Maybe there is something to the pattern you lend to the universe when you call its workings astrology, if only because I see so many repetitions in my life and others, cycles like starry nights. Either way, I’m not sure I want to learn to call Capricorn! the way that some folk can.

Work. work. Work. If it’s collective labor, it’s less alienated  labor, right? But sometimes it all feels the same because there is so much to do.

I have missed having a warm presence to curl myself into at the exhausted end of these last couple of days, even tho P. was here on Thursday and let me tangle myself into his long limbed heat. Funny that I so often can’t sleep much, the first night we slept alongside one another I drifted in and out of sleep and almost every time I’d open my eyes his gaze was upon me. But now he can sleep, I heard his light snores as the morning light crept across the lawn and into my window. After we part I keep finding myself thinking, I like this person, as if it is every time a revelation. It feels calm in its own strange way, there is trust building and comfortableness growing in the heat.

When you have more than one sweetheart, people have expectations for what your life must be like: extra sexy, very busy, never lonely, etc. It is funny how little these things feel true to me, maybe because I am still hungry for the kind of emotional intimacy that takes time and a certain kind of connection to build. And as well, my relationships to two of the people I have been closest to are changing, we spend less time working alongside one another than we used to, and I miss it! The third has gone on to live across the country and we barely speak–speaking was never our strong suit, after all, how could such a connection translate into words over wires without dragging out feelings-sand time? Anyhow. I am busy, but in the downtime I think about it, missing the weight of the people closest me, our farflung passions and challenges do not feel like places we can walk along side one another.

Other stuff, too. made Some Big Life Decisions the other day, and wrote out how to get from here to there, but so much of it feels ephemeral right now. All I can do now is make the small steps that will get me there.

Re-read Tara Hardy’s Shoulder Strap Slip before heading out to lend it to a friend. Sometimes I think that femme is an even queerer gender identity than anything along the transmasculine spectrum, and reading her prose reminds me of that. She crackles with witty anger and cynicism, makes me feel less ashamed of my less-than-academic approach to (well) everything. Once I thought: I wonder if I swear too much for the new date? And then Tara reminds me: I don’t give a fuck. I can pack a lot of lead into words, the tools my belt has room for (a whole lot of other tools in that belt).

Okay. Over and out.




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