Monthly Archives: May 2017

More Death

Broken-fuckin-hearted. If I even know what that word means.

Saturday started with an early morning visit to the market for raw milk (3 gallons), vegetables and maybe some humane meat.

Jerry Jackson and I mangreed with each other for a few minutes. That’s where men get together and mansplain with each other. He goes, “I deal with a lot of fundamentalism, but the Christian community housed two hundred people last night, what did the yoga community do?”

Ran into another head-shaving mom and learned about her and her beautiful husbands impending divorce. He insists. They have been co-habitating with her parents, which must tie in at some level.

“You can tell him Mike iLL says he’s being a fool.” And as if on cue, Dude pulls up twenty feet from us on his moped (or whatever it is). She chokes up and walks away.

He’s shrugging his shoulders and looking everywhere but in my eyes insisting that he’s “happier now.”

My usual rap: “isn’t one crazy partner enough? we end up with the same issues again. you are such a great couple.”

Been reading the author bell hooks, who talks about crossing the threshold of pain to find the self and live in love. So when “a round peg and a square hole” comes up I arrogantly say, “you can either go through the pencil sharpener or stay square. you can even die square.”

An hour or two later Can Imagine is at our house with an opportunity. A bee swarm up in one of his trees. It had happened to be National Tree Climbing Day and we spend an hour or two cutting a lowering this limb down to shake the swarm into a screen box. Can wonders if monogamy is actually a good plan. We talk about how many pounds of bees this heavy box must be holding.

Shaking the bees into the top bar hive, there is a pretty large pile, many of which would be dead.

Well today I confirmed that that pile was most of the swarm. Literally thousands of bees, who’s death I am responsible for.

Our marriage has also been very very fucking rocky lately and to complete the weekend, the International Folk Dance Group are discontinuing for the time being do to lack of attendance.

What should die is thinking I’m supposed to be in charge. Fuck you whoever told my great great grandparents that.

Sex Magic

Gorgeous rain. Night rain. Rags shivers always. Does he remember the great flood? Dogs, Gods love made visible. Rags deserves more. Everybody around here is neglected.

“Intense, Remote and Intelligent”, Doris said. Three words. Without a moment’s hesitation. Like she just knew it.

Rikki is transgender. Pussy is a Penssy. We barely use it. Asexuality is a thing. Why do women have breasts? So men will talk to them.

Getting older and staring at women’s asses. Fuck. This isn’t what life is about, is it? What kind of role does sex deserve? Sacred? A distraction? Both?

Oshun is goddess of sex, love and abundance. We barely even have dance. The children do. Spinning skirts.

Om. Indian and Muslim cats who awake at three am for two hours to ponder the universe: hang with God. Jam with God.

Went with almost five Ashirah to the instrument petting zoo today, then croissants on the grass in the park. The cafe had given us red and white checkered wax paper. The perfect little disposable picnic blanket. It was the best day of our lives.

Wondered a little while later, was there a best day? Rivka goes, “you might not remember it.” So fucking wise.

How do I find these people with so much fucking integrity. Even the liars I hang with have integrity. Nice.

Other homeless transgender people stay here now. STRIVE peops. So far between good and great. Or fine and great, anyway. Cool learning. So much to learn.

Try to remember to shut the fuck up. Talking is a dangerous occupation.