Taboos on Whileaway: sexual relatons with anybody considerably older or younger than oneself, waste, ignorance, offending others without intending to. And of course the usual legal checks on murder and theft- both those crimes being actually quite difficult to commit (328).


There’s no being out to late in Whileaway, or up too early, or in the wrong part of town, or unescorted. You cannot fall out of the kinship web and become sexual prey for strengers, for there is no prey and there are no strangers- the web is world-wide.

In all of Whileaway there there is no one who can keep you from going where you please (though you may risk your life, if that sort of thing appeals to you), and no one will follow you and try to embarrass you by whispering obscenities in your ear, no one will attempt to rape you, no one will warn you of the dangers of the street, no one will stand on street corners, hot-eyed and vicious, jingling loose change in his pants pocket, bitterly bitterly sure that you’re a cheap floozy, hot and wild, who likes it, who can’t say no, who’s making a mnt off it, who inspires him with nothing but disgust, and who wants to drive him crazy (329).

Source: Part II: Dystopias and Utopias, “Janet’s World”, from The Female Man by Joanna Russ




A man’s work is nothing but his slow trek

to rediscover through the detours of art

those two or three great and simple images

in whose presence his heart first opened.


-Albert Camus

The Coolio Paradox


You got to,  got to,  get up –

to get down.


It was I who made the mistake of mentioning 90’s hip hop sensation Coolio to Sean; which sent us down the path of a Coolio greatest hits hour via youtube. Here’s my top pick, for all the obvious reasons (not the least of which is the incorporation of magic, and cutting edge cinematography , that greets viewers in the opening scene), of best stumbled upon Coolio music video in the last 24 hours:


Called my mom to see how Thanksgiving plans were going, only to get my sister on the line, pretending to be my dad, and then relaying the following messages on behalf of my father, who was strategically situated a mere few feet from our conversation:


Cary: Dad wants to know when you are getting here.

Me: He already knows I’m not coming. I have too much work.

Cary: Dad said he’ll pay you $100 for gas to just come down.

Me: It’s not about money. I told him I have too much school work…

Cary (now giggling): Whoah, get dressed. Dad said he’ll pay me $500 bucks to drive to Tallahassee and pick you up.

Me: I’m still not..

Cary (delivered in her signature tone of indifference): Now, Dad said if you don’t come for Thanksgiving he’s going to shoot himself.


(Both of us bust out laughing..)

Me: It always escalates so quickly with him.

Cary: Yea, yep. Oh, looks like dad wants to say Hi.

Dad: Why you trying to ruin my Thanksgiving? Everyone’s here. You’re going to make me look bad.

Me: I love you too, dad. Remember, I explained I couldn’t…

Dad: Okay, I love you. Listen, try and come down baby. If you leave at 8:00 am tomorrow, you can get here by 12:00. Then you can have turkey with us. And you can sleep here at Teta’s and leave the next morning back to Tallahassee.

Bragging  during our Thanksgiving picnic at the  park that I can’t for the life of me understand why people make such a big thing about how hard it is to start a fire. (After starting a fire within  mere seconds, using only my two bear hands, a bag of instant-light coal from Winn-Dixie, and an electric fire starter.)

Being on the winning team of our Thanksgiving frisbee golf championship, despite not knowing enough about the sport to have thought up any effective means for cheating. I decided I was still willing to count this as a braggable win, though I always have more respect for anytime when game-integrity-compromising moves can be successfully maneuvered, below the radar of unsuspecting opponents (and more ethically-handicapped teammates).

Successful first grilling endeavor– veggie skewers complete with yummy tofurkey sausage (that were a hit even amongst the omnivores).

Aron’s incredibly yummy vegan pecan pie

Walking into Michael’s house just in time to  see him in his adorable green cooking apron, getting all huffy about the challenges of the vegan lentil loaf dish he was devising especially on my behalf. A wonderful Thanksgiving dinner at the Ruse’s, filled with numerous, memorable one-liners, plenty of glasses of wine, cozy fireside chatting, and loads of laughter.


Michael’s Thanksgiving toast

Jeff O’s vegan crumb cake

My brother’s Thanksgiving post to the family

Mom’s Thanksgiving e-card

Having somewhere safe and quiet to rest my super-exhausted self post the day’s festivities




Come to me, clear and cold
On some sea
Watch the world spinning waves
Mad machine


Come down, come down

sweet reverence
unto my simple house

and ring


-Gregory Alan Isakov, The Stable Song


The most thought-provoking thing

in our thought-provoking time

is that we are still not thinking.

-Martin Heidegger




out of touch

to think for a second

that I’d think you for a second


get  a  grip

I’d love to say at a time like that

if I said the stuff that I’d  I love to say

at times like those


delusional slash mediocre

not as wall paper

not even as a back drop or prop

curious, you’re never mentioned at all


rest assure, you never will be






“So if by “intellectual” you mean people who are using their minds, then it’s all over the society. If by “intellectual” you mean people who are a special class who are in the business of imposing thoughts, and framing ideas for people in power, and telling everyone what they should believe, and so on, well, yeah, that’s different. Those people are called “intellectuals” — but they’re really more a kind of secular priesthood, whose task is to uphold the doctrinal truths of the society. And the population should be anti-intellectual in that respect, I think that’s a healthy reaction.”-Noam Chomsky


“Every newspaper has separate sections on business but the idea that they should have separate articles on labor – that is almost unheard of which tells you quite a lot. If, say, you want the stock market prices you can find them easily, but if you want to get the wage level or the work hours, you’ve got to do some work through complicated statistics.” -Noam Chomsky


Catch 22   Everything I think and say and go on and on about makes so much more sense when you plug me into my weirdo childhood and psycho adolescence. Its its own, straightforward, apologist narrative for all my antics, obsessions, misgivings, priorities. Everything about me then appears so predictable, its lamentable.

But then, if that’s the narrative I went around sales pitching, I could never be anything else to anyone else. I couldn’t create anything new. I couldn’t, very honestly, be able to say, “I can’t remember, anymore. I know it wasn’t good, but it could always have been so much worse. And I’m very grateful for all I learned from those experiences.  I have forgiven , forgotten.. Besides, it seems like a past life, now.” I smile, because I mean it.

In a shoebox of childhood crap, is a pile of poetry. A kid going on and on about the same shit I do, romantic larger than life  soul mate love affairs, getting a PhD, proving she’s not an ‘airhead’, getting through one more day, making it to the end of a week, one more year, and whenever she thought it wouldn’t be over, insisting it please be over. A kid who took her cues for how life works from television shows,  from school, church, and from her parents. A shy, quiet observer, who sometimes screamed into her pillow at night, to punctuate the silence. So pathetically predictable, she was lamentable.


“Inevitably we look upon society, so kind to you, so harsh to us, as an ill-fitting form that distorts the truth; deforms the mind; fetters the will.”

                             -Virginia Woolf , Three Guineas (121).


Not impressive really, when one considers my bar for belief in some One. (It’s okay, God would say the same about me!) And most times when I am in nature, I am sure of God. And when ever I think I’m about to drop. When the immanence of a present moment seizes my imagination.

 As one of my dearest friends used to say, “Never forgive, never forget.” As I type, I wait patiently for Bilbo to get back home, after a long night of delivering tepid, mediocre Dominoes pizza pies to the uncritical masses; he’ll crawl unassumingly into his bed, whereupon his attempted passing out will be met with  distinctive, prickly sensations along his ears and neck . When his attention finally draws in to the task of identification of this seemingly mild perturbance, he’ll be overwhelmed by the vomit-inducing realization that he has laid his mangy little fro on a hot bed of freshly cut human finger and toe nails.

Sean says I have the tell-tale predispositions of a sociopath. I guess its easier to forget having a ‘Got poop?’ bumper sticker tacked to your car when it didn’t happen to you.


‘A dialetheia is a sentence, A, such that both it and its negation, ¬A, are true

Assuming the fairly uncontroversial view that falsity just is the truth of negation, it can equally be claimed that a dialetheia is a sentence which is both true and false.’

-Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, “Dialetheism”, (11/14/2012)


your privileged judgment:

change how you think ,

stop thinking that way

you’d be so much more palpable

your perspective so much more agreeable

instead of wondering

how Hepzibah  interprets the peopled world

in such foreign patterns

they presumed her in obvious error

mistaken, destitute insufferable old woman

instead of finding someone else

you chip away at me

and because i love you

from as near and away as you like

i suppose i’m expected to endure

your  gaze, your glaze over my ways

which is fine

i have a shell i can endure as much from

i’ll be there

We  ll   break  it  down .


(Insert comma.)


When I like someone, and in instances when I find myself actively missing their presence, I think and reflect on it in terms of what ideas that person specifically represented to me, what are the ideas I associate with them, that attract me to them, the ones that I miss actively?
With Zane, it is the healthy detachment from so many of the same misplaced concerns I let preoccupy my awareness, the striking way he interfaces with our world, they way he expresses humor (and the way his sense of humor made for my laughter, often and much, and broke up the monotony and absurd seriousness with which friends and strangers in our world proceeded about their days, attempting to prescribe the normative tone for our social exchanges), his simplicity (and the wisdom that is often embedded in such simplicity), authenticity, and, perhaps more than anything, the unique orientation he is forging to his own existential frustrations. The ideas I associate with him represent interesting aspects of a way of being I’d hope to forge for myself.
My original thought was that my strengths, whatever ideas I represented to him, would  make for an equally desirable form of reciprocity. That in creating a unique orientation to my own existential frustrations, those moments where I am a successful, convincing conduit for the unconditional, unintelligible meaningfulness of  life and those moments where I am anything but, I would captivate and motivate growth, forward, that I would, effortlessly, rejuvenate and inspire his efforts to challenge and transform the parts of himself he regards as the least attractive , the way he continues to do for me, effortlessly.
It’s so weird trying to figure out how attraction even works. I can’t make sense of it. All I know is how I feel. It doesn’t matter whether others can or can’t see what I see in a person. It doesn't matter what  others can or can't see in me, or what they could or couldn't see in Zane.
There are surely a lot of truths others can see just fine, that, for whatever reason, I just can’t see; why shouldn’t I suspect the converse holds true as well?
What matters, I think, is what truths the dyad can see in each other. What space do they create to forge the sort of growth they value, for themselves, for each other. What is their shared vision of the good life, of progress, well being?
In the case of the space between us now, what has had opportunity to germinate in my mind is a subtle peace with the sense that, its okay to wait when one is unsure, unsure as to their own vision, unsure as to what they can accomplish on their own, unsure as to what they want to accomplish on their own, unsure as to whether everything they felt pulling them towards someone else was them stumbling upon the most profitable antiithesis they could have  ever  hoped to find for a partner (or just them stumbling),  to see what may come of some distance and some reflection, seeing what floods from every which way when you finally let go. And I wonder if Zane saw  anything special about me then, and then, if he can see anything special about me now.

                                  –Odyssey, xvii.218



‘For feminists, this line of argument is familiar. In the case of gender, it has famously come to be identified as the “just add women and stir” approach. The assumption is that it is merely a matter of equal semantic representation, an introduction of a few “she’s” where previously there were only “he’s” and a linguistic purging of openly sexist statements. There is little to no appreciation of the fact that, since gender exlusion has shaped these discourses, gender egalitarianism may require that they be rethought from the ground up.’

‘ What needs to be shown- and what I try to show in this book- is that room has to be made for race as both real and unreal: that race can be ontological without being biological, metaphysical without being physical, existential without being essential, shaping one’s being without being in one’s shape.’

-Charles W. Mills, Blackness Visible



Happy Halloween


I was a mariachi for a Halloween party this year; not that my costume got appreciated. Apparently, I’m surrounded by imagination-deprived peons (i.e. my nearest and dearest friends). I wore a handlebar mustache, sombrero, and poncho, and even carried around a ukulele for my guitar prop. No one guessed mariachi. At one point, however, I stood (too?) close to Emily’s grape-costume, and Jeff guessed I was a migrant worker…who had saved up for a ukulele.


Sean was a cop on an undercover sting operation to bust a prostitute ring. He wore a super tight, super skimpy police girl outfit, with his wiry, Italian stallion chest and body hair protruding from every available crevice of it, his long hairy legs on full display, a police officer hat, and a thick, fake mustache. Needless to say, it was an unambiguous hit with the vulgar masses (i.e. our nearest and dearest friends); pure genius.


I don’t know what Billy’s going to be this year, and I don’t know that I want to know (though I know I must come to know shortly). Sean and me thought he should be one of those little naked-except-for-the-white-cloth-undies winged cherub angel boys—since he already sort of looks like one, with his little pooch belly and tight-curly brown fro. Not to mention he sort of walks the way I would expect those things looked moving around.


Anyways, Billy is on thin ice with me ever since I found out (much later than I would have hoped) that he had stuck a huge ‘Got poop?’ bumper sticker on the back of my car. I asked Sean if he thought smearing tons of human shit all over Bilbo’s truck would be too much in terms of a fair retaliation initiative (I’ve never been good with discerning the eye-for-an-eye measuring relation). Sean looked at me, his ever patient yet ostensibly disappointed look , and said I already knew, deep down in my heart, the answer to that question. I looked away– ashamed, embarrassed– knowing full well that Sean was right, but where could I possibly store that much human shit till show time.