Tristan's ECHO


"It is with profound grief that we created this page"

Remembering CookieKabuki

We used to call his costume CookieKabuki, and he would laugh.

He died.

I try not to think about it.

I do not think I have dealt with it yet.

There’s a big black cloud called PTS just waiting for my ass.

It will have to wait.

I don’t have time.

Qi taught me something about AIDS in Asia.

Something about denial; denial and more denial.

In Cambodia, they arrive at the hospital made for them.

Everyone who arrives arrives to die.

There are no doctors.

Only mats to sleep and die on.

I will not go back there.

Qi and I watched the sun come up in the humid morning at Angor Wat.

Qi is like a ruins you keep revisiting.

The world is just the world.

In China, they are doing human testing with live virus.

They will regret it.

Maybe not.

They call street children “living rough.”

The men who arrive from east & west like their boys young.

I still have the costume.

Remembering Farid
"Farid never had a chance. It is MY fault"

Farid is dead.

He died peacefully among the whores who kept — vigil.

This will not mean anything to anyone who did not know what a pest he was. You wanted to kick him OUT of your room — O petite socco. A bird of prey. 1 Rue Magellan Hotel el-Muniria.

I am the repository of all the bad fucking news, and do not email me with your grief, please, and do not call me; I just don’t want to talk to any of you who knew him. Let it GO.

Me go with you America.

Not likely, kid.

You can’t come with me because you are already dead. I see some shadow in this photograph I have never seen before. Or maybe I have seen it but didn’t fucking look. His shadow seems to touch him softly from behind.

All I want to do is take photographs and follow the shadows around and chase them into the Mediterranean.

“You want حشيش.  I get you حشيش

Always  حشيش ashīsh loco.

These are the lost souls. The ones who never counted to the suits and do not count now. Pandemic fuck. What do they know of a pandemic. They can ignore bodies in the street if they have to. 

Do you know how to write your name in English.

No. You show me.

Fucking Inn didn’t even have a pencil. Can you imagine hotel stationary.

I had paper. I had a pen. F. A. R. I. D.

I had to take his hand to hold the pen. I don’t think he had ever held one to write with. Write what. What the fuck is Farid going to write. THE NAKED BREAKFAST. GETCHER HOT COPY NOW.

Farid would have sold his mother’s pussy for one dirham. Only he didn’t have a mother. He had WHORES. He had US.

That was it. He didn’t even have a fucking pimp. Farid WAS a pimp. What of the death of pimps and birds of prey. He would have sucked you off on the docks. Shit. He would have sucked you off before you left the boat from Spain.

You want me suck you, Chief. I suck you good. Five diram. Okay, I suck you four diram. You want sister?

I never met the sister.

He took me down to this really awful beach where someone had dragged a sofa out on the sand. He knew it would be a great photograph. The kid had an eye. 

The Pink Chair, by Farid

I know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Let’s have a conference at the Paris Ritz, 15 Place Vendôme, on Little Boy Whores With HIV and we can be the Little Boy Whore Society For the Preservation of God and Grief. Just bring me the cocktails until I fall down tastefully on my face in the L’Espadon. Farid would have loved L’Espadon: Chilled crab and Dublin bay prawn delight with citrus fruit, vegetables flavoured with ginger, green asparagus with crayfish and morel mushrooms, yellow “Arbois” in wine emulsion.

Just ply me with Bombay gin martinis up with a twist. I will be charming until the police come.

Then we can have little workshops on how to prevent men from cuming in your shithole and tata, darling (!) see you next year.

Or maybe we could hold our convention in the Chicago Motel Six if they will have us.

You know, here’s the sad thing. We failed him, too. Oh, people can say: it was not your fault.

Yes, it was. Our fault.

We COULD have taken him up on his request.

We did not choose to.

Americans are going to tisk tisk.

You couldn’t save him. There are too many.

Get the fuck out of my face we could have saved him. He was doing sexwork. We could have gotten him everything from medication to paperwork,  if we had wanted to do it. But we did not want to do it because he was just another bird of prey trying to survive. And who the fuck among you was going to raise Farid. Farid was dead before he was born.

I just don’t care what they think of me anymore. I am the man who taught Farid to write his name.

I went through my STUFF.

There it was. A small piece of paper (still smells like hash) with his name on it. I keep everything which isn’t much.

There is another black image behind him. It looks like an image on the wall. It is some horrible dragon of death. A claw.

I never see the images until they reach out to ME, like here we are hiding in plain sight. For everyone to see only no one ever does. And if you run around saying my god, there are images and ghosts inside the photographs they will see a raving madman and they will run back into their nice little homes with their nice little jobs and their nice little lives of extraordinary indifference and if you POUND on their doors and you say but what about the photographs and the ghosts and shadows among us…

He was a ghost among us fresh meat off the boat. I hope the whores held and rocked him when he died. One small moment of something in an otherwise utterly useless and insignificant life. There will be a memorial ceremony in the Cafe Hafa. Bring hash. 

I am going to burn the piece of paper and spread his little name to the fucking wind.

I held his hand to hold the pen. My hand on his dark, warm hand of grime and sweat.

F. A. R. I. D. 


Remembering Maung & Kyine's Mother

Maung, and his younger brother, Kyine, are refugees from Rangoon. They have grown up in a border refugee camp. Having fled a roving pack of murderous child-soldiers from Myanmar (Myanmar is one of the renegade countries that conscripts children as soldiers), the two brothers suffer from a serious case of Post Traumatic Stress. In a desperate attempt to leave the camps, Maung and Kyine’s mother escaped to Ratchadaphisek, the focal point of red-light district sex work in Bangkok. She was, of course, “helped” to escape by Thai traffickers who specialize in the Burmese. Within a month, all three were heroin addicts who needed a fix to do the work they did. The mother is dead. The boys have HIV/AIDS.

I would like to take this opportunity to point out that ALL of the boys’ tricks were American and Japanese men.

Kyine usually cries all night. The boys miss their mother. Their father was killed in Rangoon.

The Chinese human trafficking gangs — very active in Bangkok — have tried to nab them. The boys were taken to a safe house where most of the people are kind but assume the boys will die now.

I do not read to the boys. I am not Grandma Binkle. We look at pictures. Pictures of death and soldiers and jungles and men in brothels. They point. Nod. They know this and this and this and this.

I nod.

Both boys are the current focus of a medical study. Their mother died of TB/HIV co-infection. But while the brothers are HIV/AIDS, they have some kind of immunity against TB.


No one knows.

Remembering Moise 

Rape and genital mutilation is being used as a weapon of terror and as a mechanism to conduct biological warfare in the form of HIV. Raping a boy will easily perforate his bowel, and he’s as good as dead. Some boys survive. Some do not.
The Beheading, by Moise

Moise was eleven years old. Before he died Moise disclosed he had been raped all his life by soldiers from countries adjoining the République Démocratique du Congo. In the end he was the one forced to rape and kill his mother in front of his family. After this Moise was gang raped and cut with machetes by the males (some were boys, conscripted child-soldiers, themselves) who committed this crime. 

"Moise died from his infected machete wounds. So in the end HIV killed him. Why, why. I know he felt trapped. By his survival and running. By seeing his family killed like that. By the virus that is violence. By soldiers on one side and soldiers on the other side. I made this video for Moise. He was my friend" (adolescent male survivor).   

Remembering Ali

"Where You're Sleeping Tonight," has been created collaboratively in memory of Ali Forney. Ali was killed in Harlem, New York. Ali had endured years of homelessness, neglect and sexualized violence, simply because he happened to be a young transgender person. A few streets from where Ali was murdered, the large church sign proclaimed in 2014: "Jesus would stone 

"It breaks my heart to know that too many boys never reached adulthood and were denied the chance to love someone fiercely and passionately and to know how it felt to be loved madly in return."