Sir, can I please have some more fish candy instead?

                            Not according to my friend Severin!

Latest Musings

Please read my newest pieces on the Queerious? | Queer Eyes on Culture blog.

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Together in Portland

Un poema de Jaime Manrique titulada Como Miel Ahumada

Nos dijeron que no sea posible de un golple atravesar 1,000 millas. Pero contra viento y marea lo logramos, y como siempre...juntas.

The Queerist Events: Ringleaders of Women's Art Groups

The Queerist Events: Ringleaders of Women's Art Groups

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Sage confesses to her audience at the Garage

"My Mother's Hand ..."
part of the Queer Girl Theatre Project 1st annual performance series at the Garage.

The first part to Sage's show combined childlike tenderness with the sacrosanct as she depicted the always disquieting topic of an abusive mother. That character reminded me not of Medea, but of Lorca's Bernarda Alba, though more Italian and more furious. Still, doing her piece, Sage was looking at us the entire time, forthcoming, exposed, immediate and even funny.

The white poetry piece about her grandmother was beautiful in how lyrically she mingled empathy with admiration. If the thought hadn't crept into our subconscious by then she verbally acknowledged that her grandmother's qualities she desired to find in her own ideal spouse. Were this woman to come her way, Sage confessed to us that she would at once lay the world at her feet and cast a spell to make her go away.

I wish I remembered more the songs she sang and I am hoping that I can get a cut of them from Jenny Jigour who was filming the performance. The second one she performed standing on that symbolic box-crate-casket especially took me somewhere in feeling and imagination. I am amazed at how easy the a cappella melodies were to follow, almost hum along to and how uniquely suited they were to displaying a kind of bucolic lesbian emotional landscape.

The 2nd to last piece which I have seen performed a few times now, is the "Fuck Women" a.k.a. "We Women Fuck." I didn't know she was going to do it and was relieved to find myself feeling less suffocated by the vivid details portrayed in her words this time around. I also noticed it was abbreviated in some parts, while still referring to the myriad potentialities of lesbian sex, she'd removed the zealous tangents about her personal preference for marathon cunnilingus. I suppose audience members have varying limits in feeling thusly exposed, even while they unabashedly search out uncensored queer expression. In other words, I am pleased with the updates. I should add that this poem is being made into a film, so stay tuned...

A highlight was the poem @ the Dyke parade, which was an audience participation piece based on the upbeat structure of Mother Goose's nursery rhymes. Considering the memory triggered was of the Russian version of "The house that Jack built", "Вот дом который построил Джек," the only hint I had growing up that it wasn't native was the builder's proper (Anglo) name. A Dyke parade nursery rhyme- wonderful! I wish my teachers had me memorize Sage's version in grade school instead.

I am cheering for Jamie Cotton, aka miss Sage as she definitively goes off to L.A. and works on emerging as an industry writer for TV & Film. I anticipate that when I watch a show that's based on her writing, it will contain human darkness, natural beauty, women f*cking and a pinch of warm-hearted playfulness sprinkled all over.

Comcast cable gets the boot

Comcast is out of our lives and our house. With it a cut in my bills worth 128 sheckles monthly. Mostly, I am grateful for its farewell because the noise in my head, which I find so hard to dispel, to calm, is slowly making a widening clearing. Now, for reading and writing (and all sorts of connecting of the synapses, which may lead to dangerous plotting). The rays of the sun are shining through. Yay..for chrissake.

distracted for 9 months

this is what i claim my own. this territory on the internet is a space i occupy. a domain i registered to put forth evidence of a gradual thought process and narrative building. i suppose you can say i have deserted it in the last few months. thinking myself undeserving of putting my thoughts down in random formats for vague purposes on the screen, I did not feel compelled to heed the expectation laid out for me in having created the blog. instead i have spent the time well- quite well. it has not been documented but i think even now i would be able to piece a slate together using photographs, dates of (travel) departure of friends, concerts, birthdays, volunteer projects and highlights of my lovers' and mine discussed, breathed, etc. - shared experiences.

I wish I could think of a metaphor for the centrifuge of events that have decorated, filled and driven my life for the past 9 months, but none, none that is appropriate in tone, comes to mind. I am working on linking the wall text for the "Fabric of Our Lives" exhibit, which I wrote, back here.

When i returned to the blog, i found it in disarray. Postings for old events that hold no water, no relevancy in such a fiercely and fearsomely fast moving universe. Humorously, I found the Flickr widget on the side of the blog co-opted by the photostream of a Chinese man (the specific region or religious affiliation I could not tell you). There are photos of monuments, natural sites and apparently- his girlfriend. And, as much as i would have liked to fix it to show some of the content from my own site, the man (who I think created this app) has demonstrated powers of technology over me. In this and this case only, it will be wiser to give up. I wish I could give up on the banner of No on Prop 8, a flag hoisted and heavy above the site, like Joe Rosenthal's "Flag Raising at Iwo Jima" but it also messing with me. I laugh at myself because I know i need to learn how to wrestle away unnecessary HTML alone/independently...without the patient hand of my gadget queen.

Yes, they'll be some cleaning up to do, but sooner than later, new growths, (more like plants rather than hair or fungus) will spring up on this medium. it will be a desahogo, a place for me to lay to rest my mind's fuss through ranting and humor; observations and even some intellectual curly cues.