Oh, for heavens sake...
I wish work would start actually paying me when they say they're going to pay me. That would be new & novel.
Not really resisting the descent into urban gardening madness
I wish work would start actually paying me when they say they're going to pay me. That would be new & novel.
Things are getting ever-more tense and strange in the little Ashbury St flat I live in. I'm scanning the sublet ads on Craigslist for somewhere a little more sane to spend the next three-ish months that I'm in the United States. The high, hippy-hangover hill of the Haight-Ashbury is getting on my nerves anyway. Fog lives there. Fog does not live in the Mission District (although bible-bashers, punks, queers and leering men, do). I think I could do with the change of scenery.
A leather fair is on this weekend. I shall be pony-ing around and cart-pulling. If there are photos, I will show you.
I don't think I'm very good at long-distance, or at least long-time-between-meeting, Daddy/girl relationships. Once every couple of weeks just... isn't quite enough. This isn't a statement of intent, merely an observation.
Above is an image I just made at work. This week is het-porn week, which I am not loving, but I think this still is pretty.
"the piano ballad was put together fairly early in her songwriting career after an incident involving a friend that tore the young songstress emotionally"
(from a review of the song, "The Special Two", found on the missyhiggins.com website)
"And we will only need each other, we'll bleed together,
our hands will not be taught to hold another's,
'cause we're the special two."
(lyrics from the song, "The Special Two")
Now, I know that the artistically inclined are prone to very intense, romantic friendships, but on whose planet is "The Special Two" not a love song? I'm baffled by the cheerful way the usually ever-so-scandal-chasing music media continually avoids making any reference whatsoever to the queer content of Missy Higgins's music (or even the not-necessarily-queer past-relationship content). "Friend" is constantly used about her songs- especially when the pronouns used to describe the subject of the song are female (Hi, "Scar").
I wonder: are these descriptions lifted directly from the press releases of the Missy Higgins promotion machine, indicating that it's the artist's representatives who are studiously avoiding the queer pigeon-holing? Or is it a convenient oversight on the part of the reviewers and journalists? "Missy Higgins has written an entire, passionate, beautiful album about the important friendships in her life!".
I know it's not the most earth-shatteringly important issue in the world today, but it crosses my mind every time I read a review (quite a few these days in the US music press, thanks to the recent album release and continued tour).
She's been through San Francisco several times already, although I've only seen her once. In every show so far, she's been a support act, but in a few weeks she's headlining! A status she reached years ago in Australia, but brand-new for the United States. I have tickets, of course.
I went to this on Friday night with a new-ish friend, and it was fabulous. I felt no self-consciousness at all discussing (my) feminist separatist and man-unfriendly survival strategies and (her) queer melting-pot ideals in the pre-show audience of a performance that went on to blast both to pieces. “Five years ago we were all strippers, or dating strippers. Now we’re all either becoming men, or marrying men”. Sometimes it feels so quaint and old-fashioned, to be just a single-flavor dyke. Especially in a city that is so over lesbianism, that either nobody is one anymore, or it’s deeply unfashionable to admit it.
Things are a slightly uncomfortable combination of sunshine-cheerful and morbid tension. I have been on entirely too many dates in the past several days, and brand-new-friend-bonding is everywhere. Everywhere, too, is full of things-unsaid, household and marriage break-up, anxiety and concern (mostly on this continent, for a refreshing change). I am still staring at the maps of places I could go and trying to reconcile that with a limited timeframe and even more limited budget.
New shoes (bought on the in-ter-net) arrived at the office today. They are glorious and wonderful and shiny, a delayed gratification from several weeks ago when I actually had money for shopping. They have five-inch platform heels with stars cut through them, and make me even taller than those wonderful moon-walker boots used to. Hopefully they shall serve me as faithfully.
It's still foggy, and colder than Summer has a right to be. Feh on that.
A very large part of me wants to spend the next couple of years or so with my hands over my ears singing "LA LA LA! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
That may also have been a good survival strategy for the past several years of my life, if only I'd thought of it sooner.
I’m listening to an amazing DJ set on internet radio (the Crystal Method, being replayed from a live show). I don’t want it to end. I am such a whore for good music. It’s even more obvious when I don’t have nearly enough contact with it (far away from all my favourite clubs and artists, without a home computer to collect music on). It’s wonderful how much listening to this is doing for my mood. Awe-inspiring bass lines, even through my headphones. Amazing (almost, almost amazing enough to get online and book a ticket to their next show in LA).
Last week’s pony-people gathering was the best I’ve been to. I went out afterwards with exciting people and got drunk talking things over (which I so rarely do these days, the hangover the next day felt unfamiliar). The height of the excitement hit when a smart, articulate girl and I discovered each other’s love for ecstacy, dancing, crowd joy, that music. What a topic to be able to discuss, merely drunk and excited in a loud pub with bad jukebox music playing. Allies (kinky, articulate, progressive, queer allies) in the search for transcendent moments: priceless.
I watched D.E.B.S the other day. It was surprisingly good. Actually, surprisingly really good. I loved it, and not just because of the lesbian thing. It’s the funniest, smoothest action-spy-comedy I’ve ever seen. And the soundtrack, despite the poor review on the website above, is great.
I’ve got creation in my head again. Have the beginnings of the new zine laid out, and a bunch of images I want to create stencils from. A slight feeling of engagement with the writing/reading scene here to cap it off. It feels good.
On the confusing side of things, it seems that all the queers I meet these days are married. Legal and all. To people of another gender. I'm just not sure how to process being hit on by a stone butch top who is trying to get pregnant by hir husband.
I've been doing this particular blog thing for a year now. Which means that it's been a year since I have posted meaningfully to my other online presence. I originally started this one as a sort of an exit strategy I guess, and I was wondering how long it might be before what I had written elsewhere had lost it's power to hurt if I made it public. Is a year long enough? I'm still not sure.
I went to an open-mic art thing last night. It was pretty fun, although a temperamental date dragged me away early. I put my name down to read, a couple of quick pieces you could find here if you were curious, and they were very well received. I got loud applause and wolf whistles between every piece. The person running the event caught me afterwards and made me promise to come back as a featured performer some time. I think that means my name goes on the printed bill. Not sure if it means I also get paid. But paid would be nice.
It's the first time I've performed any writing here, in the states. It was a really good feeling. In the months since I've last read in public, my voice has slowed down a lot and I've learnt to look up at the right moments.
I can't say that I'm 'home', because I haven't been home yet, to the place that I live. Late last night my lover picked me up from the airport, we went to her house and I came to work from there. Lingering kisses as my East Coast host puts me on the plane, lingering kisses as my West Coast lover meets me off it. Hours and hours in the middle of awful airline sterility, a quick meal eaten in Phoenix airport dashing from one side of the terminal to the other. I bought an Anne Rice book before my flight, relegating her from my once-upon-an-adolescent-time hero to the airport trash fiction I guess she really is (I finished it this morning on the train).
My thighs are lined with marks from a cane, some of them a day old, some of them nearly a week. Fat purple and yellow bruises from feet and fists. My shins and knees skinned raw from exertion on hard tiled floors. Bite marks and scratches across my throat and shoulders. And that big, satisfied smile of the extremely satisfied traveler. What an amazing week.
Sometimes things are just perfect, and despite some technical difficulties (the airline lost my luggage- never fear, it has been returned) it just worked. My host and I got on fabulously, her friends were as excited about me as I was about them, I saw SEVEN different states of the union, the sun shone, the birds sang, and it was all just wonderful.
There are sculptures of crabs, variously decorated, all over Baltimore (our base city for the week, and the home of my host). Here is a rainbow (gay?) crab, about to devour the George Washington Monument:
Here is Baltimore, basking in the sun and humidity, on the one day I wandered by myself and touristed:
For the Fourth of July we went to Washington D.C and stood on top of an apartment building that I later found out was actually in Virginia, and watched fireworks over 'The Mall'. Being from Sydney, it's pretty difficult to impress me with fireworks ("But where's the Roman Candles off the bridge?"), but it was a lovely night and the explosions were pretty.
Mid-week, we went to New York. There really isn't much to say about that city that hasn't already been said. I was bug-eyed and excited the whole time, enthusiastic and drunk on it. We stayed in an apartment on the Upper West Side, and criss-crossed the city being chauffered by a native Manhattan driver, which apparently means death-defying feats behind the wheel. There simply isn't anywhere to look, ever, that isn't filled with something fascinating. I have to go back just so I can look some more. Here is Strawberry Swirl, as wide-eyed as can be:
Here is me, on a very fast boat that circled Manhattan. I am smiling smugly, unaware that I am about to be absolutely drenched in the Hudson river.
After the boat, and changing, and a pretzel (ginormous! And salty! Why so salty? I could not understand!), and SoHo, we went to Time Square. Where there is a Toys-R-Us, and within the Toys-R-Us, there is a Ferris Wheel. And on that Ferris Wheel there is a carriage that features a My Little Pony setting, full of frolicking fun. Sadly I did not get to ride that carriage (did not have the money on me to bribe the ride attendants), but knowing it existed made me happy. I did ride the Ferris Wheel, and it was awesome. Here is a photo of Time Square in the rain:
Then, there was a straight fetish club, and a caning, and the Museum of Modern Art, and Coney Island. Myhost won a Hello Kitty doll for me, we made out on another Ferris Wheel, we went on the Cyclone, and we watched the Freak Show! Which, these days, is a great place to perve on gorgeous tattooed and pierced girls doing entertaining stunts for an eager crowd. I flirted hard. Here is Hello Kitty cradling a Coney Island post card in front an (apparently) incredibly famous hot dog stand:
We went to "Wild and Wonderful West Virginia", to a work party where I gardened and had sex in the hot tub and watched beautiful lightning bugs twinkle in the trees. We bought (and drank far too much of) The Best Chocolate Milk Ever and went to a hot mineral spring bath.
And of course the world churned on without me, and now I am back and must catch up. Major disasters on all fronts, and some new optimism. So, hi. I'm back.
I leave for the East Coast tomorrow morning (early). Baltimore, New York, Washington, West Virginia, not necessarily in that order. Traveling gives me an excuse to buy socks and underwear (as if I needed one) so now I own a pair of Hello Kitty pink check-print knickers with Hello Kitty herself on the front, holding an ice-cream, and saying: “MMMM! A Yummy Treat!”. Also, polka-dot boxer shorts and a pair of pink ruffled knickers with appliqué flowers.
I have been offered a permanent, full-time job at the porn company (a package! With benefits! And higher pay than I currently receive!). They are willing to help me with visa issues in any way they can. They are willing to hold the position open for me while I go home at the end of the year (on the assumption that I will come back). Holy hell, I have no idea how to make this decision. Perfect, interesting, entertaining job with much room for advancement? Or home, where my people are and my heart is?
How do people do this? Just thinking about it rips me apart.
(there is only one thing for it: you’re all going to have to move here.)