houseofkarekare:

once i said, ‘no it’s ok, i’ll stay and listen. i am ok sitting here with that. i’m strong enough.’

wrong. the arrogance of that statement. i was burnt out and questioning what the fuck i’m doing by the end of my undergrad, wondering what the fuck radical love really meant when the person i most admired stopped treating me like a human being.

but actually, i am one of the weakest people i know, and there’s still a lot of doubt in my heart. when people talk revolution or radical whatever my heart hardens, i feel muscles of my body tighten. i try to remember to breathe and just let them get their words out. i remind myself to step back, stop thinking about not getting hurt, it will be ok, they’re thinking out loud, and that’s great. because i still agree, i still think radical love is possible, i still think revolution is possible. i believe in a future that values the lives and bodies of QTPoC everywhere. 

getting into student organizing was one of the best things that happened to me. it opened my mind to a lot of things, to lots of people, and opportunities. it also made my resume look hella good. i’m convinced that it’s part of how i got into grad school. and it taught me something important: i don’t want to organize the way i used to anymore. i don’t give a shit about how big a movement can be anymore, and i don’t give a shit about common language if it serves to keep working class poor people out. i want to organize without shaming people for their existing knowledge, burning people out, without fucking people up when they cannot show up because they need to fucking take a break or just simply cannot or any reason. i want to organize with love, i want to organize for healing, i want to be transformed by the way i organize with people. i want to organize in such a way that heals, that gives people i’m with reason to heal. i want to support all kinds of folk to recognize the revolutionary hearts they were born with. i want to find my own heart, too. 

(via gadaboutgreen)

this is how you know a job is good for you…

I’m going through the St. James Infirmary flickr page today for a werk-related thing. This means that I am happening upon a lot of pictures of myself & my friends as bb’s. Seeing these pix is giving me a lot of tender nostalgic feelings. <3

File under: Deep Scorpio Feelings

I’ve been working on a prose poem called “Reasons For & Against Loving Me.” I can’t tell if it’s awesome or drivel.

Writing about break-ups and your own romantic anxieties in the midst of a Scorpio pink moon kinda means you just go for fucking BROKE, y’all.

"What time is it?!" "IT&#8217;S VALENTIMES!&#8221;I am a queer pervert and a slutty singleton who really loves Valentimes and I do not particularly care who knows it.
I mean, to state the obvious: Screw heteronormativity and compulsory coupling and misogyny and homophobia and transphobia, and screw culture that does not celebrate single people/poly people/queer people and people in otherwise non-traditional romantical relationships. Duh!
ALL OF THAT SAID: Love in &amp; of itself is never bad, chocolate &amp; flowers are awesome, the origins of the holiday are completely rad, and of course I am going to be all about a holiday that is specifically devoted to celebrating not only love, but erotic &amp; sexual love.
See also, any excuse to wear a lot of pink is good in my book. ;)

"What time is it?!"
"IT’S VALENTIMES!”

I am a queer pervert and a slutty singleton who really loves Valentimes and I do not particularly care who knows it.

I mean, to state the obvious: Screw heteronormativity and compulsory coupling and misogyny and homophobia and transphobia, and screw culture that does not celebrate single people/poly people/queer people and people in otherwise non-traditional romantical relationships. Duh!

ALL OF THAT SAID: Love in & of itself is never bad, chocolate & flowers are awesome, the origins of the holiday are completely rad, and of course I am going to be all about a holiday that is specifically devoted to celebrating not only love, but erotic & sexual love.

See also, any excuse to wear a lot of pink is good in my book. ;)

"You get pushed off that pedestal and you scream into the sucking void like a girl on fire but you don’t burn up or turn to dust or disappear, you just keep falling. You count to ten, you count to twenty, you count to thirty, you count to forty. You float out in the liminal, endless, too-big space of everything that is possible and you taunt yourself with a million variations on “What if, what if, what if, just, just, just…?” The new reality he’s laid out in front of you is too much for your mind to take in. And you know how scary-fucking-smart you are. You know you are the kid who frightened and pissed off the worst teachers and intimidated the best ones, but your brain can’t save you here. You are very, very smart, but you are not smart enough to think your way out of this. You clutch the rosary your Catholic grandmother gave you for times like these even though you swore you didn’t believe in any of that any more, even though you turned your nose up at it, the rosary you kept in a drawer, the rosary you started carrying with you once you started believing again. You finger the beads begrudgingly and you’re actually not sure if you believe in this moment, but you would do anything, anything, anything to not hurt this much. You pray it only hurts a tiny bit more than this when you finally land. You pray your bones will heal up okay. You count your bones as you fall."

— New. Rough. We’ll see where it goes.

"

The summer you left, I went from being an adult with a bedtime and an alarm clock, an adult who ate three square meals a day, to falling asleep well after the sun rose, if I managed to fall asleep at all. I lost ten pounds in 6 weeks because I lost all interest in food unless I was stoned, and when I was stoned I mostly ate the chocolate cake, bourbon, & tiny wedges of exquisitely fancy cheese that friends set out in front of me. I subletted my apartment in San Francisco and I took a plane to Portland and I house-sat for kind strangers and I stayed on generous friends’ couches. It was ostensibly to work on my novel, but really it was because I couldn’t bear to be in the city where we’d fallen in love during the season in which we’d fallen in love when we weren’t together any more. Summer in San Francisco felt like The Greatest Hits Record of our failed relationship, an entire catalogue of This Time Last Year, oh, god, get me out, get me out, get me out!

I was so broke that summer, but I threw caution to the wind when I could. I couldn’t afford Lush or Sephora, so I went to the Fred Meyer by my Portland house-sit and bought a $6 sample assortment of bubble baths marketed to tween girls, bubble baths that were supposed to smell like vanilla cupcakes and Fudgecicles and raspberry truffles but that just smelled like soap and vague pink sugar. It didn’t so much matter. The packaging was pretty and they bubbled up like bubble bath should, big and frothy and shimmering. I listened to Lou Reed’s entire discography while soaking in the hottest water I could stand and shaping the white clouds of foam into piques and valleys. I placed Craigslist ads I had no real intention of following through on, just to try to remember, dimly, abstractly, what it felt like to have someone actually want to fuck me. I read Tales of the City and I cried. I watched Golden Girls and I cried. I masturbated and I cried. I read over emails you’d sent me, g-chat conversations we’d had when you were swoony about me, and I cried. I could hardly believe my body was capable of producing that much salt.

"

— New. Rough. And just an excerpt. But at least the dam on my writer’s block burst.

How To Have A Body

Dirty Thirty. Wow.

I am happy and relieved to finally say good-bye to my twenties. But it’s not “good riddance.” It’s more “fond farewell.”

I have learned SO MUCH over this past decade. Also, let’s be real: I have accomplished a really impressive amount of cool stuff over this past decade, both personally and professionally. I’m not even gonna play at being falsely humble or modest here: I’m totally awesome and I kicked a lot of ass in my twenties. I was brave and forthright and honest and bright. Sometimes I made really stupid decisions, bad mistakes. Sometimes I was way too hard on myself.  

But sometimes I was really good to myself. Sometimes, I was bloody spectacular.

So many moments over this past decade were formative. Everything from leaving a horrible abusive relationship at 21 to starting Girl Talk at 25. Graduating college at 22, getting one of two Master’s Degrees at 29 (and being very well on my way to getting my second in May). Starting not one but two manuscripts. The shitty meaningless boring jobs and the work that I loved, the work that fed me. Getting published a lot, teaching a lot, performing a lot. Touring and doing college gigs. Meeting so many sweet people. Making friends who have become beloved family. Building towards actually making a living as a working artist. Bad awkward funny-story sex that still taught me a lot about my body and my boundaries. And the best sex of my entire life, the kind of fucking that left me humming and panting and alive with the utter possibility of the world. Falling in love a few times and becoming a better person for it. Learning so much every time my heart broke open.

But what it all boils down to is this: The biggest thing I learned in my twenties is How To Have A Body. That is the lesson that made all the other joys and discoveries possible. At 20, I was glassy-eyed and constantly underslept, anoretic and running on fumes. To say I was completely fucking dissociated is an understatement. My consciousness floated about 6 inches above my head at all times. Over the past decade, I have gone, slowly and painstakingly but surely, from floating above my head to actually being in my body all the time. To actually listening to my body.

Sometimes I want to send a picture of myself now to my 20 year-old self. She was so small and scared, so trapped and cornered, so hollow. I want to feed her everything she wasn’t letting herself take in — food and rest, safety and love. I want to give her a soft place to land, to remind her of what she deserves.  I want to say “Bella, abundanza. Look. Look. Look who you’re going to be and what you’re going to do. You’ll leave all of this behind and you will be so much better and happier for it. You are so brave.

I’m looking forward to growing into my bravery and bad-assery in my 30s. And I wonder what 40 year old me will want to say to 30 year old me. What that picture will look like.

I bet it’ll be really good, whatever it is.

abundanza

Read More

I spent a lot of my Summer of Heartbreak listening to this song on repeat. It has managed to stand the test of time, however, and it no longer makes me cry. I feel genuinely TRIUMPHANT about this. Like, if I could somehow high-five my own heart, I totally would.