I found this essay on Sunday and, for me, it seems to ring true. It's one of the better definitions of why art is important and what constitutes art that I've read.

It's a good example of the paradox of life, complex and simple at the same time. Just get past the zenspeak, which in my opinion, almost always consists of a fair amount of mental masturbation. Hmmm, there's a paradox in that as well...

Anyway, here you go:

Do You Want To Make Something Out Of It?
Zen meditation and the artistic impulse
-by Zoketsu Norman Fischer
published in Success, Singing Horse Press, 2000

Allen Ginsberg begins his essay entitled Meditation and Poetics with this paragraph, "It’s an old tradition in the West among great poets that poetry is rarely thought of as ‘just poetry.’ Real poetry practitioners are practitioners of mind awareness, or practitioners of reality, expressing their fascination with the phenomenal universe and trying to penetrate to the heart of it. Poetics isn’t mere picturesque dilettantism or egotistical expressionism for craven motives grasping for sensation and flattery. Classical poetry is a "process" or experiment- a probe into the nature of reality and the nature of the mind.” And the poet Philip Whalen makes the same point in a poem when he say something like “I don’t want to be another pretty poety-boo; I want to be a world."

For me this sense of making poetry or art, any art, as an heroic and grandiose undertaking, whose cost and goal is everything, sounds about right- providing you don’t get too excited about it, seeing it as anything more or less than any human being is doing, or would do, if he or she reflected for a few minutes about what is a worthwhile and reasonable way to spend a human life. So: 1) art isn’t just another job, it’s an endless exploration, and as with any exploration there are proliferating avenues of pursuit and no final successes and 2) art is a necessity for humans, and we all need to find a way to participate in it.

The reason we need art so desperately I would say is that the world and we ourselves persist in being made. There is something exhausting and troublesome in the madeness of the world and in the madeness of ourselves. What is made has always the quality of limitation or unsatisfactoriness. Madeness captures us into a vicious cycle of desiring more madeness or better madeness, and the madeness we get only makes us want to make improvements or additions. Art making is an anti-making. It is an anti-making because it is a making of what is useless- this is what make art art, that it is useless, that it doesn’t do anything, that it is something inherently unmade and this is the source of its liveliness. Any piece of art stares us in the face with the fact of its being what it is uselessly, it is a record of a person’s commitment to the confrontation with the made, a confrontation one is bound to come away from second best, and yet one does it, and reaches a peak of exaltation in the doing of it, and the art work facing the viewer or hearer is a phenomenal testament to that useless confrontation, which by virtue of its supreme failure, calls our life into question. If you really look at a piece of art or hear a piece of music or poetry or see a dance, you walk away wondering about your life. This is what these objects are supposed to do, this is why artists make such sacrifices in the doing of what they do- because this doing is the undoing at least temporarily of what has done them in in their lives and would do them in to the point of death or madness if it weren't undone in the process of making art.

One of the qualities of art work that has always impressed me is its unstable nature. The artwork is its physical presence- its words or notes or paint- and yet it isn't that. If you are hit in the face by a plank you will definitely be hit by it and will feel the effects of it no matter whether you believe in planks or not, no matter whether you are in the mood for the sensation of pain or not. But if you make an effort to experience an art work you may not experience anything at all- it may strike you as a meaningless hunk of this or that, hardly worth a second look. Or it may strike you as profoundly moving one day, and completely beside the point the next day. Imagine an artwork sent from one gallery to another for a major show. Of all the people that will come into contact with that work- movers, curators, technicians who hang the work, security guards, the perhaps thousands of people who will file by to see it - of all these only a few, a very few, will actually experience it as an art work, and even those few might come back to the gallery the next day and not at all be able to fathom why the day before the work moved them so, or even if they could say why it moved them, and explain it, that would only be a memory. The actual experiencing of the painting has occupied only a few seconds or perhaps minutes in the hours and hours of human contact with the work. In other words, real experience of art is extremely rare, and it is fleeting, unstable. The poet Paul Valery said of poetry, that it is “completely irregular, inconstant, involuntary, and fragile, and that we lose it, as we find it, by accident.” I think it is a fantastic thing that people place such enormous value on something like this, something so evanescent that we are really hard pressed to say whether it actually exists or not. I suppose, to some extent, we value art out of long habit, or perhaps because it has become a good business: in art’s aspect of non-art, it can become just as much a commodity as anything else people will pay good money for, probably even moreso, because some sorts of art are even more subject to sudden economic inflation that a software or gene-splicing stock. Yet, at bottom, there remains the mystery of the uselessness of art, of the shifting and unmade quality of it, and of the tremendous need that we have for the unmade and the undone, no matter how unstable or accidental our experience of it may be. The experience of it is precious and life changing always.

I want to go a little further in considering what the actual experience of this unmadeness might be. In ordinary waking life we do make clear and hard and fast distinctions between separate things. This distinction making is what perception and thought is all about, and all day long we have perception and thought, piling one thing on top of the other, until there is a great weight of them. We define ourselves in the same way among or within our perceptions and thoughts, and get buried in the process. Life is very practical and very weighty, and there is a great deal of the conflict that comes from the bumping into each other of the various perceptions and thoughts which cannot occupy the same space at the same time. So there are decisions and considerations and there is desire for organization, yet there is less organization always than one would like, because as soon as the world is organized, along comes another one, and there is disorganization again, then the need to make something else to counteract what has just been made, and the weight of it wants to pull the house down. It is a persistent thought of mine that the problem of being human is historically always more or less the same problem, but it is tempting to imagine that in our current historical period all of what I have been saying is more true than it appeared to be in the past. There seems to be, simply, more going on, more piling up, more that cries for organization and will not be organized.

The work of art, by contrast, is entirely organized and therefore peaceful. Formally it may not be organized at all, but our experience in appreciating it, if we are fortunate enough to be in the situation of having such an accident befall us all of a sudden, is that of organization, radical organization. Artistic form is the expression of this sort of organization that is essentially an unpiling of the piling up of distinctions that make up our lives. The work of art unpiles everything and undoes us in the process; it raises a million questions that amount to one question: who are we and what we we doing here? This question is the essential question that undoes us every time because we never can answer it. So it keeps us fresh and it allows our life to fully enter itself.

What I mean by organization I suppose is a feeling of connection or inclusion or completion beyond thought. In the light of the experience of the work of art the world makes sense because it is no longer made of weighty and disparate parts; it is a world of nuance and shimmer: what I would say we call beauty though this word has become fairly useless because it has become confused with pretty. Beauty is not necessarily pretty: it is, rather, this accidental sensation, before we think about it and therefore make something of it, of connection, unmadeness, uselessness, perfection, freedom.

Again Valery, "I recognize it (he speaks here of the poetic experience, but I think his remarks can be extended to any sort of art) in myself by this: that all possible objects of the ordinary world, external or internal, beings, events, feelings, and actions, while keeping their usual appearance, are suddenly placed in an indefinable but wonderfully fitting relationship with the modes of our general sensibility. That is to say that these well known things and beings- or rather the ideas that represent them- somehow change in value. They attract one another, they are connected in ways quite different from the ordinary; they become (if you will permit the expression) musicalized , resonant, harmonically related..."

What Valery is describing here is a tracelike state that is more real to us than the real world we live in every day. It is a state that is oddly brought on by a formal arrangement of ordinary stuff in such a way as to discreate the ordinary stuff, take it apart, which is so startling, when we actually notice it, that we become literally entranced. The Jesuit poet Gerard Many Hopkins once hypnotized a duck with a straight white chalkline drawn on a black table. He held the duck down against great resistance, drew the chalkline, pointed the duck’s eyes at the chalkline, then lifted his hand. The duck kept staring at the chalkline and did not move. Hopkins wrote, "They explain that the bird keeping the abiding offscape of the hand grasping her neck fancies she is still held down and cannot lift her head as long as she looks at the chalkline, which she associates with the power that holds her. This duck lifted her head at once when I put it down on the table without chalk. But this seems inadequate. It is most likely the fascinating instress of the straight white stroke." (Hopkins p 123) Instress is the term Hopkins coined to refer to the potentially torqued nature of anything purely perceived without too much definition; he considered it clear evidence of the nature of God. The duck in this case was mesmerized, Hopkins says, not by becoming habituated to the hand on her neck, but by virtue of her utter fascination with the chalk line as such. For us, art is that chalkline; it points to the instress, to use Hopkin’s term, of each thing in our perceptual world.

I said a moment ago that the experience of art is an experience of connection beyond thought. The curiosity of it is that the experience, as a human experience, can’t take place anywhere else but in thought or perception. This is exactly why it is so hard to pin down what an artwork actually is, and it is its unpindownable nature, always the case, but lately more appreciated and examined than heretofore, that probably accounts for the history of art in the century that is now drawing to a close. This has been the job of this time: to point out directly and baldly that doubt and accident lies at the heart of what art has always been. And in doing this one comes close to the boundary between art and life and immerses the boundary itself in doubt and accident. The words art and life become quite indistinct and imprecise. One could substitute for both the word reality, or being. That the job of all art or living is to appreciate and authenticate what is- our life simply as it appears- to serve as reminder, as instance or exemplar, of that. Viktor Shlovsky, the Russian literary theorist, said, "to make a stone stony: that is the purpose of art."

Why don’t we experience a stone as stony? Why do we persistently forget to come alive to the world as it is in front of our faces? Why do we have to go to all the trouble of making art so that we can return to where we are and have been all along? I think it is because of the way thought works in us. To be present in the midst of our being what we are is a pure sensation that we can never exactly apprehend. It is fleeting and ungraspable. Thought is always coming a second afterward, telling us something, singing a song of the past. Thought includes the aroma of our being alive, but it also includes so much that is made, so much of doing and piling up, that it tempts us necessarily away from ourselves. To find within our thought and perception (for perception is already thought) a settled free and unmade place takes effort, and this is the effort of art. Valery again, "There is no other definition of the present except sensation itself, which includes, perhaps, the impulse to action that could modify that sensation. On the other hand, whatever is properly thought, image, sentiment, is always in some way, a production of absent things. Memory is the substance of all thought........thought is, in short, the activity that causes what does not exist to come alive in us... Between voice and thought, between thought and voice, between presence and absence, oscillates the poetic pendulum.."

This reminds me very much of the saying of the Heart Sutra, form is emptiness, emptiness is form...

All of what I have been saying is I suppose a Zen perspective on art, although I have a strong resistance to the idea of a zen perspective on anything for reasons that are probably obvious from what I have said already. So take the words zen perspective please with a grain of salt, and understand them as shorthand for a way of looking at the world that is essentially unmade and undefined. We can’t get away with that of course. We will always have to be someplace and called something so we will have to use terms somehow in the hope that we will remain willing to have them deconstructed right before our eyes, and to find their deconstruction amenable. In the practice of zen meditation we are not trying to do anything other than to undo everything and simply be present as directly as possible with all phenomena that arise. This necessarily involves a moment by moment letting go of definition and perception and thought. I do not mean that we would attempt to become stupid blankminded and unthinking. Rather that we would let the world come and go as it naturally does, without trying to stop it at some arbitrary point of our own conscious or unconscious choosing. Which of course is what we do try to do by making a world up, piling it up, as I have said, and becoming its victim. In zen meditation we happily enter a radically simple, even an absurd, situation- just sitting still and breathing- so that we have the possibility of seeing how this troublesome world is made. Although we may not be able to do anything with this meditation practice, it does serve as a kind of training, helping us, by familiarity, to become directly used to the actual situation that prevails more or less within being. Meditation practice is a return, over and over again every moment, to that particularly odd situation, which we can see as time goes on exists in the middle of any situation, no matter how simple or complex.

Zen master Dogen wrote a well known text called Genjokoan, which I translate as Koan of the Present Moment. In this text he kindly extends the notion of koan, or fundamental meditation object, to our simply being within the present moment of our lives. A classical koan presents us with an insoluble problem. The only way to extend ourselves into that problem completely is to stop trying to solve it, in other words, to stop trying to make something of it, and simply to allow it fully to be what it is, which would necessarily mean that we would take it so personally that it would be our life. In Genjokoan Dogen points out that we do not need to take on some old saying of the masters in order to confront directly the issue at hand; in fact each moment of our lives, if we would let go of our definitions and protections and elisions, and lean fully into it, begs the question. What is to be done? What is this moment after all?

Here is a passage from Genjokoan. "To study Buddhism is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be confirmed by all things. This confirmation is the dropping off of body and mind of one’s self and all others. It is enlightenment that dissolves all its traces, and the tracelessness goes on endlessly."

"To study Buddhism is to study the self." This means that one looks deeply and honestly at all points at the way in which one’s life actually unfolds - looks, enters, and allows. This is always interesting, always provides a path forward, no matter what it is that arises. That anything arises at all is always miracle enough, whether we like it or no, so there is no judgment or resistance necessary, and even where there is judgment or resistance there is a settling into that with appreciation and awe.

"To study the self is to forget the self" means that once you practice in that way your definitions and hedges against yourself fall away, and you can be perfectly happy going on with life, simply life, without any need to make anything out of it.

"To forget the self is to be confirmed by all things." Allowing things to be as they are without any protection is to appreciate the materials at hand. In everyday living, as in artmaking, which might not be so different after all from everyday living, there is a sense of form and presence in each and every thing that comes forward in the present moment.

"Dropping body and mind of self and others" is harder to see for it expresses the freedom that one would feel in the renunciation of everything, being willing to live as one is right now, without any need to hold onto life now or in the future, and to see that everything shares in this already.

Finally ("enlightenment dissolves its traces, and the tracelessness goes on endlessly") this sense of life as anything distinctive dissolves- it doesn’t look like anything. There is the sense that in the useless and unmade space and time of actual living there is a subtle endlessness and namelessness that is delightfully available to everyone at all times.

I take this vision of Dogen to be more or less descriptive also of the process of making art- of, anyway, the sense of artmaking that I am advancing here, which is I suppose, after all, following Ginsberg and Valery, an inherently religious one. I do not want to conflate art and religion of course. I recognize that they are not the same thing, and yet I suppose it is inescapable that I am arguing that what we call the aesthetic impulse is at bottom identical to what we call the religious impulse. Certainly the cultural history of Zen, particularly in Japan, would attest to the close relationship between the two activities.

Insofar as both art and religious practice always manifest in the world as we know it as particular things, both have serious built in problems. Religion solidifies into doctrinaire narrow-mindedness or institutional power-brokering, or usually both, and art solidifies into money, if it is successful, and despair if it is not, a defeat in either case. I do not think I am the first to point out that art in our radically mercantile society is more or less doomed to becomes commodified, and that it is generally made for the wealthy, and becomes for them in various ways a kind of sanitized and enriched currency. Even artists who do not make economically valuable artwork must create economically attractive explanations to attract funders to pay for the generally high costs of the art habit. Even poets, who need only about $10 worth of materials to create their works, must vie for these dollars. Despite this, I do not think the situation is hopeless, and that is why I have taken the time to think about this topic. Because I believe that if the artist can be clear about the nature of the project that he or she is finally concerned with, and actively work at being clear about it, for clarity is never a given, it needs constant revision, just as if the religious practitioner, which is any of us, can be clear about the project he or she is engaged in, I think it is possible to proceed with liveliness and integrity, despite the difficulties. Life well and seriously lived has never been without these difficulties; it is part of the fun and simply a given in the situation. A certain amount of complaining is probably normal but it would certainly be counterproductive to give one’s self over to complaining entirely.

A final quote from Valery, "The mind is terribly variable, deceptive and self-deceiving, fertile in insoluable problems and illusory solutions. How could a remarkable work emerge from this chaos if this chaos that contains everything did not also contain some serious chance to know one’s self and to choose within one’s self whatever is worth taking from each moment and using carefully?"

And a poem of Dogen:

Being as it is,
What’s that?
In a waterdrop
Shaken from a duck’s beak:
An image of the moon

-Zoketsu Norman Fischer - copyright 2000

Movie update.

About a month ago, I mentioned I was supposed to be on my way to see In The Realm of The Unreal. It never happened. First, my movie date was sick and so we cancelled. Then I was going to see it on my own, and I became sick. It's no longer playing in Seattle and so I'll wait until it comes out on dvd.

Born into Brothels is the next film I want to see. Right now, it's at the Metro in the Univesity District. I'm intrigued by the story.

Last week, after not going to the movies in over a month, I saw Millions. It's absolutely captivating. Alex Etel, as Damian, is...amazing. And so cute you just want to eat him up. Those freckles!!!! This was his film debut. He reaches right in and grabs your heart.

If you have a chance, go check it out. Really.

I am truly sorry for something I said in my earlier entry this morning.
I just got back from a session with the shrink, and mentioned my entry to him. We spoke, and I realized that although I've let go of some of the anger, I haven't resolved all of it yet. Proof? My choice of "lowest common denominator" instead of "common denominator". It was wrong, wrong, wrong. Thinking about it now, I'm absolutely mortified. Simply because something is the norm, it is not less than. After I post this entry, I will go in and edit that sentence.

Yet my insecurity, my struggle with freakiness and lack of long ago acceptance because of it, is still something I'm working on. One day...maybe...hopefully...I can get to a place where I no longer have to prove myself. I envision a person who is sure enough to be able to do what they want, not caring what the rest of the world thinks or does. And with that, I envision and calmness and quiet heart, filled with strength. No small ambition. But it's something I crave with all my being.

Forgive me?

This weekend is the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival. Speaking of which, last year they had this really fabulous clip by Cole & Weber advertising the festival. It's still up on the website. You HAVE to see it. Ummm...something to do with jumper cables.

I know that last year I went off on erotic art. That was December 2003. . And then here is my experience with attending the show. A few months later, I wrote about the subject again, ending that entry with:

"Here's another thought. Maybe the question we should be asking is, "why is pornography such a big deal anyway?" What is it about sex that scares us silly? Then again, death does the same thing. As does birth.

All natural, truly primal, and yet, our governments and religions have seen fit to control with a heavy hand.
I wonder if part of the reason is, birth, orgasms and death are similar experiences. I think they are ecstatic moments, times when we are closest to omniscience.

In our living, breathing lives, it's that energy that allows us to move mountains. Powerful spaces of time. Controlling forces are threatened by the gale winds that stem from the individual self.

And maybe…we allow ourselves to be controlled because we also fear our unique strength."

This year I've resigned myself to the fact that the word 'erotic' appears to have been slaughtered. I guess they mean erotic art in the context of sex and figurative art. If people, in general, want to portray one view of eroticism...then so be it. I decided a while back to not be so sensitive and stop being angry about it. Instead, I'll focus on what I can do in my own way to enlarge the idea of what is erotic. I can't kowtow to what seems to be a common denominator.

There are going to be tents with different activities. One in particular excites me because it blows apart our perception of eroticism. And I think it'll push buttons as well. Now that turns me on. I found out yesterday that I'll have a part in that exhibit. I'll be more engaged than I originally thought.
I'm not going to describe it now, but I promise I'll write about it after the fact.

Stone soup.

My apartment building has a gated entrance. It opens up onto a little courtyard with our building in a horseshoe shape surrounding this space. In the courtyard is a little pond with a small fountain. A month ago, the manager placed about 6 goldfish in the pond. This morning, on my way back with a cup of coffee I stopped to talk with a few tenants who were hanging out. I met a man who purchased additional fish that were put in yesterday. He's been living here since October and has taken responsibility for their feeding and care. Someone planted what seems to be calla lilies on the edge of the pond. Someone else placed additional greens. Management hooked up small lights around the pond. And slowly there are little creatures appearing, tucked in the rocks. Little plastic figures. A small rubber snake.

In a quiet way, this little bit of water is connecting people.

Want to know what was in the letter?

I enjoy giving the shrink gifts. I mean it can't always be a lot of fun to sit there, 50 minute hour after 50 minute hour listening to folks cry, rant, rave, attack, whine and even transfer some of the stronger emotions onto you.

Over the years, I've discovered a few things that turn him on (shrink-wise). Dreams. Dreams are a biggie.
The first time it happened, I took note.

I walked in, sat down and said,
"I have something for you."
"What is it?"
"I had a dream last night."

I'll never forget the look in his eyes. They lit up like New York City. His countenance changed. I could feel his body get excited.

So yesterday wasn't any different. Except, his reaction was even stronger.

"Guess what this piece of paper is."
"What do you have there?"
"Well, I received a response from my folks, regarding the newsletter and I haven't read it yet. I wanted to wait and read it here."
"Oh goodie!"

I do believe that his reaction was also bigger because that damned trust thing is becoming greater. Whether the email was good or bad, I NEEDED to go through this with him. He saw that.

Okay...the letter.

It's not a bad letter. But it's not a good letter. Essentially, what I received was,

Dear girlfag,
We received your magazine. We can see it is professionally done and all the organization has accomplished. You have a natural instinct for this.
So and so was sick last week. The weather is nice here...blah, blah, blah.
love,
Mom and Dad.

I didn't know what to do with that. I still don't. If it were a bad letter, I could be angry and would feel justified. If it were a more positive letter, such as "Now I understand what you do. We're so proud of you. You are showing us a bigger world..." I'd be feeling warm fuzzies right about now.
Yet, this middle of the road, polite response leaves me in a weird space.

I understand that they probably didn't know what to do with what they read. Honestly, it's a lot for them. And, as the shrink mentioned yesterday, even without the newsletter or the articles, the photo alone spoke a thousand words. It's so out of their realm of vision. What could they do when they see their daughter, who they think is a lesbian, surrounded by large gay men, tattooed, shaved, pierced, etc.? Then they piece that together with the fact that in the last 4 years, I haven't mentioned a woman's name once. Yeah, it confounds my friends.

My poor parents.

Now, in addition to understanding, I'm feeling sad and angry. I mean, I'm their kid dammit. As their child, I don't think it's enough for them to simply love me. I want them to embrace who I am. Polite support doesn't leave me with much.

This isn't going to stop the feelings of being smothered when I go home for visits. Their response felt like "that's nice dear, now make sure you wash your hands before dinner."

Family is about sharing. If you can't share and really engage with each other (on both sides) then what is left?
What I realize now is that I hoped I could involve them in some type of dialogue. Let's begin the process of talking.
But I need to respect their comfort level with this.

So that's that.

Oh yes, one other thing. I did mention to the shrink that I feel a sense of relief. Finally being able to say "this is who I am", regardless of their reaction, frees me up. It's cleaner now.

Maybe this will slowly filter through them. Maybe at some point they'll be able to talk. Or maybe never.
Only time will tell, eh?

I knew about Google maps. But I didn't know about the satellite shots now offered by Google. That is, not until this morning, when I read about it in Mark Morford's latest column I Can See Your House From Here.

Of course I needed to try it for myself. I popped in my address, hit 'satellite' and after seeing my neighborhood I spent a few minutes using the arrows on the top left to scroll that satellite photo right down to Elliot Bay. Fun!

Welcome to Seattle.

My coworker was required to call doggie daycare and let them know that he had to pull his dog out early today to take him to doggie acupuncture.

He was cracking up while on the phone knowing how crazy it sounded.

There is an email sitting in my inbox. Unopened. It's been there since yesterday afternoon. I've decided to wait until this afternoon to read it. I'll print it and bring it to my session. It's good news or bad news and either way, I want the shrink's support.

What's the letter about? It's a response from my parents, regarding a certain envelope they received.

You see, I kinda came out to my parents. Again.

7 years ago, before moving to Seattle, my sibs and I agreed it was time to tell my parents I was queer. They were loving and supportive. But with that, came the silence. It is partially my fault because I never took the risk of sharing my daily queer life with them and partially theirs because they created the climate of 'don't speak of awkward things' because it's too uncomfortable.

Since that initial coming out, my life has gotten bigger in regards to sexuality and how I view the world. In some fashion, it's all about sex. Knowing that is one arena my parents will not deal with, I shut myself down. I remember when I came out my mom played the dutiful Catholic mom and said she loved me but I needed to remain celibate. Yeah. Right.

So I'm 3000 miles away, work for a queer organization, volunteer to raise funds for a scholarship in human sexuality, and surround myself with people who are comfortable in all facets of sexuality. My emails home have been:

Dear Mom and Dad,
hope you're both doing well. I've been crazy busy at work.
The flowers are blooming (or insert some other appropriate weather phrase).
Thinking of you.

Love,
Me.

Yeah it sucked. I felt deceptive and hypocritical in the sense that I was trying to fit in by my silence. And I hated, absolutely hated not being to share who I am with them.

Now here's a strange statement. Coming out as gay was one thing, but coming out as a sexual being was another. What I mean by that is I'm claiming my space in the family as a queer person who is proud of what they do and will share that with them (appropriately) as well as declaring the fact that I'm part of the leather community. Now it will be interesting to see if they even have any idea what that means. I'm not going to volunteer extra info but will honestly answer whatever questions (if any) are asked.

You ask "how did you do that?"
Well, our latest newsletter came out. 11,500 copies were mailed all over the country. The lead story is, not only written by me, but about the sex scholarship I've been working for (in my free time). In addition to being an article about the importance of funding sexual research, it speaks of the leather community. And inside there's this photo of myself surrounded by a bunch of leathermen.

Last week, I sent the newsletter to my parents and each sib. Every envelope had the same letter attached, addressed to all: Dear Mom, Dad, sis, sis, bro, and bro. This guarantees they all know the other received it. The letter simply said that I was proud the endowment goal for the scholarship was reached, pleased that I was asked to write the article, honored to work where I work, and most importantly, I wanted them to know more of who I am.

I will be very surprised if they know what the leather community means. I wonder if they'll ask.

So now there is this email in my inbox. The subject is the name of my organization. I'm sure it's about the newsletter.
And I'm nervous.

My appointment is this afternoon.
I'll let you know how it goes, okay?

Little big things.

I'm still cooking for myself. If you're just tuning in and wonder what that's about then read this. By the way, Sunday lunch was spinach salad and then spaghetti with doctored up jar sauce for dinner. Tonight was homemade junk food. French toast. I love french toast but rarely eat it because well...it's pretty much all simple carbs. Yeah, yeah...other than the eggs and butter.

Today was a good and really hard day in therapy which meant tonight was a treat night. An hour later I made a big batch of egg salad for sandwiches. Egg salad is one of my comfort foods. And I keep it simple. Eggs, celery, mayo, salt, pepper, normally onion (but I didn't have any in the house tonight)...and mustard. There's a coworker who loves egg salad so I'm bringing the bowl in tomorrow and we can each have a couple sandwiches this week.

See? A little big thing.

Small sure steps.

I'll work my way up again to fuller more elaborate meals. One of my favorite things in the entire world is a table groaning with food surrounded by people I care about.

Hmmm...other comfort foods.

Thanksgiving dinner
Mom's cooking, especially shepherd pie, corn chowder, meatloaf and toutiere (canadian meat pie).
Macaroni and cheese (homemade) although at times the box stuff is total comfort. But only with cut up hot dogs cooked inside.
Nuna toodle casserole

Now...newer comfort foods. Sushi rolls. Ethiopian food (what's more comforting than a stew that gets slopped up with their wonderful bread?). Homemade ravioli, especially something like pumpkin or sweet potato ravioli on a bed of sauteed arugula and pinenuts. Serious yum.
Septieme's gnocchi served on red chard. I love those leafy greens.
And a good cheeseburger with steak fries.

Killer thick soups.

Fried bay scallops. (This is when I miss New England). And yes, lobster. These two have become a comfort food in the last 7 years because in addition to the taste, it's all about the memory of my old coast.

Here is this week's Freewill Astrology and Mark Morford's latest column.

Morford acknowledges the fact that there are good Christians. I find it sad that he may have received enough flack to feel the need to write this. I know he's ranted about the extreme fundies and what's happening politically because of their loud, overbearing demands. And yet, I don't know about you, but I've been able to separate what he's said and not lump all Christians into that. I know this because I do the same. I believe there are very few people, when angry, frustrated and/or hurt, who don't use words that appear to generalize. Intelligent, self-aware individuals know the difference even when they may seem to spout off in one direction. It's all about context folks. Sometimes I get so fucking tired of playing the goddammed semantics game. Look at the overall message instead of picking apart every single word.

Yeah...I'm spent. I feel so beaten down and yet, at the same time, not. You see, I vomited another truth regarding my recovery. And it is all centered around religion. In time I'll write about it.

Personally, I am leery of anything that attempts to rope in and bind the most natural, organic, and lusty part of who we are. Our spiritual core. I believe it's the piece that cries out for connection, the surreal within us, the part greater than our own physical selves and the essence of the most glorious orgasms that one can have. It is the source of our imagination, our creativity and our passions. It is liquid and craves to move in and out in the most natural of ways.

To be tied up and tangled in dogma and doctrine, this unearthly energy locked in a man-made machine with ego-driven committees, rules, and the hunger for power squelching any shred of compassion is the blackest thing I can imagine.

And yes, because of my, I said MY, personal history, it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Now I am filled with curiousity. I continue to be awe-struck for those who can balance their love for their religion with their love for the big world around them. I can see the integrity in their eyes and feel their hearts. Somehow they can work with this unnatural machine - need it, fetishize it and maybe not only come through unscathed but stronger because the structure of religion fills something inside of them.

At 16 years old, I discovered I could not continue to be held by the catholic church. The questions began and it made no sense to continue following the edicts of someone just because. It felt wrong. It felt illogical. And it angered me. In that moment, I first realized I could hold opposing viewpoints in my hands and allow them to sit side by side, albeit uncomfortably. As much as I began to see my hatred for the church and wished it had never existed, I also knew that I would never want my father to leave the church for me. I saw his heart and innocence in his belief. It was such a part of him. There was never any malice in his intent.

People need to follow their hearts. The kicker is they must allow others to do the same. Yes it is a balancing act. But I believe that our responsibility as members of the human race is to allow, regardless of personal feelings, others their spiritual beliefs. It's a circle. Unfortunately, in this day and age, there is a segment of the population that feels they can decide what is moral and immoral, using religion as their argument, for all of us. I am a proud godless, tax-paying American who is profoundly pissed off that a very vocal group is using their concoction of god to legislate all of us. It is offensive on so many levels.

Art.

Something's in the air. Saturday night I was gifted with a new easel. A new/old easel. On his way up to his apartment, Auxugen noticed a nice wooden easel near the dumpster one night. Without hesitation, he stopped what he was doing and brought it upstairs. For me. Although I couldn't bring it home yet, due to the size, I took a look at it on Saturday night. Nice. Right now I have a Stanrite easel. I've had it for about 10 years. It was inexpensive, solid and easily folds up. Good for apartments.

This new easel is larger, and prettier. Hoss looked at it and saw that some of the screws and whathaveyou can be tightened. It will make it more solid.

I'm pretty excited about this one. It still needs to come home with me. So...now I'll have two easels. One for me, and the other can be used by someone who's been hankering at the bit to learn. I have a large plastic tarp leftover from painting the walls. Wonderboy saved it because he knew I'd need it for painting. So the damned thing will get spread all over the living room carpet and then the easels erected...and voila!

Let me see if I can find a picture of something like it.

Here it is...I think. Mind you, I only saw it once.

I realized something about painting and my new apartment. I love my apartment. It's pretty. And not very conducive to painting in it.

I decided that I'll keep 'em small. Little paintings, mostly about 8x10. I have about 5 canvases that size, waiting for paint. It seems I'm more successful with smaller images anyway. They are quicker, and so there's less time to think, angst, overwork and kill. Yes, I miss painting large pieces. But it will come with time. I know because I know because I know that once I begin painting again, and it continues on a regular basis, the universe will open up because I'll have put forth the energy and motion required to meet the need...of a larger paint space. So I'm not worried. And why oh why should I have the space now? I'm not friggin' painting. It would be wasted.

It'll happen. When it's right.

Oh dear. Where do I begin?

First off, my coworkers returned from NYC. One of them went did go to the Ashes and Snow exhibit. He just handed me a gift. It's Book No. 1 from the show. What a beautiful book, not only the images, but the book itself.

I've received a few great responses to my Don't Listen To Me piece and they've been working overtime in my head. I want to write about it but it's still all percolating.

On top of it, all this religion stuff has pushed big flashing red buttons for me. It hits all the family stuff right in the nuts. Since last November, we've been inundated with the not flattering face of god and it's heightened in the last few weeks. Between Terri Schiavo, Easter week rituals and now the death of the pope, I've had enough. I can't even begin to really write my thoughts because it seems to me the whole world has gone crazy. I've tried to keep out of discussions although I gave in last week.

I think right now I'll just post a couple links. One is for an article, The End Of Reason by David Morris, that I posted in Uppity Faggot last week. I wasn't going to post it here, but have since changed my mind. I've been trying so hard to maintain some modicum of grace and tolerance...sit back and let the others cry and rant. Allow people to shriek out their god-infested beliefs. But, honestly, at this juncture in my life, it is poking its fingers in my raw, gaping wounds and I'm going to howl. The pain and hurt all this god stuff brings up is too much.

Dan, from Leather Adventures, wrote a thoughtful piece on this whole religion mess.

And yes, in spite of this umm...disruption, although I know it's really only another step in my journey, I'm still excited by all the positive changes in my life.

Can I say that I'm pretty pleased with myself?

I woke up after my second solid night in a row of solid sleep. So deep that I barely moved the blankets. This was done without the help of Sleepytime tea, Nyquil or Ambien. Other than a few days around christmas, I haven't had two nights in a row, without assistance, since October. Shit. It makes a HUGE difference.

The shrink mentioned that I was still terrorized from the late night drug deals and violence that would wake me with a start in my old place. He said it would take a little while before my sleep self felt safe at night. That's why I'd been sleeping lightly, awakened by just about any slight noise. In addition this eternal cold from hell didn't help with sound sleep.

So this morning I woke, went out to grab coffee, came back, did dishes, ate breakfast, picked up my house and now still have the energy to write to you. On my list of things I need for my house is this item. Then I won't need to run out on weekend mornings. Yesterday afternoon I actually, really and truly cooked for myself. Nothing elaborate. Honestly, it was only eggs and toast. But it was the first time in over 8 months that I could even accomplish something that basic. Opening a can or nuking a frozen something isn't cooking. Yet that's all I've seriously had the energy for.

Trust me, it's a big deal.

Sometimes I would think about creating a meal yet I'd wander through the grocery store in a fog. I couldn't decide what I'd want. Everything, even the littlest and simplest things felt difficult to the point of being insurmountable. The act of baking a potato felt like climbing a mountain.

Sometimes I don't realize how sick I am until afterwards when I can compare it to feeling well.

Sometimes I really didn't believe the shrink when he would say, over and over, that I'm actually spending all my energy on internal work. What did that mean...really?

Yesterday, I began to feel better, although a migraine attempted to put a damper on things.

I hung out with Hoss and his boy last night. Because I'd been sick, they felt that I needed a good dinner of homemade chicken soup and biscuits. Then we hung out and ended up playing board games. Let me suggest that Monopoly becomes a whole new game with a little scotch.

Auxugen then came up and kept us company while I was being thrown into the poorhouse. Bereft and bankrupt. A sad case actually. I tried and tried but couldn't get ahead. My homes went, property was mortgaged and although great attempt was made to stick it to the man it quickly became a futile effort.

It was a good evening.

I've more to write but seeing it's attached to something else...I'll be back later. I need to dump one thing from my head before beginning another.

Sirens woke me about 4 am. Lots and lots of them. They seemed to go on forever. My eyes opened and after I acknowledged the sirens I noticed something. I felt almost human again. Although my head was still somewhat full, it was clearer. My chest was lighter. Could it be? Is this for real? I'm almost afraid to mention it because well, it's been over a month since I felt this way. Shhhh...maybe I shouldn't speak of this too loudly.

But damn. I had finally given in and made an appointment with my doctor. I'm seeing her next Wednesday. The denial finally stopped and I figured I had a sinus infection from hell. And because I'm stubborn and detest taking antibiotics, I hoped that it could go away by itself. Maybe that's what is happening.

I'll keep the appointment though. It won't hurt.

Now for some links.

I picked this up from Singletails earlier in the week, and I sent it to my shrink. I knew he could appreciate it. He did. It's an article on how Russian scientists have discovered that whipping can help with depression and suicidal tendencies.

Originally I saw this site on Draignoeth's blog and meant to link to it but hadn't. Then Thornyc linked to it as well. So allow me to jump into the fray. This is a show I'd love to see if I were in NYC. Two of my coworkers were in NYC this week, to meet with other organizations. I sent one of them the link to the show with instructions to see it and report back to me. I know his taste in art. It's good. And verified by the fact that he purchased one of my paintings about 4 years ago. :-)
Anyway, I'm fascinated not only by the show but the museum. Sam, have you seen this yet?

Check out Ashes and Snow as well as an article regarding the Nomadic Museum, a traveling museum created by the artist to show his work.

Now to all the Seattle folks out there as well as a nice reference for those who plan on visiting...here's a fabulous site referencing wireless Seattle. It also breaks down coffeehouses by neighborhood as well as alphabetical order. There's some nice info, regarding whether or not food is served, the convenience of power outlets and whether or not there are also computers for use, not only a wireless network.

That's it for now. I'm at work for a few hours to finish a couple tasks and then I begin my weekend. Talk with you later and have a good one.

Mark Morford is out hunting. In Where Are All The Cool Cars? he writes:

"I want what every modern oversold grudgingly metrosexual unmarried male worth his tattoos and oversize ego and extensive porn collection wants: a cool small sexy functional upscale luxury sporty car that gets great gas mileage with low emissions that still fits a large (imminent) dog and a delicious SO, and yet that I can maneuver into small City parking spaces and that makes you swoon and smile when you look at it and sit in it and lick the leather-trimmed dashboard."

For those of you who work in the queer nonprofit sector, I'm sure you know of Funders for Lesbian and Gay Issues. It's the first study in lgbt grantmaking. You can access the PDF of LGBT Grantmaking by U.S. Foundations (in 2002). It's the first entry under research. This is an interesting and informative work.

Want to know what's been really great this week?

The weather. It rained. It finally rained!

After what seemed like weeks that turned to months of a pittance of preciptation...the skies opened up. For a day or so it dropped buckets. And then we had typical on and off Seattle mist. I love days like those. You see, it's a multi-personality sky. Filled with a variety of character...it changes, only to change again. I cherish the times when the sky is low and grey, then becomes black...to then have the sun comes out and glow. Everything radiates. A green gold light hits everywhere.

We had snowball hail. We had lightening hit the space needle. We even had snow in the mountains.

I love wild, windy and wooly weather. Love it, love it, love it.

Hmmm...Mr. Eric Francis appears to be right on the money.

Want to see what I found while checking out my Planetwaves 'scope? I discovered a new extended spring 2005 horoscope and here's what it had to say -

Capricorn:
This is a time of various pressures and necessities adjusting themselves. I don't think you're the one pulling the levers and making the changes; rather, I see a lot of activity in the world around you, including in your home environment, your family and your emotional life. You seem to be settling on your new foundations -- foundations you have built with much work, sacrifice and psychological effort in recent years. The strange revelation may be just how comfortable you feel now that most of this work is done. And in a strange way, the remaining inner projects have the reassuring quality of an agenda. You can, however, ease off on that particular way of life -- of planning and effort. I suggest you allow the energy around you to shift, move, and finally settle into a pattern that you can live with. Feel your bones shift gently into place; feel yourself grow gradually more comfortable with who you are. That sense of comfort is exactly what will lead you to the next stage of your life, so I suggest cultivating your sense that you're truly okay and that you belong in the world. Of course it's impossible to have that feeling if you're in an emotional uproar, or facing any kind of security threat. The thing is, you are not. You really are safe, you just need to feel that way, which is another way of saying it's okay to be alive.

Want yours? Go here.

Here's is this week's Freewill Astrology, a la April Fool.

Now Mark Morford's column for today is about not being a fool.
In Do You Need A Living Will? Keep Congress and rabid Christians off your sad, brain-damaged body -- fill this out today! he writes:

"Do it because we are now in a country where it's OK to vote for brutal unwinnable wars and it's OK to kill over 20,000 innocent Iraqis and it's OK to justify the death of over 1,500 U.S. soldiers over a presidential lie, OK to blindly support environmental devastation and industry deregulation that will lead to all manner of pollution and illness and cancer and death in future generations but oh my God if you should want to follow the law and be allowed to pass from this life with a shred of dignity, you are a monster, or a lightning rod, or a bizarre martyr, not to mention a cash cow for the GOP.

Do it because we are now in a country where you need to protect yourself from hordes of people who insist on praying for you when theirs are the kind of prayers that make God cringe."

It's not as if he has an opinion about any of this.

You know, I'm not hugely depressed or anything. This therapy stuff is fascinating as all get out. I'm learning so much about myself. And that's the point, isn't it?

Getting down to core issues wasn't easy. Now being here, in this space, where I am beginning to actually look myself in the face and need to make a decision...that's not easy either. It's about acceptance. Acceptance of who I am.

It's not about acceptance of my sex. I am who I am. I've gone through those coming outs. In regards of my noname gender and noname orientation, people can either take it or leave it. I really don't give a shit. Of course, when it's someone I care about and still am rejected, it will hurt and does. A lot. But I've been getting to the point where I'm not changing myself to make someone else comfortable. I refuse to squeeze myself into the little box they've created to live in their little world. And no, I didn't get to this place overnight. That was a lifetime of living and a few years of hard work.

Now...it's about the root of me. Do I love myself enough to fully embrace myself?

Something struck me the other day. When the shrink suggested 3 sessions a week, I of course brought up the fee factor. He reminded me that there isn't any better investment in the world than what I'm currently spending on this work. He's right. Yet I was still uncomfortable with spending on myself in such a way. I remember speaking with AE on the phone and we were catching up. He said "Ask your shrink if he'd be willing to fly out to the east coast once a week to do a session with me".

I know he wasn't serious. And I know that AE has limited financial resources. I immediately thought that if he could see someone like my shrink, I would gladly and lovingly go into debt for him. I would pay for his sessions.

Ding!

Huh. I would joyfully go broke for another and yet am dragging my feet about doing it for me. What the fuck does that say about how I value myself? A helluva lot.

The exciting thing is recognizing that. And I did. Immediately.

That's where I'm at. And painting is at my root. I know.
I know because I know because I know that the day I really accept myself as a painter and begin to paint is the day I truly begin to accept ALL of who I am.

The hesitation lay in fear. I am seeing glimpses of the person lurking in the shadows. Slowly the light emanating from this person is revealing itself. And yet, I don't dare lay my eyes upon the glory that is within me. Me. Not a god. But who I am. A human being with all their faults, weaknesses, fears and strength, love and power. Okay. I'm quite the expert at seeing the down side of this being. But now I need to come to a place where I show my face to the one who waits for me. I need to allow that light to hit me.

I now have to admit that when I was in school, I began seeing the real me. It scared me so much that I slammed the door. It would crack open periodically when I absolutely have to paint. But I wouldn't let myself fall in those waters. Instead, when I get too hot, I'll just dip my toes in the kiddie pool.

Potential. My potential. Each of our own potential. Potent stuff.

And yeah. It fucking terrifies the shit out of me.

Don't listen to me.

Don't listen to me when I say I'm going to paint again. It's a lie.
Don't listen to me when I walk down the hall and see light peeking out from the doors. The blue doors, white walls, the red firebox jutting out from the wall and yellow light glowing from under the doors. It's a Mondrianesque painting waiting to happen. I could take this long expanse of depth and bring all the planes to the surface. I could, you know. But will I?

Probably not.

Don't listen to me when I speak of looking out my window and seeing the rooftops of homes and brick buildings. There's a whole world out there. I can smell it. And when I look, I can see what colors I'll squeeze out on my palette. What shapes will come to the forefront and how I'll distort space. It's in my head. I can see it.

Don't listen to me when I think of all the photos and images and half finished paintings I desire to work on.
The special portrait series.
The dungeon series.
The still lifes.
The landscapes.
Each time I pop in my closet, or open my laptop, or walk into a room, it is there. It's all there.

Yet please don't listen to me. Because no matter how I visualize a piece, its construction and fluidity, it never seems to leave the room behind my eyes. Something else will appear on the toned canvas. It's a battle between what I want and what I have.

And so...I stopped painting.

Don't listen to me when I speak of this.
What's the big deal with painting anyway? It's only a hobby. A silly, little frivolous act to keep me occupied between doing the real stuff that life requires. What is paint? What the hell is color?

We have become experts at sucking the life out of the most soulful and lusty acts.
Example? "What's your favorite color?"
How often do we hear that? One color? How can you choose? Can't you see how they are all connected??? Each pours into the next.
"Oh, could you whip up a little painting to match my bedroom?"
"You know if you made prints, you could make some money off this."

Don't listen to me. Apparently I stopped painting because I'm not worthy of painting. It's the arc of the covenant, the holy grail. Who am I to dare drink of its cup, let alone hold it in my hands, fingers stained with alizarin and ochres? Flagging right with a turp soaked rag...I'll forever bottom to this space I can't seem to access. It is the Top that keeps its distance, forever looming over me. I can see but I can't touch.

It's not important.
I can live just fine without this. Painting.

Bah. Humbug.

Don't listen to me when I talk like this. What do I know?
I know enough to realize how to keep pushing the most intimate part of who I am away from me.
I know enough to see that maybe...just maybe...I'll never fully be happy until I allow this foreboding Top into my life.
Kneel at its feet and submit myself to the One who beckons me during my nights...and my days. Teasing me with images and color and light.
Glorious, fucking light that dances and casts its spell over my visual world.
It creates cages and cells with planes and shapes. I turn in place and find myself surrounded by two dimensional architecture. I can walk through and it keeps evolving and shifting, always showing me new forms and ideas.

I can run but I cannot hide.

Don't listen to me.
I feel immersed and lost in the tangle of what I should be and what I am.

My voice. The voice that needs to scream out in the darkness is the voice of oils.
A cry filled with brushstrokes.

Don't listen to me.

Don't listen to me when I say I'm getting better. Maybe I'm just talking just to talk. Maybe things really aren't going to change. Maybe I'll be stuck in this pit forever. And ever.

Good morning.

I'm healing slowly. Sunday night I slept a solid 8 hours without being awakened by a painful throat or fever. It makes a difference. This week I'm taking it easy. You see, the last time I thought I was healed I spent most of the next week socializing and it was too soon. This damned cold/bug/virus/infection/flu needs to get blasted out of my system.

I haven't really felt like blogging. Although I have a few word docs saved on my laptop with links and thoughts, they just haven't made their way here yet.
Maybe later. I promise....maybe later.

In the meantime, Uppity Faggot is writing again. There's a wonderful poem and a sweet little rant on the foolishness of SSC (the safe, sane and consensual credo). Check it out.

Joe.My.God is at it again. Brilliant writer.

The first reading of his that captivated me was this one. I've just spent a little time catching up on his blog and discovered this gem. It comes in 3 parts. Read it thru man. Read it thru.

The Day I Helped Kill A Baby

The Day I Helped Kill A Baby, Part 2

The Day I Helped Kill A Baby, Conclusion

Sigh...

...I've been really sick. Again.

It's not the typical cold, but a massive sore throat that last for days. The kind of pain that wakes you up during the night when the tylenol wears off. That's what I had two weeks ago as well. Strange. I finally gave in and called my doctor yesterday, because I felt my throat was swollen. Hard to swallow. But doc's on vacation and I didn't want to see her replacement. So if it's not better by Monday, I will call back. Doc should be in then.

I took Wednesday and Thursday afternoon off because, well, I couldn't remain upright anymore. Yesterday morning I returned to work only to have my boss take one look at me and send me packing. She said "I'm saying this out of love. Go home. Now. You look like hell."

The shrink says it's because of what's happening with therapy. He explained that now that I'm muddling around in the bottom of the pit, I'm using all my energy to work through it and therefore my immune system is down. Fiercely.

Whatever.

I've had links, as well as more thoughts, that I've wanted to share but honestly, all I could focus on was the desire to be in bed with fluids and painkillers.

Let's see how today goes, shall we?

Is This A New Dark Age?

Mark Morford writes:
"Because something in you knows. Something in you senses there is more at play right now in the world than mere depressing coincidence, that all the war and disease and brutality has more surrounding it than mere chance or fluke. Do you think? Do you feel it?

Proof? All you have to do is spend five minutes with any true healer or energy worker or divinely connected spiritual teacher in the world right now and they all say the same thing: This is not a good time. This is not the lightest, not the brightest, not the best period to be a human being. In fact, it's one of the darkest. Fiercest. Meanest.

It is, in other words, a low period in human, and especially American, history. And it's only getting lower."

Where do I begin? This may be a ramble of unconnected thoughts. The thoughts are so big and my head so foggy that I fear I may not articulate it well.

Last week was incredibly full. Last week was a rockin' good time. From different socials, to the meet 'n' greet, the WA State Mr/Ms contest on Saturday night, and the brunch on Sunday...I had loads of fun.

I met lots of new men, played and kissed a bunch, and had my ego, and other parts, stroked. There was that really hot scene I previously wrote about. And then another, where I was in the middle of about 4 people beating on me. One of the boys I played with in the past knows my pain tolerance and at one point, he pulled off my glasses and began slapping my face. He's the one person thus far who isn't afraid to hit me hard in the face. I always end up with a very sore and stiff jaw for the next three days or so. It's a good thing.

Last week I was approached and encouraged to enter the contest. I seriously considered it, for about 10 minutes. Then I laughed and said "you don't want me as a contestant or a titleholder". On Tuesday night, after the history forum, I was approached again, by another guy, to enter for next year. My response was the same.

On Sunday morning, I attended the brunch, winding up the events of the week. 3 different groups, pretty much consisting of all the same people, handed out awards. I heard many spout about 'community'. It wasn't any different than what I heard the night before from the contestants. "We want to help the community"..."we are here to draw the community together"...community this and community that.

What's that really mean?
What community?

It seems to me it's become a tidy catch phrase for those who sign a membership card and wear the appropriate clothes, which by the way I don't have. I still haven't replaced my leather jacket and am not in a hurry. I miss my old one (which I wore everyday before I even got into s/m) but a new one will show up when it's supposed to. Instead I have a cherry red canvas 'carhart' type jacket. And I love it. I discovered I also really enjoy just wearing what I wear in the midst of a uniform setting. I don't worry about looking the part. Actually, even when I was little, I never worried about it. Other than school uniforms, which I understood, I would dig my feet in if I felt pressure to clothe myself like the others. Dress codes be damned. They say very little about a person. I can't tell if someone is in full leathers because it really gets him off or because he desires to belong.

I have a 16" pair of steel toe engineer Chippewas. I love those boots. And I worked hard for them. But, I only wear them when it turns me on. Or, I'll wear them when I'm going to be doing a scene that I'm really nervous about. I was required to dig in and face my demons to earn those boots. Slipping them on reminds me of the courage I had during that tough period...and reinforces the fact I can do it again. I love my boots and yet I've rarely worn them to leather events. Some. But not most.

During the awards ceremony, I noticed bar politics. Seattle has a few leather bars. The Eagle is the down and dirtier bar. But the Cuff is the one with the clubs, contests and titles. Without going into details...it's interesting stuff. On top of it, as the awards and the speakers were going on...and on...I felt this sense of filth creeping over me. It was getting heavier. As much as I enjoyed the individuals during the week, I was now really seeing the robotic machine that keeps everything rolling and everyone corralled. I felt contaminated. Inside I was screaming "this isn't what sex is about!"

Sir noticed it. He'd look over at me and smile knowingly. When I dropped him off after the event, he suggested I go home and take a really hot shower. Wash all the filth off my body. I did.

We are all alone. Each one of us is ultimately going through this life by ourselves. We also all have a very natural need to fit – to be a part of something greater than ourselves. I do believe (in my stronger moments), that the connection we seek is actually always with us. We are connected to each other on a cellular level. Everything we say, think or do ripples out and touches another.

But we all need a home, don't we? A family. We all want to be reassured that we fit and have just as much right to be in this world as anyone else.

Maybe I should be saying "I" instead of "we".

Spending all that time in the bar last week was seductive because I felt desired. Men, whose names I unfortunately couldn't remember because I'm horrible with names, kept approaching me and telling me they were glad to see me. They enjoyed having me come out of hibernation. I really felt like I belonged to something larger than myself.

We strive to build some type of community. Yet within that, because of our need to fit, we end up creating a limited world inside that community. Instead of coming together and opening up our environment, it shrinks. That's what I really saw on Sunday, at the brunch.

I was in the midst of what is considered an alternative highly sexual community. And in that, I saw so many who didn't know how to open up and be intimate with themselves, let alone others. There's a lot of sadness and awkwardness amidst the laughter and the beer.

It's strange, yanno? I believe there's a need for everything. We each require different things to feed us. Thing is, in my opinion, sometimes we are starving and grab at any food we see. But not all food is nutritious. And therefore we keep eating and eating, never satisfied.

For a really bad analogy...I ate last week. A lot. But I was eating twinkies and ding dongs. Love them. And I crave them every once in a while. But they aren't satisfying. Instead, I need to remind myself that it's a fun treat in addition to my regular diet of vitamins and more substantial food.

Hey.

I do have a lot to write about and it may need to come out in chunks. And it's not going to happen now. I spent a week immersing myself in the Seattle leather organizational and bar culture. It was a decision to really engage in Leather Pride week. I'm still recuperating from the intense outgoing nature I displayed last week.

And last night I attended a forum on Seattle's leather history. A gathering of about 30-40 people, with at least 20 percent of the attendees having been into the scene for the last 15-30 years. One of the originators of the NLA was there. We heard the good, the bad and the ugly. I'll write more about it later but I haven't the time right now.

One thing I will say is I have so many thoughts and feelings about temporarily dipping into this organized queer Leather "community". It's quite seductive and at the same time, although most aren't aware of the goings on, contaminated with not very pretty politics . I do know that the mere fact of being a living, breathing human is a political act, but I have a huge aversion to politicizing sex in a regimented, committee and commercial way. It's too easy to get caught in the exterior trappings and forget the soul beckoning that originally drew us to a dark, down and dirty, sexy way of life.

In the meantime, here is this week's Freewill Astrology.

Also, how about Mark Morford's newest column Why Does God Hate Caribou? Within the article, in addition to his rant, he links to a great essay by Bill Moyers titled Welcome To Doomsday.

I've had to slow down with watching or reading the news. All I can feel is digust at the greed, irrational thinking and especially the hypocrisy permeating our current regime. Not wanting to get down and depressed, I simply need to turn it off for a while. Except for Morford that is.

Okay...being out and about 5 nights out of 7 doesn't work for me. Tonight's the last event. I plan on being home by 10 pm, and I'm not moving until Monday morning.

It's been a busy week. A fun one. And exhausting. I haven't given myself the chance to regroup from a social gathering before gearing up for the next. Helluva way to come out of hibernation. I was home all of Thursday night, and most of yesterday. But I needed one more day. And now I'm off to spend a little time with Hoss and his boy before napping later this afternoon before heading out again tonight.

So...I'll tell ya all about it later. Or tomorrow. Ciao.

Friday thoughts...

...from Mark Morford:

"But this is a time of small hopes and semi-desperate clinging. In a sea of nasty GOP agendas and violent warmongering and quasi-religious nutjobs manning the guns, you grab your dream fragments where you can and you ride them like golden bullets to the end of their trajectories and pray you end up somewhere new, and positive, and maybe even earth-shaking -- or, in this case, soaked in that most rare and disrespected and heartbroken of American values: true love. Is it possible? Let's hope."

Check out the entire column in Could a landmark decision re-empower the state to strike at the heart of BushCo?

Last night I dreamt I was pregnant. Very pregnant. So much so that I feared I was in the early stages of labor. The anxiety came because I was alone and I needed to get home but I was about 30 miles away and it was rush hour on the highway. I didn't own a cell phone. There was a house by the side of the road where I stopped to catch my breath. Looking out the window I saw the highway turned into a parking lot of cars. I knew I had to get onto that road but didn't want to. What if I began full contractions while behind the wheel...in the middle of all that metal, stuck out on the concrete?

I felt pressure down inside and reminded myself not to push. Taking a breath I walked back to my car, ready to hit the road.

And then it was morning.

Well...there's nothing mysterious or deep in that dream.

This morning my coworker walked by my office, stopped, backtracked and poked his head in and said,
"You know, there's something very different about you lately."
"How so?"
"Well, you seem calmer. Much calmer."

I smiled. I feel calmer.
About 5 minutes later my other coworker said the same thing.

Huh. Maybe this therapy stuff is finally working, eh?

Last night I went to the Cuff for the annual Daddy Tag Sale. I almost snared a nice pair of 11" steel toe engineer boots, in excellent shape, for $25. Almost, because they were about a ¼" too small!!!! I've been hankering for a pair like that for a very long time.

Instead, like last year, I picked up a half dozen old Drummer magazines ranging between issues 40 & 50. I was incredibly tired and therefore quite content to stand on the landing and just watch the happenings in the bar.

The top I played with on Sunday approached me. He was checking in, about our play, making sure I was okay. Nice touch. He also mentioned a few times that he enjoyed our scene as well. Then he relayed the fact that his boy was concerned how I may have been rough-handled. The top mentioned that the boy noticed there was no negotiation or easing into play. I was essentially pounced on. I laughed and reassured the top that that is how I like to play the best. I was impressed that because there was a question out there, he felt comfortable enough to check in with me. Absolutely no offense taken.

There is always negotiation, but I prefer subtle methods. Meeting someone's eyes or a smile. Body language. Having to fill out a damned negotiation form or a lengthy process is a sure way to turn me off. I've done that in the past and for me, it tends to make for lacklustre scenes. In my opinion, I notice that when I'm reliant upon routine formal negotiating methods for all my play I'm not listening to my intuition.

Granted, contingent upon where I am, and what may go down, I may need to give my limitations. Such as, if I'm slated to do a suspension or serious rough play, I throw out the fact that I have a torn rotator cuff in my right arm. Or...if I sense that I only want to play up to a certain level with someone (less trust but it could be hot)...then I mention that I don't do gags. Whereas when the energy and trust is there...I'll go with the flow.

Please don't think I'm against negotiation. What I'm not into is a standardized preface to play. Negotiation takes place on so many different levels in different ways. Being in tune to the other person, yourself and the context will allow for good negotiation. I know that entering into some relationships may require a more formal and lengthly negotiation. But isn't that the same as some of the negotiating that takes place in our regular lives? Or shouldn't it be? If two people are planning on getting married or even just considering taking up house together, don't they discuss the finances or separation of chores or share what their weaknesses and strengths are? That's all negotiating. We negotiate with our bosses, the car salesman, our partners, our friends and ourselves on a daily basis. In each instant, it takes a unique shape.

Now I understand that some people may feel more comfortable with a more rigid negotiation. If that's what it takes for them to play and have sex, go for it. I don't want to stop anyone from having more fun. But I will put my foot down when I hear the whispers of the s/m police attempting to regulate my play and interactions. Considering I'm dealing with people not machines, I'll stick to the organic process, thank you.

Here's an interesting column by Mark Morford on the corporate structure shelving an artist because they believe there's...well...in Morford's words:

"In other words, it was shelved because it's different, unique, a little eccentric, all bells and oompah horns and strings and oddly lovely circuslike arrangements, and you as the co-opted overmarketed oversold listening audience can't really handle anything like that, anything challenging or interesting or distinctive or deeply cool or lacking in prepackaged backbeats that sound just like Kelly Clarkson or maybe "American Idiot," even if it comes from an stupendously talented world-class Grammy-winning artist. Right? Isn't that you? Doesn't matter. This is what they believe.

But now, a hot new twist. The rest of "Extraordinary Machine" has, somehow, been leaked onto this fair Internet. All of it. Every song, some at first sounding not all that complete and some reportedly with only tentative titles, but, then again, a DJ at a radio station up in Seattle (the End 107.7) somehow managed to get his hands on the whole album and has apparently been playing almost every track and it's all much more finished and incredible than anyone thought."

Read the rest of Who Will Free Fiona Apple.

And speaking of freeing....how about your weekly dose of Freewill Astrology?

I'm learning my body. Well...the way my body is now. You see, I've noticed an increasing amount of sheer exhaustion. And it's not only physical, but mental and emotional. It slowly builds and culminates in a day where I can't do anything. Nothing. Saturday, after making a point to get out for a walk with wonderboy, I ended up in bed about 2pm and that's where I stayed until Sunday morning. I would begin to feel a little energized, hop out of bed to simply walk across the apartment and would have to return. Fully depleted.

I'm learning my body. Over the last 6 months or so, I've noticed this trend increasing. And on the worse days I despair with the idea that I'll never have energy again. Those are the bed days. And if, I'm good to myself and stay prone, the next morning will dawn with more energy coursing through me. Sunday I got up, and could do even simple things like water my plants, and empty the final box from the move, go through a drawer of papers and sort the junk from the important ones.

The tiredness, I believe, stems from a number of factors working together, therapy, job stress and lack of proper nutrition. Therapy takes its toll. I believe that's the major one. I'm now up to 3 days a week, in an attempt to push through the pit. I had suggested a break of a couple weeks, to see what it would do. Sometimes you need to change the routine. The shrink suggested another option. He figured we've been building momentum and so let's go with it. When he mentioned 3 times a week, I lost it. I felt like such a failure. But he, and then a good friend who's gone through a similar process, both tried to reassure me that it has nothing to do with failure, yet instead, the opposite.

Sunday night was a kickoff social for Leather Pride week here in WA. The event was being held at The Cuff. It was only 6 blocks away and so not a major energy investment. This was also an additional motivating factor to stay in bed the day before. And the cheap eats would get me out of hibernation.

It was a fun evening. I hooked up with a few guys I hadn't seen in about 5 months. Spent some quality time with two people I'm getting to know better and look forward to continuing that relationship.

I had a surprising and intense experience at the end of the evening. There is a daddy and boy that I've known socially for about a year. Nice guys. Hot. We've always made it a point to greet each other...and chat. Not much more than that. The top walked up to me as he was saying his goodbyes. He hugged me and asked "has anyone hurt you this evening?"

"Not tonight." I hadn't planned on playing because I had been so tired.

"What a shame" he responded. And he began to beat my back and grab the skin. I reacted and he pulled away and made a beeline for my nipples. We played. We played hard.

Although I've played with people I hardly know or total strangers...and it's always been fun and lusty, this was different. Considering we were just acquaintances, the magnet factor was intense. The energy was thick. He'd hurt me, I'd cum, we'd kiss. We'd then begin to part, only to be drawn into playing again. Over and over.

After tough nipple action moments he'd draw me to him and I'd have raging orgasms that filled my entire being. Deep combination belly and cunt cumming. At one point he whispered in my ear that he loved how I was in touch with my body. I mentioned I revel in what I love.

While playing, unless my head was down in his chest, I'd have my eyes glued to his. I felt such a trust that I'd never before felt with an almost stranger. I wanted to give this man my pain. And I could see he was joyfully receiving it.

Seriously good play.

Sir, thank you Sir.

From SFGate: Judge finds California's marriage law unconstitutional

I've received a few concerned emails. I'm okay. And thank you for your concern. Really.

Looking back, I see that I've been slowly isolating myself over the last 4 months. I still make it a point to connect with people, but in addition, I crave more solitude than ever before. I don't expect that to be a permanent condition, although yes, at times it feels like it will become one.

Yesterday I was thinking about healing. And I caught a whiff of my impatience. In this current society, we seem to have the idea that if it's not instant, it's no good. Not worth having. I remember a time when there was an honored belief that patience and time served would bring up the gold. Now, even though working for it still sits with me, I'm also seduced by the "quick, I want it now" idea. I could feel impatience and shame beginning to build because this process feels interminable. Shame because I fear what folks will think of me. Here I am, with an honest attempt at carrying mindfulness for this holy process. And in the blink of an eye, I can tarnish it with a focus on my perceived opinions of others.

Ugh.

I know in the past I tend to post something almost every single day. Right now, that may or may not be happening. Some days I feel silence. Not only in paint but now in words. I know there's something big brewing when I gag myself because there is nothing I want to say. I'm the person who always has plenty to spout, aching to be heard. And now I choose silence? That says something.

In a similar vein, here is yesterday's column by Mark Morford. Now I want to make it expressly clear that I know, some meds are required. But I do believe in balance. And I do not believe in a magic pill for anything, although god knows, I've prayed, cried, wailed and ripped the walls apart screaming for one.

Back to Morford, I quote:

"It seems obvious but it bears repeating: magic-bullet drugs do nothing. They do nothing to help you change a thing about your addictive tendencies or your attitude or your lifestyle, do nothing to induce any sort of increase in your understanding of how the body works and how the spirit is screaming for attention and just why the hell you might be so easily prone to addiction in the first place. Such prescription drugs don't educate. They don't invoke change. They just numb.

But hell, who cares? Why examine causes? Why try to figure out the reasons behind our toxic tendencies and our weird obsession with things we know are killing us? Simply bomb the problem into submission, and then pretend it's not still right there, simmering just underneath, even nastier and more fanged than before and just aching to manifest itself in some other form. Ain't that America? You're goddamn right it is."

In Dead People Smoke Camels Morford writes about smoking. Or not. It's really only a symptom, isn't it? Pick your poison. I believe it's not about the item chosen. There is very little that is bad for you. What becomes hazardous is our attitude around said item. If we are using X to stifle and suffocate then it may be a good idea to look at that. It's easy to blame cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, sex, food. But what about the relationships we draw to ourselves? What about the old patterns and messages we flood our own beings with? Those can be as toxic as anything else.

People can appear to lead healthy normal lives. I no longer trust it. We all have our secrets. We are all broken in one way or another. How can we not be? We deal with each other, we need each other, we rub off on each other. It can't help but cause bruises and breaks. And yes, there is healing and nurturing from the connections. It's all of it. This is the human condition, isn't it?

Yesterday was a 12 plus hour work day. I didn't expect it. But about 5 pm (when I thought I'd leave at 4) I knew I was there for another couple hours. By 6 pm, daylight was fading and I turned on my little desk lamp. Warm yellow light hit the piles o' papers strewn across my desk. Little notes, now undecipherable, hint to snippets of ideas and must do's. My goal for the remainder of today and tomorrow is to make sense of this mess. It's been an intense political few years for the glbt community and the desire and willingness of our organization to go with that flow has given rise to spontaneous projects and continual rush deadlines that have left their mark.

I plan on taking the full Friday off without the nagging feeling that there's something that needs to be done...even with the knowledge that it's always ongoing.

Last night I couldn't sleep. At midnight I decided to take a couple benedryl to knock me out. It's a risky move because it cements the fact that I will be groggy until at least 10 am this morning. But my mind was whirling. I hit bottom in therapy and now it seems I need to explore the pit floor. Then I have to work my way out.

There have been two different places in my life that have pushed the buttons which allowed and at times hastened my healing. I'm not going to elaborate on what they are because it's not appropriate for such a public place. But they have led me into the needed fire that purges demons and cauterizes soul wounds. Being in this pit with its high slick walls and small dirt floor leaves me vulnerable to all that appears to shred my heart. There is no place to run or hide. And so I have no choice except to learn how to dissolve their power. Pry loose clutching fingers.

Feelings of hatred and rage are immense. I fear its impact. If I knew, really knew I'd make my way out then I think I could relax in the dark emotions. But the well is deep and all I can see is myself drowning in the thickness of black sensation.

That's where I'm at.

Want something cheerier?

How about this week's Freewill Astrology and Mark Morford's column. Last week, Morford wrote about the death of corporate radio. This week, on the upside, he shares alternatives, showcasing a few indie stations, including one of my favorites, Radio Paradise.

Here is the website to access live video stream of WA State Supreme Court case. The actual link to the case will go up at 1:20 pm PST, with the case beginning at 1:30pm.

Today the WA State Supreme Court will hear oral arguments on two cases regarding same sex marriage.

----------
KOMO-TV, WA, March 7, 2005
Commentary By Ken Schram
Gay Marriage: A Matter Of Dignity

SEATTLE - Defending marriage by refusing to let people get married.

"I don't get it.
And I can't accept it.

As the State Supreme Court hears arguments on whether gay and lesbian couples have the legal right to get married, it's clear to me that this is really about those who want to impose their religious interpretations on society.

To opponents of same-sex unions, it's not really about saving the institution of marriage.

It's about preserving how they get to define it.
It's not about protecting children.
It's about maintaining the stigma they promote of having two mommies, or two daddies.

For gay and lesbian couples, it's about legal legitimacy and some degree of social dignity.

It's about raising children with a measure of acceptance instead of continued scorn.

Marriage - any marriage - is much more than what sexual activity takes place in the privacy of one's bedroom.

It's also about commitment and support; love and respect.

Those who sit in religious judgment of same-sex couples want to continue denying them the legal opportunities and stature that comes with being married.

And they do so under the guise of speaking on behalf of God.

That's not defending marriage.

It's defaming it."

It's a painting kinda morning.

On my way to work I happened to turn east, looking down a street, checking out the sky and the Cascades. The sun was coming up. And the fog was dissipating. Salmon light. Cherry blossoms lined the street and although they weren't fully lit, my eyes caught it. One tree. The edge of one tree. The sun hit one spot and lit up a small band framing part of this tree. I could see a canvas in front of me. The image. The color. The shapes.

One day. One day I'll paint again.

Anti-corporate sneakers?

Have you seen Blackspot Sneakers? Thanks to Draignoeth for the link.

Woohoo!

I just...finally...after 5 months...configured my dsl router for wireless!!! Don't even ask me why I didn't do earlier. I tried once, and couldn't find the password I needed to access the site. From there, even small easy things felt difficult. There was no way I'd try some techie geek action on my own. Honestly, that kind of stuff intimidates the shit out of me - only because I haven't a clue what I'm doing.

But I had decided that when dsl finally came up in my apartment, which happened today, I'd grit my teeth and work my way through it. And that's with a stuffy head, cold and feelin' like crap. So now I'm fully wireless inside as well as outside the home. :-)

Okay...back to your regularly scheduled programming...

I've been sick. Still am, and so I haven't had the oomph to blog. Thing is, I was really sick for a few weeks in January. Then February kicked in and so did I. That is, until the last box was moved and unpacked. Last Monday night an intense sore throat flared up which didn't disappear until Saturday. Then of course it morphed to the head/chest cold thing. I could give you graphic images of what is coming out of my nose but won't. You can imagine. :-)

Everyone at work has been sick, each passing it off to the other. Maybe we need to close shop for a week.

To everyone who sent me kind and thoughtful notes about last Thursday's entry...I thank you. I haven't felt well enough to respond individually. One in particular was very thought provoking. "Latency". I'm still thinking about that one. Thank you.

Who is Henry Darger?

I had never heard of him until yesterday.

This is the first weekend in 5 weeks where I don't have to think about packing or moving (myself or others). At noon, I'm treating myself to some quality Bear and wonderboy time. We are going to an early matinee at the Harvard Exit Theatre.

In The Realms Of The Unreal by Jessica Yu.
I'm intrigued.

The synopsis of the film:

"Filmmaker Jessica Yu's innovative documentary explores the parallel lives of legendary outsider artist Henry Darger. Reclusive janitor by day, visionary artist by night, Darger had virtually no friends but lived a rich imaginary life. Upon his death hundreds of watercolor paintings were discovered, along with a 15,000 page novel (bearing the same title as the film) detailing the exploits of seven angelic sisters who lead a rebellion against godless, child-enslaving men. Employing vivid animation and experimental elements, Yu immerses us in Darger's world and all its strange beauty, showing how he forged magic out of the bleakest of lives."

Read Yu's thoughts about making the film.
And here is a link that along with showcasing some of Darger's work, includes a bio.

"Places where raw honest sexuality is a foreign language and homosexuality is considered a disease and where they lovingly allow sales of Viagra and Cialis and where they inject vats of Prozac and Xanax into their bodies alongside truckloads of deep-fried obesity-happy everything, but the thought of someone using a sex toy to please herself or her lover and to add to the overall positive orgasmic vibe of the planet is considered on par, legally speaking, with pedophilia, or burglary, or being from France."

What places you ask? Read all about it in Mark Morford's latest column, Sweet Home, Alabama Dildos.

I wrote this on Tuesday evening at Septieme's and saved it to look at it later, not sure if I would even post it. It's time.

----------

Well, well, well.

I popped into Cafe Septieme's to check email, and sit quietly. Sir and a guest from SF may join me later. We picked him up at the airport this afternoon. I then returned to work where I planned on doing more, but my cold took over. Overwhelming tiredness. So I shut down the work computer, came to Septieme for a little TLC, and then planned on being in bed early. I'll make up the time on Friday.

How do I write about the next step in my journey? For those of you who've stuck with me for the last couple years...thank you. Today is March 1st. I began my blog 2 years ago, on the 6th of March. I kept it private until the middle of May, when I grabbed my gutts and went public, thanks to the encouragement of Lthredge and Drew from Singletails.

Today was a red letter day with my shrink. No fireworks. Things happen naturally. First one step, then another. Next thing I know, I'm there. Only to continue onto the next. Today he informed me that we've hit it. The darkest, most miserable, hardest part of this trip. I still have to work my way out of it, but it seems I've touched the bottom. Granted, I know this doesn't mean that life will be a piece of cake from now on. But, this was the biggie.

I've been blurt blogging about not fitting in and being invisible. While doing that, I'm very aware and appreciative of the good things in my life, and how I am not invisible to my chosen family and friends. And then again, at the same time, quite unseen. I couldn't figure out why the invisibility was getting stronger and more tangible. Heavy. So much so that...honestly, I spent the last month considering suicide. Each day. A few times a day. I have been talking with the shrink about it. As I mentioned to him today, I think it's healthy that I openly speak about it. What would be scarier is if I felt the way I did and never shared those thoughts with him. Getting them out in the open diffuses them. And it's refreshing to speak with someone about suicide without the typical comments such as:

"Oh you'll get over it."

"Oh it's not that bad."

Or the worse..."Shhh, don't talk like that!"

Ugh.

Allow me my feelings, okay? Why are we so fucking afraid of death? Some topics make most of us very uncomfortable. Yet what is brutally harmful and disastrous is not talking, remaining silent.

Anyway, I had this overwhelming sense of my birth being the wrongest thing in the world. I've felt like I literally don't fit. I was meant for another planet, another time, another dimension. What a balancing act. That despair sits side by side with all the goodness life is. The love, the caring. I could wail as strongly as love.

So where did the invisibility come from? Why was it growing? What was going on?

The deeper I went in therapy...the closer we got to the core problem. The original wound. And in turn, the bigger the feelings of being nothing.

Something happened today. Even before the session with the shrink, I was making connections. Connections with my heart, not only my head. My sex. I'm all about sex. Life is all sex. I then remembered my mother's last email which stated that they loved me very much. She responded with:

"We thank you for being frank! There is not much that we do not know about you!

Dad and I always had a "kick' watching you! full of surprises, imagination, very colorful personality in all kinds of ways! I see myself in you (so does dad!) plus you do have a heart bigger than most...

Who you are is all of that! our sexual part is only that, just a part of us, certainly not our whole identity!

We do not build our life on our sexual orientation..you are a wonderful human being who enjoys life and respect people...keep on!

Love you"

It was a very sweet email. I was very touched by "Dad and I always had a "kick' watching you! full of surprises, imagination, very colorful personality in all kinds of ways!"

And yet, there was the kicker. The key to the puzzle.

"There is not much that we do not know about you!"

They have no idea. Therein lay the invisibility. We all only see what we want to see. What we can see.

"our sexual part is only that, just a part of us, certainly not our whole identity!"

That's the ticket. The massive difference. I believe we are all sexual beasts, born as such. We may not be fucking every minute of every day, but the choices we make, how we live our life...all get us off in some way. Maybe not in the traditional, limited cumming sense, but in the greater sense. I think our job with living is to figure out how to return to our erotic nature we were born with. Not only in bed or in the dungeon. Expand our minds, our hearts and our awareness, our ideas of what makes us sexual.

In addition to my painting and my kink, I'm incredibly passionate about enlarging this concept in our world. So much so that it hurts something fierce. When I see sexual repression, someone closed up, or fixed ideas around sex, orientation, leather and gender, I cry. Our world is so big. It's gorgeous and beautiful.

And yes, it's why I don't fit.

Sexy. What is sexy? It seems that many approach sexy with their mind instead of their bodies.

Oh yeah. Back to mom.

Invisible. They think they know all of me. No clue, really.

Sex is only a part of life.
Not so.

I realized that when I'm not seen as the sexual beast I am, there is an immense feeling of nothingness. It doesn't matter how many people love me, care for me, assist me. It doesn't matter that I have a great job, a great apartment, and overall a great life. My bills are slowly getting paid down. I actually see the possibly of cutting back to part time in about 2 or 3 years, so I can pursue painting and sex activism on a greater scale. I'm honored and feel quite privileged. I've been blessed with brilliant mentors and guides. Teachers.

And yet, because my parents, due to their perspective, suppressed sexuality from the time I was born, I felt shamed and therefore valueless. As long as I don't believe in my own worth as a sexual monster, then I'm nothing.

Powerful stuff, eh?

I think so.

The connections aren't linear. It's all tangled and tied, one into the other and flowing out again.

While on the couch, I sobbed silent tears. The grief was heavy. Although loved, the child felt unseen. And yes, it broke me. It broke me big.

Now the shrink is encouraged and knows there is an end to this darkness. Whereas, I am relying on him because honestly, I'm not sure.

Near the end of our session I said "This is strange. I don't feel hope yet at the same time I don't feel despair. I feel dead. Empty. Nothing."

I previously thought there were only two choices. Hope or despair. I have discovered a third. Death.

The shrink left me with a mystery. He said it may feel like death but it is something else. I asked him to expand and he refused. He smiled and said it was for me to discover.

Mark Morford jumps into his latest column, All Hail The Death of Radio with:

"Corporate radio sucketh, whole and large and true.

We know this. Everyone knows this. There is not a single person out there right now who is listening to any of the one zillion lifeless Clear Channel or Infinity-owned rock stations anywhere in the nation who is saying to themselves, gosh this KLOG station is just exceptionally good and clever and smart and plays amazingly fresh music and makes me want to listen all the time and oh my God I am so going to pick up the phone right now and try to be the 157th caller so I can win tickets to go see Dave Matthews live in Portland! Woo!"

And you can dive into Brezsny's Freewill Astrology here.

From the sublime to the ridiculous.

How about a bunch of links this morning. I'm not sure how much I'm up for writing.
Or...maybe a little writing.

Nayland Blake responded to one of my entries, and in my reply to him I wrote (regarding painting and kink) –
"Kink, for me, is as integral as painting. The two work hand in hand. When one falls off, the other suffers."

In the middle of the night, when I felt a new cold hit full force (ugh, I hate colds), "when one falls off, the other suffers" came to mind.

Duh!

I'm not painting. I had twisted it to be, first the s/m, then the art. But that's not necessarily true. And considering that all I'm working with in therapy is fucking with my painting big time...it's about my identity, it stands to reason that I wouldn't be playing now either. Double duh.

But...and here's a note for Nayland. For your birthday wishes...I did work on a few watercolors. Black and white. Little. No thinking – just doing. Capture lights and darks...shapes. Not only that, but I left my supplies on the table, and noticed that at odd times, such as waiting for something to come out of the microwave, or walking past to get a drink, I would stop...pick up my brush, make a big mark here, and a small mark there.

It was the first painting since June 2004.

The only reason I stopped is because I moved. There's no reason why I can't pull them out again.

Okay...on to links.

First, Eric Francis' horoscopes for March are out - both Planet Waves and Inner House.
Next. Again thanks to Padacia (and Sam...where in the world do you find these links???), here is a photo gallery on the The Writer's Place by Eder Chiodetto. Lovely, lovely stuff. Check out the images and the text. Really.

A few thoughts from some of the writers' showcased:

"I think my books are always more beautiful than I. I'm always in pursuit of my own book. If I think it's beautiful, I want to be beautiful." - Adelia Prado

"There are writers who write fast. Not me. I write with great difficulty. Those who write easily are orators. Writers always suffer. I spend five hours a day and don't produce more than two pages. When I finish, I go back to the beginning and rewrite. Generally I rewrite from back to front. This way I'm not dominated by the story and I can see where the narrative tempo has gotten the best of me. If I keep my attention focused on the plot; form takes advantage and pickpockets my wallet. A good book has to work like a song that makes sense if you hear it backwards as well. As long as there's noise there's something wrong. You've got to rewrite. When it's finally right all the senses become condensed." - Autran Dourado

"The act of writing depends on a great deal of concentration. Since I cannot always achieve tranquility; I've learned to write in chaos. I like to write like a jazz musician. Someone will send me an e-mail, I'll think it's got something interesting, I'll put it together with something I've heard uttered on the street. I incorporate everything. Jazz musicians work a lot with improvisation. They arrive at a place they're supposed to play and they produce. This syntax, this form of composing, is very present in me." - Regis Bonvicino

Due to the move, I failed to link to Morford's column for last Friday. From Sex and The Disgruntled Teen:

"And what if said information was designed to be all about natural, respectful, consensual sexuality, as honest and fleshy and complicated and potentially harmful but as ultimately gorgeous and peculiar and raw as human sexuality is so stickily wont to be?

Would that not, as I truly believe it would, be a major step toward curing many of the ailments plaguing our youth, and, by extension, our culture?"

And yes, I promised you the ridiculous. I pulled this link from Uppity Faggot. It's an article from 365gay.com - Legislation Would Protect Gay Fetuses

"Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove...".

That's from Leonard Cohen's Dance Me To The End Of Love. My latest, favorite cd is "Careless Love" by Madeleine Peyroux. The first cut is an amazing, continually blow me away kind of cover of the Cohen classic. The piano just rocks in that piece. If you haven't heard of Peyroux...she's a skinny white girl born in Athens, GA, with a very french name and a voice reminiscent of Billie Holiday. And what a voice! Now I need to pick up her first cd.

A small addition to yesterday's entry about tourists and the leather scene. Haven't we all been tourists at one time or another? Either we were new or we were checking something out because we were intrigued or curious.

In addition, someone may think that another is a 'tourist' simply because they are a different gender, or because they aren't wearing the clothes or some other trivial thing. Assumptions are dangerous. Some of the most intense, powerful players don't look the way others may expect.

My heart is broken because I've really been massively feeling the effects of not fitting in. I was able to shut it down a little bit because I needed to focus on the move. Now that I'm settled into the prettiest apartment I've ever had, everything else is coming to the forefront.

Maybe I simply need to be a loner. You see, in general my life is fabulous. Great job, great friends and groovy apartment. And yet, because of the freak I am, the one part of me that is as important, if not more than the rest, remains invisible and unfed. Many times, I can push it down and keep busy with other things. But as I said yesterday, I've had too many reminders in the last few weeks, and now that I can physically stop...it's reared it's gruesome head.