Saturday, September 26, 2015

I must begin to write things here again, because I need to have somewhere where I am transparent about my process, or I talk about poetry then, or I talk to my Poetry friends, where I am not a persona that makes me a small time underground economic success – Josh or I mean, it's fairly lucrative part-time job that allows me to lie down a lot.

 "I’ve heard several young writers of color confuse conceptualism and experiment to describe the few writers of color writing in this vein and I just have to say: race is not a concept. To "
--Mg Roberts speaking about not wanting, or not being so invested in being categorized and avant-garde or experimental writer. She says this on the Friday interview series, Bhanu Kapil's blog. These women are my dear friends. To say I miss my friends is only a phrase. Is not a concept. As Disability, the body, bodywork, sex work, is not a concept. So if I avant-garde writing has to be conceptualism, that I can't to find myself as an oblong a writer either. Speech to text which is how I write these days, laying in the dark and speaking into my phone, speech to text translates avant-garde writer as oblong Rider either. My somatic counselor told me to sing, to keep singing, to work on singing. It seems the only way back in. I have moved to Florida where the idea of avant-garde writer. The idea of avant-garde writer. Does not exist. Except maybe for how Sabrina and I make it. Sabrina who is dear to MG, who washed up on this deserted island just a little while after me. Who is a poet also and has homesteaded in the southside of St. Petersburg very near me. Who know longer can live entirely in poetry either, but spend so much of her day is caring for the elderly and working at local markets. While I work in the skin trade of my own making/trying to create a culture that values consulting and counseling sans certification – – Florida is very attached to whether you have the certification or not – Ash around disability and sexuality. Sabrina and I make work, she writes but I don't. I write only invisibly into the intimate nervous system and then take banal notes in a binder just so I can remember what territory I mopped with each one of them. I limp a lot because the left ankle is destroyed but will carry me and I do very light work to save my spine and remaining eye. I don't leave the apartment very much, but when I do it is like stepping into the back of soft air. I came back to Florida to be not so worn down, to live the softest life. For my body. Which is also a desert island life. Which is a kind of the hardest work. 

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Sunday, June 7, 2015

P.O.D./Flordacana Pass-a-grille 6/7/15

I always feel safe and potentialize when I can nest one obsession/recurrence into another. I know this puts me somewhere between plain magical thinking and a diagnosis on the DSM. That's OK.

Pigeons are for lovers. In plaid shirts and bubble dresses; memorial for Ms. Sass, a 24 yr. old girl. Bolted to the beach bar picnic table; he sleeps; when the water is very flat there is an electric scum on top, it also gets under the greenish-yellow surfaces of objects and elevates it; bleary; these little girls were playing chicken with violent gulls, waving French fries int he air and then diving for cover--I was right there with them; sea pods; the sidewalk


Tuesday, June 2, 2015

P.O.D. Saulray Street, Tampa

Lost homing pigeon takes a hose bath in the DiPietra's back yard. Braves beagle and all. Roosts above the music studio. Very far from the blighted urban pigeon of San Francisco. I hope for such visitations on my balcony across the bay from Saulray Street.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

what I missed at the Open Embodiment conference--well, I missed a million things, but sleep remains my biggest arts practice

Heather Barrett's experiment at FLUXX on being a slime mould. Here is her TEDTalk.

"When it meets itself, it knows it is already there and turns back, to grow in other directions."

I always wanted a pet slime mold in a dish, when I was a kid. How could I not? I grew up with GhostBusters. and in proximity to so many hot retention ponds. Heather passed me the lime green flyer and asked if I planned to stay, but alas, it was late at night, I was jetlagged and my colleagues who shared my hotel were nuclei, pushing our cell membrane back across the desert, toward the Marriott. I did not want to travel alone. Who stayed to become slime at FLUXX? Did someone "make photos", as Petra would say? A mass cell selfie?  Join the international slime mould collective!

Anthony Wagner--the gorgeous Austrian who came to sit with me on my double bed/the body poetik's random intimacies installation at the Solar Culture gallery. I heard Austria and wanted to exclaim, My middle name is Vienna! But my brain gave a blip for all the energetic charge and  I could not really recall if Austria was the home of that city. Anthony said he followed me back to my bed to inquire about sexological bodywork, what it was, did he need it. But really, later, when he and I got to the public spooning portion of the installation, he told me he followed me because I was a non-normative girl wearing a quite attractive neon coral negligee.  So, I felt in that moment, that my experiment in obviousness made the right point (I had worried the wearing of lingerie did not suit performance art...gesturing too heavily, and thus falsely, toward intimacy). Anthony was wearing a mermaid tank top and he studies monsters in trans culture. Of course, we talked about the monstrous in disability culture and my one blind pearlescent eye, which stands out to people, these days, far more than any of my other "aberrant' physical traits". I love Anthony.

The other trans person who is a scholar of clowning and sat with me on my bed...why do we fear clowns, why do we fear sex? They are both so absurd and over the top, but really, the art is in the subtle. And that is where we get back to the deep play and the gift. But yes, I missed out on getting his name...It was an excellent conversation.

Oh also, Natalie Brewster Nguyen doing her acro-performance art in the gallery next to mine. I mean, for the record I was not asleep when I missed this, but otherwise entranced, as was the case above. Here is one of the pictures I borrowed from her Facebook.

I missed about a million things, including a visit to Casa Libre, but I presented 3 times and had to store up energy to see a bodpoe client on the last is important for me to see clients in other states so I can better know body/landscape relationship. He drank iced tea and told me about his work with propane tanks, until kidney and lung issues put him in an early art retirement. Soon, he will be making farm animal murals out of multi-colored corn kernel. We listened to Neil Young for an extended period of time. We attended to the very act of comfort and my Fox and his ferrets.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Pigeon of the day: University of South Florida St. Petersburg. The Marine campus

I am rushing in to speak to Jill McCracken's class about the sex worker literary canon. Then, to last session of spring semester with Pace. The girls are doing a performance art today. Really, they are short monologues that resemble the fault in our stars, but that is okay too. Then, special needs trust lawyer, then, burlesque client. Then, packing the Chihuahua and my sloppy performance bodywork outline for the open embodiments conference in Tucson. Things. Doing things. It is terrifying. And only occurs to me to really enjoy them at odd moments, when I am half-asleep.

Monday, April 6, 2015

On Easter Sunday, we went to Catholic mass at the church where I used to spend a lot of time as a teenager worried about being a sexually aberrant human being.

I dressed as Mary magdalene, if she shopped at Rainbow outlet, though I can't tell you if that was intentional or not, because i was half asleep from an overnight ride in a big rig as research for me book. My mom dressed as the Virgin Mary. Or, a very dark-skinned girl at her first communion. My stepfather dressed like Miami Vice. the three of us are 5'5 and under. Then there was my domestic partner, he refers to himself as "my husband's wife". he dressed like a Mennonite. He stood 6'2. we went for him. because he had a french grandmother, madeline, but he had never seen catholic mass. The music sounded like Dracula.

My counselor today--she laughed when I said the church did not burst into flames upon my entry. She is is a Buddhist, but grew up Catholic. Then, she told me that the new Pope has started to go into prisons, both men and women's prisons. To wash the feet of inmates. And that sounded like the best post-Easter news ever.

 Body of Christ.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Laura Ann Samuelson helps me understand the Norah jones of my past


the real woman's body (yes yes yes,essentialzingnuse of the real, but isn;t just a spectrum metaphor to to indicate an attempt to measure and also, just be, standing outside measurement). Kitsch is real, I've aways thought. When it listens to Norah Jones circa just post 9/11, lonely old bus depot city stricken by AIDS and then forget,  stricken later by 140 characters (which I now can;t speak without) to crowd out real renters. And 50,000 later for art school Norah Jones who lives n Starbucks incidentally. But this is Laura Ann Samuelson and she gets married to her partner who is paper, the sound of festive lively paper stuffed into a car and disappearing in the night. I don't know her, but through Bhanu's blog, but I wish I did!

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