Tag: writing

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2015-02-27 (It was also posted to StoriesPortal, ne’e TaleVault, but as of this posting I’ve been unable to bring up the site.)

“What the hell did I just watch!?”

I shut off the television in disgust. That was it? Is that what this… Disney… had to offer me? Awful, just awful.

At least that Danish Andersen fellow had the sense to make the sea witch not give a fuck. You want the thing? Here’s the price. Steep, but fair– the price fitting for the intent. That’s how we roll.

But this?

They made her outright evil. A vindictive thing that wanted power. She was gorgeous but she outright conned those merfolk, stacking the cards against them. And for what? Shits and giggles. What a fucking shyster.

And the fact that Ursula was fat AND a bad guy was not lost on me. They ain’t even subtle.

No wonder I couldn’t get much business anymore. This drivel was dripping from the land and into my undercurrents. It pisses me off. If these landlubbers were eating this stuff up, you know the merfolk are too. The superficial stuff like looks, not so much, but my last customer was terrified I’d turn her into coral or something.

I’ve wondered why, and now I know.

Also the obligatory #NotAllSeaWitches, but damn.

Which is why I’m sitting in my seaside condo seriously considering cursing my neighbor. “Oh, you’ll like this movie!” Damn ho don’t know me at all. Because not only did they tarnish the reputation of sea witches, but there was a happy ending.

I hate contrived happy endings like this. Someone should have suffered a little more. The prince should have been struck blind, like in that other fairy tale with the thorns.

Okay, Yung. Deep breath. She only meant well.

At least the musical numbers were on point, though. Ursula had some pipes on her.

I sighed, and pop in the sequel… or prequel, whatever. Disney made a ton of these things. Another evil sea witch (sister?), probably more songs.

Business is slow, so I might as well trudge along with watching these.

BONUS: Poetry. That’s What You Get (For Walking On Land) / To Ariel

2015-02-01, which inspired the above story. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a big fan of The Little Mermaid and its fanfiction- esp. when messing with the Disney version.

Chalk it up to mere vindictiveness,
A nastiness,
Jealousy–
And every stereotype a sea witch can offer
While being impossible to scrub clean with
Disneyification
(nudity and oral sex and rough words and hedonism and technicalities,
just the sort fanfiction writers love to write about)
But:

I’m still stewing over the fact that you got away–
That, while my precious girl was happy for a while–
Her homage got a happily ever after.
For fuck’s sake,
I cursed Dumbo instead because you are out of reach.
So let me try this the old-fashioned way with illwishing
(and limericks, I guess).

It doesn’t sound too bad– if you’re naive.
You don’t know how crushing yearning can be
Unless you’ve been there,
Honey.
And we’ve all been there, haven’t we?

Yet I can’t bring myself to be too harsh.
But, this is just the flavor
Of curses
That I like.
So I hope you hear this:

I hope not that each step’ll be full of knives,
But each time someone looks at you
In longing
Your knees’ll crumble and you’ll be unable
To walk
For days.

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And still, I dream.
She told me of the man
Haunted by floating steps and
Math, lights down for one year.
How he exclaimed her to be
A Victim
But her age knew better;
You’ve heard this before.
We jotted down the spell and
Cast
Into depths, turned shallow.
Tweak your methods-
There’s no tradition, there.
And as I dream
I remember
The broken pencils,
Traded for ink and gossip.

Jan. 28th

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I did this instead of sleeping.

Disclaimer: may not actually be funny.

[Theater curtains pull back to reveal a tiny apartment. BF (boyfriend) and ME (me) are hanging out on the couch or something. I ignore the roaches.]

BF: Hey guess what! You should totally see other girls because you’re bisexual, right?
Me: that is dumb reasoning i can totally be monogamous and im totally not ignoring any earlier hints in my life of the contrary
NARRATOR (who sounds suspiciously like Joey Lauren Adams and will never show up again): They did not stay monogamous.

[Time skip, a month. At some gaming thing or whatever I trip over a MTG card. Not enough Os in smooth. My crush was watching and the thought of asking her out would not leave my mind.]

ME: ok bet

[I run home to tell BF my intentions.]

BF: OK, cool!
BF: …can you not see other men, tho?
ME: Fine. One of y’all is enough. But we will revisit this in the future because men are occasionally hot.
BF: No penises.
ME: That’s fucked but I lack to vocab to explain why. I will fix that.

[I get on OKCupid, and start doing a lot of reading and Googling Words. Fastforward like, a month or something. Time is a farce. I’m back on the couch, on my laptop, and I have ACQUIRED VOCABULARY. And I never did ask her out. I’m a weenie.]

ME: Hey, whadayya know? I’ve done my research and reading and turns out, I’m actually polyamorous! I’m not broken! This is AWESOME! DOWN WITH ANGST!
BF: Cool.
ME: We’re a mono/poly relationship. That’s neat. It’s gonna be hard work.
BF: OK?
ME: Yeah, because we’re in an One Penis Policy and I don’t like it. You’re gonna have to get over this fear of other dicks.
BF: I–
ME: And your exact wording was pretty transphobic. I know that word, now. You thought I forgot, didn’t you? Check that shit, too.

[BF begins angrily scrubbing the floors.]

ME: dude just use a damn mop
ME: …I missed my cue to make a joke linking "hard work" and "other dicks."

[To make myself feel better about my shitty comedic timing, I print out the shiny POLYAMOROUS label and stick it next to my other ones. Somewhere in the world, one of those Labels-Are-Meaningless types gets a chill down their spine. I cackle in glee, knowing someone out there fucking hates my collage of labels. I hope they open the wrong can and it’s actually canned asparagus.]

ME: Who put that giant question mark next to my gender? Eh, I’ll figure that out later.

[Another fast forward, let’s say a year. I’m no longer guilty of my crushes and feelings, in love with this other person, been burned a few times, screwed up and learned from my mistakes, and I may have taken a flamethrower to the apartment because of aforementioned roaches. But I digress.]

BF: So I’m scared you’ll leave me for a woman.
ME: Not because you’re a casual sexist racist macho dorkward who can’t clean a dish?
BF: What?
ME: What?

[At some point, we get distracted. Three guesses how and what.]

BF: On a totally unrelated note, can we close the relationship back in the future?
ME: You can’t put Robin Williams back in the bottle, man.
BF: …what?
ME: I SAID WHAT I SAID

[We’re gonna skip the rather quiet breakup and I just jump through the trap door and disappear in a puff of smoke. I leave my clothes, but I quote a line from Aladdin first. Scene.]

NARRATOR (who sounds suspiciously like Joey Lauren Adams and I was wrong about this): I should warn you that the next time you meet, it’s gonna be awkward. You will also regret re-friending him on Facebook.
ME: Same as it ever was. Play me out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2-NaMALbm0

P.S.

ME: …wait. You used "they" earlier.

[NARRATOR (who I am convinced is Joey Lauren Adams at this point), just hands me a printout about from KnowYourMeme about Egg Mode.]

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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.”