n. infantile pattern of suckle-swallow movement in which the tongue is placed between incisor teeth or between alveolar ridges during initial stage of swallowing (if persistent can lead to various dental abnormalities) v. [content removed due to Bush campaign to clean up the internet] n. act of nyah-nyah v. pursuing with relentless abandon the need to masticate and thrust the world into every bodily incarnation in order to transform it, via the act of salivation, into nutritive agency

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

freewheelin' fallfree

Been busy.

Sun's in the heat, 100's to 90's to 80's to... I think the high 70's today, and summer came exactly one day prior to solstice and moved on favorably from there. So, here's some of the New News:

New Hair...

What ya'll think?

Personally, I can't believe how much lighter my head feels.

Evening on the Town...

I went down to Seattle to visit with my friend ee, and ended up joining sp and her friend as well. It was pride weekend, and I went even though I feel ambiguously about Queer Pride for several reasons...

[Like I said to m'favorite b, why feel proud of something that simply is? I'm so much more proud of other parts of my life, the parts that I put work into, like my art or my teaching or actions of unlabeled love or affection... that's something to feel proud of because they takes thought and motion both, right?

The other reason I feel nebulous is that the pride we are supposed to feel for the Queer Community is not a pride I feel too often, other than when I look at drag queens. Part of me feels that there's no other group more backstabbing and unpredictable as the Queer Community, maybe because it is formed on the basis of Love and War (think about it), both of which take the stupid creed that "All's Fair In."

I understand that a) this is just my experience--that of finding more support with my straight friends and family, and b) when you have a group put in the outsider position like the queer community is, its defense mechanisms are bound to occasionally trigger inward... schism is the history of minorities, that and occasional internal peace actively created between disparate factions in order to make some forward motion. But still I have a hard time gathering "pride in fellowship" as I go to a queer gathering... I find that I look inwards and admire individuals and laughter, but have a lot of distrust and resentment for the idea of community. I just think that Community and Gang are only a heartbreak's distance apart.]

Anyhow, I swallowed this irrational emotion down and went to Seattle to nose around and see what was there. I couldn't be there for the parade, because it was the brolaw's birthday; instead, we just went and danced, danced, danced. In the end, it turned out to be what it should be: an evening of simply being, without considerations of identity or labels pasted like stickers. I was a happy little pup, and ran around like mad-me, yipeee and hallelujah!

We frolicked in the Seattle Center fountain for awhile, and then went up to Capital Hill for barhopping. The dyke-hang was in bitch-E mode, maybe because we had a fellow with us, so we went to other bars and twas all good. True to my Lately Luck (of making out more with guys than girls), I ended up smootching with some drunk gayboy who was pretty hot, I have to admit. It was much much fun, and sp manufactured a sneak-in to another club and we shook asses for a long time.

The next morning I woke up with the second-to-biggest-toes on both of my feet bloodied and torn... but none of the others.

Birthday Celebration...

The brolaw turned aged and for his birthday, he got a canoe to go lake fishing on. So far, he hasn't caught squat, which endlessly amuses me and my sister, but most of my family went out and had a campfire (note the pic of my mum cooking steak). Later, I spent the night in a hammock, and the next day Ali, Peter and I all enjoyed ourselves by drifting around Grady Lake in a canoe and raft... all except the corgi, who is not exactly a water dog, and gave up most of the day trembling underneath Peter's legs. As for me, it was one of the most glorious times I've had, and basically completed the weekend as one of my happiest of happies.

Grady Lake:

I am a lucky girl.

Summer Days...

Mmmmmmm.... hottub, with mock oranges all around. Mock oranges are those white blossoms that are spewing all around my mother's backyard, and they are among my favorite of scents in the world. They have nothing to do with oranges themselves (thus the mock), but are instead a very citrusy flower... light and wafting right now, but as they start to fall apart, the odor gets stronger in stronger until you feel you are sitting within a pile of rinds. This heat inspires the most exotic of torpors and it's hard to get myself on track when I can climb into a body of water and dive and submerge until my mother hollers at me to act my sassafrassin age. Other than whatchin' World Cup soccer with Pedro, and doing some odd jobs like moving wood around, mowing the lawn, heading over to the clinic to do some Very Boring Work (Absolute Fact #2367: I was Not Intended for office work), I have been hovering on the border of bromine and floral bequeathments.

Here is another example of a very pretty, albeit not as nice smelling flower that we have going in the yard. Creature of grace and exactitude.

By the way, Ecuador made the first round of World Cup, which I'm sure made the kids down in my old stomping grounds very very happy, but then they lost to England, sniff. I'm predicting right now that the final playoff will be Germany/Brasil, and I'm rooting for Germany. But this means Germany has to whup Argentina, which my sister informs me is an unlikelihood... so, this is more than a world competition, this is a sibling rivalry; I'll let you decide which is more important. But I know the truth.

Lambert Has a Few Words...

I stand on the berm looking out over what once was a realm. Once. Occasionally the traitor squeals off in the distance, dancing her words like a mayfly poised on the edge of a limb and then the plunge. She stands there dappled and dancing, brown like shiny floss, and I know she does this to taunt me.

"Whhhhhhheeeeeeeee," she says as she kicks around. Green sputtum spins from her mouth and she blushes, wipes it off on a yellow flower. "Excuse me," she chuckles shyly, batting eyelashes and dipping nose.

It's part of her prancing ploy; at night, she bulks down on yellow thread, weaves her stomach full of gold, and grow greater and larger than before. She does this for me. She does it to slaughter, to gain through game.

I was once very large.

The others come and kiss me, cover my face with lauditory salutations and re-introductory sniffings. They tell me I am still a cloud, Thor's voice, the speaker for territory and well-defined nationalisms. They wiggle like minions and follow my soldierly walks, left right left right prance and speak!

"Beware!" I speak on the hour. "Concrete axes divide your utopia and mine! Take your wheels and make them rove quickly down the path of intentions! Leave, pathetic underlings!"

"Wheeeeeeeee," she says, sending her legs up into blue sky, lifting her knees even higher. "Ride me if you will. Fetch me to work and wrap wood and string on my shoulders. I will pull and pull!"

She does this to make my words hollow. That is what she means, and whereas my words once bellowed through underbrush, trees, through windows and over heads, whereas once the protected everything and cloaked my family, as water covers the base of icebergs, whereas once I felt I had a part to play in this world, a small part, to hold my people together under my thick legs, now my words sound like scarecrows, and the sky is full of crows with an eye to my stillness.

I brood, my fluff miring in the cool shade of mud and dirt. I grovel and my lip snicks upward, shiny white flash! I close my eyes and think about how she did it, how before it was just the screaming white birds interupting the sky with a roar, belching froth on the upward ocean. I used to drive them away; they only dared stay in my land for a few passing moments before they left with a mere scratch and difusion.

But She stays. She is always around. I close my eyes and she stands across the grey divide, her pointed head facing me, her ears flicking forward and then back. She waits patiently until I wake and then "Whhheeeeeeee," she says and grins, her articulate tongue snaking out in laughter. She makes me smaller just for her presence three fences away (I count them in my sleep, not lambs: one wire, one concrete, one wood; like the test of triad or an Olympic truth. They seem smaller by daylight, something to leap rather than fjord or knock over. But I trip up on the impossibility of it; the way the fences grow and shrink by moon.)

The swallows overhead, I leap and snap. They fling themselves laughingly small, and we grin at each other, firm on the understanding of my grace. But her, the one whicking her tail at me, singing "yooooo-heeeeeeee" like she's pretending I'm not there via the simple act of speaking to someone else.

"Beware!" I shout at her, "I'll rip your entrails from through your lungs and tie them to the post in halter!"

"So cute," she laughs. "What a little fuzzy kitten!"

One of these days, the fences will fall and we'll meet on the battleground fields. We will fling ourselves on each other like a pair of old lovers, teeth and nails flying. I will not spare her, nor will she spare me.

Hell yeah.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

this is the kind of tree I'd choose to be

some lasts, hike of week 2

oui, summer solstice, spread bumbles and near misses on the inside of metal cloves, and I’ll try to find the wherewith to radiate like a pistil in nuclear smeltdown. There is the tender hold of bluebruises that roam like melting butter on the inside of skin sleeves, and I dream of goats again, I dream of goats again. There’s nothing like the pages of words I hear part of, that I start to share my gondola beds with… to let pollen fling itself capricorn and atomic into the bread basket of green.

There is the dance, and there is the dance.

Here is an image that will work its way somewhere: an old man, his face imbedded on the inside of wrinkles. His hands: scarred and moving. As I watch the old man, nothing changes on his face—it is a smile, eyes. Eyes if you lean in will lean out and spread, collosal milk spilled in a Tarkavsky film. Nothing about this changes, it is the same from the moment of rupture, but the old woman’s hands move. Notice that: one moment a man, then next an old woman.

The first is a fisherman, a bent alder tilted, leaves moving, base standing. The second is a shamen, a red-bodied hummer in flight. They have eyes that made themselves, and hands that simply make. They do not seek to make everything, only the things that their hands hold: a net, a pipe, a patch, a something to give away. Every now and then, they reach down into a burlap bag that sits by their feet. It holds each day a few berries, dried venison, walnuts, chips fried and cut from masa. They once had strong teeth and now they have few teeth, but they still reach down into the bag and grab hold of something and chew. The sounds their eating makes is slurpy or crunchy, quiet yet troublesome.

A scarf, a wooden boat, a note.

Sometimes they notice their skin. Hands, claws beaten into tack, knuckles razored under hills, wounds that healed and left stories, some not meant to be told. Their hands accept bodies, run streams, raft rapid demises. She remembers making love to many, each act lasting less and less like the boats that go out to bays and find themselves in oceans. The faces walk her during the day, and at night she stills herself, soft like the air through blackberry claws. She smiles when she thinks of them, and that is the first miracle she performs daily, and the next follow. No matter what happened, she smiles to remember, because pain has become a flower to add to the orchids growing in the greenhouse out back, perfect lines and indentations, curves like ellipses wanting to return. She thinks of the brawls she pounced in and can’t remember who won anymore, just what the other one looked like: bright century of unknown, something vast to the gasp. She thinks of all her pride and anger, spite and spit, and smiles like it is knowing a person she held coughing blood in her hands and he remembers holding bodies in his brutal arms and his eyes tilt open like they were emotions he felt and felt slide like water.

He chews dried venison strips and she wraps her fingers around a knot. They are sitting on a dock, the river washing up and past and creaking like sinew after a long afternoon’s game.


Ever see versions of yourself? If only you could keep them properly in sight, then they open like the far side of a battlefield or a summer’s passing of hay. I’ve been keeping myself crisp, paperlike, while reading a fair amount, working occasionally at a clinic doing laundry and filling lotion bottles, and going down to the beach to sunburn my ass. I’m growing fat again, a little tire of ice cream around my midrift (homemade strawberry; cr and I hand-ground it while taking turns playing the harmonica—badly on my part and well on chucks). For some reason, the thing that eases me the most these days is reading journals.
"The barn in which the biggest sows suckle their pinkest piglets
Drawing crowds as large as those
Assembled for the judging of the chocolate fudge
Cakes, picked peapods, needlepoint, loganberry jam, collective
Guilt and friendship quilts
For which there are neither synonyms nor antonyms"

-Hejinian, from “Nights in a Time of War,” xconnect

What I don’t want to become is a bitter old crank with a cigarette between fingers. I still have my emotional reactions on hearing that the submission reader for the I conference I got excited about is someone I never want to submit to. What a strange interconnected world we live in, and so important to keep finding the firsts. So in honor of that, I will speak of my favorite beach, Hidden Beach, which is down on the railroad tracks in Bville. I have taken almost all of my good friends there and I feel quite comfortable, despite the fact that it is never empty, which I would prefer, but is instead peopled with naked men baring sunburns on their pecs and glutoxens.

And one old woman who has a big bubble maker. And one old man who asks me who I am every time I come.

For to celebrate the Last Day of Spring, I went swimming and it was cold but not too cold and I stayed out and did a little diving down below the water and staying under as long as I can, and I saw a big Dungeness crab that whipped its fatty claw up at me when I tapped his roving back with my finger.

Today, in celebration of my Last Day with Long Hair For A While, I showered and gussied it up, and thought about how I’ve kept it as long as possible for the last four or five years so as to avoid the “just another dyke with a butch do” look. But it’s well into time for a big change, and I want to shed a lizard-skinned layer of me, so my hair is going to do the job.

Back to Hidden: this was my Hike of the Week, which means I’ve been laaaazy, or reading and working as it were. It’s not a long hike, and is off Chuckanut Drive, which is the most perfect road name ever. You go down a five-minute trail and hit the railroad tracks, then walk north on the tracks for about fifteen minutes until you get to the rock stairwell that is maintained by the naked old dudes. They are nice fellows and respect my right to wear a bathing suit most of the time. I like going there because people are there to accept themselves, and I don’t think they mind me accepting by suiting up, which is where my comfort level is at most of the time unless I am too hot or have a safety-buddy with me. I did go topless for an hour or so yesturday, but that’s it.

And the day also turned out to be the Last Day that My Mother’s Car Had That Particular Passenger Window, because when I returned, someone had bashed the window in and stolen…(drumroll)… nothing. When I called my mom to tell her, she started blaming me twice and I hung up on her, which I never do and thought horrible thoughts about Bville, and living with family, and having given away my own car, and being a third or fifth wheel, and all that sort of thing until I worked myself into a foul mood on the Last Day of Spring.

My mother timidly offered me a drink as I stepped in the door later, and we both drank to: Instead of the Lasts, the First Days (and New Images).

rocks on hidden, runnels & rivets, landscape as

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Kayak Trip – Cypress Island

“I have a friend, a biology specialist, who pointed out that we’re at a point where all the animals currently proliferating are ones that carry disease: rats, insects and so forth.”


“You hear how they recently had the first case reported of human-to-human transmission of the Avian Flu?”

“Nope. You kidding?”

“I’m not kidding. And I’ve seen projections that show how that flu could wipe out the entire population of a city the size of Seattle in a 24-hour period of time.”

“Do you mean the size of Seattle for the whole population of earth, or Seattle all by itself and other cities following its pattern?”

“I mean Seattle by itself, because it has a high degree of trade with Asian countries, where the human-to-human transmission occurred.”

“Oh. They have an immunization for it, don’t they? But they can’t produce enough of it. I read somewhere that they are starting to “dole” it out in certain states. Why can’t they produce enough of it?”

“Because they don’t want to. Pharmaceuticals aren’t interested in sharing the recipe or cutting their profits.”

“But if you’re talking about wiping out a city the size of Seattle, how would they prevent riots against them?”

“Dole out the immunizations. Doesn’t it make you wonder who they’re doling it out to?”



“We’re on vacation. Can we not talk about this anymore?”

“Oh. Okay.”


That is to say: it was a kayaking trip replete with ghost stories vicious enough to scare the crap out of me. But it was also just perfectly right.

I’ve mapped out our route – with the red line being Day 1, yellow being Day 2, and green being our evening hike from Pelican beach to Smuggler’s Cove.

We basically put out our two-person kayak from the mainland, leaving from the Guemes Island Ferry terminal (1) and paddling north through the B--- Channel, which divides Guemes and Cypress Islands. We camped on the north end of Cypress—at Pelican beach (5), where all the islands on the east side of this map were visible… including the mainland of B--- harbor.

Before heading out, I checked the Marine Forecast and the tide charts, and decided the trip was a definite do-er. The winds were supposed to be light to 10 knots, and the weather was supposed to be sunny with bouts of thunderstorm. Sounded good to me: dramatic, but mellow.

The tides were with us, ebbing in the morning and flowing in the afternoon. Since the currents run west on the ebb (from 1 to 8) and east on the flow (8 to 1), we could put out in the morning and run with the tide along the base of Guemes Island. We could then take a pause on the beach at 2 and wait for the tide change. Through the channel, the currents run north on the flow (from 2 to 5) and south on the ebb (from 5 to 2), so after waiting a half-hour or so on the beach, the tides would hypothetically push us in the direction we wanted. The next day, we could just reverse the morning and afternoon movements…

This was of course, all hypothetical, and I found that the current changes were a little slow, which meant there was a bit of a fight crossing the channel on the first day, but after that we were better-timed, and the currents didn’t give us too much trouble.

So, going back a little, my good buddy, Nat and I met up at the ferry terminal after Nat got herself a speeding ticket (whoops) and showed up late. I was just happy she could come; communicating had been a cellphone extravaganza the weekend before we went, and I was fretful about whether she was going to make it… right on through the gathering and packing of gear and the grocery shopping to keep us both fat and happy. But we did meet up, and the only crappy moment was when I realized I had left the camera batteries in the re-charger back home.

Yeah, super-sucky stupidessa. So, I’ve nabbed a bunch of photos off the web, and for your pleasure, Photoshopped myself or the kayak into a few of them. Let’s see if you can tell which ones…

The first adventure was discovering geoducks, these absolutely monstrous clams that stick their siphons up out of mud beaches and squirt at you when you pass, on the resting beach (2). Also present were tons of eel pouts, which Nat claims are “icky,” although I love catching and holding them as the flap around in my hand. Bitty crabs crawled around, and tons of snails, limpets, starfish, tube worms and tanzanian sea monsters. Nonetheless, the weather was chill and so we took to the other side, where a salmon fish camp was replete with jumpers (3).

This side of channel looked quite a bit different, I think because there’s no ferry that takes people there, and so it’s not at all built up. Guemes has beach houses and windmills and such as you go along, whereas Cypress seems to have quite a few more of my favorite trees in the whole world—Madrone trees, with their peeling skin and red underbellies. Madrone’s are picky trees, as it were, and will only grow where there is a great deal of free water flow, such as on the edge of cliffs. They also need lots of sun and heat, and so tend to grow near the ocean where the water reflects an additional quantity of sunlight in their direction. I think there must be other qualities they pickily look for in their neighborhoods because I never see very many of them unless I’m in the San Juan Islands…

From the fish farm, we scuttled northward, hugging the shore around Cypress Head (4), where the currents are supposed to be wicked. We must’ve hit it at the right slack time, because there were no currents to speak of, only lovely flat calm, on the way north. It wasn’t until the way back that we ran into some wicked ferocious currents…

We lunched on the beach at Cypress Head, which we had to ourselves and the fire ants, and then Nat and I decided to continue on. My shoulders started aching right at our second rest stop along the red path – we stopped two other times and explored the shore, because we had time and it felt good to stretch. I realized I’m not the only out-of-shape one, because although Nat is almost the most fit person I know, it is truly hard to keep your shoulders in kayaking-form. So we paused quite a bit and tried to convince the currents to push us onward.

Right before we got to Pelican beach, there were a few rips that we had to look out for, but they weren’t too bad, just unexpected. The above map doesn’t show the “Cone Islands,” which are tiny little knobs just south and east of Pelican, and they tend to put a little eddy into the waves that run downward from the tempestuous Rosario Straits.

Pelican Beach was a friggin haven… we had it all to ourselves after an enclave of touristing high-schoolers who yodeled REM left. The sun was out when we arrived, and the camps right up along the shore were empty and lined with great batches of wild roses, which are some of the best-smelling flowers around. The thing I like about wild roses is their subtle lure. You can shove your nose right in them and they smell less potent than the cultivated ones, but if you are walking around, their collective humidity absolutely sweats the air in scent.

The DNR site is completely free as long as you pack-in, pack-out, and respect the completely eco-driven outhouse that is provided by the good folks of the marine highway. This is pretty great since Pelican Beach is as ritzy a true campsite as I’ve ever been to, and even has a boardwalk lining the campsites.

Nat and I took a brief rest in the sun—some of us even resorting to snoring—and then we took the hike over to Smuggler’s Cove (6), which I wanted to visit because of its name. As we hiked the path across, we ran into Duck Lake, which was completely covered in lily pads and had several bald eagles perched above the water, scouting for frogs or something like that.

But the best part of the trip, aside from the above ghost-story conversation, was the discovery of a sign about the previous owner of Cypress Island… a woman who lived by herself for years, building cabins and out-building for her animals and cultivating the land near Duck Lake. Apparently she posted “No Trespassing” signs all over the place, and wasn’t known to be very friendly. At the end of our history of her, she sold her boat, got dropped back onto Cypress, banned any visitors to the island, and then simply disappeared… never to be found again.

I liked writing that. "Never to be found again..." It was fun.

Nat’s comment was: “The death of another writer.”

And my comment was: “Or a closeted lesbian.”

But we found what I think must have been one of her animal stables (log cabin, no windows and some gappage between the stacked logs) on the path up from Smuggler’s Cove. The ceiling was done in, and the place signed as dangerous, but it was haunting to look at and imagine this woman’s life, and the life that existed before to give Cypress such names as Smuggler’s Cove.

We got back from our hike pretty near sunset, and watched things settle down purple and grey over the Straits. The evening came with a campfire, packed in chicken and apples, and some chocolate (but no smores). A great noise that sent us in temporary panic turned out to be a mere deer, and the two of us fell asleep next to the fire and later dragged ourselves to the tent. As it turned out, the only thunderstorms we faced that trip came during the night, along with little mice, one of whom ran over my hand in the dark.

I dreamt I was in a new body, and my presence in this new body was making it incredibly fat.

The next day was cloudier and the currents looked a little wicked. A sharp splinter of rainbow hovering out over Vendovi Island made me think rainstorms were heading our direction, so we set out early. Sure enough, a fair amount of current out there although the wind couldn’t have been much above 5 knots. I could see a bunch of whitecaps from the current around Cypress Head, so we cut across the channel northward of the currents (7), and zipped along down the west side of Guemes Island.

We made quite good time, even though we stopped for a snack on the island, that we had time to paddle along Anacortes ship harbor (8), going in and out of the dock pilings, and admiring the old boat junkyards, rusting metal tugs, and falling down canneries along the shore from the harbor to the ferry terminal. Finally we got home safe and sound and shot off like to hot darts to find some coffee and gossip about community art projects…

a visit from salvation

We had a flyby from our local friendly Jehovah Witnesses, and I was amazed to find that they had a solution to:



and Poverty!

Apparently accepting Jehovah as your man will result in the following:

In case you missed some of that:

Wheelbarrows will overflow with... um, watermelon, grapes, lettuce, rutabega, peppers, carrots, and ick!--eggplant. And the black men will gather it all up again...

Men will smell the pink flowers while stags stand stoicly watching...

And best yet, the cougars will share water with the children...

Ever wonder who was still reading those Narnia books? All I know is where's the sign-up form? And for heaven's sake (heheh), give their address to the United Nations or Unicef.

Sunday, June 11, 2006


Ever seen that TV show, "The Deadlist Catch"? Where the crew is out in the Bering Straits as the ice pack careens southward, threatening to cover and sweep away the crabbers' buoys and leave them poverty stricken. Or worse yet, swamp their boat and send them to a hypothermic death. The guys, constantly in layers and layers of gear, trying to protect themselves from freezing up and turning into virtual zombies as they go about mindlessly and mindfully collecting pots and scraping the contents into the hold. As they do this, they watch out for big waves, ice on the deck, great shifts in the boat's direction, ice falling down from above, the pot swinging and taking off their leg. And then when they're done with this, they have to sledgehammer the ice off the decks before they get their three-five hours of sleep, and then do it again when they wake up. Ever seen that on TV? It's pretty awesome.

Sometimes it reminds me of dealing with chronic depression.

Internet has been bumming me out, among other things. I think it's an okay mode of communication and interaction when plenty else is happening to accompany it, such as work, galleries, shows, get-togethers, classes, walks and so forth, so that internet feels like down time--a mellow oh-I-don't-watch-TV-and-so-this-is-
my-virtual-equivalent, not to mention a mode of keeping in touch with folks very far away. But i'm in a new joint where maintaining my sanity and peaceful goodwill towards humankind (including myself) is a full-time operation.

So, that's what I'm doing. I'm going to be focusing on not getting down. And that means I'm going to avoid spending very much time feeling bummed out about not hearing from folks via electronification. No worries or gripes, however; I think summer is actually meant to be spent away from radioactive screens anyways. I'll be writing, but I don't think I'll be posting my fiction or personal doings, although I'll try to put up a hike-a-week thing, since that'll keep me doing a hike a week.

Speaking of which: I'm going on a two-day kayaking gig with one of my best buddies tomorrow. I'm super-happy about it, and I will have pictures, I'm sure. And I already feel that good softness that comes from paddling for hours with the waves breaking on the tail. I've noticed that staying happy means staying light, which is the nearest sensation I can describe it as: float on the top of things and not let myself think of the memories, worries or criticisms down below; that is, not to sink into them, but to skate on the surface, like a runner on the asphalt, like a hand dripping over the side of a boat, like a bubble dropping, but not like an apple looking at the ground. soft, soft, soft.

On a very odd and somewhat-related topic: on Saturday, I saw my Bville Ex walking down the street. She looked pretty much the same, although she was talking on the cellphone, which is already more social than I remember her. Still had that walk you can tag from two blocks away... nature scientists everywhere would be totally stoked to have an observed animal with such a noticeable gait. Anyhow, it was benign and I was at a safe distance, but just seeing the ghost for 30 seconds was enough to literally give me such a splitting headache that I had to go home, take aspirin, and lie in bed for an afternoon.

Note to self: Holy Crap. That's some strong kung fu.

Fortunately, on Saturday before that point, I ran into the Bville Farmer's Market, which has grown exponentially since I saw it last and has such good vibes and smiling people that I got all wiggley and realized I found a Saturday writing spot. Wow, it's been a long time since I've been in the presence of such mobbed happiness.

I also went dancing by myself for the first time in eons, and I realized I haven't actually dancing since dating b... boy, I must've gotten busy. It took me about four times the length of time it usually does to get into the groove (in fact, there have been abortive efforts previously, when I went out in Bville with friends but felt so pissy I didn't get any quality dancing in). Anyhow, it turned wonderful and I felt so joyous to be back in my body, and everybody was having a good time, the bar had some queers in it. It did get sleezy around 1-ish, and so I left. But that's a good realization to have: pre-1am, things can be good-o. Back to the bones, back to the muscles, back to the stretch...

All this moving my body has been making me feel better, and I'm excited for myself. Excited to be investing in my zing, my body, friends, getting fit, but moving, getting moving, getting out of my homecoming funk and finding out where, and where not, I feel that wwwhhhheaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-pow. So, my friends, I will be on here far less, but wishing you great summer stories to gossip and tell me afterwards. Oh, and cross your fingers that I get to see a whale up close tomorrow!

Friday, June 09, 2006

between moss & a vine

My uncle Jay Ratlow drove his old Chevy into the blackberry banks along the outskirts of my paternal family homestead on the evening after an afternoon’s conversation with his boss. Boss said, “Seeing a lot of people these days giving up on their dreams.”

“I guess so,” said Uncle Rat, and you could see he was nervous from the get go, because this pronouncement was coming from a boss that Uncle Rat liked, but felt confused about.

[the rest has been back-drafted. you know, for reasons.]

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

protection means going that extra distance

"I have now decided upon the following: in each case, these people [queers] will naturally be publicly degraded, expelled, and handed over to the courts. Following completion of the punishment imposed by the court, they will be sent, by my order, to [removed due to rethinking of the issue and potential explosiveness of Americans' misunderstanding of the term], and they will be shot in the [removed again] while attempting to escape. I will make that known by order to the unit to which the person so infected belonged. Thereby, I hope finally to have done with persons of this type in the [nation], and the increasingly healthy blood which we are cultivating for [this country] will be kept pure."

-An "American" hero who knew a ban wasn't Good Enough, Heinrich Himmler

So, our President is finally introducing a ban-queer-marriage ammendment to the legislature. Most people agree that it won't pass, but I for one am glad that it made it up to the top of the priority list of productive actions for our government to be discussing. After all, as one good fellow put it, marriage between a man and a woman is one of the biggest moves we've taken to protect our children. Hell yeah!

Without marriage, this nation would be rampant with child and other domestic abuse, heavy drug use, AIDs and other STDs, war, hatred, poverty and so forth. Marriage has put so many protections in place, and given man the opportunity to provide for his family in a responsible and not overly-controling way at all. It has also allowed for the free expression of femininity and aprons.

Anyhow, since we are finally doing something about all those muff-divers and butt-pilers in order to make sure they know God looks down on their bedroom proclivities with great distain and (dis)interested attention, I propose we also get to the business of introducing the following bills into contention for the good of this nation.
1) Ban olives on Pepperoni Pizza. The two just don't mix. We've had a nation with simple Pepperoni and cheese for a very long time. This is what our Constitution says is an "ideal pizza," and we shouldn't mess with the Ideal. Messing with the Ideal will just give our children ideas that they can go ahead and put doggy-doodoo on their pizza. Give kids an inch and they'll take a mile.

2) Ban female lions from roaring. It's just wrong.

3) Ban Blacks from having iPods. True, it might reduce the money big business makes, but betrothal stores everywhere have decided this is an okay concession to make with those nasty finger-lickers and anal-nosers, so Apple is going to have to make some sacrifices too. And it is a well-known fact that prohibiting negroes from having music protects our children.

4) Ban catalitic converters. Those little Devil's Instruments deprive us of the good Old-Fashioned smell of Raw Engine.

5) Ban bums, hoboes, and other sluff-abouts. Just go buy a home, you cheapskates!

6) Ban on the push to help "geeks, computer nerds, and general wimps" from not having to pay our future army anti-terrorists their milk money in grades K-8. Obviously, this weakens the nation's bone structure and gives precedence to those who go against God's own decision to make some folks with poorer vision. If He'd intended glasses and pocket protectors, he would have had them grow on the umbilical chord. And just think how much stronger our President might have been if Henry Junior had passed over that 75-cents a day instead of ratting him out to the lunch duty teacher!

7) Ban people from going peepee while talking on their cellphones. If I wanted to hear you tinkle, I'd go to a public restroom with you and look over the stall door while I'm at it.

8) Ban all languages but English. For awhile we were just talking about making English our national language, but I suggest that we might as well go ahead and take it that one step further. Who needs other languages? And every time someone sings something like "ohh, mira, puede ver, por la luz de la madrugada..," it's like they are suggesting that not only is the English vocabulary insufficient, so is our syntax. We don't need that kind of lingual terrorism rampant on this planet! Let's just toss the fuckers in jail.

9) Ban female ejaculation. They should just do more Keggel exercises and it won't be a problem. You only need one gusher per water-bed, you know what I'm saying?

10) Ban agnosticism. Fucking fence-sitters. Don't they know that it's black or white. Black. or White. White. or Black. Take your pick, but stop pretending there's more to Heaven and Earth than we know of. We've got God on our shoulders and in case you weren't paying attention, omniscient means "all knowing," which means that everything is known when you pray and have faith. And what I know, with got at my back is: Black or White, fuckers.
Anyhow, that will finally turn all those "activist judges" into deactivated nonjudgers, and remove the verbalizations that took the darkies from our possession and gave women the fucking right to own property!

Friday, June 02, 2006

recent additions

the brolaw did this one, and I think it rocks:

I did this one; it was a shepherd from Idaho who was hitting on me: