Coverage of me and other train wrecks: my mama, subway nut jobs, sex and the environment.


Out of the Dark

You can learn a lot when you have a 10-inch dildo up your butt. Last night I was playing with my ass a bit and--wait..."a bit?"...hours. I worked my way up to the 10-incher. Actually I think it's a 12-inch one, although I haven't actually measured.

There I was, dildo in my butt when I got to thinking. Deep deep thinking thanks to the pot I'd smoked (okay, okay, and it was mixed with a little salvia divinorum, which makes everything meditative). Deep thinking, deep penetration. They went hand in hand...or, er, hand in hole or whatever.

I realized that anytime I focused on my worries my sphincter would tighten up, and more importantly my colon and my lower intestine would clamp up. It was thanks to the dildo that I realized this because it aggravated the sensation of the tightness. So when I'd let go of the worries or focus on my breath...utter relaxation all through my intestines. Oh no, I'm such a loser I need a job--tight. Ahhh, what a breezy night--loose.

It makes complete sense, but realizing it was like this big bang in my head--like WOW, I learned something about my body--COOL!. My self-help book: Into the Hole and Out of the Dark: a guide to enlightenment from the bottom up.



The most destructive thing about sadness is that it keeps you from paying attention.


Two Glass Doors

Two glass doors. One opened to the right, the other to the left. I came upon their centerline, the edge where both doors met, and pushed against the two simultaneously when just opening one would have sufficed to get my body out of the bookstore. Two heavy steel and glass doors resisted my body but I pressed with all my might and succeeded and I passed through the threshold.

And had there been three? I could have used my two arms and my right leg as levers as poles as battering rams to open three doors, hopping my weight against their hinges on the strength of my quivering left thigh. I would have tried if there had been three because I enjoy difficulty. But I would have failed and then I would have given up, turned around, convinced that there was no way out of Barnes and Noble. That I’d be stuck sniffing paperbacks that were too hard for me to read. After all, if you can’t open three doors simultaneously, how can you manage Jane Austen’s golden classics? I wouldn’t even be worth the price of a cappuccino then. No one would want to have sex with me—the three-door let-down. I would have cried, feeling sorry for myself, oblivious to the fact that someone was holding open one of the doors.

High expectations lead to bottomless stupidity.


Time after Time

When I first heard this song (and I was in elementary school, yo) it made me flutter. Sincere promises, being taken care of by your true love, knowing his arms are always there to catch you.

Then in high school when I came out and mama and dad made my life hell, this song was a bastion of hope. This is love, I thought.

And then there's the video to remind me that this ain't love. Shit, this is a coke-induced hallucination that takes place in the cheeseball 1980's. Wow what a bad video. What's up with that ceramic dog?



When I was a kid mama took me to my Aunt Nina’s for a spiritual cleansing once a week. Fransico and Asunción were the two spirits who Nina channeled. They were my godparents and they were kind creatures and I enjoyed their presence in her body. I was blessed once a week by their ancient energies. As Nina prepared to open her body and mind to the spirit world by dimming lights, lighting candles and scattering petals, I would prepare in the bathroom: sometimes I would take off my clothes and be naked for the ritual. Other times I would put on special symbolically colored fabrics or stone ornaments. My favorite was the Florida water that I got to rub all over my hair. It’s hard to remember more details because worship was like dreaming.

In my aunt’s living room. The lights were dim. The heavy, tan shades were drawn. I was anointed with scented oils. My body—an offering of color and scent.

Asunción would administer my physical, spiritual and mental health. She’d been an African Queen and then an African Goddess and she was my godmother and spirit healer—kind, gentle hands that would cup my face and a penetrating voice that told me my future and revealed to me the intricacies of my life path. I was always supposed to come ready to ask a question. Mine usually had to do with school, with wanting to do better in school or with wondering what my grades would be. Asunción was joy. I felt loved and cared for and as if all of nature—its trees and plants, every leaf, and all the animals around—and the air and the candles and the scents in Nina’s living room all loved me because Asunción loved me. I was nurtured by gods in the cradle of the universe until one day Jesus spoke to mama and said to her enough. That’s what she says, she says he came into her head and said in a voice clear as day no more, enough.

So we saw a lot less of my aunt Nina. All of our idols and sacred charms at home disappeared, one by one. The sculpture of Asunción, the coral beads, the cat’s eyes. In the name of Jesus, mama broke them and burned them in the backyard with the same fire we used to burn our trash. Mama’s hair would blow before the crackling flames. I wasn’t even supposed to say my godmother’s name from then on because it would draw spirits to me. I was supposed to pray only to Jesus.

That’s also when we started to go to Methodist church. The first things I learned at Methodist church were what not to do, what was wrong and evil and looked down upon by god. Something inside me was evil—that was the lesson, it’s always the lesson—and always would be evil and all I could do to lessen its effect was cry and pray. I felt horribly alone, carrying this heavy malignant stone inside my chest never able to fully rid myself of it.

There were no flowers in Methodist church. A few candles, and a wash of sunlight through the windows. No incense. No oils. Empty except for hardwood seats, bibles made of the thinnest paper, strangers who rarely touched. My body was bound in shirts and buttons and loops and a choking tie like a noose. Above us hung an angry cross pressing its weight onto our souls.


It's been a month

Over a month, actually. And all I really feel like is crawling onto the bale of hay near the pigpen and weeping. Won't anybody lend an ear?