Tomorrow (the 4th) is the first day I have nothing planned until 7pm. The idea is luxurious.
I had 5 days off and each day was full. Yes, I am blessed. In spite of my internal struggles and being in the midst of combatting some pretty nasty demons, I know I'm quite fortunate. I may not write about it often, but it's always in my mind...and heart.
I didn't get a chance to work on the ugly, messy drawing today, but took 10 minutes to spend time with it. Distance always helps. Even though I went in last night to rape, pillage and destroy, something happened within. Today, I realized that almost three quarters of the drawing is complete. I don't remember doing what seems to have appeared, but there it is. Tomorrow, I'll work on the last of it. Somehow.
Maybe I can finally get some sleep tonight.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Monday, July 03, 2006
Helluva few days.
I just returned from therapy and so now it's a little easier to write what has encompassed my heart in heaviness all weekend.
The opening.
It was fun. It's a small gallery in Seattle's LGBT community center. In addition to having my peeps, Hoss, D, Stephen, Gryph, Auxugen, Qnetter, his D, Rogueboi and his partner from Brooklyn, after they left Artstache and his Daddy came in. Two of my coworkers and one's partner dropped by. Then a bit later, 6 more from my posse, sporting their full leathers, title vests, or in the case of G, a one piece full rubber suit. Boots galore.
I loved it.
What was distressing about the opening was the way my paintings were hung. It was the coordinator of the gallery who did the hanging, not the organizer of this particular group show. By the way, the other pieces hanging are pretty cool. Overall, it's a really nice mix.
But, my pieces were hung a little too low, and in such a way that the tops of the frames were hanging a good distance away from the wall. Many folks needed to stoop a little to see them. And...they were the only pieces left unlit. I was mortified. Very embarrassed.
The feeling sat with me until this morning. In spite of the good time I had with the crew...and seeing rogueboi...my heart felt busted. Last night I figured out what was going on. Old buttons pushed.
A few days ago I wrote about my apprehension with showing these particular paintings. They were as old children to me, and I no longer deemed them worthy of exhibition. Replaying what I felt was done to me as a child. I did try to make them new. But in seeing how they were shown, it brought my kidstuff back, full force. Old voices reminding me I wasn't worthy of being seen whispered in my ears and stroked my heart.
I will contact the coordinator in the next few days and offer my assistance with rehanging the paintings. I still have to get a signed contract to him as well.
After a wonderful brunch yesterday, I dropped Rogueboi and his partner off at Pier 66 to catch their boat to Alaska. Then I hightailed it home where I could be alone. With no one around. I could let myself really hurt in private. In that time, I came to the origin of the hurt. Another piece of the puzzle.
Last night, in spite of the pain and isolation feeling, I pulled out paper and began another piece (which I briefly wrote about last night). In the midst of pain, I was pleased with myself that once again, I sought solace in my work. Even though it didn't take away the pain, it provided temporary comfort.
I went to bed in tears. It was late and I couldn't sleep. The only thing that sounded good was to get up and draw some more. I didn't give in to the urge because I really needed sleep. But, I'm thrilled to have felt the desire even at that hour.
Something's moving inside.
I'm really beginning to embrace the deepest part of myself.
I just returned from therapy and so now it's a little easier to write what has encompassed my heart in heaviness all weekend.
The opening.
It was fun. It's a small gallery in Seattle's LGBT community center. In addition to having my peeps, Hoss, D, Stephen, Gryph, Auxugen, Qnetter, his D, Rogueboi and his partner from Brooklyn, after they left Artstache and his Daddy came in. Two of my coworkers and one's partner dropped by. Then a bit later, 6 more from my posse, sporting their full leathers, title vests, or in the case of G, a one piece full rubber suit. Boots galore.
I loved it.
What was distressing about the opening was the way my paintings were hung. It was the coordinator of the gallery who did the hanging, not the organizer of this particular group show. By the way, the other pieces hanging are pretty cool. Overall, it's a really nice mix.
But, my pieces were hung a little too low, and in such a way that the tops of the frames were hanging a good distance away from the wall. Many folks needed to stoop a little to see them. And...they were the only pieces left unlit. I was mortified. Very embarrassed.
The feeling sat with me until this morning. In spite of the good time I had with the crew...and seeing rogueboi...my heart felt busted. Last night I figured out what was going on. Old buttons pushed.
A few days ago I wrote about my apprehension with showing these particular paintings. They were as old children to me, and I no longer deemed them worthy of exhibition. Replaying what I felt was done to me as a child. I did try to make them new. But in seeing how they were shown, it brought my kidstuff back, full force. Old voices reminding me I wasn't worthy of being seen whispered in my ears and stroked my heart.
I will contact the coordinator in the next few days and offer my assistance with rehanging the paintings. I still have to get a signed contract to him as well.
After a wonderful brunch yesterday, I dropped Rogueboi and his partner off at Pier 66 to catch their boat to Alaska. Then I hightailed it home where I could be alone. With no one around. I could let myself really hurt in private. In that time, I came to the origin of the hurt. Another piece of the puzzle.
Last night, in spite of the pain and isolation feeling, I pulled out paper and began another piece (which I briefly wrote about last night). In the midst of pain, I was pleased with myself that once again, I sought solace in my work. Even though it didn't take away the pain, it provided temporary comfort.
I went to bed in tears. It was late and I couldn't sleep. The only thing that sounded good was to get up and draw some more. I didn't give in to the urge because I really needed sleep. But, I'm thrilled to have felt the desire even at that hour.
Something's moving inside.
I'm really beginning to embrace the deepest part of myself.
Production versus creation~
It's scary how quickly one attaches themselves to being perfect...making something beautiful, successful, really excellent.
Well, this one anyway.
Normally I can begin a piece in a carefree manner. But because I've fallen in love with what I've been doing, it happened.
I was working on a drawing this evening. That clutching fear of having it be just right and better than the last came over me. The anxiety that comes with the need to produce. I felt myself freeze. So what did I do? I stepped away...washed my hands of charcoal and took a breather. Regrouped.
Then, after a bit I went back in and made a non-caring big fat mess.
Yeah, it's really ugly and it's fine.
Now back to the drawing board.
It's scary how quickly one attaches themselves to being perfect...making something beautiful, successful, really excellent.
Well, this one anyway.
Normally I can begin a piece in a carefree manner. But because I've fallen in love with what I've been doing, it happened.
I was working on a drawing this evening. That clutching fear of having it be just right and better than the last came over me. The anxiety that comes with the need to produce. I felt myself freeze. So what did I do? I stepped away...washed my hands of charcoal and took a breather. Regrouped.
Then, after a bit I went back in and made a non-caring big fat mess.
Yeah, it's really ugly and it's fine.
Now back to the drawing board.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Creation.
Tonight is the art opening. If you're in the Seattle area, feel free to pop into Q Arts Seattle. The reception is from 6-9pm. The show will hang all month.
I've had an increasing sense of anxiety about the show and wasn't saying anything, to anyone. That is, until yesterday in the shrink's office. I'll share some of that, including a brand new insight that came to me while writing this.
10 or 15 years ago I attended a concert in Ogunquit. It was blues and folk concert. Small venue. Very intimate. It was great. At the end, they opened up for questions. Someone asked "What's your favorite piece?"
The artist immediately responded "My new ones."
Of course. Makes sense, doesn't it? We as consumers become attached to older work. Playing it over and over. We may hang memories off of it. For us, it becomes classic. But as creator, although we still may feel affection for older works, the great adventure resides within the newest.
One reason I was nervous is because although I like these paintings, I'm no longer in love with them. What excites and enthralls me are my new drawings. So much so that I wish that is what I was showing. It's not possible because I'm not done with the series and the exploration. But next to that, everything else feels like old hat. I'm feeling exposed by showing a part of my history which consists of a different level of skill.
Because it's not the most recent expression of who I am, I feared I would remain invisible and unseen.
Last year, for the Gender Odyssey conference, I showed some older paintings. It was an exercise in putting myself out there again. I needed to prove to those around me that it wasn't fear that was keeping me from showing. I will show, in spite of what I feel. The reason I wasn't showing is because I felt there no longer was anything worthy of exhibition. No new work. But the opportunity presented itself and I grabbed it. The paintings went up and then came down. Whatever.
I do have a few very old paintings that I am still in absolute love with. The reason for this is because they were and still are premonition pieces. They unconsciously poured forth and manifested themselves into something I still can't achieve on a conscious level, but can strive toward.
The newest lightbulb moment is, I am the oldest child out of 5. Each new baby born received the attention. I understand why. But, my childhood experience cemented the idea in my heart that old things are forgotten and ignored. My paintings are my babies. I am replaying my history and how I felt I was treated by doing the same with my own children.
This time, I framed the 3 paintings. It added a newness to them that wasn't there before. By yesterday afternoon my nervousness was thick. Finally, 5:30 rolled around and I could gather the work and drop it off. While in the gallery space, we discussed how to hang the work. One of the organizers had an idea. I fell in love with it. Between the frames and the way they'll be hung, it turns 3 tired, simple paintings into a brand new piece...working separately and as one unit.
The ornateness of the frames give the pieces a religious flavor. They will be hung in the appearance of an altarpiece.
This is good. It is very good.
So if you're around tonight...stop in.
Tonight is the art opening. If you're in the Seattle area, feel free to pop into Q Arts Seattle. The reception is from 6-9pm. The show will hang all month.
I've had an increasing sense of anxiety about the show and wasn't saying anything, to anyone. That is, until yesterday in the shrink's office. I'll share some of that, including a brand new insight that came to me while writing this.
10 or 15 years ago I attended a concert in Ogunquit. It was blues and folk concert. Small venue. Very intimate. It was great. At the end, they opened up for questions. Someone asked "What's your favorite piece?"
The artist immediately responded "My new ones."
Of course. Makes sense, doesn't it? We as consumers become attached to older work. Playing it over and over. We may hang memories off of it. For us, it becomes classic. But as creator, although we still may feel affection for older works, the great adventure resides within the newest.
One reason I was nervous is because although I like these paintings, I'm no longer in love with them. What excites and enthralls me are my new drawings. So much so that I wish that is what I was showing. It's not possible because I'm not done with the series and the exploration. But next to that, everything else feels like old hat. I'm feeling exposed by showing a part of my history which consists of a different level of skill.
Because it's not the most recent expression of who I am, I feared I would remain invisible and unseen.
Last year, for the Gender Odyssey conference, I showed some older paintings. It was an exercise in putting myself out there again. I needed to prove to those around me that it wasn't fear that was keeping me from showing. I will show, in spite of what I feel. The reason I wasn't showing is because I felt there no longer was anything worthy of exhibition. No new work. But the opportunity presented itself and I grabbed it. The paintings went up and then came down. Whatever.
I do have a few very old paintings that I am still in absolute love with. The reason for this is because they were and still are premonition pieces. They unconsciously poured forth and manifested themselves into something I still can't achieve on a conscious level, but can strive toward.
The newest lightbulb moment is, I am the oldest child out of 5. Each new baby born received the attention. I understand why. But, my childhood experience cemented the idea in my heart that old things are forgotten and ignored. My paintings are my babies. I am replaying my history and how I felt I was treated by doing the same with my own children.
This time, I framed the 3 paintings. It added a newness to them that wasn't there before. By yesterday afternoon my nervousness was thick. Finally, 5:30 rolled around and I could gather the work and drop it off. While in the gallery space, we discussed how to hang the work. One of the organizers had an idea. I fell in love with it. Between the frames and the way they'll be hung, it turns 3 tired, simple paintings into a brand new piece...working separately and as one unit.
The ornateness of the frames give the pieces a religious flavor. They will be hung in the appearance of an altarpiece.
This is good. It is very good.
So if you're around tonight...stop in.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Very nice~
From a monthly email subscription, here is part of July's column:
"I used to think sunshine was a bit frivolous – now I know it is life.
Changing is good, letting in new sensations, feelings, new ideas, is necessary. I don’t want to slowly calcify, find myself like the inside of a dishwasher pipe – just enough room to let just enough water through. I want to keep the spaces open, and to find a way to make for room for difficult beauty – is beauty ever easy? I have not found it so. I’m not even talking about a person, just openness to everything, and even the small daily things, like going out into the garden, or walking down to the river, are beautiful enough to disturb.
Disturb? Yes, I mean to disturb out of the habit of letting life pass in a blur. Looking, hearing, feeling, is disturbing. But better, I think than a muffled world.
I put up a poem this month that seems to me to be about the essential practicality of the poetic vision. You don’t need to be a poet to have a poetic vision. A poetic vision is prepared to be open, to let things in. The exactness of translation, vision into language, is the job of a poet, but the vision itself is probably the job of all of us.
We are grateful to poets because they put into words what we have felt/are feeling. I can’t say enough how important it is to go on feeling."
~Jeanette Winterson
Winterson's fairly regular emails announce new columns and poem of the month. This morning, because I'm taking it slow and easy, I was flipping through more of the site and found the following. I've yet to download the pdf of her new book.
An excerpt from an older book:
"Every journey conceals another journey within its lines: the path not taken and the forgotten angle. These are journeys I wish to record. Not the ones I made, but the ones I might have made, or perhaps did make in some other place or time. I could tell you the truth as you will find it in diaries and maps and log-books. I could faithfully describe all that I saw and heard and give you a travel book. You could follow it then, tracing those travels with your finger, putting red flags where I went.
For the Greeks, the hidden life demanded invisible ink. They wrote an ordinary letter and in between the lines set out another letter, written in milk. The document looked innocent enough until one who knew better sprinkled coal-dust over it. What the letter had been no longer mattered; what mattered was the life flaring up undetected...
till now.
I discovered that my own life was written invisibly, was squashed between the facts, was flying without me like the Twelve Dancing Princesses who shot from their window every night and returned home every morning with torn dresses and worn-out slippers and remembered nothing.
I resolved to set a watch on myself like a jealous father, trying to catch myself disappearing through a door just noticed in the wall. I knew I was being adulterous; that what I loved was not going on at home. I was giving myself the slip and walking through this world like a shadow. The longer I eluded myself the more obsessed I became with the thought of discovery. Occasionally, in company, someone would snap their fingers in front of my face and ask, 'Where are you?' For a long time I had no idea, but gradually I began to find evidence of the other life and gradually it appeared before me."
-Jeanette Winterson, from Sexing The Cherry
From a monthly email subscription, here is part of July's column:
"I used to think sunshine was a bit frivolous – now I know it is life.
Changing is good, letting in new sensations, feelings, new ideas, is necessary. I don’t want to slowly calcify, find myself like the inside of a dishwasher pipe – just enough room to let just enough water through. I want to keep the spaces open, and to find a way to make for room for difficult beauty – is beauty ever easy? I have not found it so. I’m not even talking about a person, just openness to everything, and even the small daily things, like going out into the garden, or walking down to the river, are beautiful enough to disturb.
Disturb? Yes, I mean to disturb out of the habit of letting life pass in a blur. Looking, hearing, feeling, is disturbing. But better, I think than a muffled world.
I put up a poem this month that seems to me to be about the essential practicality of the poetic vision. You don’t need to be a poet to have a poetic vision. A poetic vision is prepared to be open, to let things in. The exactness of translation, vision into language, is the job of a poet, but the vision itself is probably the job of all of us.
We are grateful to poets because they put into words what we have felt/are feeling. I can’t say enough how important it is to go on feeling."
~Jeanette Winterson
Winterson's fairly regular emails announce new columns and poem of the month. This morning, because I'm taking it slow and easy, I was flipping through more of the site and found the following. I've yet to download the pdf of her new book.
An excerpt from an older book:
"Every journey conceals another journey within its lines: the path not taken and the forgotten angle. These are journeys I wish to record. Not the ones I made, but the ones I might have made, or perhaps did make in some other place or time. I could tell you the truth as you will find it in diaries and maps and log-books. I could faithfully describe all that I saw and heard and give you a travel book. You could follow it then, tracing those travels with your finger, putting red flags where I went.
For the Greeks, the hidden life demanded invisible ink. They wrote an ordinary letter and in between the lines set out another letter, written in milk. The document looked innocent enough until one who knew better sprinkled coal-dust over it. What the letter had been no longer mattered; what mattered was the life flaring up undetected...
till now.
I discovered that my own life was written invisibly, was squashed between the facts, was flying without me like the Twelve Dancing Princesses who shot from their window every night and returned home every morning with torn dresses and worn-out slippers and remembered nothing.
I resolved to set a watch on myself like a jealous father, trying to catch myself disappearing through a door just noticed in the wall. I knew I was being adulterous; that what I loved was not going on at home. I was giving myself the slip and walking through this world like a shadow. The longer I eluded myself the more obsessed I became with the thought of discovery. Occasionally, in company, someone would snap their fingers in front of my face and ask, 'Where are you?' For a long time I had no idea, but gradually I began to find evidence of the other life and gradually it appeared before me."
-Jeanette Winterson, from Sexing The Cherry
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Snippets
In Starbucks this morning, getting my "grande drip in a venti cup, please", a tall, thin man, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt stood next to me to fix his coffee as well. He may have been in his early 50's. Relaxed. Easy.
He looked at his cup, and then said:
"Oh, I had this quote a few times already. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
"Yeah I do. I like reading them".
He began to read his to me. Then when he finished, he said "what does your cup say?"
I read the quote on my cup to him and then we chatted about the ideas.
What a wonderful way to start the day. It was such a comfortable, familiar moment. An intimacy that felt just right.
All with a stranger.
Perfect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, from Jonathan Cainer:
" In Monty Python's 'Meaning of Life' there is a memorable scene in which an amply proportioned gentleman is visiting a restaurant. Having devoured a ludicrously large meal, he comes under polite but persistent pressure from the waiter to enjoy just one little 'wafer thin mint'. He succumbs with catastrophic consequences. You have a lot on your plate. There is a limit to how much more you can take. Allow yourself a little time, lest one more challenge becomes the last straw."
Yup. That's about right.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I haven't done any drawing this week. I've been too engaged with the rest of life. But...but at noon today, I will be off until Wednesday. There is still time and I'm looking forward to it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night Auxugen met me and we went to the Central Cinema for food and a movie. It's the only theater around where you can watch a movie, and order from a menu at the same time. The waiter will take your order, bring you your food...and wine. Nice.
It was an impulsive decision made quickly after I received a notice of the movie.
Fresa y chocolate.
From the notice I received:
"The first gay-themed movie made in Cuba, Fresa y Chocolate (Strawberry
& Chocolate) was a radical deviation from state-sanctioned homophobia.
When sociology student and Castro supporter David meets long suffering
gay intellectual Diego, the encounter changes both their lives. But
it's the queer writer and artist who imparts the wisdom..
Very good movie. Check it out if you get a chance.
It was another needed distraction.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Upon my return, I found a serious treat in my email. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I dealt with the police and insurance company about my car. Now, it's just a matter of waiting for the appointment date for the estimate.
Tomorrow night I bring my paintings to the gallery.
From the announcement for the exhibit:
"Q Arts Seattle is pleased to announce the show for July: “SPIRITUALITY”. This is a group show produced by Jean-Paul Page. This unique show displays works by LGBT artists based on the theme of spirituality. The show explores how spirituality is experienced, perceived and understood through the lens of LGBT culture and thought.
Jean-Paul has brought together the work of twelve artists for this unusual and thought provoking show. Attempting to bring the viewer to an understanding of one’s spiritual truth is a daunting task. Please join these artists as they present us with their answers and prod us with their questions about spirituality from the LGBT point of view.
The show opening and artist’s reception will be held Saturday, July 1 from 6-9 pm. Live music will be provided and a palm reader will be on hand to add to the evening's pleasure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It will be good to get back to drawing. Maybe...maybe today or tomorrow morning. There is an ass that is screaming for touch.
In Starbucks this morning, getting my "grande drip in a venti cup, please", a tall, thin man, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt stood next to me to fix his coffee as well. He may have been in his early 50's. Relaxed. Easy.
He looked at his cup, and then said:
"Oh, I had this quote a few times already. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
"Yeah I do. I like reading them".
He began to read his to me. Then when he finished, he said "what does your cup say?"
I read the quote on my cup to him and then we chatted about the ideas.
What a wonderful way to start the day. It was such a comfortable, familiar moment. An intimacy that felt just right.
All with a stranger.
Perfect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, from Jonathan Cainer:
" In Monty Python's 'Meaning of Life' there is a memorable scene in which an amply proportioned gentleman is visiting a restaurant. Having devoured a ludicrously large meal, he comes under polite but persistent pressure from the waiter to enjoy just one little 'wafer thin mint'. He succumbs with catastrophic consequences. You have a lot on your plate. There is a limit to how much more you can take. Allow yourself a little time, lest one more challenge becomes the last straw."
Yup. That's about right.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I haven't done any drawing this week. I've been too engaged with the rest of life. But...but at noon today, I will be off until Wednesday. There is still time and I'm looking forward to it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night Auxugen met me and we went to the Central Cinema for food and a movie. It's the only theater around where you can watch a movie, and order from a menu at the same time. The waiter will take your order, bring you your food...and wine. Nice.
It was an impulsive decision made quickly after I received a notice of the movie.
Fresa y chocolate.
From the notice I received:
"The first gay-themed movie made in Cuba, Fresa y Chocolate (Strawberry
& Chocolate) was a radical deviation from state-sanctioned homophobia.
When sociology student and Castro supporter David meets long suffering
gay intellectual Diego, the encounter changes both their lives. But
it's the queer writer and artist who imparts the wisdom..
Very good movie. Check it out if you get a chance.
It was another needed distraction.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Upon my return, I found a serious treat in my email. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I dealt with the police and insurance company about my car. Now, it's just a matter of waiting for the appointment date for the estimate.
Tomorrow night I bring my paintings to the gallery.
From the announcement for the exhibit:
"Q Arts Seattle is pleased to announce the show for July: “SPIRITUALITY”. This is a group show produced by Jean-Paul Page. This unique show displays works by LGBT artists based on the theme of spirituality. The show explores how spirituality is experienced, perceived and understood through the lens of LGBT culture and thought.
Jean-Paul has brought together the work of twelve artists for this unusual and thought provoking show. Attempting to bring the viewer to an understanding of one’s spiritual truth is a daunting task. Please join these artists as they present us with their answers and prod us with their questions about spirituality from the LGBT point of view.
The show opening and artist’s reception will be held Saturday, July 1 from 6-9 pm. Live music will be provided and a palm reader will be on hand to add to the evening's pleasure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It will be good to get back to drawing. Maybe...maybe today or tomorrow morning. There is an ass that is screaming for touch.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
In spite of how trying yesterday was and that there are some big problems I still need to try to fix, here is some goodness pulled from the day~
I recovered my grandmother's dishes. The box was sitting at Post Options, but because the mailing label did not include the name of my organization, nor the box number, the good folks there didn't know who it belonged to.
They've arrived intact and still look fabulous, considering they are over 80 years old.
My painting is now on it's way to a new address, where it is guaranteed that someone will be there to accept the package in a few days.
A fabulous dinner with the Bear and the bunny. They came by, saw my paintings for the show, and then I showed them my new series of drawings, including the most recent which I had yet to compare to the others. The Bear...well, he was somewhat stunned. Yeah, that's a very good sign.
For dinner, he declared "someplace air conditioned and dark." Not too many of those in Seattle. Then the idea of Mamounia came up. I had just noticed the restaurant a few weeks back and was intrigued.
There is no belly dancing early in the week, which is fine with me. It was quiet. The food was amazing. The experience includes eating with your hands. No silverware. It differs from Ethiopian because you really use your hands, not pieces of flat bread to scoop up the food.
The waitress comes by with a large bowl and runs water over your hands, so you can wash them. She hands you a towel to dry and that serves as your napkin as well.
Imagine lamb in a cinnamon onion sauce with prunes and topped with sliced almonds. I'm not a fan of lamb, but this rocked. It was tender. The flavors were amazing. Or sauteed boneless chicken pieces with cinnamon in a mint sauce. Beef Zitoun, morsels of tenderloin with crushed olives. All to die for.
Last week, my over the top, fabulous dining was Pair with Hoss...and this week, Mamounia. I love great food.
Both weeks, each experience was filled with mouthful after mouthful of serious goodness. At Pair, I think I danced in my seat while eating. And last night, in sampling a little from each plate, I remarked "each plate is an orgasm waiting to happen."
Other things...still up in the air.
Now, to Wednesday business.
"You can be innocently sitting there. You can be minding your own business cruising your favorite blogs and your favorite porn sites and reading your favorite newspapers and thinking all is well and good with the world -- relative, of course, to its overall hellbound handbasket plummet -- when wham, your brain recoils and your eyeballs roll back in your skull and you feel as though your colon had been stabbed by a large rusty aircraft fuselage.
It is not as pleasant as it sounds."
That is Morford's opening paragraph of How To Eat Paris Hilton.
And this week's Freewill Astrology can be found here.
I recovered my grandmother's dishes. The box was sitting at Post Options, but because the mailing label did not include the name of my organization, nor the box number, the good folks there didn't know who it belonged to.
They've arrived intact and still look fabulous, considering they are over 80 years old.
My painting is now on it's way to a new address, where it is guaranteed that someone will be there to accept the package in a few days.
A fabulous dinner with the Bear and the bunny. They came by, saw my paintings for the show, and then I showed them my new series of drawings, including the most recent which I had yet to compare to the others. The Bear...well, he was somewhat stunned. Yeah, that's a very good sign.
For dinner, he declared "someplace air conditioned and dark." Not too many of those in Seattle. Then the idea of Mamounia came up. I had just noticed the restaurant a few weeks back and was intrigued.
There is no belly dancing early in the week, which is fine with me. It was quiet. The food was amazing. The experience includes eating with your hands. No silverware. It differs from Ethiopian because you really use your hands, not pieces of flat bread to scoop up the food.
The waitress comes by with a large bowl and runs water over your hands, so you can wash them. She hands you a towel to dry and that serves as your napkin as well.
Imagine lamb in a cinnamon onion sauce with prunes and topped with sliced almonds. I'm not a fan of lamb, but this rocked. It was tender. The flavors were amazing. Or sauteed boneless chicken pieces with cinnamon in a mint sauce. Beef Zitoun, morsels of tenderloin with crushed olives. All to die for.
Last week, my over the top, fabulous dining was Pair with Hoss...and this week, Mamounia. I love great food.
Both weeks, each experience was filled with mouthful after mouthful of serious goodness. At Pair, I think I danced in my seat while eating. And last night, in sampling a little from each plate, I remarked "each plate is an orgasm waiting to happen."
Other things...still up in the air.
Now, to Wednesday business.
"You can be innocently sitting there. You can be minding your own business cruising your favorite blogs and your favorite porn sites and reading your favorite newspapers and thinking all is well and good with the world -- relative, of course, to its overall hellbound handbasket plummet -- when wham, your brain recoils and your eyeballs roll back in your skull and you feel as though your colon had been stabbed by a large rusty aircraft fuselage.
It is not as pleasant as it sounds."
That is Morford's opening paragraph of How To Eat Paris Hilton.
And this week's Freewill Astrology can be found here.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
It is a strange, sad time.
Another death. Eric Rofes.
A friend informed me of his passing earlier this morning.
I had the pleasure of meeting him briefly at Creating Change last year, and was very impressed. His demeanor, his intelligence…his grace… wow.
He will be missed.
-----
Edited: when I first posted the press release, the NGLTF website hadn't been updated yet. Now it is.
2nd edit: Eric's website www.ericrofes.com
-----------------------------------------
from the NGLTF press release...
National Gay and Lesbian Task Force mourns death of Eric Rofes, a leader, activist and visionary
WASHINGTON, June 27 — The National Gay and Lesbian Task Force mourns the death of Eric Rofes, a leader, activist, visionary, former board member and dear friend to the Task Force. He died yesterday as the result of a heart attack.
“Words cannot express the loss we all feel. For more than 30 years, Eric was our movement’s visionary. He pushed us to be better, to never lose sight of what our movement for liberation is all about, and to love each other, fight for each other and celebrate our community. He was an organizer without par, a brilliant thinker and writer, and above all else, a wonderful person and friend. Our hearts go out to his partner Crispin Hollings and all the members of his extended family.” — Matt Foreman, executive director of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force
“Eric Rofes was one of the most extraordinary voices in our community. He spoke — and suffused others — with the joy of being who we are. His leadership in the communities where he lived, and in the national community, contributed enormously to our understanding of the need for honest discussions about the LGBT community and its issues. Eric’s death is a loss to all of us, of a rare voice of truth.” — Task Force board member Loren Ostrow, co-chair of the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center
"Eric fought fiercely and organized tirelessly for our freedoms to love, to live and to thrive. His leadership and energy guided much early organizing in Boston. Eric and other Boston organizers morphed into the famed ‘Boston Mafia,’ a cadre of activists who left the city and assumed leadership positions in LGBT and AIDS organizations in New York, Washington, D.C., San Francisco and Los Angeles. I met Eric at Gay Community News in 1983 when, as a greenhorn from the Midwest, I was honored to learn and grow in his political light and determination to change the social and political space we queerfolk occupy. Eric's circles of friends go far beyond Boston, and he will always be remembered as a world changer who showed us the way. No better memorial can be built to him than to walk his path to freedom, to liberation and to democracy." — Sue Hyde, director of the Task Force’s Creating Change conference
“Eric Rofes was a strong feminist who was never afraid to put his privilege on the line for those around him. He bore witness to every major issue for three decades as he talked about war, homelessness, HIV, violence, health, reframing our families, sex and sexuality. His gentle spirit will be sorely missed.” — Kerry Lobel, former executive director of the Task Force
About Eric Rofes
Eric Rofes started his activism in the 1970s in Boston where he worked on Gay Community News . He was a founder of Boston's first group for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) teachers, two of the first LGBT youth groups in the country and the first Boston-based group focused on organizing gay and lesbian voters (Boston Lesbian and Gay Political Alliance). He was a founding member of the Boston Men's Childcare Collective, which provided childcare at women's music concerts and shelters for battered women. He was an elected delegate to the 1980 White House Conference on the Family.
From 1985 to 1989, Rofes served as executive director of the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Community Services Center, the largest LGBT nonprofit organization in the world. During his tenure, the center initiated some of the nation's first HIV prevention programs, created a shelter for LGBT and homeless youth and opened the first and largest HIV testing site in California. In 1989, he became executive director of Shanti Project, a pioneering AIDS service group in San Francisco.
He served as a member of the Los Angeles AIDS Commission and the San Francisco Ryan White Council, and was a board member of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, the National Lesbian & Gay Health Association and the Funding Exchange's OutFund for Gay Liberation. Rofes co-chaired the Southern California No on LaRouche Committee, which successfully defeated a statewide AIDS quarantine initiative. At the time of his death, he served on the board of the Woodhull Freedom Foundation.
He led the organizing of three national summits focused on the health and wellness of gay male communities, including the most recent summit in October 2005 in Salt Lake City. From 1999 to the time of his death, Rofes was an associate professor of education at Humboldt State University in Arcata, Calif.
He was a major contributor to the Task Force’s Creating Change conference, which he attended annually and where he presented some of the most challenging and stimulating material.
In addition, he published 12 books, including Reviving the Tribe: Regenerating Gay Men's Sexuality and Culture in an Ongoing Epidemic (Haworth, 1996) and Dry Bones Breathe: Gay Men Creating Post-AIDS Identities and Cultures (Haworth, 1998).
---------------------
Another death. Eric Rofes.
A friend informed me of his passing earlier this morning.
I had the pleasure of meeting him briefly at Creating Change last year, and was very impressed. His demeanor, his intelligence…his grace… wow.
He will be missed.
-----
Edited: when I first posted the press release, the NGLTF website hadn't been updated yet. Now it is.
2nd edit: Eric's website www.ericrofes.com
-----------------------------------------
from the NGLTF press release...
National Gay and Lesbian Task Force mourns death of Eric Rofes, a leader, activist and visionary
WASHINGTON, June 27 — The National Gay and Lesbian Task Force mourns the death of Eric Rofes, a leader, activist, visionary, former board member and dear friend to the Task Force. He died yesterday as the result of a heart attack.
“Words cannot express the loss we all feel. For more than 30 years, Eric was our movement’s visionary. He pushed us to be better, to never lose sight of what our movement for liberation is all about, and to love each other, fight for each other and celebrate our community. He was an organizer without par, a brilliant thinker and writer, and above all else, a wonderful person and friend. Our hearts go out to his partner Crispin Hollings and all the members of his extended family.” — Matt Foreman, executive director of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force
“Eric Rofes was one of the most extraordinary voices in our community. He spoke — and suffused others — with the joy of being who we are. His leadership in the communities where he lived, and in the national community, contributed enormously to our understanding of the need for honest discussions about the LGBT community and its issues. Eric’s death is a loss to all of us, of a rare voice of truth.” — Task Force board member Loren Ostrow, co-chair of the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center
"Eric fought fiercely and organized tirelessly for our freedoms to love, to live and to thrive. His leadership and energy guided much early organizing in Boston. Eric and other Boston organizers morphed into the famed ‘Boston Mafia,’ a cadre of activists who left the city and assumed leadership positions in LGBT and AIDS organizations in New York, Washington, D.C., San Francisco and Los Angeles. I met Eric at Gay Community News in 1983 when, as a greenhorn from the Midwest, I was honored to learn and grow in his political light and determination to change the social and political space we queerfolk occupy. Eric's circles of friends go far beyond Boston, and he will always be remembered as a world changer who showed us the way. No better memorial can be built to him than to walk his path to freedom, to liberation and to democracy." — Sue Hyde, director of the Task Force’s Creating Change conference
“Eric Rofes was a strong feminist who was never afraid to put his privilege on the line for those around him. He bore witness to every major issue for three decades as he talked about war, homelessness, HIV, violence, health, reframing our families, sex and sexuality. His gentle spirit will be sorely missed.” — Kerry Lobel, former executive director of the Task Force
About Eric Rofes
Eric Rofes started his activism in the 1970s in Boston where he worked on Gay Community News . He was a founder of Boston's first group for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) teachers, two of the first LGBT youth groups in the country and the first Boston-based group focused on organizing gay and lesbian voters (Boston Lesbian and Gay Political Alliance). He was a founding member of the Boston Men's Childcare Collective, which provided childcare at women's music concerts and shelters for battered women. He was an elected delegate to the 1980 White House Conference on the Family.
From 1985 to 1989, Rofes served as executive director of the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Community Services Center, the largest LGBT nonprofit organization in the world. During his tenure, the center initiated some of the nation's first HIV prevention programs, created a shelter for LGBT and homeless youth and opened the first and largest HIV testing site in California. In 1989, he became executive director of Shanti Project, a pioneering AIDS service group in San Francisco.
He served as a member of the Los Angeles AIDS Commission and the San Francisco Ryan White Council, and was a board member of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, the National Lesbian & Gay Health Association and the Funding Exchange's OutFund for Gay Liberation. Rofes co-chaired the Southern California No on LaRouche Committee, which successfully defeated a statewide AIDS quarantine initiative. At the time of his death, he served on the board of the Woodhull Freedom Foundation.
He led the organizing of three national summits focused on the health and wellness of gay male communities, including the most recent summit in October 2005 in Salt Lake City. From 1999 to the time of his death, Rofes was an associate professor of education at Humboldt State University in Arcata, Calif.
He was a major contributor to the Task Force’s Creating Change conference, which he attended annually and where he presented some of the most challenging and stimulating material.
In addition, he published 12 books, including Reviving the Tribe: Regenerating Gay Men's Sexuality and Culture in an Ongoing Epidemic (Haworth, 1996) and Dry Bones Breathe: Gay Men Creating Post-AIDS Identities and Cultures (Haworth, 1998).
---------------------
Strange times.
What am I supposed to learn from these things…?
Maybe just to keep breathing.
~Someone I know, more from afar, committed suicide. That knowledge shook me up on a few levels. First, it's the second one in 6 months, the first being a friend right after New Year's. When I heard the news of the more recent one….the first thing was shock. The next thing through my head was:
"that should have been me. Why wasn't it me?"
Then…a little voice… "because you have someone to go to."
I cry for people whose hearts are so broken that there is nothing left but bleakness. Desolation.
I cry for this person with the busted heart.
~I went to my car this morning and noticed that someone had backed into it in such a way where there is no dent but the white paint is totally pulled off the driver's side corner of my front bumper. A very large black patch, almost a foot across. I also noticed that someone did leave a note saying "Please call", with a phone number. It's from either the person who did the damage or a witness. I'll call in a bit. Right now, it's too early.
~The painting I shipped out on June 8th has yet to be received. I started tracking it online, and this morning noticed it's back in Oregon. It has gone back and forth cross country. Yes, I'm freaking out big time. I know it's no longer my responsibility…but it still feels like my baby until it's safe and sound in its new home and right now, it feels like it is floating around in the ether.
~I had been given my grandmother's wedding dishes about 12 years ago. It's a set that goes back to the 1920's, a wonderful and simple art deco pattern in green, gold and platinum. When I moved to Seattle, I returned them to my mom's because there was no room in the car. On my last visit home, I packed up the box (with overkill), and a few weeks later my family shipped it UPS. While tracking this morning, it seems the damned box arrived on the 14th…and someone at the Mail place signed for it. But when I called last week looking for it, the person who answered didn't know anything about it. Now that I have the name of who signed…I'll stop over there when they open in a few hours and find out what happened.
Some of these I've been dealing with for a while. Others are fresh.
Today, the culmination of it all is hitting me.
Breathe.
Breathe.
It's not all gloom.
Good things…
~My 3 little paintings have been framed. I'll be picking them up today and drop them off at the gallery space on Friday.
~It was much too hot yesterday, so I didn't do any drawing but plan on it today.
~Kerry and his Papa Bear will be in town for a bit over the weekend…and I'll get to pick them up at the airport on Saturday. It'll be GREAT to see them.
~I'm working on reopening myself to the shrink. It feels good to begin to trust him again.
~There was no humidity with the onslaught of heat.
~Yesterday was the last day of our mini heat wave.
~Last night, in bed, and this morning was the first time in over a week without sharp left arm pain. There is still pain, but it is oh so very manageable now. This I can deal with.
~Tonight I get to see the Bear and his bunny. I'll get some loving.
What am I supposed to learn from these things…?
Maybe just to keep breathing.
~Someone I know, more from afar, committed suicide. That knowledge shook me up on a few levels. First, it's the second one in 6 months, the first being a friend right after New Year's. When I heard the news of the more recent one….the first thing was shock. The next thing through my head was:
"that should have been me. Why wasn't it me?"
Then…a little voice… "because you have someone to go to."
I cry for people whose hearts are so broken that there is nothing left but bleakness. Desolation.
I cry for this person with the busted heart.
~I went to my car this morning and noticed that someone had backed into it in such a way where there is no dent but the white paint is totally pulled off the driver's side corner of my front bumper. A very large black patch, almost a foot across. I also noticed that someone did leave a note saying "Please call", with a phone number. It's from either the person who did the damage or a witness. I'll call in a bit. Right now, it's too early.
~The painting I shipped out on June 8th has yet to be received. I started tracking it online, and this morning noticed it's back in Oregon. It has gone back and forth cross country. Yes, I'm freaking out big time. I know it's no longer my responsibility…but it still feels like my baby until it's safe and sound in its new home and right now, it feels like it is floating around in the ether.
~I had been given my grandmother's wedding dishes about 12 years ago. It's a set that goes back to the 1920's, a wonderful and simple art deco pattern in green, gold and platinum. When I moved to Seattle, I returned them to my mom's because there was no room in the car. On my last visit home, I packed up the box (with overkill), and a few weeks later my family shipped it UPS. While tracking this morning, it seems the damned box arrived on the 14th…and someone at the Mail place signed for it. But when I called last week looking for it, the person who answered didn't know anything about it. Now that I have the name of who signed…I'll stop over there when they open in a few hours and find out what happened.
Some of these I've been dealing with for a while. Others are fresh.
Today, the culmination of it all is hitting me.
Breathe.
Breathe.
It's not all gloom.
Good things…
~My 3 little paintings have been framed. I'll be picking them up today and drop them off at the gallery space on Friday.
~It was much too hot yesterday, so I didn't do any drawing but plan on it today.
~Kerry and his Papa Bear will be in town for a bit over the weekend…and I'll get to pick them up at the airport on Saturday. It'll be GREAT to see them.
~I'm working on reopening myself to the shrink. It feels good to begin to trust him again.
~There was no humidity with the onslaught of heat.
~Yesterday was the last day of our mini heat wave.
~Last night, in bed, and this morning was the first time in over a week without sharp left arm pain. There is still pain, but it is oh so very manageable now. This I can deal with.
~Tonight I get to see the Bear and his bunny. I'll get some loving.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Tired thoughts~
Sleep was a long time coming last night. Therefore, I'm still groggy and out of it. Therapy in less than an hour…and then dive into work. This is my second week of afternoon vacation time, meaning short work days. Hopefullly…I'll have the energy to paint some more this afternoon. I want to.
When I used to have trouble sleeping, I'd mentally transport myself back to one of my all time favorite places. A private corner of rocks on the Marginal Way in Ogunquit. With my eyes closed I could hear the waves, smell the salt, feel the sea air and the spray. I would keep my breath in time to the crashing of the waves. And in that…I'd sleep.
Last night, as I periodically do, I tried to recapture it again in my mind. It's diminished. I haven't been there in so long that the memory has faded. Yes, there's a vague visual, but I can't taste it as before. Sad. Next time I fly home, I must make a trip back to the shore. But even with that, it won't be the same. When I lived back east, I would be there every week. I need to find another safe spot. Another healing spot here in my area.
-------
Regarding Pride, I am glad the regular parade finally moved off the hill. Marching in the gay ghetto misses the point of Pride marches. But, I always enjoyed the festivities in our neighborhood. So…in reviewing the weekend, I really liked that although much was happening at Seattle Center all weekend, I loved how Saturday on Broadway was full and alive with events at Volunteer park all day - concerts and movies, the dyke march and a smaller version of the parade down Broadway in the late afternoon.
For me, kicking off the weekend in our space and culminating into a big deal downtown on Sunday worked well together. I know the Saturday parade was in reaction to the big one getting moved off the Hill. But after witnessing Saturday's march and then seeing Sunday's on TV, I don't believe it needs to be one or the other.
We can have both. More for us.
Why not?
Sleep was a long time coming last night. Therefore, I'm still groggy and out of it. Therapy in less than an hour…and then dive into work. This is my second week of afternoon vacation time, meaning short work days. Hopefullly…I'll have the energy to paint some more this afternoon. I want to.
When I used to have trouble sleeping, I'd mentally transport myself back to one of my all time favorite places. A private corner of rocks on the Marginal Way in Ogunquit. With my eyes closed I could hear the waves, smell the salt, feel the sea air and the spray. I would keep my breath in time to the crashing of the waves. And in that…I'd sleep.
Last night, as I periodically do, I tried to recapture it again in my mind. It's diminished. I haven't been there in so long that the memory has faded. Yes, there's a vague visual, but I can't taste it as before. Sad. Next time I fly home, I must make a trip back to the shore. But even with that, it won't be the same. When I lived back east, I would be there every week. I need to find another safe spot. Another healing spot here in my area.
-------
Regarding Pride, I am glad the regular parade finally moved off the hill. Marching in the gay ghetto misses the point of Pride marches. But, I always enjoyed the festivities in our neighborhood. So…in reviewing the weekend, I really liked that although much was happening at Seattle Center all weekend, I loved how Saturday on Broadway was full and alive with events at Volunteer park all day - concerts and movies, the dyke march and a smaller version of the parade down Broadway in the late afternoon.
For me, kicking off the weekend in our space and culminating into a big deal downtown on Sunday worked well together. I know the Saturday parade was in reaction to the big one getting moved off the Hill. But after witnessing Saturday's march and then seeing Sunday's on TV, I don't believe it needs to be one or the other.
We can have both. More for us.
Why not?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Productive day~
In spite of the 90 degree day, let it be known that I did get some work done. Normally, anything over 80 leaves me limp and sluggish. But I was determined to work another piece. I'm not sure what I think of it yet. That will come tomorrow...with space. I am thrilled I worked.
Now, after a handful of ibuprofen and a bag of frozen peas slapped on my shoulder, I'm crashed in my leather chair drinking OJ and watching today's Pride parade...taped earlier and being televised for two hours. Regardless of what anyone thinks of the move off the Hill or the parade in general...watching this on the tube is pretty cool. It wouldn't have happened 5 years ago.
I want a treat for dinner but can't decide what would constitute treat right now. Too hot to decide. Good thing it's not humid.
In spite of the 90 degree day, let it be known that I did get some work done. Normally, anything over 80 leaves me limp and sluggish. But I was determined to work another piece. I'm not sure what I think of it yet. That will come tomorrow...with space. I am thrilled I worked.
Now, after a handful of ibuprofen and a bag of frozen peas slapped on my shoulder, I'm crashed in my leather chair drinking OJ and watching today's Pride parade...taped earlier and being televised for two hours. Regardless of what anyone thinks of the move off the Hill or the parade in general...watching this on the tube is pretty cool. It wouldn't have happened 5 years ago.
I want a treat for dinner but can't decide what would constitute treat right now. Too hot to decide. Good thing it's not humid.
The Gift~
This morning I received a gift. Unknowingly to the person who shared, it was a wonderful, amazing gift.
The gift, a Rumi poem.
Chickpea to Cook
(translated by Coleman Barks)
A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it's being boiled.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
The cook knocks him down with the ladle.
"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice
and be the lovely vitality of a human being.
Remember when you drank rain in the garden.
That was for this."
Grace first. Sexual pleasure,
then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat.
Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook,
"Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.
I can't do this by myself.
I'm like an elephant that dreams of gardens
back in Hindustan and doesn't pay attention
to his driver. You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking."
The cook says,
"I was once like you,
fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time,
and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.
My animal soul grew powerful.
I controlled it with practices,
and boiled some more, and boiled
once beyond that,
and became your teacher."
Thank you for the poem. I've reread it a few times and realized a certain shrink, master in his own right, is the cook and I the chickpea. I've spent the last few months running and rebelling. All needed of course. But I've worked diligently at not surrendering. The child engages in tantrums.
I am being boiled.
This morning's web cruising has uncovered another gem:
Leonard Cohen's Anthem
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
It's how the light gets in.
It is Pride weekend in Seattle. This year we have two parades, one each day. Yesterday I immersed myself in Pride energy, which never fails to bring up memories of my first Prides...political events. Regardless of controversy, of the corporate and commercial, the parade recaptures what at times feels lost.
Today, I'll bypass the queer celebrations and instead, hole myself up, again in silence.
Engage the Artist. With Pride.
In submitting to the cook, I am ultimately surrendering to myself.
Today, I willingly jump into the pot.
This morning I received a gift. Unknowingly to the person who shared, it was a wonderful, amazing gift.
The gift, a Rumi poem.
Chickpea to Cook
(translated by Coleman Barks)
A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it's being boiled.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
The cook knocks him down with the ladle.
"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice
and be the lovely vitality of a human being.
Remember when you drank rain in the garden.
That was for this."
Grace first. Sexual pleasure,
then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat.
Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook,
"Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.
I can't do this by myself.
I'm like an elephant that dreams of gardens
back in Hindustan and doesn't pay attention
to his driver. You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking."
The cook says,
"I was once like you,
fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time,
and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.
My animal soul grew powerful.
I controlled it with practices,
and boiled some more, and boiled
once beyond that,
and became your teacher."
Thank you for the poem. I've reread it a few times and realized a certain shrink, master in his own right, is the cook and I the chickpea. I've spent the last few months running and rebelling. All needed of course. But I've worked diligently at not surrendering. The child engages in tantrums.
I am being boiled.
This morning's web cruising has uncovered another gem:
Leonard Cohen's Anthem
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
It's how the light gets in.
It is Pride weekend in Seattle. This year we have two parades, one each day. Yesterday I immersed myself in Pride energy, which never fails to bring up memories of my first Prides...political events. Regardless of controversy, of the corporate and commercial, the parade recaptures what at times feels lost.
Today, I'll bypass the queer celebrations and instead, hole myself up, again in silence.
Engage the Artist. With Pride.
In submitting to the cook, I am ultimately surrendering to myself.
Today, I willingly jump into the pot.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Butt play is powerful and healing.
You access the root of a person when you slam your dick into their ass. As the bottom, it hits your essence...and opens you up, more each time. Vulnerability. That is, if you're aware and present and not strung out on crystal, obliviously and recklessly seeking continual fucks.
As a female, having the immense fortune of having two holes to play with (sorry guys)....I have to say that having my ass fucked or fisted is more intense and fantastic than having my cunt filled. I once had the experience of having a fist up my cunt and ass simultaneously and that....that was mindblowing.
Isn't it an odd thing to speak of after a week of silence?
I don't know how to write about it.
Butt play. Masturbation. I've spent the week in the throes of sex.
Last week, beginning on Thursday, but I really felt it on Friday...reality. Reality. Regardless of what another's reality is...all we can deal with is our own. The reality that was creeping up on me and hit hard by Friday was...I am all alone. There is nothing or no one else in this world but me. I will never be fully understood.
I was alone.
I am alone.
I no longer trusted anyone. Not even my shrink. His office, last Friday, felt unsafe. No longer my haven. I retained my walls and spoke hardly at all in our session.
This past week was one of his away weeks, which suited me fine. I didn't want to return.
I no longer trusted him. I trusted no one.
I was alone.
Saturday morning.
A slowly increasing anxiety began to fill me. I was afraid that this would be my life and I wouldn't be able to work past it. Then, I stopped. I stopped analyzing, stopped asking why and stopped processing. The decision was made to just go through it. If this was my current path, so be it. There was nothing else I could do but be in it, without fear.
I immersed myself in my aloneness. No it wasn't pleasant. It wasn't pretty. It simply was what it was. I chose to not engage with people because it would have felt false. If I felt alone, I needed to really be alone.
After this decision I realized that I wasn't empty in my aloneness and isolation. I knew because I couldn't shake the fact that...I had my art. Regardless what anyone else thinks of me, knowing that I'll never be really understood or seen...it no longer mattered because I had one thing that could never be taken away. One thing. I am an artist. I have my art.
A strong sense of power came over me.
For the first time in my life, while immersed in turmoil, I lunged toward my painting instead of away from it.
Saturday morning, I ran to Utrecht's to pick up paper. Watercolor and printmaking paper. I needed something somewhat durable. Because I really can't work well in oils in my little place, I decided to try drawings. Because I knew I'd be working with charcoal, I kept the pieces small, about 15x20. Without getting charcoal dust everywhere, it was a manageable size.
I began with black watercolor and mixed and worked through each piece with watercolor, charcoal and graphite. Wet into dry and back into wet. Working one within the other.
It was painting.
I completed 4 drawings this week.
It's been almost a year since I've painted.
It's been 10 years since I've finished any charcoal pieces.
Normally, I'd rough out in charcoal and jump right into oils because I was antsy to feel the brush spring against the canvas. Now, I have no choice. If I want to paint, it needs to be in charcoal because of space limitations.
This isn't a bad thing.
While my shrink sat in sesshin all week, I stepped into my own. I found a way that is about my culture and my experience.
In these pieces, I see my life.
I see my suffering and my hunger.
I see my sex.
I see my cock.
It is one image. One image I keep replaying. I'm working it over and over again. My meditation. It allows me to really explore. It frees me up in a way that is healing. There is no pressure. There is no expectation.
And...after seeing these four pieces, I know they are the best things I've done thus far.
They show who I am.
Within these black and white pieces, there is so much color.
In the work, in the midst of very adult subject matter, the little kid is screaming:
I will not be dismissed.
I will no longer be ignored.
See my sex, my essence and deal with it.
I exist and will flourish in spite of it all.
These are good. And it is good.
I'm not outwardly excited about this, which is odd for me. Yet it feels so right. Substantial roots are taking hold and I feel it inside. With that, I'm watchful and protective of my new, still being built, foundation.
In my week of mostly silence, I couldn't even write for myself. This is the first time I'm putting anything into words.
My body has rebelled with these new changes. I am left-handed. My left shoulder has been in so much pain...my rotator cuff acting up more painfully than ever before. I developed migraines on Tuesday and Wednesday. It's about release. All release. The body will react. And...it will get over it and calm down as my spirit becomes stronger.
When I decided to relax into this aloneness and the feeling of not trusting, I knew it was a necessary step into further healing. Though it is another corner turned, I don't expect an easy road. But it is a new landscape.
You access the root of a person when you slam your dick into their ass. As the bottom, it hits your essence...and opens you up, more each time. Vulnerability. That is, if you're aware and present and not strung out on crystal, obliviously and recklessly seeking continual fucks.
As a female, having the immense fortune of having two holes to play with (sorry guys)....I have to say that having my ass fucked or fisted is more intense and fantastic than having my cunt filled. I once had the experience of having a fist up my cunt and ass simultaneously and that....that was mindblowing.
Isn't it an odd thing to speak of after a week of silence?
I don't know how to write about it.
Butt play. Masturbation. I've spent the week in the throes of sex.
Last week, beginning on Thursday, but I really felt it on Friday...reality. Reality. Regardless of what another's reality is...all we can deal with is our own. The reality that was creeping up on me and hit hard by Friday was...I am all alone. There is nothing or no one else in this world but me. I will never be fully understood.
I was alone.
I am alone.
I no longer trusted anyone. Not even my shrink. His office, last Friday, felt unsafe. No longer my haven. I retained my walls and spoke hardly at all in our session.
This past week was one of his away weeks, which suited me fine. I didn't want to return.
I no longer trusted him. I trusted no one.
I was alone.
Saturday morning.
A slowly increasing anxiety began to fill me. I was afraid that this would be my life and I wouldn't be able to work past it. Then, I stopped. I stopped analyzing, stopped asking why and stopped processing. The decision was made to just go through it. If this was my current path, so be it. There was nothing else I could do but be in it, without fear.
I immersed myself in my aloneness. No it wasn't pleasant. It wasn't pretty. It simply was what it was. I chose to not engage with people because it would have felt false. If I felt alone, I needed to really be alone.
After this decision I realized that I wasn't empty in my aloneness and isolation. I knew because I couldn't shake the fact that...I had my art. Regardless what anyone else thinks of me, knowing that I'll never be really understood or seen...it no longer mattered because I had one thing that could never be taken away. One thing. I am an artist. I have my art.
A strong sense of power came over me.
For the first time in my life, while immersed in turmoil, I lunged toward my painting instead of away from it.
Saturday morning, I ran to Utrecht's to pick up paper. Watercolor and printmaking paper. I needed something somewhat durable. Because I really can't work well in oils in my little place, I decided to try drawings. Because I knew I'd be working with charcoal, I kept the pieces small, about 15x20. Without getting charcoal dust everywhere, it was a manageable size.
I began with black watercolor and mixed and worked through each piece with watercolor, charcoal and graphite. Wet into dry and back into wet. Working one within the other.
It was painting.
I completed 4 drawings this week.
It's been almost a year since I've painted.
It's been 10 years since I've finished any charcoal pieces.
Normally, I'd rough out in charcoal and jump right into oils because I was antsy to feel the brush spring against the canvas. Now, I have no choice. If I want to paint, it needs to be in charcoal because of space limitations.
This isn't a bad thing.
While my shrink sat in sesshin all week, I stepped into my own. I found a way that is about my culture and my experience.
In these pieces, I see my life.
I see my suffering and my hunger.
I see my sex.
I see my cock.
It is one image. One image I keep replaying. I'm working it over and over again. My meditation. It allows me to really explore. It frees me up in a way that is healing. There is no pressure. There is no expectation.
And...after seeing these four pieces, I know they are the best things I've done thus far.
They show who I am.
Within these black and white pieces, there is so much color.
In the work, in the midst of very adult subject matter, the little kid is screaming:
I will not be dismissed.
I will no longer be ignored.
See my sex, my essence and deal with it.
I exist and will flourish in spite of it all.
These are good. And it is good.
I'm not outwardly excited about this, which is odd for me. Yet it feels so right. Substantial roots are taking hold and I feel it inside. With that, I'm watchful and protective of my new, still being built, foundation.
In my week of mostly silence, I couldn't even write for myself. This is the first time I'm putting anything into words.
My body has rebelled with these new changes. I am left-handed. My left shoulder has been in so much pain...my rotator cuff acting up more painfully than ever before. I developed migraines on Tuesday and Wednesday. It's about release. All release. The body will react. And...it will get over it and calm down as my spirit becomes stronger.
When I decided to relax into this aloneness and the feeling of not trusting, I knew it was a necessary step into further healing. Though it is another corner turned, I don't expect an easy road. But it is a new landscape.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Poking out of my cave~
A quick entry only to bring you today's column from Mark Morford. I've had the desire to be very private for the last week and so have pulled back from pretty much everything although while doing a favor for Hoss last night I was treated to one of the most glorious meals I've ever indulged in. It was a surprising indulgence that felt somehow perfect...in timing, company, food and wine. Thank you Hoss.
I will be back to writing more soon. I can feel it. Much has happened and it'll be nice to share it. But until then, here is today's column - Crazy Healers Enter The World.
What surprised me about this column was that Morford writes about his recent trip to Seattle to attend the commencement ceremony for Bastyr University. I knew Bastyr was a school for holistic, naturopathic medicine. I had no idea how good a school it was, or what it required of its students. My acunpuncturist, who I love, and sadly haven't seen in a few years (majorly overdue) was a part of Bastyr's faculty. Not sure if she still is. Her practice is at One Sky Medicine, which I periodically recommend to a few folks. It's a group practice that combines eastern and western medicine.
Anyway...from the column:
"Bastyr is an alternative medical academy. It is perhaps most famous for cranking out world-class naturopathic doctors who, for the first four years of their studies, work through the exact same basic, intense science material as their Western-trained counterparts, all about cadavers and biology and hard-core physiology and all related labs and testings and the accompanying brutal anxiety and a vicious attrition rate for first- and second-year students who just can't hack the insane pace and staggering workload."
and later on:
"But watching the Bastyr ceremony was different. It was like watching a bucket of very peculiar and incandescent flowers get tossed onto a field of coal. This year, the school pumped over 250 alternative healers out into the pill-popping, surgery-happy, overmedicated world (up from just 35 grads only a dozen years ago) from Chinese medicine practitioners to professional acupuncturists, holistic nutrition experts to spiritually aware alternative psychologists to even a few young 'n' sexy midwives, along with dozens of full NDs who will take their state board exams (just like Western docs) and enter into the teeming world of suffering and pain and actually not offer surgery or Lipitor within the first 10 minutes of your consultation.
These doctors will, instead, spend hours getting to know patients, understanding lives, tapping into ancient ideas of medicinal arts; these are doctors who will harness the formidable power of nature and spirit and time-tested human wisdom to help smack illness upside the head and, hell, after all that if you still need some Prozac and a surgical rearrangement of your spleen, then by all means, they can recommend that, too."
Nice...
A quick entry only to bring you today's column from Mark Morford. I've had the desire to be very private for the last week and so have pulled back from pretty much everything although while doing a favor for Hoss last night I was treated to one of the most glorious meals I've ever indulged in. It was a surprising indulgence that felt somehow perfect...in timing, company, food and wine. Thank you Hoss.
I will be back to writing more soon. I can feel it. Much has happened and it'll be nice to share it. But until then, here is today's column - Crazy Healers Enter The World.
What surprised me about this column was that Morford writes about his recent trip to Seattle to attend the commencement ceremony for Bastyr University. I knew Bastyr was a school for holistic, naturopathic medicine. I had no idea how good a school it was, or what it required of its students. My acunpuncturist, who I love, and sadly haven't seen in a few years (majorly overdue) was a part of Bastyr's faculty. Not sure if she still is. Her practice is at One Sky Medicine, which I periodically recommend to a few folks. It's a group practice that combines eastern and western medicine.
Anyway...from the column:
"Bastyr is an alternative medical academy. It is perhaps most famous for cranking out world-class naturopathic doctors who, for the first four years of their studies, work through the exact same basic, intense science material as their Western-trained counterparts, all about cadavers and biology and hard-core physiology and all related labs and testings and the accompanying brutal anxiety and a vicious attrition rate for first- and second-year students who just can't hack the insane pace and staggering workload."
and later on:
"But watching the Bastyr ceremony was different. It was like watching a bucket of very peculiar and incandescent flowers get tossed onto a field of coal. This year, the school pumped over 250 alternative healers out into the pill-popping, surgery-happy, overmedicated world (up from just 35 grads only a dozen years ago) from Chinese medicine practitioners to professional acupuncturists, holistic nutrition experts to spiritually aware alternative psychologists to even a few young 'n' sexy midwives, along with dozens of full NDs who will take their state board exams (just like Western docs) and enter into the teeming world of suffering and pain and actually not offer surgery or Lipitor within the first 10 minutes of your consultation.
These doctors will, instead, spend hours getting to know patients, understanding lives, tapping into ancient ideas of medicinal arts; these are doctors who will harness the formidable power of nature and spirit and time-tested human wisdom to help smack illness upside the head and, hell, after all that if you still need some Prozac and a surgical rearrangement of your spleen, then by all means, they can recommend that, too."
Nice...
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
A placeholder~
I'll be back soon. For now...
...our Wednesdayguys guy. Rob Brezsny's Freewill Astrology hasn't come through yet. I will post it when it does.
In today's Morford, Behold All My Dirty Secrets, he writes:
"I choose freedom from paranoia and embarrassment. I choose to be entirely comfortable with my fetishes. There is nothing on my PowerBook that is not entirely human. Besides, if someone with the right tools and data-recovery know-how and a nasty personal agenda were to unerase all the data from my hard drive after I sell it and see every scrap and every photo and every scandalous thought buried on this machine, would they really know me? Touch the heart of what I'm all about? Not even close.
Look. We are a nation taught to be ashamed of our fantasies and our deviances from the norm, taught that porn is a dirty word and experimenting with ideas of gender and love and Self is morally reprehensible and probably deserving of medication and electroshock therapy. And our technology often serves as a channel and repository of our "shameful" notions. This is why PCs have supposedly become so dangerous. And so fascinating a cultural artifact.
But through it all, there seems to exist this one general rule: If you have that much to hide, if you are living some sort of secret and embarrassing and family-endangering double life, if you are constantly burying images and hiding data or altering your persona to the point of endangering your work, if you cannot let someone, say, cruise through your personal sex-toy box without massive blushing and fainting and humiliation, perhaps you're living the wrong kind of life. You think?"
I'll be back soon. For now...
...our Wednesday
In today's Morford, Behold All My Dirty Secrets, he writes:
"I choose freedom from paranoia and embarrassment. I choose to be entirely comfortable with my fetishes. There is nothing on my PowerBook that is not entirely human. Besides, if someone with the right tools and data-recovery know-how and a nasty personal agenda were to unerase all the data from my hard drive after I sell it and see every scrap and every photo and every scandalous thought buried on this machine, would they really know me? Touch the heart of what I'm all about? Not even close.
Look. We are a nation taught to be ashamed of our fantasies and our deviances from the norm, taught that porn is a dirty word and experimenting with ideas of gender and love and Self is morally reprehensible and probably deserving of medication and electroshock therapy. And our technology often serves as a channel and repository of our "shameful" notions. This is why PCs have supposedly become so dangerous. And so fascinating a cultural artifact.
But through it all, there seems to exist this one general rule: If you have that much to hide, if you are living some sort of secret and embarrassing and family-endangering double life, if you are constantly burying images and hiding data or altering your persona to the point of endangering your work, if you cannot let someone, say, cruise through your personal sex-toy box without massive blushing and fainting and humiliation, perhaps you're living the wrong kind of life. You think?"
Friday, June 16, 2006
Words.
"This is, after all, how you begin to learn to figure the world out for yourself. This is how you make the soul snap to attention. Fear awakens the mind. The survival instinct learns to French-kiss the Mystery."
It's for moments like this that I love Morford. Here is today's column.
"This is, after all, how you begin to learn to figure the world out for yourself. This is how you make the soul snap to attention. Fear awakens the mind. The survival instinct learns to French-kiss the Mystery."
It's for moments like this that I love Morford. Here is today's column.
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