Hater

Last night, I coaxed my mom's negative opinion of my hair past her reluctant social filter.

She was quick to add that she "admired my artistic vision", though.

I guess you can't expect everyone to understand the beauty and grace of a rat tail.

Happy Holidays, fools.

New

Therapy is...

Cleaning my bike with an ex's toothbrush...heh. heh.

Chet Baker. Someone special singing along to Chet Baker in my bed.

Cloudy skies and soy mistos.

Clutter removal. Folded laundry. washed dishes.

Beat Romantic. Beat heavy. Drum Beats.

Sore Muscles. Long Bike Rides.

The heart and the synapse.s. Seratonin Re-uptake Inhibitors (150mg, 2x daily).

Finishing the semester with swagger.

On A Clear Day

Listening to Midlake and Mr. Bird...

Today is the second day this week that I could see my breath in the small hours of the dayn'night. It is finally getting cooler. Though I fear the frost may snatch away my sunflowers in the dark, I welcome its presence.

I woke up this morning in the 5 hour to finish some homework and had quite a bit of time to spare before class. I made myself a misto, put on some Rasta Root and cleaned up some details on painting number two in my ______ series. I am pleasantly surprised with the evolution and likeness of the second painting to that in my original vision. Whether or not the recipients are happy with the product, I see these works as a personal victory in my artistic career. I very much see myself in the figures.

I came home from morning class with a feeling of ease and peace. Baya (kitten) ran up to the door as I rolled up on my bicycle and we entered our safe haven together. Breakfast mess form the morning cleaned up now; I'm ready for an easy bike ride around the town in the brisk weather.

Holy Shit

I DO play games with people. Not purposefully... but because I am afraid of my affection or interest coming off too intense. I am afraid of rejection. I am afraid of alienating people because I care, because I desire more. I am afraid of my own intensity, so I try and hide it. Coax it into submission.

Which really helps no one, because I am an intense person, whether I like it or not.

FUCK.

Life, man.

Evoking My Social Avatar

There's nothing to be afraid of- but everything to protect. No longer reliant on a source of outward reassurance. Empty. Not full. Not scared. Not anything.

What is most primal in me in not summoned by ghosts or whispers. It comes from a sound, a drum, a rhythm. Beating. Dreaming. It's there. The passion that I fear will engulf me is that which will save me if I let it. And yet I must let nothing come between it and myself. Nothing to coax me into insecurity. No burning bush, long-haired snake or apple. It wants not. I waste not.

Amazing to realize that the person I thought I was, the things I wanted to be, are not me. I pretended I didn't have opinions because I didn't think I was entitled to them. I didn't believe in my experiences enough to rely on their feedback. I was ashamed of my emotional responses, suspect of my conclusions.

In the past I feared hurting others so fervently that I forgot that I also counted as a person. You can be told that over and over till your cup is full, but nothing will convince you. Only a disconnect between an essential physical being and a sentient, thinking self can create such a sad disjuncture. I look upon myself as someone looks upon a malnourished child, a crying best friend, a wounded lover. And I see such a shattered heart. It maps the states of my wandering.

It records my spite, my anxiety, my hurt, my love disguised as indifference, my lies. It carries no legend.

It is an empty window in my chest that carries no mass of burdens and also no hope. It merely sits and sings out the sorrow of neglect.

It is a black hole. A vengeful space that dares to swallow any who comes my way and steps on a fault line.

It is my heart. It is a good heart.

I carry no capacity for arguing or being patient for those that do not give. Simply because I have nothing to give, either. My energy, my love, my primal scream. My tender smiles, my flirtations, my prose and verses. It is all gone. And I do not mourn it.

I only hurt for myself. Cry for my Self. See myself rise and fall as one sees the tides in a crystal ball. I am contained and I am everywhere. I am level. No hate. No pain.

I cannot follow the same dance steps. Wear the same shoes. Follow a partner that lacks no grace. I merely sit and watch the time pass.

What is here today is here tomorrow and gone, gone, gone is my sorrow.

White People

have you heard or heard of that song "tequila makes her clothes fall off"

7:52pmKaia

not yet??

7:52pmKimberly

well it's a stupid country song

and i was just thinking about it today.. don't ask why

and if some chump is going to get rich off of that stupid fucking line, im going to write a song that says "whiskey makes his dick limp"

7:54pmKaia

hahahahaha

7:55pmKimberly

that's it

thanks for playing party to my diatribe

Cats and Bikes and Rats and Rats and Rats for Candy

Can't be mad at a weekend where I acquired a full adult banana suit, went to a wedding, made some huge steps in creating my revolutionary rad fem community, woke up naked everyday and committed some serious acts of social and linguistic terrorism. 

I can't be mad, but my body is sure bummed the fuck out. It's a shame I cannot choose the synapses and thought patterns that get obliterated when I take my drinking seriously. Otherwise, the whole idea of re-booting my emotional and intellectual computer via booze would be trademarked by now. 

I'ma go mainline some gatorade and get back in to functional adult mode. 

And continue my program of single white female-ing every good looking gentleman and lady in this town. 

Good talk.

Friday.

I planted sunflowers today. 

All colors- red, orange, yellow. I put the seeds in styrofoam cups I saved from restaurants because I have anxiety over throwing away styrofoam. The planters are sitting in between rocks in the yard so they don't blow away while I'm asleep or off conquering the world or lost in my own thoughts. 

Tired.

A. Lorde

"How do you deal with things you believe, live them not as theory, not even as emotion, but right on the line of action and effect and change?

 I had no sense, no understanding at the time, of the connections, just that I was a woman. And that to put myself on the line to do what had to be done at any place and time was so difficult, yet absolutely crucial, and not to do so was the most awful death. And putting yourself on the line is like killing a piece of yourself, in the sense that you have to kill, end, destroy, something familiar and dependable, so that something new can come, in ourselves, in our world. 

And that sense of writing at the edge, out of urgency, not because you choose it but because you have to, that sense of survival- that's what the poem is out of, as well as the pain of my spiritual son's death over and over. 

And once you live any piece of your vision it opens to you a constant onslaught. Of necessities, of horrors, but of wonders too, of possibilities... like meteor showers all the time, bombardment, constant connections. And then, trying to separate what is useful for survival and what is distorted, destructive to the Self.

********

I speak here of poetry as a revelatory distillation of experience...

For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought.

As they become known to and accepted by us, our feelings and the honest exploration of them become sanctuaries and spawning grounds for the most radical and daring of ideas. They become a safe-house for that difference so necessary to change and the conceptualization of any meaningful action. 

This is not idle fantasy, but a disciplined attention to the true meaning of "it feels right to me". We can train ourselves to respect our feelings and to transpose them into a language so they can be shared. And where that language does not yet exist, it is our poetry which helps to fashion it. Poetry is not only a dream and a vision, it is the skeleton architecture of out lives. 

 For there are no new pains. We have felt them all already. We have hidden that fact in the same place that we have hidden our power. They surface in our dreams, and it is our dreams that point our way to freedom. Those dreams are made realizable through our poems that give us the strength and courage to see, to feel, to think. 

And there are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt- of examining what those ideas feel like being lived on Sunday morning at 7am, after brunch, during wild love, making war, giving birth, mourning our dead- while we suffer the old longings, battle the old warnings and fears of being silent and impotent and alone, while we taste new possibilities and strengths." 

A. Lorde

"It is not the anger that will destroy us but our refusal to stand still, to listen to its rhythms, to learn within it, to move beyond the manner of presentation to the substance, to tap that anger as an important source of empowerment. 

When we turn from anger, we turn from insight, saying we will accept only designs already known, deadly and safely familiar. 

Anger can transform difference through insight into power. For anger between peers births change, not destruction, and the discomfort and sense of loss it often causes is not fatal, but a sign of growth." 

Sunday

My heart hurts today. 

Some days, the sadness lingers like background static, white noise. Today, I just feel heavy. It's hard to breathe. You were in my dream last night, sorry and sad, present, and promising to talk things over when you got back. And for just a moment, I was relieved.

 It reminded me of a dream I had just after Derek died in the accident, where I found him alive in my sleep and cried and cried with relief that he was not truly gone forever. 

I know I did everything I possibly could. And that maybe I projected an idea on to you that was not who you are, or are capable of being. 

And I'm sorry. For what didn't happen, for what can't happen, for what will maybe never happen. But more than anything, I just have this sadness and hurt that threatens to engulf my very person. I miss you- as a friend, as a lover, as something more. I don't miss the anxiety or the frustration. But I would be lying if I said I feel good now. 

I don't know what to do- if there is anything I can do. I just want to know that things are going to be okay. 

Drive-By Love Notes

(Whistles)

Hit me with one of those cat-calls. 

See, I was walking down the street- like your sister, like your mama

Walking down YOUR street- like your daughter, like your grandma

Composing a symphony in my mind!

I could see the violinist about to touch the bow to the strings

When... HONK HONK! "DAMN BABY, milk had did your body GOOD!" 

(Pauses)

...I'm walking down the street.. like your sister, like your mama

walking down your street- like your daughter, like your grandma

But you don't wanna hear that 

because you're only cruisin' for a lover

so all.you.see.are.curves. 

Hit me with one of those cat-calls 

when I'm writing a POEM in my mind

I had written the outline

and was about to start the rhyme when..

"tsk tsk... Hey Mami! Where you headed?!?!" 

And you saved me from the prison of my mind! 

"ohhhhh...call me mami again!"

Hit me with one of those cat-calls just one more time 

so I can FEEL my womanly worth 

I'll call you "Papi"

cuz every woman really wants a "daddy"

And you're the first man to be completely honest about what women really needed! 

And I NEED another cat-call cuz sometimes I lose awareness of my curves. 

You remind me 

I should never worry my head about the problems of this mans world 

because there are BIG. STRONG. MACHOS. like you

who value your women so much you just have to "celebrate!!" 

your sister's beauty with an "Ai! Sabrositaaaa!!" 

When I'm walking down the street- like your sister, like your mama

walking down YOUR street- like your daughter, like your grandma 

you know, feeling kinda scared 

walking down that street, in that neighborhood 

just as paranoia's kicking-my-ass...

"Whoa beautiful! I'm in hea-ven!" 

....you made me feel SO at home. 

"Hey where you goin' in such a big hurry!?! " 

Come back and give me another cat-call cuz

no one can howwwl like you, babe. 

Gets me all hot just wonder what else you can do 

with that tongue wagging back and forth 

and you ALWAYS remind me... it doesn't matter 

what I wear. 

Cuz I could be a complete mess and... HONK HONK.. "You fine!" 

(pauses) 

What was I thinking? 

Actually worrying about things that don't concern me 

Like, education and respect. 

when all I really need- more than flowers, more than candy 

more than respect

is a HUNKA HUNKA MAN in a HUNKA HUNKA CAR 

and those drive-by love notes to convince me

 "I think I'm in Looooveee," too. 

Hit me with one of those cat-calls 

so you finally hit on the one thing that drives me wild. 

I just hope YOUR DAUGHTER gets to meet 

such giving. men. as. you. 

(Amalia Ortiz) 

Mr. Cavendish Comes to Town

I keep having intensely weird dreams (even for me) that feature professional male cyclists. There was the dream last week about Lance Armstrong letting me slip away in the current (at the oddly sterile looking lake...) and today's dream that featured Mark Cavendish as a scotsman, and  my houseguest, during a race. Granted, it is TdF time and I am exposed to many images of these men daily, but, it still warrants a raised eyebrow when I consider the content of my brain theatre. 

In my dream this afternoon*, Mark Cavendish was my houseguest for a few days during a race (he did not race at all during my dream, however). Instead, he remained strangely ambiguous, with few facial expressions or conversational attempts. At one point, my mom and dad came home, dressed to the nines (which makes these figures wholly incapable of resembling my actual parents) and bragging about my mom's new purchase of a white Dodge Viper (I know, right?!). Mark was impressed but didn't say much. 

Later, he informed me that he would have to leave two days earlier than expected to drive to Phoenix to pick up his mother's stuff** (she..died? I guess?). I was crushed. 

At another juncture in the dream, part of my nose was cut off and reshaped due to an illness I was having. My new schnoz was interesting, but the whole procedure left me entirely distressed because I was going to have to get my nose re-pierced. 

Further along in the dream current, some criminals took over the school building I was in and people were evacuated. I ran back into the building to try and get my suitcase (?)  and belongings. I was able to locate M. Cavendish from the roof. He told me to get to work, and get down there. I was exasperated. I HAD TO GET TO MARK. But. I also had to find my cell phone.  In my efforts to extricate myself from the building, and find the room with the evacuation lost and found, I was captured  by the men who had taken over the building. At that point, I was having a hard time seeing and was only vaguely aware of them planning to touch me in inappropriate places. (Not that it's first on my list, but how come I have to get touched by the criminals and not the cyclist? I guess even in my subconscious I'm not attracted to Mark Cavendish and would rather by touched by invisible rogues).  

Then I woke up from my nap. Five hours later. Fuckin' Whack, Bro.

* I have felt terrible for the last twenty hours or so. Something happened during the bliss of the beer tasting last night that left me feeling shaky, sick to my stomach and feverish. This may or may not have something to do with this dream.

**I would like to express my condolences to MarK Cavendish over the loss of his phoenix-based mother.  

Beatitudes

"Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape."

"God teaches by means of opposites 

so that you will have two wings to fly, not one."

- Rumi

How I Could Just Kill A Man

Go get your ribbon box
Go get your wounded heart
Seeing spiders, I'm told they never lie.

Go get your brother love
Go get your losing head
Seeing fire, I'm told it never burns.

I want it all, I pull you back. I want it all.

Cry baby, cry baby, cry. Soaking down your face.
Cry baby, cry baby, and you can't understand how I could just kill a man.

No to your letters love
No to unsturdy hands
Sleeping eyes, I'm told they never lie.

No to your key of rust
No to your raging words
Sleeping tires, I'm told they never drive.

If I wanted to stay, you won't stand in my way
But I'm choosing to leave with your heart on my sleeve
It feels too good without you

Hehe, thanks Kate. 

Praise in the Name of Frequent Flier

First full day in Fort Collins and all I want to do is hide in my blankets and read books. Outdoor exploration to follow- but not today. I am enjoying being in one place without an impending move looming in my conscious. Whew. 

I have already lost my cat. She does not share my sentiments, I guess. 

I know there is no use losing sleep over technology and the affect of its development on our society. I know. I know. But I cannot help but feel there is something wholly wrong with the possibility that "books" will be completely digital in the future. 

I don't want to carry a computer with me everywhere. Computers break. 

And the argument that digitizing books saves trees is legitimate- but what about the materials used to create computers? We're fighting wars over that shit. 

I love Caps

Well, I mean, yes. Pull my leg hairs.

The Ballad of Sexual Dependency

"In spite of it all, people have a need to couple. Even when they're being destroyed, they're still coupling. The Ballad of Sexual Dependency starts and ends with this premise, but in between there is the question as to why there is this need and why it is so difficult.

I think that men and women are irrevocably strangers to each other, irrevocably unsuited. It is almost as if men and women are from different planets, they have such difficulty understanding each other. I find men, or the male emotional system, very difficult to understand. Men seem to be afraid of women. Emotionally, I am much suited to be with a woman, but then there is this sexual desire for men. I realize my emotional and sexual need for the opposite sex. The slide show touches gay relationships too; I am dealing with the difficulty of coupling, and part of that is the difficulty in maintaining intimacy. "

- Nan Goldin, Interview, 1986

A mon a vie...

If I were to have the space, time, energy or Boss DJ to host a "Crunk n' Shake", I'd play these songs first...

1) "Who Dat?"- JT Money (from the album "Pimpin' on Wax)

2) "Ice Cream Paint Job"- Dorrough 

3) "Hood Figga"- Gorilla Zoe 

4) "Right Round"- Flo Rida

5) "Make Em Say 'Ugh!'" - Master P

6) "I Need A Dime"- Mike Jones f. Ying Yang Twins

7) "Lip Gloss"- Lil' Mama

8) "Tell Me When to Go"- E-40 

9) "You're a Jerk"- New Boyz

and just because I can..

10) "Bombastic"- Shaggy

People would be ghost riding their whips in no time. 

Double-Double, Toil and Trouble

Say ahhhhh.

As the semester comes to a close and Spring not-so-subtly becomes the dastardly summer, I am finding myself in a familiar situation with an unfamiliar frame of mind. 

In the last week, I have moved out of my house, shacked up in temporary residence, shelled a great deal of my belongings, finished the last of my Art History classes and finally come to terms with the fact that I like riding my bike more than almost anything else in this world. I am standing on the edge of another move Northward, yet this time it's to a place that I know I will enjoy both environmentally and socially. (Big ups to CO). 

There is a timeline- I will be back. I'm not running from what I perceive to be the shortcomings of my hometown. I am instead embracing how much I love Tucson, so much so that I need to leave for a few months to briefly "cut the cord". I am going to enjoy another place, a different atmosphere and a new living situation with full intentions of returning home. I don't expect to find something that's missing inside of me. And that is an awesome feeling. 

***************************

This morning, Kate and I spun out to McCain Loop for an fairly easy 2hr ride. It never ceases to amaze me how beautiful the Tucson Mountains are. We are so blessed to be able to have these roads and hills for which to Play Bikes. Between the beautiful scenery and the comedic performance that is status-quo for rides with Kate, I was totally gellin' (like Magellan??). Not taking those Tequila shots last night was worth it. 

Quotant Quotables

"I don't do contemporary stuff, like Hip-Hop. I'm more likely to have a hip replacement."

-Dr. David Soren, just before he serenaded our cinema class

"What's the deal with gum? It's not a liquid, its not a food..you don't eat it. It's like a stationary bike for your jaw." 

- Jerry Seinfeld, "The Gum" episode

Fingers Crossed

HR 1913 Passes the House

HR 1913 (The Matthew Shepard Act) was passed today by an impressive margin sending a strong statement about equality and inclusiveness for all communities.  This bill will allow prosecution of violent crimes based on race, gender identity, sexual orientation, and disability.  It is the first fully inclusive bill to be introduced during this Session. The fate of the bill now rests in the hands of the Senate.  Powerful speeches flooded the floor of the house today.  Rep. Steny Hoyer (D-Maryland) spoke of the importance of“tolerance, equality and justice.”  Rep. Alcee Hastings (D-Florida) declared “people need not live in fear because of who they are.” “Hate crimes are an assault on people’s dignity and humanity” stated Rep. Joseph Cao (R-Louisiana). These statements echoed the support for this legislation that is shared by nearly 300 civil rights, education, religious, religious organizations and thirty one state Attorneys General.

The Local Law Enforcement Hate Crimes Prevention Act, H.R. 1913, when passed will:

• Extend existing federal protections to include "gender identity, sexual orientation, gender and disability"
• Allow the Justice Department to assist in hate crime investigations at the local level when local law enforcement is unable or unwilling to fully address these crimes
• Mandate that the FBI begin tracking hate crimes based on actual or perceived gender identity
• Remove limitations that narrowly define hate crimes to violence committed while a person is accessing a federally protected activity, such as voting.

 

Feist-y

I feel it all, I feel it all
I feel it all, I feel it all
The wings are wide, the wings are wide
Wild card in sight, wild card in sight

Oh I’ll be the one who'll break my heart
I'll be the one to hope

Can I know more than I knew before
I know more than I knew before
I didn't rest, I didn't stop
Did we fight or did we talk

Oh I’ll be the one who'll break my heart
I'll be the one to hope

Can I love you more
I love you more
I don't know what I knew before
But now I know I want to win the war

No one likes to take a test
Sometimes we don't pull or flex
Put your weight against the door
Kick-drum on the basement floor
Stranded in the thought of woods
Looking like the winter bird
On my head the water pours
Cops stream through the open door
Fly away
Fly away the one who want to make

I feel it all
I feel it all
The wings are wide
Wild card in sight, wild card in sight

Audrey Flack

"I think that stories live in the collective unconscious of societies. Stories about men and stories about women. You all need some new stories...

Vision is male and female. Until recently, the history of art has been the history of male vision. Women dress, look, feel and see differently. Their vision must be incorporated into the history of art. "

Spotting

It's official: Santa Claus Springs in Tucson, drives a red Yukon and voted for Obama. 

Saw it with my own two eyes. Well, four if you include Kate-as-witness too. 

BAM.

You Thrive on Mistaken Identity

“I developed language skills to deal with threat. It’s the girl thing to do – you know, instead of pulling a gun.”

"Pictures and words have the power to tell us who we are and aren’t, and I try to engage that power..I  try to make work about how we are to one another."  

                                                        -Barbara Kruger

Stomping in Jack O'lantern's Weather

Jim Morrison once said, "I'm just trying to get my kicks in before this shit house goes down in flames." 

That attitude might explain why he died young. I don't know, I wasn't there. 

It seems like there is a lot to be stressed and panicked about lately- on a local, national and global level- but there are also some fantastic things coming out of the '09 crisis-fest.

I'm choosing to go to the pumpkin stand. More to come. 

Thought

At some point I would like to get rid of my cell phone.

At this point, that is not logistically possible.

Dream small.

Ides of March

I have found that nothing cures a cranky Kimberly like a long ride alone, leftovers lurking in the refrigerator and a four hour nap on the holiest-of-holy couches in my parents' living room. Not even gale-force winds out of the East and roads with no bike lanes could make this day less satisfying. 

Happy March. 

Craig Damrauer

Yeah, that pretty much sums up my first Crit experience. I did learn from it, though. So I don't regret going. 

 I found these awesome images by Craig Damrauer on, well, fffound.

.This is my kind of math. 

Pregunta, Answer.

My body, however, did a great deal. Sorry about the poisoning last night, body. Je t'adore. 

I have come to the realization that the people that qualify as my closest friends have an uncanny ability to dispense quotable phrases and words. Now,  as someone who's in love with words and phrases, this is not entirely profound or surprising. But something I would like to honor. Thanks, friends. 

For example, today I was given insight and advice about my, uh, "condition" that rendered me immobile for the greater part of the day. 

From my Mom, I received a motto that she says she used to live by on business trips. 

"If you're gonna play, you gotta pay."

Meaning, she used to go out and get shitblasted and then have seminars to attend the next morning. And she owned it. (It's hard to imagine my Mom hungover at a business conference). It is a good motto though. And I paid in full today. And missed my WS class. In all honesty, I suffer for that more than the class does. Every session missed is a missed opportunity to become more conscious of the dynamics and forces that govern the life I lead. Not something I would like to make a trend. I did have an awesome time raging and bonding with some of my lady friends last night, to be sure. It's a trade off. 

From Roja, I received this: 

" You can either eat some pills or wait it out. That's my life motto. Either way, you're gonna get through it." 

Although it was hilarious when I first heard it, it seems fairly applicable to my last week. I took the last few days to process some recent events and relationships. And it's true, each day it got easier to address the emotions that had been idling in my brain and body.

Pills or not. 

My headspace feels wholly less polluted. Now if only I could get the toxins out of my body...

Oh, hey. Got my bike back. 

STOKED. 

Mixed Bag

Random Thoughts and Insights from the Last Week:

"Stop shoving things up me. Stop shoving and stop cleaning it up. My vagina doesn't need to be cleaned up. It smells good already. Not like rose petals. Don't try to decorate. Don't believe him when he tells you it smells like rose petals when it's supposed to smell like pussy. That's what they're doing- trying to to clean it up, make it smell like bathroom spray or a garden. All those douche sprays- floral, berry, rain. I don't want my pussy to smell like rain. All cleaned up like washing a fish after you cook it. Want to taste the fish. That's why I ordered it." 

- from My Angry Vagina, The Vagina Monologues, and possibly the most hilarious 

monologue I had witnessed. 

Basic arithmetic: 

(Beer consumption - hydration - dinner )+ orange juice the next morning = headachitus vomitus 

Extra, Extra: Chris Brown's a Bastard

I usually do not read celebrity news or gossip because, despite finding some joy in the shallow products they produce, celebrities themselves do not pique my interest. However, the mention of the Chris Brown and Rihanna domestic abuse incident on a couple of blogs provoked  efforts on my part to read more into the situation. 

The long and short of it is that Chris Brown and Rihanna were involved in an argument after the Grammys that turned violent and culminated in Rihanna taking some blows from her celebrity, teen-dream boyfriend. There is a photo of Rihanna's wounded face circulating on the internet that was supposedly 'leaked' (unbeknownst to the LAPD) to the gossip site TMZ. Chris Brown turned himself into the police and was released on 50,000 dollars bond. Rihanna identified him as the one that caused the trauma.

Here are some of my thoughts on the matter:

1) Police photos do not get leaked without someone knowing about it. Gossip sites and tabloids pay a lot of money for their 'material'. People know that. It's disgusting that a site like TMZ will use an image of a woman's beaten face for sensationalism to get more hits. Celebrities or not. Yet, it's even more disgusting that someone saw the  picture- one  of a woman who had been involved in a domestic violence dispute- as a way to make money. And that those opportunities exist everywhere. 

1a) That said, I am somewhat glad that the photo is being circulated, even if it will not garner the most positive type of attention. The image of a beaten woman, and especially, a woman that is usually in 

the spotlight without a physical blemish, makes the issue real. Domestic Violence seems to be the

urban myth of the media- it's rarely mentioned, and if it is, it's in the form of nameless/faceless 

statistics that make it seem impersonal. Actually seeing Rihanna's face battered and bruised solidifies

the fact that yes, she was physically attacked and harmed, and that 

2) just because Chris Brown is a celebrity, doesn't mean he's not a misogynistic bastard, or susceptible to effects of  the patriarchal attitudes and institutions of the Entertainment Industry. In fact, I would argue that he, and most celebrities, are the embodiment of everything that's wrong with our society. The elevation of the celebrity to god-like status, and the public's pre-occupation with their personal lives, almost inevitably means that most celebrities are total sociopaths. It is amazing that we do not hear about more stories like this. I guess that's why most have publicists and good lawyers, though.

 Thus, am I surprised Chris Brown hit Rihanna? Hell no. 

I'm thrilled she was courageous enough to report it and has not shied away from pressing charges. Because, inevitably, there will be people, men and women, who will take Chris Brown's side and say she deserved it, or provoked him or also hit him, or he's a nice guy. Sure. 

He still hit her. 

Do my feelings about celebrities make me a hypocrite for listening or consuming their products? Maybe. I own it. 

There's something wrong

with mini-vans. I don't like them. They make me uncomfortable. Mini-vans and their drivers form a large number of the population who honk angrily and unnecessarily at cyclists. They are surprisingly fast, and their drivers, astonishingly aggro. Maybe it's because a great deal of them are toting around too many kids and the drivers have had too many starbucks lattes and the combination makes for one overbearing and aggressive human being. I don't know. I can only guess. I don't like never statements, but I will never own a mini-van. 

Bedtime. Love. 

Tucson

Big Mountains. Pastel Skies. Wide Open Space.

Room to breathe

On a day when it feels like life is shitting in your oatmeal...

Sometimes the little things matter the most. 

I love this city.

Counterpoint

I was so excited to stumble upon Robert and Shana Parkeharrison's new body of work, titled "Counterpoint". Since I discovered the Parkeharrison's work four years ago, I have been an avid fan of their mixed-media images and find them to be some of the most profound and significant contemporary artistic commentaries being produced. 

As per usual, the Parkeharrison's center their efforts around environmental concerns and themes of human and spiritual interaction with the material world. Although I am usually not a huge fan of color photography, I find their use of the medium to be extremely effective. Please check it out. 

Robert and Shana Parkeharrison

www.parkeharrison.com

Hope everyone is having a peaceful Sunday. 

Bite the Bullet... Before It Bites You.

On our ride today, Kate asked the very profound question:

"What would it be like to poop your chamois?"

Once I realized I was not going to choke from laughter- all I could offer was a simple "I don't know!?" 

I have never had the pleasure of such an experience. 

My guess, though, is that the feeling would be akin that that which I experienced, multiple times, in my previous week. 

Certainly, some of my cloudy disposition was not entirely unwarranted or unforeseen. This week just happened to be the one where I chose to take responsibility for spreading myself too thin socially and physically in the previous months. Thus, self-reflection (instigated by my previous week's drama) forced me to confront some situations and emotions that I had been neglecting to deal with as of late. To continue the metaphor, it was time to take care of the poop in my chamois. 

And I did. To the best of my ability. 

And I felt better. 

Until I got sick on Thursday morning and missed the same class I missed on Tuesday. My physical and mental spheres were apparently incommunicado about the whole 'sacred tuesday of healing'. 

And then, on Thursday, I had the pleasure of  meeting Bullet. And Bullet met my leg.  Or attacked it, rather. Bullet's doppelganger can be seen at the top of this post. Cuddly Pitbull he is. Thanks to his owners for letting him get out, nibble my knee, and take off while I was bleeding. 

I don't know if the painful, shitty, headwind-filled ride that Kate and I took today is even worth complaining about. It was physically miserable, but mentally strengthening. 

And without it, and my good friend (and Valentine) Kate, I would not have a poop metaphor to work with for the whole of my weeklong smackdown.  

In the end, it's all good, I suppose. But I am hoping for an accident and clean chamois week-next. 

Cheers.

And don't forget to breathe...

Took the entire day to clean, organize and evaluate the 'state of my union'. I am looking forward to moving in a more positive and centered manner than in weeks past. 

"Tu o Nadie. You or No one." 

Also,

Are they going to stop teaching young children how to handwrite in school? Because you certainly do not need the skill in College Academia, or the rest of the working world for that matter. I think it's absolute bullshit that our society relies so heavily on technological correspondences and assignments. 

For kids like me who are kinetic learners, and who desire not to spend their entire days indoors pecking at a computer like a tranquilized monkey, handwriting correspondences, notes and papers IS actually beneficial. I know it would be hard to go back to the way it 'twere - but jesus, when did our society and colleges get so fucking lazy and boring that every textual document had to come from a laser printer? There was once a time when people had to, GASP, write out research papers and letters, professors and bosses had to discern Joe Blow's chicken scratch, and the rest of us actually had to CALL the pizza guy instead of ordering online (a bit off-topic, but also another technological development that seems totally bogus..).

All I am saying is, Long live long hand, motherfuckers. Someday this whole shithouse is going down in flames and if you can't write you name or an SOS note, you're going to die. 

Cheers. 

Riding Bikes with a Schizo

"Yo, Gene Roddenberry, there is no humanity in embracing your inner domineering rapist asshole!"

             -Twisty, I Blame the Patriarchy

Nor is there any humanity in embracing the apologia attitude that our culture tells us, especially women, to take when we feel the need to express our emotions.  It has become apparent to me, via various overly-dramatic situations occurring around my Annibirthary (yeah, I made it up) that in an attempt to accommodate the feelings of too many people, I have compromised my own happiness and peace (pieces?) of mind. 

Truthfully, I have attempted to avoid hurt feelings because I fear being viewed or seen as inconsiderate, or god forbid, apathetic. I have internalized hurt, discomfort and anger because I have felt that I was not justified possessing confrontational emotions. It has taken many years of unexpressed guilt to get me to ask these questions: Who the fuck taught me to feel this way? Why do I let people make me feel bad for expressing my own desires and discomfort? And how sad is it to realize that my subconscious attitudes are the result of my cultural conditioning, and not my own sensitivity/ empathy? 

Fairly sad, I would say. But, at the very least, I am recognizing this tendency within myself. 

I cannot blame people, or significant others (past/present/future) for possessing these attitudes - I suffer from the affects of a patriarchal society just as much as the next  twenty-something. However, I am fucking sick of being made to feel like I cannot trust my own instincts or intuition. And I certainly refuse to apologize for it anymore. I do the best I can to be respectful of my friends, loved ones and strangers. To be told otherwise is not a direct reflection or truthful assessment of reality. 

And to be fair, alcohol always compromises any judgment, and can derail the best of intentions-  something I, and friends, know all too well. I am guilty of believing that I can control my actions with a high BAC. Nice try. This has lead to many guilt cycles, that which I feel like I cannot and do not express, and reinforcing the apologia paradigm. 

The topsy-turvy, holy-fucking-drama-batman events of this weekend all culminated in one of the most chaotic and shitty rides of my thus-short (also not a word) cycling career. Although I feel that Mission Road will teach me a great deal about the nature of racing and riding a bike, and I will do my best to embrace it, I will curse it the whole way. Especially when I'm getting alternately rained on and sunburned. 

This will be the only and final year I try to extend my birthday beyond its menial one day. Everyday's me fucking birthday. And yours too. <3

HuZZAH! 

Do you have your tickets?

Ever the place of opportunity and eclecticism, Tucson is hosting two special interest shows for the hobbyist in all of us. The famous Tucson Gem and Mineral Show, and the Gun Show (no need to dick around with fancy names) are rapidly approaching. Both are hosted by the TCC- and god willing- will be operating simultaneously. 

So hop on the opportunity to get that handgun you've always wanted, and some fine gems to bedazzle it. Place of mount on the bike is up to you- although I suggest the handlebars for maximum intimidation. 

Amazing

My friend mike found an amazing flikr album with a grip of retro images. These are some of the ones that really lit my fire and gave me something to aspire to. You really can wear spandex, be styly, ride your bike and be a boss bitch. 

You can't ride without a bra or shirt, though. Ouch.