Past Tense

It feels crazy to talk about Fed Up Queers 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 maricon) 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.

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.

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.

I read a friend's writing 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.

gender schmender

If sports weren't about money and power, and just about (really darned) impressive abilities, would Caster Semenya be undergoing invasive gender "tests"?

“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.

What Caster is is strong and fabulous.

I want to live in a world where everyone can wear pink pom pom pants, no questions asked.* Thanks to pixietart for the photo of Jeff Stark's pants.

teen spirit

I saw a sweet scene in Cold Spring Friday night: Students from the Poughkeepsie Day School held a vigil and concert for Lawrence King, 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.

xena and the faggotry

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Xena drives by your house super slowly and stares and stares, on her way to her fake mailbox to get her mail.

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.

And then. Two of the kids, boys, fourteen-ish, are making out on her trampoline, in the sun. For the whole neighborhood to see.

Tangible pleasure. Even later, when the kissing is over and the trampoline dancing has begun, you can't stop smiling.

zapatista agave syrup

Well, it's not agave, it's honey, but oh how I wish it were.

Some of my friends are very different from me. I saw this honey reviewed 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.

Alas, I'll settle for the [vegan] Palestinian olive oil from Rebel Imports. (When I can't support lesbo Palestinians Aswat by buying their oil, this is good backup.)

P.S. Many food type postlets have moved over to wintergreens. This stayed because, although interesting, is sooo not local. The multiple locations are making me a bit schizophrenic, but that's just the way.

gentle men: how the alphabet is used

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'm singing loudly, and then find myself thinking about people like Fred Rogers. 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.

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 Kaia or River, River or Kaia?) 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.

Cheers to two gentle men in my life who were never actually in my life. And to those people who actually are my neighbors. It was a stunning sunrise, and it is a beautiful day.

life as a stereotype

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.

But don't go overboard just yet: I don't wear cat sweatshirts, and I don't rave about my cats unless I've already sensed that the person I'm talking with has a deep adoration for animals, too.

When I do meet those people, my heart fluffs up like that spray foam stuff for filling cracks. I still wear the tag of my "firstborn daughter," a cat, of course, five years after her death. When I struck up a conversation with a business guy on the subway who had a dog collar and tags on his briefcase, I knew immediately that he was on the same wavelength as I. He said that when the guys teased him about carrying the collar around, his eyes still welled up. He couldn't care less that the troglodytes at work didn't understand how little Monica, the beagle, had changed his life.

Today, in the car next to me at a stoplight, was a dog wearing sunglasses. Though I'm somewhat familiar with this sight from beer ads and bad animated movies, I knew in my gut that this wasn't a joke on the poor dog. The dog had some pretty creative homemade headgear holding the glasses in place, and looked completely comfortable and happy in them. The driver didn't look like somebody looking for a cheap laugh. And I spotted a little ooze coming from one of the dog's eyes. I think this dog, taken at face value, probably makes a lot of people laugh. But she wasn't a movie one-liner, she was a being with a health problem (I think!), and someone caring for her.

I didn't get to meet the dog or chat with their person (car culture being as it is), but my heart did the spray foam thing a bit. Because so few animals in our world are the recipients of good solid t.l.c., it's great to get a glimpse of it now and then.

tiny tool

On the Norwegian side of my family, I had some gay uncles, brothers, Teddy and Jolmer. They lived by a lake in Minnesota, down the road from their sister Ruth. Teddy played rousing, dramatic songs on the organ and cooked, and Jolmer carved and fixed things. All three of them fished. They are who I think of when I hear Le Tigre's Les and Ray, even though they lived in the country and didn't share walls with anyone.

I guess it's only speculation that they were gay, but they lived together, both single, for their entire lives, two gentle men. I think Ruth had a husband and children at one point, but would have to ask my mom to be sure. She lived alone when I knew her, and mainly just spent time with her brothers.

I only have two tidbits of Jolmer's carving remaining: a tiny basket and a tiny monkey, both carved out of nut shells. For many years, my favorite piece, now lost, was a pair of tiny working pliers. It may be the OCD inside of me that loves so much care put into a tiny nut shell, but I like to think it's just appreciation.

Jolmer's pliers plus my love of hand tools were the reasons I had a little bit of weakness for "tool" jewelry when it became popular. But when I saw these tiny tool carvings by jeweler Laurie Brown, I was way more excited & sentimental.

I'm obsessed with craft that is useful, but apparently I can be excited by fragile work that only hints at usefulness!tools from aesthetic outburst.
sporks from andothersuchthings.

femme queens against macho crap

Or, not everyone loves a parade.So I've been standing with Irish Queers for a good number of the eighteen years that they and ILGO (the Irish Lesbian & Gay Organization) have protested the NYC St. Patrick's Day Parade. Let me quickly answer the questions this automatically inspires:
1) No, queer Irish people can't march in the NYC St. Patrick's Day parade. They can march in Dublin, in Cork, and in Queens, but not New York. (Chris Quinn, the second most powerful politician in NYC can march with a group of politicians, but cannot identify herself as queer while doing so. She avoids the parade because it brings her worlds together in a way that just doesn't look good for the camera.)
2) Because I don't actually want to march. (Yeah, you guessed it, the question is "Why not go the Queens parade then, or 'your own' parade in the summer?") I don't actually want to march in the parade, but still bother to protest the fact that people can't because:
a) It is a parade thrown by the religious right. See the Ancient Order of Hibernians for more information.
b) City and state politicians march, pretending that it's not a bigoted, Catholic parade.
c) Police officers, fire fighters, and military personnel by the thousands are required to march in uniform, if they are not on duty, and get paid to do so.
d) All this means the city and state are endorsing the exclusive event. Either money or pleasing powerful people are motivators.
New Yorkers wouldn't let the same thing happen if people of color weren't allowed to participate, or people in wheelchairs.
Now, all this said, the St. Patrick's Day Parade is one of my least favorite events of the year. The city is also supporting a whole lot of public drunkenness, groping, and property destruction (for no reason beside drunkenness). It doesn't seem to be called out or punished like it does with the Puerto Rican Day Parade, because, shucks, these folks are so white and rosy cheeked.

When I lived in the city I made the dash to the demo, and then got the hell out of midtown as quickly as possible to not have to deal with one more drunk saying "Lighten up, it's St. Patty's Day!" Now that I live in the Hudson Valley, there's the added pleasure of the Metro North trip. A lot of Irish Americans live here, and that means a train ride of being touched way too much by (drunk) strangers, getting showered with beer regularly, being "treated" to bagpipe music being played in the closed train car, and ducking while things are thrown and the train is torn apart. At least it's a free ride, since no ticket-taker can get through.

I wonder which parade I hate more, St. Pat's, or the Israeli Day Parade. The Israeli Day Parade definitely hosts more outward hatred, hurled at anti-occupation demonstrators. The things said there can knock a person flat. When my friend's mother, holding a anti-occupation placard, identified herself as a Jew to someone screaming at her to "Go back to Jordan," they told her the wrong Jews had been killed in the war. (Of course, she had barely escaped being murdered in the holocaust.)

Then there's the rodeo parades of my youth, though these were mainly about fashion. The animal abuse was saved for the main event. If only all of these parades were really only about an opportunity to wear fancy hats and beaded belts...

runtlina, tranny cat

Some people like to argue that queers are bad because "it's just not natural." I don't particularly care about natural or not, but I always have known homo non-human animals, which makes it seems sorta, well, natural. Or at least widespread. My childhood dog, Beazy, and some barbers my mom worked with were the first queers I knew, and they made me think it couldn't be such a bad thing. The barbers made me wonder if queerness had some sort of relationship with obesity, but then Beazy wasn't heavy.

People have the same nature arguments against people who don't live as their born bio gender. They think that men "dressing up as women" are mocking women, and that women who want to live as men must hate women. Neither of these things really hold water. And they don't address all the in betweeners. (Is that what's meant by tween?) The animal kingdom can always be trusted to give insight.I live with a tranny that I picked up down by the railroad tracks. Her name is Runtlina (or Bolly). She is absolutely stunning, loves M.I.A.'s fashions and Bollywood music and dancing. She was way into the final, unexpected dance scene in Slumdog Millionaire, and excited again when the movie won best picture. She's a girl through and through, except that she was born a boy. Runtlina is a cat. Her purrs turn from pigeon noises to loud rolling Rs when I tell her that her hands and feet are small. Occasionally, when she's pushy, I think there's some privileged "boy" in there, but really she's just pushy.
Runtlina, Runtlina
Going hundred mile per hour
With your radio on
With your radio on

gender boot

Some things just don't need genders assigned to them. It irks me that short haircuts cost more for women than long hair haircuts cost for men. There's no reason that my last trip to Paris should have been filled with people chasing us down going "femme, femme" and pointing across the street. God forbid a woman consider purchasing men's clothes. I think, too, that people are more freaked out when you don't look particularly girly, but they suspect you might be a woman. It's like they have to defend something. If you look straight-ish, they can be comforted in the idea that you're trying to accomplish the Gap's much beloved "boyfriend look."

Sadly, it's not limited to Paris. Yesterday in New Paltz (the name of which drives my Dutch friend crazy, "It's New Platz, New PLATZ!" she protests) another, not-Dutch friend was challenged for trying on a "men's" shoe. This is in an outdoor sports store, where you think the guys working there are going to be a little laid back. But no. He insinuated that the shoe wouldn't fit because it was a men's shoe. I'm just not convinced. What kind of shoes or clothes do you suggest trannies wear?

While I'm being irked, can I just say that little kids shoes are always nicer and brighter than adult shoes? Another wild injustice!

Photo courtesy of Eartha Kitsch, who, as a bonus, also has a picture of a possum. Possums are becoming a leitmotif.

leaving the body

As a kid, I was obsessed with Lois Duncan novels and the concept of astral projection—willing your spirit to travel free of your body. [There was the thrilling story about Navajo twins separated at birth, one good, one plotting vengeance for her unhappy life. When the lonely girl's body dies her baaad spirit shows up and takes residence in the body of the happy one while her spirit is out running around. What could be more exciting for a pre-teen?]

And, the unruly winter weather has me admiring snowshoes for runners that have springs in them, turning otherwise boring ground-bound humans into snow kangaroos.

But neither of these examples are the body leaving I refer to: Rather than worrying after my soul, I'm pondering where the old bod will go when I die. Cremation seems like a waste of resources. Burial is good, but chemicals and makeup and expensive coffins are yuck, and not what we ought to be planting in the earth. In other countries you can be same-day buried without all the chemical pollutant fuss, but in the U.S., that's still rare. There are new eco-cemeteries, but somehow I expect they find ways to charge you an arm and a leg. I'm into the idea of simple home burial. Plant me with my cats in the side yard.

This is the best thing I got out of Six Feet Under. [Some slack here, please: I was sick delirious dying, and the gfriend rented full seasons to distract from the agony.] Annoying funeral director Nate buries annoying vegan chef Lisa au naturale, no box, in the woods. No rows, no markers, no mowing or plastic flowers. The idea seemed so lovely, and so illegal.

Heard the rumor that Tennessee is the only state where you can bury your human loved-ones in your yard. Go to town with deceased cats, dogs, snakes, rats, rabbits, groundhogs, squirrels, deer, and birds, but it's gonna cost you to lose your humans.

I thought of leaving my body to the faeries at Short Mountain. They'd get some good compost, and would likely have a ritual involving drumming, which would make my hovering spirit happy. Mom fiddled with the fantasy by bringing up the difficulties of legally transporting a human body across state lines. I guess I'll have to get old on communal lesbian land in TN, and, if at all sick or feeble, will have to be restricted within state lines. (Turns out Ohio and Vermont will work, too.) Preferably, I will expel my last breath within dragging distance of a good-sized compost heap.

Or, the gov could chill and let us have our dead in every state.

Note to swimmers: Ocean dumping is legal!

The beautiful GONER tag is by Jonathan Berger, from his Founder, GONER, Seer series of shows in 2007.

on queer animals

The founder and director of Mercy for Animals, Nathan Runkle, was gay bashed a few days ago, putting him in very serious condition. In a culture where people like to "focus" or pretend that the thing they are paying attention to is more pressing than other things, an incident like this reminds us it ain't so.

Mercy for Animals is one of a handful of groups that go to events like gay rodeos and try to point out that it's destructive to both the animals and the queers. OK, yeah, I have a special dislike for rodeos since I come from place that has "rodeo vacation" instead of spring break. But c'mon, it's a good example of why putting on all the worst parts of masculinity like a costume, in magnified form, is grotesque. I loves me all kinds of queers, even some with stubble and swaggers, but there's too much macho worship going on with our beloved gay boys. Exerting control over others doesn't make one stronger, or more virile. The gay rodeo is just one site of many many that shows why animal advocates need to care about and understand queers, and why queers should extend their care to other groups. Queer bashing of animal rights leaders is another.

If you think your coming out struggle was the worst form of torture, think again. (Thought bubble here: factory farms.) If you think queers have it good because Ellen reruns show on TV and gay marriage is legal in CT & VT, you don't know a whole lot about queer life. If you think immigrants or homeless people or those on welfare are treated decently in the U.S., well, you live in an insular world.

All this isn't bad news. Sometimes when you reach out beyond your comfort zone, bother to learn about someone else and their struggle, it is very rewarding. You make connections, both emotional and intellectual ones. And, hey, then we're off to a good start in making things better, for a whole lot of people and animals.

I'm not trying to make light of a horrible thing that happened to this activist. But he is interested in opening people's eyes with it, and compelling them to action. If you care about your community, take the invitation.

right

the far right, originally uploaded by abovegroundpool.

From the anti gay marriage archives. More here.

drilling for gays

I went to one of the protests last week about the CA gay marriage ban. I wasn't happy there. Again and again I don't have all the words to explain why. I can bristle at the "God Loves Gay Marriage" banner, I can point out to everyone that 95% of attendees are white men, I can joke about how everyone there seems to be on their cell phone, and still I'm never eloquent about saying why the demo didn't work for me, why this will never be my issue.

Like in other cities, NY had a huge crowd. I hadn't seen a crowd so big so white so male at a demonstration for ten years, since Matthew Shepard was murdered, to be exact. This was the first thing in ten years that made Chelsea come out to a demo.

Gay marriage has never been my thing. As Ms. Mel of readspeakresist says, "I feel like fighting for marriage is the gay equivalent of Drill Baby Drill. It's antiquated. It's a short-term solution and it's only useful to some of us." It causes other damage, that isn't spoken about. It's surface, no structural changes required, a continuation of the "we're just like you" charade. Like mattilda says "no on eight isn't really no on hate."

Two days after this massive demo, about which I'd received a zillion emails, Teish Cannon, a trans person of color, was murdered in Syracuse with barely a whisper. I found out about her murder tonight, and only by accident. No demonstration, no email campaign, no mention anywhere but the local paper.

Gay marriage wouldn't have helped a deviant queer like Teish Cannon. And I'd rather work for her.

free the new jersey 4

Butch gals, trannies, nelly boys, and everyone who believes queers should not be bashed and imprisoned when they fight for their lives:
Solidarity neckties are on sale now! All proceeds will go the NJ4 legal support fund. Wear yours proudly.

Read all about the case here.

queers bash back

I had a long blog entry written about self-defense, about armed resistance, about organized armed resistance, the IRA, the PLO, the Shining Path. And others who aren't considered "terrorists" anymore, who are now called "freedom fighters" and recognized as relevant in liberation struggles, like armed resistors of apartheid. It depends on who you ask, and their distance or investment. I initially intended to post the piece with some IRA prisoner art from the seventies.

I've lost that piece of writing, but wish I had it to post today. Today I read about the two men (one disabled) murdered in their home in Indianapolis after suffering months of harassment for daring to be gay men. And I also read about the forming of new groups of trannies and other queers called Bash Back around the U.S. (Not an armed group, for the record, but invoking the right of fighting back.)

Self defense is not considered an option in queer bashing cases (see the New Jersey 4). Some people who actually hear about the cases (even with the lack of reportage) are sickened by it. Many others are more sickened by us, inferring that we deserve to be hurt, to be murdered. It is why I think I understand the need for armed resistance. Why I can't judge. Why I won't call people terrorists who appropriate some of the government's (or other attacker's) tactics when fighting back.

remember

remember sakia gunn, originally uploaded by abovegroundpool.

See more from the murdered queers set at the aboveground pool activist archive.

renata hill back on trial

Free the New Jersey 4

culture & ferment

I just took a fermentation workshop with Sandor Katz, food activist and wild fermenation fetishist.

I am interested for a couple of reasons, the first of which is flavor: many of my favorite foods (miso! pickles!) are fermented. AND THEN, all the emphasis on fresh, local foods doesn't make much sense without preservation techniques. Without them, when the C.S.A. and home garden seasons are over, it's back to wilted, airplane-shipped produce from greenhouses far away.

Canning seems a bit challenging to me, but fermentation is easy—low tech and without dangers. And really tasty. And really good for you.

The workshop was a lovely afternoon spent with a nice group of people on a beautiful farm. The bonus was to learn that Sandor is queer and an AIDS activist, and has lived (healthily) with HIV since the 80s. (My first tipoff was the book dedication to an ACT UP comrade.) He lives in a queer intentional community in Tennessee.

It's funny how people become known for one thing, yet we all turn out to be as three dimensional and multi-colored as a bucket of freshly chopped veggies. This picture shows our group's "bruiser" releasing the juices of our veggies by squeezing them. Those very veggies are fermenting right now, in their own juices, in my basement.