Just some thoughts, and things making sense…

For the past few days—probably because it’s been close to the anniversary of the dumpage—my ex has been on my mind.

Don’t worry, I’m OK, nothing drastic is about to happen nor is it in any way shape or form risky. What’s been on my mind are the things about me that probably would have gotten me out of the “relationship” even without the circumstances that there were.

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Started from the bottom… 

I’m self taught.

Yet, I have the audacity to call myself a photographer.


I started from the bottom. Mom’s old film camera and B&W film and things in the backyard. When things went digital I experimented with the things she taught me using an entry level digital camera. It was like going back to class—which is a funny story. The primer she gave me over the years was so thorough that I was summarily booted from one intro class. I already knew the material inside and out. Unfortunately, the class I needed was two hundred dollars above my pay grade.

So I turned to books, articles, and the good old street beat. From instant Polaroid, to Kodak point and shoot, to now, I’ve gone from simply trying to catch what is in front of me to actively trying to blur the line between record and art.

But it didn’t happen overnight. I had to start somewhere.

​You don’t need “Straight Pride” or “Heterosexual Pride” day, month week, or any time that I can think of. 
No one has been discriminated against because they were straight. 

No one has had their experiences and identity erased for being straight. 

No one has been the target of a massacre for being straight. 

Weddings, marriages, cakes—godsdamned cakes, pastry!—aren’t systematically denied to you for being straight. 

Straight people are not arbitrarily told they’re going to hell for existing

They are not sent to “pray away the straight” reprogramming torture camps. 

They are not disowned for being straight. 

Straight people are allowed to exist unbothered unnoticed, unharassed, unjudged—and people want a celebration for this unearned privilege

No. 

You do not get a present for living on the default setting

Have several seats. Listen. Learn. 

Learn and listen to your LGBTQIA friends and learn why we need ours, and why trying to take away from it is beyond shameful.

We celebrate who are gone. We celebrate who paved our way. We celebrate who lived to make inroads. 

That is why we are Proud. 

Grocery day is a very dangerous day

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About a week of groceries there. There is not much variety today. Or much there at all really. The tear in my abdominal wall muscles keeps me from carrying much, as well as from eating much—if my stomach is close to half full that part of my body is nothing but pain.

So dinner is a single bologna sandwich, made with the cheapest brand I’ve ever seen, praying that “flavorings” on the ingredients list doesn’t involve anything related to juniper.

The pain in my side is about the worst it’s been in a while… And the worst part about it was that it decided to kick in at the store. An impulsive decision to use a European style shopping cart paid off when I used it to keep from hitting the floor.

I should have got a motor cart was my first thought. The second was blinding panic. You know, the usual. Is this that bad this can’t be that bad SUCK IT UP MOTHERFUCKER

The aisle goes Laser Floyd. Muscle spasms in the area force me back onto the cart.

Is this it? Am I DISABLED?

It took a lot of good Samaritans to get me home today. The groceries were put away, only mildly smashed—the bread may reinflate from where I landed on it—and I was finally able to rest.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. This is the kind of injury that I’m not supposed to do the things that are in my line of work. But if I don’t, bills and rent…don’t. If I keep working, I could really wreck my body… Well, worse.

…I think I’m gonna sleep now. I really can’t see straight from this pain anyways.

On the new transantagonism

The recent influx of these so called bathroom bills is just the latest round of body policing and transantagonism that has been going on since the time of the colonizers. People don’t understand something, so instead of trying to understand it, they seek to violate, dehumanize, or rationalize away their own internal revulsion of it.

It happened before in every culture that embraces nonbinary identities as something to be acknowledged—but, slowly, we remember our heritage as our spirits wake. And it happens now as our sisthren, brethren, and sibthren come into their identities and walk their truths. At the same time, they—we—live lives like the other people, like those people who do so dislike being called what they are—the cisgender.

And it is with the cisgender that I take my current beef.

(Any comments to the effects of “not all cis” are subject to a metric buttload of side-eye. Only warning.)

It should be no one’s business what is in anyone’s trousers/kilt/skirt/long dashiki except their significant other and the owner of the parts, yet a mob of legislators wants to control where people can go to the bathroom or change clothes at the gym based on this. Were we to subject the cisgender populations to this treatment it would be called invasive harassment and overturned so quickly that your head would spin.

But since it’s “for their protection,” this is fine. The double standard is disgusting. It makes me furious. And more than a little sick.

It has also brought back the old chestnut that equates gender to genitalia, and I’m seeing more and more talk about how people would immediately drop a partner—even a long time partner—if their genitals didn’t match the perceived or presenting gender. No other justification is even given, just “I thought you had X” and “bye, Felicia.”

This revelation makes me sick. Just plain sick. And I don’t understand how this line of thinking could be interpreted as anything but transphobic. Putting my cards on the table as nonbinary gets the same reaction. And the reaction is always the same:

“Never mind. Thought you was a woman” and a fast walk away with much dusting of shoulders.

Determining partners on plumbing exclusively is fetishist at best, phobic bull at worst, and needs to stop.

People forget: we are whole persons, with minds and lives and interests and hobbies. Not just sets of genitalia for you to fixate on.

At least the management got shook out.

And now, a tale of public housing. (I bear no responsibility if you hear this entire thing in the voice of Cecil from Welcome to Night Vale.)

It says something about the state of government housing that I have developed a sort of Spidey Sense for the common Cimex lectularius Linnaeus.

(SLOW YOUR ROLL. DO NOT GOOGLE.)

Building management, after two years of doing jack shit, has actually been ousted wholesale and replaced, and I have just treated the current linen so thoroughly with chems it would be working backwards for a week to swap. MINOR nosebleed from all the chemical in the air (or the fact that it took a bite to wake me this time and I am allergic)  but I’m tired of bugs.

Folks who have been in cheap motels, unfortunate Air BNB experiences, seen every other news report about pesticide resistance, noticed things moving on buses or movie theatre seats, or have followed me through this fight know what I’m talking about when I talk about this bitey bastard. Folks who are confounded by that Latin up there, DO NOT GOOGLE THAT WITH IMAGES ON. DO NOT. DO. NOT.

The sick irony of the struggle is that though the entire building had been reporting this since jump, WE’RE the ones that have to be trained how to spot them or face eviction. Um. Hi. Ten years hospitality, know the chems, just need the license to operate the giant heater thing that kills them. I THINK I’M GOOD.

To add insult to injury, the spot where I’ve been talking about the mold on the ceiling that totally blew, leaking and flooding my clothes and a TV, is turning an unsavory color. It continues to smell of old meat and paint and now has a jagged, small maw-like opening. It also looks vaguely like where Morpha spawns in Ocarina of Time and I don’t think I like that.  At least if it leaks again, it will go straight for the improvised bucket and not for the replacement television, which is just the one from when I first moved in. Thanks to growing up in one of those houses that had a garbage bag full of garbage bags, the garbage situation is no situation at all.

But, this one room, buggy, drippy, flood, faulty fridgey experience that so disproportionately affects PoC of low income (because really, why would you WANT this) costs thirty percent of what little bit one makes a month before food, meds, bills. If you’re lucky (?) you’re in bad enough shape that you might get help with one or two of those, but chances are if the meds are the thing you’re getting help with, you’re not going to be getting a lot of hours. And assets? Forget it. Too much of those and you’re outta there, without your income having gone up… So where can you go?

So you report bug after bug, construction failures after failures, until management is turned over, futilely treating your little one room for the biters as you go, making a mental note to save enough money for food and that one med that your healthcare coverage doesn’t cover, the one you were stuck without for two months because it’s been that slow.

And now… A nap. I don’t know if it’s the fumes or all the lifting I had to do to manually remove those red flats—same bug as cimex lectularis—but I am exhausted a mere hour from waking up and spraying the place, and the hernia area is in violent spasm. I can do laundry and yell at management in an hour.