All You Bots Must Be Worried April 22, 2007

Check it. I am alive. I have been up to some serious shit, like doing my dishes. I have also experienced a resurgence of love for Joanna Newsom, completed an entire cycle of poems, and baked my ass off. No, dude, not like that. Like making stuff to eat. In an oven. Anyway, I don’t smoke weed because I fear that it will unlock a hidden font of crazy within me and make me into a schizophrenic.

As per my previous promise: the above listing of activities was really an attempt to justify the fact that I didn’t post on this blog thing for almost a month, even though I pledged to post on it daily. Oh, intentions. Remember that radical theatre company I was going to start? How about the neighborhood catering service? Or, to go further back, the extra-curricular organization that was going to save all of the kitties and puppies that didn’t have owners? Or the vigilante squadron of eight year-olds dedicated to stopping the McDonalds Happy Meal Religio-Fascists from offering the race-car toy to boys and that lame-ass fake Barbie to girls? Excuse me, I have to go lie on a blanket under the stars and dream about my upcoming summer project: an avant-garde performance art magnet boarding school for the disadvantaged children of bottomed-out IT specialists! Baby’s gonna change the world, Mama! Baby’s gonna fly!

Now then. It seems like spring might be here for good. I am excited about that, so goodbye to my bra and hello to my blue summerweight quilt. It’s also the best time of year for green garlic, fresh english peas and squash blossoms. Ding-a-ling!
In honor of the season: did you know that you can make honeysuckle ice cream? It’s easy as hell and so good that it will make you believe in G-d.*

All you do is take your basic ice cream recipe (I use a custard base). But BEFORE you make the custard, warm the milk/cream gently, mix it with several cups of honeysuckle blossoms and let it steep in the fridge for ~3 hours. Then, yeah, strain that shit really well. It will taste like flowers, I am not even kidding. Some of us like to top the finished product with unsweetened cocoa powder. Bitter, sweet, aromatic. Fahhk yeah.

*Hello, religious superstition-inspired spelling of the g-word. Hello, psycho-social machinery that just keeps churning churning churning, forcing me to pay semiotic homage to a deity that I’m 99% sure I don’t believe in! Hello, Dr. Klein! Hi there, Dr. Jung! Sigmund, good day sir! Donna Harraway, is that you?

PS: Cameron has procurred a green jeweled pendant, the exact color of his limpid eyes, which he wears dangling from his collar. Stunning. Just, stunning. Oh my secular Jesus I love that cat.

! April 3, 2007

I love how whenever I write a really sincere post in this blog thing, I inevitably look back on it the next day with mixed feelings. Part of me is like, I am really RAW, emoting all over the internet and such. But most of me is like, PERSON THAT I WAS YESTERDAY, YOU ARE A LITTLE BIT LAME. Balance in all things, my friends. Balance is key.

No worries today though, because I’m not planning on assaulting you with anymore sentimental bullshit for a while. I’ve got much more important intelligence to communicate because I SAW THE FERRET. Hell yes.

Where should I start… Ought I to begin with the way he lives in aquarium and seems to spend most of his time burrowing flounderingly into piles of cedar shavings? So cute/desperate-seeming. How about the little, pokey bones that stand up along his back, thin as bristles on a porcupine? No, I think I’ll start by telling you that, while I did not touch him, he looked MOIST. Indeed, friends. Plus, unlike Cameron, who actually has a little bit of grey peach fuzz, this animal is totally fucking bald and WAY pink. I stood there and stared at him for about five solid minutes, unable to tear myself away. I think that ought to be enough of the story to convey that my overall reaction to this little guy was UM EW with a side of OMG I LOVE YOU.

The old man working the store (father of the dude who owns Cameron and his ferret companion) did not remember the moist one’s name, but I think a good name would be Wet Pencil Eraser. Old man made it clear that he was as mysterified as I was by Wet Pencil Eraser’s presence in the store, but not half as delighted. He confirmed that WPE had been obtained because he’s “supposed to keep Cameron company”, but opined that “Cameron doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s there.” Aw.

Furthermore, he shared, Cameron’s lassaiz-faire affect is actually oweing to the fact that he likes to sneak out of the store mid-day and enjoy a few pints at the Four P’s. Oh god I wish I were just a LITTLE more gullible… Anyone interested in helped me breathalyze a cat?

Chin Bent, A Daffodil April 2, 2007

Tonight was the first night of my 22nd Passover, my first without my grandmother. Passover is, at its core, a celebration of redemption. It tells the story of one kind of freedom, hard-won and high-priced– of a journey to get home. I am so lucky to love my home.

Today I feel like shouting how good it feels to struggle. I want to celebrate our universal effort to get free–in so many ways. From the bonds of racism, homophobia, classism and sexism that strangle our ability to relate and create. From external opressive forces that limit our ability to move, to express, to sleep and eat well. From the internal pangs of anxiety, fear and sadness that weigh us down.

I also want to celebrate how good it feels to be bound– to community, to people, to movements and projects and goals. To memory. I want to revel in the ability we have to create change in ourselves and in the world, in the responsibility we have to do so.

I want to celebrate my Grandma, who loved me completely, even when she didn’t like a certain part of me. I want to feel ecstatic about spring. I do. I do.