Monday, April 24, 2017

Whores and Humans

Sometimes work and life mix up in just the right ways. My workmates wanted to take me out to dinner in Recife before I would start working and I said yes. The goal was to go to a place that was close by, just in a town a bit over from Recife, so we met outside the hotel and the plan was for them to drive me. 

We drove up and down dark roads and I got a bit of a tour of Recife and the history as we drove. Old history. Buildings older than America, beaches that were once safe and are no longer safe because of the warm weather and pollution. Sharks come up to the beaches and people are asked not to swim anymore in the warm waters. There are new buildings on the beachfront full of Chinese home owners who who are buying up property in Recife. 

The drive was winding, past a road where the prostitutes gather and take johns into the shady brush scrub right off the beach. They tell me about everything, from seedy to historical, they do not sugar coat their city, it's beauty, it's horrors. 

Up a winding road we go towards the restaurant we are looking for, suddenly unable to move, the streets were fully of people. People in various states of undress, drinking, laughing, making music. 

"What's happening I asked?"

My colleague speaks in smooth Portuguese to police officer directing traffic at the end of one of the rows. 


"What, what?"

"It's Carnival, they are preparing for carnival already! It will be months before carnival time, but already they are outside." 

Getting to the restaurant turned out to be impossible so in the end we ended up at a little mall on the beach, eating seafood and watching the moonlight over the ocean as it lapped against the shore. We laughed and enjoyed the food, the humid night. We laughed at the seediness of Brazil. The happiness of it. It's so interesting here, in this city, fully of frenzy and life. I'm starting to fall in love with South America in ways I could not have understood. 

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Fisherman at Night

True stories. 

Thursday, April 20, 2017

The Fisherman

Brazil was warm. A nice break from the cool I had been dealing with in New York. I needed the steaminess of it, getting lost in the wet damp. Smell of salt. The sea nearby.

The walk from my hotel to the ocean front of Recife was short. I as warned that Recife was dangerous. Be constantly vigilant, be constantly safe.

I wondered if perhaps Recife should be warned about me.

The walk was down dark alley breaking into the crashing waves on the beach, awash in moonlight and streetlight and lamps strung to and fro. It was a dappled light dream, the kind of light that makes you expect to see a mermaid happily content along the shore. Some lonely, naive, Ariel looking for a prince to charm her.

Instead of this there were two fisherman setting up on the beach. Long sea poles stretched into the night sky and I watched as they braced them against their hip belt to cast them out. Light danced around as the line disappeared far out into the water.

I wanted to walk, I wanted to explore a bit, even though exploring was dangerous (muggers, rapists, thieves, don't take your camera out!). I walked for a short way down the beach, taking in the light, listening to the sounds of the lapping waves.

As the tide came in I went lower onto the beach, watching the water rise up, amused that I was wearing such heavy boots on such a warm night. Water playing against the bottom of the stairs and the moon high in the sky; my boots felt light and airy and just right for the journey.

It was a short trip. It was already full dark and I had a full day ahead of me anyway, so I turned back after hardly half a mile to get some sleep, to get ready for the tomorrow, whatever the tomorrow was going to be.

Back past the fisherman. And as I passed the line tensed and I felt the excitement in the action on the beach, that old familiar excitement of catching something on your line. Fishing is fraught with good and bad memories for me, but the excitement I experience was real enough.

The stone wall that ran the length of the beach was close so I sat and watched my fisherman. They acknowledged me with a nod and a wave. We were together now in this moment. Friends, all of us, all of us interested in what was on the end of the line.

One man worked the reel while the other watched the waves slap against the shore in the darkness, waiting for something to break. His patience​, my patience, rewarded after about five minutes as a large fish broke the waves and was pulled, dangling and thrashing from the hook.

They pulled it onto shore and up to some rocks, practically in front of me, and bashed it on the head. Over and over again. The wet thing wiggled and thrashed, dead already, just the death throes of the nervous system, the body doing what the body does when the brain is disconnected violently by fisherman on the beach.

They smiled tooth smiles at me. I smiled back and clapped as they tossed their prize into a plastic bag, strung the line and cast again.

For a moment, I wished to feel the chum between my fingers. I could smell it from my perch the salty bloody, gamy scent.

I understood that bait scent.

They cast the line back out again while I stood and shook the sand off my dress, my boots sparkling against the pavement.

The walk home smelled like salt and blood.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


I went to Brazil.

Brazil is a set of stories.

Warm stories.

Humid stories.

The stories of the voyeur.

I did not interact with Brazil as much as I would have liked to. I was still learning how to interact when I went.

The middle of a move, the middle of a transition, the middle of everything. It was so much. But it was an important time.

My visa came in almost literally hours before I was to fly. I worried the entire time. I hate being without my passport for any length and two weeks was a long time. In the middle of that time I went with my acknowledge lover, Hellion, and a spanking bottom we shared to a club for spanking under the stars.

I smacked at least one person in the face.

We had a very good time. It was a time that was worthwhile and one I may never recreate.

It was the ending of a long time in New York, the New York club scene, the New York social scene.

I was surprised at how many people knew me.

I was excited for Brazil.

Now, we have come to the time for those stories. Digested moments. My life.

My life is nothing, sometimes but the synthesis of moments. All lives, really, are nothing but the synthesis of living: it only becomes tedious when you don't recognize the power that lies in 20 minutes of living. Ignore that, and you become nothing but compounded banality. Recognize it, and your life becomes magic.

Brazil was a serious of moment.

It was magical.

Monday, April 17, 2017

Down Time

It's down time.

The best way to describe the space in-between. I'm in the airport so often now that I'm almost as well known as the flight personal on my favorite airline.

I spent a great deal of time in lounges.

I spend a great deal of time thinking.

It is an odd thing to travel so hard and so often and so well.

Right now it's downtime. Time to catch up on some stories. Time to tell the tales there are to tell.

Time to see people, really see people, instead of see through people. There are the masses that have come and gone, but then there are those that are slowly becoming a part of something greater.

A larger whole.


Real companions during downtime.

In the meantime, I miss at least one part of New York more than I can stand. This I need to write about, too.


Writing time.

Thinking time...

Friday, April 07, 2017

Cellar Door

I'm on the road again. Leaving Glasgow soon to go back to London. This trip has been full of work and I doubt I'll do anything much more interesting than that between now and the long flight home. The upcoming visit to Hellion has me so excited I can barely stand it.

However, since I'm going back to London I might go again and try to find one of the bathroom bars, or maybe the same bathroom bar I went to last time. Bathroom bars, what will the world think of next. Well, at least this was something that had been thought of. Last year when I was in London my boss at the time pointed it out to me.

"I thought I might take us there."

"What's there? The subeway?

It looked like a subway box, they way it stuck up out of the ground, but apparently it wasn't a subway box.

"That is a bathroom."

"You wanted to take me to the bathroom?"

"No, it's a public bathroom, but now it's a bar."

"Wait, what?"

So at some point in the past a bunch of public bathrooms in London were converted into little bars and restaurants. This one, as it turns out, had been converted into a bar and as far as I could tell mini cabaret. I'm up for it, but not really with co-workers. Fortunately we didn't go there.

The next night I got away from work early and decided to have a look.

The lights are red and oppressive in side. Everything is weird bright, like an hallucination. The feeling, the sensation is of stepping into a speakeasy. A red head in a low cut gown leans against the bar next to me. He hair is piled on her head and it is impossible to look away from her, her body, her breasts beautifully exposed. She is the cabaret singer, working with her accompanist, who plays perfect organ for her bawdy show. 

She slinks around the bar, drapes herself off men and woman, kisses the girls, makes the boys blush. Some of them try to bluster, to be asses, really, but she embarrasses them easily enough and the crowd in the crowded underground laughs. I feel like Alice in a booze soaked wonderland. It was fun for the night. I can image it would be fun again. 

Tuesday, April 04, 2017


Gillian Anderson is 48 years old.

Gillian Anderson is one of my heroes. Has been since agent Dana Scully really started to give holy hell to geeky Mulder. Mulder and Scully have probably done more to define what I, as a bisexual, am attracted two more than any other superstar. Discounting the fact that Debbie Harry was my first crush and Jim Morrison my second.

Gillian Anderson has been doing a lot of work lately. I've been in love with all of it, but the piece I've found the most interesting has been a show called 'The Fall'. It's dark, it's a DCI show, it's got murder and death and serial killers and Gillian Anderson.

In the first episode her detective meets a another dective that she wants. She sees him and she knows she wants him. She doesn't really introduce herself. She barely has his name. She starts and finishes the conversation with her hotel and room number. As I watched I swooned. This woman, who she is right now, I want to be this woman.

He comes to her room. He dies, as he must. Later she is confronted by others in the department. He was a married man. Didn't you ask. Didn't you know. She is beautiful in her defense.

Man fucks woman. Subject: man; verb: fucks; object: woman. That's OK. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject; man: object. That's not so comfortable for you, is it?"
There was a part of me that wanted that level of confidence and fuckall. To just do what I wanted to do without considering how it might appear. The politeness of it.

In Seattle I go out with the New Yorker to dinner at a place called the Brooklyn Seafood Room, or something like that. Because of course. He is buying, the food is good. The waiter is cute.

The water starts hitting on me from the minute I sit down. He makes me feel desirable and sexy and amazing with every dish he serves. He lets me know he's interested and I'm interested back. Why should I be. Why can't I be.

People don't do this, I think.

People don't just go back to their hotels with strangers.

Woman fucks man, I think.

The New Yorker pays for food. We stand and start packing our bags to leave.

"A moment. Give me that." I ask for the bill fold.

"I paid?" The New Yorker looks confused.

"I  know."

"What's that."

"My business card."

"What are you doing."

"Leaving my number."

"Are you serious."

"He's cute and I'm single, why not?"

"He's not going to call."

"Wait for it."

We leave. I go back to my hotel. The New Yorker to his. My phone rings fifteen minutes later. There is a knock at my door twenty minutes after that.

The door opens.

"I don't really want a conversation."

"I didn't come here to talk."

Never have I felt more alive. Never have I felt more unreal. Never have I felt more that I have achieved the power of my heros.

Woman fucks man.

Saturday, April 01, 2017



This has becoming a defining feature of my life, to be on the road. Travel. Travel. Travel. Go, go, go. This does things to a person that are difficult to explain for many reasons. First, you lose connections, everyone is at the end of a flight and the end of a flight could be the end of a relationship. Everything is a singular moment.

My life feels like a collection of singular moments strung together making something, making meaning, making time pass, making reality come together before I lose the thread of it on a flight in a distant country.



I am so many places now.

This year I have already covered five countries and ten cities. It's barely April and I will keep going. Who is to say what the end of the year will have wrought. After the work, the hours, the years invested in making something like a career I have managed exactly what I wanted to manage. There is a sense of success.


But what have I lost to achieve?

The thing that is most striking is the human element. The human connection. How do you connect with people when your life is 24 hours on the ground.

How do you connect with people when the modern age is staring into small screens, social media, internet transience. Social media is the death of socialization. I no longer socialize with the world around me as the world is lost in their boxes, in the bright shiny lights. I miss the conversation in a bar.

I miss the stranger as friend.

I've found a new freedom in my age and in my travels and have found it harder and harder to connect. To find connect.

Still, I wouldn't trade it. What does that tell me.

Eight hour layovers. I know the airport well enough to treat it like a second home. Not even just one of them. All of them. All of them. I know them.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Where's the Revolution

Violator dropped in 1990.

It was just slightly ahead of me, and it took me until 1997 to truly appreciate Depeche Mode. I couldn't understand the fever around Violator. I discovered Music for the Masses while I lay dying in bed in my room. I listened to it on on for a week. The same week I spent crawling down a hallway to get water. The same week that I realized I might not make it: from starvation, from sepsis, from loneliness.

I discovered art that week, too.

And adulthood.

And freedom.

From that day, I love Depeche Mode. I have found that the understand how to express me when I don't know how to express myself. They have sincerely not stopped doing so.

The new album just dropped. The first song says it all.

They wrote songs. They took names. They gave no fucks at all. And for this, I thank them. The girl that lived thanks them. Right now, I need this.

Sunday, March 26, 2017


I'm exhausted from a week of hard working. The constant pounding of being on my feet for 18 hour days. Being on. Being on. Being the work version of me. Being respected by everyone. At one point I broke down, couldn't take it anymore. I wanted out of the shell of myself everyone was forcing me into.

It manifested in asking for the number of a cute butch dyke in them middle of my hotel lobby. Fortunately, the people that were with me were mostly amused.

"Sara, you are so bold."

"I want to be you when I grow up."

She didn't give me her number, but she thought about it.

Back in Chicago with barely a week off of travel before I begin again I try to figure out what to do with myself on what should be a weekend. I don't feel like I've even had any time off, even though I had the better part of Saturday to myself.

I clean my room.

I play with my dogs.

I read a book. Another book.

I think about going to a movie, so I look up what's playing.

The film I stumble across, which ends up being the one to most pique my interest is called Raw.

It is a French film, horror, in the vampire genre. I decide I shall go see this film at the Music Box. As soon as I step into the theater I realize two things:

1) I miss watching foreign films on the big screen
2) I miss the fucking Music Box.

I have so many varying and disparate memories of films at the Music Box, but I love the venue. It's so real, so wild, so wonderful. So perfect for seeing a timeless film you love or something new you might love. I need this in my life more.

I remember falling to sleep in the Music Box. I remember Rocky Horror in the music box. I remember my first big budget foreign film on screen at the Music Box, The City of Lost Children. I watched a midnight showing with the Librarian and Monolycus. Going to the movies tonight felt like going home.

The film made me ravenous with a desire that I cannot sate. It stirred up all my lust for films that I need to quench. More cinema between travel. More.


Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Winner, Winner

Somehow I stumbled on a contest for free concert tickets so I entered the contest. Fully forgetting about it until a few weeks later when I get an email telling me I had won two free tickets to go see the artist Marco Benevento. Huzzah.

Only problem, I had never heard of the artist before and can't recall entering the contest, but eh, why not.

So I went and listened to some of Mr. Benevento's music.

Confirming the music was not just good, but also very much of my interest I now had only one problem to solve. I needed a date. I went to my go to music date for this one: the New Yorker. He and I had become good friends and doing random shows seemed to be a thing we were very into. So I asked him if he could join me and he said yes. I explained to him the basic outline of the events that unfolded and resulted in free tickets. He countered with meeting for lunch and drinks at a Korean place in town that had a very strange name, but was a very good place.

We ate Korean fried chicken and checked out the cute Korean waitresses as we ate. It was an amusing dinner. Neither of us knew what to expect for the show, but we got there early, and got seats on these big sofas as we waited. The lighting was interesting. The crowd was amusing. The New Yorker was buying drinks. Marco did not have an opening act, but he came out prepared to bring a circus level of amusement show. It was actually fantastic.

He music borders on being folky with a touch of alternative. But his energy on stage was absolufuckinglutely dynamic. Hands down he presented one of the best live shows I've ever seen and is someone that will certainly go on my concert watch list for the future. So thank you to whatever concert gods I pleased that allowed me to score some free tickets to the show.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

She Wants Revenge

Moving, at least for the time would keep.

While traveling I got a notice from the concert tool I use to track who is touring that She Wants Revenge was doing a ten year anniversary tour, I spent a little too much money for a VIP ticket so I could go upstairs and see the band from the balcony. I'd also get in before the rest of the guest and, my gods, SHE WANTS REVENGE.

I've been a fan every since I heard the opening refrain of Tear You Apart.

I got as gothed up as I wanted to be for the show, which is fairly gothed up. I wore lace and I'm fairly sure my bra and stockings were visible beneath. My Docs were dirty from trips but I didn't care.

10 years.

It seems almost impossible that it was 10 years, but ten years. The first time I heard the band was in 2006. I recall discovering them from eMusic, where I was a subscriber. The must was suggested and it was perfect for me. It described that moment, in 2006 that I was living through.

Here I was ten years later. My moment was certainly different, yet the music was perfectly appropriate. The music still manages to describe my time, my now, my reality. In some ways, I'm even more in touch with the music now than I was then, with distance, with age, with understanding of how much power I have to embrace my own life, my own choices, and my own truth unapologeticly. This is the biggest gift of now.

The opening act was an assortment of angry pretty young things.

She Wants Revenge was fucking magical. Afterwards I traveled down to the stage and asked Justin, who was packing his own gear, if I could have the set list.

"Your music helped me through a really dark time. Thank you."

He nodded, distracted, smiled, handed me the list.

New York was hot and steamy that night and seemed to match my mood, elated, hot, steamy.

Monday, March 20, 2017

After Paris, I start to Wonder

With all the melancholy I did really started to think, and I realized that there were some things that I now knew that I would need to act on in order to be happy and content with what I was doing with my life.

New York was making me miserable.

I was unhappy with my life in New York because I wasn't really living in the city. I was just existing.

The friends I needed were to far away.

I loved my job.

I had to figure out how to balance the first and the last thing, especially after a location change made getting to and from work harder and harder for me to do. After some talking, some negotiating, a lot of interviewing, and a lot of early mornings and late nights, I managed two things.

The ability to work remotely from Chicago would be a thing.

I could move back home.

I could move back home.

And I could keep my job, in fact, my job would be even would require more travel, it would keep my life very busy. This was part of the change I would need to make things workout in my life. It wasn't the only change but it would be a start and so I took it, and began the preparations to move yet again.

Pondering this, I realized that I am consistent in my life. I have, since 1995, moved at least every two years into a new location, if not in the same city, or same country, but moving either way. And here I would be again, moving on top of all the other changes.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Reflecting in Arms

"Your body, your body, your body," he says, hot breath moving over my neck, my chest.

"Your body, so amazing, so soft in all the right places. I love this body. How can anyone not want to be with your body. Your body," his lips move lower.

I am in an in-between place, hearing these soft whispered words (where are his hands moving) feeling the heat of his breath as he chases down my stomach (is he, yes, yes, there) as he strokes my flesh between his fingers and whispers nothing but worship to my body.

Worship is the only word that works here (his tongue, yes, it works there, yes). Worship.

It is such a strange thing (fingers, sweet long fingers) to be worshiped.

I have never really thought of myself as being deserving of worship in any way shape or form, and yet here (his hair in my finger, pushing, up, yes) in this moment, in this time, in this age, this is definitely worship.

(His lips are wet, I taste sweet to my own lips, so sweet). "So sweet, so sweet, so warm, so soft, this body, your body, yes."

I fold into him, around him (hard against my flesh, hands intertwined, intertwined) falling through a perfume air of lust and desire and being desired.

I have never really thought of myself as being deserving of desire.

Last year was full of endings. Dying, dying, dying, over and over again, my loves, my life, my goals, my dreams, my hopes, my needs...dust.

This year is full of new beginnings, new hands, new lips, new hopes, new dreams new desires (yes, yes, fingers on thighs and the air is warm and moist and I want you there now) and new goals that seem achievable finally.

Also, a new realization of myself. I can be worthy of desire if I want to be. I am worthy of desire.

"Your body, this body, so warm, so round, your breast, sweet breast, perfect size, perfect shape (hands on nipples teasing, yes, yes, there, yes) perfect so warm, so soft."

I have at last become a woman.

Saturday, March 18, 2017


Journal January 2016

You see control.

You see someone in control.

So sure.

So gifted and so skilled.

And you think, 'yes, that is what I need!'



This is someone respected with ages of experience. They will listen to me, and they will be perfect. They will understand me completely and fulfill everything I need from them.'

You see ESP.

You see absolute Empathy.

You see someone together.

You see someone who smiles, and says hello, and welcomes.

“You are new, how can I help you?”

“You are old, how can I help you?”

You, you come here with your life, your reality, your pain, your experiences, your happinesses, your sadnesses and your complaints.

“You don’t understand what it was like...” you say to me.

I hear you.

“Your suffering, no matter how big or small anyone else will ever make it, was the most horrible suffering ever experienced. And that is because it is yours. No one can ever understand what you have been through the way you will understand it.”

I say these words and you think, ‘someone gets it.’

I do.

You need so much.

But I am not.

I am not a god.

I am not the beginning of truth.

I am not your perfect dominant.

I am not your leader.

I am not the ruler of life, the universe.

I am not the judge, and the jury and the sentence, or the shunning.

I am not the solid edifice you see, smooth as marble, a single line.

I am the marble. Cold, un-yielding, and unsympathetic.

“Your pain is the worst pain ever, and that is true. The thing is, your's is not the only pain.”

I am not your perfect ear.

I am not your shoulder to cry on.

I am not the arbitrary judge between what is black and what is white.

The grey area floats to the surface and asks “whose side are you on?”

I am on my side.

I am not what you want me to be. Your perfect dominant. Your goddess.

I will not always always be there when you need me. I will not always send you messages when you need them. I will not give you care if you don’t ask for it but secretly want it. I won’t read your mind and your silent/judgmental, consent violation you won’t communicate to me. I won’t be the mirror dominant to your submissive.

I will not spend several hours on you-reflecting on your figure and creating a narrative of you,-figuring out your needs to mind read you. I’m not your stalker. I’m not your friend.

I’m barely even connected enough some days to know who I am to me.

But I am not...


Stop expecting it of me because I am dominant and you're submissive. Where is my safeword that communicates ‘make your own decisions!’?

I’m not your sage.

I am me.

I would say I’m sorry. But I am not sorry either.

Friday, March 17, 2017


Journal September 2015

What I think about most often is your hands.

Ours touch when meeting, hands floating across a thousand arcs to find flesh. Hands locked together as we walk down the street. Hand in hand as we trapeze through alleys and down roads in search of food, adventure, life.

Hands covering your lips as you laugh. A hand that grasps the slender stem of a wine glass. Hands cutting and arranging a meal for me that only you know how to make, completely aware of everything I need from it.

Your hands in my hair as I drift off to sleep, your hands smell like me. Your hands smell like lavender. Your hands are sweet chocolate and vanilla and honeyed trails traveling between us.

Hands pressed together, hard around soft flesh, your hands telling stories across my body, with my trembling, frightened to be touch by you, thrilled to be touch by you, reading through the writing your fingertips trace: stories erotic, comedy, thrilling, passionate, stories that leave me quivering, full of desire for me.

Words, communication, thoughts, shared desires, all flow from your hands to mine, from your hands to my mind’s eye, where they invoke pictures of your lovely hands, covered in jewels, laced in gloves, your fingers alive with meaning.

Your hands forced together, held down under mine, my hands rough, desirous and rending. Yours soft and gentle, always finding some way to wind back towards me, a connection that cannot be severed.

There is quiet pleasure in your hands, comfort, love, warmth, friendship and undying commitment. The taste of me on your hands and fingers inflames passion, adds subtle elements to our drink and play. Your hands under me, and over me, and around me, locking your arms around me so you can hold me.

Your hands are there when I am strong, and most amazing of all, when I am weak. Your hands don’t care about the single moments, they are committed to the longer story and constructing a narrative over time. The flesh cares not about distance, only waiting, seeking a moment where our finger can mingle together and we can share it all, through touch, without words. Our hands will tell all our grief, sorrow, loneliness and weakness.

Our hands together will make us whole again.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

If you really loved me...

From January 2017

If you really loved me and you ever heard me say the words "if you really loved me..." than I hope you would stop me right there and point out the dark path of hurtful manipulation that will only continue to the end of the relationship.

They are words that are so easy to say, but they are words that are designed to destroy any love another might have for you. Why? Because as soon as you begin that statement you immediately convert your relationship into a sum game. Love has to be "proven" with actions that will appease the person calling into question the love.

The first time you do, say, give, buy or offer any other form of capitulation to prove your love exits and that it is real you begin to build up the little resentments. It also establishes the base value of a "love act" from which all other love acts must now exceed. The thing needed to prove that love you theoretically have for someone else will always get bigger and bigger until you find yourself wondering "when did love stop being enough when it was just me loving?"

Relationships are hard and tricky and need all kinds of balance. If you really love your partner than you will never need them to do something to prove to you they do.

You will just be.

early morning ramblings

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Amusments over Dinner

"Just thinking about this president makes me sick to my stomach."

"I know. I actually had to go to the news to figure out what was going on with the microwave thing."

"Do you know about the microwave thing?" This is one of my favorite dates. We have mutual interests and easy conversations. The conversations range over everything.

"Okay, okay, I can actually explain this," I say.

"What is the microwave thing. I kept having people all day show me all the memes, and they were funny but I didn't quite get it."

"Okay, you know Kelly Ann..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know who that is."

"Right, I hate listening to her talk." It's true. I hate listening to her talk, I hate the way she thinks. She is either an evil genius or a complete moron and I cannot decide where in between she actually falls. I find her evil and horrible and twelve shades of awful and sometimes I wonder why we have have been cursed with yet another horrible woman who seems to believe that any kind of interest by woman to have equality is somehow an assault on women's freedom. Feminism is uncomfortable, which is understandable, but a desire to be treated like a human, not an object, shouldn't be that hard to understand.

"Right, okay, so, you heard about the crazy person talking about everyone wire tapping him?"

"Yeah, I heard about that."

"Okay, well Kelly went around going that it wasn't a lie, just a misunderstanding. She went further to explain how Obama was using microwaves to spy on people."



We both giggle a bit at the ridiculousness of it. It is ridiculous. It's also frustrating and a distraction and a way to keep people from looking at the man behind the curtain and all the horrible things that are happening right now that are compounding my stress and my nightmares and my fears. We laugh and laugh because it is funny.

Sitting, laughing, I wonder how many were laughing in just the same way in the moments before Rome burned.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Snow Day

The thing about working from home is that you don't really get snow days anymore. The thing about global warming is we don't really get snow days anymore. Everyone once in a while, winter broke through this year, but not as often as I would have liked to have seen.

But I work up Monday morning to a world that was covered in powder white snow and it was glorious. The sky was dark and thick with more clouds that promised more snow and I wanted it all. I wanted to watch in fall out of the sky more than I wanted to work. I wanted the crisp, cold, cool, moisture of it all.

The wind blew most of the day and I stayed working next to an old radiator that clicked and clacked. I clicked and clacked on my computer and accomplished worklike things.

I contemplated little. It was not a day for contemplation.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Muscle Work

I woke up on Sunday and my muscles were a bit sore, but I figured that was mostly a concert.

I woke up on Monday and my  muscles were practically screaming at me. Great time to start a new workout regime, I figure. My muscles were screaming because on Saturday I decided to do the big three sets: dumbbell squat, dumbbell deadlift, dumbbell press. I didn't use that much weight, but apparently maxing out at 45 had seriously challenged muscles that have been doing cardio since January.

The heavy lifting had seriously put something out in my back so I was laying off for a bit and ramping up the cardio instead. I don't regret that, as it has been nice to get back to a five day a week routine. I do regret putting my back out as it was roughly four months for that particular pain to give up the ghost.

So I started a new routine, and the trainer amuses the pants off me. He is some bulky Austrian who I am fairly sure wants to be Arnold. He will never quite be Arnold, but he is rather amusing in the way he likes to lift. I suppose it is part of the fun of doing the program at the moment. While the soreness hasn't gone away, at least it is for the most part focused and I enjoy the feeling.

Feeling of weights in my hands. Feeling of my weight gloves on my fingers. Feeling of stretching and growing and challenging muscle groups that don't want to be challenged. The desire to lift and lift and lift and lift. I want to be a fast runner, I want to be a heavy lifter, I want to be content with what I can do physically so that when people mock me I can be secure in my knowledge that while I might not look it, I can outrun, out lift, and out live their mockery with everything I do. My fitness goals are fairly straightforward.

Contentment. I just want to be content.

In the stiffness and the soreness of my body, I feel that at the moment.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Dappled in Sun

Intertwined. Sunlight shining through the windows and all I want to do is lay in bed in the arms of my lover. Soft, warm. Snuggled under white downy blankets watching the sun shine through the window.

Soft giggles from the warm body next to me, sleep laughing. 

There is something so perfect about the absolute lack of tension here. A moment in which both of us, awake or asleep, find perfect peace. 

It is a lifetime on a sunny morning, to live, exist, occupy space with another without tension. 

In this way it is the perfect moment. Bodies dappled in the early spring sun, birds whistling outside, the light sound of waves that are both near and far, and the relaxed laughter of pleasant dreams. 

Saturday, March 11, 2017

Internalization of the Political Moment

"Employees who are not Aryan will be offered a choice. You can keep your job but you will be placed on immediate probation. You will be offered some time to prove your value to the company at a reduced wage or be replaced."

The ATM took my card and I see this message and I must accept or reject. To reject will mean that I am unemployed. I don't want to be unemployed.

I accept the message and say yes.

Immediately I see what my new earning potential will be, the value sign of my yearly worth to the company as a person of color. My lack of Aryanness is suddenly a real thing. I am not perfect.





In this moment I feel my non-whiteness with more frevor, it is more real to me.





In this moment I feel my otherness completely. They know everything. The company. Each window of my privacy they have opened.

You sleep with women.

You sleep with men.

You call yourself a witch.

You drink.

You draw.

You paint.

You make your own clothing.

You are a goth.

You are a freak.





That last is the worst of the insults hurled at me. The others are cold but carry only really the weight of the playground bully. Some are choices, goth, slut, artist, creator.

Sexuality, like my skin color, I cannot choose.





Behind my is my co-worker and she wants to use the ATM. She asks me to move.

"It's okay. Look, just do the job. You know it was only what you deserved anyway. It could be worse right. You do the job."

She shrugs.

We sit in the break room and the walls are accusing me. The walls with posters telling me what a good employee looks like.




Sucks her bosses cock.

Produces cute little white babies.

There is a two story house and a white picket fence and after baby the second she stays home with her husband who was her boss but is now her master. The walls scream at me.


The message they scream louder.





"And what's the problem anyway. For the job you do? It's a fair rate, don't you think?"

"Yeah, fair. It should have been my job anyway, you know." They smile with full white teeth and blond hair and blue eyes and rosey cheeks, each with pictures of a single adorable white child nightmare dangling from a locket around their neck pressed against a cross and all so fucking normal.


I wake screaming.

Friday, March 10, 2017

La Vie Boheme

At the top of a mountain in Montmartre I wondered through the streets looking at ancient buildings and old stone. The space was alive with artists painting, colors, street performers, gypsy. 

There was a camera crew filming and movie and it looked so very French, a young band tromping down the streets, red coat, guitar cases. They moved along the sidewalk to the cue of clacking cues and down the hills. I watched them go, acting out their ennui or were they the embodiment. Did they need to act? Did they need to pretend? 

I found a small restaraunt in the market square with a secret garden in the back. Outside the artist painted scenes and hawked their wares, desperate, as all artist have always been desperate, to be seen, to be known to be discovered. Hopefully to be plucked out of obscurity and knowing that at best they may never see the fame their art could bring. But artist create for pennies or riches it matters not. Artists must create. 

There was foie gras with gooseberries and wine and the warmth of an afternoon and I was flush in my discontent but also in the sense of being filled with more experience in a moment that I could fully understand. Something was happening here, but what I could not have told you at the time, only that I felt wild with discontent as I sat in that small garden alone, reading a book, eating fatty foods and enjoying it, at least the taste, it was something. 

Here I am, I thought to myself, walking the streets of artist being both alive and melancholy. Aren't I just French as Fuck right now? That was how I felt then. It was something. It was being alive. Perhaps that is the only point, but at least then it was keeping me going. I bought a necklace. I bought a magnet. These are the things I buy when I travel. Small pieces of life that are easily transported. 

Later, I went for dinner not knowing that it was the night of the Eurobowl. I ended up back on the hills of Montremarte, somehow, after running into a variety of revelers wondering the streets of France. Some of the fans were screaming up and down the streets in front of me waving a French flag and catcalling on the narrow streets as the cars passed by. They jostled each other and managed to get on either side of the street and hold their flag over passing cars, raising and lowering it as if they were somehow matadors in a bullfight, heady and overenthusiastic and full of their youth. 

There was a wildness in them, in the streets, in the experience. I had two days in Paris, two days I did not really want, but two days that I used to the best of my ability. 

Walking back to my hotel down random streets I walked past a restaurant and suddenly there was a woman running out the door, she was choking. Her friends kept beating on her back. I recognized her position and her posture and ran into the restaurant. I yelled for sparkling water and pointed at the woman, the waitress didn't argue but she didn't understand me, or the moment. 

I brought the water out and put it to the lips of the woman as she struggled, tilting my head back, telling her to drink. She shook her head but I convinced her and she swallowed a mouthful, shuddered and looked at me with sparkling eyes. She couldn't speak to me in English to tell me what was happening, however the palpable relief that washed over her told me that the cure had worked and she wasn't choking anymore in the middle of her body. She explained to her friends, still coming down from the panic and they patted my back, shook my hand. I left them to attend to their friend who was calmer now still looking at me, as if I had discovered the cure to cancer somehow, this stranger who spoke no French but immediately knew her distress. She had a hero in that moment, I didn't know what to do with her gratitude. 

More passing faces, random people, lives touched here and there, and I am woven into them as a small thread and I wonder what they must say of me if they ever say anything at all. What was I then? That day, was I a hero, or simply someone unafraid to ask. 

Today I say I am bold or forward. 

That day it was true. 

It will be true again tomorrow. 

The next morning I took the train from Paris back to London. I stayed alone in a place called the wall and felt more alone than I have ever been. After that I folded myself around a small dog that loved me and a lover who I had come to value more than myself. For a moment there was joy and I began to see some breaks in the darkness that was swallowing me.