fredag 27. januar 2017

Pubic hair snot.

THIS is why we have a long, long way to go. But we’ll get there. Little by little, we’ll get there.

A man once said that we should strive to do better – to become better, and excel. Granted, these are not the exact words, yet I find them comforting. Like an old dog, barking in the night. Or having your MMO server down for an unspecified time on a Friday evening.

A pondering pox for Penny and the Pax left littering boxes of seaweed and surplus shoe slime for no other reason than laughing at the pandemic.

I am writing this because I have little room to fabricate letters elsewhere.

søndag 22. januar 2017

I did not march.

There are, of course, reasons as to why I didn’t. Most of them I share with a friend of mine.

Unlike others, I have a job that incudes shift for every day of the week, every week of the year. Having shifts on both Friday and Saturday severely hampered my option to be part of the march – not to mention that I work nights and as such the timing of the march would be around when I was sound asleep.

I live in a large geographical country with a low population. Translation: distance matters. A lot. From my present location, a trip to the capital would take about three to four hours one way. Double it and the time spent on such a journey would not only deprive me of most of my sleep schedule, but also drain me of energy.

Butterfly transformation.
As I am undergoing a radical change, both physically and mentally, I do not particular enjoy being seen in the public eye. While there are matters worthy of fighting for and sacrificing your own privacy of, I marched in spirit instead of body.

lørdag 21. januar 2017

Tonight I celebrated life with chocolate and coffee.

Neither of which I enjoy very much these days. Oh, good coffee and dark chocolate, that is an entirely different thing in small moderation. These, however, were not that kind.
Someone once said that every day, you should give yourself a gift. While I don’t presume you have heard this quote before now, it is none the less a sound advice.
Tonight, my gift is hope.
Hope for myself, my family and my friends, my country and my continent, my future and my world.

Not evil, simply prioritize differently in questions involving moral and ethical matters. Alas, those points of view do not coexist very well with my own.

fredag 20. januar 2017

Queer Poetics: How to Make Love to A Trans Person

By Gabe Moses

Forget the images you’ve learned to attach
To words like cock and clit,
Chest and breasts.
Break those words open
Like a paramedic cracking ribs
To pump blood through a failing heart.
Push your hands inside.
Get them messy.
Scratch new definitions on the bones.
Get rid of the old words altogether.
Make up new words.
Call it a click or a ditto.
Call it the sound he makes
When you brush your hand against it through his jeans,
When you can hear his heart knocking on the back of his teeth
And every cell in his body is breathing.
Make the arch of her back a language
Name the hollows of each of her vertebrae
When they catch pools of sweat
Like rainwater in a row of paper cups
Align your teeth with this alphabet of her spine
So every word is weighted with the salt of her.
When you peel layers of clothing from his skin
Do not act as though you are changing dressings on a trauma patient
Even though it’s highly likely that you are.
Do not ask if she’s “had the surgery.”
Do not tell him that the needlepoint bruises on his thighs look like they hurt
If you are being offered a body
That has already been laid upon an altar of surgical steel
A sacrifice to whatever gods govern bodies
That come with some assembly required
Whatever you do,
Do not say that the carefully sculpted landscape
Bordered by rocky ridges of scar tissue
Looks almost natural.
If she offers you breastbone
Aching to carve soft fruit from its branches
Though there may be more tissue in the lining of her bra
Than the flesh that rises to meet it
Let her ripen in your hands.
Imagine if she’d lost those swells to cancer,
A car accident instead of an accident of genetics
Would you think of her as less a woman then?
Then think of her as no less one now.
If he offers you a thumb-sized sprout of muscle
Reaching toward you when you kiss him
Like it wants to go deep enough inside you
To scratch his name on the bottom of your heart
Hold it as if it can-
In your hand, in your mouth
Inside the nest of your pelvic bones.
Though his skin may hardly do more than brush yours,
You will feel him deeper than you think.
Realize that bodies are only a fraction of who we are
They’re just oddly-shaped vessels for hearts
And honestly, they can barely contain us
We strain at their seams with every breath we take
We are all pulse and sweat,
Tissue and nerve ending
We are programmed to grope and fumble until we get it right.
Bodies have been learning each other forever.
It’s what bodies do.
They are grab bags of parts
And half the fun is figuring out
All the different ways we can fit them together;
All the different uses for hipbones and hands,
Tongues and teeth;
All the ways to car-crash our bodies beautiful.
But we could never forget how to use our hearts
Even if we tried.
That’s the important part.
Don’t worry about the bodies.
They’ve got this.

fredag 13. januar 2017

Hiding myself in water.

Down by the watership, a town stands without an abbey. Furnace and stove, oven and grilled, smoke rises on the horizon. Nine lives for the feline, none for unmentionable objects. The tune turns thunder inside my head.

Choosing to live and let live, become life and reborn, half and whole, hole without edges or land line markers. Time progresses above your eyebrows.
The silence of the mind keeps churning.

You grind the flour into corn, you grind the teeth to dust and the agony of a dentist, you grind reputation for yet another useless faction that fractures the fraction you’ll forget come the next expansion.
Beyond treks past darkness and sunlight, you face mountains and cliffs without your Shepard. Musk and music mix and blend, create artificial light bulbs to intense incense playing with your fingertips. Husk. Husk. Do not be the dried one.
Streams of steam hunkering down the waterfall, cliffing the airfield away and on to purple. Church bells clime and dime with forgotten currencies of the many.

I do not speak for the Empire.
I stand apart.

I stood in rain. I stood in pits. I stood in falls.
Standing, giving gifts.

The gift of giving brings joy to the heart.
Crooked front teeth at the band member fronting the font. Fountain.

Unstimulated intellect.
Concrete mother.

Do you desire the one you cannot have?

mandag 9. januar 2017

The butterfly transformation, part one.

It's official!

You may now address me as R. Why? Because it is my legal name. One application successfully done and approved.

I'm fairly certain that this is still on the caterpillar stage, but I am no longer just a larva. When the future will bring the metamorphosis to physical change.

Butterflies go through four stages in life that are considered to be great mysteries. They are real survivors even with life’s many twists and turns. Butterflies have been able to adapt and make it through unimaginable obstacles. Butterflies are holometabolous, experiencing a complete metamorphosis, or in other words, a complete change in body form. They begin life as a larva and pupate into an immobile state and emerge as a butterfly, looking nothing like their pre-pupated state.

Butterflies go through a really amazing metamorphosis when being transformed from a caterpillar to an adult. The process inside the chrysalis is very intense. The insect’s body basically is liquefied by digestive fluids and the body is restructured using specialized formative cells. This process is called histogenesis, in which undifferentiated cells are used to build different body tissues. This is similar to the building of tissues that can be done with stem cells in other animals.
Regina Cutter Edwards

fredag 6. januar 2017

Mother of Ninkas

If traverse deep within the Nomiverse, you find a heart. This heart is guarded, not by orcs, but of variation.

One day, the Mother of the Ninkas passed by. She did not think much of it, as there are many strange and wonderful things within the Nomiverse, some more social, some more hidden. The heart itself was odd enough, so not a lot knew where to look for it – it had a mind and a will of its own. It also tended to change locations often rather than seldom.

The Mother of the Ninkas payed no attention to the heart. She was out for a stroll in the dark woods of the homeland, sometimes moonlit, sometimes twilight, sometimes dusk and sometimes morning light. The dark woods of the homeland stretched out far and it was quite easy to get lost there.
The Mother of the Ninkas did not become lost.

Past the dark woods of the homeland rises a tower. 

In the other direction mountains make their mark on the horizon.

The Mother of the Ninkas did not seek either of them, so she continued on her own, invisible path.

The Mother of the Ninkas did not appear to be tired from walking so much.

…and at long, long last, the Mother of the Ninka come home to her cave, went inside, and was greeted by the soft yapping of the newborn Ninkas. The Mother of the Ninkas cuddled the newborn Ninkas and assured the newborn Ninkas that the world was big, that the Mother of the Ninkas was here now and that three kings would come in the name of Anton.