It is really lovely to be loafing online, and come across an old friend, with proof that they're working hard and doing well at that work.
I was raised Catholic, Catholic school, choir, all that jazz. Church songs (and girl scout songs, and the theme song to The Greatest American Hero) are programmed into me, in a disturbing way. I walk around humming them a lot.
Imagine my pleasure when I've been walking around for two days singing a church song that is apparently pro S/M, and pro role swapping: "Oh Master grant that I may never seek so much to be controlled as to control - ol - ol. To be understood as to understand. To be loved as to love with all my soul -ol -ol."
Them there is Hanna Rydh, by Maira Kalman, and Una Lady Troubridge, by Romaine Brooks. The Romaine Brooks goes out to all the dogs I met this morning at the Beacon dog parade, especially all the rescued pit bulls and greyhounds who are up for adoption. I raise my celeriac-mint-chili popsicle to you!
Sorry blog, it's finally possible to be outside barefoot, and there's no way I'm spending any time at all indoors, or even on the porch, looking at a computer. Weeding needs to happen, seeds need to be planted, every plant and bird needs to be visited and admired, walks need to be taken, the sun requires worship. I've moved kitchen tasks outdoors. If I could go to the bathroom without offending my neighbors, I'd do that outside, too.
Plant markers blatantly lifted from Heavy Petal. And I think she meant "radishes." But whatev—it's spring!
The whole world, including the internets, seems to be covered in garlic mustard right now. While most hardy perennials are just starting to peep out, huge mounds of garlic mustard appear overnight. There are plenty of warnings and alarms online about how evil this plant is, how invasive, how it could potentially ruin forests. I tend to get kind of excited about having wild ginger, as it's also called, growing outside my door, especially after my multiple failed attempts to grow my own ginger fueled by stickers on store-bought ginger telling me it hails all the way from China, even when I've bought it at the health food store! OK, ok, I know wild ginger doesn't taste the same as that ginger, and I will dutifully try to grow ginger again in warm weather.
The roots are long, but thin, and I'm way too lazy to prepare them like horseradish. A lot of people seem to make pesto out of the leaves and roots. I'm finding the huge roots useful for adding flavor (and good bacteria) to my nuka bed. Lazy tasty, mmmm.
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood! Yes, I'm singing that old Mr. Rogers tune today, because the temperature is delicious, spring flowers and leaves and buds are appearing an an amazing pace, the sun is bright, and Beacon's little community food project is finding its feet.
I've blogged some of these images before, but feel today, like it's worth posting them again. When Amadou Diallo was killed, and a group of mostly white queers kicked off the demonstrations, Al Sharpton was moved to say "I am a Fed Up Queer." Though honored by that statement, I think it means there aren't enough allies for the black community. We're way more comfortable assuming victims are some kind of troublemaker, that there must have been good reason.
My grandma died almost 20 years ago. They say things happen in threes, and that particular three was that my friend Darrin died, Operation Desert Shield began in earnest and my Grandma died. 
Darrin was cremated, and because of that, I don't think I ever accepted that he'd died. Where the hell was the body? Why was nobody singing Ave Maria? He died on Christmas, someone performed an opera he'd written at the funeral, nobody mentioned him being queer, and then the war really picked up, with people leaving my classes to go fight. I went to some protests and borrowed a five inch black and white tv so I could watch the footage of bombs dropping at nighttime. I continued working the late shift at Yogurt N More, without Darrin.
I took my bevy of foster kittens to visit Grandma in the nursing home, and got freaked by all the people who were so desperate to get out, and would grab my hands when I tried to leave. She couldn't swallow, and the staff could never quite remember to sit her up before feeding her. I don't remember when her birthday was, not even what season, but I do remember that she was buried on Good Friday. In my head I've made Good Friday her day.
It seemed significant in some way that she was buried on Good Friday, a holy day that I'd tried to respect in all the right ways, but with my usual failure at praying. I did all the stations of the cross and inhaled incense until I was dizzy, and spent what felt like forever in perfect silence. That year, we flew to North Dakota with the box of her ashes, and buried it in the grave of the husband she hadn't seemed too close to, and that I'd never met. It was a military graveyard, the ground was freezing my feet through my shoes, and there were deer there on the next hill. I remember reading Susan Faludi's Backlash in the back seat of the car, and feeling very adult and very kid at the same time. I didn't have any money or nice clothes, so my mom had had to buy me a dress.
The dramas of Holy Week and the dramas of Passover blend in my head, even though I know they're not the same. The image from Passover that sticks is the blood of the lamb over the doorway in order that your house is passed by the angel of death. I'm more an amulet person, I suppose, than a blood sacrifice person, and my version of this is blueing. I could swear I knew that people in Morocco put laundry blueing on their door lintels as protection. I'm convinced I've seen pictures where it's rained, and the blueing has left stains running down the doorjambs and the door itself. I was sure that people painting their doors and even courtyards blue came from the tradition of safety through blueing. According to the internet, I might have made it up.
I used to hang those little blueing tablets tied in cheesecloth bags in my own doorways. Bundles of Ocotillo branches above the door, blueing hanging into the passageway. I had to protect myself.
Maybe by talking about smearing the blood and hanging the blue to avoid death, I'm blending them with Ash Wednesday, too. It's weird, you have to admit, seeing people walking around with an acknowledgment of their mortality on their face all day. I'll be safe over here, behind my amulet.
I call my cats rats or dogs, rarely cats. But I guess I name them names of other animals, too: Donkey, Marmot, Sasquatch. And multiple of my children remind me of rabbits. One, a small domestic rabbit with spots, and the other a crazy alien desert jackrabbit with enormous ears. My friend's cat just died, the one that she was closest to, the one she feels like she can't live without. I know what that's like. My favorite cat was a roach, with a low, fast scuttle. And you'd think that would be bad, but it wasn't; it was delicious and perfect. She was perfect.
There's no time for pondering this question while listening to Nina Simone, it's time to get seedlings started indoors or in cold frames!
For extra credit, actually organize your garden plans.
I'm a lesbian who lives in a big, crumbling house with too many cats. I'm impatient with my neighbor who plays the drums late at night, and I like a cup of good tea. I'm chubby and I have short hair. I'm vegan and eat lentils.
Carol Adams and The Sexual Politics of Meat at Vassar College, tonight:
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