What the fuck difference does it make?

I figured it was safe to record this here since no one ever reads this. 

Managed to exercise today. 5k. But instead of making me feel better, it utterly wiped me out and ultimately wound up aggravating feelings of failure and despair. My life is almost completely unchanged from what it was before quarantine, why is my mental illness flaring up so badly? Of all the things I could be obsessing about, why can I think only of every love I've ever lost? I'm in a house in which a dozen sentient beings look to me to sustain them. How could I feel so completely alone?

Going out a corn field to paint some crows is starting to look really good to me these days. 

Socialism

Once upon a time when you registered to vote you could specify anything as your party affiliation. I had a friend that registered with the "Silly" party once. But three times now I have tried to register as a Socialist and three times my voting card comes back with my party affiliation as "DEM." I figure that the county recorder:

1) uses DEM as short for Democratic Socialism.
2) feels I was kidding because no sane person would be a Socialist.
3) thinks that Democrats and Socialists are the same damn thing.
4) feels that registering as a Democrat is a permanent thing sort of like a tattoo.
5) can't read.

Depression

Depression is not sadness. Sadness is an emotion. Depression is the absence of emotion. It is emptiness. When you're depressed, you care about nothing, feel nothing, and do nothing. Even getting out of bed in the morning is an ordeal. Since it can come as a way of coping with sadness, depression is like suicide of the soul. Rather than feel the sadness brought on by life events, just kill all emotion and be a zombie.

One deals with sadness by getting out of the sad situations. Anti-depressants do nothing to help this. Depression is a physical ailment that requires medication to alleviate. The drugs don't help you feel better. They just help you feel.

Dante

Dante's Inferno is considered a medieval view of the afterlife. But one aspect of this version of life in hell that few people realize is that there are no chains. The demons do not have pitchforks pushing people back into their respective eternal tortures and Lucifer is not at the gate of hell deciding which torture you deserve to suffer. Newly arrived damned souls just sort of wander around until they come to where they feel they belong.

For Dante, the after-life is a continuation of the fore-life. If you were buffeted by metaphorical winds and storms of sexual passion while you were alive, you would find yourself buffeted by actual winds and storms after you died. If you were immersed in the ice of an absence of love or compassion, you would find nothing changed in the great beyond.

Dante was saying that people make their own heaven or hell on earth. One does not acquire heaven or hell based on what they believed but where they feel most at home. Someone who was devout when they were alive but nevertheless managed to screw themselves into a tiny bubble of anger and hatred would feel uncomfortable and out of place in heaven. Eventually, they would leave for more infernal climes.

Eternity then is just a reflection of the temporal life. If hell is eternal, it is because for some people there is no hope of ever pulling out of their suffering. They dwell on their hate and nurture it, angrily throwing off any attempt by others to get them to stop. It's not that the damned SHOULD abandon all hope; it is that they have ALREADY abandoned hope and will never know anything but anger and suffering in their lives.

Purgatorio is for those who recognize negativity of their lives and seek to free themselves from it. Those whose lives are filled with love or are victorious over suffering and achieved a happy and loving life know that they are already in Paradiso.

Mass is over. Go home now.

Sprained Wrists

If someone has a sprained wrist such that handshaking is painful, shaking their hand anyway because they should “toughen up” is being a jerk.  One should not feel ashamed by having an overly sensitive hand shaker.  Sprains happen.  One does not choose to be hurt by shaking hands.

Many people have the emotional equivalent of a sprained wrist.  Things said that would give others a chuckle insults and hurts them.  They lash out   They seek to humiliate in retribution.  Because they have been so shamed for their over-sensitivity, because they’ve told they are weak because of their thin skins, just pointing out their sensitivity often hurts as much as the original insult.  But, as with the sprained muscle, there is no shame in having triggers.  One cannot heal by simply “toughening up” or “chilling out.”  Healing, especially emotional healing, takes time.

It is the responsibility of others to be aware of these tender points and to be as careful with their words as one would take care not to vigorously shake the hand of sprain victim.  It’s not about walking on eggshells.  It’s about not adding to the hurt.  It’s about not being a jerk.  If they post weepy pictures on Facebook or call you “horribly vile,” one should not be angered, complain about “political correctness,” or call them a “pussy.”  Take that yelp of pain for what it is, an invitation to shut the fuck up. 

Just as those with sprained wrists should not attend hand-shaking parties, those with triggers should not attend events where those triggers are likely to be…um…triggered.   To go to event where jerks are likely to be jerks in order to righteously lash out at them is itself a jerky thing to do.  

Those with emotional sensitive spots should also recognize that, outside of comedians, most people aren’t assholes and don’t want to hurt you.  They’re just people…people who make mistakes.   And unlike computers, people can’t be simply programmed to change their speech, especially if insensitivity to your trigger is (pun warning) a “gag reflex.”  They have to be trained not to worsen your injury…sort of like puppies.

Guy Fawkes Day 2017

It important to remember on this Guy Fawkes Day that our current troubles are not a recent development.  The support for and tendency towards Oligarchy has been in place from the very beginning of this country…put there in no small part by the very Alexander “fuck the poor” Hamilton that is revered so much of late.  Consider these excerpts from the Workingmen’s Party Declaration of Independence of 1876:

The present system has enabled capitalists to make laws in their own interests to the injury and oppression of the workers.

It has made the name Democracy, for which our forefathers fought and died, a mockery and a shadow, by giving to property an unproportionate amount of representation and control over Legislation.

It has enabled capitalists ... to secure government aid, inland grants and money loans, to selfish railroad corporations, who, by monopolizing the means of transportation are enabled to swindle both the producer and the consumer ....

It has allowed the capitalists, as a class, to appropriate annually 5/6 of the entire production of the country ....

It has therefore prevented mankind from fulfilling their natural destinies on earth -- crushed out ambition, prevented marriages or cause false and unnatural ones --has shortened human life, destroyed morals and fostered crime, corrupted judges, ministers, and statesmen, shattered confidence, love and honor among men, and made life a selfish, merciless struggle for existence instead of a noble and generous struggle for perfection, in which . equal advantages should be given to all, and human lives relieved from an unnatural and degrading competition for bread ....

FTS

A recent blow to my ego from a family member triggered a shit storm of self-hatred. Some days are worse than others, but it never goes away. 

It's not depression. I know depression well. Depression is an emptiness, flatness. Depression is the absence of emotion. It's like soul death. This is different. It's raw unadulterated fury. This is fiery hatred and disgust with my existence.

This is a fire and brimstone preacher unrelenting in their condemnation of me to hell.  I'm fat and can't move without difficulty. I'm isolated and alone because no one can stand to be around me. I'm a trans freak. I can't write for shit. Thinking that my work (writing, comedy, or art) has any value to anyone is complete self delusion. I am utterly inconsequential and could disappear for months before anyone even noticed I was gone.   No one will even read this blog entry. 

I'm trapped and can't get away from this tormentor.  I can't seek "professional help" because I'm one of the "fell through the cracks" people without insurance.  Retiring early did get me away from all the bigots that made my life hell, but it also cut me off of having funds to deal with any of this. 

I'll just have to slog through it on my own.   I know that well too.  

Happily Ever After

People sometimes ask me why I am not interested in living forever. I tell them that my life has been like a great movie, with a definite beginning, middle, and end. Living forever would be like seeing a movie that just doesn't quit and goes on and on. The tedium of that eventually overshadows what thrills and laughter might have happened in the main part of the film until all you can remember is the tedium.

Life pacts

When my son Dylan was born, I stayed right next to him for his first hour as he passed around from one neo-natal room to another. He was confused and frightened, and he held my finger as though it were a life preserver. As I tried my best to assure him that everything would be all right, I was struck with an almost mythic feeling that we were now tied to a great circle of life. As I comforted him as he came into the world at one end of the cycle, I couldn't stop thinking about the two of us at the other end of that cycle, when he would be there to comfort me at the end of my life. Contemplating the profundity of this moment gave me great joy.

It occurs to me as I go to Iowa to see my father before he dies, that he and I are in a similar pact. As he was next to me when I came into the world, it is necessary that I be there next to him as he is leaving the world. There are no tears, except those of joy that this life cycle will have been fulfilled.

The girl who could fly

This poem came to me in a dream last night. I have no idea what it means, but for some reason, I weep inconsolably when I read it:
.
.
Though Lily had cherished her mama,
When she left they both started to cry
They embraced for they knew it was time to let go
For Lily had learned how to fly.

When she’d float down the street people loved her.
When she soared across town no one jeered.
When she raced with a jet they applauded.
When she charged into space people cheered.

But one day she stopped all her flying
For she heard a small voice in her head.
She floated down gently to Mama’s old house
And hovered there over her bed.

“Oh Lily, my love, I can see you.
I knew you would come if I bid.
You are there in the dark ceiling corner.
I knew that you’d come and you did."

Then the nurse came and asked “what’s the matter?
Take your meds. Are you starting to feel?
If you think it’s your daughter the end is quite near.
For a girl that is floating’s not real.”

“I am here,” Lily said. “Are you ready?”
Her mama then nodded, “prepared.”
Lily gathered her up and then silently rose
Through the roof just as though it weren’t there.

Mama’s house got increasingly smaller
As Lily rose up to the sky.
Her Mama just watched, “She’s so strong and so sure.
I’m so proud that my daughter can fly.”

“What color is heaven?” Mama asked her
Lily smiled “What shade do you think?”
“I’ve always liked bright friendly roses my love”
“You’re in luck then ‘cause heaven is pink.”

Lily passed through the last misty cloud bank
and they both looked across and were awed.
Mama held out her finger before her and stretched
And just touched the finger of God.

Alan Mead

I met Alan Mead in high school.  When I realized his sense of humor was as wicked and well...sophomoric... as mine, we became fast friends. Truth be known, though, he was always funnier than me.   Because we were part of a tiny group of males in the predominately female drama class, we were cast in nearly every production...often doing several parts.  We became a team.   When Mrs. Husted read off  who would play what part in "U.S.A",  we were doing so many parts that she eventually just said that the part of so-and-so would be played by "AJ."   The crowning glory of my high school performing career was "Mark Twain Tonight."  Alan, who was even more of a Twain freak than I, immediately volunteered to do the makeup.  The makeup he designed turned out to be as much of a triumph as my performance.

Alan and I nearly died together once.  We went on an ill-conceived hike into the Rincon Mountains ...in the middle of summer.  We both wound up suffering extreme heat exhaustion.  Had it not been for the kindly park rangers who took pity on the idiot children passed out by the side of the road, we might never have made it back.  When we were in bed recuperating from our ordeal, my sister teased us that half of our bodies was white and half was red.  Alan's response was "we're part Indian."

When Alan's family moved to Mesa, he stayed with my family to continue going to High School in Tucson.  It was a slightly illegal situation, but it took the Man six months to catch us.  For that six months that we lived like brothers the laughter never stopped.

Alan moved to California after High School.  He visited, although not nearly as often as I would have liked.  On one of those visits he came out to me as gay.   I was totally surprised but he said not to worry.  He was surprised when he found out too.  Unfortunately, I was also sad to learn he was gay...not because there's another wrong with it...but because the friend I had loved all though years was gone and I would never see him again.  I grieved for one day until I was able to accept this new improved friend and get to know him. 

Years later I was able to return the favor by coming out to him as trans.  (I'm paraphrasing here of course.  Trans wasn't a word back then.)  His only response was to warn me not to make it public knowledge because it could be used against me.   His "sayings of sooth"  were tragically prophetic. 

In High School, Alan promised me that on Jan. 1st 2000, he would come to my psychiatrist office (that's what I wanted to be back then....ironic huh?)  and announce that had come to see the "Sakeeatrist."   I don't remember what prompted this or even where he had come up with the word, but he vowed he would do it.   I looked forward to that time and was heart broken when the millennium came and went and Alan never showed up.  Since I just learned that he recently committed suicide, I guess now I can stop waiting.  

I will always love you, O greatest friend of my youth

Alan Mead 1956-2016

Blue Galaxy

For a locally produced and original play, I was expecting "Blue Galaxy" to be little more than bunch of high schoolers saying "Hey, kids, let's put on a show." It was nothing of the sort. Kim Porter's play was a nuanced, moving, and at times heartbreaking story of the self-destructiveness that accompany being a "fat chick."

Elizabeth Mueller, was phenomenal as Lana. The part seemed almost created for her as she was stunningly lovely, but still tormented by her weight issues. Her presence was such that it was hard to look at much else when she was on stage, This was actually a detriment, as often two stories were going on at opposites sides of the stage and her side of the stage took focus away from the main story on the other side,

Miss Mueller's presence, singing, and acting almost completely eclipsed the other cast members. The notable exceptions were Doug Waldo's invalid and hateful Buddy Dale, Rodney Dickerman's delightful Betty (aka Steve's mom,) and Amy Carpenter's clueless but subtly underplayed transgender Tina. Tina was especially original and fresh, as there has NEVER been a trans character portrayed without at least some shock value. Tina was "just one of the girls" and had it not been for a clever bit of blocking, you would never have known she was anything else.

On a personal note: had this been a movie, it would have been a serious chick flick. Since I realized that I enjoyed it much more than the recent spat of superhero movies I seen, I decided that I guess that six years of HRT have finally taken their toll and changed my tastes in shows.

Blue Galaxy's final performances will be today and tomorrow at Space 55. Do not fear though, It was so good that I'm sure that it will eventually be played elsewhere.

Driving Miss Jimmye

If this gets out feminists will go ballistic and if you tell anyone about this I will find you and I will kill you, but ....when I was a man... I was a better driver.

Maybe it's the multitasking thing or something, I don't know. I just find myself easily distracted when before I could more easily focus on the task of driving. I no longer have a "turn" signal. I have a "I am turning" signal. And sometimes I even have a "I turned just then" signal.

On the other hand, if someone wants to cut in front of me, I let them. I no longer find myself saying, "Oh hell no. Look, Buddy, I don't know who you are. I don't know where your goin'. All I know is, you ain't gettin' there ahead of me!"

(Yes, my grammar is better now too.)

It's just a jump to the left

This morning I mentioned that I was afraid my Rocky Horror days were over. A bit of explanation might be in order. I enjoyed the show itself. I particularly enjoyed seeing Jaden LaRoche's Frank N. Furter. Her exuberance and dead-on portrayal of the corseted one made me smile every time she was on stage. Everyone else in the cast who noticed me in the peanut gallery were warm and, dare I say it, affectionate.

The problem came during the after show get together. I don't know if it was my familial paranoia, being hard of hearing and unable to hear a lot of the nearby conversations, or if people were just intimidated by my indescribable beauty (it is a curse sometimes.)

Whatever the reason, I spent a good portion of the time alone. It's true that some kindly souls did rescue me from my apparent isolation, but even then folks seemed nervous to engage me in conversation. Some even looked away shyly when our eyes happened to meet. I wound up feeling old, out of touch, and very much out of place.

Several cast members have come forward to ask me to reconsider my position and come to the next show. Since in hindsight my out-of-place feelings are most likely due to paranoia, I will probably do that...if for no other reason than to not give in to faulty thinking.

If I do come and you see me again at Denny's, if I appear withdrawn or unapproachable, please know that I very much want to interact with you. I'm just dealing with internal demons which I'm sure you fortunate people do not have to deal with.

Oh, and I'll be sure to ugly up so you won't have to worry about bursting into flames when you behold the beatific vision hiding in the corner.

Hetrosexuals

Normally, I try to write humorous updates, but tonight I need to talk about serious.  I know it's not considered politically correct to say this out loud, but I am a hetero-phobe and I am damn proud of it.  I think this whole "mixing of the sexes" thing is icky, so it clearly must be unnatural and against the will of my deity.  I haven't quite found the scripture that backs up this claim but I know it has to be in there.  I just have to keep looking. 

It has been proven over and over again that if you let these "heteros" as they are called...if you let them cross breed, 90% of the time their spawn will be just as hetero as they are......90%!  Gross!  And SOMETIMES this sexual mongrelization will even produce monsters with mixed up body parts....like the body of one sex and the brain of the other.   Clearly, this hetrosexuality is an abomination and has to stop. 

If the right wing has taught  us nothing, they have taught us that being gay is the natural state of humankind.  Why else would it be so easy to "recruit" young men into the gay lifestyle?  It is obvious that any normal, well-adjusted young man will completely give up girls forever after tasting dick....just one time....that's all it takes.

So, people...I beg of you.  We have to nip this thing in the butt....I mean the bud.  In the bud!  Just stick with your own kind.  

Rachel Dolezal

If Rachel Dolezal truly believes she is of a race not assigned to her at birth, then her situation IS similar to that of trans-folk and the criticism she is receiving is unfounded: 

"Transracial identity is not a thing." 
"She is mocking black people"
"Her attempt to pass as black is essentially black-face"
"It is impossible for a white person to be black."
"She pretended to be black for a decade."
"She is only perpetuating stereotypes."
"Even her own family is appalled at her behavior."
"She is deluded."
"Her attempt to appropriate black culture is based on a desire to access black privilege."

They are all eerily reminiscent of the criticisms that were lobbed against trans-women.  Just replace "black" with "female" and it's the same arguments...the same hate.   I had to listen to this crap flung at my kind for fifty years. 

It is also racist.   The argument goes that blacks who try to pass as white are considered sad, but since blacks are inferior to whites, it is only natural that they would want to better their position.  A white person pretending to be black one the other hand is essentially adopting a lesser position.  That's not just sad...that's evil.  Such people deserve to be humiliated and reviled.  This is the same argument that when I young made me think that since girls are inherently inferior to boys, a boy to wanting to be a girl was the worst thing in the world.   Such a desire had to be hidden from all.  NO ONE could know of this evil wish.      

So lay the fuck off.  If Rachel Dolezal says she is a black person trapped in the body of a white person, then she is.  

Meditation

I've come to the realization that I meditate a lot. I meditate in the sauna at LA Fitness. I am turning the simple act of eating into something like the Japanese Tea ceremony. Feelings of depression or loneliness trigger even more meditation sessions.

Feeling isolated has been happening frequently of late...sometimes reaching levels of despair. Anti-depressants take the edge off, but it is only when I can sit, relax, and shut off the noise that I can see that I am never truly alone. I could not tolerate this cloistered, monastic life without my god. In my deepest and most profound meditation, the world melts away and I see everything that isn't me as a manifestation of Her. 

I'm not saying any of this to try to convert anyone. My world view is my own and whether anyone shares it is of no importance to me. I am simply describing my current status.

The Magic Flute

Despite my complete fuck up about getting the venues mixed up for the opera "The Magic Flute", in the end this turned out to be the most awesome weekend ...ever!

Awesomeness #0: When my companion arrived, she took a selfie of herself next to the "car" so she could prove to others that she went to the opera in the tardis.

Awesomeness #1: got to witness my companion make out with a stripper. It was a moving experience.  I discovered that lesbians in "gentlemen's clubs" are golden....especially on a Saturday night when the place is crowded.   You get much more out of tipping the ladies than the guys do.  And the guys don't complain about it, because you become part of the show.  

awesomeness #2: got to take said companion to Tucson and have dinner at one of my old haunts.

awesomeness #3: above companion's tenacity paid off. We went to the correct town and managed to have the box office guy exchange our tickets so we could see the final performance of the opera and it didn't cost a single Pfennig more.

awesomeness #4: The Magic Flute was more magnificent that I could possibly have imaged. I started tearing up at the overture and leaked all the way through to the Queen of Night's aria and pa-pa-pa-pa-papagena.

Awesomeness #5: got to lightly cuddle with said companion during the show. Nothing untoward. Just hand holding and shoulder wrapping mostly. But it was the first time anyone has been affectionate with me for a long time.

Awesomeness #6: on way back from the southlands, had an impromptu shadow production of RHPS.
Best fuck up ever! Best companion any timelord has ever had.

Kill the Faggot

I have been asked to speak about the "Kill the Faggot" game that the media, in particular the gay media, has been all abuzz about.   The game itself a non-issue.  The distributor, Steam, pulled the game within two hours of it being uploaded.  All records of it ever existing have been expunged from YouTube.   Although the creator of the game said he will be back with an even more offensive game, the word is out on this guy and it's highly unlikely that any game distributor will ever let him upload again.   

But the issue goes beyond the appearance of an egregiously hateful game.   The creator defended his action with these words:

"These people that think if you are even remotely homophobic, you are 'hateful' and a 'bigot,' and do everything they can to destroy you in every vicious way possible.  So I decided to go down a path that most developers are afraid to go down: to piss these people off by making the most overly offensive game possible to these idiots to prove a point."

These aren't the words of a homophobe or bigot.  These are the words of a "troll." 

A troll, in the modern sense, is someone who delights in angering people. They have no clear ideology or agenda. They make no serious attempt to persuade people.   Trolls thrive on the attention they get from the people they offend.  They derive an almost sexual pleasure from scorn.  They are all "Yes!  Everyone is attacking ME!  I am important! I matter!"

Trolls can be dangerous of course. The murderer of John Lennon was not angry with Lennon or with his music.  He wanted to destroy something people loved.  He wanted to be remembered as the man who killed the Beatles.   (But you know?  I can't quite seem to recall his name right now.)  This was an extreme case however.  Most trolls are impotent losers.

The trollish need for attention is ultimately their downfall.   Because they relish ignominy, protesting, boycotting, or writing critical news items on them only feeds their fetish.  The only way to deal with trolls is to completely ignore them.  Obviously, if they directly threaten bodily harm to someone, they must be stopped.  But if they are simply speaking hateful things or making hateful games, the best way to deal with trolls is to simply ignore them.   

If no one bought an Ann Coulter book, if the Westboro Baptist Church never got air time, if Arizona's own Steven Anderson was never protested against... all these trolls would shrivel up and die. 

This, therefore, is all I will say on the subject.  Criticizing a troll, writing a press release against them, or paying any attention to their hate is like giving them a hand job.  I'd really rather not. 

Mother's day 2015

I went through my most recent surgery alone.  I went to the hospital and checked in alone.  No one was with me while the medicos stuck pins in me and took me to the operating room.  No one came to visit me during my stay and no one helped me home.  One dear friend helped me somewhat behind the scenes, but I faced the regeneration completely removed from anyone I cared about. I'm not complaining. It seems appropriate that I should go through this final transformation so completely alone.  It seems almost poetic. 

The one exception to that was my mother.  She was obviously with me at my first birth but I couldn't stop thinking about how she was not there for my second.  That did not seem right.  Poetically speaking, she should have been next to me, holding my hand and telling me that everything would be all right.  She died nine years ago, so if anyone had caught me silently tearing up as they wheeled me into the operating room, that would have been the reason.