Wednesday, March 31


ethan on being black, gay, and deaf

I've always been black.
I mean, that's not exactly something
that you can hide, right?
I couldn't climb in a closet
or go to a special school
or anything.

I was just black.
Everyone around me
knew that I was black.
Everyone around me
knew that I couldn't hear
but every once in awhile--

Well, they forget
when they are all the same.
But blackness is such an intense
identity-creating experience
Being a black man in America
is not easy, see
it's not easy to walk in a store
even the black boys know
that you're black.

I didn't have a family
to come out to.
There was only my homeboys,
and my lover.
But he already knew,
he'd drawn it on the
soft prison bars
of my soul,
and he ripped away
the metal and he
made me who I am.
He already knew.
He's more apart of me
now than my blackness.

My homeboys, before they even knew,
they saw his face and they laughed.
When they look at me they see
their nigga, someone who
will watch their back
even if it means jail.

When they see him
they don't see what I see.
They see a skinny little
white boy who never
knew no harsh times.

The reaction these
strong Black men
who fight for rights every day
the response to my
skinny little white boy,
it was enough.
It was enough for me
to know I didn't belong there
anymore, that that world
of blackness wasn't mine
that I had been expelled,
disowned, that I didn't
need a real family
to kick me out
because they would do it
for me.

I didn't even say anything.
I touched his hand. He touched
back with the gentleness
I know to expect.

The boys looked surprised,
you know, they looked
real surprised
when he and I walked
out of the restaurant
hand in hand.

I don't see things
in black and white anymore.
I see shades of love

Now all my friends is
white.
Not because they're white,
but because they are
who they are.
They don't have to
put up some front.
They don't have to
sneer
and do stupid shit
to prove themselves.
They just are.

And so am I.

I was raped, ok?
I'm admitting it.
I'll steal the thought
from another poet:
forced entry,
but no one was charged.

There was no police
barricade
or the interrogation light
or even the interrogation room
no Briscoe, Sherlock
or Jordan.

I sat instead
in my living room,
on the couch ratty
with cat claws,
under a blanket
that smelled like leather,
and I told him.

Halting quiet words
interrupted by hands
flying
the words I can't say
Stop, stop,
and I can hear
myself crying.

There wasn't an official
non-disclosure agreement
but he sealed it with a kiss
on my swollen lips.

Don't tell anyone,
because they won't
won't
believe you anyway.

Don't tell anyone,
because you deserved
deserved
it anyway.

Don't tell anyone,
because you asked
ASKED
for it anyway.

When the interrogation
is over, he is holding
me with his face in my hair,
my tears on our hands,
my breath quick
and loud.

He tells me
that it's all right,
but it'll be a long time coming
when I believe him.

Tuesday, March 30


I'm losing weight, not really fast but it's happening. I'm afraid to talk about it too much because I know how anorectics are, I know if it comes up too much little girls and boys will come here to read and trigger, trigger, and I'm not going to be that to someone. I refuse to make someone sicker. I may not be able to do anything about myself but, but --

In other news, no one gives a shit. Thanks, CJ, for all your love an support.

Who needs enemies with friends like mine?

(That was terribly mean to the people who really are my friends -- Toby, Luke, Phil, Michael, and others -- but they will just have to know I'm referring to the liars.)

I'm being awful dramatic today. Couldn't tell you why. (Yes, I could. After a certain amount of time without eating I start getting very bitchy. Sometimes I can control it, but it was a little unexpected this time. I'd forgotten, I guess, what it's like.)

I like paranthesis.

I like feeling my ribs under a layer of fat. I mean, no, I don't like the fat -- but at least they are getting closer. Used to be...well, I won't say what it used to be. But it's been so very long, touching them is like being reunited with an old friend. Touching myself is not masturbation, it's making love to my bones.

Ethan and I are fighting, I guess. We're just not really speaking, haven't been for a few days. I'm not sure anything bad is actually going on...just sad, tired, lonely...

So I slide into bed, he's there with his eyes closed. I put my cold hands on his stomach and my warm mouth on his chest. He says nothing; he doesn't even move. When my mouth reaches his he lets me kiss him, opens his mouth for my tongue, but he doesn't return it.

I sigh and pull away. He smiles with his eyes and says with his strong hands, I heard a wonderful poem yesterday.

While I watch his hands sing and make love to the words, and when he's finished he grabs my shirt and pulls me down to him. We've in love again, and there's nothing better.

From Pure Merit: Pure As the Driven Snow at Alas, a Blog.

"I'm not saying that straight white men should be blamed for any of this. It's not our fault if the road we drive on is smoother than the roads most folks have access to. But when the folks on the smooth road go faster and further, can we at least stop pretending it's because they're better drivers?"
Amen. I don't think anyone with a brain is trying to blame the non-prosecuted for their own prosecution; we are just looking for the assistance. Just because a straight white man doesn't experience prejudice himself doesn't mean he shouldn't stand up for others. We need those of you with "priviledge" to help us out.

Go check out the blog. It'll make you smarter.

belgian turns into wacko jacko

“His quest was to obtain the facial features of Michael Jackson...Yes, we now know, it is possible to surgically morph a long-jawed white Belgian youth so that he looks just like Michael Jackson.”
Wow, that's scary. I wonder if the police have considered the idea that someone could very easily change their appearance to look exactly like Jacko -- and then proceed to molest a bunch of little boys (think that will be part of the defense? I hear his trial is today).


Is that Michael or the crazy Belgian who looks like him?

Monday, March 29


gays are like jews (thanks to ga for the link)

This site has led me to many interesting views of "the homosexual." Here's some fun stuff for you:

"You know, the gays are in control in Hollywood; they are in control of television; they are in key positions at the Washington Post now; and they watch everything that is coming into the newspaper or television and radio, and they are editing it out."
That's right. We allow people to publish shit like this. We allow Bush to get on television in front of 285 million people and say that marriage is strickly between a man and a woman. We allow shows like "Will & Grace," "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" (and it's evil twin, "Straight Plan for the Gay Man"), despite their stereotypical and degrading depictions of gays, to appear on your television weekly and then make a return for syndication.

"You find survey after survey showing gays are far better off than the general population in terms of college degrees, discretionary income, frequent flyer miles - Virtually every indicator of luxury."
You could say the same about Harvard graduates or white people. (What's your point?)

"Twenty-one states have laws prohibiting sodomy."
Yes, and all states at one point disallowed interracial marriage. Slavery was also legal in all states at one time. And what this lovely Mr. Knight is forgetting that "sodomy" does not just include homosexual acts; it also includes all anal and oral sex, even for straight partners. I'm sure Mr. Knight has enjoyed a blowjob or two in his life.

"It is estimated that approximately 80% of pedophilic victims are boys who have been molested by adult males."
Again, your point is...? Anyone who knows anything about sexual molestation or rape knows that sexual abuse is not about sex but about control. That control could just as easily be applied to a female child as a male one; the profile for a pedophile is still a heterosexual middle-aged white male.

"Abe Lincoln would have regarded homosexual conduct as sinful and unnatural."
"Honest Abe" was a white supremicist. I find myself not really caring what he regarded as sinful and unnatural.

"To throw out morality is to bring in every perversion: Adultery; Homosexuality; Exhibitionism, Incest, Prostitution, Pedophilia, Bestiality, Sadism, Masochism, and Necrophilia."
Mmm, yes, because consentual sex acts (or love acts, but that's blasphemy!) between two people of the same sex is exactly like paying someone for sex or having non-consenting relations with a minor or equally non-consenting relations with an animal or a dead person.

"anal intercourse, sado-masochism, sexual promiscuity, and substance abuse. These pathologies are an integral part of the homosexual lifestyle"
There's not that many other types of intercourse for gay men to have, is there? I will also note that women who are raped or grow up in an abusive home have a much higher rate of substance abuse, promiscuity, and are more likely to do stuff that will land them in jail. Is that an "integral part" of the female lifestyle?

"...one of the primary goals of the homosexual rights movement is to abolish all age of consent laws and to eventually recognize pedophiles as the 'prophets' of a new sexual order."
I recognize pedophiles as sick fucks who need to grow up and get some counseling. As far as age-of-consent laws, that's another whole entry.

"Prominent homosexual leaders and publications have voiced support for pedophilia, incest, sadomasochism, and even bestiality."
I was just reading a how-to article on The Advocate about how to coerce your pet into having sex with you.

"[Homosexuals]want to come into churches and disrupt church services and throw blood all around and try to give people AIDS and spit in the face of ministers."
I'm just trying to imagine some flamboyant gay man running in and throwing buckets of blood around like one of those crazy PETA people on Paris Hilton in a fur coat, and then proceeding to tie everyone to the pews while systematically giving shots with AIDS-infected needles. That sounds pretty realistic, but I just can't imagine anyone spitting in a minister's face. I mean, seriously.

"Not only is homosexuality a sin, but anyone who supports fags is just as guilty as they are. You are both worthy of death (Romans 1:32),"
I'm sure God is very fond of degrading slurs. I'm sure he's also fond of some too-big-for-his-britches "reverend" handing out death sentences. (And no, I'm not surprised to read this is a quote from Fred Phelps, the biggest asshole on the entire planet.)

"Religious Right groups went on the attack against President Clinton after Rev. Troy Perry, a gay minister, was included among the 120 religious leaders taking part in an ecumenical breakfast at the White House. Family Research Council's Robert Knight said, 'We are witnessing the Administration's moral meltdown. What's next? A memorial to Church of Satan founder Anton LeVay?' "
What next? Clinton committing adultery and then lying about it to the entire country? I bet the homosexuals made him do it.

"Unless we get medically lucky, in three or four years, one of the options discussed will be the extermination of homosexuals."
That's a little scary, and sounds a lot like what Hitler said about gay men and Jews.


And I didn't even post the Nazi quotes for comparison. You'll have to look at that on your own (link at the top).

Friday, March 26


No one who knew me outside of the site read my old diary, so I could post whatever I wanted without being nervous about someone getting offended or wondering why I was talking about personal issues on an impersonal scale. I posted a lot of corrospondance; emails, letters, personal things I wrote for people (or that they wrote for me). I could do that because they wouldn't read it and go "why the fuck are you posting personal and intimate things about us?!"

Things are not the same with this blog. Sorry to those of you who expect much excitement. It's rather good stuff you are missing, too. I guess I just require persmission this time. That does make things a lot more boring, doesn't it? No scandelous details (or lies, whichever I'm in the mood for); no frantic depressive emails or "fuck you!" instant message conversations (not a big thing since I don't have much of those anymore since I got rid of certain people that were messing around with me); not even the occasional Ode to (or attack on) Whoever.

I go through stages of being intensely private and then, on the other hand, telling everyone everything in my life from the design on my boxers to how often I masturbate to bitchy things I wish I could say to some people. When I'm writing I let it all out, because that's how it's supposed to be; but it's much harder when someone you may or may not be writing about may or may not be reading. Censors are fun, no?

I wonder how much people censor themselves around me? How often is it that someone wishes they could tell me off or profess their love or just talk candidly but feel they are obligated not to? I know some of my friends are just trying to protect me; they are afraid of the things that will trigger me, they don't want to sound whiney and pathetic, etc, etc.

Speaking of whiney and pathetic: Why does everyone seem to think that I'm going to look down on their problems because mine were supposedly "worse"? No one's problems are any worse or better than anyone else's. It all depends on your perspective. Yes, there are times where I feel like I couldn't have been dealt a worse hand in the Game of Life. Sometimes I feel like I might as well kill myself now, because that would be an improvement. Yes, sometimes I want to kill that girl who's pouting about "having" to go to France instead of Aruba for a month-long beach vacation. But most of the time, if it is someone's perception that their problem is life-threatening and horrible, I really think it is. My examples will be physical: Since I was beaten pretty badly and pretty often as a child and adolescent, I tend to have a pretty high pain tolerance. It doesn't bother me that much. However, there are people who get really upset over a papercut. I truly believe their papercut pain could be just as bad--or even worse--than my leg-almost-cut-off-by-a-chainsaw pain. It just depends on each of our personal reactions and perceptions of the event(s). So, people (M), don't ever feel dumb about your problems, because they matter more to me than mine do and I will never think you are stupid or whiney or pathetic. Cross my heart.

Rapid AIDS test approved by FDA

One-fourth of the roughly 900,000 HIV-infected people in the United States are not aware they have the virus, according to estimates by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
That's 225,000 people with HIV that don't know it, folks. Get tested.

Scientists think circumcision leads to lower risk of HIV infection

Studies have shown that men whose foreskin has been removed are six to eight times less likely to become HIV positive but there has been some debate about the reason for the lower infection rate.
Well, so when they did this study, one can assume that every one of the 2,298 men participating had sex with the same person, at the same time, under the same conditions -- otherwise one can't very well know if the circumcised men didn't get HIV because they didn't have sex with an infected person or because their lack-of-foreskin protected them.

I'm going to take this as just another example of crazy "foreskins should all die!" talk, which I'm frankly pretty tired of (if you can't guess why, go buy a brain. I hear they're for sale at Wal-Mart).

French Jews surrender the Passion

[T]hey as Jews felt insulted by the film, which they had not seen, and were sure it would provoke anti-Semitic violence.
They haven't seen the film, eh? Then how do they know what it will or will not promote? (Ok, ok, I haven't seen Straight Plan for the Gay Man but I'm pretty sure it's offensive, but I have seen the Passion, and it wasn't.)
The dossier the brothers submitted to support their request contained several legal errors and 15 of its 36 pages were quotes from U.S. movie reviews and an American book in English, which the judge said the court could not accept.

"Everybody speaks English, don't they?" Patrick Benlolo replied.
All I have to say: LMAO. This is almost as bad as that old bag suing McDonald's over her hot coffee.

Texan confesses to murder after seeing Passion

Leach wanted to seek redemption after talking to a friend and seeing the movie about the last hours of Christ's life, she said.


Surprise, surprise, another celebrity breakup: Tom and Penelope

Damn, I really wanted them to get married, if only so she could be called "Penelope Cruz-Cruise."

Thursday, March 25


Earlier we brought you a story entitled Boys and their Toys. Mentioning this won't make any sense to you, because I'm not going to finish the thought. You can do with it what you wish, though. (Hey, want to send donations to the "happy birthday julian" fund? Just kidding, just kidding!)

Ummm....



Not to mention about ten pounds lighter than fat as hell.

Ok ok I'll find something constructive and intelligent to write...

Lorenzo's Oil: Mid-90's true-story flick about the Odones and their ALD (adrenoleukodystrophy) son. ALD is a very rare sex-linked genetic disease. The story follows the parents (Gusto and Michaela) of Lorenzo as they try to fight the disease and the death sentence doctors have placed on their son. At the time, ALD patients weren't expected to last longer than 24 months after diagnosis.

Anyway, rent the movie. The DVD version will be released on April 6 of this year. Nick Nolte (who plays Lorenzo's father, Agusto) won an Oscar for his performance, I hear. It's also got Susan Sarandon in it.

While you're at it, donate to the Myelin Project, which was funded by the Odones and is working on research and medication for myelin (an enzyme having to do with the nervous system) therapy, which will not only benefit ALD patients but those with multiple sclerosis, leukodystrophies (the class of diseases that ALD belongs to), and other nervous-system disorders.

Why cable internet sucks ass:

(Ok, you know I'm kidding. Cable internet is just about the best thing to ever happen to my computer. Anyway.)

When you're out in the country, for some reason it goes out on a fairly regular basis. Of course this doesn't mean just internet -- this means the TV, as well. I guess I should just consider it a really good thing that I don't rely on stuff like that to entertain myself.

Yeah, so, blah on cable internet companies who cater to us but don't do so very well. And blah to people who have it "on their list" to call the afore-mentioned cable company and complain, but haven't done it yet (not tom ention any names, but I'm not the one who can use the phone!).

Wednesday, March 24




Hmm, am I the only one offended?

Stolen from kvn while "snob jumping" or something like that (thanks to blogsnob).

Do you think I could get more links in this post? I'll work on that.

Do you think I could get more posts for today? Also working on that.

where the truth hurts (link via One Good Thing). Wow, this is some good entertainment. No, this entry is not meant to offend Christians in general, just these certain wack-jobs. Seriously. You'll have to laugh.

I find myself in the "Confession Booth" section of the site, and of course my first curiosity-click is on "homosexuality." I promise I'm not trying to get angry here, because when a blogger tells me it's funny, I'm prepared to laugh -- not to start a revolution.

What do I see? Blah blah blah, homosexuality is an abomination, unnatural, blah blah blah. I've heard it all before; how exciting (note sarcasm). And then:

When you eat pudding with a shovel or dig a ditch with a spoon, you are using objects contrary to their design, and harm will certainly result.
Call me crazy, but it seems here they are implying that eating pudding with a shovel/digging a ditch with a spoon is up there on the Sin-O-Meter with homosexuality. Um, Mr. Johnston, can I see a bible verse supporting that, please? Because I really like eating pudding, and I can fit my mouth around a shovel.

Oh, there was also this tidbit of wisdom:
In 1996, why did homosexuals comprise 58% of all HIV patients in the U.S., when they make up only 3% of the population?
First of all, there's some grammatical errors in that sentence, but I won't whine about that. Secondly, this seems pretty logical and obvious to me: the AIDS epidemic didn't hit full-force until the late 1900's (i.e.; 80s-ish, but don't quote me because I'm not completely sure about that). Up until then, homosexuals weren't aware there was any reason to use a condom, any reason not to have multiple sex partners (especially since society didn't allow for loving, committed relationships), no reason to get checked for a disease of such epic proportion -- because it wasn't known to exist. And, I will point out that the demographic most susceptible to AIDS are heterosexual women, while the least likely to get it are lesbians. Yet, I agree: your Merciful and Loving God created a disease to wipe out the homosexuals, just like he created sickle cell anemia to wipe out the black people.

Some animals like sheep do engage in homosexual behavior. However, this would only suggest that homosexuals have the IQ of sheep.
Yeah, that's why Alexander the Great damn near took over the world.

HOMOSEXUALITY IS A VIOLENT LIFESTYLE!
After which he cites statistics saying that homosexuals attempt suicide more often than other demographics. Hmmmmmm.

Leading serial killers are all homosexuals!!!
And that is why the profile for a serial killer is a middle-aged Caucasion heterosexual male. It's the gay agenda conspiring to cover up all these gay serial killers.

Other fun stuff:

Apparently Charles Stanley (not even sure who that is, but some old dude based on the picture they provide) fans are going to hell, too.

Bill Clinton...has also been...a sodomite-sympathizer.
That is a great term. "Sodomite-sympathizer." It almost makes me wish I wasn't a sodomite so I could be a sympathizer of one. Seriously, I need to get that on a t-shirt.

(Also, they say that democrats need to apologize to God and other Christians. And, again, the implication that democrats are going to hell.)

I also like how this guy stole a getty images picture (without permission, I presume) but didn't even bother to cut off the watermark -- or keep it at the thumbnailed size so it's not incredibly grainy. This is pretty ridiculous considering the picture doesn't even help his presentation whatsoever.



A picture of the whole lovely family. I know I'm going to hell for this, but his wife's cute. The fact that everyone in the family has red hair is a little creepy, though.

If you visit the site, you can learn more fun stuff, like that Islam is the devil's religion and Athiests are full of shit (ok, so I agree with him on that one).

Sitting in a high school library, Michael teases me with his words. It's one thing to get that tingly feeling in my stomach at home, even if other people are around; it's quite another to experience it with a kid I hate (who happens to revel in making fun of others) only four feet away.

I'm not going to complain, though. Not going to pretend I wouldn't drag M back to the hidden corners of the reference section to kiss him hungrily and put my hands on him and draw him close to feel my wanting--and then we are laughing and jumping away from each other as we are discovered, and probably banned from the library forever. (It would be worth it, I suspect.)

I seem to be going through a rather hormonal phase, but for once I'm ok with it. More on that at a later date.

He's writing me lovely stories that make my heart dance and my eyes like stars, twinkling and always smiling. He makes even my scars seem less harsh.


P.S. A comment on teachers (the good ones):

Phil passes a test back to his students, and over half of them received a failing grade--in a class full of students who passed last semester with high A's. He says, "I'm throwing this test out. Obviously I didn't teach very effectively or you would've done better. I'm sorry."

And he carries around a recycling bin to ceremoniously throw away the tests. "Out of sight, out of mind," he says. The class smiles with relief.

If your students are failing, you have failed.

2004 Presidential Candidate, "Gay Penguin," has issued a statement on the Constitutional Amendment to ban homosexual marriage, stating his support. However, he has done a little tweaking on the wording of the amendment (originally drafted by current president George Dubya Bush). What the Gay Penguin has to say:

President Bush has announced support for legislation that proposes a Constitutional Amendment which would declare Marriage to be between a man and a Woman. Gay Penguin, after much consideration, agrees that an Amendment is needed, and today held a press conference to announce his Amendment Proposal.

Gay Penguin's proposed Amendment reads as follows:

Amendment XXVIII
"




"

Gay Penguin believes this is the best wording for any Amendment to our Constitution designed to restrict the expansion of personal liberty, particularly when a President introduces it during an election year after a sustained decrease of support in the polls. Send Congresswoman Musgrave an email telling her you support the wording of Gay Penguins Amendment over her own, and encourage her to incorporate some of Gay Penguin's stump speech into her own political rhetoric.


I couldn't've said it better myself. I bet you know who I'll be voting for.

Tuesday, March 23


In more than a flirtacious mood, him and I...

Well, that's up to you to think about, isn't it?

(It was quite lovely, though, and if I were still smoking I'd be lighting up right about now.)

In a flirtacious mood, I put on my jeans that are too big (rolled up my calves in the Tom Sawyer/high-water style, only to feel the rain on my legs) and a white t-shirt. As I stretch upwards to get a glass from the top shelf, he’s staring at my stomach, hipbones, hint of ribs.

Later I’m sloshing through puddles with the babies and singing an old song (you’re so vain/you probably think this song is about you). Poe nudges my back and squeals her little foal squeal, mouth open with teeth bared and hooves firmly planted in the ground. She’s a stubborn one.

While he’s watching I lick chocolate from my fingers and dance circles in the rain. It’s a beautiful day.

Monday, March 22


First of all, I love the new layout. Maybe this one will stay for more than two days?

Secondly, I took some transsexual test that told me I was an "androgyne." I'm not terrible sure what that means, but SmarterChild has some wisdom for me: An androgynous invidivual.

Wow, that really clears things up!

(For those of you who aren't aware, androgynous means 1. Having both female and male characteristics; hermaphroditic. 2. Being neither distinguishably masculine nor feminine, as in dress, appearance, or behavior.)

The problem, of course, is that the test assumes that since you are on transsexual.org that you actually are, in fact, a transsexual, transgender, or cross-dresser. I'm not. I just research weird things. Therefore, when it asks me questions like "Why do you dress in women's clothing?" there's not an option for "um, I don't" so I was forced to pick the closest thing, which was something like "it just feels nice." Well, no wonder I'm an androgy...whatever. I really don't think I'm that fem, but what do I know?

Speaking of women, let's move on to our next segment: Boys and their toys. Tobias is having a rather entertaining conflict with his landlord in regards to his, um, stimulators. An early diagnosis would be vibrator envy, but does she really need to be looking for his--assumably to "borrow" one? That seems awful unsanitary.

Watching my hands type this, it occurs to me why I might be defined as an androgyne (no, I'm not going to let this go). The nails of one hand are a lovely pink-orange, and the other are a lavenderish purple ("plum" says the bottle). I'm still making up for the short hair, ok? Get off my back already!

In regards to last night's escapade (and today's shower-capade), SmarterChild offers this definition:
satiated:

Transitive verb
Inflected forms: sa·ti·at·ed, sa·ti·at·ing, sa·ti·ates 1. To satisfy (an appetite or desire) fully. 2. To satisfy to excess.
Adjective
(-*t) Filled to satisfaction.

Just something to think about.

Why I love country boys:

When I look to the left,
I see his suntanned hands
his muddy river hands
his thousand acre plans
...ain't life sweet?


Yes, yes it is.

(My abdominal muscles ache from laughing and coming so hard yesterday.)

Saturday, March 20


Shocking news: Julian is, in fact, a man

Got my hair cut for the first time in forever (before and as for after, just imagine most men you know). Good to know I've got that jawline I find so sexy in both men and women.

It's a little strange to get looked at with that "what's up, dog" expression in public, though, so when I got home I had to fem it up a little (hello eyeliner and posh). I miss my hair.

While out I fell in love with an $1800 saddle. If only I won the lottery.

There seems to be some strange beliefs circling around involving the homosexual "lifestyle" and how deviant and immoral it is. So here I am to bring you the most sinful production full of guilty pleasures since MTV's Undressed....

A Day In the Life Of a Homosexual
[insert Jawsish dramatic/horror soundtrack here]

I wake up between six and seven a.m. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, start the coffee for Ethan. Grab my cat from wherever she is sleeping (usually the stairs) and climb back in bed. The cat settles on E's stomach and falls back into dreamland instantly; he wakes when the sun starts to rise. We sit and talk or read until 7:30, and then get up to have breakfast -- sometimes he cooks eggs or pancakes, but it's usually just cereal and toast. At eight we run down to the barn to start feeding horses. I handle the grain, he handles the hay because he thinks I'm too weak or something else ridiculous (he's much too protective of me these days).

Once all the 30 or so horses are fed and watered, the stall-cleaning begins. In the morning we just pick out the messes; in the afternoon/evening (when we have more help :P) all the bedding gets replaced, etc. Sometime in between feeding and mucking we take the horses outside that are going out, and bring some in if we need to. After the cleaning, we go to the countless other tasks: watering down the indoor if it's very dusty, cleaning tack, ordering feed/bedding/etc, restocking the drinks in the lounge, doing the dishes at the house, paying bills, grooming and taking care of injured horses, playing with my cat, and learning (E is a history channel addict). Around 3 the first kids start showing up, and we get them started cleaning stalls or riding or whatever task they may be doing that day. The rest of the evening is pretty lax; just hanging out, doing whatever, just being around to help if anyone needs it.

Someone starts working on dinner at 5 (usually Luke or Ethan, I'm not much of a cook), and after we eat whoever didn't cook is in charge of the dishes. Sometimes E takes me out -- I'm a big fan of Applebee's and anywhere I can get french toast at night -- but usually we stay in. When it's cold we start a fire after dinner and sit in front of it; when it's warm the windows stay open all day for the breeze and the cats to get in and out.

Sometimes at night we spend hours kissing and loving, learning each other. Sometimes during the day he sneaks up on me and leaves a hickey on my neck while I'm cleaning stalls, or slips his hands around my stomach and hugs me tight. "I L Y," he signs, "I L Y."

Quite a horrendous lifestyle we lead, neh?

Friday, March 19


I'm too lazy for this.

I work way better in conditions where I know I'm the smartest one involved.

I have many things to say about dolls and feminism, circumcision, gender roles, and love. I have things to say about God, homosexuality, bigotry, the gay community (and such exciting new things I am learning about it thanks to Jasper). There's also apple juice, "punk rawk," and horses.

Maybe I'll get to talk about horses right now. Working with horses is a solitary thing. It's not lonely, but it's solitary; there's a lot of introspection going on. I get a lot of time to think about the things named above, and a lot of time to go in circles with my thoughts. A lot of time to write blog entries, but of course by the time I get to a computer it's already been written and therefore I'm already bored with the topic. I have much to share, you see; I've just talked to myself about it so much I assume everyone else has already heard it all. I'll be arrogant and call it the Dickenson syndrome.

On top of that I'm absolutely exhausted. Not quite as much in a physical way as in a mental way; again, it feels as if I'm at the edge of death at every moment (to allude to more old poets, think Sylvia Plath, but without all the depressing poetry). I don't know how much that has to do with winter dragging on and on, my medication, or maybe the fact that I haven't eaten in days, but I'm not so sure it matters anymore. Food is, food isn't, maybe a zillion milligrams would fix my brain chemistry.

In more superficial news, I need to do something about this layout because it's driving me insane. Need to get some boxes or something. Again, I'm just too damn lazy. Life's rough, neh? Get a helmet.

Wednesday, March 17


I'm cranky. I don't really want to talk about it but I will anyway.

I don't know what the hell is going on. I can't decide if the things he says are just for other people, to keep the facade, or if they are actually true. That's the bad thing about letting him lie to his friends -- I don't know if he's lying to me, too.

Spent yesterday at Luke's and watched them pray and love and sing. Luke didn't mention M and I'm glad. I can't have that debate because I still don't know where I stand.

I'm tired of being a guilty pleasure. I can be philisophical about John and experiences years after the fact (because we all have to have our first "experience," and your first boy never lasts), but I can't be that to M. I've got too much invested in this.

Makes me wonder if Toby feels like that about me. I hope he knows better, but watching me sleep drives him crazy.

Yesterday morning when I got to Luke and Phil's they were making love (that's what happens when you show up uninvited) so I sat on the couch and waited. Prior experience with these kinds of things tells me Luke needs food every half hour or so, so I don't have to wait long before he wanders out of the bedroom in boxers with mussed hair. (So that's the satiated face.) Phil follows, yawning, and Luke says, "Hey baby. What're you doing here?" Ruffles my hair. Smiles. Pretends like I don't look like I'm dying, and he doesn't look like he's just walked out of heaven.

Don't kid yourselves. This isn't about sex.

Today Luke dropped by with breakfast and asked me how I was doing. I was in a stall with Poe, rubbing my hands over her body. I said, I'm fine. He said, "No you aren't." He said, "You know we love you. No matter what happens, we'll be there. And no matter what he tells you about God, you know the truth." (I'm paraphrasing here; it was actually a rather long conversation.)

I keep going back to Han Fei-tzu and the things he sent with his wife to the afterlife. "My body," he sent with her, "my spirit. My soul." I hand all these things to M, but with a much more real risk of being ripped apart.

I guess that's what happens when you fall in love. So why doesn't Luke look more afraid?

Monday, March 15


He's sitting in a corner with his arms wrapped around his knees, socks and eyes red (the symbolism profound). You could swear he's been crying, but he'll deny it. His lips are fringed with blood thanks to Kale's endless wisdom. Outside it's December and cold and gray like death.

The soundtrack of this scene is silence. He doesn't focus, but the camera pans and the senses heighten. His hair is mussed, but not in the Hollywood styled way. You can imagine his hands ripping through it and a scream coming out of those crimson lips.

In the background is a gray cat licking her paw apathetically. To the rest of the world, he doesn't exist.

Well, this explains my current condition rather articulately: "The problem here is that we haven't solved the problem. And it's been an ongoing problem." (Courtesy of Carolina Panthers' Coach Seifert.)

Gotta do something about this craziness.

Also rather enjoying old Nickness, something along the lines of:

toby's response to every situation like this is "you're just too smart for them, baby." he says, "you're smart and good-looking and successful, but you aren't boring. you've got a lot of life experience behind you. people hate that. people want to be you so they hate you."

yeah, and the royals will win the fucking world series.

I'm thinking Toby didn't actually say that because he usually makes a lot more sense.

Have you ever thought of running away? Settling down? Would you marry me, if I asked you twice and begged you pretty please?

It's raining again, and love is in the air.

We play tag (shame on us for running in the house!), laughing and sliding on hardwood floors. I'm cornered, and he pushes me up against the wall. Lots of kissing follows, his hands nearly encircling my hips.

In his moment of weakness, I slip away -- grabbing my cat as I go -- and run for the barn. No one can ever catch me when I don't want to be caught, so it takes a few minutes for him to find me in an empty stall, picking at shavings. He smiles and his chocolate hands start flying through the air, drawing pictures that can't even be properly translated into english.

I love you, my hands say. He sits next to me and sucks rain from my neck.

Sunday, March 14


I wake up around five for my early-morning cigarette, and the rain is coming down softly, softly. I stand on the porch, getting wet and wishing I was a photographer. The natural beauty of the rain paired with the ugliness of this little fire in my hands makes for interesting symbolism. Afterwards it's just routine -- brush my teeth, climb back in bed with E for my early-morning love -- but for that moment I was part of the universe, part of something real. The rain, the stars, the barely-pink tinge on the horizon, lips blowing smoke into the night: a rare simplicity not many people have the priviledge of.

I miss Mayberry
Sitting on the porch drinking ice-cold cherry coke
Where everything is black and white
...People pass by and you call them by their first name
Watching the clouds roll by

Saturday, March 13


Forensics has me spending the day with cute intellectuals/actors who are too arrogant for their own good. The one with the eyes begged me to sign; I rolled my eyes and said something for you. (It went something like, like the rain I am falling for you.)

Breaks have me stealing away to fondle my empty cigarette pack and dream of you. It doesn't take long for me to be wishing, but we all know life's tough and things don't always work out.

Later I am forcing myself to be noncommittal in a gay marriage debate, still dreaming of you. The boy with the mohawk admits to being a bisexual; all eyes on me, waiting for the confession. I smile and let my hair fall across my eyes. I'm told it's a lovely effect: blues shadowed by blacks, lips pink. Just better to kiss you with.

The Avril Lavigne look-a-like that clings to me asks if it's true, what they are saying. I say, "About Cloud and the Nicoles?" and she gives me a terrible look and says, No, of course not, about you being gay. (I find out later that his name is really Sky, and it was a Nicole and a Michelle performing the deed backstage, but it could just be rumor. You know how vicious rumors can be; you're involved in your own little version of "The In Crowd.") My hair falls in my eyes again. Emily and I look strangely alike these days.

I find myself afraid to lie to you here. Not that it matters -- maybe you won't read -- and it's not that I would lie to you on purpose anyway. But there is a difference between writing and reality. Sometimes I don't know the difference. And this makes me nostalgic, this second person exercise; it makes me think of Ezra and Jay, which was all lies except the parts where I imagined you.

Friday, March 12


I haven’t written anything in a long time. I’ve been so busy working, and loving, and learning, and the words just don’t come to me anymore. My muse has given up on the idea that I’ll ever produce anything worthwhile; he’s left gradually, not in a big flash like I expected, but in the slow degenerative nature of my work lately. One day I can’t remember a word—it starts with an ‘a,’ I know, and it’s right on my fingertips—and the next, entire sentences elude me. Poems have become an anomaly (ha! That’s the word I was trying to find) and prose is nonexistent.

My muse was, for a long time, that voice that we all have in the back of our heads. The devil on my shoulder who says, You aren’t good enough. You aren’t good enough. You’ll never be good enough.

That faded with time and expensive therapy, and for awhile my muse was the other voice—the angel—who told me how much I deserved to be happy, and loved, and I’m a good person and all of this. But it appears positive thinking can only drive one for so long. As long as I’m running from my demons, I can find the words (they are, after all, my escape plan), but the moment the demons are caught and imprisoned, I have nothing to run from. I have no reason for the words except for love, and God knows love won’t keep anyone from sinning.

It’s not so bad without the words, though. All writers want is love, an audience, and I have that. Even if I can’t write I can still tell stories with my hands (even ones that my mouth would be too shy to say), and Ethan is an avid listener. Every night he reads the paper while I scan foxnews.com (forgive me, Father, for I have sinned; my liberal nature is left behind for what I see as better reporting), and then we lay down and kiss and tell stories. When I get stuck—what I used to call ‘writer’s block’—he is there to supply the thoughts.