Thursday, January 28, 2016

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Unitarian sex ed and David Bowie devotional candle

This arrived in the midst of my OWL Training (comprehensive, accurate, sex ed for K-^)at the Mirror Lake Unitarian Church this weekend. I was sleepy, stuffed with French toast casserole and chapel coffee and so many eager adults asking the OWL facilliators questions about how not to shame a kindergarten who masturbates and what to tell and 10-year-old who asks about being genderqueer. I came home after a 12-hour workshop day and there was this package.

From some mysterious friend. There was no tag or return address, it came wrapped in the New York Times, from Flaming idols--a company that makes devotional candles for the LGBTQ community. Some mysterious someone heard me say that I have been grieving Bowie terribly, that there is a tear in the cosmos now,  an eerie parallel universe seam in which some of my life force pours up out of my body in search of him and finds him still, ever-present. And this someone knew me well enough to know why I would want an LGBTQ altar candle

What a gorgeous friend, a wise friend. Was it you?

Friday, December 11, 2015


Skelgirl did not have hands until her early 20s. Hey hands came with her knowledge of herself as autonomous sexual being who could grab the rail and pull herself up and swing herself down from city buses. She heard a philosopher say that our hands is what makes us human. Which she took a bit of offense to send she knew a lot of other skews and twisted sinews whose hands were their feet or their mouth or the blunted fingerless bones at the ends of the rest. Prehensile intelligence I can transcend the vehicle of the hand. And if one believes it's about using tools to dominate nature...well it's just as much about putting the body back into the earth, the earth back into the body, all surviving as any individual body.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Bowie was my first map to shadow, eros, and beyond-gender

On Wed, Nov 25, 2015 at 1:58 PM, Sabrina Dalla Valle <> wrote:
this is a lens onto our cutting edge turn of the 21st century
but be prepared...

amber v. dipietra

5:22 PM (8 minutes ago)
to Sabrina
It's funny--it feels comforting and compelling to me in a a way, perhaps in contrast to the scarier associations I have with Bowie. The fear I had, at age 6, upon seeing him in Labyrinth--that I would never approach the eros and allure he signified in that movie, and how at age 6, i could feel and want it so badly. Also, two dear gorgeous male friends with whom I shared a love of Bowie. Seeing one friend in the despair of meth addiction and the other friend, now dead to a heroin overdose. I don't know--Bowie...he's my dark prince, I'll follow him anywhere.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Restrictive treatment programs

Re-traumatize those who have been overly controlled in their lives, who use substances as a way to escape control.

The beginning of a long betrayal, but nevertheless, a betginning

Sentence that works as touch. Not a touching idea in words, but a pressure and direction through timing, ch is syntax-- actually a kind of touch. My acupuncturist at Saint Petersburg community acupuncture was a student of Bhanu's. Perhaps this is a sign that I will cease to be so lonely here.

Here is a car I saw, on the bus to the bun, in the old jungle and ragged beside-massive-highways neighborhood.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

In which I am considering what to wear, in the event that I meet my future husband on the first day of rehab, tomorrow. I exaggerate. It is a three-day outpatient program, in a place named for Emily Brontë's moors, even though it is on the Gulf Coast--end it is blistering November.  The bus takes me to the bin at 7 AM. All of this would be redeemable if I were Janet Frame. 
The cat just stole my last fetid clump of brie cheese. I fear she will immediately die of pancreatitis, but I cannot get it away from her. My toes are like brittle, pigeon scaled, Vienna sausages. Only some small things can they clutch. This cat move to San Francisco and back. She once had a tube in her neck for six weeks.Cats allow us to speak to the world when our throats are closed up.

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

Real Time Archive