Confluence of Kitchen and Kink

I may have mentioned that I got accepted into a women's a capella group, Random Chants. It's nifty! I love having such a contrasting singing opportunity from Back Bay Chorale: BBC is a 100 voice chorus singing mostly sacred canon in large halls; Random Chants is a nine-woman a cappella group singing mainly pop, folk and rock songs. Soon I'll probably even have a solo! Below is the announcement of my first gig with them, in which I'll simply be trying to keep up.

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Do you like music? Do you like fresh fruits and veggies? Of course you
do! Since that's the case, come by the Union Square Farmers Market
next Saturday to hear Random Chants sing!

WHAT: Random Chants @ the Union Square Farmers Market
WHEN: 10-10:30am, Saturday, August 16th
WHERE: Union Sq. Plaza at the intersection of Bow St.,
Washington St. and Somerville Ave. (in Somerville, MA)

We'll be singing for roughly a half hour (followed by other fun
musicians), and you'll get to see some of our newest Chants! Do your
weekly food shopping while listening to a cappella -- what could be
better?

For directions, check these websites:
http://www.unionsquaremain.org/committees/farmersmarket.html
http://www.massfarmersmarkets.org/t-union-directions.aspx

We hope to see you there!

In harmony,
Random Chants

The abundance of fresh and nutritious and amazing food to which I have access. Tonight's dinner involved grazing on When Pigs Fly sourdough bread, organic ham, raw cheddar cheese, lemon and garlic olives, farm share tatsoi, and tomatoes fresh from our garden. Served with organic, sulfite-free wine - not bad, not bad at all.

Batman Begins, the accompanying entertainment, also roundly failed to suck.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): According to Jewish legend, there are in each
generation 36 righteous humans who prevent the rest of us from being
destroyed. Through their extraordinary good deeds and their love of the
divine spark, they save the world over and over again. They're not famous
saints, though. They go about their business anonymously, and no one
knows how crucial they are to our well-being. Might you be one of the
36? I bet you'll be acting like one of them in the coming week. Your
capacity for disseminating blessings will be astounding. The ripples of
benevolence you initiate could ultimately go around the planet and return
to you.

Anyone know about this legend? I would love to write a novel about The 36. Or even just a short story.

This post has caused quite a stir; in fact, I discovered today that someone on my friends list linked to a comment thread within it in a negative fashion. This annoys me, but it also makes me want to continue the discussion.

I believe that the comment thread in question actually opens up a lot of good dialogue about these issues, and gets me closer to what I was trying to say in the first place. What I am especially interested in pointing out from this thread, though, is my last comment in it, which I think sums up a lot about how and why I write here, and why I often post protected rather than letting this be a completely public forum:

A lot of the initial post, so you know, was written in the heat of the moment - on purpose; I wanted to get my feelings out on the page - and wasn't really meant to be a coherent political statement. If anything, it was exposing some of the feelings I'm ashamed of at times: the mirror work of my own intolerance. I assembled a pastiche of my experiences [the night of July 4th] in order to build up to a larger emotional point about how I feel about the way the overculture operates to try and keep us compliant and stupid. In the process I know I come off sounding judgmental and intolerant, but at times it's important to me to get those things out, acknowledge and (partly thanks to [hahathor]) examine those feelings.

It's part of my work to figure out how to walk the line as a freak in this world without becoming self-righteous and intolerant, without removing myself completely from the rest of the world. Part of my reaction was my own fear that I'm getting farther and farther from being able to enjoy time with people not in my social circle; that I'm getting so outside the mainstream that I feel like a space alien most of the time.

I've been doing a lot of work lately on being more permeable. Unfortunately, I've always been overly sensitive, and so I tend to swing between shielding too much and letting too much in. My goal is ultimately to have boundaries like a cell membrane: permeable to exactly the right things; decisively closed to those things that would harm me.

( Other points from that thread I feel are relevant here... )


My apologies, in the meantime, to those who were so triggered by my use of the word "mundane," even though in the original post, I used it only to refer to mainstream friends of mine whom I like a lot. The subsequent ranting was more about mob mentality and government control (which I think go hand in hand), weird concepts of patriotism, and the lack of self-awareness and anger that I see around me.

I continue to be open to discussion.

Today has been a very good day.

I woke up slowly after a good party, and imlad made breakfast. I polished and hung up the spice-rackish thing I trash-picked last week, and it looks beautiful and holds all our spices. We finally took Guernica off the kitchen wall, where it was frankly being a bit of a drag, and hung a picture of a squash blossom there instead.

I turned on the oven and nearly smoked us all to death, but in the end I had seared chicken and ribs, which I then put in the crockpot and stewed for many hours with homemade barbecue sauce.

I went to the gym.

I wrote a bunch of work emails and took a bunch of work phone calls.

I hung pictures of me and imlad around the mirror in our room; I hung more pictures of our loved ones in our hallway. I made a big pot of collard greens and kale with a fat hamhock.

I cleaned off my night table, fachrissakes.

Just finished dinner, and will watch a movie with my sweetie while drinking wine and maybe having ice cream.

Sometimes, the simplest days are the best. (Oh and also: now there's an air conditioner in our living room. Score.)

Tonight, a party for a beloved friend and covenmate, held in the house of a beloved ex-. This party, full of my kind of people, rife with the DJ stylings of ert, thrumming more softly now (we're all in our thirties now; we're tired at midnight) with the rhythms of dance, the nostalgia of great 80s and 90s music, the halls creeping with cats suspicious of the shoe piles in the hall.

From this party, wearing the same dress and shoes I wore last night, I come home refreshed, slightly tipsy, energized by contact, feeling held and loved.

And off to bed I go, feeling the same things.

Someone who's perhaps a leeeetle bit farther along on this path than I am. May I walk ever toward such grace.

Thorn's words on fire and independence.

It's nights like this that I'm proud to be an American. Or something.

Tonight, my beloved imlad and I kept to a tradition we'd been exercising for a few years. We have these friends who live in Beacon Hill, and from the rooftop of their apartment building, you get a spectacular view of Boston's fireworks display.

Now these friends are people imlad knew before he met me. That is, well, they're mundanes. Mind you, they're awesome mundanes. Smart, funny, interesting people, into ancient Greece and modern art, who invite people over who are usually the same sorts of mundanes. We are, in a sense, their pet freaks, and we enjoy being so, and now and then we meet people there who look like they could be pushed over the edge with a feather.

This time, though, the gathering was smaller. Our favorite couple there was now a single, the wife having split and moved to Atlanta. The cooler people we'd met in the past were absent. Our host's busybody older sister and her obnoxious husband were there. We had some chit chat and some nice food, and then headed up to the roof to await the fireworks display.

All around were the other denizens of the building, most of whom seemed to be young and annoying, the types who yell inane things like "YEAH baby! DO it!" every time a big firework explodes. And as I sat and waited for the festivities to begin, I realized a profound truth that doesn't often occur to me anymore in my life: I was bored.

I had spent the afternoon surrounded by people I know and love. My people; my community. I'm very lucky to spend so much time in their embrace, enveloped in their love, sharing food and booze and touch and watching their kids run around underfoot. I don't think I express my gratitude often enough for the fact that, essentially, I'm shielded from the world by a different, smaller world that is being created, day by day, by the awesome people who surround me.

And here I was, on a rooftop in Beacon Hill, surrounded by the kind of people who would bring a television out onto a roofdeck so as, presumably, to watch the fireworks on television and in real life at the same time.

As if to make the final point, the fireworks began. And while at first they were very lovely as always, as the show went on, it began to generate so much smoke that eventually the fireworks couldn't be seen at all. The finale was a series of degenerate booms ringing out over a cheering crowd, who were probably actually crying out their dying breaths before they asphyxiated. Even the one thing that seemed like a guaranteed good time failed us this year, the spectacle we'd come for literally lost in a puff of smoke.

We flowed down the stairs and flopped on the couch, where we watched the post-processing on the local news while we waited out the first wave of people leaving the Esplanade. After a hyper-cheery report on the just-finished fireworks display, which apparently thrilled everyone to death (maybe literally) in spite of the fact that nobody could see it, the news did an editorial piece on why people in Massachusetts are really patriotic, in spite of the fact that Massachusetts is one of the bluest states in the nation.

Let me just say that again so it sinks in.

Even though Massachusetts is a really blue state, its citizens love celebrating their patriotism!

Because we all know that liberals and Democrats hate America.

So this was the idea of the report. The substance? Showing the happy people gathered on the Esplanade in front of the Hatch Shell, bedecked with styrofoam Liberty spikes and waving the American flag, smiling empty, vapid smiles while listening to the Pops grind out Tchaikovsky for the nth time (a tune, by the way, commemorating Russia's defeat of Napoleon in 1812, not our defeat of the British) while fireworks explode over their heads (or at least that's what it sounded like). Then, showing people in other cities, protesting the government's actions! Gasp! Horrors! People who disagree with the government!

How unpatriotic. Juxtapose that with a heartwarming story about a father and son who just came home from serving in Iraq together (they're so proud), and there's your dose of news for the night.

By this point I was so depressed I started to fall asleep, so we said our goodbyes and walked out onto the street, where a sinister police helicopter was circling, shining a searchlight into the alleys below. Streetlights flashed and the sidewalks swarmed with happy patriots trying to return to their homes. Outside of the Charles MGH station, these masses stood, waiting for the armed guards to let them pass in groups into the station.

Yes, really.

On the train home, my feet aching, I stood listening to the conversations around me. A loud man behind me said, "That's your problem, you're so negative about everything. That's why I hate my family. I hate them, because they're always so negative about everything, you know?!"

Do people even listen to what comes out of their mouths?

I don't have broadcast TV at home. The local news is telling people that dissent is unpatriotic, that they should be afraid to walk the streets at night, that being an American is about war and triumph and F15 flyovers and not about what freedom actually means. The circus we go through every year at the Hatch Shell celebrates all of that, and decides that the Raging Grannies in Portland Oregon or wherever are a bunch of commies who hate America.

And a 16-year-old looking kid stands outside the closing doors of a train and says, to someone safely crammed inside the car, "I'll kill you. I swear it. If I see you around, I'll kill you." I watch his dead eyes, flickering cold blue light like TV screens, as the train pulls painfully out of the station.

Back in Davis Square we meet somebody we know almost instantly; she comments on imlad's kilt as we mount the escalator. On the brick-lined street, a passing kid is singing "Holiday in Cambodia."

At last we're home, and I feel again the tenuousness of my position, the baby-fine but strong filament on which I soar in love. Those threads that weave themselves over me and my loved ones, in a web that I wish weren't necessary.

But it is. Because every time I venture into the larger world I'm reminded of one of the things that depresses me, and that I so wish weren't true: the vast majority of people are sheep. Docile, stupid, reactionary, ugly, greedy, empty-eyed consumers fueled by beer and fear. They're living the American nightmare. And only a very few will awaken in their lifetimes.

As we rounded the last corner to our house, a bumper sticker on a parked car caught my eye. Incongruously but piercingly, it said only, "Sift."

In one of his most famous routines, Carlin railed against euphemisms he said have become so widespread that no one can simply "die."

"'Older' sounds a little better than 'old,' doesn't it?," he said. "Sounds like it might even last a little longer. ... I'm getting old. And it's OK. Because thanks to our fear of death in this country I won't have to die — I'll 'pass away.' Or I'll 'expire,' like a magazine subscription. If it happens in the hospital they'll call it a 'terminal episode.' The insurance company will refer to it as 'negative patient care outcome.' And if it's the result of malpractice they'll say it was a 'therapeutic misadventure.'"

George Carlin, comedian, actor, counterculture warrior and hero of freaks everywhere died yesterday at the age of 71, of heart failure.

I'm just gonna go over here and cry for a while.

I was pretty proud of this review in the Boston Globe this week, after performing what felt like a real triumph of a performance on Friday night.

I think one of the coolest things for me about doing this piece was how reluctant I was at first; how little I was moved by the music, and how uncomfortable I was at times singing the fire-and-brimstone Biblical texts, in English (singing the Mass in Latin is so much old hat to me now, not to mention that, well, it's in Latin, and even though I know what it all means, it's still removed enough). I stuck it out, despite having to miss about five rehearsals out of twelve, in part because we were performing in the Sanders Theatre - which thrilled me - and in part because of Scott Jarrett, our musical director, whom I admire in the extreme and love singing for.

I'm so glad I did, because when we got the orchestra and the soloists together with the chorale, in that marvelous hall, it was absolutely magical. And I learned anew how gorgeous and exciting the music really is.

It's gratifying to what degree the reviewer noticed the Chorale's hard work and praised us, in particular because I felt that I was working hard - and loving it - by the end.

Another time, I'll tell the Story of the Sopranos. Eek.

A lot of folks have asked me what I'm going to do now that the 100 words for a 100 days project is ended. Well, a couple of things have come to mind. I like the whole 100 days model because it's a long period of time (long enough and more to build a habit), but the next 100 days are going to be interrupted by several long trips, and it would be difficult to keep up.

So the next plan is this:

June is DiNoWriMo (Dietrich Novel Writing Month). I will strive to work on the novel, even if it's just a little bit, every day. I'll post updates on LJ containing snippets of writing, word counts, progress reports, etc.

Unlike the 100 days, I'll be posting these friends-locked, mainly to put a layer of protection on any copyrighted material I post (I kind of trust my friends list not to steal my work). If you'd like in on this game and aren't on my friends list, leave a comment and I'll see what I can do!

After June, I think I'll enter another 100 days project (skipping over the 2 weeks I'll be at Burning Man and San Francisco) wherein I take the 100 words project, pick my 10 favorites, and expand each into a short story, taking 10 days to draft each one.

Wow, I was so wrong in my previous post about this.

The Back Bay Chorale and a host of soloists and orchestra will perform Mendelssohn's Elijah at the Sanders Theatre in Cambridge on Friday, May 30! (Not the day after that, which was what I originally posted.)

More details here</b>.

Convergences are interesting things.

It’s a full moon tonight. In my sign of Scorpio, too. Tonight I walked, with three amazing women newly of my acquaintance, through the dark New York countryside by the light of the moon. For miles we bounced along, joking about axe murderers and speculating on the testicular descent of one of our teachers, bitching and scheming and trying to figure out what to do next, laughing our asses off as our lives recalibrated themselves in front of us, in the milky shadows.

And today is the last day. Day one hundred.

Now I’ve done it.

The woman behind the counter wonders if I’m staff, and I wonder if I should say I am, just to get a discount. But she’s such a sharp-looking older lady, and I love the henna she’s had done on her hand.

It’s such a fine line between the things I care about – sustainability, healing, healthy foods, the value of land, spirituality – and the things that just push it over the edge into silliness or self-righteousness. How many people decide not to be environmentalists because of eco-terrorists and PETA members? How many are turned away from paganism because of the fruitcakes?

It’s a love/hate thing, me and retreat centers. As soon as I ever arrive at such a place, on the one hand there’s the beautiful landscape, the healing energy of the land, the beautifully designed gardens and buildings. On the other hand there’s the New Age smugness that tends to permeate everything. At Harbin Hot Springs, over breakfast, a woman told me how she doesn’t put honey in her tea because the hot water kills the beneficial enzymes. Oh, how I longed for some bacon to eat in front of her. Does that make me a bad person? Oh good.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.

I never saw him before.

She said she was eighteen.

I only left her for a minute.

We were only going for a little drive.

I didn’t know it was loaded.

This isn’t mine.

No, I haven’t been drinking.

Nobody ever has to know.

Yeah, I tested negative.

I’m going to leave her.

You were wonderful.

It’s delicious, honey.

He’s in a better place now.

It’ll all be okay in the morning.

You can be anyone you want.

He meant nothing to me.

The check is in the mail.

I love you, babe.

I lived in Georgetown for a few months, when I was working in Washington. There were so many restaurants there, barkers outside of each one, trying to call people in. Every day I ate at the same French restaurant. I ate the same food! Trout. I would sit there and eat and sketch while I ate. I worked very fast then. I gave those sketches away. Once there was a couple, it was easy, they were so wrapped up in each other, so in love, they didn’t even notice me drawing. I gave it to them. They were so happy.

She was German Jewish, a refugee. Her body curved like the violin I brought to her every week for nearly a year. Fourteen I was, and she barely spoke the English that was my own third language. My older brother wouldn’t go to her, said, “No, she is too beautiful.” I was still young enough to almost not understand.

One day, I walked the usual way over the dusty trail to meet her for my lesson, but I was told she had gone. “Got married,” they said.

I saw her again once, with her new husband, but she didn’t even wave.

I understood.

rough going

When someone gives you a 45-minute sternal rub, you’re going to get a rash.

But it’s one of the things that soothed me on the fast ferry to P-town. The boat flew up and down with such violence on the choppy seas that the bar’s supply of coffee cups went south in a symphonic crash, and the woman behind me sobbed into her boyfriend’s shoulder, shrieking with terror that the boat would fly apart.

My companion rubbed my chest, applied acupressure to my wrist, and, well, loved me. And I didn’t throw up until 20 minutes from landfall!

Not bad.

**
oh the food

Spiritus Pizza must be experienced to be believed. Not just as perfect post-seasickness food, but as late-night haunt, after the bars and clubs shut down at a ridiculous one a.m.

Bubula’s makes excellent fish and chips, but you can get a fish sandwich with killer fries for six bucks cheaper, and leave the bun.

Ciro & Sal’s is cozy and old-school and has, perhaps, the best marsala sauce anywhere.

The Post Office is called that because it used to be a post office. And because it makes the best pancakes in the universe. Shut up, it does too make sense.

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goldilocks at home

Queens are awfully fun, with their bitchy commentary and flaming affectations, but there’s nothing like bears. Big, hairy, bearded, scary dudes, from whom warmth and welcome emanate like the smell of well-worn leather. P-town regulars, drawing us into their haunts for well-mixed drinks and frank conversation. Letting my guard down, letting myself stand back and not be the center of attention, letting my language slip easily into playful raunch as I talk up my boyfriend’s assets to them. One comments on my beauty, on my resemblance to his last – ever – girlfriend. They honor me – and humble me – with their acceptance.

**
like night and day

Saturday night we slide, after closing time, down to the place on the beach known as the “dick dock” to help our new friend look for someone who’s wandered off. Secure in his safety, we move on, a while longer laughing in the streets, in new-found comfort.

Sunday morning, the streets are full of tourists, Mother’s Day in full swing in blinding sunlight and noise, dogs and kids underfoot everywhere. A woman in front of Town Hall plays a zither and sings corny folk songs.

A hetero-appearing couple, we don’t stand out like sore thumbs. We just feel like them.

**
belonging

I was a quiet outcast in high school. Drama and choir fag. Gay best friend, but not gay. Black clothes, but not goth. I wasn’t athletic. I was smart. But not a gaming nerd or science genius. I felt no one really knew me.

Poly, bi, pagan switch artist. No particular clothing style. I blend in, though I’m six feet tall and some say stunning. In some communities I find temporary respite, a place where parts of me can shine. It’s freeing to be so chameleonic. And lonely to have no true place.

P-town, embrace me in your shifting seas.

A college senior at UConn was sexually assaulted, fought off her attacker, then was circled and further assaulted by a pack of cheering dudes - whom she also fought her way out of.

On the one hand, her fighting back, then writing about it in the school newspaper, is awesome.

On the other hand, dude, you see a woman attacked and you laugh and attack her some more?

And then you start with your blame the victim bullshit, and confirm other girls' shame and feeling that they shouldn't come forward about their own experiences with rape and assault?

The title of this post was my favorite comment from the first linked article. If we can't change the attitudes that make these boys act they way they do, perhaps it's time to arm the female populace. Is rage all that will stop this?

The Back Bay Chorale's last offering of this season will be Mendelssohn's oratorio Elijah on Saturday, May 31 at 8pm, featuring an all-star cast of soloists, a full orchestra, and of course, the fabulous Back Bay Chorale, all under the direction of my current hero, Scott Allen Jarrett.

See details, here at BBC's website.

We'll be performing at the wonderful Sanders Theatre on Harvard's campus, one of my favorite spaces in the Boston area, and there are special dinner deals in the area before the concert, too!

C'mon out!