I’ve been trying to write a journal entry for longer than I care to admit (given the quality of writing you’re about to witness from me). I’ve tried the whole “body-doubling”. I’ve set the Podoromo timers. I’ve tried my share of what Youtube’s “Jazz Lofi Cafe Study With Me” community had to offer. I’m maybe thinking about it too much. But, also I’m scrolling through these videos and I’m seeing breaking news, where our country is being dragged by it’s dried-out hair and forced into another global conflict no one asked for. Like, I know our president just promised to “wipe out a civilization” on his own, shittier, version of Twitter…But I’m kinda scheduled to work minimum wage tomorrow! Plus, I realllyyy gotta crunch for this associate’s degree that’s taken me about 30 decades to get, Lord knows that’s the thing that’ll set me apart in a job market like this one! That’s what it’s all about, right? Jobs! Yes!!!! Jobs. Wow. 

I know it all sounds incredibly woe-is-me, but truly I mean it more as woe-is-us. Lol. I mean it as “I want more than this and I’m trying to drag myself along til it happens, but it mostly feels like my brain is a dead animal I’m poking with a long stick and asking to do tricks.” It’s just meat without the electricity, or something. I’m trying to revise, and each idea feels worse and emptier than the one before it. I liked to imagine Father Time as a drag king, because I could picture him as forgiving. But in reality, he is quite merciless and he barrels right into you. Swear he flew past me so fast, he knocked me right off my feet. Nothing cool about it. 

TIME WILL TELL
by mistergirlfriend

A lotta folks don’t know this, but Father Time is a drag-king. All the stories would have you thinking he’s out there dusty and old, kicking it beyond the realms of space and all that– but nah. He actually spends most of his free time out in Arizona, dancing all alone and dumpster diving behind the Cambria Hotel.

We met there, once. I was stumbling down the sidewalk, and before I knew it, my back had found some much needed support against the weathered blue walls of a rusted recycling bin. My bleary gaze drifted to the sky in search of constellations. Instead I was met with two, perfectly made-up smoky eyes staring back down at me from over the ledge. Shaken to a state of semi-sobriety, I had thrown myself to my feet and demanded,

“What do you want? What are you doing?”

I waited stiffly with my brows raised for a while. The dude quizzically twitched his thin eyeliner mustache, and met me with total silence.

What a prick.

But as he lifted himself from the bin, I was less concerned with his manners and more with his waist. It was a perfect hourglass. Not just in its shape, either. His entire torso, carved from structured crystal. Rather than falling with gravity, grains of shimmering, pale purple sand were swirling wildly inside him. As he leapt from the ledge, he landed confidently on the concrete and stood before me. Must’ve been about 7 feet tall.

“I- I…” I rub my eyes in disbelief before continuing, “Just tell me your name! What are you?”

I heard my voice wavering in equal parts awe and fear. His metaphysical form was partially obscured by a chic, cinched black corset wrapped around his hourglass abdomen and the long, open silk blazer layered on top. Strings of pearls adorned his neck and clanked noisily against his hard frame. After a few more moments of parturient silence, he opened his mouth to speak.

And as he did, a waterfall of gritty sand cascaded over his lined lips and began to form a miniature mountain at his feet. He sealed his mouth shut and, easy as a kitchen faucet, the stream of sediment ceased. Looking at me apologetically, he shrugged and sauntered past, disappearing coolly into the night.

He never did tell me his name. He couldn’t. If I’m honest, I brushed off our encounter pretty quickly. No one would’ve believed me, and as the years passed my memory chalked it up as a drunken dream.

Then one night, I’m tossing around in bed unable to sleep. 3 a.m. Phone was hopelessly dry, so instead I’m scrolling past all those random articles Google loves suggesting to me, and I see those familiar smokey eyes in a thumbnail, standing in front of an unfamiliar building. Somehow, he was a spitting image of when I’d last seen him, but this photo had to be at least 40 years old.

I clicked on the link and it’s this story about an old nightclub in Phoenix, the 307 Lounge. Apparently it was demolished over a decade ago. It’s a hotel now. But back in the 1900’s it was one of the biggest gay nightclubs around. In the 80’s especially, it was a sanctuary for folks who wanted to let loose, bask in authenticity, or just enjoy a good drag show. People would come from all over to see the stellar performances of house-favorite queens, like Felicia Fahr, Lady Casondra, or Miss Magnolia. But I was more interested in the ageless angel that towered beside them in the promotional posters. A drag king with a coy smirk and a pencil tin mustache. They called him Father Time.