Goodwill Hunting

I've been reading a lot of Star Wars novels lately.  They are usually littered throughout the bins at the Goodwill outlet on Smoky Park.  Due to the challenges of navigating that store, a successful quest is all the more gratifying.  Today I searched two Goodwills and found nothing.  The outlet, the front of the store, the Goodwill on Patton.  Nothing.  The Force was just not with me or something.  The trip before this was almost a failure as well.  After scouring the bins over and over, digging through (and tossing aside) a mountain of self help books and Christian living guides, I had lost all hope.  That is, until Leah directed my attention to three bins in the very back of the store filled with toys and coloring books.  It was in that unlikely pile of broken water pistols and interactive Dora the Explorer books that I caught sight of a pair of eyes staring at me.  Even upside down and shrouded by stuffed Barney dolls the face of Han Solo is striking.  I greedily snatched Planet of Twilight out of the pile before the storm of screaming Hispanic children descended upon those bins like a hurricane of snotty noses and dirty diapers.  Looking back, it was a risky near-miss that could have cost me a limb.  It was well worth it though.  The book wasn't as good as The Last Command, but I finished it in no more than three days, so yeah, I liked it.  I believe that was also the trip where a man wearing ski goggles on his head and silver glitter paint on his toenails shoved me out of the way to get to an over-sized black blazer that his fag hag told him was a winner.  I believe her exact words were, "Looks good.  Very shouldery."  They were well into middle age, probably late forties, and had the same pedicure and the same Jesus sandals.  We later saw the lady walking around the store with a large leather pocket book on her head.  They were quite the pair, let me tell you.  The outlet customers never cease to overwhelm me.  I could write all day about my Goodwill experiences, but I'll spare you.

Leah and I have this funny idea for a line of clothing accessories.  There will be two categories: A Touch of Dyke and A Splash of Gay.  We got the idea when Leah purchased a men's sport watch and coupled it with her usual "yuppy mom" attire.  That's the only way I can describe how she dresses.  Like a fairly classy, modest straight woman.  She also has a pair of gender neutral sunglasses that add that touch of dyke to her wardrobe.  Anyway, we began thinking harder about certain accessories that are usually associated with butch women and how they could be incorporated into the femme's daily casual wear.  It wasn't long before we had ridden the train of thought all the way over to the possibilities of wearable gay subtly for men.  After all, everyone could use just a little queer influence in their closet.  Or the closet.  Anyway, it's a fun idea that will never come to fruition for the two of us, so I hope someone out there makes this shit happen someday.

Ttyl grl

Gender Outlaw

There is a dive on Lexington that I go to on nights when Leah works and I'm home alone, bored out of my mind.  Many of you know it and probably think its super lame since its just a beer and wine parlor.  Well you all can kiss my ass, because its the best bar in town.  Buncha damn philistines...  Anyway, I encountered a man there who played piano and sang in Spanish.  He was not of any sort of Hispanic origin, he just liked to sing in Spanish.  I was sitting there with my drink, thinking about how the clock on the wall was stuck at 4:00 and how surreal everything appeared in the dim lighting.  The man was singing and playing a sad song in a tongue that I could not understand.  It was in a minor key and was pretty slow and hypnotic.  His style was sloppy, but endearing.  He stood up as he finished and walked to the bar.  I noticed his shape.  He was about my height, had a slight pear shape, and was somewhat overweight with his weight proportioned mostly around his hips and oblique area.  So I moved up to his face and scrutinized its small features and thin facial hair.  He had mutton chops and a small mustache.  I looked at his long eyelashes and his delicate cheek bones.  He asked the bartender for another drink.  It was then that I noticed his voice.  Not at all unlike that of many of the transmen I occasionally study on youtube.  Like a couple of years on T or something.  Yeah, I occasionally stare at transmen on youtube.  Been doin' it for years.  I think they are totally awesome and are on a way higher plane of gender understanding than most cis people.  Listening to what they have to say about their experiences is enriching and eye-opening.  Anyway, I'm not saying this guy I met was a transman.  It doesn't really matter even if he is, because there is no way I could ever approach the topic tactfully.  I want him to be my friend though.  I want to hear his story and discover why he sings in Spanish and ask him if he'll sing me a Wanda Jackson number.

On the same night, an awkward and extremely tall girl invited me to a guided drawing "party" at this bar on Friday.  I'm pretty sure I'm going.  She knew the piano man and they both seemed like very kind and friendly people.  As well as a lil' spacey and looney, but people who are genuinely kind hearted usually are a tad out there.  I'm trying to make respectful friends here, okay?  Not the kind who want threesomes.  It ain't easy.

You guys should read anything you can find by Kate Bornstein.

gurl

the horrifying experience when i first realized the complex was on fire.

i am constantly asking myself why. why am i the way i am? i must be crazy because i'm different. i might be different? i might be exactly like everyone else and gifted in exaggeration. regardless of whether it's true, i can't help but occaisionally see myself as different from other people. perhaps it's a healthy delusion that gives me enough confidence to be productive. i know i see myself differently than other people see me, and furthermore, i probably see other people differently than they see themselves. am i crazy, retarded, a mad scientist, a genius of emotion or just overly sensitive? (i'm a little bit of everything, all rolled into one. i'm a bitch. i'm a lover. i'm a child. i'm a mother. i'm a sinner. i'm a saint. i do not feel ashamed.)

i ask myself why everything is the way it is, and why nothing ever comes out as great as i expected. i filled pages in my journal with my fears. i marked them with tape so i can come back to them later. it's a way to verbalize my insecurities and get them away. i can come back to them later and see that they're nothing more than fears. i could write an entire book on them, but i'd much rather write one on their thrilling defeat.

i have to learn to accept my faults and not fear them. i can't let my anxiety build until i allow it to manifest in an unhealthy way, or develop some crazy notion that perhaps i actually need some more jesus in my life, go to church, realize it's the same bullshit it's always been, flee the area, call my therapist on speed dial in the throes of a full-blown panic attack (true story). there is no firm answer to every problem and there is no truly succinct way to make everything sound perfect. there is only the will to continue growing and apply what i learn.

i can spend all day analyzing my own perspective, attempting to define why i respond to the patterns and symbolism i see, but it only gives me more questions. i have to realize that i can't obsess over a topic and expect to learn everything about surrealism, or 1980's pop culture, or my own way of operating, in a week's time. it will only give me more information that i know how to process on my own, and besides, even great writers need their editors.

perfection truly doesn't exist. i'll never actually get there, but the closest i can get is realizing that i'm far from it.

excessive rumination:
aint nobody got time for that.



boy

cats n flowers

welcome to 1997. my cat always jumps in my lap and licks her unmentionables while i'm trying to do important things like make blogart. her breath smells like death and fucking butthole.

listen to this song for full multimedia experience.





love,
boy

An Evening Prayer

Dear Lord,

My toe hurts.  Would you heal it?  I know you can work miracles.  After all, I've seen the Tupac performance...  Oh wait, that wasn't your doings?  Thank you for guiding my url path to this youtube link of righteousness so that I might find the truth.  If it weren't for the Holy Spirit, imagine what all of Satan's nonsense I'd be believing!  Anyway, God, back to this toe business.  I know you can fix it.  I am counting on you to fix it.  It's just a toe.  Not even an important one.  It's not like I'm asking you to raise anyone from the dead.  Oh God, please no zombies.  I know that's your son's favorite pastime and all, but really, I'm not ready for any dead in Christ or whomever to rise.  Hold your raptures and tribulations for some other unsuspecting follower's life time.  I've got a pretty big to-do list and it's going to take a good forty more years to complete.  I mean, finishing college is going to take all the time I'll have on this old world.  Also, could you please do something about this air mattress I'm laying on?  I mean I'm practically on the floor here.  This is not good for my back and I'm afraid I'll end up strangling the cat for ripping it to shreds.  I'm trying hard to follow your commandments and murder is not something I want to have on my record.  Being queer is hard enough to negate as it is.  Well, I guess murder only really counts if it occurs inside my uterus.  Either way, I don't want to kill the cat because my girlfriend would kill me and, no offense, but I'm not ready to cross over Jordan just yet.  I haven't even crossed the Atlantic.  I blame you for that, by the way.  I could have been born a Kardashian and then I'd have all the money in the world.  I would never have to ask you for anything else ever again.  You wouldn't hear a peep out of me.  Oh well, you do work in some mighty mysterious ways and who am I to question your sovereignty?



In your holy name I pray,
girl

last blog on writing surrealistically, i swear to god (for a moment at least)

this should probably be separated into more than one blog, it's long and winding, so think of it as separate stories within a whole. it's everything i've been thinking and writing and reading the past few days. it's ridiculously lengthy, and parts of it are stolen from other people, but hopefully it will help me end one chapter and begin a new one.

"i'm an obtuse man, so i'll try to be oblique"

grimes played "genesis" on jools holland. her music is very dreamy, and i think she uses her voice as more of an instrument than something that carries words. it's very airy and whimsical like wind in tree leaves but the synths give it some grounding. i like the little chinese/oriental riff and keyboard sprinkling. she is attempting to make visual music and i think she's on the right track.