Tag: writing

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Usually I’m all about the bare minimum of setting things on fire (or fireworks), getting drunk, and throwing some beef bullshit on a grill. I was never one for all that gross patriotism with the flags and USA is Gr8 stuff, anyway. But I can’t bring myself to do it this year.


The 4th of July was always like Thanksgiving for me– it’s not a holiday for me or my people, not really. It was just another day to celebrate surviving this fucking farce of a country with the people you love, in spite of it doing its very best to kill you. Another passive day, just slightly different. Probably more food.


I just can’t see the little good in our country today.


And I just cannot muster the strength to even acknowledge my strength that got me here today. Because I am so, so fucking tired. The feeling of “it does not get better” is beginning to seep into my bones. It may very well be there already.


So, yeah. My cynicism and depression are too high today, and the constant background-process grieving is too much to be distracted by sparklers. I’m sure y’all understand.


Now go and read Frederick Douglass’ speech about the 4th of July. This is all I got.

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“Decolonized ancestor worship.”


That was my first and immediate response to a partner’s questions about my altar. A single candle was lit, fresh flowers and water, and the tablecloth recently replaced. It cast a soft light in my bedroom. 


If I felt something, I kept it to myself. 


He asked to approach it, so he could see it better. Maybe ask some questions. The guarded in me said, “from a distance.” At first. 


I’m not used to others wanting to know.


Nor am I used to someone not wanting my succinct answers. He wanted to know details. The “whys.” The “how I got here.”


I’ve a certain post that would be a good companion piece for this entry (and vise versa), so I guess this is as a good time as any…


Like most kids, I had my obligatory Wiccan phase in high school. And, like most adults, I look back upon it and cringe– not because of Wicca itself, but I fell into the tunnel of misinformation and fluffybunniness that was Silver RavenWolf. I’ve had a lot of serious unpacking to do when I revisited Wicca in my late 20s. I don’t consider myself Wiccan, mostly due to it being a slippery slope for cultural appropriation.


At best, my spiritual relationship is “complicated“/”vaguely pagan”/”probably a Satanist,” with ancestral religions of the Black diaspora.


In addition, what I believe:


  1. There is no God, just personifications of forces and energies we can (and cannot) name. And they don’t care if I cheat on my taxes. (I’ll note that this is metaphysics-friendly.)
  2. And in direct response to undoing the damage RavenWolf did: My practice is decolonized, anti-appropriative, and anti-oppressive. If it isn’t of my culture (Black American) or “open,” then I keep my hands off of it. I’ve also a particular dislike for Christianity as it was used as a tool to colonize most of the world.
  3. Due to the previous point, what I do would be considered eclectic. I do a lot of reading to be sure something is acceptable for me, as well as reclaiming my roots. I pick up what works and discard the rest, for preference and practicality/flexibility.
  4. My focus is on Black diasporic / Black American spirituality. Considering I’m descended from slaves, it is a lot to digest. Herbalism as well as the more scarier (according to Hollywood) things.
  5. I am picky about my “woo.” I’m still pretty allergic to cisheteronormativity, even in witchy circles– I run into the gender binary a lot via the whole “male/female energies” thing; and I’m certainly not substituting crystals to a trip to the doctor. Also refer back to Point 2.


I’m also influenced by my parents, who were ostracized from their church for daring to voice concern over their money consumption; they’ve shown me different ways to be religious and/or spiritual without the requirement of an overpriced building. They’ve always done their own thing and their offspring followed in that regard. I got my love for sleeping in on Sundays from them!


But what do I do? It is not much, but I’ve altars (one personal, one for my Ancestors), I may wiggle my fingers and meditate at the same time, do some decorating, and I make time for Juneteenth and other Black American holidays.


…So I was flippant just a tiny bit, but I’m a bit private about this, and, to quote another practitioner when we were still in contact: “stop telling white people our shit.”


And I get enough weird looks from Gold Star Atheists.


So that’s the setup as to why it would be so damn weird for me to step into a church of any sort. Except for weddings, knightings, and funerals.



So, yeah. On a rainy Saturday evening way back in February, I went to church.


It was the movie trope of the scene mirroring depression: rainy, and cold, and in a desolate parking lot browsing Facebook. I saw a post about a gospel event. I decided to go. Because isn’t that what people do when they’re sad? They go to church, right, on a Saturday night? And nothing had worked that day– might as well give it a shot– I’ll try (almost) anything once.


For in that quest to squash the sadness and find another part of Me that’s My Thing, something out of character may have been in order.



I was decidedly very uncomfortable in that crowded church.


I didn’t belong.


And when the singer announced they were there not to be entertained, but to worship, I was rightfully embarrassed for my spectatorship and left (and to add to that embarrassment– I was blocked in, so they had to make an announcement for someone to move their vehicle).


I’ll just skip to this part: I didn’t get the epiphany that there was a God that cared about me. Nor did I receive an embrace of a religious community of “you belong here.” And I certainly didn’t feel enough spirit to stand up and sing or hum the tune very badly. And ultimately, I left the event not feeling much different than from when I arrived.


Maybe I went, anyway, on a hunch that such a shock to my system would jog things for me. And that hunch turned out to be correct, for I did come away with an epiphany:


People can be like negative space: when you’re unable to be defined by what you are, you can be defined by what you are not.

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“Whoa,” I said, sitting up a little as the credits rolled. “I haven’t heard that in forever.”


“What song is it?” he asked, shifting under my head. We had been binging Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure for two hours and Netflix’s “Are you still there?” prompt caught us lounging on the couch, my head on his lap.


“…I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it.”


And as he did a quick Google search, I was too busy remembering.



As everyone should know by now– by pop culture osmosis or actually reading and/or watching the series– JJBA references rock artists and songs.


And my dad loved classic rock (rock, generally). Music, generally, but classic rock was his favorite genre. When I first heard Roundabout, I wasn’t familiar with it. But I knew the style, and it was confirmed by my mom that it was one of the many songs he liked.


I may not remember much, like the title or who performed it, but I knew that tune from my childhood:


There are spoilers here, btw. Check out Spotify instead if you need to.


Growing up for me consisted of a lot of waiting– my school district was in another county, so we had to wait an hour for the bus. When I was older, we waited for daycare to open. During the periods where we had only one vehicle, we waited for mom to get out of work. We waited for the bus again in my high school years and when I graduated, we waited in a McDonald’s parking lot on top of a surprisingly scenic hill.


A lot of that waiting was done in the car, with the radio on. And all of the time, it was me and my dad. And finally, my dad would scope out pretty chill places to, well, wait. These would usually be bodies of water or an interesting bit of forest. When he was in the mood, he’d talk (OK, a lot of the time it was more like lecturing), but we mostly just listened to the music.


And hearing the first bars of that song… it jogged a memory of when I was much younger: There was a lake, and it was afternoon, probably early spring. We may have been killing time before we picked up mom. I don’t remember what I was doing or even which car it was at the time. Hell, human memory is pretty faulty in general and I could be misremembering all of this.


But I remember when my dad was still alive.


Grief is something else. It never goes away, it just crops up when you’re watching an animated series that’s supposed to be (for the most part) fun. But considering my reaction to Dan of Steel (Gaucho was another defining background album from my childhood), I kinda saw this coming.


So this “just” (air quotes) made me miss him.


I listened to this song on Spotify and finally cried again.

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This was a draft for 2020-01-01 that I never posted.


I stayed in this year. After work, I was so tired. I stayed home with my nesting partners, played video games, and watched more Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure. I drank a mimosa with a lover once the clock struck twelve, and kissed everyone I could.


I’m rolling out the accolades, still. “Happy New Year!” with a shitton of emojis. We did it. Another year. Let’s make this year even better.


And yet, I am sad.


I open up Discord and there’s names that have been grey to me for months. I’m still not over my friend’s passing. I’m dreading work drudgery tomorrow. I’m worried about a childhood friend. Deadlines are looming. Were we even missed? More adulting this weekend. Plans being made.


I keep backspacing.


I’m stumped. I don’t know if I should say any more.


I’ve until midnight to dole out my “Happy New Year”s.


We’ve got time.


Maybe this would work better as a poem.


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While I was VerboseTerse, I participated in write31days one year and got incredibly introspective and detailed about my gender. Or lack of. I revisit my thoughts once in awhile, especially on those long nights when I just can’t get to sleep.

One of the webcomics I routinely follow is Dumbing of Age, and lately, Malaya had me thinking about my journey. When she’s not being a base breaker a jerkass witty person wearing bitchin’ outfits, watching her navigate college with ever-growing questions about her own gender has been… eerily familiar.

Malaya discussing how she's "probably" a woman due to how her body is.
This was my rationale for years.

I also want to note that as of this writing, Malaya’s story arc hasn’t come to its conclusion. Only Willis knows how this’ll play out, but for the audience we’re wondering, too. Is she cisgender? Transgender, after all; maybe non-binary? Does she come off as a jerkass calling out "fake" people to hide her insecurities about not knowing where exactly she falls on the gender spectrum? Where the hell did she get that top?

"The Box Marked F must be for me, because it’s my size, isn’t it? Aren’t I supposed to fit? Who am I to argue?" I’ve wondered that a lot, myself.

And the strip that ran on Oct. 16th had me thinking: did I always know?

Malaya asking, "Did you always know you're a girl?"

A common (or maybe, popularized?) trans narrative is "I’ve Always Known." Someone knew, since they were little, that they were transgender. There were always signs and little to no questioning and angst.

I’ve had doubts, sure. And doubts about my doubts. So my "I’ve Always Known" story isn’t clearly defined, like a chicken-or-the-egg scenario.

There was a ton of unpacking and thinking and backsides because if I was transgender, I would have had a clear sign by now, right? Right?

But at the same time, I had little epiphanies of my own. They just didn’t click until later. I looked back and was not surprised.

And there are so many ways to be your gender identity. Despite what society tells you, there’s no wrong way to be a man, woman, both, neither, or something your carved out for yourself!

I fought social conditioning and compulsory gender roles to settle fully outside The Box Marked F.

And yes, trust me, I’m sure. The particular "flavor" of my transness may change (I’ve gone from genderqueer to neutrois and now I use agender and non-binary interchangeably)… But I will always be outside the box.

That’s the short of it.

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Remember that writing is to put love in the world, not to use against your friends.

Harriet the Spy


I’m going to go ahead and nip this in the bud, because I’ve had this sentiment twisted against me whenever I speak up about something. Because some folks have it in their head that putting love in the world is to never, ever, speak of the bad things.


Don’t mention the pain you have to deal with. It’s not nice. It kills the mood.


Don’t upset your allies. They mean well, right? Even if they repeatedly fuck up and hurt you because they don’t listen.


How can you be putting love into the world by causing so much strife?


how can you


how can you


How dare you call me out?


Because I must.


I’m not going against you when I say that you hurt me. If anything, I’m with you. Rooting for you. Because you can do better. If anything, I’m doing more than putting love into the world. I’m protecting it, and helping it grow.


So, if anyone dares to twist that beautiful quote, I counter with this:


If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.

James Baldwin

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The thread began with the usual curiosity from a monogamous person: “can you truly find happiness with multiple people?” But it was a passing comment on a forum jarred me out of my browsing:


“Polyamory is such a fad.” Even without voice, I could feel the tone and implications I’m all too familiar with, now.


I know some people just aren’t geared for non-monogamy, and that is okay. But still, I could not let that go unchallenged. For in my experience, a “fad” is a snide comment for anything that gains popularity due to more people exploring and becoming aware of new possibilities.


My sexuality was “just a fad.”


My gender identity is “just a fad.”


And the newest fad, evidently, is polyamory. They say some things come in threes.


And their comments continued, to paraphrase: It’s nothing to take seriously, because it’s so easy. You’re just playing until you find that one person to be your everything. Until then, you can just go to the next person like they’re nothing. You’re not really happy. You can’t be.


And I definitely did not let that slide.


This is hard fucking work.


You have to constantly check in with yourself as you deprogram from monogamous habits and deal with blindspots, insecurities, and time management. You have to confront your bullshit. You have to unpack the how’s and why’s of what you’re feeling. That is hard enough on its own, but you also have to field the outside static of potential abuse. Discomfort may be growth, but to borrow from Eve Rickert: never ignore your pain.


That is, if you want to go about it as healthy and ethically as possible.


And none of this happens overnight. Especially if you had no role models to follow and had to make the same mistakes others have before you. Then make a few of your own as you adapt to your particular life.


I had to be horribly honest with myself. Even scarier, I had to be honest with others.


So, yeah, I’m a little touchy when someone disregards the hard work upon myself as a mere “fad.”


If anyone tells you that any form of non-monogamy is “a cakewalk,” they’re either in denial or trying to sell you something or they’re looking for a third.


Sure, I could pour myself into one single person but that wouldn’t be fulfilling to me and ultimately unfair for them to be My Everything for Possibly Forever. And that’s valid.


You may feel differently and that’s valid too.


But neither one of us is a “fad.”

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Throwback Thursday: a note on Feb 5, 2018.


Fang: [Vanille]’s a crybaby, though! She cries as soon as she gets lonely or insecure. But if I stroke her head, she stops as if nothing is wrong.

Lebreau: In that case, you’ll need to find her quickly and pat her on the head.

Fang: Yup.

Final Fantasy XIII


I keep saying I need to get back to journaling, or at least blogging,
because I’ve been through a ton of emotions and trying to process them
is a delightful and horrifying blur. Part of it is just me being me, and
part of it is because I rewatched Star Wars: The Last Jedi and seeing
Carrie Fisher up there sets off a deluge.


That, and.


I’m surrounded by people that not only like me, but a few also love me. And even a few more that want to spend time with me.


And each connection is something different.


And some connections are still here, still loving me.


That, and.


I’m still broken, and I’m still fucking up, and I still hear the
voice in my head telling me that people will stop loving me the moment
they realize how broken I am, or. They’re going to discard me the
instant I make one mistake because that’s happened so many times


but the voice is… manageable. Sometimes. More, sometimes.


That, and.


I’m recognizing the voice’s tricks. Sometimes, it doesn’t help much. But there’s power to naming and recognizing something.


That, and.


I’ve been healing in interesting ways. But it’s been slow. It’s been
clumsy. I’m sorry. I’ve changed. I don’t really know me from before. I’m
an echo.


That, and.


I’m overdue for a good cry, actually.


That, and.


I wonder if– no, when, as it’s been predicted, if you believe in that sort of thing– I’ll start using my gills, too. I do when I have to. I still come up for air.


But. (“Strike that. Reverse it.”)


I dive instead, and refuse to come up for hours. And sometimes I can’t I’m this fragile fish that’ll melt if I get too close to the surface.


That, and.


I want to try everything everything everything though my shy soul balks the entire time. As shy souls do. Xie’ll let me know when I’m (not) ready.


That, and.


I’m contradictions and multitudes, damn it. Yet I still exist. And I am valid. Gills and lungs. I love the shore. I will go to it. I adore the deep, too. I’ll go back to it.


That, and.


. Sometimes the best thing you can do is survive. Pray someone swoops in and knocks you out of the way because you are more than a sacrifice.


That, and.


I could use a pat on the head right now. But I’m in solitude, for I need to rest and heal. Listening to my body. Surviving.


I’m tired. I’m tired of thinking.


But I’ll come up for air in a few days.


You can pat me on the head then, and I’ll pat yours.

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https://youtu.be/DkulwLg_u8w


It’s weird to wake up not knowing who you are. You do all this stuff, you enjoy these things, yet you still wake up wondering what your “thing” is.


And in a strange show of wanting to feel included, you leave hints that you’d like to be invited to the next thing. Because you’re still questing as to what, exactly, your “thing” consists of. Maybe that’ll be it.


You’re still reeling from those years stuck in a rut– “becalmed” if you want to be romantic about it– because you have a quiet fear that the things you enjoyed then were only crutches to keep you alive to the next day. Or worse, things you needed to outgrow because you’re a Real Adult now. With like, a house with utility bills and everything.


You know that you’re lonely. That you need to be vulnerable again, to reach out. You also know that your hobbies are valid and just need dusting off. And you know damn well you need to get out of the house and not just for errands.


You know what you’re lacking. You need more dates. More people time. More people time that doesn’t end with sex. More music. More conversations. More stories to tell. More dreams to witness. More parks to visit. More prompts.


And yet. It’s 2am and you can’t sleep; you don’t want to. Because it’s just job and eat and sleep and repeat and clinging a little too hard because you feel unanchored without a “thing” and you’re jealous that they got a “thing” they stumbled upon and you were too chickenshit to forge bonds of/on your own.


Or you’re scared your “things” are so niche that you’ll enjoy them alone, not in content solitude but in loneliness-by-circumstance because there’s no one else interested to share them with. So you hope for an invite, and go along, and even if you end up not liking it you learned one more thing about yourself.


You fear you’ll always be the tag-along. In spite of your knee-jerk bitterness and resolve to just traverse the event alone, if you have to, because of course the meetup party couldn’t wait for you… you just want to feel included.


So. I don’t know what my “thing” is. If I have one. Or maybe I have many.


And how much of this is me, and how much of it is just things I picked up just because I happened to be there? Is there even a difference? Does it really matter?


I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

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NOTE: I’ll just go ahead and schedule this one for tomorrow. This is the stuff y’all really care about, right?! 😉 Happy New Year.

Yep. Make that dating apps. But over this weekend by the time entry is posted, I’ll be reducing said apps to two.

I realize that I am trying too hard.

I also realize that dating apps probably just aren’t for me. The few connections I made were with people I already knew (or, in a few cases, I met a good few years ago). Perhaps I have astronomically bad luck at meeting new people online, but I’ve the conclusion that I should just stick to the circles I’m already in. And if I do branch out, put a lot more emphasis on doing that in meatspace.

But here’s the part y’all really care about: what apps did I actually use?

OKCupid is the classic, the oldest, and my most verbose. I put a lot of work into my essays and 200 questions answered. And there’s so many memories associated with it. Few of them good… I’ve received some weird messages back in ’09.

The second most popular app is Tinder, which I got banned from before I got a really good feel for it. But from what I hear (and by that I mean look over a partner’s shoulder and offer peanut-gallery-style snark), I’m actually not missing much other than FOMO. The Swipe High is real, y’all. So let’s go to the alternatives I was mostly on instead:

The first kinder, gentler Tinder everyone thinks of is Bumble. There’s different modes between dating, friendship, and business; women can "make the first move" by sending the initial message. And there’s bee themes. Cute! And then there’s Hinge: An even kinder, gentler Tinder with a relaxing font and rounded corners where you directly comment on a photo or writing prompt to start a conversation. That’s a good gimmick if you’re like me and always struggling with an opener. HER, however, will still have to be my favorite of these swipe-y apps. Yes, it’s that Lesbian Dating App you may have heard about. My second-oldest account is on HER when I wasn’t content with just hiding straight people (ok, straight men mostly) from my OKC profile. I’ve found it welcoming to transgender and gender-nonconforming folx.

While we’re on the topic of queer-focused apps, I’m thinking of Qutie: I suddenly remembered this existed. Think OKCupid, but for LGBTQ cuties. It’s a weird cross between OKC and Tinder-Swipeness. It couldn’t hold my attention long enough to really use it, though. I’ll try it again if I’m super bored.

A tool tip with different gender options: Male, Female, and non-binary. Two big red arrows also point to the text "You may check more than one box."

 

While OKC has come a long way to supporting non-monogamous relationships, but I’m always keeping an eye out for other ones that cater specifically to non-mono people, for that’ll be one less hurdle to deal with. ("hashtag-Open") is one of the few dating apps specifically geared to non-monogamous people; there’s even a "pair" profile option for couples looking for a third. And I am so proud of them for doing this one little thing: THE GENDER OPTIONS ARE NOT BINARIST. I believe it defeats the purpose of having an extensive list of gender identities to choose from, but in the end it’s still funneled between only two binary choices: man or woman. So, kudos to for not doing that!

But, it’s a ghost town. I guess we’re out here being polysaturated or putting our phones down in order to be present in the moment. 😉

And meanwhile, I wish Feeld had more traction; it’s geared for the more casual sex/swinger/hookup crowd and sometimes you’re just in the mood for that sorta thing. (Also potential kinky playdate shenanigans within the "Interests" and "Looking For" fields.) I didn’t have to be coy or polite and beat around the bush– "you know why we’re here"– but… I don’t think I have the gumption to pull off the whole hookup/swinger thing. On top of clashing with most swing culture (note to self, that’s a whole other post?), I find myself having conversations about tea and chiptunes instead of angling to get in someone’s pants. (But that still doesn’t stop me from browsing in the middle of the night…)

I’m weirdly loathe to actually delete my accounts, since I put so much work in them! But I uninstalled. All that remains is OKC, HER, and… Feeld. I was holding out for Hinge, but I believe the other party I was talking scifi with has figuratively left the building. Shit happens.

But it still feels pretty good, to not be weighted down by so many apps.

…

…Is there a dating app geared specifically for weird awkward nerds such as myself?