sitting with things to say, suspended in time,
learning how to control the blooming of my colors.
I am a queer container. Who came into organizing
for the electric eel of imagined change.
All in Queering
sitting with things to say, suspended in time,
learning how to control the blooming of my colors.
I am a queer container. Who came into organizing
for the electric eel of imagined change.
Last night I watched a thousand footer leave the Twin Ports. After twenty two years in Duluth, I still marvel at how these ships move through open water. The gritty grand aesthetic equals an eye bending immensity, a slow soft rumble of engineered science, and enormity’s unbelievable ability to stay afloat. I also balked at the name of the boat. Bah “american integrity”. WTF?!
Yes, it’s the month I meld into my couch. I’ve been intimate with Women’s March Madness for 21 years. Every “spring'“ as winter on our bigLake refuses to give up center court, demanding another round of celebrity, reminding us who last/every year’s climactic champion is in wavy, drama-queen kind of ways, I watch. Embrace sweaty ESPN-flavored enthusiasms. And watch and watch.
“There’s a lot of fetching at times about how the world is built for two, and how it holds this one style or this escalator up as a high-status relationship, and everything pales next to it. It’s a highly rigid and conforming way of [experiencing intimacy] that works for many people but doesn’t work for all. “
When one receives (via USPS!) a beautiful-as-fuck, bright-like-blue-glowing-full-moon ceramic dildo made at a queer arts camp in d’Midwest wilds, you know your queer sex guides are watching over you.