far. I can never connect to anybody, or at least connection seems to be artificial and misconstrued, and I’m left to balance desires with realities. I don’t think I ask for a whole lot, but it always just ends up with me sitting over this computer screen alone, quietly listening to impressions of fingers materialize into the syntax of this disconnect. Tonight it’s hard to say how long it will go on or if it will, in fact, end.