So I found a tumblr called http://postapocalypticfashion.tumblr.com and was surprised for once that a post-apocalyptic/dystopian/cyberpunk tumblr had images of people who for once weren't exclusively baby powder white or wearing cyberfalls, gears, gas masks, neon colored mohawks, crust punks, industrial gothic models with facial piercings and no eyebrows -- I can go on.  Now, this tumblr does have a lot of images like this, but the fact that it's not exclusively that tired old bullshit is interesting. So I culled some worthwhile images from it and decided to follow it in the meantime.

Today's weather is odd. I've been wearing my trusted Thigh High Socks (all kept from my days working backstock at American Apparel) and shorts with a too-small hoodie, and it's been working out. I did an alley cat race the other day with a buddy, wearing my Geordi LaForge shades and the socks. It was cool. I wish the shades sat better on the ridge of my nose, but I knew it would be an issue before I even got them. As for the socks, I dunno what it is, but my legs in these socks do something to people. Compliments abound; respectful but laden with suggestive glances (or glances trying not to be suggestive). 

Not too long ago a new acquaintance said that I sounded pretty stone (after talking about my gender in relation to my body). Stone as in stone butch, stone cold, stone, emotionally available and vulnerable only when it's deemed okay, and safe. Allowable. Lately I've been thinking about that and my longtime predilection for emotionally distant cyborg protagonists, and my recent realizations that I go to great lengths to prevent my body being sexualized without my permission. Unless I decide I'm in the mood to be sexualized by friends and strangers, then it makes me really uncomfortable. And that has something to do with control, one might guess. 

I went to the alley cat after party and waited around by myself for some time till my boo showed up, along with some more approachable neighborhood faces. I got too high from a half of a potent pastry, and felt like I couldn't deal with anyone's suggestive movements or postures or glances. Boo asked if so-and-so was trying to holler at me, cause it sure seemed that way, and I was just like uhhhh well it's not a good time cause I'm not havin it! And this is the one quandary of being at queer dance parties (the after party turned in to one once it moved to another spot): Sometimes I feel overly objectified or desired or something, and I just have to reign whatever it is I'm doing in and be a wallflower. Or, on occasion when I'm in too far into party dance mode, I just ignore any advances, looks, or other fawning, and go into my own world which contains just me and the rhythm I'm dancing to. So it's paradoxical in a way. I just don't like to be approached on the basis of my physical appearance/body, and I'm wary of individuals that want to interact with me only based on how I look, yet I deliberately aim to be a 1980/90s cyborg babe, which is highly concerned with BODY (but one that the cyborg babe is in total control of, as well as her environment to a large degree).

I was telling a friend the other day about how night and day my place among the local queer community was. One day I was some random West Philly so and so, and then surprise! I know all these cool people outside of your queer circles, and now you want to know me and be my friend? I'd like to bitterly claim that is entirely the case, but I'm sure it also had lots to do with people seeing me around forever and ever and eventually getting used to me and figuring out I'm not a square. But I 1000% had my XX chromosome body as an assist on that front, and no riot grrrl, baby dyke, 'i'm queer but i still only keep lesbian friends' credentials to speak of. 

And here comes my continuation of paradoxical existences: Why do I always speak so bitterly of social groups in which I consider myself a part of? I had a lazy afternoon hang with a sweetheart not too long ago and we ended up talking about loneliness, and then about feeling always on the outside, always somehow not quite 100% "in" a group, and always just a little excluded on the basis that the majority's headspace just wasn't exactly where our headspace is at. Once my mother told me that extremely creative people get sad and more emotionally distraught than others. When she said that to me, I scoffed to myself at lumping me into such a population, and yet wondered if she wasn't right in some way---she is my mother. 

Which brings me to something my dad said the other day when I saw him, and that was that he thought my mother wasn't emotionally available to me enough as a child. My dad says lots of things, and he had a rough, loveless childhood that makes him especially sensitive, but recently my mom also hinted at emotional distance and depression when I was a kid. It's not the first time, either. I never really thought about not getting hugged enough as a kid until very recently, when I began to become especially sensitive to boundaries, my level of control, and how I wanted people to touch me or interact with me.
[trigger warning on this next paragraph--talking about rape]
And I can't shake this one event that happened to me a couple months ago, when I was in the middle of enjoying sex and was suddenly filled with an unreal and overwhelming body sensation of violation--a flashback, the fragment of a deeply buried childhood memory that I might never relive totally (yet my mind reaches for it). It was the memory of a rape, I cried out through all my uncontrollable sobbing. But where did it come from? In one instant I'm accidentally penetrated too deeply by my partner, and the next I'm reliving some surreal, awful memory of my child body. I cried for a long while and couldn't wrap my mind around it, wondering why now and why at all, and could it possibly be made up from something else. My boo listened and held on, and since then I've been wondering how to deal with that and if more will come back to me.

There are one or two more instances of childhood violation (a Catholic school "physician" in plain clothes with a strange exam that made me uncomfortable even then) that I've begun to consider as contributors to my relationship with my body and my relationship to larger social groups. It makes me unbelievably sad. Because the violation and domestic violence I've experienced in my life can be so tame compared to so many other people, and lil ole me is so profoundly affected. And rape culture is total bullshit. And apologists of rape and sexual abuse need exposure to the emotional terror that haunts your existence. And here I am with my rational brain trying to figure out how the sexual violence I've experienced in my life isn't a factor to my personality today. And WHY? What for? 

The consciousness inside the body. Now I'm having Ghost in the Shell existential crises of self; IF I could plug my consciousness into a different body, what kinds of pain would I have to endure or not? My ideal body is currently a lithe, muscular androgyne that people react more to its grace and movement than potential sexuality. The Puppet Master said to Kusanagi, "Your desire to remain what you are is ultimately what limits you."  My dad contextualizes painful memories as being "in the past." My god, and I haven't even gotten into how I DO want my body to be sexualized! I'm entertaining the idea of going to a queer play party next month, and that's what I opened up LiveJournal for! But I guess my personal holds on sex and power escape me so thoroughly right now that I can only vaguely write about experience tied to my body and its sexualization. 

I guess . . .

If I am the stone cold cyborg, how do I wield my power and my desire, and how do I willingly submit to trust amongst others who would contextualize my body in ways I do not agree with? 

I think I realized the power of all-black outfits today. But in a fledgeling way where I still have two layered pieces of charcoal grey on. 

My period is wreaking havoc this week. Actually for the past ten days or so my breasts have been so tender and fucking swollen that I was wondering if I was going to have to deal with a pregnancy scare. In the past, it's always started with my tits getting all loud, and then hormonal wackiness ensued. But I often wonder if I am in fact sterile from two very stressful years of my life, and fun fact: I am definitely sure I had a stress-related miscarriage in 2005 before I moved back to Philly, when my period was two weeks late and I was inundated with bizarre mommy preparation hormones during the fortnight. 

I am compelled to say "sorry" for talking about my body and its reproductive abilities and woes, but why? People with ovaries have to deal with this bullshit constantly. Oops.

So anyway, my hormones came on real strong this cycle. Wish I knew why, and at any rate I'm bleeding into my Diva Cup and feeling like sludge. I often remember that scene from Berserk where Caska starts to get woozy in the middle of a battle and Guts arrives to save her ass, wondering what is wrong with her only to discover she'd just started her period. That was back before my periods got super difficult and I was on birth control which mercilessly regulated that shit, and I was like whoa wow is this some stupid man's misconception of how bad periods get or is there some truth to that? Back then I thought it was definitely exaggerated. Now, I realize some people really do get taken the fuck out when their uterus wants to shed itself. In fact, it happened to me the first few periods I got as a tween. Fuck.

I just want to eat a cheeseburger.

In other news, it looks like the Laser Life crew is taking a break this month to read for an LGBTQ suicide memorial event at the end of the month instead. I met with Alex and Shane (the LL founders) to discuss what we should do, and so now I have to work on an original story that references theirs, while using some world ideas I came up with that we're all supposed to flesh out in our own ways. I'm just going to say for now that there are no more electronic screens in this fictional universe...

And aside from that project this month, I got friends coming to visit, work trip to NYC (brief), my own smutty reading event that I'm trying to plan, and the second issue of my zine I'm trying to put out. AND all the audio tracks to record and mix. I did some of that last night on several cups of wine, repeating lines over and over again like some quasi voice actor. Don't pop the Ps. I think I'm happy with the results, but I'm not entirely satisfied. I wish I had someone helping me record, but right now it's a DIY era for me and All That's Left.

So after years of feeling exclusionary disdain for all-black punk, ratty layered crust, and super hi-tek cyberpunk looks, I've finally FINALLY begun to embrace the fact that I too can wear layered shades of city and not feel like a poser asshole. Admittedly, I've only been working on rocking the 2025 look for a week, remixing the same 10 articles of clothing over and over, but I feel more comfortable being able to just switch into this look than before. It helps a ton when your partner and your friends approve, and they know how deep your sci-fi proclivities go. It also helps that I've decided my look is more of that particular fresh urban future shit, like oversized sweats, ambiguous drapes, and coveted athletic shoes, mixed with meme-referencing accessories.

Life is fascinating, yo. A month or two ago I started doing this particular pilates workout every few days, and my body is responding really well. I feel stronger. I am getting chest muscles (which is changing how my breasts feel--something I never thought would change). I'm like damn, maybe I will be able to survive the cataclysm. Or whatever. Last night as I was walking home with my homie, we talked about the passages from Hagakure in Ghost Dog, about a samurai being so prepared for death that every scenario was accepted and nothing was a surprise, should death come. This was after I brought up how fucking fast cars go, and how I constantly visualize scenarios of my own death on the city streets, at the end of the world, alone, on my own terms -- it goes on. Homeboy shared that he did the same thing. I didn't tell him that I hope he's in my crew when things get scary.

Life as some dystopia obsessed writer feels like a much better utilization of time than grad school. Thank the cosmos. And thank goodness for spring weather. Hello.

So I got interviewed by one of the coolest online magazines about my All That's Left zine. It's fucking dope. I mean, the questions I was posed are incredible, and my ranting answers just don't quit. ^_^ Picture leads to the interview. :D

God, so my boo is off to tour in Australia for a few weeks, and the day they leave spring comes on FULL BLAST. I sit at my job staring out the window wearing no heavy layers, and agonize over the fact that I'm not outdoors riding fast as hell, wrestling friends, or working on stories.

Think I might ask for tomorrow off (or a half day) so I can just get that out of my system and feel like a normal human being. There's only so much scrolling, cropping, color adjusting, and insufficiently researched trend forecasting that I can bear to do in one day, and today is not it.  

I would rather be jerking off, getting high with a friend, or adventuring. No screens. No words.

Listening to recordings of T.E.N.C.A.T.S practice from this time last year, and man we were getting good (until our bassist left on cross-country tallbike tour). I called us garage enka. I sang in Japanese. Heavily influenced by GO!GO!7188 but not nearly the same level of musicianship. Like at all. Plus my bandmates were super hung up on girl-group pop-punk quasi grunge sounding riffs and pacing, and I honestly just wanted to sound like the most forlorn enka band (meaning, they always wanted to play pretty fast and I was always asking for them to slow it down a notch). We only ever played two shows. It was hard for us to meet. Our dummer never once listened to all the Showa pop/enka music I said was the influence for the band. Of course I am just being whiney right now. My bandmates were all incredible, and the people who did go to our two shows said we were awesome. 

But damn, I just want to sing like Mayuzumi Jun or Fuji Keiko and be some sweet guitarist with a friend. But my hands won't allow the guitar part. I can at least still sing to myself while riding my bike. Hah.

Mondays at work somehow end up being the worst. Not because it is Monday, not by any means. Mostly, it's because I always get roped into sitting downstairs on the sales floor and being distracted from all the debugging, product photo taking, etc etc that I WOULD be doing upstairs (in the "office"). Ugh. Today is a day like this. I don't need to be down here but now I feel poorly saying I'm going to go upstairs. Sure, it will help out my productivity tons, but shit. Most of the day is already gone.

Tonight is a burger date. I have no idea anymore what my date expects in terms of physical affection. I could just ask them, obviously, but I am so so so so so weary of relationship talks right now. They basically got into a primary partner jawn that is really fruitful and meaningful to them, so they're having to navigate time commitments, and the end result is a lot of flaking, early nites, and just a peck on the cheek. Oh well. Their sexuality made me hella nervous when it was fully focused on me (and not their partner), and I'm kind of glad that I can interact with a more toned down beast while I figure myself out.

And my boo is going away in a week to tour a place I've wanted to go all my life (Australia, not Japan). It's been a rough transitional time for them. Their living situation has deteriorated from an fun, radical house into a lazy college flop house. The housemates are lazy and inconsiderate, and thank god my boo is moving out of there, but it's put them in an emotionally vulnerable spot. Among other things, I mean. I had my emotionally vulnerable spot when was going through about four different transitional periods last year, and now my boo is. I keep reading them as sad, depressed, and aloof, but for the most part they just keep saying they're fatigued. I fret endlessly.

And in other relationships, there is this person who I'm pretty sure has turned into my muse. I can write and write and write after hanging out with them. It's just that I can only hang out with them once every other week. So time is precious when it comes to them, and the other day a friend of mine tried to invite themselves along with us on a bike ride, kind of aggressively so, and I was not amused. I will tell the story of why another time, but yeah. I have been feeling like I am not able to spend my time how I want to spend it. I can't write when I want to. I can't write when I want to. I can't write when I want to. I don't have time to hang out. Don't approach me in a strange way and say, we should hang out! I don't have enough of my own time, so quite frankly, if you want to just shoot the shit when I could be writing, I may not appreciate it. 

I am cranky. I am very cranky, borderline acting like a child. And hungry right now. I don't care about inane conversation. All the tasks I must do--be it at work or my own work--require my concentration and NOT listening to you make conversation. Unless I make it clear that talking will not disrupt me. God. No wonder the old writers went off into secluded places, took drugs, and lived off rich old motherfuckers. Currently, I just want to have sex all day, eat well, and write my ass off.

Friends and lovers, I am in need of someone to critically read a revision of a smutty dystopian cyborg drama for the next zine I'm putting out! This one actually has some queer sexxing in it, FYI so please be aware of that.

An excerpt:

“Before this, Dimo and Kay had barely been nodding acquaintances, even though the small social circles of their hometown had ensured they knew each other’s names and occupations. Far from Omwenga now, breaking bread at the diner was their first real interaction with one another. Grub made it evident that they had it pretty good back in their neck of the woods—the fare on their plates was all reconstituted grains and dried root vegetables from god knows where—but any edible food was always a blessing. Under the inconsistent buzzing of overhead lights and an occasional glance from the counter cook (a silent old white man with his beard riddled by what looked to be bad water tumors), Kay chatted about her metabolic controls, which even for a hype cyborg like her, would never override the desire to eat. The act itself, even if it could be chemically scheduled for optimal efficiency, was a necessary component of mental well-being, she insisted, looking at Dimo all the while with a gaze that held as much sway over him as her hand on his throat earlier."

The whole piece is about 3500 words or 8 document pages. Comment here or get a hold of me in the best way you know how!

People of color have to constantly disprove the fucked up notions that they're dangerous, stupid, uncultured, and a league of other seriously awful, negative tropes. Conversely, it strikes me that certain white boys have to constantly disprove they're not idiotic, corny, unimaginative, egotistic pieces of shit.

Sorry.

I took off work yesterday with the intention of finally getting my ass to a printers and having more than five copies of my zine made at one time. Instead I spent two and a half hours waiting around to only have a few copies of the VERY FIRST PAGE printed (lesson: don't go to a print shop with a busted printer)... And then I was waaay fucking late to meet up with my friend, eat any food, OR continue the day's plan of riding to Temple to drop off a copy of my zine to Samuel Delany.

Sigh.

But then we went and got late afternoon tipsy at the local spot, and returned home to play jazz as best we could. And listen to more jazz after that. And lounge, dedicated to not looking at screens for the rest of the day. It was good.

Baby got a big fat refund check this year, so I'm gonna buy a wheelset for my bike finally. It almost seems silly though--my frame is so scuffed up from every day city riding. But fuck that. To quote the infamous Shoes video, "I'm goin to get what I want."

Spring is upon me in a good way. I realize we still have March ahead of us, the most unpredictable of winter months, but I've already started taking care of my body in preparation for adventure. Tomorrow I get some much needed acupuncture. Today I continue drinking some strong-ass green tea (not that Twinnings or Lipton bullshit--I'm talking about real loose leaf shit), having decided to pause on coffee for a bit. 

In the meantime, I wade through code and think about sweethearts.

So I got to go to the New York International Gift Fair for work, and look at tons of cute/awesome/interesting shit from all over the place. The point is to buy it and then sell it in our store. Anyway, I'm feeling worn out from description right now (I've spent ALL DAY trying to enrich a very base smut story I wrote about three weeks ago, and it has been a delicate and trying process BUT ANYWAY). There were a lot of vendors from Japan, and a few incense vendors who gave us free samples of their wares, which I have been enjoying burning right now. Unfortunately, the maker I am burning now is not the maker we decided to order from, so some part of me feels somewhat regretful. The guy was like, yeah, this one incense is 350 years old and typically burnt by monks. Shit like that gets me pretty consistently.

Work has been mind-numbing lately. I need to learn JavaScript and probably some other programming languages to move forward and make awesome shit, but I refrain from using my time at work to teach myself (while still trying anyway). I am also so preoccupied with all the possible reading and writing that I could be doing that my concentration is lacking. What IS easy are more mundane, physical tasks. Things that require concentration from my eyes and brain, though... 

I wish that I was going on vacation to Japan to get the last three sessions for my back piece. I could spend all day luxuriating in some 1920s Kyoto cafe, and then walk a winding sakura-lined back street to Harizanmai, and chatter in Japanese while listening to enka, getting a scene of mortal struggle tattooed on my back. That would only require about three thousand dollars (plane ticket included--all food and accommodations excluded, however). Greg Dean is going on tour in AUSTRALIA in March and part of me wishes to join so badly (I would be welcome), but the other part of me says "now is not the time." I just want to go back to Japan, I guess. I read an interview with William Gibson the other day where he said that he preferred returning to the same cities when he traveled, to become more and more intimate with them over time. I feel the same way about the kansai region. Osaka and Kyoto are so invigorating. 

Now, if money wasn't an issue (when isn't it?), I would take my time going to other places...

I would not be a good rich person. 

I feel myself teetering into that space that made Henry Miller come off as so crazy. 

And--unrelated--I wish I was better at depicting fluidly sexed bodies in my writing. It's difficult. I feel that I lack some personal sexual/intimate experience with trans bodies to write certain things, and no amount of reading personal trans accounts, trans porn, or whatever can really help me with that. Well, actually, watching trans porn is amazing because there are so many different ways to get people off! But I still feel hesitant to depict certain things. It ain't no thang tho cause that's what talking to your friends is for. 

Similarly confounding is writing sexual desire that is atypical of monogamous hetero fucking. I constantly wonder if it throws people off or is actually compelling. I like to think the latter. Also, if motherfuckers can write hardcore BDSM slash fic between Harry Potter and Severus Snape or whoever the fuck, what am I worried about???

Cyborg sex, man. Everything and anything. Lately, also, I want to be topped by someone experienced and willing to figure my strange proud desires out. At the same time, topping is still fucking super.  Hm.

Lately I have been feeling pretty proud of just how fucking awesome my tumblr is. The ability to instantly curate a stream of media, collected from all regions of the net and then assembled together into a personalized stream of consciousness is just incredible. Also fascinating is tumblr's obsession with the preceding eras of the Old Internet, when dial-up modems and 90s multi-cultural synthetic technoism was not understood for its genius and still just was. There are so many teenagers on there now that are obsessed with a 90s they weren't yet conscious of. It's incredible to be able to witness the dissection, worship, and reassembling of the culture from an era I grew up in.

But mostly, my tumblr is a genius collection of dystopian imagery, urban futures™ (term coined by my homegirl pm_jawn), and cyberpunk reinterpreted by a queer urban post-binary lens. Or some shit. Oh, and anime.

It is good. I will say that arrogantly (I am not a Leo). Yes. 

Seeing as I'm a boss when it comes to CSS and HTML5 shit (kinda), it makes me feel quite inferior when I meet people who are programmers. I found Code Academy via tumblr, which teaches you the basics of JavaScript through a series of walk-through exercises, but as many have pointed out, the lessons almost exclusively usher you along to the next item of business without any homework exercises in between. It also does shit which has always confused me in other learning environments, such as teaching you what an array is by making you create an array named "array."

Really?

Come on, son. Come up with a less confusing naming scheme than that shit. 

Been wanting to borrow a linux admin book from a homie and read it day and night, but I also want to take off work for a whole week to finish my existing reading pile. Almost makes me wish I had a long commute every day. 

Also, it's out. If anyone wants a copy, holler at your boy.

I got a VHS copy of Ghost in the Shell at Trashy Booty (weekly Saturday yard sale style event out front of A-Space here) the other day, and promptly watched it, relishing in all the Manga Entertainment premiers (classic shit-- Wings of Honneamise, Ninja Scroll, etc), and that old-school good English voice-acting. Then last night I watched GITS on Netflix with a crush/homeboy, and we were both flipping out at every turn on the sets and representations of technology. I was also going on at how in love Batou and the Major are with each other, because it's true. It's better than romantic love though, so don't get it twisted like I'm trying to say they need to settle down and make babies or some ridiculous shit.

Anyway yeah. This makes my second time watching Ghost in the Shell on a date, although this time there was no making out due to the strict pretense that we would be watching it with full attention. I say it worked. Later, we listened to Siouxsie and the Banshees, it being a first time for me cause what do I know about goth/synth/80s proto punk music? It was good. I really enjoy being exposed to bands that are foundational for my friends in such intimate ways. Cause otherwise I wouldn't ever give shit a listen -- I am too into remixed noises and disco beats/Jersey club (read:dystopian) music to purposefully listen to guitar-based music. I talked about how I spend more time listening to Detroit house music now than ever. 

Bodies and intimacy with them is fascinating. Also, their ghosts. The other day I had the revelation that "ghost" is not at all intended to be "soul." It's less stupidly Judeo-Christian than the Western "soul." But now I can't remember what I did think it was. :/ 

Ach. I'll be in New York City for the weekend. I've never been up there for longer than two days. Hope my ghost can handle the noise.

The Laser Life was fucking incredible. Packed house. Queer sci-fi. Powerful stories. Here's me reading Hotbloods.

So I'm reading this Friday, like I keep saying. Someone graciously wrote up the event in the local City Paper, and it's extremely exciting to see. HOWEVER!!! 

http://www.citypaper.net/agenda/2012-01-19-laser-life-sci-fi-reading-series.html

Click on that link.

I just. . . can't get my head around why someone would use a piece of Naruto fan art from my site for this queer sci-fi reading event! Clearly someone from the paper went to my website and poked around for content. They found my Sometimes Always fan fic, where this picture resides, with a link to the artist's website no less, and nothing made them think like, whoa what is this fan fiction shit about? Maybe I shouldn't use this picture.

I just don't know. I have no idea what regular ole journalist types are aware of. I wrote the article's author an email about how it was weird and so off-point to appropriate a fan art image of a boy looking cutesy as something relevant a queer sci-fi event. Just shaking my damn head.