tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73105147246047207092024-03-13T17:46:24.544-04:00abovegroundpoolactivism & artabovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-11862655184080215112012-07-15T04:14:00.002-04:002012-07-15T04:17:33.118-04:00Past TenseIt feels crazy to talk about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fed_Up_Queers">Fed Up Queers</a> so completely in the past tense, like those were the glory days, and they're so over. But the facts are that I now live in the burbs and am surrounded by mostly heterosexual people, rarely get to do any street activism, and don't have a go-to group of people to make noise with.<br><br>
I get riled up when people talk about how all of FUQ's drama was because all of us dykes were sleeping together. Sure, there was some of that, but a lot of the drama was an entirely different kind of passion. We cared about our message. We cared about what was right. We cared about making a difference, rattling people's comfort with the horrible things happening in NYC. And it felt fantastic. Exhausting too, but exhilarating to be part of a group that spent every week fighting for what mattered. Not all of our decisions were on target, and we spent a lot of time just spraypainting messages, which also meant a lot of time running from the police. But we also were in the thick of it. We got 10,000 people to show up for a demo in just four days, we got the Diallo protests rolling, we drew attention to every tranny murdered in NYC, Giuliani and his people knew who we were and knew they could expect us to cause him trouble wherever he went. I remember how it felt hearing "Fed Up Queers" on the radio, and on the tv news. The group drove me insane, and I loved them dearly. I remember how it felt when the whole thing fell apart because one person wanted to promote "inter-generational sex" as some radical cause, and all the dykes who'd suffered sexual abuse couldn't stop crying, and we couldn't get him to leave, and so we folded. I remember how angry I felt, and powerless. FUQ had been my power, and it was being taken away by a sexual predator. The whole thing made me mute. How typical.<br><br>
I wasn't vegan then. I mean, I had been vegan for years and years, but then, when I moved East, it eventually fell away because I didn't know anyone who did animal rights. I was broke and depressed and dealing with massive police brutality in my little town. My head was elsewhere. When I moved to Brooklyn and met other queer activists and eventually became this powerful little gang called Fed Up Queers, I felt like my brain finally un-numbed, and I started to remember things that mattered to me. I remembered them in detail.<br><br>
When FUQ was infiltrated and our actions started to fail, when we would get arrested before our actions had gone down, we decided to go to a skillshare in the swamp to learn some new tactics. We sold a bunch of "Brooklyn Out of Palestine" t-shirts to fund the trip, and it was there I went vegan again. The whole gathering was vegetarian, and really mostly vegan. My girlfriend and I had decided to spend the three weeks there eating vegan, dabbling with making the commitment while someone else was preparing the food.<br><br>
Learning to climb was hard for me. Some of our gang took to it like monkeys, understood the physics, learned the knots easily, just excelled. It was slower for me: I had more weight to haul up that rope, was insanely scared of heights, terrible at math. I made it to the top of the scaffolding, but had a breakdown up there before I could come down. I was grateful to meditate with a group at the camp, felt it helped even though it felt funny, self-indulgent.<br><br>
Then the fights started. Two guys who were too good to camp with us and were staying in hotels decided that the camp being vegetarian was racist. The whole production shut down, hundreds of people in multiple workshops, everyone stopped everything to discuss meat eating and race. No matter that indigenous Brazilians talked about cattle production destroying their land, no matter that indigenous Canadians talked about how, although they weren't vegetarian, that factory farms were against everything they believed in. No matter that people of every color, veg and not, talked about how the camp's basis in environmental activism required that it be vegetarian. Everything stopped to let two guys (whose favorite word was <i>maricon</i>) talk about how they'd lose their culture if they didn't eat meat. And they did eat meat, brought in styrofoam containers from a deli every day.<br><br>
For fear of being called racist, the camp ceased being vegetarian, the (Iranian) director quit, the kitchen staff quit, and everyone went home having learned half of what they intended to learn. But my girlfriend and I were vehemently vegan from then on, having so many people to make up for.<br><br>
The camp fell apart, and, despite our best efforts, FUQ fell apart too. I stayed friends with those queers, and sometimes did activism with some of them. All but the sexual predator, and the one woman who supported him and who I ceased to trust. None of them ever trusted our care for animals, either, always thinking "there are more important things" and forgetting that there are many things all at once.<br><br>
I read a <a href="http://nobodypasses.blogspot.com/2009/09/is-that-blood-on-your-hands.html">friend's writing</a> about FUQ and about seeing Le Tigre in the 90's in a tiny space in Brooklyn and how we were all freezing and about an action in Central Park in the Ramble when gay men where getting arrested there. And I can tell that she hasn't felt that exhilaration since, that momentum, that belief that anything can happen. And that makes me sad. We've given power over to that child molester, to that infiltrator, to those silly men who think they'd lose themselves by not eating meat. We've gone silent.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-64753601570416696022011-01-05T06:22:00.008-05:002011-01-05T06:30:53.197-05:00hitting deerEvery year, the weekend before Thanksgiving, our neighbors go hunting and kill a deer. They hang the deer with a noose in a tree in the yard. For the several days until Thanksgiving, the deer dangles there, dripping blood.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/TSRVzf5vKNI/AAAAAAAABmY/ZwTsMqx3Fe8/s1600/breakneck_ridge.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/TSRVzf5vKNI/AAAAAAAABmY/ZwTsMqx3Fe8/s400/breakneck_ridge.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558662183307389138" /></a>In early years I talked with our neighbor about the killing and the obscene display, thinking it might change their custom. It did not. Some years I obsessed—staring at the corpse, taking pictures of it. Others I hung sheets over all the windows of the house.<br /><br />This holiday season my girlfriend and I killed a deer. It was what the insurance company called "an act of god." It was a car accident on an eight lane highway during heavy traffic. The deer leapt over the car to our right, landing right in front of us. The impact was impossible to avoid.<br /><br />I've worried about hitting animals for as long as I've been driving. In Arizona it was rabbits, sidewinders, roadrunners. In the northeast it's been possum, skunks, and mostly deer. On the Taconic Parkway especially, I drive so slowly that drivers of other cars cuss me out.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/TSRV77bcJhI/AAAAAAAABmg/XQidoTIfMNM/s1600/frozen_stream.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/TSRV77bcJhI/AAAAAAAABmg/XQidoTIfMNM/s400/frozen_stream.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558662328135460370" /></a>But after decades of worrying, we've hit a deer. She didn't die right away so I was glad when other cars hit her, putting her out of her agony. The next thirty minutes were spent waiting for the police, cringing in the smashed car expecting to be hit by one of the cars swerving to avoid her body, and watching her body be torn apart by those that didn't swerve enough.<br /><br />I know there was nothing that could have been done to avoid hitting her, and nothing we could have done to save her. Still, I felt awful.<br /><br />Both the sheriff and the insurance adjustor said accidents involving deer were up dramatically due to hunting season. It felt better to blame hunters.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-77342472132273524182009-08-23T11:42:00.008-04:002009-08-23T12:04:00.725-04:00gender schmender<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SpFltorelnI/AAAAAAAABk4/E0NREDVmSaQ/s1600-h/caster_semenya_victorious.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 233px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SpFltorelnI/AAAAAAAABk4/E0NREDVmSaQ/s400/caster_semenya_victorious.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373187665118008946" /></a>If sports weren't about money and power, and just about (really darned) impressive abilities, would <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/20/sports/20runner.html?scp=1&sq=gender%20test%20south%20africa&st=cse">Caster Semenya</a> be undergoing invasive gender "tests"?<br /><br />“These kind of people should not run with us,” Elisa Cusma of Italy, who finished sixth, said. “For me, she’s not a woman. She’s a man.” Mariya Savinova, a Russian who finished fifth, [said] “Just look at her.” Though comments like these are old and familiar, they make expletives stream out of my mouth.<br /><br />What Caster is is strong and fabulous.<br /><br />I want to live in a world where everyone can wear pink pom pom pants, no questions asked.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SpFlj0WarGI/AAAAAAAABkw/3_Px6giItyE/s1600-h/pompompants.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SpFlj0WarGI/AAAAAAAABkw/3_Px6giItyE/s400/pompompants.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373187496452205666" /></a><i>* Thanks to <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pixietart/">pixietart</a> for the photo of <a href="http://www.nonsensenyc.com/about/">Jeff Stark'</a>s pants.</i>abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-27273829269318528822009-08-16T08:47:00.005-04:002009-08-16T08:55:44.019-04:00water bottles for good<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sof__1DBIgI/AAAAAAAABko/C3lTykJo84A/s1600-h/water_tanks_for_border_crossers.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sof__1DBIgI/AAAAAAAABko/C3lTykJo84A/s400/water_tanks_for_border_crossers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370542552699183618" /></a>Here's a disheartening example of rational pro-people, pro-earth arguments being co-opted by conservatives. An Arizona immigration activist with the group <a href="http://nomoredeaths.org">No More Deaths</a> has been charged with littering and banned from a wildlife refuge for leaving water jugs for migrants in the desert. <a href="http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-water-immigrants13-2009aug13,0,4654306.story">Read the whole story here.</a>abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-74516990598478510322009-08-05T22:55:00.005-04:002009-08-16T08:47:12.980-04:00Tap Tap<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SnpGQQbclQI/AAAAAAAABkg/eJ2OJ0VzIUo/s1600-h/Tap_Lies_f.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SnpGQQbclQI/AAAAAAAABkg/eJ2OJ0VzIUo/s400/Tap_Lies_f.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366679151067305218" /></a><br />Bottles vs. tap water at <a href="http://tappening.com">Tappening.com</a>. Me personally, I prefer <a href="http://www.rainwatercollection.com">rainwater</a>.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-91881356473588848492009-07-21T13:59:00.002-04:002009-07-21T14:07:54.854-04:00DIY Funeral<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SmYD5fQp20I/AAAAAAAABkY/YQ7FpYgKpXg/s1600-h/moss-grave-rock.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SmYD5fQp20I/AAAAAAAABkY/YQ7FpYgKpXg/s400/moss-grave-rock.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360976692609932098" /></a><br /><a href="http://abovegroundpoolart.blogspot.com/2009/02/leaving-body.html">I'm into the home funeral</a>, and now, apparently, so is the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/21/us/21funeral.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=burial&st=cse"><span style="font-style:italic;">NYTimes</span></a>. I love the idea of the coffin acting as bookshelf until needed!abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-73856495759880949152009-07-12T18:37:00.006-04:002009-07-14T18:06:38.100-04:00Building Bicycles for Two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Slpl_IIiiZI/AAAAAAAABho/eyMYV4_xM_w/s1600-h/bamboobike.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 344px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Slpl_IIiiZI/AAAAAAAABho/eyMYV4_xM_w/s400/bamboobike.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357706841900091794" /></a>I went to see the Starn Brothers' bamboo installation at Tallix yesterday (<a href="http://www.starnstudio.com/Big%20Bambu.html">Big Bambu</a>). Some of the really old, huge stalks of bamboo look like elephant legs. The artwork was okay, but what it really did was make me even more obsessed with the idea of doing the <a href="http://bamboobikestudio.com/go/">bamboo bike workshop</a> in Brooklyn. I want a bamboo bike (and to provide one for someone who <i>really</i> needs transportation!!abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-39417833024122518982009-06-26T07:05:00.009-04:002009-06-26T08:07:23.667-04:00teardrops, raindrops, drops droppingIt has rained every day for a month, and with all that's going on in Iran, I'm feeling a bit down or drowned or something underwater and suffocating. Thank goodness for last night's dance party to all the Michael Jackson music played on the radio commemorating the death of the King of Pop. Dancing to "Ain't No Sunshine." Maybe someday the sun will come back. But then again, rain = the new normal for the northeast under global warming. And things on the news aren't getting better.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvKL0WqqI/AAAAAAAABTM/LrTGUH7mr_g/s1600-h/dropp.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 395px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvKL0WqqI/AAAAAAAABTM/LrTGUH7mr_g/s400/dropp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351594846728923810" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBpaPTlI/AAAAAAAABTE/rLDSY3muSco/s1600-h/teardrop_book.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBpaPTlI/AAAAAAAABTE/rLDSY3muSco/s400/teardrop_book.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351594700053630546" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBefVgQI/AAAAAAAABS8/v3ts5SkLHzk/s1600-h/doomed_teardrop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBefVgQI/AAAAAAAABS8/v3ts5SkLHzk/s400/doomed_teardrop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351594697122218242" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBCopfPI/AAAAAAAABS0/IK8iYGGc_Sw/s1600-h/raindrop_cutout_graffiti.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 340px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBCopfPI/AAAAAAAABS0/IK8iYGGc_Sw/s400/raindrop_cutout_graffiti.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351594689645083890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBAGdcuI/AAAAAAAABSs/uAX6EjJl7co/s1600-h/Tear_Hem.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvBAGdcuI/AAAAAAAABSs/uAX6EjJl7co/s400/Tear_Hem.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351594688964817634" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvKZtNHMI/AAAAAAAABTU/tHQOXxS6x4I/s1600-h/Silicone_Tear_Drop_Breast_Forms.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 360px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvKZtNHMI/AAAAAAAABTU/tHQOXxS6x4I/s400/Silicone_Tear_Drop_Breast_Forms.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351594850457033922" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvA4E7AiI/AAAAAAAABSk/UG6HUNs_kbc/s1600-h/clouds-and-raindrops.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 342px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SkSvA4E7AiI/AAAAAAAABSk/UG6HUNs_kbc/s400/clouds-and-raindrops.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351594686810882594" /></a><br />Images lovingly borrowed from all over the web: <a href="http://heartfish.com/?s=drop&x=0&y=0">heartfish</a>, <a href="http://www.missnatalie.com/blog/2008_07_01_">Miss Natalie</a>, Newburgh's <a href="http://www.doorsixteen.com/%3C?s=teardrop&sbutt=Go">Door Sixteen</a>, Dropp by <a href="http://finelittleday.blogspot.com">Elisabeth Dunker</a>, <a href="http://www.bookhou.com/kids-raindrops.html">bookhou</a>, <a href="http://one-fine-day.co.uk/product/49">One fine day</a>, and creepy silicone breast implant people.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-30146355455372751152009-06-07T20:04:00.005-04:002009-06-07T20:07:32.628-04:00horses should not live in the city<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SixVmV7x_YI/AAAAAAAABGg/lOiU_3yy7WA/s1600-h/BanHDC_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SixVmV7x_YI/AAAAAAAABGg/lOiU_3yy7WA/s400/BanHDC_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344740974993210754" /></a>Good work by <a href="http://kindnessofravens.blogspot.com/2009/06/findhttpwwwbloggercomimgblankgif.html">a kindness of ravens</a> and <a href="http://www.mooshoes.com">MooShoes</a>, for the <a href="http://banhdc.org">Coalition to Ban Horse-Drawn Carriages</a>.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-49597785724715117672009-06-07T07:05:00.004-04:002009-06-07T07:32:37.578-04:00terror<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiulSqNC3gI/AAAAAAAABGY/rjyeoYq35lA/s1600-h/abortmurd350.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiulSqNC3gI/AAAAAAAABGY/rjyeoYq35lA/s400/abortmurd350.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344547122790456834" /></a>We've long known that the term "terrorist" is used by the powerful to label those they feel threatened by.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1055927.html">White phosphorus bombs</a> showering from planes vs. pipe bombs, or sometimes rocks and shoes: the pipe bombs are terrorism, the destruction of an entire people is "security."<br /><br />And, of course, the U.S. military bombing Iraqi civilians is not terrorism, but an Iraqi civilian bombing the U.S. military is.<br /><br />With <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Tiller">abortion doctors getting murdered</a>, <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/ny_crime/2009/05/23/2009-05-23_informant_who_ensnared_bronx_terror_suspects_avoided_by_nearly_everyone_else_at_.html">guys in Newburgh going to prison for terrorist plots dreamt up by FBI agents</a>, and my "domestic terrorist" apron causing a hubub in the commercial kitchen where I work, I knew I had to turn to <a href="http://www.greenisthenewred.com/blog/is-abortion-doctor-murder-terrorism/2051/">Green is the New Red</a> (and this image from christianshirts.net) to break it all down for me.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-17485779115549110462009-06-07T06:50:00.006-04:002009-06-07T07:33:03.388-04:00teen spirit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudUWdtbSI/AAAAAAAABGQ/QTQBSn5CKSg/s1600-h/deer_valentine.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudUWdtbSI/AAAAAAAABGQ/QTQBSn5CKSg/s400/deer_valentine.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344538355758361890" /></a>I saw a sweet scene in Cold Spring Friday night: Students from the <a href="http://www.poughkeepsieday.org">Poughkeepsie Day School</a> held a vigil and concert for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E.O._Green_School_shooting">Lawrence King</a>, and all queer teens who suffer harassment. Down by the waterfront, this groups of kids sang and gave speeches and hooted in support of one another. Lawrence King was murdered when he asked his best friend to be his valentine. These kids were handing out the love freely. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudUMeUnGI/AAAAAAAABGI/R5mTsH6DD3o/s1600-h/popcorn-valentine.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudUMeUnGI/AAAAAAAABGI/R5mTsH6DD3o/s400/popcorn-valentine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344538353076575330" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudT48ga3I/AAAAAAAABGA/hkffieHwFG0/s1600-h/valentine_lottery.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 399px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudT48ga3I/AAAAAAAABGA/hkffieHwFG0/s400/valentine_lottery.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344538347834469234" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudTnCqXqI/AAAAAAAABF4/uNBFTDVyMNI/s1600-h/your_name_here.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiudTnCqXqI/AAAAAAAABF4/uNBFTDVyMNI/s400/your_name_here.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344538343028448930" /></a>abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-89194238531346836092009-05-31T20:25:00.011-04:002009-05-31T21:19:09.918-04:00wish i were there<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiMrqNfBhnI/AAAAAAAABFg/-YHmlA4pZzA/s1600-h/josephine_baker.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiMrqNfBhnI/AAAAAAAABFg/-YHmlA4pZzA/s400/josephine_baker.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342161587165824626" /></a>I've been away from home, working working working. This has meant spending many days locked indoors in a convention center, which makes me fully savor my few minutes outside, walking to and from the place I've been laying my head at night. It's made me carefully eyeball mosaics by Faith Ringgold in the subway (this one is Josephine Baker), and get excited over corn and bell peppers growing in tree wells in Harlem.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiMrx5zK8eI/AAAAAAAABFo/vOlguK56dVQ/s1600-h/corn_in_harlem.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiMrx5zK8eI/AAAAAAAABFo/vOlguK56dVQ/s400/corn_in_harlem.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342161719320572386" /></a>Other good things came of this mini work marathon. One was meeting the people who started <a href="http://www.bagsforthepeople.org">Bags for the People</a>.<br /><br />You see, these lovely people who work at the Union Square Farmer's Market couldn't stomach using plastic for shoppers who failed to bring their own bags. So they started getting fabric scrap donations and making quickie cloth bags to give away with purchases. That's led to environmental talks and bag-making workshops with kids, and "sweatshop socials" to spread the idea. Gorgeous. Now get your paws off my new pink bag.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiMr_jl03kI/AAAAAAAABFw/9QynftP17FA/s1600-h/bagsforthepeople.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SiMr_jl03kI/AAAAAAAABFw/9QynftP17FA/s400/bagsforthepeople.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342161953877188162" /></a><br />I've been having a similar, uh, <span style="font-style:italic;">conversation</span> with an unnamed farmer's market about bags. Call me inspired.<br /><br />In my upstate absence, a tough group of <a href="http://brawlnewyork.wordpress.com">arm wrestling gals</a> were on the teevee. I'm proud to say these ladies have invited me to join them, but I've been too busy-slash-lame to participate thus far. I sure was pleased pink to see this video, and know that their arm wrestling antics have been rolling in the dough for women's shelters. Way to mock machismo while protecting women from it!<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nq5YD4bBQNw&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nq5YD4bBQNw&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />Must a r m w r e s t l e. Must m a k e b a g s. Must go to sleep and be brilliant tomorrow.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-80870453572772176632009-05-13T22:29:00.008-04:002009-06-28T09:02:51.315-04:00xena and the faggotry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SguNVVb6gpI/AAAAAAAABFA/a0_O0wW-UCM/s1600-h/tramp2+copy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 172px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SguNVVb6gpI/AAAAAAAABFA/a0_O0wW-UCM/s400/tramp2+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335513581221479058" /></a>You'd think that if your neighbor did yard work in a bikini, a visor, and a fanny pack, you'd almost have to like them. But if that same neighbor locks her crying dog out all night, tortures chickens through a full winter as a "project" for her uninterested son, and puts down steel jaw traps to catch groundhogs, the silly outfit isn't nearly enough to win you back.<br /><br />When you argue with her about the animals, or just beg her to let you humanely trap the groundhogs (and relocate them), and she ends the conversation by screaming insane homophobic slurs at you, it makes you not be able to enjoy the fact of her smoking by her green-black pool wearing socks and high heels.<br /><br />The fence Xena put up because she's afraid of animals traps a baby deer in, and it's heartbreaking watching their futile attempts to escape.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SguM-cHBn_I/AAAAAAAABE4/CJUvuSij9LQ/s1600-h/trampoline3.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SguM-cHBn_I/AAAAAAAABE4/CJUvuSij9LQ/s400/trampoline3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335513187875921906" /></a>She blasts Julio Iglesias and pretends to be interested in gardening, and you use giving her seeds as an excuse to discuss the groundhogs again. She says she is growing food for "the church kids." You wish you could pretend to like her. All the other neighbors gossip about her, make up conspiracy theories about her mailbox with the fake address on it. They start to call her "Xena" too, because of her outfits.<br /><br />Occasionally there are kids hanging around. Teens, I should say. They act bored, like they don't know what they're doing there. They're not gardening. They're not eating food from the garden, because the garden's been forgotten, like the pool, like the dog. They're sometimes waiting while their mothers and grandmothers get their hair frosted in Xena's basement. It's frustrating because you usually find some common ground with hairdressers.<br /><br />Xena drives by your house super slowly and stares and stares, on her way to her fake mailbox to get her mail.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SguMug0mkrI/AAAAAAAABEw/O1cvehtVXtI/s1600-h/Trampoline.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 257px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SguMug0mkrI/AAAAAAAABEw/O1cvehtVXtI/s400/Trampoline.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335512914262921906" /></a>The census person comes to your house and asks you how to find this address that doesn't exist. She likes the neighborhood, except for its proximity to the prison. You wake up another morning to the dog crying and Xena shouting. You wonder how you've become friends with all your neighbors but one.<br /><br />And then. Two of the kids, boys, fourteen-ish, are making out on her trampoline, in the sun. For the whole neighborhood to see.<br /><br />Tangible pleasure. Even later, when the kissing is over and the trampoline dancing has begun, you can't stop smiling.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-2269735606022445032009-05-09T17:59:00.005-04:002009-05-09T18:18:35.950-04:00coincidence or leitmotif<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SgX83ftY4TI/AAAAAAAABEo/_kvNXUKm8-A/s1600-h/skimask.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SgX83ftY4TI/AAAAAAAABEo/_kvNXUKm8-A/s400/skimask.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333947364025098546" /></a>Are you one of those people that gets all new age-y and believe that what you put out into the universe comes back to you? I don't believe it so much on a grand scale, but with little things, it really happens.<br /><br />When you get something that you've put a lot of thought into, like a bike, or do something you've put a lot of thought into, you start to cruise other bicycles, other people's efforts at the same thing. Bikes are so much more on your radar, then, all the details and variations and reasons, and it starts to feel like they are around you more.<br /><br />So it is with opossums, say. You <a href="http://abovegroundpoolart.blogspot.com/2009/02/tour-della-possum.html">see one</a>, then you start to see more, and you <a href="http://abovegroundpoolart.blogspot.com/2009/02/gender-boot.html">notice pictures of them</a> places and <a href="http://abovegroundpoolart.blogspot.com/2009/01/we-all-need-little-sunshine.html">mentions of them</a> other places. Or you <a href="http://abovegroundpoolart.blogspot.com/2009/04/good-friday.html">mention Morocco</a> on your blog, and then start seeing lots of readers from Morocco. Or you say <a href="http://abovegroundpoolart.blogspot.com/2009/05/zapatista-agave-syrup.html">one little thing about balaclavas</a>, and then you find this insane picture, by total fluke, on <a href="http://philbaucom.wordpress.com/2009/01/19/nothing-says-i-love-you-like-a-ski-mask/">a religious blog that you would never visit on purpose</a>.<br /><br />That's just what happens when the new age hits.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-38677183035921729512009-05-08T11:22:00.013-04:002009-05-09T14:13:57.772-04:00zapatista agave syrup<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SgRO8FgUOPI/AAAAAAAABEg/653qC1deEMM/s1600-h/Honey1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SgRO8FgUOPI/AAAAAAAABEg/653qC1deEMM/s400/Honey1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333474652890347762" /></a>Well, it's not agave, it's honey, but oh how I wish it were.<br /><br />Some of my friends are very different from me. I saw <a href="http://oldstove.net/?p=491">this honey reviewed</a> on a friend's blog. She's fabulous: brilliant, hilarious, wears full-on party dresses in the daytime, and left corporate land to go to chef school years back. I don't follow her blog because the things I find there upset me. (Her profile lists "butchering" as one of her specialties.) But I got all happy over this, even though I know those bees were blow-torched. I know. I know! The idea of supporting rebel cooperatives by buying their [fair trade] products is alluring, plus the masked activist on the label has a whole 'nother kind of allure. Fer real...their logo is a balaclava. Yes, product marketing has an impact on me.<br /><br />Alas, I'll settle for the [vegan] <a href="http://www.rebelimports.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=66&products_id=629">Palestinian olive oil</a> from Rebel Imports. (When I can't support lesbo Palestinians <a href="http://saltyfemme.com/2006/06/08/aswat-fundraiser/">Aswat</a> by buying their oil, this is good backup.)<br /><br />P.S. Many food type postlets have moved over to <a href="http://wintergreenscsa.blogspot.com/">wintergreens</a>. This stayed because, although interesting, is sooo not local. The multiple locations are making me a bit schizophrenic, but that's just the way.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-24235709325125617122009-05-08T00:13:00.005-04:002009-05-08T11:50:44.449-04:00no nukes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SgOxqmPqpTI/AAAAAAAABEY/s4Ebv372CIA/s1600-h/green_lowrider.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 172px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SgOxqmPqpTI/AAAAAAAABEY/s4Ebv372CIA/s400/green_lowrider.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333301729115678002" /></a><a href="http://lagusta.wordpress.com/2009/05/06/in-which-we-change-and-grow-and-all-that-shit/">This post</a> of Lagusta's got me thinking about microwaves, my past love of them, my fear of them, and how I use them as an excuse to pat myself on the back.<br /><br />The short of the story is that I don't have a microwave, and I generally feel good about that. I have an occasional moment of thinking that maybe I'm a fool, and I could spend way less time accomplishing much more if I didn't have hangups about things like microwaves, except that I just do have hangups about things like microwaves.<br /><br />There is one at work that sits literally 5 feet from my head, and my co-worker puts metal takeout containers in there, supposedly on a "bake" setting, and runs it for 20 or 30 minutes at a time. She sometimes sticks in a fork or two just to get the rays going crazy. I get an instant headache. I literally get dizzy in about 30 seconds, start to lose my vision, and have to get up and leave. I've talked with her about the microwave multiple times, but she either doesn't give a shit, or is pretending to have forgotten. This microwave feels on my brain like those old time mega microwaves in Circle K* used to feel. Some guy would be microwaving his frozen burrito, and you'd walk by, from the lowrider magazines to the saladitos, for example, and feel your flesh melting off your bones from nuke power.<br /><br /><I>*For those who do not comprende, Circle K is a 7-11 of the west. It's mostly the same: the poor night shift people get held up at gunpoint, they sell lots of lotto tickets and beer. There you get thirstbusters instead of big gulps.</i><br /><br />The very first (and last) microwave I had I really loved. Nobody in my family cooked, AND we were always on diets. (Those thirstbusters were <i>diet</i> pop, and I ate buttered tortillas folded into quarters instead of sandwiches, because they were <i>thinner</i>.) 1980 rolled around and we got a mammoth microwave. My mother, a no nukes activist, hid in the other room when we turned it on. I never got headachey from that microwave, but my diet did improve, opening the world to frozen weight watchers and lean cuisine dinners. And little frozen diet desserts in only four minutes! When, in 7th grade, my friend and I invented a language (CAG) and wrote a book (The World According to CAG), there was a word for this machine. Micre, pronounced mick-ree. It was revered.<br /><br />My parents moved on to smaller models, and the mammoth stayed with me. I went vegetarian and resorted to eating cheese melted on bread for every meal, prepared in my beloved microwave. When I went vegan, the microwave ceased to be useful (no cheese!), and got the boot. But I learned how to cook, then, out of necessity, and was, therefore, able to keep my curves on. I know you were worried I might be some skinny old thing...<br /><br />Now I'm making <a href="http://babygreenscsa.blogspot.com/">baby food</a> (of all things!) and dealing with the land of frozen food. I can see why someone would think a microwave useful. But I can't, I just can't. I've seen too many at people's houses where the insides are splattered with various kinds of food, then nuked into an indistinguishable filth. There was the argument I had with my rocket scientist friend where he insisted I had to believe the space program is valuable (I don't) because I was personally benefitting from access to microwave technology. All those billions of dollars just for microwaves and space trash and satellites that get mistaken for extra bright stars? And then there's my brains melting at work. That's proof, isn't it, that there's something still very wrong with these machines?<br /><br />No, along with my pride over no t.v. (though now I watch trash on the computer, oh no), I'm keeping my anti-microwave sentiments intact, and feeling clever over it. Even if that makes me an idiot.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-43544807785785772052009-04-29T17:31:00.004-04:002009-04-29T17:36:21.242-04:00capped<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfjHbK53jCI/AAAAAAAABEQ/tZnHyiMiML0/s1600-h/terry_graziano_hat_design.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfjHbK53jCI/AAAAAAAABEQ/tZnHyiMiML0/s400/terry_graziano_hat_design.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330229428590447650" /></a>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.<br /><br /><a href="http://terrygraziano.com/">Terry Graziano</a> is a lovely person all around, but I bring her to your attention because of her beautiful, handmade hats. She always had the fashion sense I lacked. She clearly has the sewing skills I lack, as well. In my next fit of "I have to make my own clothes to avoid the sweatshop monster," I'll be sure to contact Terry.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-24584707644530044372009-04-27T11:54:00.012-04:002009-04-27T13:39:39.894-04:00play me like a jukebox<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfXbxmvcq8I/AAAAAAAABEA/-bXuHYGreS4/s1600-h/decorated_virgin.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfXbxmvcq8I/AAAAAAAABEA/-bXuHYGreS4/s400/decorated_virgin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329407379322481602" /></a>I was raised Catholic, Catholic school, choir, all that jazz. Church songs (and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dF2i6RQUqAE">girl scout songs</a>, and the theme song to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wzEb5IzdcrU">The Greatest American Hero</a>) are programmed into me, in a disturbing way. I walk around humming them <span style="font-style:italic;">a lot</span>.<br /><br />When I played a board game in high school with my friends involving song lyrics, they came up with lyrics from pop songs, or classic rock. I consistently came up with church songs. I desperately wanted to come up with a <a href="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/j/joy+division/love+will+tear+us+apart_20075884.html">Joy Division</a> line or something, to restore my coolness. No can do.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfXb2WptUOI/AAAAAAAABEI/ywGf4vJdgdM/s1600-h/creepy_cross+copy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 257px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfXb2WptUOI/AAAAAAAABEI/ywGf4vJdgdM/s400/creepy_cross+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329407460902785250" /></a>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."<br /><br />Only this morning did I realize it's probably "consoled" rather than "controlled." I guess my head is combining cultures, much like how Catholicism is combined with indigenous beliefs in Mexico, giving it some aesthetics it lacked otherwise!abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-7736687994880159442009-04-25T13:19:00.007-04:002009-04-27T11:53:51.178-04:00women who know how to dress, and mutts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfNGYv8b9iI/AAAAAAAABC8/J2gh6O2U0Jk/s1600-h/maira_kalman_hanna_rydh.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfNGYv8b9iI/AAAAAAAABC8/J2gh6O2U0Jk/s400/maira_kalman_hanna_rydh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328680175110190626" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfNGY9lQvYI/AAAAAAAABDE/qPoc18ulD28/s1600-h/romaine_brooks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfNGY9lQvYI/AAAAAAAABDE/qPoc18ulD28/s400/romaine_brooks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328680178771082626" /></a>Them there is Hanna Rydh, by <a href="http://www.mairakalman.com/elements.html">Maira Kalman</a>, and Una Lady Troubridge, by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romaine_Brooks">Romaine Brooks</a>. The Romaine Brooks goes out to all the dogs I met this morning at the Beacon dog parade, especially all the rescued <a href="http://www.pbrc.net/">pit bulls</a> and <a href="http://www.adopt-a-greyhound.org/">greyhounds</a> who are up for adoption. I raise my <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/devineomalley/2602790375/">celeriac-mint-chili popsicle</a> to you!abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-11970841351006074642009-04-24T16:05:00.004-04:002009-04-27T20:22:13.772-04:00spring is no time to compute<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfIbwwSwyUI/AAAAAAAABCs/oWOoIapbCIw/s1600-h/heavy_petal_markers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfIbwwSwyUI/AAAAAAAABCs/oWOoIapbCIw/s400/heavy_petal_markers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328351833543985474" /></a>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.<br /><br />Things will happen here on ye olde abovegroundpool someday when there's a chill in the air, or rain forces me inside. Until then....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfIdLSh6KVI/AAAAAAAABC0/Fm0XK0NimDk/s1600-h/birdie_markers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 337px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SfIdLSh6KVI/AAAAAAAABC0/Fm0XK0NimDk/s400/birdie_markers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328353388922546514" /></a>Plant markers blatantly lifted from <a href="http://heavypetal.ca/archives/2009/04/name-that-plant-2/">Heavy Petal</a>. And I think she meant "radishes." But whatev—it's spring!abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-48618612703143806152009-04-19T09:07:00.005-04:002009-04-19T09:45:06.881-04:00eat your weeds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SesiQ3P25BI/AAAAAAAABCc/6uDh-tcQmbs/s1600-h/garlic_mustard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SesiQ3P25BI/AAAAAAAABCc/6uDh-tcQmbs/s400/garlic_mustard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326388657399456786" /></a>The whole world, including the <a href="http://teaandfood.blogspot.com/2009/04/garlic-v-garlic-mustard.html">internets</a>, seems to be covered in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garlic_Mustard">garlic mustard</a> right now. While most hardy perennials are just starting to peep out, huge mounds of garlic mustard appear overnight. There are plenty of <a href="http://www.invasive.org/eastern/biocontrol/29GarlicMustard.html">warnings</a> and <a href="http://www.ipaw.org/invaders/garlic_mustard/gm.htm">alarms</a> 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 <a href="http://www.mahalo.com/How_to_Grow_Ginger">grow my own ginger</a> 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 <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> ginger, and I will dutifully try to grow ginger again in warm weather.<br /><br />In the meantime, garlic mustard is <a href="http://www.wildmanstevebrill.com/Plants.Folder/Garlic%20Mustard.html">edible</a>, and that's why it was introduced here in the first place. Because I'm not especially hardcore about native vs. non-native, I like approach of keeping these babies in <a href="http://www.yougrowgirl.com/thedirt/2009/04/16/together-lets-fight-the-spread-of-garlic-mustard-and-eat-it-too/">control by eating</a> them. Eating garlic mustard, that is, not human babies. It's spicy, like horseradish root.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SespnmQi5lI/AAAAAAAABCk/FMkc_Mi1g1o/s1600-h/GarlicMustard_Root.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 164px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SespnmQi5lI/AAAAAAAABCk/FMkc_Mi1g1o/s400/GarlicMustard_Root.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326396744557323858" /></a>The roots are long, but thin, and I'm way too lazy to prepare them like <a href="http://www.elise.com/recipes/archives/005193how_to_prepare_horseradish.php">horseradish</a>. A lot of people seem to make <a href="http://www.bbg.org/gar2/topics/kitchen/2002fa_garlicmustard.html">pesto</a> out of the leaves and roots. I'm finding the huge roots useful for adding flavor (and good bacteria) to my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nukazuke">nuka</a> bed. Lazy tasty, mmmm.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-27883075314431282732009-04-16T11:48:00.004-04:002009-04-16T23:53:39.734-04:00gentle men: how the alphabet is used<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SedTjNjolmI/AAAAAAAABCU/np7MZl5b2QU/s1600-h/grapehyacinth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 379px; height: 284px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SedTjNjolmI/AAAAAAAABCU/np7MZl5b2QU/s400/grapehyacinth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325316948788549218" /></a>It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood! Yes, I'm singing that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-slhCjiJ3k">old Mr. Rogers tune</a> 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 <a href="http://wintergreenscsa.blogspot.com/">community food project</a> is finding its feet.<br /><br />I'm singing loudly, and then find myself thinking about people like <a href="http://www.popmatters.com/tv/features/030303-mrrogers-1.shtml">Fred Rogers</a>. Obsessed with community, how things are made and by whom, make-believe, swimming laps, and vegetarianism—like me! Fred was probably a lot more gentle to my aggro, but he was a big deal to me (kill your television and all). I was profoundly sad when he died, even though there's that weirdness over feeling you've lost someone who was actually unknown to you.<br /><br />I had that same feeling of loss when River Phoenix died. To me, he was such a lesbian, a lesbian icon, even. Everything about him, aside from the silly fact that he was a straight man, was as dyke culture as can be. (Is it <a href="http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/252/36301.jpg">Kaia</a> or <a href="http://www.nndb.com/people/948/000025873/river-phoenix.jpg">River</a>, <a href="http://unrealitymag.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/child_actors_8.jpg">River</a> or <a href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=362084551&albumID=49167&imageID=136016#a=49167&i=3097782">Kaia</a>?) It was the same year that Kurt Cobain died, the year I lived in the Pacific Northwest. Cobain's death was one I was on the outside of, looking in and seeing what looked like absurd public grief. He wanted to die. I thought people should be happy the poor man finally had some relief. But then, there was how I felt about River and Fred, so I get it, I guess.<br /><br />Cheers to two gentle men in my life who were never actually in my life. And to those people who actually <i>are</i> my neighbors. It was a stunning sunrise, and it is a beautiful day.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-68297136601043385422009-04-10T14:20:00.013-04:002009-04-11T09:17:12.754-04:00sean bell, in retrospect<object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="400" height="300" data="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=70645" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000"> <param name="flashvars" value="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=fcb441b00f&photo_id=3429157662&show_info_box=true"></param> <param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=70645"></param> <param name="bgcolor" value="#000000"></param> <param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=70645" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=fcb441b00f&photo_id=3429157662&show_info_box=true" height="300" width="400"></embed></object><br />I'm a little late to party: I'm just learning to use video. This unthrilling footage was taken on May 7, 2008 when there were coordinated acts of civil disobedience throughout NYC in response to a "not guilty" <a href="http://abovegroundpoolart.blogspot.com/2008/04/verdict.html">verdict</a> for the cops who murdered Sean Bell. This symbolic blockade took the street and blocked the Queens-Midtown tunnel for about half hour during rush hour traffic. The idea was to shut the city down, but that didn't quite happen.<br />- <a href="http://www.gbmnews.com/articles/3240/1/-Sean-Bell-Protest--NYC-Wednesday-May-7-2008/Page1.html">Pictures from One Police Plaza</a><br />- <a href="https://pa.photoshelter.com/gallery-show/G0000vrdyfumpPMw">Pictures from Harlem</a><br />- <a href="http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/05/07/protesters-assail-acquittal-of-officers-in-sean-bell-case/">Report from the Brooklyn Bridge</a><br />- <a href="http://socialistworker.org/2008/05/08/we-are-all-sean-bell">Report from the Triborough Bridge</a><br /><br />It didn't happen because when black people are routinely murdered by the NYPD, the only people who become enraged enough in any numbers are black people. At the one big march that happened right after Sean Bell died, there were very, very few faces that were not black. People like to believe the dirt throwing stories that are drummed up: that the victim had been arrested once on drug charges, that he'd been rumored by another drug user to have an illegal weapon. But neither of things, if true, justify what happened.<style type="text/css">.flickr-photo { border: solid 2px #000000; }.flickr-yourcomment { }.flickr-frame { text-align: center; padding: 3px; }.flickr-caption { font-size: 0.8em; margin-top: 0px; }</style><div class="flickr-frame"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/abovegroundpool/2317612938/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2403/2317612938_b32dae50b0.jpg" class="flickr-photo" alt="killed by NYPD" /></a><br /> <span class="flickr-caption"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/abovegroundpool/2317612938/">killed by NYPD</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/abovegroundpool/">abovegroundpool</a>.</span></div><br />The fact is that Sean Bell wasn't high when he was killed, and had no weapon. Undercover officers followed he and his friends out of a bar, drew guns on them without identifying themselves as police offers, and shot three unarmed men fifty times.<br /><br />There's no doubt that the amount of force endorsed by the NYPD is outrageous, and that an enormous number of people are murdered by them every year; for being black, for being mentally ill, for being homeless or sex workers.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SeCUfJJFb2I/AAAAAAAABCM/fJleZo-VPMc/s1600-h/racist_bullets.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/SeCUfJJFb2I/AAAAAAAABCM/fJleZo-VPMc/s400/racist_bullets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323418022302805858" /></a>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.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-43477189475924894432009-04-10T00:01:00.005-04:002009-04-10T00:01:00.750-04:00good friday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-Qj8U8iI/AAAAAAAABBs/0j2ifxtlUP0/s1600-h/blueing-balls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-Qj8U8iI/AAAAAAAABBs/0j2ifxtlUP0/s400/blueing-balls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322901001333961250" /></a>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. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6_l7JZFeI/AAAAAAAABB8/D4QizmgepuE/s1600-h/blueing+cube.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 95px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6_l7JZFeI/AAAAAAAABB8/D4QizmgepuE/s400/blueing+cube.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322902467851654626" /></a>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.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-ICozlhI/AAAAAAAABBE/ShyqlwcUiZY/s1600-h/anil.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-ICozlhI/AAAAAAAABBE/ShyqlwcUiZY/s400/anil.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322900854954759698" /></a>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.<br /><br />Gram would be 110 years old this year. The exact same age as my house.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IfdKnyI/AAAAAAAABBU/g3udyZzk5Hg/s1600-h/blue_tile.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 339px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IfdKnyI/AAAAAAAABBU/g3udyZzk5Hg/s400/blue_tile.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322900862690565922" /></a>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 <i>Backlash</i> 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.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IkMhTFI/AAAAAAAABBk/KZp_ywHgtqQ/s1600-h/blue_passage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IkMhTFI/AAAAAAAABBk/KZp_ywHgtqQ/s400/blue_passage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322900863962926162" /></a>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.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IS1BxaI/AAAAAAAABBc/hRTirJ5InBc/s1600-h/blue_courtyard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IS1BxaI/AAAAAAAABBc/hRTirJ5InBc/s400/blue_courtyard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322900859300988322" /></a>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.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IASiruI/AAAAAAAABBM/AA6jYQInP_Q/s1600-h/blue_pins.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd6-IASiruI/AAAAAAAABBM/AA6jYQInP_Q/s400/blue_pins.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322900854324506338" /></a>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.abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7310514724604720709.post-59430445035136013012009-04-09T19:17:00.011-04:002009-04-09T23:12:19.261-04:00rat island<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd63VmRexFI/AAAAAAAABA8/T9O3_GGww3w/s1600-h/rabbit_eyes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 92px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd63VmRexFI/AAAAAAAABA8/T9O3_GGww3w/s400/rabbit_eyes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322893391277507666" /></a>I call my cats <span style="font-style:italic;">rats</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">dogs</span>, 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.<br /><br />There's an island near City Island in the Bronx that's for sale. It's a little slip of land called "Rat Island." I want to take my noses and my ears there and be insulated from the world where animals suffer far far worse than dying housecats. It must have been named for us.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd63VjTbMtI/AAAAAAAABA0/yQHC1jcuW_0/s1600-h/rabbit_ears.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 118px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_OunmjZXFHaw/Sd63VjTbMtI/AAAAAAAABA0/yQHC1jcuW_0/s400/rabbit_ears.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322893390480356050" /></a>abovegroundpoolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06886913358979662292noreply@blogger.com1