una lección de sangre te dio el fuego,
de la harina parediste a ser sagrada,
y del pan el idioma y el aroma.

fire taught you a lesson of the blood;
you learned your holiness from flour,
from bread your language and aroma.

-from Pablo Neruda, soneto XIII, Cien sonetos de amor
transl. by Stephen Tapscott


remember me to LJ.


listening to the pixies, eating a very very late breakfast of homemade granola and yoghurt.

writing a lot, feeling like so much of it is too personal to share, too much like putting a kaleidoscope up a speculum up my own asshole–YEAH PICTURE THAT PLEASE DO (send me the sketch!).

here is the thing about writers’ block: i am writing the whole time, but nothing feels good enough to share. it is all process and rough drafts that don’t go anywhere, usually pretty fast.

writing (for me) is usually a garbage in, garbage out kind of process, which means if i wanna be writing poems, essays, literary short stories, etc, i better be reading them. despite all that, i just started re-reading the Tapscott translation of Pablo Neruda’s Cien sonetos de amor, and somehow the beginnings of what an utterly bizarre but hopefully successful short story fell off the truck of my keyboard (here’s a draft).

also been writing a lot of letters, a few of which i have actually sent, most of which i haven’t. hella (gawd, hate that word, how did it enter my vocab if i hate it so much?) process-oriented letters.

in some ways it feels like the last few years have been surfing the sewer system. i keep thinking i’ve taken the last wave of shit but then another one comes rolling in and i have to ride it out. and of course, waves come in sets, too. but not all the waves are shitty, i’m just pessimistic because it’s so cold in the living room or something.


the gist of goings-on:
-started going by my boi name (different than my given name) almost full time. feels really good, tho at times i feel kind of naked now–like i’ve given birth to myself. have more writing about that.
-recently gave two workshops w- F at a local college, consent 101 & survivor support. was really triggered at one point, and that has given me a lot of personal stuff to work on regarding sex/consent/self-care/asking for support/etc.
-broke up with C, play partner of 3 years. feeling really awesome about this choice because it gives me some space that i have needed to do a lot of healing work of my own that was hampered by that relationship continuing in the way it was.
-adopted NO NEW DATES POLICY for myself for…a while. how long is a while? i don’t even know. i just feel like i need support more than i need makeouts right now. also really want to deepen my existing relationships.
-omg, therapy. finally. felt really validated when therapist was like “it sounds like you have been doing a lot of healing work on your own,” and when they said “you need to have compassion for yourself.”
-continuing to hang out with P, who continually demonstrates awesomeness, esp. communication/support-related awesomeness, despite having a nerve-wrackingly quiet demeanor, overall. i trust that person so much and feel incredibly safe. really enjoy the compersion aspects of hanging with P/M (his partner), even tho we are both traversing some rough seas right now. <flap flap flap>
-continuing to hang out with J (crush jail crush), in a slow and halting manner. feel challenged by this relationship, but in a good way. i enjoy the brain stimulation aspect the most, probably–we talk a lot when we are hanging out, more than i can remember having talked with any masculine person i have ever dated. not entirely sure where we stand other than “you are awesome+makeouts=?” but whatever the direction it seems like a good one.
-having a hard time with my body. pain, dissociation, etc. it is unpredictable, and sometimes i feel like i’m trying to make contact with another planet when i try to masturbate (yeah, no bueno). trying to learn how to take pleasure in my body again.
-medic stuff: the g8 & a conference beforehand in Chicago are coming up. am i going? trying to figure that out. starting to wonder if it might be healthier to stay home or go on a bike trip by myself, instead, as part of my healing process.
-trying to figure out a way to have a mediated conversation with the Manarchist ™ so that i can feel safe in Chicago/here/etc. that is bringing up a lot of really hard/crappy stuff.
-lots of other things. of course.

Trigger up: Foment


Trigger warning for rough sex.

I have your skin between my teeth, not dripping blood, just epithelial cells locked to my incisors after our last coupling.
There are 12 dollars in my wallet, a five spot and ones crumpled together in mutual disrespect. Three earmarked for coffee, the others’ fates undecided.
Your hands are in your pockets at home, but your scent is on me. I lift my palms to my face and breathe deep. Yeast. How is it that you always smell of fermentation? You must have an excess of micro flora dwelling in the damp creases of your body, cultured in the cleft of your ass and the curved underside of your belly. Even your piss-slit, sticky-sweet barm like cheap beer.
The bus heaves itself to the curb and I clonk aboard, swiping my pass. beep. The reader shows: “LOW VALUE $1.25”. Guess I’ll be walking the rest of the day. Stupid knee.
Tomorrow I can go to the bank, withdraw $150, and flirt with Suri. Does she like me? It’s hard to tell. She remembers things, though. In the year and a half that I have been living in this neighbourhood and frequenting her branch we have uncovered various facts about one another. 1) Like the postal service, I ride my bike in rain or sleet or snow. 2) Suri used to drive her scooter everywhere, but crashed it on the tracks downtown and hurt her shoulder. 3) I am obviously queer,  she is probably queer but (I assume) dating a boy. 4) In an effort to deter the notion I am stalking her, I attempt to spread my transactions to other branches when I can. 5) Her hair and nails change, but never her make-up, unadorned with exception of the gloss on her thin lips. She could stand to drink more water so that the flesh at her mouth would fill out and cease to flake. I think I make her nervous, but maybe I’m projecting.
Tomorrow is two stops away, tomorrow is tomorrow and it will never arrive.
My temple hits the cold glass of the window at an offbeat tempo as the bus rattles along on broken pavement.
I love you, of course, but it’s distracted. Snapshots placed in a masturbatory album: teeth on the neck, spine arched, thumb nudging the pursed lips of your asshole (you should drink more water, perhaps it would plump faster).
Is it normal? I don’t want to build a life with you, I want to distil you into broth, consume the marrow of your bones, make scrapple from your slurry.
I must be talking to myself again, the woman in front of me peers back over her shoulder, incredulous. Excuse me, miss?
Just rehearsing, I say, as if any normal person would be rehearsing such lines, would have lines like these, would be on the bus rehearsing these lines.
It’s my stop but I haven’t pulled the cord, though the woman in front of me has. I wish I had so she could correct herself. Thank you, sir. Sir. It’s the one thing I can get you to call me. You don’t call me by name, you refuse to call me daddy, but you will call me sir. It’s a good intermediary, toeing the line between mocking and respect, the way we do.
Off the bus I miss a step and stumble, catch my boots goofy-footed on the pavement, jarring my back. It’s raining. It’s always raining, it’s almost March and every day in March there will be rain. The National Weather Service promises floods. Me too.
I promise to drench everything if you thrust me down on my stomach, knee to my crotch, not nibbling but assaulting my ear. I think I might bleed or go deaf by the time you’ve done with me, but the sensation is too heady for me to care. I’ll worry about it in the morning if the cartilage has torn, stitch it together with dental floss and an embroidery needle.

-Fleshdrawn rite.
-M.I.A. lyrics: I’m hot now you‘ll see / I’ll fight you just to get peace / Heavy Weight Wrestler / Fight me in your comforter / Let you be superior / I’m filthy with the fury ya


I dreamt about you, two head wound patients. One loud and bleeding copiously from the scalp, the other quiet and going ashen fast, all the classic symptoms of shock. At first I tried to medic you both, but just as I was waking from the dream I put the loud patient aside and just took stock off the quiet patient, who was (best as I can tell) getting close to the point of no return, the big black, if they didn’t get help soon. Was ready to call EMS (would you have let me? I would have been your advocate but I didn’t know you well enough to be a good one) but woke up first.

Woke next to P’s almost-familiar body, face feeling puffy and swollen shut from exhaustion. We put in around 60 miles yesterday, many after night had already fallen, struggling up endless unfamiliar hills in the deep darkness, elbows against the handlebars as P steers, captain of the tandem if not the mountain. Pressure on the nerves and tendons burns, this bike is not set up for me and I hurt in not-right ways, worry I will freeze but somehow pedaling and adequate hydration keep my body clear of hypothermia despite the fact that I have forgotten my sweater and feel unprepared for November.

This just progresses: the more I medic the more I want more training, the more I want everyone around me to have some training (seriously, shouldn’t you know some basic home remedies for food poisoning and wound care and when to seek higher care?), and the more I hate the cops, the more I just want everyone to have healthcare, allthefuckingtime and no, that doesn’t sound so unreasonable, no.

Late night I am at a bar that I can’t afford to drink at, my friend K has brought us here after giving us tickets to a show that I couldn’t have afforded, either. ___ tells me, I don’t know I’m 28 I figure I should start doing something about my teeth, and I relate my recent misadventures in catching up on all the dental work I couldn’t afford/was too terrified to get, shit’s expensive.


Focus. Let your pupils dilate, take in the whole picture, tick off potential points of danger, glove up, pay extra attention to the quiet ones. Count off your scene survey. Look out for yourself first (one, look out for number one!) Determine MOI* as soon as possible so you can avoid being trampled by the same forces (two, what happened to you?) Set adequate boundaries, their problems are not your problems (three, don’t get any on me!) Remember that the most visible conflict may not be the most vital one (four, are there any more?).

I want to do this better, not just in medicking, but also in life. I want to mentally fill out my scene survey to better know my risks before I undertake the endeavor (relationship, project, protest, etc).

Everything seems to be directing me to slow down, from the setting in of the Holiday Melancholy to my back/shoulder shit flaring up again.

10 deep breaths, 10 steps back, and onward.

*MOI=Method of Injury. The paper that left the papercut, the police baton that concussed the head, etc.


heart that flutters like a bird trapped in the rib cage and never sleeps.

learning how to say no in its thousand permutations.

i want to say yes, but first i have to learn how to no.

i have said no like a two-year-old who has just discovered refusal, no no no no!!!

now i learn its softer shapes, the no that says do not wait, but maybe later? and other careful elocutions that require letters.

i just want to go slow right now, so slow that it is like molasses (a cold day, it is winter).

slow slow slow

no no no

until some time in summer

yes yes yes.


a lot of hurry-up-and-wait. i am tired of giving up my weekdays for work and my weekends for activism.

how to strike a healthy balance?

always the question.

sometimes without work (not job work, but the alienated-yet-close’n’personal-work of activism) i feel like i don’t know where to put myself.

solve that.

oh great, it’s “testing the fire alarm day” aka “testing the startle response day”. fuuuck.

cluebat: MY STARTLE REPONSE IS ALREADY WELL-DEVELOPED. if my startle response were two flints that struck one another when startled, i would be a trail of sparks and small fires.

Q: why do we joke about terrible things (manarchists, macktivists, etc)?

A: humor is a deeply personal coping mechanism that is necessary to survival for me, because bitter laughter is more navigable than constant rage and/or tears (both of which blind me).


here is what i have:

two hands (both tools)
one a fist and one a pointer
sometimes together
gather or grab.

hopping from stone to stone in an attempt to cross the river, or escape from my pursuer(s) with little perspective as to what lies across, at the other bank.
i am standing on a bridge, it is night time. cars, boats, bikes, pedestrians, they all pass me. i am temporarily mesmerized by the twilit city and the roaring wind.
in Portland there is a bridge across the Dalles that branches at its approximate midpoint, and if you take either way you will end up at very different parts of the city, either the North end or the Southeast quarter. the last time i was visiting i made a wrong turn and ended up far north of my target destination, in another part of the city entirely. it feels like that now. paths are branching out in front of me, and i need to figure out where it is i want to go, what route is best for getting there without too much sidetracking.
there are more than two options, of course. i could even keep hopping from stone to stone, but my feet are getting numb from the cold water and i will probably slip and fall and be washed away by the roaring flood soon if i don’t take the bridge. the bridge is not a high road, it is a compromise. it is the establishment, it is giving in for at least a little while, that tenuous dance. the bridge has holes, but there are tools here, and i want them.