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

Sunday, November 30, 2008


Giving of Thanks

What else was rather pretty:

Giving of Thanks Giving of Thanks

Many Peoples:

Giving of Thanks
Excellent Pies Plus Other Excellent Pies:

Giving of Thanks Adorable Love (Herald Woos Kitty over Long Term, Take 1):

Giving of Thanks
Adorable Love (Herald Woos Kitty over Long Term, Take 2):

Extra: Bville is hard living, despite all the adorables. I don't want to wait for my life to take hold but it's hard writing in these parts. / Maybe that's just the way of it; no telling what's coming next, regardless. And I still swear there's no privilege akin to a couple years of art school in Chicago, esp with the folks I knew.

So take that, World.

P.S. I really hate a 4pm Sunset. But nevertheless it was friggin bedazzling, pink fog marvelous sunset tonight - the color through moisture makes me almost want to stay in these parts (my sister recently semi-rhetorically asked whether any place would satisfy, and so I sniffingly say: who knows, goddamn it so far for so many places being lovely and lonely simultaneous. Maybe I'll never be satisfied. Maybe I'll never be content. But be-jesus, I wish it weren't too much to ask for the ocean, self-sufficiency, fog sunsets, adorable love and [...])

Monday, November 24, 2008

I wish I had a studio

but here's a bit of what I'm working on anyway, even though I said (to myself?) not to post any more of my 'writing' online for fear that I will stop writing it:

The Devil holds Four Wands

T believes M’s children are the spirits of trees, and he tells them he is the wind. He is the wind behind his departure, transcending its and his frame past borders and mountains and time. He sees them when they are 2 then 4 then 6 then 11, all of them, those tree children, growing essences eking their knowledge from soil. He brings them to tents and rubble and old Volkswagens, and finds them a home in the gear shafts. Theirs are the cobwebs, the briny stones. When he decides upon the futility of salt, the smart one collects licks from the fields, and when he is gone, they gather in a circle and suck salt and tell stories, their candles lit, their hair grown long against scapula. Tree children talk about their mother and school, about apples, skateboards and rubbish. / T rides his bicycle into the fields, past the forests; he hears the whisper of the relentless social posture scolding him and he laughs, collects the rent like magic from post office, buys himself new gear shafts and lays in a course for the Eaten Slag or the Giant’s Paintbrush, his red eyes burning to see that purple just one more time, his mind full of tears when he does. T’s third child sings the fourth and fifth under the stars while the first pokes a shrinking stick about the fire.

The Empress

M is the last of her kind. Thirteen and pregnant, she’s keeping her baby because of the poison hidden within a gland that (and this is merely a hint) is in the left-hand side of her body. Her mother unaware, her family dazed and unaware, her father completely unaware, M is a red wine, a pomegranate placed on the top of a concrete wall. She sucks her lips as close to teeth as they will come, and dreams of leaving rain forever, with the nine-month-old child tucked within one of her armpits (Why, she wonders, do they start counting at birth? For the parasite has already been sucking blood and drooling in caverns for months when it deigns to cease its spelunking. Do kangaroos get their names when they emerge from the pouch?). / M is not going back to school. M is not being home-schooled. M’s lids are permanently half-lowered and if she thinks a good thought, it is for the sake of her baby, that it might not be born a pineapple. A pineapple through the eye of a needle. M puts on her rubber galoshes and goes outside with the dog and walks through the puddles and imagines a next beginning.

Eight Pentacles above the Tower

A is a light, a rush, her fingers and toes scrabbling the tile. She intermits between holding the chalk in her teeth and the thorns on the tip of her nose. Sometimes she pulls those brazen protections off bushes and licks their shorn tips, tasting a mutual bitter and stampeding anger. But who is to blame, whom can we blame but ourselves and our lack of contract with reality. We needed to stipulate, she thinks. / A is in danger, A has taken herself to Spain, where under a yellow roof in a house with an incessantly curious elder and allergy-inducing flotillas of cat fur, she stalks the terrace outside her room and looks out at all the falling denizens. A thinks of an immigrant’s slow unfolding, but she throws stones against the tiled roof below her only when she thinks of K, whom she lost squarely if not fairly. Threw away, he said with a voice wrenched like a branch from tree. / A is losing her limbs again, A holds chalk in her teeth and writes of love like she’s just realized that all the light in the sky comes from stars that died years before she was born. / N holds her sister’s name in fists, breathes warmly between the tight fingers when the winter hoar bleats like a lamb in the morning.

La Stelle

The holes E cuts in socks are not a removal. / E would want you to understand the busyness of her mind. Rephrased, it’s not the actual convolution she’d want charted, but reality of atlantis, the validity of cyclops and stone gods. E spends most of her time in an open structure, but in the part that she doesn’t, she’s trying to repeat what you say enough so that you hear what she has added. / C waits for her on the bus, C who gets out and puts her arm through the wreath. D shakes her hand when she comes in, and all day long, industry makes a kind of bearable chance, a weapon against thermodynamic law, and E creates holes in socks in gratitude for the astrological tandems she’s found within the inevitability of her body. So E clogs the toilet, E has something in her pocket that belongs to another, E doesn’t want to but then she does, and she’s content with that change, even if nobody else is. / E’s determined the specific latitude of an answer, but a specific longitude yet eludes. This is why she’s always smiling sneakily when you look at her.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

I couldn't make this up if I tried

and if I did, nobody would believe me anyway.

Hilarious week, man, hilarious. So, before I explain, let me preface by saying I have a 'mouse dilemma'.


So, in case these pics aren't obvious, I was searching my kitchen drawers today for a trash bag and ended up opening the bottom drawer near my spice drawers. This is the section I keep for strange knicknacks, Xmas-stocking presents I don't know what to do with, and the remaining pesticides from my sister's reign over this particular kitchen area, i.e. d-Con.

Granted, I'm willing to admit I have an obvious mouse problem. I'm aware of it. And thank-you to all those out there who have suggested traps and poisons and brutal but understandable tactics, but I can't bring myself to it.

On the night before Halloween, before I dreamt that aliens invaded earth and used mortuaries as birthing dens, I heard something scratching around in my kitchen. At 4am, I bolted out of bed and ran into the kitchen with a purpose, a ferocious purposeful one. I turned on the light and found myself face-to-face with my kitchen's four-legged friend (not my dog). Yes, there he was, looking at me, ears enlarged, whiskers panicking, eyes two innocent specks of reflected light. So I did what any woman would do: I climbed a stool, raised my nightgown, and said "Woah unto me, I've been Overcome."

No, actually I cornered the critter in my spice rack, from which he launched himself into my plants and then tried to shimmy down the steep slope of my counter, from which I grabbed him, whereupon he wiggled from my hands, leaped upon my breasts and then scampered my legs. After which, of course, I decided to find a plastic container to catch him instead of my useless useless hand, and so retreated to my cupboards, but here Herald meandered in and provided cover for the mouse to escape beneath my stove. Accccch!

So. I have a mouse problem. And I can't have a cat because a) I'm too poor to take on another animal, and b) my mother and cr's property abuts the Road that Kills Cats. And I don't believe in poison because it's horrifying and disgusting, or traps because they misfire half the time and cause Guantanamo suffering within steel bars. I've already tried one version of the no-kill traps, and while I admire their design, I find many architectural, not to mention practical application flaws. My mouse (mice) is so friggin smart that he trips those hippie traps, gets the booty, never is caught. I have (a) mouse/mice named Bond and/or Houdini.

Anyhow. Back to the pics. I opened up the knicknack drawer and found it to be stuffed with dog food. Not dog food I placed there, by the way. Above and beyond that, the d-Con poison boxes had been chewed open and the empty portions stuffed with dog food. And the joke plastic-mouse I keep around for good fun was buried in dog food. Some people can claim mice problems, but not all people can claim Ironic Mice problems. Or some "punk ass m-fckn mice" as cr put it when I showed him the scene.


I also got word from my grandma that she had been attacked in a grocery store by a woman brandishing Pork Chops... because my Grannie mentioned, after the woman stated she'd been volunteering at the polls, how wonderful it was we'd elected Obama. Apparently the woman was not a fan.

How many of you can say you've braved a porkchop-toting freak in the name of your Right to Choose?

That's right, not many of you. And again, I'm not making this up.

And I can't help adding: This is part of what my Grannie sent me after my last blog rant:
"As you point out, it is not the "marriage ceremony thing," it is wanting equal respect, benefits and considerations as any other couple. Gramps and I are an old married couple but we seem to becoming more of a minority each year. Anyway we dearly love you and please let me know how we can help to get equal justice for every citizen; we financially support Human Rights, but there must be more."
Maybe I'm wrong, but I really think my Grans is acting perfectly to support human rights. I consider myself incredibly incredibly lucky, and kinda want to pass on this message to those who don't.


Finally: I wonder how I'm going to volunteer to make up my portion of the change for which we voted Obama into office. It's not going to happen with magic, that's for sure, but Herald thinks it's going to happen.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

if you aren't in it for the long haul, then tough shit

After spending Tuesday night jumping up and down, dog wrestling, whooping, drunk dialing, and in general, feeling so happy I can't even express it, it's surely understandable how the next day, when I read about all the anti-gay shit that went down this election, I felt punched in the gut, hog-tied, and gagged with a rag stuffed in every orifice.

To be frank, I felt like my part in the recent election had been erased, not because I'm pro-marriage for queers, but simply because I'm queer. What happened was not really a "Hey, Marriage is Great" kinda message, but rather a "We hate the fuck out of you, so much that we want to explicitly and constitutionally let you know we don't consider you a member of our community" kinda message. We voted for Obama, some of us, but all of us are disgusted by you. You know, in Arkansas, Arizona, Florida, and uh, California.

And hey, I'm not really pro-marriage. As far as I can figure it, it's a stupid contractual arrangement, at least in its relation to government. Most older wiser folks I've known who've dabbled with marriage have since divorced to their anguish, and eventually decided that a nebulous will-defined relationship works at least as well. I think marriage as it stands is out-dated or maybe bogus, tends to create floating islands bereft of community out of what used to be dynamic individuals, and would best be replaced by government-acknowledged tax "families," a system that would hypothetically reward community however it forms, whether it be male-female and kiddos, or aunt and nephew, or friend and friend, or Ellen & Portia, or person and child. Seriously, a whole system that gives tax breaks and forms legal corridors specifically for sanctioned sex is beyond me.

What I can nevertheless get behind is that whatever system is in place, it should be in place for all those who want to participate in it. Any society that denies equality for part of its population is a society that clearly does not promote Justice. And that gets to its Integrity.

Which is why I think this whole "tolerance" stuff is a stupid political message for gay-America to promote. It's not about tolerance because we're not talking about who smiles at whom, who loves and adores whom, who condones what behavior, who likes each other or gives jobs, friendship, or friendly shakes of the hand to each other; we're talking about who gets to participate in equal rights relative to the Constitution.

This is a legal issue, not a legislative one. So to hell with all these namby-pampy tolerance movements.

I mean, what would've happened if the court systems had never eventually (and I will get around to that "eventually") stepped in, relative to black and female rights, to say: This is What the Constitution Means. What if instead they had voted in a popular election about whether to amend, as Arizona did with its state constitution, the Bill of Rights so that it clearly states, as per the 'initial intention' of our forefathers:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all white men not women are created equal, that they are endowed by their ChristianCreator with certain inalienable Rights except in times of crisis, that among these, are Life the fetus before the female, Liberty to pursue specific populous-sanctioned actions, and the pursuit of Happiness as long as 'happiness' is defined by what a semi-majority subgroup considers legitimate?
Truth be told, I spent those two gut-punched hours feeling bitter about the African-American and Hispanic populace who voted to promote the first black man into office, but then overwhelmingly (according to the stats, much more overwhelmingly than the white population) voted to deny others the rights to participate in other, daily life 'Happinesses'. After so many years of struggling for their own equality.

But then I decided three things:

1) Barack Obama is an amazing man. I have a right, queer or not, to celebrate my participation in his election. I have cause to be happy, and to dwell in that happiness.

2) If the election coverage showed me little else, it was that African-Americans were celebrating a result that was clearly due to their years of struggle and agitation and participation and protest. The queer movement has much to admire and follow, and perhaps many years of alternating patience, articulation and protest before hoping to achieve equality. I'd choke on a chicken-bone if ever in my lifetime a queer were elected president, so perhaps the same rights as other folks is not so little a goal. Everything takes time, everything faces backlash, and perhaps a total wipe of the chalkboard was too much to hope for on any one day. Eventually takes time.

3) It's dangerous to blame minorities for switching from the oppressed to the oppressors (as J Stewart put it tonight), even if the stats showed their participation in this denial. Everyone had their hands in the pot, and for clearly different reasons.

Anyhow. I don't want to dwell too much; it's sad, really sad. But we still made a step forward together, all of us.
"We are not a red America or a blue America, a black America or white America, a gay America, or a straight America, we are the United States of America."

President-Elect Obama

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

hello world I'm pleased about

Election WalkI'm the most grateful person in the universe. I can't believe it.

& McCain with his great concession speech, gotta appreciate him if not his booing audience... that was Actual Class.

Then Obama with the first speech I've heard in my lifetime meant to go beyond the present. I can't believe we elected an inspirational family, an inspirational person, a black man, a mix-raced person with a mixed-ethnicity campaign and an incredibly intelligent, good person to lead us.

I can't believe it.

Maybe we're capable of truly ethical, smart action... inclusion... difference. bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallleeeeeeyhooooothankyou

Monday, November 03, 2008

the real milleneum-turn, nervousness, election map


Here's a pic via Girlfriday:

Joe the Plumber
I really think The Plumb-Man's got a hot ass, and I've never been able to turn down a feller with focused, eely concentration for constipation and/or leakage. But maybe that's just me.


So, it's finally election day. No more irritating ads of stinking baby diapers, Reverend Wright as a radical, Ayers, etc. No more biting my nails, wondering...

I've really admired how Obama has run this campaign, how he's chosen to represent himself and those who stand by him. He's an incredible 2nd/X generation mixture of the global influx - conservative in the ways that represent the salvation of healthy tradition, and radical in the ways that represent remedy. Anyhow, I actually know now what a "positive" campaign is - it's not something I would've been able to do, as much as I can't stand Palin or the BS McCain has taken to blathering - but it's still wonderful to see.

And I'm really, really nervous about tomorrow; he's the first person I've actually wanted up there. The first person who hasn't been a vote against... after having been guilt-tripped for voting for Nader (in a non-swing state) in the Bush-Gore election, I've since only voted for whomever wasn't Republican and had the best shot at winning. Which seems pretty bogus to me, to feel that kind of pressure. But this time, nope nope nope.

True... I am disappointed by how this election has become one of the worst setbacks for feminism since the 60s hypothetically opened the arena. All I can hope for is that J. Jackson is to Obama what H. Clinton will be to X woman in the future—a starting point but not a defining moment, and that the advent of Palin won't so dilute that substance as to set back feminist politics for a good long time. Regardless of this division and the limitations on what can be simultaneously achieved at any one moment in history, I very much believe in Obama. I'm downright cheesy in fact, to the extent of tossing out a fair amount of cynicism.

I actually wonder what will happen next if Obama's elected. Crossed fingers, knock on wood, and grrrr balleyhoo tooorah hiphiphep c'monnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.


And here're two pics of Election Herald, who, as it turns out, loves imminent rainstorms, his godcousin in Germany, and the changing orange-yellow trees as much as I do, this fall! The both of us felt perfectly, exactly happy the other day.

We hope to go for another walk tomorrow, Election Day, to experience the Zen all over again.