more blogs what to read

this post is to list a bunch of additional links that are headed for the blogroll sorta type list of links over on the right; the one that needs a new graphic under them: one that doesn’t stop in the middle of everything.

angry black bitch
having read the fine print
BrownFemiPower archives
flip flopping joy–the newest BrownFemiPower blog
angry indian
field negro
the unapologetic mexican
the silence of our friends

One might wonder why, in my blog that has recently turned a corner to be almost exclusively poetry and other artsy sort of undertakings should link to so many political blogs, and to so many political blogs by people of color.

The short reason is because I am not a very good political blogger, and although I have many thoughts about global ethics they tend to come out in more abstract forms within my own prose because I am a theory wonk and because the I think about things within approximately the same linguistic field I use to write about them. Most of these blogs write in a different register, one that I’m not particularly good at. The other part of the short reason is that I struggle on a daily basis more with how to convince myself to keep body and soul more or less tied together than I do with overtly political matters, except where those matters intersect: queer politics, for instance, or the political ramifications of psychological disability are things that I feel qualified to write about on the basis of personal experience. When it comes to racial and economic critique, though, my experience and knowledge are generally underdeveloped. So I refer you to other people whose personal involvement with these things makes them valuable reads for anyone interested in social and economic justice.

The other somewhat more involved reason I link to these blogs is that I think that as a white guy who is interested in moving towards tackling the racism inherent in the US and other spawn of the era of European imperialism and their many spheres of influence, I think that one of the most important things for white folks to do, if they are at all concerned with repairing an almost hopelessly broken system, is to be quiet and listen to the experiences of those who have been under the thumb of Anglo-American imperialism now for hundreds of years, and so rather than pontificating on this subject myself, I refer my readers to places where they can get the straight dope. On occasion I might have something to add from the only perspective I can lend, but oftentimes the blogs I list say what I’m thinking better and more effectively.

I may change my own emphasis at some point in the future, but for now I am deeply involved in writing poetry and autobiography from the point of view of whatever it is that I am (transsexual female-to-something-vaguely-masculine, socially and psychologically maladjusted and addicted to things best left unmentioned, inarticulate in anything but raging against the machine in my own way, white person usually taken for a guy. Mainly. I think.) so that is probably what most of my writing will be for the next little while. Except that I do have have a couple of stories to relate but not in this post.

The above links will eventually move over to the list. I just wanted to record them here so I could close some tabs because they were getting entirely out of hand.

Mission Street poetry thursday, friday, saturday night

as long as hail is not pouring out of the sky tonight and through the weekend, I will be out on Mission Street reading at the spots indicated on the map in my venue post from last week. I will aim for 9ish in the evening until bar traffic trickles to an end at whatever point after 2am that happens. I will also aim to be at the Wells Fargo at 22nd the whole time, save runs home for warmth and other necessities. all it takes to get people to stop are one or two other people who’ve stopped. so do Stop by if you are in the neighborhood.

excerpt

here is one difference between boys and girls that is the stiffness of one and the dampness of the other but if you venture out into less well-worn territory things get confused to the extent that any particular difference shrinks into triviality amidst a nearly awful host: not number but its precursor. to speak imprecisely.

concretely there are some of us who can be both stiff and damp. would that we could fuck ourselves. there may be some others who harbor the same sentiment. to champion an appendage that is only laughable in its disinclination to tower above the competition. to make too much of it.

the plow for instance. had it a less aggressive model it would only trace so lightly that the soil would simply be informed of its vulnerability and no more.

not that I would erect something new. we’ve hardly touched upon the convenience of self-lubrication for example much less its metaphysical consequences. the miracle is not that our anatomy reflects eternal principles but that we would think it could. given the jealous rage eternal principles sometimes fly into this is also the tragedy. make it up as you go along then abandon it forthwith. that is the golden rule.

what I have will not write it has no point and emits nothing but generalized signs of excitation but I do not know whether this means that I myself cannot write although it is more than likely true that I cannot write myself. of testosterone overdose I would die happily but I pray daily and nightly to the spirits of whatever place would have me and I do not know yet where that is but I pray to them anyhow please let me not let me never assume authorship.

some years ago a friend confided to my partner of the time and myself that he had discovered his male authority which had been lost to him ever since he had realized he was queer. I sat dumbfounded listening to his delighted demand to take his place at the table of male rectitude and right but what I wanted to say but never did because I had no idea where my authority might have gone off to as I had never seen it hair nor hide but if I had I would have said jack shit and I mean literally I would have said:

jack shit man in black we are women our authority vanished before our shared history began to be written so long ago that retrieval is not so simple as saying yes please I will take the heteroid throne my father promised me back when he thought I was straight because you see we were never promised any such thing why are you telling this to us as though we should celebrate you for it? whatever you feel you need to have authority over you go and work it out with that realm and listen to what it says before declaring yourself king this is not something you tell proudly to women.

this because I was still a dyke and had not yet relinquished entirely the name woman although I used it rarely I did not say but realized the instant he pounded his fist on the table as if planting a flag of conquest and I have not ever not once forgotten how it was to know what to say and be unable to say it.

not that that was the first time.

irony if it be such is that I would say this to him now because I have dipped my cup into the forbidden stream but if it happens if I ever seem to be drowning in the poison I pump into my leg every friday if I begin to believe that is truly and deeply and unreservedly believe in my own inerrant rants and bad dreams do ask me this ask me:

who do you think you are who in the name of whatever is unholy and profane and bent and debased and insufficient and perverse and confused and infected and broken and diluted and besmirched and marked and psychotic and condemned and failing and misfiring disintegrating and entropic whirling madly without course or recourse to names or places or righteousness or empire or propriety do you think you are? fucked. is what you are.

I can write my name over and over and over and over and on masterpieces and on pieces of dogshit in the sand and with airplanes skywriting with water vapor and wind I will arrange the letters of the one alpha beast I know how to manage somewhat and for all that what it will gain me which is to say my dust mingles already with that of the cats who miraculously and inexplicably crawl up to join me in sleep and there we lie completely prone to each other while the moon chases the earth chases the sun chases the nearest stars chasing each other and all of us hurled through space at terrifying speeds but the three of us on that platform believing that we are accompanied and safeguarded when all we can do is feel each other breathe and slowly burn away whatever living things were killed for us in the hours just prior to greeting each other like we do once or twice per solar day spontaneously and with that animal fondness for the skin of other animals living now for a time nearby.

when my name is buried with me and when those stubborn calcifications upon which hang the ephemera of muscle and artery are themselves blasted out into farther reaches than any of us have yet dreamt of attaining then when you read this as it whips past you you tell me where we are headed that is more significant than a chipped paint cracked ceilinged room where water laps dirt and feet pass through without leaving any marks. is it any wonder that we horrify ourselves for entertainment it is to try to find immunity against that for which none is available.

I knew a man who died. to say any more about it would be to imply mistakenly that his was a special case although I can say at least this and that is that he was one for sitting with whatever struck him without immediately striking back. that this did not get him anywhere is apparent insofar as he is now dead but I suspect he knew ahead of time that things were going to turn out this way no matter what he did.

oh how to say it. sit here. wait for as long as necessary for however long it sustains you to wait and continue in this way profusely waiting until you can no longer tap a key or turn to a clean page. the mute rage of those who cannot yet die but who have already been forgotten will join yours in whatever compulsion it is that dictates softly into your ear take this down and take this down and take this down and if you have any compassion at all take this down too.

I am not proud of my inability to understand what to exclude or when to stop but rather I have made of it my method because it seemed to me the only one available for any purpose whatever. this and that will make its appearance here because where else would anyone let it show up. once this fellow was gone all remaining choices reduced to go on and not be stingy in the telling not because you have anything important to say for what is said is nothing beside the gesture that brings itself naked before all comers for the murmuring note of the utterance is the only mercy some of us will know.

why not then tell it like it is. a nonsensical ambition but why not tell it as you go along in any case to see what it could be this once for example. even if it is not lurid enough. even if it is not shocking enough. or particularly because just this. why should garishness get all the glory if making the bed is not its own courageous act what with danger beating softly across the loose weave of the very blanket which takes care of you at night. it is not necessary to have terrifying visions although I have had things almost said to me that you would not want to hear. the wisps of cotton against the skin alone will tell you both of a life that proceeds as a series of excruciating encounters and how you would not give up such a life for anything not even that heaven they told you about where finally nothing goes awry because take away the perverse and you have taken away not only pathetic human interest but all chances of anything further happening.

which is the definition of death.

opening night review

Here is a follow up on the threat to read out on Mission Street this weekend. The short story is I read out for about three and a half hours on Saturday night, made enough money to get ridiculously excited about but not enough to really buy anything, and had fun making a spectacle of myself.

It was a bit chilly for San Francisco–near 40F–so I did have to bundle up a bit and at one point I ran back home to shove some warm food in me and then ran back out, but given that I like standing around in the cold, I was quite happy. If you do much outdoor anything, then you know about the people who make hand and toe and other body part warmers, but I’ll just add that putting one handwarmer in each front jeans pocket is a good way to keep your whole body warm. With warm clothing, yes, but putting heat on those femoral veins running back up into your upper body is really effective at keeping it warm from inside out.

Weather permitting I will do this again next weekend, both Friday and Saturday nights if I don’t wear myself out too much. I am tired today and I think that might be a little adrenaline letdown. Performing is always a bit of a strain, even when your audience doesn’t even stand still and stare at you. I’ll stick to the spots outlined in the venue post; if you cannot see the map embedded on the page, you can go directly to google maps and take a look. I liked the Wells Fargo atrium the best: breeze protection, lots of light, and quiet enough to read without losing my voice while busy enough to get a little attention. At one point the night guard walked past me to let himself into the bank and nothing happened so apparently he’s okay with me there. We’ll see if that holds.

I am also trying to get a book of poetry published, but that is a whole other topic, or at least half another one. I’m only just getting started with inquiries, so it is too early to say much else about it. Maybe I can make enough from a published book to buy a crepe at Ti Couz.

venue

Today I slept through my own showtime but as I mentioned in LJ yesterday, I am going to try to start my Mission Street poetry series this weekend, weather permitting–meaning tomorrow night if it doesn’t rain so hard as to disintegrate the script.

The map below shows where I’ve decided might be good place to stand and read to the air on a weekend evening. The triangle describes the area bounded by the Make-Out Room, Doc’s Clock, and Foreign Cinema, where lots of people come to drink and eat most weekends when it is not hailing which is most of them but the Weather Underground says tomorrow night might not be a non-hailing night. That is, it might hail. But I might read anyway.

If you are in the neighborhood after about 9pm and before, I don’t know, midnight maybe, check out the three numbered spots indicated on the map: Wells Fargo at 22nd and Mission, Banco Agricola Comercial De El Salvador at 21st and Mission(I am only choosing banks because they have lights outside at night. Wells Fargo even has an atrium that maybe I won’t get rousted out of if I need to stay dry. Sleeping there is a crime; I’m not sure whether reading poetry is or not–after tomorrow it might be), or just outside of Mike’s Liquor and Groceries kitty corner from the Banco.

If you see me, try not to make me giggle. Poetry is serious stuff!!