a sandwich can kill you

came across this BBC story this morning. i can't quite wrap my brain around it yet...but theres a poem in there somewhere just screaming to be written. its one of those moments when it strikes me that this is our world, this is whats its come to.
humor is a survival skill. reclaiming language and lives.
spinning power on its head.
i would love to know what anyone out there thinks about terrorist bread.

farm visuals and little me memories

this is one of 2 -very- old geldings that have come to the farm. they most likely won't be with us for too much longer.and here is the high desert in all her cholla bloomin' glory.and this is the muddy acequia...always turns red like this after it storms.

and i'm going home to new york in a few weeks, very very exciting since i haven't been home in around 6 years now. My mother is excited too and has been sending me all these photos from when i was young...

this last one is my favorite since not only am i sporting an awesome outfit but also its from the time in my childhood that i thought i was a dog, seriously...ate dog food, hung with the dogs, slept with the dogs...

lesson of the day

do not cook polenta while naked.

picture worth a 1000 words

An Iraqi child armed with plastic toy weapons approaches a US soldier in the Shia enclave of Sadr City, Baghdad.- BBC

dreaming of home and sick as a dog

people, i have been sick. not your average environmental illness can't remember where i put my tea one minute ago sick, but stomach flu sick...or food poisoning....or something that makes all the contents of ones body come rushing out by any means possible.
lovely.
and that was a few days ago...since then i've just been really weak and sore and dizzy, esp. in the 100 degree weather...esp. in the house i'm now in that i'm pretty sure is not insulated in the roof so theres absolutely no difference between the outdoors and inside my house.
lovely.
so lying around woozy and nauseous in the heat for a few days gives me way too much time to ponder my fate. ask myself the dreaded question...what the hell am i doing with my life?

i'm really missing owning my own place, which sounds nutty coming out of my lower class mouth...but it puts a whole different spin on all the stupid problems that come up....because its MY home. but now i'm living in a classic new mexican 1/2trailer 1/2 cabin thats not mine...i'm just a farm hand. the main room is something like 8 feet wide and 25ft or 30ft long...i live in a sweltering hallway. i still don't have hot water...which at this point is only remotely tolerable since its an inferno outside....but my point is that all these things would feel different if i owned it, if i'd commited to it.

pride of ownership and love of the land is what kept me going for 5 years up on the mountain...til poverty ran me off...but i held out as long as i could because i was in love and determined to stay. and still i mourn the loss...esp. when i'm this sick and cant do much to distract myself.

i do like this farm...even though grasshoppers ate my whole garden....i like it when its 6am and it isn't hot yet, or when the wind isn't wailing, or theres nobody around wanting things from me or cutting through my yard and invading my privacy, or changing things around and messing with my fragile routine. i like the owl in the orchard, and the big old cottonwood outside my window.i like having enough money for food and the occasional treat like music or a trip to santa fe or the thrift store.

but i need my own home.i need to be in love again. my life has been too transient, even as a child ....i told my mom that i moved out of chacon using mostly paper grocery bags and she laughed and said " oh, you got that from when you were a kid and we moved so often there was no time for the formality of boxes with labels"

no wonder home is so important to me.

lookout chicken

fucking grasshoppers

over the last week the hot weather has brought with it hundreds...no...most likely thousands of tiny little grasshopper youngin's that have systemaically and completely destroyed most of my garden. they haven't attacked the corn or squash yet, and i remember from chacon that they seemed to leave the squash alone...but we'll see. its pretty depressing. i've decided to let the chickens into the garden...fuck it...might as well get some eggs from these destructo-bugs.

these were my beets, not long ago the greeens were so full and dense you couldn't see the soil at all. thankfully the food part is underground, like the turnips in the next photo. they aren't quite done yet but they're edible.
its the same grisly scene with the carrots and peas and calendula...and my fledgling basil is completely gone gone gone.


for some lighter viewing ...theres always wooly booty to bring a smile to my face.

expecting breath

Most of my lovers have been able bodied (and middle class, but we can analyze that another time). altho i’ve had a couple of lovers with what i would call disabilities...whether they acknowledged them or not. but this is my first crip lover. that is, this is my first crip on crip sex.

the consciousness is everything.

like a series of caves i’ve entered, one room leading to the next unexpected room.

sex, like life/survival, is so wrapped up in the pretense of ones ability to perform “well”. to impress with feats of mind boggling proportions. and believe you me i haven't been immune. relative to where i’m at i can pull off some fantastic hoop jumping antics if i’m turned on enough, or for whatever less than ideal reason like insecurity or competition or good ol’ internalized ableism.
its that super crip that kicks in when i just need a little more more more....to hell with the repercussions, i’m gonna fuck this person to a sensless puddle, or let them fuck me till i’ve surpassed reason and pain, leave my own bedazzling mark on their memory.

but sex is also when the monsters rouse from sleep. scars rise to the surface red and singing. adrenaline and endorphins penetrate the well protected pain of everyday life and carry it to the edge of the body, the rims of the eye lids, the tip of the tongue and fingers.

open. its dark and i’m using all my senses to find my way along the walls.

i’m getting too old to pretend anymore.

here under the steady gaze of this lover the sudden flood of tears or pain or memory or exhaustion journeys into and out of pleasure weaves brilliant tapestries of real fucking life exists outside of everything expected of us.

everything expected of us.

the shaking gaping aftermath like rings rippling on still waters surface. undiscovered, we enter the next dark dank room.

in this place,without the harsh light of pretense, breath is the only thing expected of us.

i won’t go back.

checkin' in...

things are movin'...i'm movin'.... add to it some heavy life happenings and you have the perfect recipe for sparse blogging.
my hands ache from doing so much lifting of furntiure and cleaning and screwing( the screwdriver kind that is) and hammering.
ouch.
i stubbornly do everything in sandals because its a million fucking degrees outside and as a result i've got a wide array of guages, bruises, scrapes and jabs all over my feet. see? stubborn.

i'll officially be in the little house on thursday-ish.

wish me luck people.