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.

Posted by: bezdomnik / 2:18 PM