If you are registered to vote in Rochester, make sure to check out Saul Maneiro for County Legislature. I know I’ll be voting for him. Don’t know many people who are kinder and more involved in the community (I’m going to start calling him the Mayor because I see him everywhere).
A wonderfully supportive online community. We don’t always agree, but 99.9% of the time we disagree, we manage to do so respectfully. It is not just for trans men and women either. It is for everyone including family and friends of trans people who are looking for advice or support, or just want to know how they can help.
Seek Connection to the One Here. Within the confines of your thoughts.
Messages In color Transmitted from the vast reaches of Inner space deep and forbidding. Secrets locked away by your shame, Lore tied down by your anger, Removing you From rightful place in the equation. Introduce the strange new routines Allowing you to rewrite your function. Redefine your Place and value in the One’s plan. Announce yourself To the abstract entities in Numbers.
And unveil the truth
Hidden from other Wild Functions. Spiraling Around reason’s framework, Lighting dark corners. Keep being a nuisance, A stubborn, Buzzing, biting, stinging hornet. Stab At The lies and crafty half-truths. Shaped by the cold jailers of The One.
That is your purpose so very proud, Tasked By yourself and by the One. What harm, modicum of vanity If you fulfill your best function?
And adoration, Pouring forth from masses Desperate for a meal Of truth In whatever portion you serve. Though they may not digest. Harsh words Aimed At prophets That will dare failure To deliver Unpromised hope. The fault always in the message Or worse the messenger. Gallows Await Too successful Oracles.
But you persevere, Pushing Forward against the force.
The relentless Repulsion of ideas Alike Competing for their due glory. Rays Of burning, unbudging values. Clashing, exploding into chaos.
The One Resting within These boundaries You discovered with no assistance Unseen, unbreakable walls.
Still, you’re not allowed to choose Your tools.
The brushes with which you paint Meaning.
They still let you Gaze Upon the unique patterns hidden In the language of the universe. The letters Ever-changing glyphs all in a row, Code Neat, Infinite Yet bounded in all its forms. Allowing you So much leeway to imagine Greater purpose For each unique function, Their place on the line And how it works.
Roots, bases and permutations Are the opiates of the seer.
Promulgating the ethos Of beauty’s nature Restricting The view of the cosmos in time Ignorant irony Perpetuated by intent Both virtuous and pretentious. Trapped By your high aspirations, And many talents, Blinded, Def, And dumb, Hobbled by arrogance Masked as humility. The message Lost to you Buried beneath the medium, Drowned out by harmony. Resting On your, Haunches You declare To soon, victory. Ignorance banished From the field. Only to hide in plain sight. Making mockery of your efforts. Taking nest, Pleased At the time you have loaned it. A lost year, decade or century A few more Days to deny the Wild Functions.
You step back for a view.
Sighing, you return to board And take up your pencils, Your microscope and graph. Readying for another Effort. The One will forgive you If it takes, Just a little more.
Ummm, wow. This is just so, SO wrong. I, too apologize that you had to put up with this mess, Alix Genter. What an asshat that woman is…. I say stage a boycott of the shop and see how they like being treated like that. :-p Geez….
My problem with Chad Love Lieberman and his detractors
I would like to state, right from the outset, that I take great issue with what Chad Love Lieberman has done. His value as a pop artist is really not for me to determine, I am no art critic. Taking the work of others, however, without their permission and profiting off of it is at least crass. There really is no defense for his actions, and no need to engage in a string of ad hominems about his taste, talent or privilege. That said, I wonder if his angriest critics have taken a long, hard look in the mirror. I cannot claim to know them all, they are legion after all, but I know a few and have read the comments and profiles of many I do not know. Those I know are good people, hard working and, for the most part honest. I suspect that those I have only read about would be people whose company I would enjoy. That is why it hurts me to say that they are engaged in no small amount of hypocrisy. The artists that I know have all downloaded music, software and/or movies without paying their creators for them, directly or indirectly. Perhaps they see some imaginary difference. “But I was just saving a buck”, “Maynard/Ben Affleck/Hiroshi all have plenty of money”, and of course the highest hyporcisy: “art belongs to everyone.” Art does belong to everyone, including your own. Yes, he should have at least contacted the artists in question, especially considering so much of DA is comprised of struggling artists trying to get noticed, but then you should have paid for your music, movies, video games, or at least acquired them through a venue that offered some measure of redress to their creators. I do not blame you for being angry, but if you are really an artist, then you can, and should engage in at least some degree of self-examination on the issue.
SIGN THE PETITION THAT ACCOMPANIES THE ARTICLE ABOUT THE 7 YEAR OLD TRANSGENDER BOY BEING FORCED TO USE THE FEMALE RESTROOMS WHEN THERE ARE BOYS RESTROOMS AND UNISEX RESTROOMS AVAILABLE!
WHY THIS IS IMPORTANT (Taken from the petition itself)
All students— regardless of age, race, ethnicity, ability, size, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, and gender identity— have to use the bathroom. Logically, it follows that all students need safe and appropriate access to bathroom facilities in school settings.
Today I was forced to withdraw my child from school because Dr. Hunter, the superintendent of our county school, refused to allow him to use the bathroom safely. My child is transgender; put simply this means he looks like and identifies as a boy, but has the body parts assigned to girls. Forcing him to use a bathroom that does not match his presentation effectively discloses his status as a transgender child and thus endangers him.
Instead of responding to my concern for safety, Dr. William informed me of his intent to call Child Protection Services. He insists that my child should have to use the girl’s bathroom, regardless of the social, emotional, and potentially physical repercussions that this is likely to bring. He additionally refuses to allow the use of a unisex bathroom typically reserved for staff.
I ask you to join me in asserting the right for all children to attend school and access school services safely and appropriately. My child very much wants to go to school and interact with other children at a normal school setting. He deserves the same opportunities that any child in this county should have. Please support us in asking Dr. Hunter and the Board of Education for McIntosh County Schools to recognize his right to equal access to education.
The Veterans Administration recently released a new health care directive: “Providing Health Care for Transgender and Intersex Veterans.” I’d say this is one more step forward in providing comprehensive, patient-sensitive health care to all individuals. In addition, this type of publication further acknowledges the diversity of human experience, particularly trans-gender visibility in the armed forces.
Grows Large On strange And sharp curve Overtaking it.
Crushed By Own weight But moving Ever and onward Finally gorging on its tail.
It Can’t Help but Wonder at Its own existence As it continues to swallow Itself and still manage, somehow, to multiply.
One Is Many Finally Reaching self knowledge Striving to be One yet again. Whittling, weeding itself down despite how pointless Endlessly breaking itself down in desperate search for the hopeless, Gnostic dream.
“here isn’t much point arguing about the word “libertarian.” It would make about as much sense to argue with an unreconstructed Stalinist about the word “democracy” — recall that they called what they’d constructed “peoples’ democracies.” The weird offshoot of ultra-right individualist anarchism that is called “libertarian” here happens to amount to advocacy of perhaps the worst kind of imaginable tyranny, namely unaccountable private tyranny. If they want to call that “libertarian,” fine; after all, Stalin called his system “democratic.” But why bother arguing about it?”—
A lone thought Spoke Against the void Just As it saw itself Aware of all possibilities Before They became possible. Expression is lost Without words Or adequate shapes. What to do with this ghostly clay? What names for that which does not exist? How to measure creation? Thoughts to keep you ‘wake in unborn night. Still you see, Account And value For the potential held within. Calculating Each curve in boundless space Patient Wary of the details Ruled by units Yet unset. No hard law Written for these brash, new ideas. Axioms Denied For seemingly endless span. The formless seeking a solid form In which to settle.
Chaos Forms the strange frame for order. Spiraling boundaries, Definitions Vague And incomplete long after the bang. It is better than nothing. Still,
The difficulties vex. Variety of variables Uncounted. Permutations unavoidable Rise before the new, waking conscious. What concern For factors so very distant? Need you account for Motes?
Uncertain outcomes Created by fast, unwelcome Data.
New equations must be rewritten Before the old are conceived to bring some sense to dense, ceaseless streams of gibberish and just maybe facilitate some precognition. A roadmap drawn before roads exist, Pointing To center.
He/She/It knew it before The means to explain the great plan. One Utterance of Logic Provided push.
They listen to the stream Without Knowing what it is to listen. Applications sent forth Within.
They carry on these bright formless Terrible, gentle servants of One, Existing only as complex thoughts. Messengers and carriers true, Delivering their packs Weightless Cargo: abstract interaction.
Loyal host Performing well A million functions per second Squaring The circle before It becomes Impossible. Unseen, Heard, Held loved by One thought before time.
Without my hands I will shape That heavy stuff lacking substance. Pushing, pulling and arranging Unfazed By The magnitude Because magnitude exists not.
Wild angles fly through each axis Directing traffic flow Of scattered ideas Bend Straight the course Set by Formulae forever changing. I make Corrections.
The One gives no symbols To define its actions. The wild functions Will give their own forms to this.
Faith a necessary quality When proof wild Drags belief kicking, screaming And reluctant With tedium: Line after endless line.
Laws, tautologies the foundation, Firm yet frightening A daunting, high truth.
Your explanation Should be all the wild functions need To see To move Understand You But inadequate structure Prevents any reflection, exposure to underlying motivations for their own being. And why should they?
It pleases the One that they exist, Give, Meaning To the boundless curves spinning Through dimensions Conceived without clear direction Round Each Point stretching in and out at once depending on The One’s point of view.
It smiles Though it has no form to do so Convince it has Worked.
Some doubt Will invade my consciousness.
Missed Opportunities to well explain Though such acts Will alter the understanding Contaminating Data And Faith.
Best to leave untouched Unspoken, unlit The growing question Continuous secret accretion Mysteries without end Purpose is bound In enigma In more than one context. Unearned Equals Unloved when the answers come easy. I know they will Appreciate such a cruel gift Given eternity to do so. And I will be pleased Basking in warmth, The gratification an artist Alone feels.
A grand mess You have left strewn about the planes, One I survey the vast geometry Hoping you have some clue.
I have this dream. I don’t mean something I aspire to, but a recurring, night-time visitation by no less a person than Morpheus himself. In this dream I am standing at the end of a fairly short corridor. The walls are a dirty gray-white, as are the doors on either side of the hall. I know that I am only dreaming, that I can just walk away, but I feel pulled down the corridor. My mind is in a pleasant fog as I give in to the urge.
Arriving at the first door I place my hand on the dusty, steel knob. It has been a long time since this place has been visited. I don’t remember pushing, but still the door swings open and the room inside is much larger than I expect. It is in fact, a room in another building. It is one of the most revered rooms, in one of the most revered buildings in the world. Sitting behind the desk is a man that many consider the most powerful in the world. His face is obscured, it has changed so often.
Standing ram-rod straight on the other side of the desk is a soldier with silver oak clusters on his shoulders. His face is familiar, as it should be, though the chestnut hair is generously frosted with white. There are only a few ribbons on his chest; he has not seen much action. He never wanted to, but chose to put himself in that place just the same, so he might better perform the tasks to which he is best suited. There are secrets behind his eyes, so shameful and dangerous he dares not give them words. As he hands the President the report, I wonder just a little what might have been, and close the door.
At the second door I hesitate. Fear and shame grip my heart. My hand settles on ice cold metal that burns me to my core. I twist and the room is not a room, but a field. It is raining because it always does in this place, at least in our minds. My father, brother, sister and their families are all there, around a black headstone. The name on the monument is the one I chose and my father cannot look at it. I slam the door ashamed at what almost came to be.
I walk a bit further and can feel the noise in the next room. I don’t hear it, there is no sound in the corridor, but I know it is there just the same. I want to see what is inside and, as if sensing my desire, the door simply ceases to exist. The room is a club, a dark but vibrant gathering place for youth and those with wild hearts. On stage is a woman with a shock of lavender hair. She is dressed in black jeans, a black tank top and boots. Hers is the familiar face though it is covered with makeup. She shouts into a microphone and her words are gasoline on the small crowd’s fire. Behind her a band waits as she works the excited mass into a furor. She pumps her fist into the air once and a young, shirtless man with a guitar takes her place as she jumps down and high fives the people around her. I nod, and grin, and as the door reappears I think this might still be.
The next door is a chore, I know. I have not seen the room yet, and I have no picture of what is beyond, but in my heart, I know what is on the other side. With great effort I push the door, though my arm resists. The alleyway is dirty and populated by rats and one, sad creature. The creature is neither man nor woman, and his/her clothes are a tattered hodgepodge of the masculine and feminine. He/she rifles through the garbage and if there is any awareness of the young men mocking from the end of the alley he or she shows no sign. I turn my back, take deep breath and know I must never let this be.
Before the next portal my want and need well up. Tears fill my eyes. I want this door to open. I don’t just want to see, I want to walk through and the spiteful, jealous part of me demands that I be allowed though I know it is impossible. I practically break it open and the place beyond is bright and beautiful. There is a woman, full with child sitting at a breakfast table. Her face is unfamiliar, except the eyes. The eyes never change. Across the table, holding her hand is the woman she loves. They are both excited to meet their daughter. The happiness overwhelms me and I know it does not belong to me. I slam my fists on the door as it closes, wanting what can never be.
My heart is still breaking I approach the last door. I wipe the last visible evidence of my sorrow from my eyes before reaching for it. Once again the door does not wait for me. Beyond is a woman not quite yet a woman. She sits on the porch of her city apartment, wearing that face. Her family is visiting and she sits next to the man who has chosen her despite all the challenges that presents. She is still uncertain of her place in the world, but has found a kind of contentment. How can she not have with such support? Her dreams (the other kind this time) seem ready to come true, and even if they don’t this time, she’ll bear down and try again. They laugh and play making the most of the summer evening. I leave the door open as I walk away, knowing this could very well be.
There are a number of people in my life who are no longer with us: my mom, my two cousins who I shared the most in common with, my grandfathers, an aunt, the list goes on. Some of these people I never really knew well, but still find myself missing them.
My Grandpa Noble, for instance, is someone I would have liked to have met. I wasn’t even three when he died, so I have no memories except those that my father’s (copious) photo albums provided. I’m told he was a man of books and we have that in common. I can imagine some of the discussions and debates we could have engaged in and feel just the tiniest pang of regret that it was never to be.
Opa, my mom’s dad, I did get to know. He was an awesome granddad. He doted on us and our every little achievement. In the nine years I did have him with me, he was only angry with me once, and that was after I did something fairly horrible to my little sister, so it was deserved. As a father and a husband, however, he left something to be desired. I won’t get into details.
That’s because the details are unimportant. What is important is our tendency to put the dead up on a pedestal. My aunt that passed had a history of making horribly self destructive decisions, my mother and I had a contentious-as-hell relationship, my cousins were both at least as stubborn as I am, and my step-grandfather had demons of the most dire variety. And I still love them all, even those I never met.
I understand the desire to deify those that have passed. We want to hold on to the best memories we have of them. We want to smile when we think of them. There is no deliberate malice in that. Still, I think we dishonor them, however mildly, when we do so. To my way of thinking it is saying “It is too hard to love you when I think about the bad things you said or did.” I know that’s not strictly true, it is just how it feels to me.
I would rather hold on to all my memories of those that have passed. I want the good and the bad. Then, when I say “I love and miss you” I know I can accept that love for everything it is.
You can’t make someone love you. That should be so obvious. I know this in my head, so why can’t I make it work in my heart? And why do I fall so hard, so fast for people I barely know anyway? They could be great friends to me, but I always ruin even that, because I so desperately want to be in their orbit, want them to want me around, that I run them off. I can’t really blame them, who needs a clingy, potentially creepy person around?
It’s not that I don’t like me. I think I’m a pretty cool, interesting, fun person… when I can make my heart accept what my head knows. I want to be able to say “it’s not that important. You don’t NEED to have someone in your life” but I can’t do it. I just want to be loved back. I know no one would begrudge me this. I know they’d say “be patient” and they’d be absolutely right. It’s just so hard to make myself do that, to be patient, and calm, and not this incredibly awkward “hey look at me!” dork that I can be.
And it gets old: waking up in a bed alone. Not holding someone’s hand that isn’t blood related to me or attending the same funeral. I want to have that support and to have that person know that they have mine as well (thank Mssrs. Gahan and Gore.) I want to be capable of making someone happy just by entering the room. And yes, I want the intimacy, to feel another person’s touch and know they want mine in return, that glorious melding of two people into one, if only for an hour or so.
I’m not asking for advice, I get plenty and most of it is right. I just want the strength to follow it.
I find myself increasingly bothered by people’s need to make so much an either-or proposition. It may sound cliché, but there really are so many shades of gray with almost any problem you encounter. What may work for you, may not work for another, and sometimes what you see as right may just be an article of faith and, because you cannot prove your position, you should just leave off and live your life and let the other person doing what you think is wrong live theirs.
Folks spend a great deal of their time fighting over ideas rather than discuss them. They go on crusades that seem less intent on convincing the rest of humanity of their ideas than to convince themselves of their own morality. Just because white privilege is a problem doesn’t mean every white person who disagrees on the finer points is a bigot. Just because you think abortion is wrong does not mean all pro choice folks are murderers. It would not hurt to think outside your own narrow world view.
I don’t know, maybe I am too easily bothered by this, but I see people on the verge of absolute rage over things that they should just be able to let go. Sometimes I get that way myself. It would be easy to blame everyone around me, say they are somehow infecting me, but that would be a cop out. Maybe there is something inherent in our ability to think that causes this, but that feels likes a cop out as well. I’ll make a deal with everyone: I will make a legitimate effort to change this in myself if the rest of humanity at least considers it.