timothée barrus/ He poured over this piece of poetry (02/13/11)

He poured over this piece of poetry, Horses. It was as if he had discovered something. Of course, Horses was recorded long before Tristan was even born. I had to find a way to put Tristan into what remains of Delos. It was our favorite spot upon the earth. Andy Warhol speaks of time. Time and change. The years I spent with Tristan were like watching some extraordinary transformation taking place. And yet he was just a boy growing up. I cannot say he ever became a man. Tristan was a lion. I watched him rage against the world. If anyone knew about change having to come from people making it happen, it was Tristan. And he was impatient, and he would shake that blond mane around. Growling he wanted this; he wanted that. At the end, all he wanted was me. I am inadequate. Please, don’t tell me I am not. I know. I am enraged there is still no cure for AIDS. His shoulders danced against his own dark sorrow. No one can know how much he is missed. We walked among the lions at Delos at night after sneaking over from Mykonos in a small boat. This is forbidden, but try stopping Tristan when he has an idea. He wanted to know if the lions came awake at night. The lions of Delos guard the god, Apollo. They are the color of bones at night. He was my lion lost among the ruins. “The moon, the moon,” he said, that night with lions. I am writing again. This one I am calling Tristan’s Moon. I must let him go now. I will leave him here on Delos. Time. Change. Lions and the moon.

timothée barrus/ Show Me Your Life (02/12/11)

timothée barrus: Show Me Your Life is about articulating in symbols the inner lives street kids have that flames inside them. To that end, (show me, don’t tell me) Cinematheque and I make videos that articulate and symbolize my own inner life that I struggle to hang onto without succumbing to walking into Saks and buying a suit. If I had to work in a cubicle… it could never happen. The flame burns too hard. The man in the video is watching his own life unfold around him. On the wall behind him is the art his students make. I am in the car you see in the video, and I am getting out of Dodge. I try to leave before they kick me out (I failed at Facebook, I fail all the time, we all fail). The man being pulled by a rope is me being pulled by life through dirt and scrape-ups I do not want to endure but I still cling to the rope. I am always going down in flames. Most people find me dangerous and they have to step back. People who do this are people I have no time for. The flames are only flames. The rope itself becomes my life. I am still clinging to the rope. I refuse to let go. I will not give the suits the satisfaction. I am strong and tenacious. I am not a teacher. I am a teacher. I am not a teacher. I am a student. I am not a student. I am a student. I want to see the flames inside you. Show me your life

timothée barrus/ People don’t get it (02/11/11)

Tim Barrus: People don’t get it. They become burning wrecks of tendons about the boys. Put the boys away, they demand. But the boys are all my sons. The one I lost and mourn for his sanity in an insane world. The bedclothes of history and masturbation is a rope around your neck. Like art, it churns the crumble from the walls. Show Me Your Life is to know there is one in the night skies where gods have lost their way. I live with their sounds so growing thin that over time, the purity of despair is all their is. People accuse me and claim it’s all about the sex. What sex. Erotic asphyxiation isn’t sex even for them anymore than hanging tears the wind apart. No. The ones who hang themselves even with diseases are only twisting in it. The wind that should have been begins to resemble ourselves distributed and torn from proof. The world only buzzes. Suddenly, we are impotent and coming everywhere.

timothée barrus/ My Kid Was Three (02/11/11)

My kid was three. I was twenty-seven. We lived in a tiny studio apartment in the Mission. There was no job. There was no money. There was no marriage. There was you, Kido. There was me. That was it. We walked to the park a lot. We went to the library. There was no TV. We were very up. Most people would not have been. We had a small tape recorder. We had a dance tape. This is that dance tape. We danced around the room. love, dad

Good times

These are the good times

Leave your cares behind

These are the good times

Good times

These are the good times

Our new state of mind

These are the good times

Happy days are here again

The time is right

For makin’ friends

Let’s get together

How ‘bout a quarter to ten

Come tomorrow

Let’s all do it again

Boys will be boys

Better let them have their toys

Girls will be girls

Cute pony tails and curls

Must put an end

To this stress and strife

I think I want to live the sporting life

Good times

These are the good times

Leave your cares behind

These are the good times

Good times

These are the good times

Our new state of mind

These are the good times

A rumor has it that

It’s getting late

Time marches on

Just can’t wait

The clock keeps turning

Why hesitate

You silly fool

You can’t change your fate

Let’s cut a rug

A little jive and jitterbug

We want the best

We won’t settle for less

Don’t be a drag


Clams on the half shell

And roller-skates


Good times

These are the good times

Leave your cares behind

These are the good times

Good times

These are the good times

Our new state of mind

These are the good times

timothée barrus/ we are on the subway to the airport (02/09/11)

timothée barrus/ gregoire’s flight is late…

Is that idiot, Barrus, blogging again. It’s just a missed connection.

JesusFuckingChrist, it came as something of a shock to some of us today that it was made public (what some of us have known for a few months) that Luke Harding had his ass kicked out of Moscow. I stood there in my own paranoid undershorts and tisk tisked with everyone else I know over what big brutes those Russians are.

I was not surprised. Their whole country is coming apart at the seams where have we all heard that before.

The Russians have big dicks. It’s true. Dicks that big ought to be downright criminal. How does a teeny weeny Yank compete.

I have always said that goons and criminals constitute half the planet’s governments.

The only thing that surprised me about Luke’s situation is that it was made public by the Guardian where Luke still works as a journalist. Luke’s influence as a journalist goes way, way beyond the pages of the Guardian. Or even London.

Luke Harding is the only journalist who has had the balls to tell the truth about Russia. So. Like. How bad is it.

It’s pretty bad. Plunder, murder, rape, disease, poverty. And corruption. Always that.

Have I told you the story of my summer vacation to Mexico. No. Pity. The story I love the most is the one about American culture where we’re not as corrupt (or lacking in solid moral character) as let’s say Egyptian culture. Why don’t they just legalize it like we did and call it Wall Street.

I have often wondered: Luke, are you a suit. You do not write like one.

I can’t think of a single journalist willing to tell the truth about Russia. It’s dangerous. You can be killed or fired. Or both. For one thing, the access can be hard enough to get. Few do. So let’s pretend you get the access. Question: So then, do you tell the truth. The one that follows the snake up the ladder.

Not if you’re a suit. Suits don’t like the truth and they do not often tell it.

Which has made me very, very wary about believing the media’s take on what’s going on in Egypt. Your media cannot be trusted. Why. The word access is suddenly relevant. If you tell the truth (Egypt, Russia, The US, Saudi Arabia, the UAE) you will not get access. You have a few writers who are willing to push the point. Most do not.

It gets dangerous out there.

And people think I am a paranoid lunatic. Oh, maybe. But why do I count. I’m nothing. I only wonder how much Hosni Mubarik (I hear his health is kinda bad) will walk away with. A few of the mummies.  

What does any of this have to do with the outrageous, Julian Assange.


So many (not all but enough) of the lids seem to be popping off.

Let us count a few of the governments who would like a piece of Wikileaks.

The US. The UK. Sweden. Russia. The French. The Palistinian Authority. Israel. Hamid Karzai (does that count as a government, I think it might). Tunesia. Hilary Clinton.  

So. Are you telling me that a few people can upset the applecart. There are more. But Assange and Harding are two.

There has been an army of people marching out onto the stage to testify that Julian Assange is no journalist.

Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter what we call him. He turned the lights on. Someday I want to see Julian Assange all dressed up in trenchcoat and sunglasses. Sitting in an airport bar. I wonder what he drinks.

David Ignatius should be so lucky.

Luke Harding was linking Russian leaders to arms trafficking, human trafficking, currency laundering, drug trafficking, medical blackmarkets, criminal banking, and International Organized Crime.

What Harding was doing was not that unlike what Assange was doing.

The suits tried to shut Julian Assange up before too much damage had been done but what he did in terms of simply releasing information had a dramatic effect on what came down in Tunis.

And just guess who has waded deep out into deep shit with the beloved dictators of the world. The US. Oh, them.

People used to say to me (people are so stupid) why are you moving these boys around so much just because you have stalkers.

Stalkers. So what.

Have you ever had stalkers. The kind that attempt to presuppose your every move. They are always out there waiting.

Is this what you know. Let us pretend you do know things. Would you articulate what you know.

I doubt it.

What else might a harmless stalker represent.

And you think your nice going to college teenage sons can get a tad rebellious from time to time. It’s normal. It separates the father from his country. From rebellion, what is it that you really know.  

And now there is a rebellion somewhere. Else. Cairo. Julian Assange can’t leave the house. At least, as of this writing. Things are fluid.

Believe what you want.

If you want to believe none of this is connected, you are welcome to believe that, too. It’s all not only incidental. but there are just too many accidents going on.

If you want to believe that Vladimir Putin would never, ever have ripped the Russian people off for forty billion, you’re welcome to believe that, too. WHAT is it that exists right smack in the middle between Moscow and Abu Dhabi.


Not the Pope’s Rome. The Pope is a joke. Rome.

Sicily’s Rome. Naples’ Rome. Rome.

Do I have to spell it out for the munchkins. The well-tread trail between Moscow and Abu Dhabi goes through Rome because gentlemen from Rome own a piece of it and the Pope and human trafficking. Get a fucking clue. Americans like to sit around wringing their hands and whining about things like morality and taxes and pornography.

They own that, too, honey, and the Internet. I have DEVOURED everything there is to read about the fucking Internet. A few things sort of go there but in very soft ways. The reality is that pornography drives the Internet. It is the engine of the beast. Not Google. Not Microsoft. And not God. Most people are on the Internet because they want to see other naked people or they want to see other naked people fucking other naked people or both. And organized crime owns that, too. What pornography makes from squat, Hollywood in its wildest fantasies doesn’t make in a decade. People have screamed at me for years that I was just too fucking close to the world of porn. Oh, really. But I can write about it and you can’t. So. Like. What IS the connection between the world of slavery and the world of porn. One is the other and the other is the other. It’s not the mafia. It’s us.

Where do you think the end of the railroad is when it comes to the business of slavery. It’s called Abu Dhabi. Do these peasants all come from Bosnia. No. Most are Pakistanis. Pakistan: you might have heard of it. The UN puts its hands before its eyes. But we have the lists. But we have the lists.

What the fuck.

The Washington Post was all uppity about it. “This is a serious and shocking step, unprecedented since the Cold War,’ Elsa Vidal, head of the European and Central Asia desk at the media freedom watchdog, said to the Post by phone from Paris. “It’s an attempt to force correspondents working for foreign media in Moscow to engage in self-censorship.’


The poor post. Adriana Huffington has castrated it and Tina Brown has cut off its gonads. The poor thing has no legs.

NewsFlash: Luke Harding is the co-writer of the book “Wikileaks: Inside Julian Assange’s War on Secrecy.”

Russia’s Foreign Ministry said today that Harding was sent back to London because he broke the immigration rules. What immigration rules. No one knows. I have always said immigration rules were patently absurd. “We have still not received an adequate explanation of why Luke Harding was deported on arrival at Moscow airport on Saturday, Feb. 5th, despite having a valid visa,” the Guardian claimed.

The message from the real suits, the suits with guns, says: We will get you in the end.

They have Julian Assange by the dick. They will run that dick through the meatgrinder, too.

It does give me some pause that Julian Assange and his own world-class case of REAL paranoia could not hold off the hordes that wanted and finally got a piece of his ass. They are going to want more, and paranoia or no paranoia, they will probably get it.

They have Luke Harding’s passport. How does this surprise anyone; they run the system (s plural). I am not sure that Julian has found an ally in Luke. Maybe just another prisoner. This should not imply that Julian is going to like Luke’s book. It’s safe to say he won’t.

The planet is a messy place. Despots have been attempting to bring quiet transformation to loud chaos for centuries and I wish them luck on that.

The reality is that all of these things AND the politics of HIV are connected.

OMFG. HIV? Yes, it gets thicker.

What do you mean HIV comes into this. How can you say that the politics of HIV are at play here. You can’t separate Africa from HIV. Everything from immigration to education to collapsed economic systems in Africa ALL have something to do with HIV. You can’t put Africa over here and HIV on the other side of the room or the planet. They are connected at the hip.

We have now reached that cultural tipping point where (the neocons claim it’s still about the Mid-East but they’re just wrong), it’s about Africa. It will be about Africa for a long time now. It’s probably been about Africa for longer than we like to admit. Duhhh.


Do I dare articulate this. Oh, please.

Adolescent African Boysoldiers with HIV are being used as weapons of war (as they rape anything that runs in front of them). Is this biological warfare. Some say it is. Thugs and goons. Thugs and goons. Some people — in Africa, specifically at the African Union, are saying that these have been crimes against humanity. The conflict in the Congo has claimed millions but Americans couldn’t find it on a map. What if Americans were being sent to fight in the Congo. Would Americans be able then to find it on a map. Probably not. As a people, they’re just not that bright. Many of them think America can affect what happens now in Egypt. That boat left the dock about a year ago.

Really, the New York Times loves to portray me as a lunatic. I mean, why not. Even I am up for a laugh now and then. I have something Luke and Julian do not have (or want to have). A disease and incredulity. Being stunned from time to time is not the same as being surprised. A few people thought the world might begin to look like this.

I push at the edges because no one reads me anyway, I sort of dare people to, and even if they did, they would not believe a word of it.

There are many, many things in the world that are simply not dependable. Indifference is not one of those things.

I shrug. You can imagine it.

Actually, you can’t.

I can’t figure out WHY people can’t understand that just because they can’t wrap their own little Barbiedoll heads around why and how a life exists, and that what went on there might be different from what they know — and from what they are able to imagine — that doesn’t make that life they do not really have a take on because it is not their experience any less viable for having been lived in and lived.

Chances are, you probably can’t even find Wikileaks because no one taught you in junior high school how to spell it. You old folks just gotta try and keep up.

I have to go get Gregoire at the airport. His flight is late. I pace when flights are late. A stupid thing to do. I haven’t left yet. I’m late. Why am I blogging this. Because no one will read it and you are an idiot.

I have to write about and laugh at the world. Or the world will do you in. It tried to do me in last week and the week before that and the week before that. And the year before that. Hey, my dogs still love me.

Blame it on the meds. Is that idiot, Barrus, blogging again. It’s just a missed connection. I can only wonder if the connections between Assange and Harding are really all that limited to the superficiality of any published book. It became public that Luke had had his ass kicked by the Russians. I am left standing here completely naked in the middle of the fucking runway less than completely surprised. Paranoia is nothing. Cairo isn’t made from a single brick of it. Hosni probably wishes he had been MORE paranoid. Poor Hosni. All that money and no real home to stash it in. I suspect that other turmoils might, too, become the truth. We’re not there yet. But we’re on the subway to the airport.

timothée barrus/ Writing in a Heat Wave (02/09/11)

There are threads that run through lives. It’s always war. I am forever dancing alone at windows.

Whenever Im with him
Something inside
Starts to burning
And Im filled with desire,
Could it be the devil in me?
Or is this the way loves supposed to be?


Its like a heat wave
Its burning in my heart
I cant keep from burning
Its tearing me apart

Whenever he calls my name
So softly and plain
Right then, right there, I feel that burning flam
Has high blood pressure got a hold on me?
Is this the way loves supposed to be?


Sax Solo……………..

Sometimes I stare in space
Tears allover my face,
I cant explain it, dont understand it,
I aint never felt like this before
Now this funny feeling has me amazed
Dont know what to do, my heads in a haze,
Its like a heat wave.

Yeah yeah
Yeah yeah
Ha ohhh yeah

Yeah yeah
Yeah yeah
ohhh yeah

I feel it, burning, right here in my heart,
Dont you know its like a heat weave

Yeah yeah
Yeah yeah

Dont you know its like a heat wave?
Burning right here in my heart.

I have never told anyone why I have moved the boys around so much. France, Italy, the Netherlands, and elsewhere.

I have always written about it from the warped perspective of a rather livid paranoia.

There were stalkers.

Thing is, there were stalkers.

Real ones. In my world, there are always haters and stalkers. Maybe in your world, they are confined to the Internet. Good for you. In my world, they kill people.

You do not believe it.

You don’t live in my world. You probably wouldn’t last two minutes in my world.

In my world, if you have survived to make it through the day, that’s success. You don’t want to know my world. I have understood that for a very long time.

I’ve painted it. I’ve taken photographs of it. I’ve filmed it. I’ve acted it out on stages. I’ve danced it. I have written it here, too.

What you do is spit on my world. You deny it even exists.

My world scares the fucking shit out of you.

I don’t remember writing Orpheus in the Catacombs. I remember living it.

I am not Orpheus. Maybe Tristan was Orpheus.

Maybe Eavan’s Orpheus. Mary could be Orpheus (I keep telling her there are consequences to looking back). Kilian’s too Irish to be Orpheus.

Movement was survival. Never stand still long enough for them to find you.

I like the chase. I’m daring them to find me. I want to write about it, too.

That is what Orpheus was. Writing in a heat wave.

There is a disconnect because there is always a disconnect. The images and the music should be in different movies. I should be in one. Tristan should be in another. We belonged to different generations. My job was to protect him.

But that is how it was and that is how it is and that is how it is always going to be. No one loves anyone. The music is from another movie.

Fred and Ginger are dead.

This is Tim and Mary. We danced our way through loves and lives. Up there in the window loft where hardly anyone could see us.

I have never written about how Tristan was the one who was always pressuring me, pushing me to write this book. Why Tristan.

Because he held me together. He was my barbed wire fencing.

I was the older, wiser one. Right.

Orpheus was just the ghost who ran through all of us. I can feel him even now like the coming and the going of a fog-soaked chill.

On the last night, I slept with Tristan’s dead body for a while. He was warm.

I have not written about that either. Not in this book. Not in any other book. There are threads that run through lives.

I just put his dead arms around me and Tristan held me softly like he always had. Maybe death is overrated.

You do not believe it.

Either did Tristan. “I just can’t believe my life,” he’d say. “I should be dead by now.” This was true.

But you’re not. You’re here. With me.


You did not know him. You did not love him. I knew him. I loved him.

Tell them about how I went off the cliff on my bike.

Tristan went off the cliff on his bike. That video makes the younger boys laugh, but I can’t look at it.

Tell them about Mykonos.

We went swimming in the sea at night. I don’t think it was too dangerous. Mary was always telling us to be sensible.

No one goes to Mykonos to be sensible.

Tell them that I could surf at Cap Breton.

Triston could surf at Cap Breton.

Tell them I loved you.

We were never lovers.

We were. You loved me. I know you did. Tim, it’s ME…

It’s Triston. You did love me.

I loved you like a child.

I was a whore. You knew that. I was a fucking whore, Tim.

I loved you like a child.

And that did not mean fucking me.

And that did not mean fucking you.

Then WHAT did it mean. What did it mean, Tim. Outside of a disconnect between the images and the music. Writing is…

Hush, boy. I will simply hold you now. Just like I used to when it was necessary to calm you, and sometimes you needed to be calm. I had to still that sea. There are threads that run through lives. Some writers write about travel because they travel. Some writers write about politics or windsurfing because they’re good at it. I write a lot about AIDS and death. It’s what I know. Welcome to my world. It’s always war. I am forever dancing alone at windows.

Whenever Im with him
Something inside
Starts to burning
And Im filled with desire,
Could it be the devil in me?
Or is this the way loves supposed to be?


Its like a heat wave

timothée barrus/ Tim Barrus in Salon on Publishing: There is Data (02/09/11)

I asked 1,296,455,699,381 of my friends if they have ever read a woman. They said no.

People are just stupid. I used to whine and complain about publishing day in and day out. I am so tired of writers writing: “publishers want to make money; it’s a business.”

Umm, duhh.

Newsflash: Publishers are the greediest people you will ever find anywhere and if you think they’re out there running businesses, you are simply misinformed. Publishers have lunch. For the past century their mantra has been: “we have no money.”

So. Like. Does anyone believe this. No.

Publishers lie.

And they cause scandals blamed on perfectly innocent writers to whom in times past said publishers said: “we will never publish you go away you annoying little person you.”

So. Like. Then you hang your head and you go home and you write something they can make a buck at because if you don’t you can’t afford your AIDS meds and you will die unless you come up with ten thousand a month.

Publishing sucks.

I loathe these people. I hope they tastefully choke on Jane Austen’s high heels.

And. Then. Boom. The whole thing went down the tubes. In one day.

Publishers said: “now, we really don’t have a dime. In fact, you should pay US to publish your most interesting book.”

Writers. Of both genders. Were stunned. They simply have no money no pay publishers to publish their books and the whole world went topsy turvy.

People are stupid and no one reads. Publishers are more stupid than anyone. They have sent me thousands of miles away to read in bookstores to an audience of one. I have read to toilets. You think I am being sarcastic. Ha.

I love Laura Miller madly. She reviewed me. She loved me. Now, she hates me. You figure. How she could have ignored the 3,900,361,307,229 books — all of them sold to women — by Danielle Steel is anyone’s guess. I would just give up completely and argue that Danielle is the best thing since chopped dinosaur. What do you mean, publishing ignores women. It has Danielle. It feels it is doing its duty. Danielle can’t write worth a hill of beans, but she’s rich. Publishers ADORE rich writers. They don’t complain.

I, too, want to be a publisher of only rich writers (none on medication of any kind). I would call my publishing house: Random Balls.

Bookstores can’t sell enough of Danielle’s literary masterpieces. Jane Austen? Come on, Laura. It’s 2011. Dainelle Steel will be 2,3448,971 years old in 2012. She KNEW Jane Austen. Jane Austen was her friend.

Personally, I think Jane has crept into a couple of Danielle’s plots. But Danielle must be restrained from writing novels set on the Scottish moor. No, Danielle, no.

I read Danielle Steel day and night. Night and day. It’s all I do. My mansion’s library overflows with books by that woman. And then I hand her books out for free to stupid people who ask if Danielle was ever in a scandal.

No. She can afford her neurological medication.

If you were to walk into any publishing house (I am not kidding) like Random Balls, who would you see.


Everyone jumping up and down in their Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choo’s, reaching for that glass ceiling held in place by men. It’s unseemly. I try not to watch. When Joni Evans walked into William Morris, what was the first thing she did.

Hire a female to assist her.

The assistants seriously, seriously want the power and they all went to Smith or Brown and none of them can afford to live in Manhattan and who do you think RUNS publishing.


Nevertheless, it’s not a question of gender. Umm. Like. Please. This is publishing. Get a clue. It’s not about sex (well, a little). It’s not about money (there is none). It’s not about books or reading. IT’S ABOUT WHO YOU KNOW.

timothée barrus/ The Last Words You Said (02/03/11)

timothée barrus/ You're Not Deep(02/03/11)

timothée barrus/ cinemathequeboys: twelvesgroup (02/03/11)

cinemathequeboys: twelvesgroup: got your vid: boxes: will post (very funny). Tee is on East Coast — Eavan is cooking tuna steaks tonight. 6pm. I have received another hand-made book offer and it will buy us several trips. So I have started the book project but if anyone wants to pitch in and help me, see me after dinner. I am working on the cover (hard-bound). Eavan says he needs 2 12s to help w/ groceries (like now). tim

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