Ghost Breakfast, or, You Aren't Going to Eat That Anyway So Let Me Help You

Quite a beautiful night, tonight. The air, indeed, smells like candy and fire.

Most of the day today was spent recovering a bit. I've had a cold. It was nice to just be in pajamas and get a ton of reading done while drinking various hot beverages.  Thank you to all of those who were sweet enough to offer lemon and honey and fake ice cream deliveries.

I've been trying this theory of painting in order to write.  It's been working. There is something about productivity of one form that can influence the productivity of another.  It feels good. It gets my homework done but, perhaps more importantly (?), I am feeling pleased and happy with how the paintings are turning out.  I haven't felt this satisfied since the facial expression of a cockatiel I nailed earlier this year.

It came as no surprise that Little Zebbie and I had a psychic reunion today. It's not just because people visiting my house have been asking about his painting. It's that it was Halloween and that we are forever tied in one way or another. For better or for worse, as they say, that little fucker will always be linked to something important in my heart, mind, and dreams.

Tomorrow's early morning date with myself and a favorite food is anticipated.  This week has been one of new (and reemerging) connections that I am both excited about and that feel important.  Equally important, however, is my strange self being able to lure myself out of bed on such a day for my favorite waffles. After all, Nov. 1st is the Dia de los muertos that is specifically for remembering children who have passed, so you had better bet that me and BGS have a breakfast date. Reemerging connections, indeed. It will be the first time I don't have to trick someone into letting me eat the waffle off of their plate.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image: By Eric Rose)

That U Shaped Toy We Never Bought, or, Taking Fashion Notes From New Zealand Psych Reels (That Jacket Tho)

Tonight was spent watching a film for class that was almost three hours long. The main character of the first third of it was a red headed elementary school age girl who somehow managed to have the demeanor and face of a 52 year old alcoholic. I don't know if I would go as far as to say that it was creepy, but it was definitely distracting. 

I've been learning a lot. What is exciting to me is that I am getting into the layers of what I have been craving to know more about both historically but, more so, factually and research-wise around how much stigma of mental health diagnosis and misinformation can really fuck shit (and people) up in profound and horrific ways.  One class I am in goes very deep into Mad Pride, psychiatric survivor movements, pushes towards getting rid of diagnostic manuals, and the lack of reliability and validity in tests related to said diagnosis. I enjoy the class a lot. I always knew that there were rooted and deep reasons that all of the radical disability advocates I know include mental health in their analysis - I have as well but have felt very shallow in my understanding of the histories of why.  It's very satisfying to be remedying that in a "deep dive" way.

(pause)


and of all the meanings of the word, the one I choose is this:

a part of a deceased holy person's body or belongings kept as an object of reverence.
synonyms: remains, corpse, bonds; cadaver

May Sebastian forever look over me 
erase your thighs from my mind
with his
angled arrows
and heaven-bound gaze.

***



You, my love, still asleep in August,
my queen, my woman, my vastness, my geography
kiss of mud, the carbon-coated zither,
you, vestment of my persistent song,
today you are reborn again and with the sky's
black water confuse me and compel me:
I must renew my bones in your kingdom,
I must still uncloud my earthly duties.

    

         -- from Still Another Day; Pablo Neruda




be well; be loved,

k.
(image: Tine Bek via untrustyou tumblr)

(The Breaking of) Time Capsules

Tonight we sat at a local, filthy queer bar that I've been reclaiming piece by piece.  We sat next to each other and for the first time caught up past our needed conversations. We filled each other in on the people who have mattered in our lives over the last three years.  I got to tell you about one of my favorites and you said, "Wait. Isn't that your brother's name?" and I laughed and said "Yes, and that's the reason she wouldn't let me introduce her with that name when she met him." It felt good to tell you about her. It felt as if she hadn't fully existed until I was able to tell you about her. That's how it is with family. That strange inclination to hold our most dear and important loves/pains until we can lay it in front of the people who matter most.  A cat bringing in some kind of mangled bird in desperation- a term of endearment and trust.

There's so much love and so much emotion, still, just under the surface after these three years. It will take time for us to feel and figure out next steps. That is just part of repair. It feels good. New. Old. Unfamiliar. Familial. It's strange to think that almost every night for three years we slept under the same roof and, a few times, in the same bed.

It feels good to have people in my life who believe, love, and look out for me. Sometimes it can be hard to accept. It brings up sadness. I am glad that some of these people are completely balls out with how unflinchingly they will confront what is wrong, and how steadily they will stand in what is right.

I have to remind myself that deserve that.

So do you.

Oppressive crap isn't going to stop in the face of politeness.  I am okay with being hated.  I have been for a long time. I am both proud and relieved that I surround myself with people who are equally unmoved by coolness or by peer pressure. This interweaving of our love and protection and integrity and justified anger.

Such a beautiful and strong enmeshing we have created.

Such a beautiful and strong wicker we have become.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Florian Pessenteiner via nervedamage tumblr)

Constriction, Restriction and the Joyful Abandon of Being Oneself

Tonight has been one of copious amounts of reading and baths drawn with oregano essential oil and scentless bubbles: A Monday well considered and earned in equal parts.

This past weekend was one of magic, connection and learning. Louisville, Kentucky for the win, yet again. Leave it to me to sense the one person out of 150 who is queer, autistic, from the South, a grown up punk, who does political comics, knows two of the people from Louisville closest to my heart, loves Lynda Barry, also has a tent on their bed, and owns a weighted blanket. New connections, indeed.

One highlight of the weekend was the words of Lydia x. z. Brown, an autistic Asian American queer with solid suit choices that really helped clarify something I have been thinking about a lot over the past few months.  Lydia's speech covered this one particular part of the ADA that I've never known how I felt about.  And it took someone giving a talk about trans autistic experience who has brain for law to clarify it in a way that has shifted my view into clarity.  Thank you for that, Lydia.  [Lydia can be found at @autistichoya and autistichoya.net ]

Some things that I took away from the whole thing- some on a deeper level than before, and some completely new: 

Things like having the lights dimmed, earplugs, communication preference badges ("Needs space", "Hi! Let's talk" and "Come say hi if you know me") at social gatherings, and setting up chunks of time for parallel play (aka this would be like a workshop or party or classroom that does not centralize verbal and direct communication/interaction. Parallel play is when people are in the same space together but aren't expected to interact with each other in the way they would at say, some kind of party or typical social gathering) are all modes of access. Making it a point to tell people that they should use the space how they need (lay on the floor, stand up, rock back and forth or whatever the fuck, come/go as needed, etc) are also modes of access: People pay attention in different ways. As per usual: Just because someone is laying on the floor drawing a picture doesn't mean they aren't listening- it could be exactly what they need to do in order to pay attention. And to folks who get snarky about people using self check out at the grocery store: Sometimes this is an access thing, too. If you want to be a dick to someone, be a dick to the CEOs/bosses that make the decisions to cut costs and employees- not the person using the self check out machine. 

Also: It's nice to know that I'm not alone in some of my preferences and modes of communication and happiness.

If you need me, I'll be in the makeshift cave atop my bed.

Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Les Films Mysterieux, original poster for Les Vampires (1915) via secretcinema1 tumblr)

Clip, or, Bathroom Disappearances

Tonight I went out and gay'ed it up at the bar with a friend. There was a person I kept referring to as "Budget Sarge" in the corner. A far cry from the original, but fascinating to see and study their similarities in mannerisms from afar.

My friend and I had great conversations by the fire and then were temporarily interrupted by an admittedly talented butch.

But let's get real, here: Anyone talking to me at a bar about a loved one's ashes in a recipe box is a no go.

be loved, be well,

k.

(image: via darker angels tumblr)

Watching the Water: An Exercise in Self Discipline

I've been reading a lot for school but keeping it balanced with reading things not for school because, well, school.   It's strange sometimes how a book I pick up or an article I read (in either context) can - by chance- salve exactly something that I need.  It's more often than not that I find the salve that I need through ideas and words of other people.

I'm in the midst of designing a project I am both excited and intimidated by.  This is usually the best combination.

Something I have noticed lately is that people are incredibly supportive of me getting this degree in a way I wasn't expecting. They are people I barely know, but who I have wanted to know because I admire them as community leaders.  What I am learning is that with this topic and with this level of study, there is a reason for others in the community to be invested in me (and others) getting a degree of this sort that I was not aware of.  It is surprising, welcome, and a total humbling honor.  I am earnest to see how it unfolds.

More soon,

k.

(image: via xpn tumblr)

Tonight I'm going to leave you with these concise and on point guidelines for white people getting feedback on racism that I read, recently: 

1. How, where and when you give me feedback is irrelevant-- it is the feedback I want and need. Understanding that it is hard to give, I will take it any way I can get it. From my position of social, cultural, and institutional white power and privilege, I am perfectly sae and I can handle it. If I cannot handle it, it's on me to build my racial stamina.

2. Thank you. 

The above guidelines rest on the understanding that there is no face to save and the game is up; I know that I have blind spots and unconscious investments in racism.  My investments are reinforced everyday in mainstream society. I did not set this system up, but it does unfairly benefit me, I do use it to my advantage, and I am responsible for interrupting it. I need to work hard to change my role in this system, but I can't do it alone. This understanding leads me to gratitude when others help me.
   
                                    ---Robin DiAngelo, from, White Fragility (2018)

I Know You'll Be Wearing Your Young Aching Smile

This last week was rough, but it involved naming violence in a way that was so balls-out bold and unapologetic that there's nothing to feel but solid and proud.

With bullies and liars it's only a matter of time.

My friends are fucking golden.

(pause)

I have been interpreting a lot of the introductions to the non-English queer films happening in town. Can someone please tell me why 90% of all lesbian films are terrible? They are. By the end of this one tonight Lani and I were cracking up seeing that even the lesbians were sneaking out of it- their guilty silhouettes quietly reaching for jackets and ducking out.
Every year I learn the same lesson:

Stick with the fag films and the tomboy stories.

This weekend was three days and two nights of an out of town guest. Sage and Ouija and tarot and films and cooking and 5 miniature mason jars lined up and left for me with the thoughtful mixtures of herbs and magic that she mixed for me and brought down from the Northern boarder.

(pause)

In general, things move on.

The activities and evenings are beautiful and thoughtful and smell like fall.

But I keep going on dates with a missing person.

And when I'm walking up to my door at night, I keep hearing that recording that you'd hear if you left the phone off the hook for too long. The one that always scared the shit out of me. That abrupt and serious woman's voice speaking out into the night from the kitchen floor:

If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again.



be well; be loved,

k.
(title: part of a lyric from that one Red House Painters song, Katy)
(image: Third Ave. El Window of 18th Station, 1936, Arnold Eagle)

Hardwood Floors and the Change of Seasons

Do you remember the gentle parts of you?
The ones underneath those metal plates.
Do you remember when you swore that all you needed was a gentle hand?
That you would instantly melt the moment someone welcomed you
without strings
to sit down and show them who you are?
Or perhaps
offered you scissors
to reach up
and cut the strings
that others pull
because they have been making your wrists ache
and your heart hurt

for years.


Do you remember the jingle of your laughter at your own jokes?

Your sweater
and that thin mattress
on the floor
and the shifting darkness
of that room

as the sun went down.


It isn't the dark that scares you

it's the softness

While They Lookin Mad; I'm Just Lookin Good

Let's just dedicate this one to full and total appreciation of Young M.A.'s gender. It is fucking amazing. Sure,the PettyWap video, even in all of its suaveness,  is also kind of boring. But, you should check out this first episode of her being interviewed by a therapist, if anything because now is the season when the veil between worlds gets thinner, and she has a story about something that keeps happening since her brother died that is pretty incredible. And, I can relate to her assess-before-trust thing. And she has good stuff to say about the process of letting folks go after death.

Also, duh: She's hot AF and and SUPER GAY.

 You can watch the 10 minutes, here.

I've been thinking about Chaya a lot, lately.  She showed up in my dreams a few days ago and that is how I got out of denial and realized that day was the anniversary of her death.

Be well; be loved.  Be bold, be true.

k.

(title: lyrics from PettyWap by Young M.A.)
(image: via hot parade tumblr)

Forever Be, These Necessary Angels

I feel so fortunate to have people in my life that I can trust.

Last night I learned that the Stalker Creep I was dealing with a few years ago had a friend of theirs introduce them to a friend of mine. Stalker Creep knew that this friend of mine and I were taking some time so that we could be in each other's lives in the future. Within 60 seconds of meeting my friend, SC started asking her about me and focusing on trying to get information. My friend felt uncomfortable so she stopped SC and said "Look. I love her. We are taking space from each other right now, but that doesn't change the fact that I love her. I don't know what you experienced with her, but that is not connected to me."

SC backed off.

A few days later, SC saw my friend again and started getting her drinks. Then SC started asking about me again. My friend shut it down, again. SC tried to tell her made up stories of me showing up at SC's place of work and at places where they were putting on shows- that was when my friend saw a second big red flag. (Admittedly, this one made me and anyone who knows me chuckle.) My friend said, "As soon as (SC) said that I was like "This is a total lie. Anyone who knows you knows that you're not a fan of being around a ton of people period, let alone going to a place where you would run into someone you do not want to see."

A few days later, SC contacted my friend through Facebook and asked if she would write a character statement against me.

To which, of course, my friend said absolutely not.




As time goes on, these freaky puzzle pieces keep being handed to me.

What freaks me out is the intention behind it.

That SC went to lengths to try and scour and find a weak link in the people I have loved and that have loved me and have been in my life .  It is no surprise that the only person that they could find was a person who assaulted me some 8 years ago.

This isn't because my friends are bullies or loyal in the way a weird, low-grade mafia is.

It is because we have been good people to each other, even when - and  maybe especially when - things have been hard.

That was some intense ass news. The kind that makes your throat tighten up because you can feel the target upon you.

It's the people in my life that make me feel protected.

Love to my family. Chosen and otherwise.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Marc Chagall, L’ange à la palette (1927-1936) via Deadpaint tumblr)

The Blood in My Eyes; The Blood on Your Knees

My eyes feel bloodshot from the amount of reading and writing on a computer that has been going on, but I will say this:  I feel mthfking accomplished in the amount that I have gotten done and the fact that I have been able to remain social.

I am not tempting the Fates on this one, but just need to remind myself that that whole Work (Resist) Hard  / Play Hard thing is no joke. 

I'm all in for all of it.


k.

Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder: On Being Strong Enough to Hold Love Long

I'm feeling such deep, deep gratitude, humility, emotion and love right now.

Sometimes, it is hard to set boundaries with people and to love them so much from a far.

But what is true is that, any and every time it's had to be done: It works out exactly how it needs to, and some.

Tonight I met up with someone I consider family. She and I lived together in three different places over the course of years and experienced one death of a friend between us.

Three years ago, we had to part ways for a while and both promised each other that it was with the intent of being in each other's lives again in the future.

Tonight, when she sat across from me for the first time in three years and told me the things she told me, I felt so completely humbled. She told me what our relationship to each other had meant, how it has impacted how she has interacted with people since then. I told her the things I learned from her, and the things I have been thinking about since we had to part ways for a bit.

My friends have all known that, eventually, she and I would be reconnected and each one of them made a mention of their excitement that she was back into the fold.

It feels really good to have had years of love with someone, to have gotten to a point of recognizing we needed to give our relationship space and time, and to come back with the love more mature, complex and present.

I think the thing that got me the most (the thing that brought some tears  balancing on the lashes of my eyes) was when she thanked me for having the boundaries I had with her when I did.

I needed to hear that. On so many levels, and for so many reason.

It's odd how the timing of something can support and salve something completely unrelated.

She told me that I gave her space to be and feel what she was and felt and that I encouraged her to share her feelings and to tell people what she wanted and needed.

(pause)

It felt good to have the conversations we needed to but couldn't at the time. Our apologies to each other. Our forgiveness. It is deep. It is true. It is what life and relationships are made of.

I'm just feeling really grateful and really proud of her, of me, and of us.

Sometimes, holding on to each other from afar, no matter how sad or hard it can feel, can be one of the most loving and radical things we can offer each other.

I'm so, so glad to have her home again. The love is so full and so deep, it is palpable.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Here is to loving in ways we never imagined we could.


Always,

k.
(image: Frederico Garcia Lorca Antoni Tapies, Ernest Altes)