My days are split between the remarkable and the absurd. Bloated with new experiences, extraordinary adventures and, of course, passion.
Every day unfolds like a new napkin.
From dawn I write and rewrite. I am determined and hungry, inspired by the 75-year-old man who won the Palme D’Or in Cannes this year.
On Thursday I stood in front of the Men’s County Jail with a disparate bunch of men and women denouncing the secure communities protocol, the very same protocol that illegally incarcerated me. A press conference for the Spanish press.
The only Anglo Saxon, the only non spanish speaker.
They hailed me and the other people called to testify. ‘Viva Duncan!’ they shout together. I am moved to tears.
Nobody I know cares about these people. Not least my gay ‘friends’ who savage me publicly for standing shoulder to shoulder with day workers, maids and gardeners who face daily threats of deportation and police harassment.
The writing and photography give my life meaning and hope. The immigrants, of whom I am one, better shape my understanding of the world.
I am not interested in what I wear. I’m sure I look like a hobo. My beautiful tailored shirts are shredded. I have no interest in replacing them.
All the vintage Helmut Lang has been sold.
I can cobble together an ensemble for dinner. I look respectable enough.
Last week a young gay man told me I was lonely and sad. I feel neither. In fact, I have never felt so complete.