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 better...it 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. 


Thursday, March 09, 2017

Espace Dali

The next day, and also my last day in Paris, started much like the first. I went to the same cafe. I ate brunch which ended in a French apple tart, I wrote until the battery on my computer died, and then I went back to my hotel to dump my computer and change. I bought a dress specifically for traveling in Paris for it made me feel very french. It was white with pink strips. I wore my over-sized glasses and checked the map I got for free on the train. I could find nothing to do.

I asked the Googleplex and it suggested Sacre Coeur and Espace Dali. I wondered on this thing called Espace Dali and wondered if it had anything to do with that artist Dali. To my amusement, it was actually a Dali museum, so I decided that would be the thing I would do with my day. By this time I had managed to find an ATM that would allow me to get some cashy money, eliminating the trouble with my credit card, and proceeded then to find the bus I needed.

On the street corner I waited idly, with my camera well hidden, eyeing the dark men who were eyeing me from door frames. I still don't really understand what that was all about. The bus came and took me up and up and up, winding roads, cobble stones, all the way up to the top of the mountain that would allow me to find Sacre Coeur, the big old monastery on the hill. It was somewhat late, but also early, but it didn't matter, there were already throngs of people on the hill. I decided to keep the edifice as my second destination, with my first being the Dali museum.

To my pleasure and delight it was indeed Dali, who had spent a number of years in Montmartre, painting and sculpting. The things I don't know. For some reason, though I'm rather familiar with his vast catalog of paintings, I had no idea that he was also a prolific sculptor. Inside the small Espace Dali was the largest collection of his original pieces along with some of his rare lithographs for stories like Alice in Wonderland and apocryphal works from the bible, and illustrations of ancient Greek Myths.

Ah, the sensation of being surrounded by three dimensional Dali. I spent almost two hours in a museum that barely had a collection of 100 pieces but time there seemed so vital, so fast moving, so impossible to hold. Like the spindly legs of one of Dali's space elephants transporting crystal obelisks for the faithful to worship, so impossible, so real, so probably when cast in bronze and placed in front of me. I wanted to worship there. Lie down on the floor and just be present in that space and time, melt like the sculptures of clocks around me. I finished with the knowledge that some of the pieces still get cast and with some effort I might someday own my own piece of Dali. It will be Godiva with Butterflies which I think is the closest thing to visualizing my life that I have ever seen.