Friday, April 30, 2004

I'm off to a play party in a space I haven't played in over 4 years. Curiousity drives me tonight. Not having a clue what to expect, I feel like I'm going to a movie where not only have I not read any reviews, but I have no idea what genre it is.

Let's see what's in store, shall we?
I don't feel I've been hugely original in my blog this week. It's okay...and a temporary thing. You see, I'm revelling in some internal changes. Yes, in one sense it's taking extra energy, but in a good way. And also, I want to keep it to myself right now. It's new, and I am selfishly immersing myself in this goodness.

But, not wanting to leave you adrift, here's a titillating tidbit I've pilfered from The Padacia. He gathered suicide notes from various folks. I find these quite beautiful.

Last Words & Suicide Notes

And so I leave this world, where the heart must either break or turn to lead.
- Nicolas-Sebastien Chamfort, French writer, d. 1794
Suicide note.

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar. Please keep going Courtney, for Frances for her life will be so much happier without me. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.
- Kurt Cobain, musician, d. April 8, 1994
Suicide note.

Goodbye, everybody!
- Hart Crane, poet, d. April 27, 1932
Last words as he jumped off the cruise ship Orizaba. His body was never found.

To my friends: My work is done. Why wait?
- George Eastman, inventor, d. March 14, 1932
Suicide note.

Goodbye, my friend, goodbye
My love, you are in my heart.
It was preordained we should part
And be reunited by and by.
Goodbye: no handshake to endure.
Let's have no sadness -- furrowed brow.
There's nothing new in dying now
Though living is no newer.
- Sergei Esenin, Russian poet, d. Dec. 28, 1925
Written in his own blood, and given to a friend the day before he hanged himself.

When all usefulness is over, when one is assured of an unavoidable and imminent death, it is the simplest of human rights to choose a quick and easy death in place of a slow and horrible one.
- Charlotte Perkins Gilman, writer, d. August 17, 1935
Suicide note. As an advocate for the right-to-die, Gilman committed suicide on August 17, 1935 by taking an overdose of chloroform. She "chose chloroform over cancer."

All fled -- all done, so lift me on the pyre;
The feast is over, and the lamps expire.
- Robert E. Howard, writer, d. June 11, 1936
Suicide note.

And now, in keeping with Channel 40's policy of always bringing you the latest in blood and guts, in living colour, you're about to see another first -- an attempted suicide.
- Chris Hubbock, newscaster, d. 1970
Shot herself during broadcast.

Don't worry, it's not loaded.
- Terry Kath, rock musician, d. January 23, 1978
Suicide playing Russian roulette.

They tried to get me -- I got them first!
- Vachel Lindsay, poet, d. December 4, 1931
Suicide by drinking Lysol.

I must end it. There's no hope left. I'll be at peace. No one had anything to do with this.
My decision totally.
- Freddie Prinze, comedian, d. January 29, 1977
Suicide note.

Dear World, I am leaving you because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool -- good luck.
- George Sanders, British actor, d. April 25, 1972
Suicide note.

When I am dead, and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain drenched hair,
Tho you should lean above me broken hearted,
I shall not care.
For I shall have peace.
As leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough.
And I shall be more silent and cold hearted
Than you are now.
- Sara Teasdale, poet, d. 1933
Suicide note to her lover who left her.

To Harald, may God forgive you and forgive me too but I prefer to take my life away and our baby's before I bring him with shame or killing him, Lupe.
- Lupe Velez, actress, d. December 13, 1944
Suicide note.

The future is just old age and illness and pain... I must have peace and this is the only way.
- James Whale, film director, d. May 29, 1957
Suicide note.

I don't believe that people should take their own lives without deep and thoughtful reflection over a considerable period of time.
- Wendy O. Williams, punk rock performer, d. April 6, 1998
Suicide note.

I have a feeling I shall go mad. I cannot go on longer in these terrible times. I shan't recover this time. I hear voices and cannot concentrate on my work. I have fought against it but cannot fight any longer.
- Virginia Woolf, author, d. March 28, 1941
Suicide note.


On another note, Mark Morford has questions for President Bush.
For example:
"Mr. President, if a train leaves San Francisco at 10 am carrying 1,000 happily gay happily married couples and travels at 85 mph for three hours, while at the very same moment a train departs Crawford, Texas, loaded with 2,000 vaguely miserable Christian fundamentalists and nail-wearing fanatics of "The Passion of the Christ" and travels in exactly the opposite direction at 65 mph for the same amount of time, at what point will almost every single fundamentalist secretly wish s/he could be the towel boy for the hot-tub parties on the other train?"

Read the rest at 11 Hard Questions For Bush - In which our columnist sits down with the prez for some truly tough talk. Can Dubya handle it?


By the way, Uppity Faggot has added comments to its blog. Looks like Bruce wants to recognize uppity readers.
Okay. Wanna know what works for excited hyper behavior? How about 2 kava kava. It slowed me down enough to focus on my work. I found my groove...and blew through a wad of stuff. Highly productive. Afterwards...and this is part of the calming down...I went for a long walk on Lake Washington. Today was so warm. Being on the water, watching the boats and the can you not slow down? Met up with Boots, Bondage and Cigar Top, and walked. From there...a couple glasses of Moristel, hummus, tapanade, mushrooms and roasted red peppers at Cafe Septieme. All needed. All perfect.
Food, water, talk about s/m. Good stuff. It's powerful and relaxing.

Thursday, April 29, 2004

A quick note because...well I can. I'm feeling manic today (the shrink's words, not mine). Actually, I have been and that's why I haven't been sleeping.

me: i haven't slept well since tuesday, when i shared my revelation with you.
the shrink: that's because you're excited.
me: not good. i need to sleep.
the shrink: but it's good that you're excited. enjoy it.
me: but I can't sleep. and it's tough concentrating on work.
the shrink: yes you are a little manic but it's better than not sleeping or working because you're depressed.
me: maybe i'll take some kava kava to slow me down
the shrink: that's a good idea.
me: are stories all we have?
the shrink: no
me: but what else is there?
the shrink: what was before and goes on after us.
me: right...but that energy is intertwined in our stories so that's all there is.
the shrink: it's two separate things.
me: okay...the 'whatever' and stories. that's all there is.
the shrink: that's a good word for it.
me: i believe that but don't like believing it.
the shrink: of's the rational mind. it's not into faith.
me: my review with my boss rocked!
the shrink: that's wonderful
me: oh yea...and two good friends want me to move into their building.
the shrink: i think it's a perfect idea. you ought to be surrounded by lots of gay men.
me: i can't paint. the phonathon began and i've been too busy.
the shrink: (just looks at me)
me: guess what? i forgot to tell you about...(and so it goes)

How many topics could we cover in a 50 minute session? Honestly, I think the longest was actually the first one about sleep and excitement. I apparently wasn't settling more than 3 minutes on a subject. Yet it flowed. My mind just wove ribbons from one to the other...and I noticed, with pleasure, that the shrink had no problems keeping up.

I returned to work, grabbed a sandwich and called a friend to make plans to go for a long walk this evening. So, while talking on the phone, I'm eating and using my free hand to do some computer work. Yeah...a tad manic. And now here I am. And I'm off to do more work. Hmmm....if this keeps up, it doesn't matter how many days of alone time I have at work, I won't get much done. But part of the healing I guess.
I don't normally work Fridays but will be in the office tomorrow. Others will be at the yearly retreat so I'm grabbing the opportunity to have a quiet workplace and somehow begin to catch up on my workload. It looks as if I'll have the office to myself Monday and Tuesday as well. Yessss!!!! With no interruptions, 9 days of work can get done in these 3 days. I've already warned the staff that I'm not answering phones. 98 percent of the calls are for the others, and it can just as easily go to their voice mail.

Believe it or not, this alone time at work will feel like a vacation.
My tv is currently tuned in to West Wing and yet here I am, blogging. What's up with that? Especially since I haven't slept in over 36 hours. Nope. I never left work early, and I'm still up. So be forewarned. The following may be gibberish.

If I don't grab the thoughts in my head and pop 'em out, they won't get written. After posting Preston's quote about stories, I was reminded of how important our individual stories are. Working in a nonprofit has made me acutely aware of stories. Organizations have their mission statements. Days, weeks and months are filled with endless committee meetings to develop these statements. The majority of them feel like grandiose ideas with empty syllables filling up white space.

Approaching a prospective donor with an explanation of your organization and a brochure of your broad mission statement is a crap shoot. He may or may not open his pockets. But a combination of a statement that makes an impact with actual examples of how the organization has created change immensely increases donations. It's the personal touch.

We see it all the time in the grants and scholarship review teams. Community members are face to face with individual needs. They touch the pain of those seeking. More often than not, someone comes off the review team and will give to assist funding that little bit extra.

Sometimes I think organizations mistake their mission statements for a value and vision statement. It becomes an ideal, which is good to keep in mind. But bring it down to a level that reflects humanity. Make it intimate. I went to listen to a speaker a few years back. She spoke about the importance of a good mission statement. Her big suggestion was that most mission statements were too wordy. The trick is to ask why. Write your statement and then begin with the "why?" Continue asking why until you can't anymore. That allows you to hone in on the core of what you're trying to do. If I remember correctly, she gave an example surrounding a group that fed the homeless. They began their statement with something about ending hunger in the world. Ask why. Why should we end hunger? Because no one should go hungry. Why should no one go hungry? After a while of continually asking why, they came up with their mission statement. Short, sweet and powerful. "Hunger hurts."

Periodically I think about applying that idea to my own life. What would my values and vision statement look like? And more importantly, what would my mission statement look like? Then, what stories would I share to back up my mission statement?

I think in some ways the phenomena of blogging has assisted with the sharing our stories. When a few friends wanted to begin blogs, they'd express the desire and yet always say, "but what would I write about?" My first response would be, "think about creating a mission statement for your blog. It wouldn't need to be formal, and is subject to change, but would give you a beginning direction."

So...what am I trying to say with all this? Who are you? What do you want to accomplish? Why are you here? Share your stories. It's important because it's a part of you. And I'm so speaking to myself as well. Sometimes I'll begin to write and then stop myself, thinking, "this is stupid" or "it's no big deal." But, isn't even the grandest of life made up of small moments? It's the simple things that remind me we are alike and different and alike.

Our stories are all we have.

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

"We all have stories in us. It is one of the worst things that has been done to us as gay men that we were told that our stories don't count. We were especially told that our erotic stories don't count. That is not true. That is a lie which has been a large part of making us feel unable and unwilling to reach for our self-pride in many other ways.

Our stories are our history. Our experiences are the things that draw us together as a people and then, as a people, separate us form the rest of society. There are those of us who are writing as many stories as we can and doing it as well as we can. But there is always room for more."

-John Preston, Introduction to the First Edition, August 1986
Seeing I didn't sleep a wink last night (and I'm not sure why), I just strolled into the office bleary eyed and foggy headed. Therefore, I will hang around for two meetings, and then am headed home. When your job involves numbers, it's tough to do after 8 solid hours of tossing and turning.

Meanwhile, here are 3 thoughts for today:

1 - "The world is run by those who can't make love, or those who do it badly.
That's why the world is in trouble."
Guneli Gun, *On the Road to Baghdad: A Picaresque Novel of Magical Adventures*

2 - Freewill Astrology

3 - Mark Morford asks: Is Your Porn Safe? Lock up your daughters and hide your smut, John Ashcroft is on the anti-sex warpath, again.
It's about fucking time! I've wondered if someone would bring this up.

Cruising the Valley Advocate online, I discover this:

Civil Unions For All
by Andrew Varnon - April 22, 2004

On March 29, lawmakers on Beacon Hill took the first step in an attempt to outmuscle the Supreme Judicial Court on the subject of gay marriage. The court in February had rebuked the Legislature's "separate but equal" proposal for civil unions, but the Legislature came right back at the "activist judges," ekeing out enough support to carry forward a ban on gay marriage with a guarantee of civil unions for same-sex couples.

It's as if the moderate coalition of lawmakers came together over this sentiment: "You say we can't ban gay marriages? Well, guess what? We'll do just that. You say we can't create a 'separate but equal' institution for gays? Well, guess what? We'll do just that."

But is that the only course of action the lawmakers could have taken? In fact, the four majority justices on the SJC did allow for one way of accepting civil unions. In a footnote to the majority opinion, Chief Justice Margaret Marshall wrote that if lawmakers were to "to jettison the term 'marriage' altogether, it might well be rational and permissible. ...What is not permissible is to retain the word for some and not for others..."

It's a very elegant solution. Churches don't think gays should get married? They don't have to marry them. But the state will give civil union certificates -- and all the benefits currently reserved for married couples -- to any couple that wants them, gay or straight.

But it's also a very radical solution, which may explain why no one on Beacon Hill has brought it forward until now. And the lawmaker who is now circulating this "civil unions for all" idea is perhaps an unlikely messenger for it: Rep. Paul Loscocco. Loscocco, a Republican from Holliston, was one of the most outspoken opponents of both gay marriage and the civil unions compromise during the constitutional convention.

Loscocco excoriated the SJC in the House chambers and called the civil unions compromise an "ill-conceived attempt to split the difference and make nobody happy."

Never quite voicing the basis for his hostility to gay marriage, Loscocco instead pointed out technical flaws with the civil unions provision and argued that the Legislature should "respect the referendum process" and heed the will of petitioners who brought a straight-up gay marriage ban forward two years ago.

Now Loscocco is singing a different tune. He wants to take the institution of marriage out of government, give it over wholly to religious institutions, and put civil unions in its place.

Last week he told Reuters, "A lot of people can't put their finger on why they're opposed to gay marriage, but when it comes down to it, they're confusing the civil with the religious acts." He added, "My approach puts forth a reasonable, rational way to take the heat out of the situation."

Whether Loscocco's attempt to "split the difference" will make anybody happy remains to be seen. The civil union compromise has to get a second "yes" vote from the Legislature in 2005 if it is to go before the voters in 2006. Meanwhile, the SJC's ruling allowing gay marriages is scheduled to take effect on May 17.

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

I haven't had 5 minutes to myself all day...until now. I want to clarify something. Just because I've been feeling lonely doesn't mean I'm depressed. Two different things. And in addition to the lonely, there's been excitement. Excitement cuz I know this is another window into what makes me tick. It felt good to be able to share it with my shrink. Right after that, I had to rush back to work for my annual review with my boss. What a thing to do after an intense therapy session.

You know it's gonna be good when the boss begins with, "I just wanted you to know that I love and totally adore you." And went uphill from there. We spoke of this past year, struggling with work amidst the darkness I've felt, while in the throes of growing pains for the office. And then she said she admired me...for how I handled it all, and understood the times I would snap and bark. was very good, and gave us a chance to reconnect.

From there I was running a little late for an appointment with someone from another organization. They wanted information on the database we use...because they're in the market for one. So we spent a couple hours in front of mine...talking. I was giving her the pros and cons...showing how we customize, and gave her questions that she should be asking whatever software company she speaks with.

Loads of talking today...and I'm fried.

I want to write something sexy and controversial...but this is all you're getting from me right now.
A couple things on my plate. First, posting de Kooning's birthday prompted Singletails to write me with a story about de Kooning. It's a quirky anecdote, which I love...and so asked him if I could share his email with you. He generously agreed.

Singletails wrote:
"Somewhere somewhere somewhere I once heard a story about how
de Koonig and (I think) Allen Ginsberg were walking down the street in NYC, and Willem was attacked by butterflies, which were going for his eyes.

The bizarre story was explained: apparently there is a breed of butterfly that craves salt during breeding season, and when they hit upon a source (de Kooning's tears), it sets off a sort of butterfly feeding frenzy.

I mean, who knows.

But I love this image: the abstract expressionist painter and the beat poet and the butterflies going for the painters eyes."

As I wrote back to Singletails...I know there's a surrealistic painting in that image. I think Dali would have had a field day.


Questions and answers. Getting to the right question has been on my mind these last few days because, well...I had a huge lightbulb moment of a question on Sunday morning. That question, gave me answers. This is a preview, because I've an appt with the shrink today, and he has yet to hear about it.

I was spending time writing and felt an immense awareness. Big, big, big. Some stuff began to make sense. I was so excited I wanted to share it...and didn't know with who. I mean...I wanted someone there to celebrate with me. I almost called my shrink. He was out of state for the weekend, but informed me he was accessible by cell phone. Hesitating, I considered emailing him. Then didn't. I paced...and I was busting.

A question then came to me.
"Am I more lonely when I'm sad and have no one to share it with, or when something fabulous happens and I've no one to share it with?"
The heavens opened and the earth shook beneath my feet. The skies grew ominous, with it's grey green clouds rolling in. Torrential rains appeared and cleared the atmosphere. A gentle wind prodded the storm along and allowed the sun to come through again.

"Am I more lonely when I'm sad or hurt and have no one to share it with, or when something fabulous happens and I've no one to share it with?"

Neglect comes in many forms. A child needs to be celebrated. Their achievements, big and small, need to be acknowledged. Being too busy, or too sick to give that attention is detrimental. They may very well end up craving the words "good boy" or "good girl". They may end up not seeing their own self worth. They may not be comfortable celebrating their own successes...because, know, they've learned it's really not a big deal.

I used to ask the question, "what happened to me when I was little?" I even asked my shrink last week, "okay....I don't believe so, but do you think I could have been sexually abused and I simply don't remember?" I just had to ask the question, although quite nervous while doing so.
He said, "I highly doubt it."
"I believe you were neglected. Not sure how...but that's it."

Of course I then considered possible events like - maybe I had been forgotten or lost while on vacation. Maybe I was really hungry when little and they were too busy to feed me. My mind would go through each 'tv movie of the week' scenario. Nothing felt right. Then I figured it didn't matter. I mean, does it really? Do we need to know the specific incidence(s)? At times, I'm sure it's critical, but not in all cases.

Anyway...the question came to me. And with that question...the answer followed as naturally as a period at the end of a sentence. No wondering, no angst. It was sure and clean and freeing. Of course I then wanted to share that...and didn't. There wasn't the opportunity. Part of me also wanted to keep it to myself...sit with it. So I have...kept it to myself...just sitting...for the last two days. And yes, it is incredibly lonely.

Monday, April 26, 2004

You know, I think it's all about the question. Answers are secondary, and at times trivial. Okay, I can hear you now. You're saying, "Ummm...girlfag...without the answer, there's no solution, and we're still left hanging. We need answers!"

Consider this. Without the right question, wouldn't you have the wrong answer?"

Sunday, April 25, 2004

I think I understand. Or actually, I think I'm beginning to understand. It's all about seasons. Really.
Although our lives may not follow the seasons in nature, timewise, it is all cyclical.

Sounds like a total 'duh' moment, doesn't it? But not really. Because if I really knew that, with full awareness, I wouldn't stress so much through each experience, yet immerse myself and find the beauty in every moment.

An aside: while writing this, Santana's "Put Your Lights On" is playing on Radio Paradise. It's perfect.

"Put Your Lights On" (feat. Everlast)

Hey now, all you sinners
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you lovers
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you killers
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you children
Leave your lights on, you better leave your lights on
Cause there's a monster living under my bed
Whispering in my ear
There's an angel, with a hand on my head
She say I've got nothing to fear
There's a darkness deep in my soul
I still got a purpose to serve
So let your light shine, into my home
God, don't let me lose my nerve
Lose my nerve
Hey now, hey now, hey now, hey now
Wo oh hey now, hey now, hey now, hey now
Hey now, all you sinners
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you children
Leave your lights on, you better leave your lights on
Because there's a monster living under my bed
Whispering in my ear
There's an angel, with a hand on my head
She say's I've got nothing to fear
La ill aha ill allah
We all shine like stars
We all shine like stars
Then we fade away

This week I was really pissed at my shrink. You see, on Wednesday morning, I looked at my horoscope from Rob Brezsny. It was such a nice idea that I wanted it to be true...from the bottom of my heart. Printing it out, I brought it with me to my appointment, and read it to my shrink. Then I begged him..."let this be true."

He hesitated, and said, "no, it's not." I asked him if he was responding from his spiritual training or his shrink training. He replied, "my spiritual training...although I'd give you the same answer from my professional training."

I cried. I am a very realistic person. I don't believe in fairy tales. But...I wanted this magical bag.

My horoscope said:

If you're average, 90 industrial compounds and pollutants are circulating through your body. You also have the residues of 20 million advertisements and 200,000 televised acts of violence stored in your brain. That's the bad news, Capricorn. The good news is that you'll soon have an abundance of experiences that are highly effective at neutralizing toxins. I'm referring to encounters with play, delight, and love. Rejoice in the fact that every time you grin, giggle, or chuckle in the coming weeks, you'll purge a nasty influence that had been sapping your energy. A single belly laugh could flush out 50,000 commercials.

Well I took this to mean that for each good experience, I could dissolve one bad experience. Little by little I could purge my history. A magic to speak, although it's still my responsibility because I need to make the choice to seek out and grab good stuff.

But...nooooo...says he. It doesn't work that way. He then added it kinda works that way. Although I can't erase memories, I can ease the sting. The 'scope did mention neutralizing toxins, not annihilating them.

He asked me what I loved.
"Painting and fucking...that's what is important."
(Mind you, for those who don't know me, fucking is all sex...not just the act. It includes s/m, food, music and more.)

"Yes" he said. And the more you paint and fuck, the greater your armor against old hurts. They won't have the same power over you.

I cried. I'm tired. Feeling so broken, I didn't want to work anymore. I wanted a way to get rid of it all and no longer bump up against painful objects.

The shrink then relayed a fucking metaphor. Yeah, that's where I got pissed. He spoke of a garden. "To keep your garden healthy, you need to keep weeding. Even when you clear all the weeds, without diligence, they will grow back."

I snapped back, "metaphors are subject to interpretation...and this is bullshit."

Watching me, he calmly responded. "In nature, there is truth."
"You're going to have to see that."

I knew he was right, but still in a mood. "Tomorrow I'll accept it. Today, I need to be sad and pissed."

I saw a small smile on his face. "That is good," he says.

Yesterday it really hit me. I felt the knowledge begin to take hold in my heart. The truth that lies in nature is one we can trust. Somehow I know it's all okay. It's a big realization that is slowly working its way through my marrow.

And now, I'm headed to a real garden, spend the day weeding.

Saturday, April 24, 2004

I'm sitting here, composing a lengthier blog entry and the phone rings. It's sweet boy, who offers to take me to the movies. He apparently has received a load of money from a big job last week, and wants to share some. So instead of these amazing and fabulous insights (which I've saved in a word doc for later), you're getting this quickie. It's been a day of errands, and some impromptu beatings. Today it was a rolling pin. Solid wood, 3 inches in diameter and a foot long. They decided the back of my thighs had been neglected last weekend, and cried for attention. Once again, I'm sore and happy. And now...I'm off to the movies and a quick bite.

I'll leave you with the beginning of my longer piece. It's is all seasonal, and things come around again...although newer and different, with patience and in time. Talk with you later!
Today is Willem De Kooning's birthday. Want to see some of his work?

Composition, 1955

Untitled, 1958

And here are some images of de Kooning's work from the collection at the National Gallery of Art.

"Style is a fraud. I always felt the Greeks were hiding behind their columns."
-Willem De Kooning
"Create like a god, command like a king, work like a slave."
-Constantin Brancusi

Friday, April 23, 2004

Here's some more cheery news for today. Can't you tell I'm in a mood? It's not permanent and will improve, but must be due to the phone call from my mother last night. My sweet, religious, don't want to hear anything bad or sexual, mother. I love her, but it makes for awkward conversations. Well, Mark Morford rants about ClearPlay. I hadn't heard about it until now. Apparently, ClearPlay is a dvd player that will generously do the censoring for you. Unfuckingbelievable.
Yesterday was an intensely busy and long day. I was determined to finish everything on my desk before I left for the weekend...and achieved that goal. I realized I was in a zone when I growled at anyone who popped their head in my office to say, "I know you're busy, and this isn't important but I just wanted to...". Errrr.

Why is it some folks have the knack of derailing others? No matter how often you nicely say, "I'm crazed today, please just email me any requests", it just doesn't happen. Oh well.

I'm now off until Monday, and there's the weekend to look forward to.

It was so nuts yesteday that I didn't have time to post this article that was in my email in the morning.

"Doctors or other health care providers could not be disciplined or sued if they refuse to treat gay patients under legislation passed Wednesday by the Michigan House.

The bill allows doctors to refuse service to anyone on moral, ethical or religious grounds."

This angers, sickens and hurts. You have to jump through nearly impossible hoops to become a conscientious objector when it comes to killing people, but if you're a physician in Michigan you now have a free ride to become a conscientious objector in regards to healing people.

I went googling for more information, and found the Michigan Legislature's web page...which has the history and text of The Conscientious Objector Policy Act.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Wanna know about the apartment?

Well. It was light and sunny. Large windows and very high ceilings. Some serious suspension could take place in the space.

But...there was no way it could have been 750 square feet. I walked into what appeared to be a kitchen, with very small apartment size appliances. One little counter between the baby stove and the sink. There were two cupboards above, and one below. Half of this small kitchen was carpeted. A door from there went into the bedroom. The bath, with a tub, off to the side. I asked the rental agent where the living room was. Apparently, the carpeted section was it. The bedroom was large, about 12 x 14....and it appeared that the l/r - kitchen combo wasn't much bigger. The bathroom wasn't more than 8 x 10. Two very, very small closets in the bedroom. You do the math.

Hmmm. I tried to imagine that maybe I could make the large, bright sunny bedroom, with a very nice view of the mountains be a combo living room/bedroom, which meant I would paint in the carpeted supposed living room. But, thinking further, I knew I couldn't do it.

You see, I realized I couldn't realistically entertain in this very little apartment. Not that I need size. Layout is important and can make up for lack of size. Since moving to Seattle, I've yet to live in an apartment that feels like home. I want to entertain. I want friends over. I want to cook for them. Back east, I shared my home with folks at least every month, if not more. I miss that.

So, I've decided that seeing I don't have to move, I will take my time. Time to find my home.

My apartment, ideally, will be within walking distance of work. It will be on a fairly quiet street. There will be room to paint. I don't mind using the living room to paint. I have no problem entertaining amidst work in progress. But it needs to feel like home. And the kitchen needs to be cooking friendly. I want to have the space to make a big pot of beef burgundy, Mom's amazing meatloaf, or my memere's toutieres (canadian meatpie).

I want people to sit around my paintings, eat and enjoy each other.

This may be a tall order, considering my rent requirements. But that's okay, I can wait. And, I believe it will happen. It's not a whim, but a pretty strong heart's desire. Patience, grasshopper.
The light is gorgeous this morning. Driving up I-5 into the city, I glanced to the left, saw Elliot Bay and did a double take. The land and homes were caked in a very warm, greenish yellow glow. The water...ohhhh...the water, was an intense deep blue green. Magic...truly magic. Seattle is the Emerald City.

I don't speak of it often, but every morning brings a new surprise with color and light. A different part of the landscape or building is showcased...standing out, saying "pay attention to me...aren't I fabulous?"


And now, for another possibly ethereal's this week's Freewill Astrology.


"He is perfect and flawless and without the slightest taint of guilt or error, and, despite looking like a bowl of Jell-O salad in a universe of divine tiramisu, he is, apparently, an angel of purity and light."
This is why Mark Morford juices me. Today he wonders why our leaders can't show a little bit of humanity.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Notes and Errata - Mark Morford, SFGate Columnist

Why Won't Dubya Apologize?
Botched 9/11 info, two botched wars, a gutted economy, global scorn. Why can't W be a man?

There comes a time. There comes a time in every raw dumb imperfect beleaguered human's life when s/he has to face the music and pay the piper and fess up to his or her crimes and misdemeanors and blatant careening flubs and heartless gaffes and whoa where the hell was my brain that time sorry sorry sorry.

We all do it. We all smack our palms to our foreheads and trip on our own ideological shoelaces, and we are exasperating and thoughtlessly cruel without knowing it, running roughshod over our noble or ignoble intentions on a daily basis because, well, we are just wired this way. Just ask Mel "Spurtin' Blood" Gibson -- I mean, how much more wrong can you get?

But then comes the hard part: We apologize. Profusely and maybe even a bit meekly, we ask for forgiveness or at least offer an olive branch and recognize our shared messy humanness as the thing that differentiates us from the saccharine sexless drone people of the world -- like, you know, Laura Bush. Shudder.

But then there's Dubya. He is, apparently, immune. He is perfect and flawless and without the slightest taint of guilt or error, and, despite looking like a bowl of Jell-O salad in a universe of divine tiramisu, he is, apparently, an angel of purity and light. It's true.

For here is Dubya, mumbling his way through another shockingly insulting news conference just recently, screwing up both his face and his intelligence data (again) and still a-huntin' for nonexistent WMDs in Iraqi turkey farms (?) as reporter after reporter asks him, point blank, why he won't simply come clean.

They ask him, repeatedly, why he cannot find a single mistake in any policy his slithery admin has unleashed upon the nation, much less confess to any rampant missteps and botched decisions and oily ulterior motives and blatant screw-ups regarding 9/11 and Saddam and WMDs and his fetish for warmongering and for rewriting intelligence data to suit his corporate needs, all while taking more vacations than any president in history.

His answer? Nope. Nossiree, no mistakes were made. In fact, we as a nation are more on track than ever and hey lookit my shiny new boots okey doke thanks fer comin' gotta run. Plants wilted, children cried, even semicomatose cats couldn't help but wince at Bush's weird deflections and alcoholism-grade denials. What a surreal and sad county we swim in.

Why won't Bush admit he got 9/11 at least partially wrong? Why won't he acknowledge, at the very least -- as even longtime egomaniacal terrorism wonk Richard Clarke had the calm cojones to do -- that the U.S. ain't perfect and the government could've done much (much, much) better and hey we're flawed and we're learning and sorry, everyone, for the bloodbath and the malevolence and the rampant ongoing death and the 100 dead U.S. soldiers in the past month alone?

It is not too much to ask. It is not wildly out of the question. Sure, everyone knows all politicians across the planet -- and U.S. Republican politicians in particular -- are genetically engineered to loathe truth, programmed from birth to shun responsibility and reject blame and screech at honest fact like Lynne Cheney denies her bodice-ripping lesbian fantasies.

But surely even politicians have limits. And surely one of his puppeteers must've told Dubya that, often, a politician's ratings actually rise when he admits to human error and faulty ideology. Richard Clarke's astounding contrition slapped the nation with the shocking proof that it can be done, gracefully and with potent honesty. Hell, even former FBI Director Louis Freeh admitted his bureau made mistakes and did the best it could, given the flawed info it had.

Maybe it's faux-macho Texas pride. Maybe it's dumb-guy humiliation, that feeling that if Bush admits to just one of his policy defects, it's a slippery slope toward admitting he hasn't had much of a clue as to what's going on in his administration since pronouncing our country's name as "'Murka" in his swearing-in ceremony.

Or maybe it's all about God. Maybe it's because Dubya still genuinely believes he's divinely inspired, that he's truly doing the Lord's work by sanctimoniously blowing the living crap out of ragtag nations and allowing American GIs to die for his administration's hollow and increasingly indefensible political stratagems, and to admit personal error is to admit error in his overall pseudo-religious worldview.

In other words: I am God's chosen one. I cannot possibly be wrong, because God cannot possibly be wrong. Dubya, have you met Mr. Gibson?

'Course, it doesn't stop with Bush. Who could help but recoil in savage colonic pain as a freeze-dried and well-crusted John Ashcroft plopped his pious, dance-free butt down at the 9/11 hearings and proceeded to spend three hours pointing his scraggy finger at the Clinton administration? Way to go, Johnny. Way to shoulder that intellectual acumen. Make this country proud, honey.

Who, furthermore, could not help but let out a groan of pathos as Condi Rice, friendless and alone and looking weirdly, increasingly mechanical and limp and completely drained of all feminine fire, dutifully lied her ass off and regurgitated policy and stood by her man?

Look. The ability to offer up honest apology is a gift. To apologize shows intelligence. It shows humanity. It is soft and honest and real, and to admit fallibility is entirely human and increasingly rare -- and, obviously, it is everything a hypocritical politician is not.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it is, after all, too much to ask. After all, we as a nation have become jaded beyond words and have come to expect this level of appalling denial from our leaders, come to understand this as the overriding maxim of our time: We can never admit our country might, just might, be wrong.

There is simply no room for apology in American politics. There is no room for showing strength of character by admitting that our shiny all-American armor is, in fact, full of cracks and rust holes and is actually made by exhausted 10-year-old girls in a Malaysian sweatshop.

This is the BushCo way: To apologize is to show weakness. To say you might've made some mistakes whilst tromping blindly down the warpath, well, that sort of humility doesn't sit well with the hawks and the corporate profiteers. There is only the push toward bigger, toward stronger, toward nastier and angrier and more troops and more weaponry and more draconian Patriot Acts and more enraged anti-U.S. fundamentalists and more dead soldiers in Iraq.

And there is, tragically, only more numb, shell-shocked citizens and weeping families of the dead, all begging for someone, somewhere, to offer up just a single note of apology, of contrition, of hope and common recognition of the sad tragicomic circus in which we all perform.

This is all anyone is really asking for from our leaders, finally. Just a glimmer of our shared messiness, a common understanding of our collective awe, a single hint of that most tragically rare of current commodities: humanity.

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

Home...and home
(aka - rentals and beatings)

Good morning!

Guess what? I get to see the supposed kickass apartment after work. I'm really, really, really trying NOT to get my hopes up. Maybe it's filled with brown paneling and deep pile rust-colored shag carpeting. Maybe there's only one phone jack in the most awkward location, or only one electrical outlet per room. Maybe the kitchen is so small there's no room to do more than nuke food. Maybe...just maybe...there's no bathtub. Aaaarrrrgh!!!!

That's the stickie bit.

I think I could make do with everything else...somehow. But no tub? Tough one. Baths are my drug of choice. They have been, for about 10 years. When my heart is broken, or simply hurting...I can't get into a tub quick enough. Some really bad days would find me soaking 3 or 4 times. You see, I don't cry in the tub. My heart doesn't hurt and my head stops spinning for the time I'm immersed. I don't know why...but it's my extremely, very safe place.

So...what would I do in an awesome apartment with a view of the mountains, 8 blocks from work, $100 less a month in rent, and $100/month gas savings (no commute), in fabulous section of Capitol Hill that had no tub? Maybe lean on my friends more.

We'll see.

My shrink says that in Zen, you learn how to go with the flow (although he doesn't use those words). Just breathe through each moment. Don't attach and embrace what comes. Mind you, it's a lifelong learning experience.
Well, not only do I breathe, but I swear I hyperventilate. Yeah, gotta find stuff to worry about, yanno?

Seriously, I am improving on that front. So I'm curious to see what will happen this evening. On one hand, I can't imagine moving right now. Much too much work and energy required that I don't think I have. On the other, I can totally imagine myself moving. It's time. I guess, this makes it a win/win situation. Whatever happens, right?


Sunday was filled with surprises. I was so beat after catering the night before that it was tough to keep my eyes open. Laying on the couch, I was in this state of half-wake, half-sleep. I'm learning that I have a finite store of energy, although I plan as if I don't. The exhaustion was due more to the inundation of people and demands than the actual physical labor. For once, I didn't beat myself up for being tired. Sweet.

Because the rental property person didn't call on Sunday, I only had one thing to do. That was, attend a birthday gathering at the Eagle for a former Top of mine. I need to come up with a name for this person. Hmmm... Boots, Bondage and Cigar Top. BBC Top. There we go.

It was 4 pm, and I didn't know how I'd drag myself into town to be social. But, I did. And I'm so glad I did.

There was a small crowd gathered in the back patio. The birthday cake had a thick, lit cigar for a candle. Maybe about 10 or 12 people. Walking in, Breath Control Hugging Top (BCH) greeted me in his usual way. As the life is getting squeezed out of me, Tall Top shouts out, "breathe!". I barely get out a "I can't...isn't that the point?"...before I let go and crumble. Tall Top, who later told me he's competing at IML next month, then came over and strangled my nipples. I teased him and told others, "that's how we shake hands." He proceeded to spend the next 3 hours mangling them. This morning, 36 hours later...they're still really sensitive to touch.

Most of the men there were new to me. All in leathers, smoking cigars...except for one. He had the meanest pipe I'd seen. Very large, thick black pipe. He was wearing a black kilt and his leather vest. One hot bear of a man. Later on in the evening, I mentioned I wanted to paint him...just the way he was, with that pipe in his hands. I asked him to send me a jpeg.

I greeted BBC Top with birthday greetings. She asked me if I was going to take her spankings for her. Without thinking, I agreed. One of the men chuckled, then said, "you know, that's 41 spankings from each of us."

Nervousness and excitement took over. I muttered, "I need a drink" and ran to get a rum and coke, which I've never before had. The bartender was quite liberal with the booze.

Unfortunately, it began to rain, and so we moved the party indoors. Sitting around the table, BBC Top and I engaged in some cigar/breath control play, while Tall Top was still brutalizing my nipples. He showed me the toy he brought. A large leather paddle with a metal rod running through the center. At that point, I was hard. BBC Top chose the belt she wore carefully. Wanted the perfect strap. The other men pulled out their various paddles and toys. One had a cane. I thought of slim, whipping cane. But this was more like a stick, a walking cane. Yessss!

And so it began. Apparently my groans were drawing attention. These men, and BBC Top were going at it full force. No woosey strokes. Just what this pain slut needed. At one point I noticed a bunch of men from the other end of the bar, circle around. I caught the eyes of one man, who was smiling and nodding. We locked eyes and he quietly pushed me to go on.

It ended with wax play from the lit candles on the tables. I lifted my shirt to make my nipples accessible to a couple men...and they had their way.

No, I didn't get 41 beatings from each, which was a wise thing. But they let me have it. My entire ass is still black and eggplant. My thighs are swollen, bruised and still painful. And I'm so fucking loving it. As the intensity picked up, I'd either burst into laughter or swear up a storm. There were a couple other bottoms there as well, each tortured in various ways.

As I was leaving the Eagle, one gentleman approached me. I still don't know his name. But throughout the night, I kept checking him out. Incredibly sexy, older leatherman with an amazing solid presence. He said, "I enjoyed watching you play, and I hope to have the opportunity again." Smiling, I thanked him. And..I was floored. It was one of the nicest compliments I've received.

Who woulda thunk that an impromptu, spontaneous scene at the Eagle would be how I jump back into the water? There's perfection in that. Because it flowed easily, there wasn't any pre-scene worry, wondering how I'd react, or if I'd fall apart considering I haven't played that hard in over 2 years. It was good.

It was very good.
And I'm ready for more.

Sir, thank you Sir. May I have another?

Monday, April 19, 2004

Loads of stuff has happened in the last few days, and I'm much too tired to write. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, I don't want to leave you empty-handed.

I was rereading some entries at Uppity Faggot. One of the Bruces wrote:

"So. I understand that there is safety in numbers. It's a useful equation for besieged minorities. But I also get that any such numbers gathered together under banners as broad as "Queer" or "Leather" or whateverthefuck do so more as coalitions than actual communities. Even the banner over a group as seemingly cozy as "Queer Bondage Men" hovers over a pretty fractious little bunch that I'd hesitate to call a community."

I find the whole entry to be a provocative piece. Check it out.
Bruce has things to say.

Sunday, April 18, 2004

I need to be in bed. It's 1:50 am, and I just got home from catering about 15 minutes ago. But, seeing I worked nonstop for about 11 hours...I'm fried and wound up. Switching gears is a must.

My apartment is dark, and I'm curled up on the couch with the keyboard on my lap, writing to you.

The guys I work with are the best. Although we work hard, and at times it's brutal...the support is fabulous. Sweet boy and I are normally hired as servers. We've both noticed that we tend to have the same mind while working. In many ways, on the same page. A well-oiled machine.

So, although exhausted, I'm very satisfied. People were quite pleased with the results. And it was impressive how many of the guests made it a point to come up to any of us and compliment the food...and the service.

God...I am such a service slut. Whether it's in a leather context or not...service is incredibly special. Although we all serve in some capacity, I believe some people have an innate need to serve. For these people, it's not a matter of having to place yourself in a specific mindset, because it's origin isn't in the head. It's a heart thing. It's not a being humble thing, or a sacrifice thing. It's food for the soul. For those who are Service people, they have to serve to live fuller lives. Now for me, I need to be able to trust, be it my boss or my Top, to serve. I can't and won't blindly offer my services to someone I don't respect.

Because I don't have a Top I serve on a very regular basis, I miss it. That's why I cater. If it were only for the money, there are much easier ways to earn it. The service opportunity it provides helps keep the hunger in check.

For me, service is sex.

Gee, these are quick notes on a bigger thought. Maybe one day. But I sure as hell am not getting into that now. Because's really time for bed.

Saturday, April 17, 2004

I'm settling in to watch Cabaret before heading off to work this afternoon. But before doing that, I realized I've not showcased any new paintings for you in a long time. So while I tend to myself and immerse in a film filled with music, art, ideas and drama, you can settle in for one artist's portrayal of The Big Dig.

A couple weeks back, The Big Dig came to mind. It's an immense construction project in Boston that's been going on for a while. I wondered how far along they were, and so googled. Finding their site , I noticed there was a gallery of artists. I'll feature others soon.

This one particular artist paints in a style I enjoy. Realistic, but definitely painterly. The way she captures light is what painting is all about. These works also remind me of the Painter friend I'd paint with, back east. It's about industry, and trucks! It's the working man, and the glamour found in the ordinary and the dirt. I love these.

Enjoy Jan Mazur.
(if the page loads without an image, simply click one of the orange arrows to get it going)

Friday, April 16, 2004


Last year Sir gave me a fuschia plant that originally belonged to Much Loved. I wrote about the plant in August, when it bloomed the day of my first experience as a fisting Top. Well this winter, I've sadly neglected the fuschia, as I did all my plants. There was a month when I was so wrapped in pain that although I'd see these plants, I couldn't get it together to water them.

The others are quite hardy and have bounced back beautifully. But I'm concerned about Much Loved's plant. There isn't the hint of a green bloom. Watering it again this evening, I decided to prune it back. Touching the sad little branches, they broke easily between my fingers with a crisp, dead sound. I did notice two small healthier branches that have sprouted. Maybe...just maybe.

I grabbed the broken off branches and placed them in a pile, at the corner of my deck, near the edge. You see, there's a momma bird that's been collecting sticks for a nest she builds each year. Each afternoon I see her as she hops on the rail for a breather, her beak filled with twigs. Maybe she'll accept my gift.

It's spring.

There is a ritual I have at this time of year. A couple of peregrine falcons return to their nesting place on top of the Kodak building in Rochester, NY. Kodak set up a website with not only a frontal cam view, but also a 4 cam view. Mariah is the mom. Sir introduced me to the site in Spring 2001. That year, Mariah and Cabot-Scirroco had 4 babies. I watched the eggs hatch, the babies get fed, banded and take their first tentative steps away from the nest. In 2002, only 2 of the 4 eggs hatched.
Last year, her mate didn't return. I don't know what happened to him, but Mariah ended up with a younger stud, Kaver. They had 5 babies! And this year? 5 more eggs which will all hopefully hatch around Mother's Day.

Once the eggs hatch and there's more activity in the nest, I become an avid watcher. I love watching her feed them dead pidgeons. I'll capture stills and send them around.


Between migraines, work and major creative spurts, the last couple weeks have flown by. This week I managed to work about 46 hours in 4 days. Today was a crash and burn day. Tomorrow? I'm working a catering gig. 'Tis that season as well. It begins again.

Sunday, it looks as if I will be viewing a possible apartment. I have full intention of moving back into Seattle, preferably Capitol Hill. I even have my acceptable perimeter, where I desire to live, laid out. But rents aren't cheap. I'm currently in a 900 square ft apt w/ 2 bedrooms. I know I'll have to sacrifice space for affordability. So depending on the layout of the apartment, I can decrease the size to 600 sq. ft, and still allow room to paint. I'd be quite happy with a dining/living/studio space, as long as I have a separate bedroom. I need to get away from my work, to really rest.

Studio apts seem to begin about $600-650, with 1 b/r around $800. This week I found a 1 b/r for under $600, in the very area I want to live. I'd be 8 blocks from work, 2 blocks from my shrink, and about 4 blocks from the park. Just think. I could even walk from work, to Septieme's and then home. It's a good long walk, but definitely walkable. I crave a neighborhood where I can again step out my door and walk. Being near strip mall hell, although my complex is neat and park-like, is a drag. I detest being in a suburb, and being near so much corporate consumerism.

The ad mentioned a view of the Cascade Mountains (but I'm preparing for a peekhole view). The landlord returned my call today. I was concerned that the rent may have been a typo. But no! And...when I asked how large the apt way, he responded with, "750 square feet."

The real beauty of this place, other than the location, is that it's in a house, not a damned cookie cutter apartment building. Until I moved into this current place, I hadn't lived in a large building since 1986. I like charm and a homey feel. I need to feel a unique sense of character, even if it's a little touch.

So, we made tentative plans for Sunday. The woman showing the apartment will be calling me this weekend. We'll see. I'm trying not to get my hopes up. I know what apartment hunting is like. Most of what sounds good on paper is never what we expect.
Good morning.

Weird stuff is happening with my blog. Last night, I attempted to check something out, via my bookmarks, and couldn't access girlfag.blogspot. I needed to type the url and rebookmark it. I then went to check a few other blogs, and couldn't access about half of them. So, me being me...I went to a bunch of sites that have linked to me. And again...I could get to my site from only about half of them. Strange, I tell you.

I did contact Blogger. In the past, they've always been wonderful about responding to me. We'll see.

Mark Morford from SFGate is back and I'm thrilled. I don't know what's happened to him, but he's been MIA since his last column, on March 5th.
Today, he's spouting off about Mel Gibson.


How To Gag On 'The Passion'
Nine fun-filled ways Mel Gibson's brutal snuff film makes a mockery of true belief. Clip n' save! - Mark Morford

Perhaps you, like so many across the planet, are more than a bit baffled by the runaway success of "The Passion of the Christ."

Perhaps you, furthermore, are more than slightly disturbed that millions have flocked to this bizarre ultraviolent blood-drenched revisionist flick and that so many actually believe its story to be absolutely true, and that it just surpassed "The Return of the King" in total box office and is the No. 8 most successful film of all time and it was No. 1 again across BushCo's flyover states during Easter weekend and has sold 650,000 books and 125,000 creepy pewter nail necklaces and you find it all just incredibly warped and disheartening and what the hell is the world coming to.

You are not alone.

I have seen the movie. I have endured the spectacle so you don't have to. Here, then, are some counterthoughts. Nine random points of spiritual contention and pointy perspective check, a small pile of juicy karmic stones to toss at the next utterly depressing screening of 'The Passion' and perhaps at Mel Gibson's very sad and deeply tormented ego.

Why? Because he deserves it. Why? Because this is not a movie. It is a sad phenomenon. It is a gross spiritual emetic. It is, clearly, a cry for help.

1) It lasted more than a full half hour, the central beating scene, wherein a squad of monosyllabic demon Romans chain Jesus to a stone and feverishly flay him to oozing pulp on one side, then casually flip him over like a veal cutlet and thrash the other side until he is nothing but a puddle of dripping stage blood and flappy flesh and cavernous moans.

You catch glimpses of this revolting cartoonishness through barely parted fingers and you think, goddammit, there goes half an hour of my vital life force that I will require much sex and vodka and Buddhism to recover. And you realize, with a sort of perfect and holy divine clarity, that Mel Gibson is utterly, thoroughly insane.

2) You are not stupid. You have read The Da Vinci Code. You know damn well that the truth about Mary Magdalene -- along with all juicy goodness of the divine feminine in general -- has been beaten out of Christianity like joy is beaten out of American teenagers.

And you know that if Mary Magdalene looked the slightest bit like Monica Bellucci, who plays her in this film, well, Jesus would've been preaching a lot more of the gospel of oh my freaking God look at those lips. Instead, Mel focuses on nothing but endless pained female expressions and Satan as a sallow woman with wicked cheekbones. Touching.

3) You wail, you scream, you nearly call an ambulance when you burn your finger on the stove while making popcorn. You know for a fact that no human body, no matter how divinely inspired, could ever withstand so much gleeful ultraviolent comical blood-drenched flesh rending as poor ol' Jesus does in the Jerusalem Chainsaw Massacre and not instantly pass out and/or immediately demand three quadruple Martinis and a fistful of holy Vicodin. I mean, please.

4) There were children. Small children, most of them under 10, in the theater where I endured this spiritual mess, their grim parents apparently believing Mel's R-rated bloodbath would offer up some sort of constructive lesson, something deep and divine and unforgettable.

And then the whips rended and the blood gushed and the sadomasochism amplified to a fever pitch and the families all sat there, stone faced and lost, apparently convincing themselves they were seeing something glorious and profound, as the hapless kids stared down a future full of bloody Jesus nightmares and psychotherapy until many years and many prescription meds later when they finally realize, damn but that movie messed me up.

Remember "Jaws"? Remember how that flick traumatized the entire Boomer generation back in '75? Same thing. "Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the church ... WHIPWHIPTHRASHARRRGGGH."

5) Oh right. The nails-through-the-hands thing. Like that's important to fetishize so explicitly, Mel. You sure you couldn't get the camera a little closer? Maybe more blood splattered directly on the camera lens as the mallet slammed down? Maybe you could've jammed one of those tiny medical cameras inside the bloody hole itself and really hit your point home, so to speak? Mel, I'd like to introduce you to my close personal friend, perspective. Here, have a pamphlet.

One tiny anthropological point: You cannot drive a nail through the human hand and hang a body from it and not have it tear away like some sort of disgusting hamburger. Did you think of that, Mel? I bet you did. I bet you wished with all your might you could've filmed Jesus' body being torn from the nails and falling to the ground in gruesome slo-mo. Man, how much more fake blood and pig guts you could've poured over poor James Caviezel! Whee! Two words, Mel: Zoloft. Now.

6) Many argue that, despite the truckloads of blood and unchecked violence, Gibson's heart was surely in the right place and his objective was pure. But let's just say it right here and now: bull. You could feel Mel's fetish for torture veritably oozing off the screen like visual razor blades. There was no loving intent in this film. There is no tender message. There is no deep desire to move and inspire and uplift.

There was only, I believe, copious gobs of curiously sad intent to decimate any notions of gentle divine intimate open-hearted mystical love and forgiveness you may have once believed Jesus was all about, and replace them with one very disturbed and sadomasochistic B-grade actor's very disturbed and sadomasochistic vision of old-school Catholic brutality and anti-Semitism and blood-soaked guilt. In a nutshell.

7) The answer is, if I recall, about eight. The question is: How many times can you watch Mel's whipped, blended, frapped, pureed Jesus, his body rife with so many oozing crimson gouges it looks like some decimated animal you ran over with your car, twice, with snow tires -- how many times can you watch Jesus fall to the hard gravel ground with a long, low moan in terrible blood-drenched slow motion without, finally, stifling a laugh?

8) This is not Christianity. This is not a message anyone needs. This is the exact opposite of spiritual progress or insight or gentle divine heat and if Jesus came back right this minute and was made to sit through this film, he would sigh gently, shake his short, shaggy hair (long hair was forbidden by Jewish law -- wrong again, Mel), and, you know, hold a nice seminar or something.

You think this is how I want to be remembered? This is what he'd say, calmly and lovingly and more than a little sad. You really think this was my message? You believe this is what I want the world to focus on, two hours of deranged apocryphal torture and close-up butchering? Is really where humanity is still stuck, in bloodlust and shallow emotional manipulation and cheesy movie tie-ins and $17 popcorn? And then Jesus' gaze, it would slowly drift away as radiant images of Monica Bellucci floated before his sparkling eyes.

9) And, finally, Jesus, he would absolutely agree with the following: If you must see this movie just to see what the fuss is all about, do what I did: Sneak into it after seeing some other, wildly superior film -- like, say, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" -- so as not to contribute one dime to the Mel Gibson Fund for the Spiritually Hysterical.

Rest assured, Jesus would've wanted it that way.

Thursday, April 15, 2004


Thank you The Padacia for showcasing the following site. It's all about the personal experience. I am discovering the importance of witness through sharing and taking in stories. Ideologies are big, clinical machines. It's easy to judge something that doesn't appear to be flesh and blood. But look into the eyes of humanity, and feel. Compassion can come with the telling of stories.

Witness - photography by James Nachtwey.

"I have been a witness, and these pictures are my testimony. The events I have recorded should not be forgotten and must not be repeated."
-James Nachtwey-
Last night, as I mentioned earlier, was wonderful. What I was too tired to write about was the fucking fabulous food. Feeding Frenzy is passionate about food. It's not the regular catered stuff...little apps that look pretty but don't burst in your mouth or the typical rubber chicken. Their food is adventurous and a feast for the soul. I love watching people bite into something new, and see facial expressions. More often than not, there's a look of surprise and then a satisfaction that travels across their face, encompassing their body.
You can actually see their energy change. Food is about more than filling your belly. And these guys know it.

Biased? Maybe a tad. The men who are Feeding Frenzy are a part of my heart. Although I first threw out the reference to our grants manager, it's on their merit alone that they've continued to provide the service. Generous of spirit and artists with ingredients, they rock.
Just getting home from work and I'm beat, beat, beat. And quite satisfied. My workday began at 7am, and ran into our grants celebration tonight. I really enjoy these twice a year evenings where amazing queer and allied organizations receive checks of up to $5000 to assist with special projects or general operating expenses. Listening to their stories is quite moving. Also, the same thing during the scholarship breakfast next month where students are celebrated.

It's kind of the seasonal culmination of the hard work of our volunteers, donors and the staff. Being a part of a glbt organization that somehow manages to do so much is powerful. We are currently hiring another staff member. The second round of interviews are tomorrow. One candidate mentioned that he's been researching, to find out if it's a friendly work enviroment. And everyone he's spoken with, in as well as out of the organization has only had good things to say. So of course, now he's even more hungry to work with us.
Yeah...I'm quite fortunate.

Well, that's about it for my creative streak tonight. Have a nice evening.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004


I'm sitting here at work, the phone rings, and I answer it. "Thanks for calling the organization name, X speaking, how can I help you?"
The caller responds with, "Hi, I read your blog and I miss you too."

I had a confused minute of worlds colliding, which then turned into a big, easy smile. rock, and definitely made my morning. Thank you.
How about a little Freewill Astrology on this delightfully, cool grey day?

We've had an unbelievable amount of sun for a Seattle spring. So much so, I tired of it. Variety is the key, and day after day of blue skies and warm weather begins to feel static and boring. Guess I'm not a good candidate for southern CA living.

Last night I smelled change in the air. The sky grew dark, in that luscious and ominous way. The wind picked up and the temp dropped. I hoped for a storm. It didn't happen yet it was enough to create a new enviroment.

The clouds are thick this morning. Have you ever really looked at them and seen the different greys? Sometimes, the light temperature varies, from a cool to a warmer green grey, within the same bank of clouds. It's glorious and makes for complex skies...which I relish.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

You know...I fucking love this man. In addition to how fabulous he is in general...he just walked into my office with a check, from a fundraiser he recently did. It's just the cherry on the whipped cream on the topping of the sundae.
Yesterday during therapy, I plopped in the chair, looked at my shrink and said, "I am taking a break and am NOT talking about it." That's definitely a first for me. I couldn't touch the pain anymore. Done. Done with it for the time being. Or so I thought.
I had other things on my agenda and we dealt with that. But no poking the hurt.

Going to bed last night...yup, another migraine appeared. I thought I was out of meds, and even told a friend I'd be fine until payday. Normally, these headaches don't come more than two days in a row. There's always a first, right? I worked on some serious meditation to keep the brunt of the pain at bay. It somewhat helped, but wore me out.

On my way to work this morning, head still pounding, I wondered if I had tucked a pill or two in my bag...just to have it with me. Rifling thru the sack, I struck gold. 2!!! So I'm set for 4 days!

But I hate it.

I have to deal with two things, and have been putting them off. It's not going to be easy, and I've angst about how to bring up the issues. My body is rebelling because I'm holding stuff in. 3 migraines in 4 days is NOT a good sign. Maybe I need to just do it, and stop fretting about the best, most caring way...or mentally twisting myself in a pretzel in an attempt to claim some guarantee that it will make it easier for the other party. That, in addition to fear, has been part of my hesitation.

If I block myself from heart hurt, it morphs into head hurt. I guess the time has come to grab my gutts and just do it, right?

I'm moving slow this morning. Here's a quick, little tidbit that's been floating around the 'net.

The Subservient Chicken. Type in simple commands and watch him obey. Although, seeing it's a Burger King site...out of curiousity, I typed in: grab your crotch. Try it. See what he does.

Monday, April 12, 2004

For MAC users: from my EMac Daily news...(directly from Apple)
It has happened:
Apple´s Mac OS X Attacked By Trojan Virus (4/12/2004)

By A. David Cooper, MacDirectory Editor

Mac users who keep track of the Windows PC world always knew this day would come -- and now it has...a ubiquitous Internet virus for Mac OS X. Called MP3Concept (MP3Virus.Gen), the virus exploits OS X by masking the type of file that is being transmitted to your email inbox. You receive an email with an attachment of what appears to be an .mp3 file, but in reality is a hidden virus.

Once enabled, this virus can delete your system files as well as make copies of itself by sending a coded message to other Mac users. According to several virus hunters, the virus code for MP3Concept can also be embedded within JPEG and GIF files. Beyond simply avoiding opening such a file once it is emailed to you, there is one way you can check the authenticity of such a file before opening it.

Just highlight the file (do not double click it!), and then select Get Info from the system menu, or press Command + I. If the file is indeed the notorious virus, the Get Info panel will reveal that the "kind" of file you have is in fact an application, rather than a mere file. Never open a file labeled as an application if you don't know what the application is. Finally, if you don't have much computer experience, your best bet is probably to not open any file, no matter how interesting it appears, unless it comes from a verified friend who has used the file before without problems. Welcome to the kind of hell Windows users have faced for years. Thankfully, the Mac experience will still probably never be as bad when it comes to malicious viruses.
Hi, my name is girlfag and I am an introvert. Wouldn't you think I'd figured it out a long time ago?

I guess, I never really knew what it meant. I mean, I knew I was more introverted than extroverted, but didn't know the full impact of that. That is...until last week.

Once a year we have a weekend long staff/board retreat. The idea alone makes me cringe. It's normally held somewhere in WA state. That means...away from my home. Many times, too far away for me to drive in each day. And, that means, no safety net, no retreat from all the commotion, having to be 'on', smiling, laughing, listening...and...sucking up so much energy from everyone else with no chance for personal retreat. Retreat.

I think staff/board 'retreat' is the wrong word. At least for this person.

Don't get me wrong. I love our staff and enjoy our board. And I enjoy the one day retreat we have in the fall. But even after spending 6 hours on that day...I'm in tears all the way home. So tired, depleted and wiped. I hate it. Just hate that it does this to me.

Our spring get-away retreat is in May. From the first mention of planning a couple months ago, my heart sank and my anxiety level rose. I wanted to be able to attend and hadn't a clue how to do it, retain my balance and sanity...and get my regular work done. This is the beginning of my busy season. If I take time off...I get behind and it's hugely difficult to catch up.
Regardless of that fact...just the idea of being immersed in such energy for 48 hours freaks me out, immensely.

Two years ago, I was so terrified and anxiety-ridden about the retreat that I made myself sick 4 days earlier. Apparently, a 'stress-induced bacteria' that caused pain that rivals the pain of migraine. Too sick to attend.
Last year, the retreat was being held about a half-hour from my home. So I drove down for the Saturday portion only. It was my way of compromise.

Last week...yes, that infection came back. I was able to nip it in the bud, but knew I had to deal with this. You see, I hadn't made a final decision regarding my attendance. I desperately sought a way to say "yes, I'll be there." But in my heart of hearts I knew I couldn't...and didn't have the gutts to tell the organizer. I felt like such a failure.

I spoke with my therapist about this. He matter-of-factly looked at me and said, "of makes sense. You're an introvert."

Those words were a godsend. There wasn't something wrong with me. And it explains so much at the office. Essentially, I work with all extroverts...some intensely so. Except for two who lean more toward the introvert side. That also partially explains why the three of us seriously click. My office is positioned smack in the middle of the two, and we tend to have the quieter part of the floor. Although silly comments come out of our mouths as we work, it's nothing that requires someone to fully engage. It doesn't demand or require attention. It doesn't bleed my energy dry.

I live so much in my head...and seek solace wherever I can find it. I hate restaurants and coffee shops that are loud and busy. Even if the food is fabulous, I tend not to frequent the place because of the noise level. When I go for walks, I much prefer quieter...with less to no traffic. I hate being in a place where there's too much going on at the same time.
When I was about 16 I stopped going to county fairs because of the crowds.
Pride marches were interesting...because I felt the push/pull. I needed to be there...yet...too many people for me.

The concerts I go to tend to be in smaller venues.

I hate noise. Sometimes it feels like hate people. Not personally, but as a large, clanging, blood-sucking mass. Screaming vultures with very little boundaries and the same amount of common sense and manners. It takes a lot to deal with this on a daily basis. I have friends and know of others who are higher energy. I enjoy spending time with them, but I need to be on top of my game to do so. Otherwise, it's not good for anyone.

Now...being an introvert doesn't mean I cherish being alone all the time. I need safe, quiet, low maintenance people around. Key: low maintenance. I have a need for connection. A big need. Sometimes, it's as much as simply being in the same room, and not having to talk. When I was painting full-time, working alone at home, I had to get out of the house and touch base with friends each day. walk around town...and feel like a part of our world.

And although I'm quite shy at times, it depends on the people and again, the energy. There are some parties I've walked into...which felt like home. I may only know the hosts...and yet I could be chatting, laughing, and talking like crazy, introducing myself to others, etc. Other events, I walk in...and feel it...and immediately figure out an excuse for a quick getaway.

If I'm left to my own devices, totally alone, this living in my head drives me crazy. I create scenarios, internal drama, and waking nightmares that lead me to believe I'm losing my mind.

I'm in a state today. Can't you tell?

Oh yeah...the retreat? I got my courage together and said that I wouldn't be going. They fully understood. I feel badly about it, but there you have it.

Sunday, April 11, 2004

So much for this weekend. I've been sick. More accurately, it's been a weekend of migraines. They hit every couple weeks, and although I take Imitrex, which works...I'm left feeling washed out.

Today I am headed to Sir's, to work in the garden. I'm not sure how long I'll last, but my hands want to be in the dirt. You see, this morning, again, I felt the familiar knife, just above my right temple. My heart sank. But I immediately took my 'script and it's easing before becoming full blown. Yesterday, I didn't. Dizziness, severe nausea...and then I medicated myself. I hate being reliant upon pills. Absolutely detest it. And this stuff isn't cheap. About a month ago I realized I could cut the pills in half, and the smaller dosage was still effective, a small bonus. Now I'm out, and I don't get paid until Thursday. So hopefully...they don't return right away.

Yeah, it's a small whining entry. And I'm frustrated. I've always been as healthy as a horse. Used to pride myself on that fact. I feel that in the last year, half my time is spent sick.

This week I had a huge list of stuff to do...creative stuff. Little by little I tackled each. And by Friday night I had almost completed the final thing on my list. I just need to type up the edits..and hopefully it's done. Clear it out to make room for more.

What a fucking boring entry. I promise, I'll have more exciting stuff soon.

Friday, April 09, 2004

Yesterday, I settled in to write. Logging onto Radio Paradise, I hear:

"I'm worse at what I do best
and for this gift I feel blessed."

It's Nirvana, from "Smells Like Teen Spirit." This morning, I check out Gassho and read:

"The capacity to love allows us to live an enlarged life. Such a life will not be measured by its successes, but by the quality of its yearning."
-James Hollis, "Creating A Life"

They are both speaking about hunger. A couple entries ago I asked if drive comes from hunger. This has been on my mind quite a bit. It's a 'duh' question, isn't it? Without the hunger, wouldn't we live placid lives? Hunger is a curse that allows us to seek out, to quest, to experience, to do.

So, here's the next question. Is hunger about needs or wants? Or both?
Are we really hungry when we want something, or is it only a pure hunger when wrapped in a need? Think of food. My eyes see chocolate in the dessert case at Septieme's, and my mouth waters. But, I've eaten a full meal and there's really no room in my belly. Not a need. Yet am I hungry for that cake? Or do I just think I'm hungry? I like the taste of chocolate, and my mind remembers the feeling. So of course I want to replicate the experience.

Today, on NPR there was a discussion about overpopulation. One caller said, "overpopulation isn't the problem, overconsumption is."

Overconsumption. Have we, as a nation, become sensation junkies, where we've desensitized ourselves to the extraordinary found in the everyday because we continually want to taste, and not allow ourselves the feeling of hunger?

Yeah, I think I'm muddling ideas here, but honest, it's quite clear in my head.

Hunger. I've been experimenting with hunger, especially in the food sense. For a month or so I try to allow myself to get really hungry. I check in to what it feels like. Granted, I am not talking of the hunger of poverty, the hunger that comes from days of not eating. But, I wanted to change some of my habits to experience a deeper sense of food hunger. There is a difference. And I enjoy it. I feel it in my limbs, and my stomach. It's quite physical and not mental.

I've done it with play as well. Still am, actually. I remember telling a partner once that I didn't want to be attached at the hip. I didn't want to see them all the time. My reason was, I missed 'missing' them. There's something sweet in longing, and I was denying myself the longing...the hunger for their face, their skin, their voice.

Hunger. Is it hunger that keeps us alive?

Thursday, April 08, 2004

Have any of you been checkin' out what's happening in Uppity Faggot lately? There is some fucking amazing writing going on in there.

I've been seriously juiced by the dialogue, the stories. Every day I've popped in, only to discover another tasty morsel, each speaking to me in different ways. I feel a creative connection that I've not experienced in a very long time.

One moment, especially, hit me in the face. Tuesday. It was my first big painting day in a while. I had completed the brain drain on canvas. Checking on Uppity Faggot, I noticed 'The Color Red'.

The title alone grabbed me because the little canvas I completed was one third covered in red. A screaming, bright red orange. A color I'd never before used, except as the barest of accents. You see, I don't have a favorite color. But I do have a least favorite one. It's that very orangy red. Yet I mixed it because the painting needed it. My St. Andrews cross, turned into a mass of color, with a large red vertical stroke sweeping the plane. Red and sex. Red and paint. Red and beatings and red and fucking. Red and connections. All the same, isn't it?
I managed to paint some more this evening. Doing little bites at a time feels good. Before dinner, I stood in front of the painting, and saw where I wanted to go next. Only a little. Let's give depth to the background. Just a little. I'm tired, so no more, no less.

I only mixed up one color, and worked on the top left side. But a brush has a mind of its own. It chose to dance all over. I worked about a half hour, and managed to retouch most of the painting. Punching the color, redrawing, deepening shadows, and popped in reflected light.
It's all good. And it's one hot scene.

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

Yes, I wanted to be painting today as well. Instead, I really needed to be at work. There was much creative, emotional and sexual energy expended yesterday, and I'm feeling its effects today. So much I want to write about, and I hope to later, but can't right now.

Having arrived home, I plan on working on my painting for a bit this evening. It's tough to do after a 10 hour work day, but if I can go in, for 15 minutes...hopefully each day...I'd be pleased.

Also, I started playing with my template to be able to add some links. I'm a tad stumped, and hope someone out there can help me. Although I have one color for links, I'd like to be able to change that color for one specific set of links, not the whole blog links. Any ideas? If anyone can help, just email me at: (or hit the 'talk to me' link at the end of this entry). Thanks.

I do have other options, but I'd rather not use it unless I need to. We'll see.
This week's Rob Brezsny horoscope.
And what a day it was!

After writing this morning's entry, fidgetiness really took hold. Still horny...something new appeared. I had to paint. Not only did I have to paint, but I NEEDED to paint. Right then and there. Nothing else would do. In 44 years, I can count on one hand the times I knew I would bust if I didn't pick up a paintbrush in the next hour. This superceded those times. If I didn't listen to The Painter, I knew there would be serious combustion. It was potent.

My calendar was blank. No meetings today. Good. I quickly finished my task, emailed the staff and said I was taking a vacation day. I left work a little before 10. Going painting.

Driving home, I felt my cunt tense up and quiver. My cock, engorged and throbbing. I ached, feeling my pants tighten, and made it home in record time. After peeling off my jeans and throwing on sweats, I walked into the studio. Cranked up the music and spit out a little painting. It wasn't one mark. It was a total brain dump. It began as a St. Andrew's cross, and ended as a wet, gloppy pile. A canvas saturated with pigment, filled with color and shape. Subject and quality was irrelevant.
The important thing...
...I Painted.

Releasing a large breath I crashed on the couch and popped in a dvd. For some reason, "The Hours" called to me. Quiet movie, about art, life and death. Honestly, I was fried. I think I could have even fallen asleep if it weren't so bright outside.

Seeing I didn't nap, I wanked. I spent the most of the movie jacking off and cumming. Each orgasm wasn't enough because there was another waiting behind it, screaming for freedom. I'm sure Virginia Woolf would have approved.

At this point eating became a priority. Off to the grocery store. It's times like these I detest food. It can be an annoyance and an interruption. I wasn't hungry, yet it was 3 pm and all I had until then was a banana in the morning. But, I knew there was another painting waiting in the shadows and needed to put something in my belly. A blood sugar crash would be quite inconvenient. A boy would be nice in times like this.

Done with food, and more energized, I walked back into the space. The smell of turp and medium was thick in my apartment. Grabbing another canvas, I performed a holy act...set up a still life. The little table against my window filled up with pots, and a plant. The late afternoon sun poured in and delightfully fucked with the shadows.

This was a much larger canvas...covered in deep umbers, almost black, from a painting I fought with a couple years ago. There was nothing to do but begin with lights this time. Meticulously, I laid in my architecture. That first stroke felt so good. So right. But impatience caused me to pull out a big brush, load it with almost white and block in the lights, allowing the shadows to naturally take shape from the lack of new paint. Mixing different shades of light, I played with highlights and created volume. I was painting.

Stepping back, I saw. Really saw. And I cried.

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

Can I say I'm fucking horny?
I've been writing a few things, in different places, and watch my desires spill out onto the keyboard. No longer trapped, I see they've channelled Houdini.

Here I am, at work, kicking back, before starting my day. How the hell am I supposed to get anything accomplished when all I want to do is sit and write, pop into the studio and paint, go up to a deliciously mean sadist and ask him to beat the shit out of me?

I want to sit, locked in chains...with a little slack and freedom in my hands, my watercolors near me. What would happen if I painted in bondage? Could I stand at the easel and make an oily mess while ordered to wear a butt plug and clothespins? What if I were caned for each stroke I made on my toned canvas? A reward. The more I painted, the more brutally I'd get hurt. How could I actively combine the two, and see how each simultaneously influenced the other?

Blindfold me and bind me. Watch me create. What if I couldn't see the canvas...yet had a big puddle of my special black on the palette? Feeling the excitement build from my gutt, not able to see what I laid down with paint, yet desiring to create, my inhibitions diminished.

Sigh. It's gonna be a day.

Monday, April 05, 2004

So...where am I at?
I haven't a clue.

I'm not depressed. I wish there were 50 hours in a day. I want my loved ones to be happy, healthy, calm and not hurting. And I'd like to be able to pay my bills.

It's strange. It's a discombobbled kinda place that makes for a little ungluing. Not bad, and actually good. I think I'm settling into skin. You know when you buy a new pair of jeans and they're kinda snug? You do gyrations to stretch them a little, and see how they feel against your thighs, your ass. Check out the length.

I realized something with my painting. As I said yesterday, "one mark on the canvas." I need to really hunger for it again. The act of one mark...would create some hunger. Does drive come from hunger?

This is coming out gibberish and I'm not sure what I want to say. Not sure, except that I know I want to talk with you. So maybe it is simply one of those times where we could sit down with a cup of coffee and talk. Or, better yet, let's go for a walk. You know...the long, quiet ones where we don't feel the need to entertain each other, but just enjoy each other's company. A silent space. Or almost silent. We could check out the guys, come up with stories about them, and what we'd like to do with them in a dungeon.

"See him over there? He appears too arrogant. He really wants a hood over his head, tied into a sling and submit to a large fist up his ass."

"How about that one? Wouldn't he look good with his cock covered in clothespins? He looks stressed and needs some play time."

"Oh yeah..."

"Hey...check him out. Let's shackle him to the toilet and piss all over him."

Wanna come for a walk with me?
I heard a nice little tidbit on my drive in. Someone was speaking about creativity and artists. They were discussing all the crazy-making voices we hear each time we attempt to follow something we love.

A very common message is, "it's crowded at the won't be able to get a foot in the door, too much competition, etc." The speaker then said, "actually, it's crowded at the bottom."
There are a handful of treasures I want to share with you. But, it's not going to happen this evening. As I wrote to someone earlier:

"I'm bushed. For 3 days I've never been more tired. I force myself to do something each day...yet can feel the heaviness and weight of my body and emotions with every single step.

I just want to sleep all the time, and yet, I don't nap well. So instead, it's all about zoning out on the couch.
I hope this too will pass. It makes me fairly ineffectual as a human being."

Sunday, April 04, 2004

Check out this blog by queer, kinky artists!
Uppity Faggot.
It's a brand, spanking new site, and what I consider to be an innovative exercise in art.
You can read about the concept here.

This format thoroughly entices me. I look forward to the manner in which it evolves and watch the entire painting morph with each new entry.
Take a look-see.
In spite of the fact that we lost an hour of sleep, good morning!

I have some goodies for you today, but you aren't getting them all at once. I'll post them throughout the day.

Although I had tentative plans to walk with an old friend, I intend to cancel and pretty much hole up in my house. I have loads of writing to do, including an almost done piece that absolutely has to get finished. The last few days have left me creatively fried.

Times like these, where my juices are flowing fast, thrill me to my toes. But I bemoan the fact that I only have finite energy, and seem to get quickly spent. How the hell do I pace myself?

Also, if I don't do anything else today, I am walking into my newly cleaned studio and will make one mark on canvas. That's my painting goal. Yeah, small steps. There's no fucking way I'm going to self sabotage by biting off more than I can chew. I'm not limiting myself to one stroke...but it's the daily minimum requirement.

Speaking of the studio...what a delight! Ever since I cleaned it last Sunday, I walk past the open door, look in and smile. I've made it a point each day, to step into the space, open the window...and look around the room. I can feel something inside inviting me in.

I spend my life rushing. Hurry up and go. Driven in many areas. But, somehow, I'm allowing myself to slow down with this painting. Call it procrastination, I don't care. And...I don't think so. Each step is a new one, and it's a forward movement. It seems that what I've been learning in the last few years is coming into play with painting.

Breathe, don't beat yourself up, don't run, be present, and revel in it.