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A greeting for negligent penpals and procrastinating authors. Postcard from my collection, 1911.

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GENDERNAUTS (1999) dir. Monika Treut The lives of a group of 'Gendernauts' (trans men Texas, Max, Stafford and Jordy; trans women Sandy and Susan; bisexuals Annie and Tornado; and intersex activist Hilda) all living in San Francisco, California, with the interviews of the subjects taking place in their natural settings and surroundings including their homes, offices, and the streets of the city. Through their lives, both the social and practical changes and decisions necessary for them to endure in order to live their lives as they see fit on the edge of traditional gender roles are explained. (link in title)

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make what you love, do what you love :) filet crochet 50 x 37 cm prints available here dyke version here

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Can you serve the Lord and cunt at the same time?

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(1) Pay phone at corner store, (2) Harry Dodge & Silas Howard, (3) Anna Joy, Elitreo, and Asia. San Francisco 1996 by Chloe Sherman

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Oscar Wilde

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this genuinely has me in tears

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all hail the great white puff!

worship her.

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Nature held me close and seemed to find no fault with me. (Stone Butch Blues, Leslie Feinberg)

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watching twin peaks is hard because sometimes you think 'these characters could use some therapy'. and then you remember that some of them did seek out professional help but their only option was this

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Medusa, the Gorgon [a feminist reimagining of Medusa]

by Ellenburg

The stunned stones

never were.

They turned toward ugliness

and never found it.

But there was beauty

unbearable

like the vivid sun

trembling with the heaviness of light.

Tall, taut she strode

lean ripples

like a black panther

out of the heat

of Libyan mirages.

The gods turned from her,

would not look,

but muttered lies

and slanders

and myths grown bitter

with rage.

Jealous gods, we are, they said,

petulant in legends

of almightiness,

casting the first stones

as she knelt in the

sands tracing lines of lyrics

from ancient truths.

Sands of time and winds of change

men of gods and gods of men

profane the glory of beauty strong

sung deep to African rhythms

loud, delirious the joy

and holy the beauty

that stuns

to stone like stares.

Oh who thought

beauty

could kill like that,

just

like that.

Gorgon.

Monstrous muse of

man’s worst fears.

Let’s say

she is hideous and

death

to look upon.

And let’s say

the hair lashing

around that face

the color of night

is a frenzy of vipers

seething from the pores of

her dark soul.

And so

the dreadlocks coiled thick

around that superb

taunt of her face

writhed into lives of their own

and her laughter

shimmered

like heat dancing,

dervish ghosts of

sacred memories.

Mercy is mine, she said,

and leaned deep to the

edges of time and watched

to see what on blue earth man would make

of his reverence

and what gods

he would name.

And vengeance,

vengeance is mine, she said,

and placed

her fabulous, furious head in

the pale palm of her black hand

as horrors seeped from man’s

mad imaginings

sickening the sweetness of deception.

Vengeance, too, is mine,

she muttered,

the vengeance of a terrible love,

the only love they will not destroy.

And thunders bellowed

like war’s merciless clamor

from age to age

and hot light shredded the dark musings of

the brightest of men

and rain fell soft

upon Europe

down the Danube

up the Amazon

across the sea Atlantic

over Himalaya

and soft over the lands

water, sky and seas that hold

secret the forgotten

names of she who will not be forgotten.

and all men and women we

travel still

like ancient worshippers

the breadth of history

still pagan

despite the

long ages of lies, slanders and myths

grown quiet with rage

and god remains where she began

inside the world’s

lonely

longing

heart,

beating

strongly like African rhythms

sung deep to

the glory of beauty strong.

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Art by Arcano XV

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“ i’ve translated the sugar of lung & mist. the meaning of language is a family of pauses. appearances that crawl like incense between crevices of hard barrier, but then there is truth which as a fence we jump to land on barbarous scenes of fading; where we hang the moon in our hollow cavity and there walk in thick groups of solitary breaths, aiming to cut tragedy in two great halves with the rim of suffer.”

by Pablo Saborio