Don’t laugh – but there are people in this world
Born as boys – and fighting to be girls
People standing in their way
Some are straight and some are gay
Calling them the drag queens
Say you can’t be one of us
You only have yourself to blame
You don’t fit
Don’t laugh – but there are people in this town
Be polite say a whiter shade of brown
People that they gotta fight
Some are black and some are white
Calling them the half-breeds
Say you can’t be one of us
You only have yourself to blame
You don’t fit
That’s what you’re there for – square pegs in square holes
Round pegs in round
You get too big then they can’t make new holes
So they’ll cut you down
All ugly sisters must wear glass slippers
Or get out of town
But don’t cry – If the people in your street
Lead a life that’s more or less complete
Little problems every day
Little problems go away
Kid yourself you’re fighting for life
Kid yourself you fight for love
But maybe in some other lifetime
You won’t fit
And if you don’t fit
You’re fit for nothing at all
Technically, I could have resumed garden work periodically in March, but frankly, it was a combination of sore joints (back, especially), erratic weather, and plain ol’ sloth that got me started so late.
Earlier in the week of 9-15 April, I put up another bird feeder, and the birds seem to be enjoying the yummy suet cake I bought for it. I got one with all kinds of berries in it, and I know if I were a bird, I’d be all up in that shit, for I am a fiend of sweets.
On Wednesday, my humanoid meat-based house-mate got a sales e-flier from Big Lots and noticed that they just got in a bunch of collapsible compost bins for $35, and he offered me yet another loan to get one, since this would be about $10 less than the neighbouring ‘burb of East Lansing will be offering them for next month. It took a few days to put together not because my intellect is prematurely enfeebled beyond the ability to comprehend a simple diagram, but because the plastic was not very pliable in snapping certain parts into certain other parts, and cos I am but a small Hobbit-like creature, I’m simply not big enough to conform it to my will and thus had to wait for when the aforementioned humanoid meat-based house-mate to have a spare five minutes.
Either way, the neighbour next door seems to find my gardening amusing.
Sunday, I FINALLY raked up the brush from last year’s wildflowers out in front. I could have done it last autumn, sure, but honestly? I really think the unkempt twigs look good in an Addams Family sort of way during the winter, so my instinct is to leave it until the thaw — and the reason I didn’t rake it all up after the first thaw is cos I was trying to put it off as long as possible until either a) I got a compost bin or b) I at least had a plan on what to do until there happened to be a compost bin. See, I’m clever like that. I also feel just awful putting yard waste out to the curb, even though I know the city is just going to compost it (or so I assume that’s why they want it in separate bags). So, I raked up and wrangled in my humanoid meat-based housemate in to helping me fill up the bin, after placing it in the most convenient sunny spot in the back garden. ZOMGZORZ, this bin is FULL at the mo’, and I’ve deputised one of the empty cat litter buckets for stuff for the compost bin.
The good thing about raking shit up is that I can see how well my fowers are coming back —at least on the one side. See, last year, half of the front garden was mowed down against my instructions NOT TO, and likely due to the dispersal of grass seed all over that side, not grass has choked out half of it. If I owned this place, I would sue. Now I have to return to back-breaking tilling to remove everything on that side of the front garden ALL OVER AGAIN. If anybody lives in the Lansing, Michigan area and wants to come by to help out, by all means, e-mail me.
Also, I was approved for a small ($300) PayPal credit line connected to my PayPal debit card. Excellent. Good side to this: I don’t have to insufferably beg for readers of this blog to give me money. Down side: I am racking up more debts. Fortunately: I have learned my lesson since my first couple years on my own, and will hopefully keep it all under control this time.
Current wish-list for the garden:
re-painting the porch: $90 (estimated)
re-gravelling the front path: $50 (estimate) compost bin: $36
rain barrel: $50
a few more bird feeders: $30 (estimate)
wood for bat houses: $20 (estimate, for two)
windchimes: $15-$20
decorative thinger for the back door: $25
garden arch trellis kit: $50?
bug lights for front and back doors: $10?
porch swag hooks: $2
Plans for this week:
* Call property management and see if they’ll reimburse me (at the very least) for paint for the porch, so long as I’m wiling to do it myself.
* take out grass between city pavement and street, replace with clover.
* get more wildflower seeds, replace all that got fucked up thanks to idiots last year.
* try and make a dent on all that gill-over-the-ground that has taken over the back garden, including several spots I’ve already dug up.
* get a couple things off the wish list
I’m still waffling on which kind of decorative door thinger I want out back. Stars are great, and many pagans and polytheists have them, and clearly there’s perfectly fine Hellenic reasoning for having one and I see a lot of different stars, some of which are just gorgeous, but I’ve seen a lot of beautiful suns lately, and being a Leo, I’ve always been attracted to solar symbols —which, I giess kind of makes my decision, barring the discovery of any really gorgeous stars.
This one is a few days old, but still very clear, which is why I’m leaning more and more toward considering it a vision or a Conversation, rather than just one of Ruadhán’s Weird Dreams™.
She was dressed very modern; knee-length dress/skirt in white, lacey black stockings, black pumps, and a very full and lush all-fur shawl-style wrap/coat (I think it was fox?) in sort of a silvery colour, sunglasses on top of the head, holding hair back. She looked… The best way I can describe Her is “think of how Paris Hilton might look if she were strawberry-blonde and fat” —very chiselled facial features, but with otherwise plump cheeks, a bit of padding on the neck and chin, a sort of plumpness to her fingers, rounded body-shape, thick legs. She had a small child in her arms (Ploutos?), but I don’t remember much about it other than its face was always turned away from me —which is notable, since mortal children adore me, or so I presume, since they’re always staring at me.
I was on an elevator, singing to myself as I often do when I’m even awake and not just in my dreams, and she got on. I didn’t notice her at first, and so kept singing, but abruptly stopped in the middle of line when I saw her there. She speaks to me with a Cheshire sort of accent.
“Oh, continue; your voice is quite lovely.”
“It hasn’t been the same since I started my medication [HRT].”
“But it’s very lovely. You’re our Boy’s aren’t you? Do keep singing, I want to help you.”
…and that’s about where, even after I woke up from it, I don’t really remember the details anymore. I remember maybe two or three more pleas to help me, and that’s pretty much it.
I’m going to try a couple divinations to get an idea of how literally I should take what I remember, but I’m open to second opinions. Feel free to talk to me, just remember that I cannot pay you at the moment, if you want to do a divination.
I sleep on a futon (which is the mattress and blankets, actually) that rests on a Western-style frame that folds into a couch during the day. In all honesty, I can’t think of a time in my adult life, not counting the times I’ve slept in a lover’s bed or couch-surfed, where I’ve slept on anything but. For years, I had a hotel-style bedspread —something more decorative than comfortable to snuggle under— that I folded over the edge of my futon to protect it and make it look better. There are futon mattress covers, but they’ve always been out of my budget. Standard sheets on a futon can be problematic.
A few weeks ago, a large hole started in the bedspread. This is fair enough, as I’ve had it since I was fourteen, and I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did. Still, as unsurprising as this was, it left me in a state of needing to replace it.
I went to Big Lots, as I tend to do when I’m looking for something relatively inexpensive for the house. Long before I discovered an embryonic hole in my bedspread, I had noticed a set of aubergine-coloured satin sheets sized for a full size mattress (the dimensions of my futon) at this store. I wanted them from the first time I saw them, but I didn’t have a “proper” bed for them, and I didn’t want to spend $20 on an uncertainty last year. When I arrived a few days ago to replace my bedspread, “my” sheet set was still there —possibly the longest time I’d ever seen anything stay on the shelves at any Big Lots, ever, and a young couple was looking for sheets. The girl wanted the aubergine satin lovelies on grounds that “they’re pretty”, but her boyfriend talked her out of them on grounds of “they’re impractical”, and she put them back without protest.
Eros invented satin bedding. I know cos He told me so. The surface is slick like the most intimate of a lover’s touch, and the natural creases that form in a pillowcase, when made of satin, feels like kisses. Opaque, but deceptively thin and form-fitting, what the material hides reveals everything. When made of silk, or even synthetics, it’s very strong, but easy to snag. Even when it’s cheap, it feels luxurious and expensive. How can this not be one of Eros’ gifts to humanity?
I love that my emergency alarm clock has an option for “street” amongst “forest”, “rain”, “waves”, “fire”, and “crickets”. It really does seem to have a calming effect on myself —and apparently others.
The past 24 hours have been almost surreal. I was sitting at the dinner table with some friends at an Indian restaurant when I received a call from my father that my cousin Brad was dead. Brad was four years older than me and had been my superhero while I was growing up.
As a kid I used to tell my friends incredible tales about the amazing feats that my cousin could do, as though he was some mythical figure with superhuman powers. Truth be told, in a lot of ways he kind of lived up to that. He was very good looking, smart, funny, incredibly strong, and was one of those guys that everybody liked. So, when I was told that Brad was dead, I was in shock. Unfortunately, that was only the beginning of the bad news.
I’m sure even from this excerpt, you can probably see where this is going, but don’t take my word for it.
St.Patrick was much more likely to be a slave trader rather than a slave says a new research survey by a Cambridge University professor. He was also a tax collector, fleeing for his life as the Roman Empire collapsed in Britain.
Dr Roy Flechner, research fellow at Cambridge University’s Department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic (ASNC), said the accepted story of St Patrick was “likely to be fiction”, according a report in the Irish Independent.
Alcoholic beverages have come in many forms over the years, and gone by almost as many names. “Social lubricant,” “liquid courage,” “mother of bad-decisions”… the list goes on and on. Many of these names stem from alcohol’s most noteworthy quality: it’ll get you drunk.
But alcohol — and ethanol, in particular — has many interesting effects and applications that extend well beyond the walls of your local bar or restaurant. Here are ten things alcohol excels at that don’t involve getting you properly sloshed.
I don’t know about you, but I like my Sundays slow and quiet. The bustle of another busy week leaves me in need of replenishment, and lazy Sundays are just the ticket for recharging before tackling another seven days of business challenges. A day on the sofa with our dogs suits me just fine, and winter weekends in Vermont are all about the art of hibernation. We do it well.
Much to my dismay, on this Sunday, a large, annoying feline had different plans for me. I knew the day was destined for mediocrity when I was jarred from a restful slumber by my wife’s screams. “NEIL, WAKE UP NOW – THE POLICE ARE HERE AND THEY WANT TO SPEAK WITH YOU!!”
(looks at date-stamp on previous link) OK, yeah, should have gone in another section, but it’s my blog and I can break my own rules, if I want to.
OK, back to shit you’d rather see on this blog, like Scary Sex Toy Friday. One of the least-scary items is The Squildo, which really reminds me of GWAR’s magnum opus, Phallus In Wonderland,:
And speaking of being parted temporarily from one’s beloved (this will make sense if you watch the film), here are a couple of great blog pieces on Fallow Times: Fallow Isn’t Just About Fields and Dreams:
All in all, my definition of the Fallow Times is taken right out of the dictionary. The definition I chose for this was “not in use; inactive.” (And just because I like to inform others, fallow is also a color.) The concept is similar to the concept of shifting cultivation in which a farmer uses a plot of land for a while (it looks to be a two to three years, maybe) before moving on to another section of land to start farming that. And even though the farmers leave that land for a bit (or in this case, the OTHERS™), they do eventually come back.
This is something everyone on a spiritual path will encounter – some more often than others perhaps – even those of us who have built strong and long-term relationships and are deeply engaged with our practice. But it can be so hard to talk about – there is doubt, and shame, and reluctance to even face it at all. But facing it is exactly what will eventually bring you closer to Them – working through the roughest times will teach you more than all the pretty festive days and cool magic you do.
I’d also like to add something to her list of possible reasons one might enter Fallow Times:
Also, while I’m generally ambivalent about a woman’s choice to veil as a religious act, no matter what her religion —and indeed, some of the head-coverings I’ve seen on ostensibly Muslim women (an assumption I made based on the style of their scarves) have been very pretty— I can’t help but wonder if anybody else noticed what I noticed in Ms Foster’s Patheos post on the subject:
Most of the women said they weren’t comfortable wearing the hijab, mainly because it tends to label them as part of a religion other than their own. The Jewish tichel was a popular choice.
Did you see that?
Clearly, identifying oneself with a religion other than one’s own is totally fine, as long as that religion isn’t Islam.
What Would The Artist Formerly Known As Cat Stevens Say?
I’m not telling any-one that they’re necessarily wrong, I’m just saying that I find the juxtaposition of the popular reason against one style of scarf with the popular choice of another style of scarf to be highly illogical and possibly symptomatic of a certain common prejudice, all things considered —but then, I can’t really see any intersection between those two answers on the Venn, because Ms Foster doesn’t create articles as in-depth as she thinks she does.
Oh, and speaking of headscarves, did you know it’s Wear A Hijab Month? Neither did I.
Also, like Orthodox and otherwise traditional Jewish women, apparently traditional/orthodox Hindu women also veil, apparently in the form of a sheer portion of the sari pulled completely over the face. One article I’ve found on Hindu ghoonghat claims that this practise is originally foreign to Hindu women, and was created under the first majpr wave of Islamic rule.
I’m planning, for some time this year or next, to have a gallery showing at my house. I’m working on a few paintings, at least three of which will be too big to scan practically, so this will be the only means to see these outside of bad photos that will likely be blurry from my carpal tunnel syndrome —I’m not likely to sell many, if any of them, but if I do, the gallery attendants will get the first chance.
Until then, as always, I’m actively taking donations for the garden; while my last active donation drive brought in more money than the most-immediate concern, a minor financial emergency took part in reducing that more than I’d like it to have, and now here I am begging again.
My most-immediate expenses I want to get done this year include
re-painting the porch: $90 (estimated) re-gravelling the front path: $50 (estimate) compost bin: $45 rain barrel: $50 a few bird feeders: $25 (estimate)
wood for bat houses: $20 (estimate, for two)
Bolded are the most immediate things; I can put off re-painting the porch until later in the season (so I don’t crush my flowers) or even early next year, since it’s most likely that I’ll do my gallery showing next year.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be asking like this, but in spite of my humanoid meat-based house-mate getting his tax return early and him showing little annoyance at my tendency to rack up IOU’s, his 19-year-old cat, who is a a Viking, Fat Bob the Cow-Patterned, Who Fought The Dreaded Vacuum Monster And Won (dead serious) is due for geriatric bloodwork, which will end up taking a sizeable chunk of what’s left over from the tax return after paying up bills.
Don’t do it for me, do it for this cat!
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