And Again...

Yet another gay man murdered. I saw the story on America's Most Wanted show a couple of weeks ago and have been wanting to post. Here is the most recent news story that I read today:

Just one phone call.

That is all grieving mother Desire Brazell prays for.

Since Rashawn Brazell's butchered body was found scattered across Brooklyn three years ago, his mom has lived with the added burden of fear that the killer will strike again.

"I hope someone can call in and give the information we need to close this case," said Desire Brazell. "I don't want any family to go through what I went through."

Tomorrow, the Brazells will lead a memorial march in the 19-year-old victim's honor from his old Bushwick apartment to the Bedford-Stuyvesant subway station where his body parts were first found.

They hope the walk will stir up public interest in the case leading to that one clue pointing cops towards Rashawn Brazell's killer.

During the predawn hours of Feb. 17, 2005, two transit workers found a bloody trash bag in the tunnel of the Nostrand Avenue station. The bag contained Brazell's right shoulder, right arm, and lower legs, police said.

Five days later, another grisly discovery: a piece of Brazell's pelvis was found in a Greenpoint recycling plant.

Police have chased down many possibilities behind the sick murder - from angry gay lovers to a twisted serial killer.

Even "America's Most Wanted" picked up the case, airing at least three shows featuring the slaying.

"We have chased hundreds of leads across the country, and we are not closer today than we were in 2005," said Lt. John Cornicello, commander of the NYPD's Brooklyn North homicide squad.

"It is very hard to say after all this time that there is nothing new. It is a shame."

Detectives have flown all over the country - from Florida to Colorado - hunting leads, said police.

Investigators spent time in Texas sniffing around a duffel bag factory after DNA evidence proved that an empty black bag sitting in the subway tunnel was used to carry the victim's corpse.

To keep the case active, detectives have busied themselves blanketing the city with flyers featuring Brazell's sad story and combing the dance floors of popular gay clubs, hoping for a hint about how he died.

Desire Brazell refuses to give up.

She is confident that one day the right tip will finally deliver the justice she is longing for.

"This person is sill living amongst us," she said. There is $22,000 reward for information leading to an arrest. Tipsters can call CrimeStoppers at (800) 577-TIPS


Does anyone know ANYTHING??? I cannot believe that this man's crime has gone unanswered in 3+ years. Is it because he is black? Gay? From a poor neighborhood laden with crime? What. The. Fuck?????!!!!!

Arrrghhhh...

In the below photo is my humble little brownstone. On the top floor is me little cave. Yes, all three windows...don't hate. In in that rather large bedroom is a mothafuckingcuntlickpieceofshit MOSQUITO that has been slowly draining my blood for the last 48 hours and I can't find it!! My rather well maintained skin is looking like a page of braille, all swollen and itchy! I have even tried putting little X's with my finger nail on the bumps to try and take the annoyance away. It is an old wives tale, but it feeeeeels sooooooo goooooood. (Except on my face). Now, last night I saw it and thought I got it, right after Hillary's speech. I drifted off to the first stages of R.E.M sleep and then....that horribly sickening whiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnneeee. Right by my ear. Swat. Ouch. Drifting off again.

Ok, so I sleep naked. It was as if a vampire bat was living in my closet and having a feast of every piece of me. Finally, at half past four, deliriously near tears I switched on the light. You would think I would see this thing all swollen with my blood, drunkenly fluttering around on its feast. Alas, zip-zilch-zero. By golly, I had a shoot today and if I didn't get some sleep I was going to do some damage to some poor model. So, I waited. And waited. No mothafuckingcuntlickpieceofshit MOSQUITO!! I ended up wrapping myself up in bedsheets for my last two hours of sleep with only my cute little nose poking out. Yes, it got that too.

Now, I sit here with a can of RAID Flying Insect in a desperate attempt to kill this pointless creature of God. I know this is a ridiculous end to the means, but what is a boy to do? When I least expect it, I get another bite. I have sprayed a million things in my bedroom tonight, the slightly swinging curtain string, the dust bunny, ( I really need to clean this shithole), even my own shadow. Yes, dear reader I sprayed my shadow because at the corner of my eye....I moved. I think I am high on the fumes. The only thing keeping me from a good night sleep; is this can of RAID. I will prevail. Wish me luck.

Time will heal...

Almost a year since I have publicly posted on this blog, so maybe it is time to reopen my thoughts on my life and the life that carries on around me. It has been a year to the week that I moved into my pad in Brooklyn! The above picture is my apartment bathed in the changing light of the season. It has been my cave that gives me some semblance of roots in a city that is covered in pavement, and that really doesn't allow for much leeway in planting new seeds of change. I have tried time and time again to do it, and made it a full year. Cheers to me.

Today I am a bit melancholy. A word in my vocab that I have a tendency to use a lot. I really do like the word, but I don't necessarily the feelings it invokes. I am lonely, I am tired, I am happy and I am sad at the same time. My new home for a year is a stones throw from a home that I didn't choose many years before. A home that welcomes me every night after a long day without judgment. A home that has been around for over a hundred years and has seen many struggles, hardships, and tears. A home that has heard the laughter of children, or the hum of a seamstress' sewing machines, or a scribble of a writer's pen. This is my place now. And yet I am still not grounded. It is my normalcy in a life that has been far from normal. It will nurture me and send me on my way when time comes. It has no true place in my heart, but it is a constant reminder that it will stand in silence until I am ready to let it in.

A stones throw. To a world that is now gilded by gentrification, and growth. A place that I lay in terrified unknowing, starving for food and for love. I was 18 sleeping in a school yard without the slightest clue if I was going to wake up in the morning. Or, if I wanted to. For many years I couldn't remember the names of the streets or the neighborhoods that I roamed. It wasn't until I was on a casual stroll one fine Sunday last fall, when I encountered that school and the memories came flooding back. I threw up. Gone were those broken bottles and graffiti filled walls. In its place was brightly colored murals drawn by students with wonder in their eyes. The basketball courts held booths of a neighborhood fair with clothes and fruits and various fun little nicknacks. I stared and stared, holding onto the chain link fence trying to steady my wobbly legs. I stared with furious indignation at its presence, so sturdy with time. I wondered if it remembered my tears, my fitful sleep, my hunger pains. I wondered if it could talk, would it have acknowledged me with surprise or with bewilderment or with a knowing smile. I stared with disbelief that I happened on this place without any goal to do so.

You can forget the past, but the past rarely forgets you.