Dream Selfies

The dream was in progress; events had been happening in a in a cabin, but I don't recall them.  I started out talking with a guy -- I want to say he was in his 30s or 40s. I'm not sure where we got a blob of lava, a fist-sized blob glowing yellow and orange, but through the magic of dream plot it was available. I decided that I would use the lava to make tea.  I had a vessel, a kind of large snifter, made of clear thick glass.    The lava was boiling water in the snifter for my tea.  

There was a dream shift and I was in a large lake, or possibly an ocean.  Below me in the water was the large snifter and the lava blob.  I don't remember how I was able to bring the glass to the surface of the water, but somehow I did.  There was a sense that I was still making tea in the snifter with the lava, and that the snifter was containing the heat of the lava.   

As I looked down through the water, I saw a group of people swimming, almost as if they were flying.  One of them was in a trench coat and carried a stereotypical black English umbrella in his left hand.  It was P.G. I must have called to him, because P.G. came up to the surface.  We might have had a short discussion along the lines of "Look, I'm making tea."

I decided I wanted to post a selfie of myself making tea in a large snifter with lava. I placed the glass on a convenient near floating table.  My cousin, J.S. was suddenly there, floating in an inter-tube, and we had a short conversation along the lines of "Look, I'm making tea with lava."  My phone was suddenly available and I called up the camera function.

The sun was beginning to set, and it cast red-gold light along the water.  I don't recall if the selfie ever got taken before the dream moved on to other things.

---

In the second dream, all I remember was that we were at some sort of ocean side resort.  It was twilight, and I was on some concrete steps overlooking the ocean, leading up from the dunes with a bunch of other (random dream) people. We looked up and there was a missile coming straight at us—it just hung in the sky, getting larger and larger as it hurtled closer. I threw myself to the landing of the steps and covered my head.

Through dream-perspective, I watched the missile, which was about the size of a table, whiz over our heads and crash into the beach below.   Mostly sand exploded up into the air; it was loud, but probably not a loud as a real attack missile would have been.

The sky was dark blue and orange, and the missile was a dark lump near a large puddle of water on the beach.  I decided that I wanted to post a selfie to social media, so I took out my phone.  While I was composing a picture of myself along the steps and dunes, in the phone's screen I saw a man reflected in the puddle.  This was alarming, and I turned around to see him directly; he wasn't there, and I concluded that I'd seen myself in the reflection (in waking life, I'm not sure how this could be, as I would have seen the reflection of the back of my head).  

I woke up thinking that I'd dreamed about posting selfies to social media twice.

A Review of "The Satyr's Kiss"

Storm Faerywolf's "The Satyr's Kiss: Queer men, Sex Magic, and Modern Witchcraft" is a queering of of Feri Wiccan theory and practice, and a queer presentation of sexually explicit ritual and spell craft. 

I purchased this book because I'd been impressed with Storm Faerywolf's other writings about how using a calendar and clock effectively would help with one's spiritual practices; because he identifies as a cis-male, gay, Neopagan; and because if I'm going to read a book about sex magic, it may as well be cis-male, gay Neopagan sex magic. 

Like Starhawk, Storm Faerywolf's spiritual practice is grounded in the American Feri Wicca tradition of Victor and Cora Anderson.   But this is a book that doesn't take itself too seriously; it's a casual book that wants to take you to a fabulously earthy brunch.  This book is not "The Spiral Dance," and Storm Faerywolf is not Starhawk.  Neither is this book "The Triumph of the Moon," and Faerywolf is not Ronald Hutton.  

"The Satyr's Kiss" is divided into a philosophy section and a praxis section. The philosophy section is part introduction to Feri Wicca, part queering of Wicca, part gay history, and part the basics of sex magic.  The praxis section is a collection of rituals and spells.  

I found the review of Feri Wicca's concept of the three-part soul—fetch, talking self, and divine soul—interesting, as well as the mapping of Oak King, Holly King, and holy daemon.  I did wish for more of an exploration into the history of the two kings and why Faerywolf chose to adapt them as apposed to, say, Cernunnos and The Green Man or a trio of gods instead of a duo.  The Feri iron pentacle meditation is introduced, along with a queer variant called the amethyst pentacle. 

Gay history, like much of the material in this book, is painted in broad strokes, which gives it a strong 101 feel.  It does allow Fairywolf to construct a ritual calendar which supplements the Pagan wheel of the year and which honors the lives and deaths of various queer luminaries, such as Harvey Milk and Matthew Shepherd, and events such as the Stonewall Riots.  

While acknowledging the author wanting to avoid Hay's NAMBLA advocacy, I think there is a missed opportunity to explore Harry Hay's concept of subject-subject consciousness, and his ideas behind founding the radical faeries.  Given the number of times the author (possibly at the guidance of the publisher) reminds his readers that any sex magic described in "The Satyr's Kiss" needs to happen between legally consenting adults and that neither he nor his publisher are responsible for the readers doing something stupid or unlawful, I can see why glossing over Hay could be the easier path to take. 

In the same vein, I felt that Oscar Wilde's representation as a late 1800's aesthete and the historical backlash to the aesthete could have been expanded and connected to the sections on other types of gay cis-men.  Both Hay and Wilde are listed as honored ancestors, which would have justified a deeper dive, but "The Satyr's Kiss" really only lists people in summary.  At least this is a good starting point for folks wishing to do deeper research into the lives and main events of the queer community.

Other parts of the philosophy section broadly tell the stories of gods, heroes, mythical creatures (e.g. unicorns), historical, and contemporary figures through a queer lens.  There's not much consultation or interpretation of archeological or historical records, which contributes to a "I read this on Wikipedia" feel.  I suppose the point isn't so much to provide provenance for the stories as it is to provide queer inspiration.

The philosophy behind the sections on sex magic could be summarized "...Sex is something that we should do / Sex is something for me and you / Sex is natural sex is good / Not everybody does it / But everybody should / Sex is natural, sex is fun..."  Fairywolf points out that queer folks, even the ones who aren't cis gay male ones, are sexual beings, and as magic practitioners we should be able to practice magic with every aspect of ourselves.  The three main premises of sex magic are 1) the physical mechanics of sexual and erotic acts produces an ecstatic trance state conducive to casting spells and other numinous actions; 2) orgasm is a liminal and numinous state, and 3) because bodies are sacred, semen—like blood, saliva, or menstrual fluids—is chock full of life force and therefore an efficacious component of rituals and spells.  (While there wasn't a gay male version of Starhawk's "Spell To Be Friends With Your Womb," which would have been "Spell To Be Friends With Your Prostate," there were some that came close.)

In addition to some practical and health advice about sex, I also appreciated the advice about practicing sex magic:  "Sex magic is fun and powerful, but it should't be an excuse for being careless with each other's emotions or for simply expanding one's circle of sexual partners.  As always, if you want to have an orgy, have an orgy.  If you need Witchcraft to give you permission for indulging in carnal pleasures, then you have some deeper personal work to do first."  

The praxis section is less a book of shadows and more a collection of rhymed stanzas and suggestions for performing magical acts, with varying degrees of auto- or group sex.  Fairywolf is broad and general with his descriptions in an attempt at universality and to avoid "arbitrary details."  l should confess that I am not the biggest fan of the author's poetry.  Some of it is fine as ritual litany; some of it could use another pass to address issues with the meter.  As the author often prefaces his ritual descriptions with instructions to alter or rewrite ritual to better fit one's personal tastes and ritual needs, this makes me want to treat the poetry more like suggested guidelines rather than sacred texts.

The conclusion of "The Satyr's Kiss" is a general overview of what a queer coven might look like, with examples from Fairywolf's coven, the Brotherhood of the Satyr, and how the ideas, spells, and rituals presented in the book might be used to realize it.  Fairywolf stresses the importance of boundaries and the differences between a coven and group therapy.  A brief list of resources concludes the book.  

NYC Pride Notes

June 22 2023 1:25pm  Thursday.

Last fall, Mark said that I kept saying how Eugene Pride was unfulfilling and that I should just go to Pride in New York City—so here I am!  In the air and flying to NYC Pride!  I took a disco nap last night from about 8pm to 1am, but kept waking up so I'm not sure how much rest I got.  I kissed Mark goodbye, left Eugene at 2 am, and drove to PDX.  I'm traveling by myself.  

The shuttle buss was crowded. I got through security quickly and made it to my gate around 5am or earlier.  The plane was full.  Somewhere over Minnesota, I got a migraine aura, but it lasted only about an hour.  I'm guessed whacky sleep and a change in caffeine intake was to blame.  I figured I could see well enough to be able to navigate NYC MTA.

LGL will be hosting me, and there are several events planned.  We were going to attend a "Gay Mass" outside of the Stonewall Inn, which is a National Monument, but the National Park Service closed the park citing security concerns, so the mass has moved to LGL's church, St. Paul (Out At Saint Paul is an LGBTQAI+ ministry).

At some point we may go for drinks at the Eagle.  Mark said he thought that it was funny that we're going to a leather bar, and I'm wondered how much it might bother him. (He siad it didn't, but he kepts bringing it up).  We'll also visit the Stonewall and probably Flaming Saddles in addition to some shows and Sunday Pride Events. 

I'm wanting to go to the Brooklyn Museum's Egyptian Wing one day, and if we run out of Gay Things To Do, I brought my NYC Gargoyle book.  We'll also visit Mary Dwyer in Suffern (probably on Saturday, and it's possible we'll run into The Child there).

Thursday evening's Gay Mass was the first Catholic Mass I've been to.  I was able to fall into the ritual from my Episcopal upbringing, but every now and then there were changes in the wording (things like, "and with thy spirit" vs. "and also with you," and "with all the angels and archangels" vs. "with all the angels and saints"). The closest religious events to the mass that I've attended would be Radical Faerie ritual circles back in the nineties, and they're really not that close. 

As I was sitting out in the pews during communion, my eye kept returning to the Matthew 6:7 verse about not being like babbling Pagans in the service flyer, which could have been more ecumenical, but I was able to reinterpret it to "don't be ostentatious in your religious practice." 

I was surprised when the sermon turned into an interactive discussion about pride and how some folks equated it with value, or strength, or self-worth.  I'm amazed at how LGL and the others at the mass operate at the intersection of their Catholic faith and their LGBTQAI+ orientation.  

After the mass's social mingling, LGL and I went to one of his favorite bars for dinner and drinks (LGL is a networker and is on a first-name basis with practically everyone) and had a brief discussion of the effects of a transcendent God compared to immanent deity on the manifestation of the praxis of Pride vis-a-vis community vs family household.  What I had seen in the church was a community coming together for shared worship; my sense with gay Pagans is that they move in together.

We also talked about bunting in our respective cities.

June 23 - Friday - 2023

"That moment when your morning tarot card pull for NYC Pride adventures is the two of wands, reversed. I think this might be about jet lag…."

LGL had to work, and I was left to my own devices.  I had breakfast at Old John's (cue music, "No one DINES like Old John, or RECLINES like Old John, no one interlocks forks by their TINES like Old John...").  The breakfast was hearty -- although I did have to fish out a red pepper!-- and the waitress thought my pride flag shirt was cute (and called me "sweetie," which, according to LGL, is her standard modus operandi).

Wandering west of Central Park, I tried to find Eden Dragon House, but missed it (three blocks too north).  I meandered through Central Park.  It was raining, and with no sun I got turned around and ended up using Google Maps to navigate the curving paths to Fifth Avenue.

Somehow, I wound up in the Egyptian Wing of the MET. (Sticker shock on the ticket prices, which have gone up substantially since I was here last.)  Once I got into the Egyptian Wing, I tried photographing new things, but found myself re-imaging old favorites.  I did manage an image of a hippo on an ostracon for Mark.  Between photographs I had fun being an informal docent with hieroglyphs, especially with the offering prayer.  Alas, the Middle Eastern Wing was closed for renovations, and the Rooftop Garden was closed by the rain; so no art or photographs from there (except for a long-distance shot of the rooftop from outside as I was leaving).  

I got turned around in Central Park again as I returned to LGL's, but I managed to photograph Bethesda Park and gargoyles, grotesques, and decorative buildings.

Aside from wearing a Pride Progress Flag t-shirt, the day wasn't particularly gay.  I suppose one could argue Queen Hatshepsut was in drag when she wore a Pharaoh's beard, but it would be a real stretch.  

Back at LGL's, I took a disco nap, snacked, and had tea.  LGL returned later than he wanted to, but also took a disco nap for tonight's Stonewall Celebration at Hudson Yards and visit to The Eagle. 

The Stonewall Celebration was one part gala celebration, one part Word From Our Corporate Sponsors, and one part concert.  LGL (who knows everyone) managed to get us into a VIP section about forty feet the main stage.  We connected up with other folks from LGL's office. The pacing was a little odd in that a performer would get the crowd pumped to dance, and then the Vice-President of So-and-so Company would come out and make a short speech about Acceptance and Love.

Many people referenced recent legislation to ban or erase drag and trans folks, and urged the crowd "Don't fight back, fight forward!" The most moving performance was a trans activist who created a sound-scape around the sung phrase, "I'm ev'ry woman" and then read the names of trans victims murdered within the last year.  

The most professional performance was by Netta Barzilai, an Eurovision performer from Israel. The sound system had issues the entire event; these were not helped when Netta choreographed her sound box off of her outfit and couldn't re-connect to the stage's speakers.  She kept on dancing and singing as loudly as she could and during the dance bridge danced off stage and pulled a sound engineer back with her to get re-hooked up—smiling and dancing all the time.  

The most fun performance was BETTY.  LGL was familiar with them.  They struck me as an edgier, Rock-n-Rollier, New York City version of Seattle's 90's folk trio, We Three.  They started out with a Pride Anthem, then transitioned into a saucy song, "Did You Tell Her?"  

By this time my hair had become a minor personality on the event's jumbotron, and apparently was visible from the stage.  When we met BETTY after the event, one of them said they'd noticed my energy from the stage, and another one wondered if we'd met before (LGL quipped that they'd mistaken me for one of the sound engineers, who also had long grey locks (although his were tied back)).

Christina Aguilera came out last and performed three songs.  The weirdest part of the show happened:  about every other person held up their mobile phone up to video the performance, so it was like a forest of techno-trees sprouted up in front of us.  They cranked up the sound system for her, and I was glad that I'd brought along some concert earplugs.  She has a nice voice, but everything was so loud and distorted that I really couldn't follow the lyrics. 

By the time the event was finished and we'd gotten a selfie with BETTY, I was starving, so we found a place to eat nearby (where my hair got asked out for a date).  

On reflection, I realized that a lot of local talent had participated in the show, and that this was one difference between NYC Pride and Eugene Pride:  NYC can support a community of professional and semi-professional singers, dancers, poets, DJ's, photographers, and videographers; most of presenters and performers at Eugene are earnest and having fun—which is fine but does contribute to a "bake sale and craft fair (and group therapy)" feel of local events.  Then we were off to The Eagle.

We opened the place up; apparently on Friday nights they don't open until 10 PM.  There used to be a stricter dress code (or is that undress code?), but they've relaxed it, so wearing jeans and T-shirts (and a leather cuff) were sufficient to get in.  There was some sticker shock at the evening's cover, but we paid it and made our way up to the rooftop part of the bar.  I ordered a margarita, and LGL and I sat back and enjoyed the skyline and the scenery.  Most of the guys were dressed like we were, with about a third (?or a fifth?)—mostly the staff—dressed in more scanty scraps of leather or shirtless (honestly, I saw more leather harnesses, jock-straps, and booty-shorts in the Sunday Pride Parade than I did in the bar).  

What I enjoyed about The Eagle was that it was mostly men, and the crowd seemed to be in their 30's or older.  You didn't need to be a gym stud with eight-pack abs to dance or socialize.  The music was something one could dance to, and I did.  (My hair got some more date offers.)  This was a nice change from trying to dance to arrhythmic soundscapes of high-pitched beeps and water being poured into a pitcher with 20-something, half-stoned Eugene kids in a mixed-use space (or not-dancing because a cos-playing person is lip-synching and wiggling for tips on the dance floor).  According to LGL, the place, especially one particular corner on the second floor, would become raunchier as the night progressed, and he pulled me off of the dance floor around 12:30.

We grabbed some matches from the bar as a souvenir for Mark and left.

Saturday, June 24, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the four of pentacles reversed. This is what happens when one is discussing the previous evening’s bar tab when pulling a card…"

LGL had some business in Suffern, and so I visited my mother-in-law, Mary Dwyer, and other available residents of Dwyer Manse.  There was some cognitive dissonance running into The Child, who had flown to the east coast with his mom, and who was on the East Coast Relative Circuit.  Mary looked good, and I filled her in on Gay Adventures so far.

Back in The City, we visited the Brooklyn Art Museum Egyptian Wing.  LGL was tolerant of my propensity to lecture on hieroglyphs and the Egyptian Netherworld Books as we rode the MTA to the museum.

When we entered, we ran into a sound check for a wedding taking place there in the evening.  The last time I visited, for about twenty minutes over a decade ago, I remember a long, dark room, and a silver ibis.  The galleries were different from my memories: more broken up and much lighter.  I was expecting larger statuary than the MET's, which wasn't really the case.  The galleries did not seem to be organized chronologically, and I was not able to discern any themes to how they were ordered.

There was a lot of new artifacts to see.  I was particularly drawn to the Cartonnage of Nespanetjerenpare (3rd Intermediate Period, D 22). What strikes me about this image of Re is that it is ram-headed instead of falcon headed, indicating that this is Re at sunset; and also the green, orange, and black coloring—which I'm guessing may have associations with the rejuvenating properties of the netherworld.

LGL was drawn to a mummy portrait of an Egypto-Roman man.  I'd say the Brooklyn's Egyptian collection is smaller than the MET's, with finer quality Ptolomeic pieces.  

After the museum, we went bar hopping, first to Flaming Saddles (cowboys dancing on the bar!) and The Dickens (loosely based on Charles Dickens).  Both bars were crowded, and the crowds were both younger and more mixed.  And loud.  The music was slower, and the young folks who were at The Dickens at times felt like they were there more to sing along with the songs and enact them as a mini-performance for their posse of friends (and splash their drinks onto the dance floor) than to dance to the music en mass.  

Looking back on the night, I have to say that I appreciate spaces that are enclaves for men—the local Eugene LGBTQAI+ bar hosts a lot of all-family, drag, and trans events—but does not host a "men's night" other than a monthly "bear mixer," and I'm not even sure it's a dance event, unlike their "Lesbian Dance Party."

"That 4:38 a.m. Pride Moment when you realize (too late) that your response to “I thought Jesus was in the (gay) bar!” should be either “Come, and I shall make you fishers of men!” Or “Pick up the receiver / I’ll make you a believer.”"

Sunday, June 25, 2023

"Today’s Pride March tarot card is the four of wands reversed. Celebration in the City! Which is fun, but it’s not my home. (Pause to miss my husband… okay, put on the sunscreen and the dance tunes!)"

After a hearty breakfast at LGL's, we made our way to the NYC Pride.  LGL had once again secured access to a VIP area, and we found ourselves at the shaded review stand near 25th Street and Fifth Avenue, with access to snacks and drinks, watching politicians queue up to begin the parade.  

I took a lot of photographs of grand marshals, and floats, and marchers, and rainbow everything.  Everyone, from Girl Scouts, to people of all races, to politicians and TV stars, to folks in their eighties, to cheerleaders, and all sorts of corporate sponsors, queued up to start their march.

When LGL's workplace's group came by, we left the review stand and joined in.  Initially, I felt like I stood out because A) I was wearing a grey T-shirt with a progress pride flag graphic on it and everyone else was wearing their corporate white T-shirts, B) everyone but me had some kind of flag to wave, and C) My Hair.  But I chanted, "Elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist" to myself and marched along Fifth Avenue with everyone.

After a few moments, LGL (and a work friend, C), said, "C'mon! We're going to get on the float!"  The next thing I knew I was dancing to some really good music and waving at, encouraging to dance, and making eye contact with what seemed like half of New York City as they stood along the sidewalk, or leaned out of windows, or watched from fire escapes. Most people smiled and waved back, and some even started dancing to the music.

At one point it seemed like we were floating down a river of dancing rainbow flags, faces, and sparkles.  I said to someone, "Man, I wish my husband was here."  And then I stopped and thought about it for a moment and added, "Nah; he'd hate this.  And I'd want to smooch him, but he'd want space or to go on a hike."  And it was true, Mark would have been bored after about a half-hour.

I did not have a good sense of where we were; the parade proceeded south on 5th Avenue before heading west on 8th Street. I had to look this up later:  After crossing over 6th Avenue, the parade continued on Christopher Street and passed the Stonewall National Monument (which didn't register with me as the Stonewall when we passed it). It turned north on 7th Avenue, passing the New York City AIDS Memorial (which must have been on the other side of the float), and ended up at 16th Street and 7th Avenue.

We hopped off of the float and started walking and searching for a place to have a late lunch.  Someone from LGL's work was wearing huge white angel wings and waving a pride flag, and they graciously agreed to a selfie.  

While we were waiting for food (and drinks) with LGL's co-workers, I realized that underneath the smiling and waving and dancing, I'd unconsciously been looking for Mark in the crowds, and how wonderful it would have been if at some point the crowds could have parted and Mark could walk out onto Fifth Avenue and joined me on the float.

Monday Morning, June 26, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the Seven of Wands, reversed. Taking the long view, this could signify being beaten down by institutional homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and the various -isms. Or, short view, it could be about travel anxiety."

I escorted LGL to the local MTA station on 77th Street and then went for another breakfast at Old John's.  I spent the morning wandering around the 78th Street and Amsterdam area photographing gargoyles, grotesques, and dragons.  I got caught in a thunderstorm, and was glad for an umbrella.  I found what I call "The Dragons of Library Eden House," which was half under renovation scaffolding, so I was only able to take limited photographs of the dragons there.

  

5:49pm Monday, June 26, 2023

I waited for the flight out of JFK to PDX and wrote in my Book of Art.  I probably could have left LGL's apartment an hour later, but that wouldn't have left any time for train mishaps.  Luckily, taking the 1 MTA train to Penn Station, and then the Babylon Train to Jamaica Station and then the Air Train to Terminal 4 went smoothly.

LGL was worried that the thunderstorms today might make air (and train) travel extra tricky, but at 6 PM everything appeared to be on time.

Ha! LGL was right!  First my flight was delayed 90 minutes while we waited for flight attendants from other delayed flights to board the plane (which was sitting at the gate, empty).  Then, after we boarded, we taxied around on the runways while the pilots negotiated a flightpath with air control, then we parked on the tarmac, then we returned to the gate because the whole airport was shut down, and finally the flight was cancelled around 11:20.

"That NYC Pride Moment when Delta cancels your flight home, and your Wonderful Gay Husband manages to remotely find a space for you at The Box House Motel."

I took a crazy midnight taxi ride through the rain to the motel; the driver didn't know where the motel was, and navigated there with his cell phone.  The mobile's map app sent us the long way, and I  ended up paying the fare in cash to knock off $15 of what was still a steep price.

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

"And today’s post-air-flight-cancellation tarot card is the three of wands. For some reason what sprang to my mind was gratitude… although I am wondering if the merchant in the card is wishing they were on one of the ships in the distance."

Hunkered down in a (expensive!) boutique hotel, The Box House Motel, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  It was the only place with a room (the JFK Hilton had all of their rooms booked by other stranded travelers).  Between having fun in NYC with LGL and the room deposit for The Box House, my credit card was maxed out (this is my reward for setting my credit limit to a low amount as a preemptive method to manage credit card debt), and so I spent over an hour on the phone with the credit union to try to extend my credit and secure lodging through Thursday.

The Box House Motel had an artsy lobby with a sixties art-deco and colored glass pane feel.  Magnolia or cedar scented the air--it was not unpleasant, but strong.  Pop/swing ballads dominated the sound system--this made the open design of the space more private, but also made conversations difficult. 

I'm grabbed a (expensive!) burger at The Eagle Trading Company, a kind of indoor/outdoor cafe with glass garage doors. The clientele looked like local neighborhood folks; lots of dog walkers, mixed ages, and mostly dudes.  I asked the wait staff about place to walk (and not walk) and they said the neighborhood was a safe one.

After waiting four hours for a call back which never came, I finally managed to connect with a bank person and get my credit card straightened out.  It's was a huge relief; it's crazy how food and travel are dependent on credit-card connected apps on my iPhone.  I'd would have been in a really bad place if my iPhone (or credit card) stopped working.  

Tuesday evening:  There was only one working laundry machine in the laundry room.  I gave up on laundry for the moment and walked to the Greenleaf Cafe, where I found a bench supported by two stone griffins!  Then the music switched from sort of tribal-fusion to 70's Rock (oh well).  The Cafes and hotels here all seemed to be converted garages:  high roofs and glass garage doors, so I am imagined that rooms and houses and buildings that I write should have a history--the farmhouse with added rooms, or old carriage houses turned into living quarters, or old engine sheds turned into garages and then turned into cafes. 

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

"Today’s Post-Pride-Still-Waiting-For-Tomorrow’s-Flight Tarot Card is the Knight of Swords reversed. This is my usual significator card, so I’m interpreting it as a warning to stay focused and be aware that I’m tired of not being home yet."

I had recovered from bank negotiations and goofy non-travel sleep that I had enough energy to go on a photo safari of Mid-Manhattan.  The nearest MTA stop to the Box House Motel was about a 10 minute walk over a bridge spanning a small river (the Pulaski, which fed into the Harlem River).

Once I was on the MTA 7 train, it was a one-stop trip to Grand Central Terminal, where I photographed the building details, especially the twined dragons.  While traipsing about trying to find them, I wandered into a jewelry store, and the next thing I knew, I was helping my New Best Friend, Mars, pick out a tiger-eye bracelet.  She (or maybe they) gave me their email so I could share a link to Google photos of GCT.

Outside the station, I met a Venezuelan couple who were a little lost; I tried to help them, but we had no common language... I couldn't get a translation app on my phone, and felt inept.  In the end I could only wish them good luck.

From there it was more photos of the terminal and then Rockefeller Center.  Prometheus' courtyard was surrounded on all sides by rainbow flags. And somehow I wandered into a La Madison du Chocolat.

After more wandering and photography and a cloudburst and I finally exhausted my camera's battery.  This was probably a good thing, as I managed to get back to the motel before five o'clock rush-hour trains.

Thursday, June 29, 2023

"That Post-Pride moment when you’re about to embark to JFK. No tarot card pull today, although I am envisioning the eight of wands for a completed travel and arrows of love."

Thursday morning; I had to leave the motel at 5 a.m. so I could be at JFK at 6 a.m. so I could be ready for my 8 a.m. flight.  At the airport, I bumped into an information desk where the attendant was giving away little rainbow ribbons; I ended up pinning it to my camera's pack.  My departure gate was in a sixties-industrial concourse that could only be reached by bus, so I lingered a while in the nicer main concourse.  

The floating time during the three days waiting for my Thursday flight was a contrast between the scheduled time with LGL.  Instead of having a guide and host, I was on my own; instead of having scheduled Pride events to be at, I had unscheduled tourist events.  

NYC Pride was fun and great and I managed to experience it from a place of privilege.  Marching was fun, and dancing and waving to folks from a float was fabulous.  

The only thing I'd change—aside from not having my return flight cancelled—would be the bars and venues to something where conversations could be had (all the bars and places we went to had really loud music, which made understanding folks next to impossible).

In contrasting and comparing NYC Pride with EUG Pride, I'm reminded that NYC has massive corporate sponsorship, and EUG has maybe city sponsorship.  Also NYC has a larger and more diverse community, and can have groups like the Sirens (Dykes on Bikes), and The Eagle, and Gay Water Polo Players, and Education Centers, and Latina/Latino and transgender and gay parent groups.  Eugene pride is smaller, with folks like the Unitarian Church, and Spectrum Bar—but the three community pools:  Eugene, Springfield, and the University of Oregon, don't always speak to each other.

I suppose that I need to go to PDX for Gay Dancing with Gay Men over 35.

And volunteer more.

Signs of Maturity ?

The other day I was driving in-laws to the airport.  The traffic was the worst I'd ever seen; when I exited I-5 for highway 205, the congested traffic slowed to about ten miles an hour and stayed that way until just after the Oregon City exits.  It picked up a bit where 205 passed Clackamas.  As we passed what my Reedy housemates and I used to call the "Tacky-Mess Clown Center," a beat-up white car shot out of an on-ramp, crossed three lanes, wedged itself between my car and the car in front of me, and nearly smashed into my front passengers-side headlight.  

Reflexes, and possibly The Force, helped me to break (and honk) and avoid a collision.  The other driver was obviously insane, but not nearly as insane as another driver who appeared about a minute later and would have happily rammed my rear bumper because I was in her way.

We arrived at the airport unscathed, and I saw my in-laws off.  

What strikes me about the whole thing is that if this had happened fifteen years ago, or even five years ago, I would have had a sinking sensation in my stomach and my hands would have been shaking; I would have been replaying the near-accident for the thousandth time by the time I got home.  I would have composed an angry and sarcastic song about bad drivers in Portland.  But I feel detached from it all—I'm not sure if this is a sign of maturity, or if I should be worried that I'm operating in a fog.

There Will Be Cats

Lately on Saturday mornings I have been joining a group of writers on Zoom to write virtually together. Groups of people writing in a 45-minutes-on-15-minutes-off cycle is supposed to be good for productivity and writing craft. And I enjoy the social aspect, even if it is virtual.

The next cycle starts in ten minutes, at nine. It's cool and overcast outside. I set up to join the writing session. I get everything ready on our deck outside: the supporting pillows on the wide, outside sectional; the sunbrella set up to block the overcast sun; the tripod desk tilted up against the sectional so it could suspend the laptop over my knees; the wireless keyboard and mouse at ergonomic ready; folding mini-table set with a starry tea cloth and matching starry napkin; a mondo-mug of English Breakfast tea, eggs, a slice of cheese, carrots, and dates laid out on the setting. Even Aoife the pit bull terrier curls up on one corner of the sectional, close enough for her to be at guard rest, but not pressing up against me. 

It's 8:57. The laptop fires up. A Scrivener session begins. Into email for the Zoom link!

Meanwhile, Smokey our old grey cat, who had been napping on a table on the other side of the deck, smelled my breakfast cheddar, eased his rickety bones off the table, pulled himself up onto the sectional, and quested around for my breakfast. After three rounds of discouragement, his claws got stuck on the tablecloth and he upset the tea mug: tea overflowed the saucer, drenched the tablecloth, and cascaded onto my lap.

Just as I'm about to click the JOIN button for the Zoom meeting.

A sullen cat, table linens and pants in cold water to soak out the black tea stains, tepid tea, and twenty minutes later, I pull together pillows and blankets and return to Zoom. Zoom is confused and dropped the meeting, which requires restarting it. 

The timed session is half-over; other writers are muted or have their screens off while they industriously churn out words. I'm too wound up to work on the (too many) fantasy short stories I've got floating around, and I end up writing instead about the experience of not-writing until the host chimes the end of this session.

I'm not sure why writers are supposed to have cats.

Review: Babel, by R.F. Kuang.

 

I've just finished reading "Babel" by R.F. Kuang.  The writing was good, although I had to overlook 1883 era characters using the words "morph" and "ridiculous"—two of my pet peeve words—anachronistically.  

I went in thinking the novel would be a high fantasy about a magical library, and in a sense Babel is, but the novel is more an alternative magical history meditation on (the British) Empire and colonialism, capitalism, and on the relationships of academia and the military-industrial complex.  As someone who has worked for a university for twenty-some years, some of the book's observations about exploitive worker-producer-product relations in the institution of higher education hit close to home.  

The novel ends on a grim but open-ended note, sort of like the end of "The Empire Strikes Back," only without a Rebel Alliance.  I will shelve "Babel" with books like "1984," "The Handmaid's Tale," "Animal Farm," and other cultural critique books that are, to paraphrase Anna Russell, "art that one must expose oneself to without thought of reward or enjoyment."

Easter Family Visit

It's Easter Sunday and an atmospheric river has made the morning grey and wet.  In the distant southeast there was a morning glimmer of gold along an edge of pending rain.  Yesterday was sunnier, which is better for my mood.  

We visited my folks for a gathering of ten.  In addition to my immediate family, my vintner cousins, K & B visited.  K & B brought wine, hors d'oeuvres, and an extra boost of energy to the gathering.  My sister put in a lot of effort in to food production, and made a scrumptious chicken main entry.  We (or rather, Mark) brought carrot-cake cupcakes for dessert.  And there were Easter candies. 

The route to my folks' house follows Highway 99 and Territorial Highway.  Over February the bald eagles would gather on the tops of power line poles overlooking the fields where the lambs were being born; one time we must have seen around ten or so.  This time around, we saw five miserable-looking and soaked golden (we think) eagles sulking along the top branches of a tree overlooking the river.  We also saw joggers, who looked like they were inviting hypothermia, but I guess when one is running in 50F rains, it's not so bad.

The rain slacked off some over the day.  In the afternoon a woodpecker visited a dying oak tree next door.  Since it was level with my folk's deck, I managed to get a photograph of it.

Dream: Naked Wounds

Tuesday night. We join the dream in progress...

I was at Arcosanti.  Usually, Arcosanti dreams involve odd road-trips or airport anxiety, but not this time.  No; this time I was changing into clothing and was worried that I was going to be walked in on in a state of undress.  I'm not recalling much about the room that I was in other than it was rectangular and had white stucco walls—I couldn't even tell you what part of Arcosanti I was in, only that I was there.  Somehow, I managed to get pants on before anyone could enter the room.

A guy, I can't recall if it was C.A. or D.R. came in.  "Whoa!" He pointed to my chest.  "That's some cut you've got there."  

I looked down.  Earlier in the dream (or at least in the dream's story line), I had cut my myself just below my left pectoral muscle with a very long kitchen (Chef's) knife.  I had a finger-length slice oozing blood.  "Uh, yeah," I said, looking at the red opening.  "I probably should have gotten it stitched shut."  The more I looked, the wider and deeper the cut became, until I was looking underneath a hunk of my crimson flesh.  It didn't hurt, but there was a sense that I had this big gaping wound that needed more than just a bandaid. 

And then the dream went on to other things.

I woke up with Sting's 1988 song, "Lazarus Heart" in my head (which I haven't heard in ages, and on those instances when I do recall it, I normally just recall the phrase, "lifts her eyes to the sky / like a flower to the rain").   I'm not quite sure what prompted this dream, although I have been reading books on the tarot and Kabbalah before going to sleep, so maybe I picked up wounded heart symbolism from Dion Fortune.

Dreams and Reading

The other night I had a very visual dream.  During one part, I watched a mechanical musical instrument, or possible a carousel, animate a flying pegasus cut out of sheet metal and suspended by brass rods.  This was part of a bank of fantastical creatures that sprang up as the mechanism turned.   

During another part, Mark and I visited a famous designer's museum/apartment.  They had five red metal canisters of decreasing size arranged on an art deco countertop.  As I looked at them, a picture frame appeared around them, and I found myself holding a history of art book opened to an article on the famous designer.  "Oh, Mark and I visited their apartment," I said.

Today (Saturday) has been sunny and warm, which is a nice change from the last ten or so days when the leaden skies have rained (and snowed) and dark days have required turning on as many lights as possible in order to stave off the overwhelming desire to hibernate.  As evening drschaws close, outside is cooling off, but just a few hours ago I was actually hot.

Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy.

Today was a day for old idioms.  We wondered about the phrase, "have a cow," which Mark didn't hear very much of, but I recall was a stock utterance from 1975 elementary school and 1990's "Simpsons" episodes.  For an encore, we moved on to Frank Zappa's "Valley Girl."  

On the reading front, I finished "Good Omens," by Pratchett and Gaiman.  It was silly and fun, with twist ending that was thoughtful, but not too serious.  I've moved onto "Babel," by R.F. Kuang, which I'm enjoying for the most part—my minor quibbles with the book so far are 1) that the footnote asterisks in the text are very easy for me to miss, which disrupts the flow of my reading, and 2) the modern usage of the words "morph" and "ridiculous" (two of my danger words) by 1820's Oxford characters, which bumps me out of the story.  

On the writing front, things continue to go slowly. I am hopeful that the return of longer daylight hours will help.

Astronomy and Dreaming

On the astronomy front, Venus and Jupiter were conjunct last Wednesday, and the sky was clear enough that I was able to photograph them while they were fairly close to each other.  It seems like the sky clouds over on nights when there is going to be a conjunction, so I was pleased that the fall-back photos I'd taken a few days earlier were not needed.  I was able to capture a few views of Jupiter's moons, which was an extra bonus.

On the dream front, I'm coming to the conclusion that the amount of dreaming with interesting imagery that I can recall is positively correlated with how much fantasy and science fiction I read.  I suppose that building the (sometimes fantastical) visual images in my head keeps working as I sleep and comes out as cool dreams (as opposed to anxiety dreams).  If I really wanted to document the process, I'd keep a reading log and a dreaming log to see if there's a particular author or genre that is dream inducing.

On the writing front, there's (very) slow progress.  I suppose I should be grateful for any writing I manage to get myself to do.

 

Mid February Saturday Writing Session

This morning is a free writing session and I can write whatever I would like to write because writing is fun, dammit.  I will now try to write while various family members clunk around the house, sing bloody songs of revolution, and noisily straighten up by moving furniture and vacuuming.  

From All Hallows to Candlemas, the weather turns cold, wet, and dark.  But beyond then the weather is good enough for writing outside. Sometimes, when it's not False Spring or Fool's Spring or Spring Cleaning.

Okay.  I've moved outside to the deck and the new sectional furniture with tea, the writing table and a straw hat to keep the sun out of my eyes.   Off to flights of fancy and lexical dexterity.  With color and light.  And shaking the rust off.  And writing a story. 

And hummingbirds visiting the fountain.  The flash of color over the gurgling fountain.  The lavender making a brave comeback after a cold winer and a summer of overwatering.  The birds in the sky cry. A killdear, I think. The neighbor's open cable box.  That would be a place to hide something in a story. Black wings in the air and I just got cawed at.  And the dogs are barking one house over.  And the dogs are barking three houses over.  And the dogs are barking a block away.  And my co-workers are not going to call me on my cell phone today, thank you very much.

And we'll see how well my stomach is doing, because something upset it last night and I'm still feeling off after a 3:30 AM mug of peppermint tea. I'm sure more black tea will help.

I wonder what I should write, because the stories I've started recently have stalled and—Okay, my earbuds have died.  Bother.  I'll have to use some headphones, which means not wearing my wide-brimmed straw hat.  Which means the sun is in my eyes. And my face will get sunburned, which will make my impending old man wrinkles worse.

Let's get back into the flow.  Really.  Here we go.  Let's just write.  Here we go.  Yes.  Let's start with a character.  Because we enjoy this.  And writing is fun.  And the words will flow off of my fingertips and into the readers' brains.  

...Brains.... I have submitted this logorrhea for your reading pleasure.  It's words desperately in search of a plot.  I need more tea.

Right. A character.  Here we go.  Let's go.  Undoubtedly a family member will call with some kind of family emergency.  But they haven't yet, so seize the moment. Even though at any second the phone could ring, heralding a ninety minute conversation that could have been an email.

No, no! Don't look back.  Don't look forward to interruptions that haven't happened yet. Just keep writing.

The setting....   The olive tree held up leaves against the noon-time sun.  How about two trees? Jill? Pat? Chris?... Chris sa—Lord Almighty, the Child has applied his cologne, possibly with a bucket, which is now wafting through his open window and settling in the back of my throat.  What the hell is the point of writing outside when your family opens all the doors and windows in the house and all the distractions follow you there?

Okay.  Back to the scene.  And Writing.  Which I Enjoy Very Much.

Do the things you love, they said.  

My husband is now spraying Scotchgard onto the outdoor pillow slipcovers, and that is wafting over from the garage, where it settles next to the cologne in the back of my throat.

Maybe I'll just write an essay about art instead.

During a Leveling Up In Bad-Ass scene, the archery-master grandma tells the movie sidekick, "If you aim at nothing, you hit nothing."   Special effects fighting, archery, and magic follow in pyrotechnic glory, but her action-movie words of wisdom are the story's heart for me.  

So.  We're going to write.  And hit a story.

The character:  Tim.  The antagonist:  Jill. The question...

The problem writing character driven stories is that I'm more interested in setting or story question or poetry than I am in character.  I think this makes me an extroverted sociopath or something.

Augh! Character!  Tim wants to get to point A, and he does.

The Quest....

Oops.   I was staring off into space. 

Character! ...All he wanted... was some tea, which has gone cold.  

I'm sure there a metaphor in there, somewhere.