Ye shall Noam me by my works.

Sometimes, in the wee hours before I am awake, my brain has me read imaginary texts. This morning, I was treated to a Noam Chomsky review--in free verse--of a sex worker's memoir. He highlighted the hypocrisy of the criminalization of sex work in the US in terms of the recent Supreme Court decision for same-sex marriage, condemning capitalism, the patriarchy, and fake Christian morality.

I only remember this little sarcastic snippet:

What the market has joined together
Let no law put asunder.

Chomsky on gay marriage (hahaha)

Mic Check, or WWJD part 2

As I was working on my last post, I struggled with how to also talk about the media portrayal of trans deaths. About how trans women and transfeminine people of color are disproportionately affected by murder and violence, and no one hears about it, no one talks about it. And then a white girl dies, and it's a national news event. About how I am complicit in widening that gap by amplifying the stories that I can relate to and falling silent in the face of a violence I have never known.

Well, Alok of trans activist/performance duo Darkmatter posted a poem called "bible belt" on their blog on my birthday, and I'm just seeing it today, and it is everything. And if I just shut up and redirect you to other people's blogs forever, I hope you'll understand. Here's a snippet, but go read the whole thing for the love of Maude. And then donate to the Trans Women of Color Collective if you can.

this is the town where i attempt suicide at thirteen. i did not have the language for it at the time, it was a tightness in this chest, a tinge in this voice a belt around my neck [...] these days i have all the theory to know why they would have called this a ‘suicide’ and not a ‘murder’ to rinse their own hands and crosses of the blood as if we hate ourselves because it is our choice and not theirs as if we kill ourselves because we wanted to and not because they told us to as if we were not following their prophesy on our knees, in His name amen © Alok Vaid-Menon

Robert Frost, Re-revisited Again Some More

This year, I attended the Royal Frog Ballet's annual Surrealist Cabaret and Pumpkin Walk. I went for the first time last year, and I thought it was lovely, but I also had a bad attitude that evening and tried to blame the event. Like, I decided it was ableist that attendees had to walk all over the farm from one performance space to the next, and all the performers appeared to be able bodied, young, and attractive, and that gave me some kind of self-righteous angst about the whole thing. Still, it was beautiful, and I appreciated how it ritualized and made meaning out of the season changing, the darkness growing, the earth shutting down.

So, I went again this year because some friends had an extra ticket. Actually, because I had previously ranted about my discomfort with last year's experience, the invitation was, "I think we have an extra ticket for the inaccessible white supremacy performance tomorrow night if you wanna come." Winky face totally implied. Maybe knowing I was in company that could hear and tolerate--if not share--my cynicism allowed me to relax a little, and I had a decent time, even though tall people in audiences need to be more aware of when they're blocking folks, I'm just saying.

Anyway, each year's performance has a theme, and this year's was "crossroads," which felt meaningful to me personally, and they printed Frost's "The Road Not Taken" in the program. This is a poem that has inspired plenty of rants from me, too, since people seem to remember only the last three lines and miss every shred of its irony by a mile. The same friend who sent me the snarky invitation to the Surrealist Cabaret distilled Frost's poem as follows, and I approve 100% of this interpretation and hope to live my life every day according to its wisdom.

two roads diverge in the woods.
wah wah wah. just fucking pick one.
it's gonna keep happening.

(Readers will remember from this instructive post that authentic haiku don't need to have 17 syllables and honestly I have not been writing authentic haiku at all this whole time, so don't worry about counting anything up there.)

Crossroads is also a 1986 film in which Ralph Macchio sells his soul to the devil to learn
blues guitar from an old black man so he can shred better than this other white boy.

Either/Or

This post comes from longtime reader, first-time contributor Hunter James.

I had dinner with my dad the other day. It was nice to see him and catch up since I haven’t seen him since Christmas. We discussed how school was going for me and he regaled me with updates on his health. He lost his job that day. He seemed pretty sad about it. He’s probably also worried and scared, but we didn't touch on those feelings. Typical evening for us.

However, as we were leaving, he said he had to use the bathroom - as did I - so I said, that’s a good idea. He went into the men’s room and I was left conflicted - follow my dad into the men’s room or use the women’s room. I chose neither. When he came out, he asked if I had gone and I replied that I was having a hard time reconciling bathrooms lately. He made some comment about public bathrooms, completely missing my point. I didn't reply. I couldn't find the words to explain to him my feelings and so didn't. Then when we were saying our goodbyes, he called me by my old name; called me his girl. Again, I remained silent. Walking away, I beat myself up for missing this opportunity for self-advocacy and promised myself that next time I’d have some words to say.

Haiku for transition

A ghost of myself
Trapped between realities
Who am I again?

Rock/Stars

Last night I slept on the day bed (in case my mattress is what makes my shoulders hurt all the time), which is near a large window with a view of the town I live in, and the mountain that stands above it, and the sky above that. And in those long, lonely minutes before falling asleep, I had the following thought.

Haiku for February 3, 2014

Someday I will stop
Thinking about my damn self
And dream about stars.

Creeping Charlie FTW

I got nothing new,
But let me just direct you
To this comment.

<3

Are You Still Here?

Haiku for Redirecting You to a More Important Blog

Looking for new posts?
Just go here, read all of this,
Come back when you're done.

The sincerest form of flattery

So last Thursday night a dear friend shows up to the Halloween show looking pretty damn stylish. Plaid shirt, argyle sweater vest, bow tie, black cap. I'm not about to ask, "What are you dressed as?" because I want to figure it out. I do almost say, "Hey man, you look extra fly tonight," but I'm shy sometimes.

A short while later, this friend wordlessly hands me a slip of paper that reads:

My jaw crashes through the floor and into the basement.

I then have several more costume details pointed out to me, like a plaid fanny pack, the patchy "future haircut" I got a couple months ago, and my wrist tattoos, which my friend has duplicated expertly with a sharpie.

Also, eight more little slips of paper with a haiku on each.

I was really touched, and I maybe it's because I'm self-obsessed and vain. And maybe it's because I felt loved, and seen, and appreciated. If I have done anything to deserve such honor and beauty in my life, I hope I keep on doing it.

It's not right, but it's OK.

Haiku for Deciphering a Dating Site
(with R.)

What is a quiver?
Is that a euphemism?
Where your arrows are?

I'm too busy for this blog.

Today's haiku brought to you by Right Said Fred because I still have a lot of packing to do.

You know what I mean
I'm too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts

Do these bikini models with cameras make me look straight?

What's wrong with you people, by bzzzzgrrrl

Any new blogger (or possibly, new writer, though it's been about thirty five years since I was that, so who can say) knows that it can be very scaryweirdlonelyhardstrange to write into the ether without any feedback. That's why bloggers enable comments on their blogs, so people will respond.

As usual, the opinions expressed in this post are mine and only mine, and are not (necessarily) representative of the opinions of the tremendous Calvin Rey or 17ADay.

Cal created this
You read it, love it, laugh, cry.
Join in, for Pete's sake.

Lowering the bar

Baby, you were born this--SHUT UP!

Choosing teams for the apocalypse

Last night I made some new friends. Two of them I met as they backed a pickup truck up to the fire pit and started throwing wood and various debris out the back. One of them stated he was drunk (it was around 6 pm). There was thrash metal blasting out of the truck's speakers.

Why I'm not all that into drag queens, by bzzzzgrrrl

The inestimable Calvin Rey has invited me to contribute a guest post. A very little context and caveat:

• The opinions expressed in this post are mine and only mine, and are not (necessarily) representative of the opinions of Calvin Rey or 17ADay.
• I am sick, and as regular readers of my blog will know, therefore crabby.
• I have lots more to say on this topic than will fit in 17 syllables, which is perhaps why it's better to stick to 17 syllables.

Men being women 
Is not so much subversive 
It's comedy. Why?