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)