A Promise Revisited...

Last year


Now we patiently wait, patiently? not always so, for those around us to stop the H8.

Just Because I'm Gay, it Doesn't Mean They're Not Out to Get Me

I begin by saying that I *do* understand copyright laws.

Since I fell in love with Roxio's video program which allowed me to take pictures and video and add my chosen music to it, I have been. For fun, for family and friends, never for profit. I received an email from the site that I have sometimes uploaded to, telling me that they had disabled my video for copyright infringement. I went to the site to see which one it was and I saw that it was one dealing with my coming out. I made it as a joke 2 years ago. It was less than a minute using a partial wav of Space Odyssey. Then I started looking through my account to see what else I had uploaded there. I realized there were many more that were 4 years old or older. I forgot about all of them actually. Hummm. They logged into my account and passed by all the other ones that were there and decided the one dealing with homosexuality was against copyright laws. So, whats a girl to do? I put my gay tinfoil hat on... it itches but its stylish.

So, although I do understand copyright laws; I think either the rules have been blurred since Al Gore gave us the Internet or bigotry has just become easier to see. It takes only a few minutes on any video uploading site to understand that the rules of acceptability are a bit arbitrary.

Confessions of a Middle Aged Lesbian

I actually idolize a tv personality. Well not really ALL of her, just the upper body part. Perhaps the persona... when Gina and I left yesterday to beat up the 12 year old bullies in our park I did pretend to be her for a minute. Then I looked down to see I was wearing my fuzzy crocs.

Holly Hunter has.... well... come of age? Saving Grace has been nothing short of a peep show for me. I can't stop staring at her biceps, triceps and couple other ceps I can't remember. Dear Sweet Jeeeezus.

I want her body. Well I mean I want her body on my body. no no no... this isn't coming out right. I want MY body to LOOK like her body. Now, I am a realist okay, I don't have to have it all. I have had one full term stillbirth, 4, nine pound babies, one a C/S, and 3 miscarriages. I have long since released myself of any responsibility for my body from the waist down. The plumbing still works... that is good enough. But... I am beginning to pine for my days at the gym, lifting free weights. I had it going on, once... I think. Holly Hunter has reawakened my desire to get it goin' again. This time though, it won't be because I want to catch a husband. I have already caught 2. It's a bit like catching the flu, only it lasts a lot longer. This time I just want to look good in a wife beater. (God how I hate that adjective) but t-shirt just doesn't bring to mind the visual I am trying to conjure up.

Back to God Again...

probably because we are headed for the big-top again tomorrow. (i will take a picture of it tomorrow so that you will see that i mean no disrespect when i call it that) It is a very original structure full of very friendly people.

At the end of each meeting they ask the congregation if there are any personal concerns or prayers they would like to ask for. Many people, with different, sometimes cryptic, sometimes heartbreaking or incomplete messages will speak up. Their voices, emotions heard. Asking for prayers for others. I could feel the sound rise up to the top of the church floating there perhaps to be collected by angels and spirited away to the Almighty.

I don't know that it is right for someone to stand and beg for prayers for themselves. Especially an sarcastic agnostic like myself. I want to stand up in that chapel with a strong voice, I want to tell the story of last Christmas eve where only 3 people were watching as my friend left this earth. I want to acknowledge that I know I can't ask for God to bring her back. I know I can't ask for God to reveal what He knows. He doesn't visit investigators or judges in their bedrooms at night. He forgives them, their humanism. Admires their convictions. But he doesn't part Red Sea's anymore. I do want to beg for someone to take away this rage that lives inside me. This anger, this sorrow. I am pissed off as hell that I cannot change anything from Christmas Eve to all the times that will continue on now without her. I could pray for justice but as the old adage says, "You can ask God for anything. Sometimes, however, his answer is "No". The fact there makes me feel like a spoiled angry child. And perhaps that is really what I am...

You stay here
And I'll go look for God
Not so hard
Cause I know where he's not
I will bring him back with me
Make him listen - make him see...

First Day of Spring

Malad River, named when a party of French trappers became ill from eating bad beavers on the river’s shores early in 19th century... moral of the story... dont eat bad beavers. Funny thing is, just up the road there was a MacDonald's that we had burgers at so I don't really understand their choices in the first place....

where was I? OH! Beavers. Gina and I took a Lewis and Clark adventure to the Malad River Gorge.

Hey wait, I just thought of something... maybe the reason these silly Frenchmen got ill was because they ate too many beavers?

Well, anyway. We spent the first day of spring in inspiring 70 degree weather, hiking off trail looking at old lava rock, sage brush, the wind gardens that were just out of our reach and a beautiful hole in the ground. Never once did we see a beaver. Well, a bad one anyway.

I confess I have been cheating on my blog with Facebook. You can see my photos HERE

2 Women

Sometime last year I began to lose my eyesight. Now, don't freak, I don't mean LOSE, lose. Just decline. But it has been a BIG decline. If I go out with Gina, she knows if I am not wearing my glasses she will have to be my eyes.

It was her birthday yesterday. I bought her a biography of Dog the Bounty Hunter. (She was a private dick in her last reincarnation) maybe that wasn't the best adjective. She would be a wonderful investigator, forensic crime scene investigator. She smiled when she saw it, she was so happy. She mentioned that she was going to buy for me for my birthday. But I can't read. I have found it impossible to read (even with my glasses) and retain more than a paragraph without going crazy. And I am sad about that. I used to love to lose my self in reading.

She came into the bathroom while I was coiffing and asked,

"Would you like me to read to you?"

So she began. And I lost myself. I lost myself in the story, in the sound of her voice and in the gift she was giving me. Giving me...on HER birthday. The first chapter was over and I only had a third of my hair finished so we did the math and realized that I had a 3 chapter hairstyle. So she continued.

My almost 10 year old daughter and I have a bedtime ritual. We read a chapter book. Currently its Mrs. Mike. When we first started I read to her. She began to see I was having difficulty reading. She asked me sweetly,

"Can I read to you for a little while?"

I had the warmest fuzzies as I handed her the book, showing her where I had left off. Now, she reads more than half of our chapters. I lean my head back and close my eyes. She asked once if I was falling asleep and I smiled and told her,

"no honey, I am just enjoying the journey you are taking me on."

She understood and realized the power she had in the spoken word. In weaving the story. I think it actually helps her feel the story as well as just read. She has taken me through a diphtheria disaster, a forest fire, the death of Mrs. Mike's children, and the lost of her faith. She gives me a gift, every night. I am not sure she knows this is what she is doing. Perhaps one day she will. I will make sure I tell her thank you when the time is right.

I live with 2 woman who have helped me overcome a weakness I am having a hard time accepting. Never once, did they say, seems you can't do it anymore... they just did it.

What to Give a Woman Who Has Everything (pssst, its Gina's birthday tomorrow)

You triturate 0.5% Camphor and 0.5% Menthol. Did you know that when you do that it turns it to a eutectic mixture? Then you weigh out 30g of petrolatum. And plop in on a slap a lot like they do at Cold Stone Creamery. Add the camphor and menthol that is now is liquid. And you mix it with a spatula. Back and forth, back and forth... thinking how nice it would be if it was really icing you were making for her birthday cake, but then you remember that she HATES cake. So you put all your love and energy into your compound. Scoop it all up on your spatula and plop it into a bottle. And voila! The perfect birthday present for my baby!



















Hand Made Mentholatum!

Bragging Rights

My dear friend Blog Antagonist has made the front page of the Gay Agenda. You can find her link on the right side under "Voices from the Blogosphere"

Religion

Its a misnomer really. I have never been connected to a "God" and certainly not by "The Holy Trinity" and never once have I experienced a "still small voice" telling me not to cross the street just as a bus comes careening out of nowhere and wiping out everything in its path... except me and then I raise my hand and praise the glory of God.

What i do remember is being connected to something. Something all inclusive. Something that tied me into the world around me. Something untouchable, something unexplicable. I was a part of a bigger part of a whole. It was quiet and powerful. I felt the connection. It ran inside me. It would surface sometimes and overwhelm me with joy.

Its gone. I realized, or at least was able to admit yesterday that I am angry its gone. I don't remember dropping it. It just disappeared. Withdrawl. Witheld. I remember the moment it happened. I hadnt really thought about it until yesterday as I was sitting in church desperately trying to soften my rage.

The night I left for the last time, my home in blueberry, i tucked my darling emma into bed. Being young she didnt realize the change that was really happenening. Then I tucked my hannah into bed and all she could do is cry. Quietly, no sound just tears, holding to my hands staring at me. She knew I wouldn't be there when she woke up. Before leaving I went back to Emma's room to make sure she was okay. She was sound asleep.



I turned and walked down the stairs. I remember the sound of the hard wood on my heels. The sound of the door closing on the house that was no longer mine. And I remember walking into the new house. I was hollow. I have been hollow ever since.

A Glimpse of South Africa

This was written by my dear friend Cecile in 2003. She wanted to paint a picture of a day in the life, of her life, of her country's life.

Don't think I don't love my country, We have been through so much, and there is so many miracles and great stuff going on. But for so many people nothing has changed, and for so many people the change came too late. I need to tell you about a day in my life. If I get only one desperate person knocking on my door during the day, I am lucky. Lucky because I am spared the pain these people live every day. I can't give them a job. I always make sandwiches for them if they are hungry. I sometimes wish I could invite them in, but unfortunately too many people are attacked in their homes, it would be irresponsible. Do you know how distressing it is to ask them to wait outside and lock the door while I prepare sandwiches? It is so disrespectful, but I have no choice. It breaks my heart when someone approached3s me with hope in their eyes, asking for a gardening job, and when I say I am sorry, the shoulders slump and eye contact is broken- the eyes are the worst- they sort5 of glaze over and look past you as if you no longer exist.

When I go to town, people sometimes fight for the privilege of looking after my parked car in the hope of earning a few cents. There are so many children on the street, so many people offering to carry my bags, push my trolley. The big debate of course is: do you give money. I give to the people watching my car. I give to the children. Do you know how if feels to give a few rand to a child who runs into a cafe and comes out devouring a few dry bread rolls? And then you leave, leaving the child there on the dark street. I do buy bread to give to the children, but when that is not possible, I give some money.

My mom makes soup for a soup kitchen during the winter where they provide children with a bowl o soup, a slice of bread and an orange. One Saturday almost 400 children showed up. All of them hungry and wolfing down the food. And this is not even in the city, this is in the country.

And there is so much violence and intolerance still. One of the most upsetting experiences for me was a few years back when I pulled into my driveway and found a man covered in blood on my lawn. He was stabbed in the head during a fight about marijuana. He was so scared and said nobody would help him (of course, ad drunken, bloodied, coloured man in a white neighbourhood.) I ran inside, grabbed a handful of kitchen towels and pressed it to his wound, trying to comfort him, ran back inside and called an ambulance. I sat with him, assuring him he would not die, and tried to stop the bleeding. We waited about 20 minutes for the ambulance and then it came. The man was roughly pulled to his feet by his wrist and ordered to get into the ambulance by himself. One of the guys even cursed him for "making a mess on the lady's lawn" As the ambulance drew away I stood there looking at the blood on the grass, feeling numb, not knowing what to think, what to feel.

This is the reality so many people live with. I could go on and on. I need to talk more about this, get it off my chest once in a while.

Cecile- South Africa


addendum:

http://www.facebook.com/ext/share.php?sid=58228060237&h=o8PJi&u=8nS7i

Odd Pharmalogical Humor

We have been studying the GI tract, peristalsis, intestines... you know all those fun twists and turns from the mouth to the end of the road. Intestinal stasis... nice way to talk about constipation. A student raised his hand and asked if chronic diarrhea (the antitheis of our topic) could be a hereditary trait. As serious as the Professor could be he says,

"Well, it can run in your genes, so I guess it depends."

Who says pharmacists have no sense of humor.

Bedtime Stories

We walked for a bit. Smiling shyly each time we caught the other one looking. She found a clearing down an embankment. Soft tall grasses, trees and the Boise river lifting its cool breeze through the leaves. She caught my hand. My small hand, resting, trusting in her ability to bring me down safely. We stood face to face at the bottom of our secret hideaway, still holding hands.

"I'm Butch, you know." she said with a wry grin on her face.

"Really?" I said, "I hadn't noticed." Rolling my eyes exaggeratedly.

"Stone." she said, as she watched intently for any reaction that might show my dislike or disinterest. She found nothing but a subtle blush creeping over my face.

"You do know..." she began to say but I stopped her short.

"Of course I know. I just haven't, well... I just haven't yet."

"How bout now?"

With another wry grin, she dropped to her knees and began listing the many reasons she loved women who wore sundresses. By the time her strong hands had made their way to just above my knees I found myself too weak to stand in front of her.

"How I do love a woman on her knees."

She said, still smiling but it had an edge to it I hadn't seen before. It made my heart pound. She firmly took hold of my wrists with one hand and lowered me back in the grass then lowered herself onto me. She tightened her grip to see my reaction. I fought enough to let her know that I didn't want her to let go. She pushed my arms above my head holding even tighter than she had before. She slid her thigh in between mine and reached down with her other hand and slowly introduced herself. With each introduction my emptiness became more apparent, with each introduction the river within me widened and rushed. I cried out the fourth time, I begged her to destroy the emptiness I could feel. To swim into the river, into my veins, crawl inside of me until she could not be found.

I remember whimpering as she finally pulled gently away. She smiled sincerely and said I was beautiful. Whether or not it was true didn't really matter at the time because I felt beautiful. I felt parts of myself I had never knew could elicit such utter passion and animal sexuality in me. We steadied ourselves and made our way back up the hill to the foot path that lead us in separate directions of the Green Belt. I didn't look back. I have always wondered if she did.

Climbing Joseph's Coat

With my first climbing rose, I begin to rebuild my haven, my church, my art studio. I paint with flowers, with sunlight and shadows. With subtle fragrances, song birds, butterflies and lady bugs. I begin to plan my paradise lost. My butch sharpens her shovel and softens her heart toward this hopeless romantic who finds poetry in every flower I see. Peace in every handful of warm soil sifting through my fingertips. Sensuality speaks softly in the garden, come with me and listen.

A Leap of Faith

I really did take one. But not only that. I won't forget nor will I ever pretend that I wasn't running in fear in all directions, disoriented and blinded by shame. I feared saying the truth so I remained silent while hiding as far away from the truth as possible. The sin of ommission which I am beginning to think I will never be forgiven for. But eventually, by choice or by force, for my spirit and my body to survive the only thing to do was jump...

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee...


I am desperately angry. Angry in my inability to change the unchangeable. I lay in bed tonight playing the "if only" game. My thoughts race, and the crazy screaming lady in my head is visiting me. If only, people weren't so ready to assume. If only, it wasn't a freakin holiday. If only, it just wasn't so easy to wrap things up in a tidy package so you could get on with your personal life. The living speak to unbelieving, unconcerned ears. The dead can speak as well, if you are listening. If you want to take the time. But Annabel was ignored in life and now will never have her chance to tell her story from her sepulchre by the sea.

I pray that all those persons from decision makers to instigators will never again have a comfortable night's sleep, haunted by dreams of our beautiful Annabel Lee... waiting to tell her story. Waiting forever, in her tomb by the sounding sea.

and we were Sherpas

We went to the Children's Fair at the fairgrounds on Saturday. We had a wonderful time. Although, we had to spend it with 3/5th's of Boise. Gina was introduced to Spin Art for the first time. Although, I cannot fathom anyone not knowing about Spin Art!



We were treated to a magic show, a (scary) clown act, and Corbin Maxey "The Reptile Guy".



Hannah fed a tortoise. And although there were no cameras, Gina and I were up there with a boa constrictor wrapped around our neck. Such cute little dykes we were.


Emma and I got into the swing of things with the magician. He made my ring disappear and show back up in a sealed box.

Then there was the petting zoo. Complete with ferrets, baby goats, miniture ponies, hamsters.

As we wandered, the girls collected various treasures which we collected in a bag. Toothbrushes, card tricks, stickers, more stickers... The ultimate goal was beckoning us to the back of the room. The climbing walls. As we got closer, the coats came off, then shoes. They piled them atop our already full arms. And they began their ascent to the summit. Bravely, they strapped themselves in and left their sherpas at base camp.

















We also had free ice cream sandwiches, chocolate milk and cheese. It was a great day.

As Seen on TV

We are pretty desensitized these days from all sorts of conversations and topics on television. We sit back and listen to all these horrific stories for entertainment not even really listening or realizing that art imitates life or sometimes, vice versa.

With that said, I was passively watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. And out of the mouth of the beautiful Mariska Hargitay comes,

"Is there any reason why the Thompsons would sodomize your husband with a banana?"

I burst out laughing. I felt bad. I know someone out there had this happen to them but geeeez. I wondered how many takes it took Mariska to say that with a straight face. Inappropriate laughter. It happens to all of us at sometime or another. Macabre deaths can be oddly funny. Ask Mary about Chuckles and she will tell you.