just sent my proposal:

Give Care, Take Care: Support Skills for All of Us (2 hours)
This skillshare is part of an intentional effort to share support skills that respect and support the individual agency and needs of persons experiencing harm from violence, grief, and/or other trauma, including sexual assault. Will also include an intro to a few basic herbs for trauma, self-care as radical practice, and group participation–this is meant as a mutual sharing of skills, not a presentation!

i believe this is time for a rousing round of shouting eee eee eee, hopping around the living room, making a burrito, and getting the fuck out of the house after i finish a few more chores. being back in the city is overwhelming (so many places i’m sposed to be! so many friends to love and hug! so many cars to try not to get hit by!). i often want to run away to a seaside farm and raise sheep and bicycles and never ever come back until all the skyscrapers are overgrown with vines and the politicians settled into deep graves. i would take you with me, loves, but i don’t think you’d wanna go, and sometimes it’s the heartbreak of your loss (losing you, losing all of you) that keeps me from departure.



well well. i came home to find that friendly faces from round town had been raided by the SWAT team and served with warrants and grand jury subpoenas. i came home to find that my sweetheart’s father had passed away. i came home to find my house creaking and groaning, attempting to wrench itself forth from some shitty muck. i came home to the utility bill due TOMORROW. i came home to my epazote grown the size and shape of my spiny and sticky-sweet too-big heart. i came home to the stacks of books at my bedside, words sliding over and under one another, entwined and interwoven. i came home to cover myself in ink blotches and dirt. i came home to present three workshops in a single month. i came home to a cupboard strangely bare, a fridge hedged with mold and dried cheese-ends, and a freezer caulked with frost. i came home to tell you the good news and the bad.

i came home to a mess, basically. but i’ve got this broom here, see? and i think the kitchen floor needs a good scrubbing, to start with.



Starting to think there may be something to this whole queer witches thing, yo. I feel like a lot of the changes in our house began taking shape when I brought this herb into our garden:

This plant is mainly used in protection, hex-breaking and road-opening spells – as always, the magickal properties are analogic to the medicinal ones. Epazote helps us digest the obstacles in life and removes spiritual parasites. It makes a wonderful smudge/spray for getting rid of residual negativity from our houses – it is highly recommended to smudge/spray the house with it after situations that are highly stressful for the whole family, like after a family member’s death, after a divorce, etc.

This is a plant that is also highly related to the world of the Dead, so a cup of its tea will make a wonderful offering in your ancestor’s altar, or when asking for help to those who have crossed over to the world of spirits. A bundle of dry epazote is a wonderful protection to keep nightmares caused by spirits away, and to protect indigo children from spiritual attacks.

From here [emphasis added].

I actually just use this herb because it’s a) delicious and b) carminative (anti-farts) c) it’s hilarious to pull it out of my garden and be like “smell it! it smells curiously like gasoline!”


interviewing a potential new housemate (PNH). After discussing how we are not down with jokes rooted in oppression (rape jokes, etc):

F: oh, and RD likes boner jokes. A LOT. like, sometimes I come home and the board is just covered in boner drawings.

PNH: cool, have you heard this one? what did the egg say to the pot of boiling water?

RD (with bated breath): I don’t know, what!

PNH: you’re gonna have to wait a little bit, it’s gonna take me a few minutes to get hard.

RD: <giggling and hand-flapping so much PNH raises their eyebrows>

Exhibit 910 billion, I am a dork.

I haven’t wanted to write much lately because I’ve felt closed up. This happens–it always does. And then I un-clam, so to speak, and it all comes running forth, a spew. There is a daily dialogue in my head that keeps turning around and around about gender and transition (esp. medical transition). What do I want, what do I want, what do I want. I keep thinking: there are so many different ways to be a woman, why can’t you just carve out a space for yourself there? Sometimes I feel like I can, but most times I feel like I can’t. Not satisfactorily. My confident space, my best space–is in my masculinity. I own my femininity, yes yes, yes yes, but it feels like I’m at a place where I want to keep my femininity closer to my chest (so to speak), and live in my masculinity more. I could be a shy, soft-spoken and reclining woman (always vaguely unhappy and gender dysphoric), or a proud, strong and smart outspoken boi/y. So I pick boi/y. Which for me means binding my chest (and probably later top surgery), possibly a low dose of hormones (tho I am scared of losing my ability to cry, and having to re-train my singing voice). I want my body to masculinize further, it feels good, feels right.

I’ve missed my fixed gear the last couple of weeks. I got a couple of flats in quick succession and didn’t bother to fix the second one, decided to ride my geared bike instead, work out its kinks before the trip. It’s strange, but my fixed gear feels like an essential part of how I cope with gender dysphoria. Riding fixed has literally altered the landscape of my body, and thus helped me feel more in myself.

There are other aspects I like, too, the sensation of working a machine that becomes more like an extension of my own body when I’m riding it. “the rider is but a ghost of the machine/cog teeth willing/speed and journey.” (from Velocipede) When well-tuned, my fix is nearly silent–even with fenders. There’s a joke that the captain (ex, the first of the many nigh-religious fixed gear enthusiasts I met, and the person who introduced me to bike camping) told me, that you can pick up a fixed gear bike, drop it (so the whole thing, tires and all, bounces off the concrete), and diagnose any mechanical issues by the peculiarities of its rattle. While that’s not ENTIRELY true, it nearly is. My geared bike is like a locomotive in comparison (okay, the metal fenders don’t help, either!). I can never pinpoint all of its many rattles, and its mechanical issues often end up flummoxing me completely. And. And it’s prone to an awful lot more of them.

Friends tell me they “hate bikes” because there’s such a learning curve, an intense and problematic hierarchy (mostly cis white dudes, let’s be honest) lording over that knowledge, and because at entry-level, bikes can be prone to a lot of issues (flat tires, flimsy components, uncomfortable setups, etc) and of course in big cities bikes are prone to theft. And then of course there are poorly designed/marked bike routes, shoddy pavement quality, and the worst–downright murderously angry or oblivious drivers. In my city there are the additional barriers of the (often steep) hilly, glacially-tilled terrain combined with the extremely unpredictable weather of the Pacific Northwest. We do call it temperate for a reason, after all! I organized (and still occasionally do stuff in this vein) for a few years to both democratize knowledge (bike fit, how to ride in traffic, best routes, etc) and the streets (protests against anti-bike infrastructure, waging campaigns to get the city to fund a Bicycle Master Plan, and so on). In the last few years I have seen the city’s cycling culture grow and diversify, and the very landscape itself change, especially in terms of infrastructure. There’s a particular bike lane that I can honestly say is there because of organizing my comrades and I did, when residents protested en masse the city’s efforts to cave to business owners’ concerns over bike and pedestrian safety.

I am so grateful to have been a part of that work, and to have cut my teeth there. It very nearly led me to a career in liberal politicks, culminating as a stint as a campaign organizer during the 2008 general elections. But at the same time, the bubble burst on the U.S. economy, I began to actively critique capitalism, the state, and representative politics, and I became utterly disillusioned as I witnessed politicians (and the organizers who support them) treating their constituents as pawns. In short, I began the journey of radicalization, a long strange trip. And here I am, getting ready to embark on the same route (biking the Pacific Coast) again, the same journey that served as a direct precursor to my stint in liberal politicks and my subsequent radicalization. I’m interested to see what perspectives are to be gained along the way, and what will follow in the complicated months to come. I expect these revelations to be more personal than politickal, but who knows? “The personal is political”, after all.


cut-off jeans


My body is dangerous. My cunt could snap shut at any moment like a guillotine and take your four fingers off at the knuckle, without warning. All i’d have to say for myself would be a giggle, a burp and a whistle scoped thru my open hands. Holler back, what?

I like the work required to attain my orgasms, when we do it like this. It requires me to make myself a little bit vulnerable, even, to fit you to me. There’s always that directorial aspect–yesyesyes, up, deeper, come on. RIGHT THERE, right there, right there. Don’t stop.

No really, don’t stop. There’s more coming. And you may have to switch hands to get to it, I know. But truly, I do not give a fuck if your wrist is sore in the morning–I want all of it tonite. No, scratch that because it’s already morning, and I want my eggs scrambled, but not fertilized–I want to imagine your fist jostling my ovaries with spasms of pleasure.

oh OH OH OH FUCK! There is a well that springs when i least expect it, soaking to the crotch of my bicycle saddle and revealing that I am indeed, freshly fucked, and that the pleasure is fine. all mine. Bruised perineum, beestung lips, rosy cheeks, slippery thighs, cut-off jeans.

I am not ashamed, couldn’t even be shamed if I tried–just this once, twice, moremoremore.

19 days, ~1000 miles. My bicycle, my tools, my legs. 4 rest days built in, averaging ~65 miles a day.

A fountain pen, a new journal, a bottle of ink, the same old head and heart as before.

Departure 7/9, and be damned if I’m gonna push that back just because I’m modestly underprepared.

Things to do:

  • finish planning route (as in, actually map it out turn by turn)
  • clean/tune bike (swap handlebars?, definitely need to swap in favorite saddle)
  • practice pack (water filter, hot sauce, extra spoke(s), stamps, extra tube, tire, granola, corn meal, peanut butter, sardines, sunscreen, etc)
  • get a new tarp/new clothesline for tent as old one disappeared
  • get new sleeping pad (stolen by the copsss–fuck you cops)
  • nervously pace and/or stay awake at night, worrying: about what i’ve forgotten, if something breaks, if any of my plans fall thru, etc
  • roll off almost casually Monday morning, like i could be going to work, but instead lay down 60 miles or so, NBD.
  • rinse, repeat, zoom!

I’ve done this route before, but we did far fewer miles and I was with 6 other people. This time I get to do it alone and stop and hike and sleep on cliffs and cower from logging trucks and I am gonna have the best. fucking. time.and you can’t stop me, you can’t stop meeee.

<yawn> well at least i’m already fulfilling the staying-up-late-worrying part of my to do list.