I'd heard about henna, but had been warned about the difficulty of finding a quality supply. The henna they sell in supermarkets and beauty supply shops isn't pure henna, and it's often mixed with unnamed chemicals that can do all sorts of damage to your hair, especially if you've already dyed it with something else. Then I discovered that a friend of mine with gorgeous, long, glossy curls uses henna, and I asked her where she gets it.
"I use henna from Yemen," she said, and sent me a link to Catherine Cartwright-Jones's online henna empire. I didn't realize it at the time, but my curly-haired friend sent me to one of the only reliable sources of 100% pure all-natural henna. The website isn't the easiest thing to navigate, but that's for the best of reasons: It's host to a wealth of information about the history and uses of henna. And it's a home-grown business without the budget to hire an information architect and UX designer.
After a fair amount of perusing, I ordered a 200-gram packet of henna from Pakistan. I opted for the Pakistan henna because it was described as having a lower dye content than the Yemen variety, and I was hoping for a more coppery red.
When I got the package, I was really excited to try it, but also wanted to make sure I paid attention to what I was doing. It's not difficult to prepare Mehandi henna paste in advance, but it does require some planning. You have to mix the henna powder with a mildly acidic liquid (lemon juice, for instance) and let it sit for at least 12 hours in order for the dye to be fully released. You also have to leave it in for at least twice as long as a standard chemical dye.
My first attempt was less than perfect: I only used about half of a 200-gram packet, mixed with orange juice, and didn't have quite enough paste to coat my hair in the recommended "mud-mask" fashion. In spite of the shortage, the results were quite impressive.
Here's my hair before using the henna:
And here it is after my first henna attempt, about six weeks ago:
This time, inspired by the individual mixes posted by various women, I decided to get more creative. In particular, I wanted something to mellow the smell of uncut henna, which I find vaguely reminiscent of dried blood.
This is what I put in my second batch:
300 grams henna (Lawsonia inermis) (half from the last packet, plus one full packet)
about 20 grams senna (Cassia obovata)
Enough orange juice to give the mix the consistency of stirred-up yogurt
~1/2 C ground cloves
a righteous sprinkle of ground ginger root
cinnamon
frankincense (I've always wanted an excuse to put frankincense in my hair!)
I let the mix sit for almost 24 hours, and while the smell of the henna was definitely still there, the other spices masked it well. More than 24 hours after rinsing out the dye, my hair still smells richly of cloves and the other spices I used. It's a deeper, richer red than the last application. The texture is glossy and smooth, rather than the frizzy, damaged mess that chemical dyes produce.
For my next batch, I'm thinking about reversing the proportion of senna and henna for a more subtle color. I'll probably use less cloves (they darken the dye) and more cinnamon and ginger root. I may use some cardamom as well, and more frankincense if I have time to replenish my stash (I've had a bottle of frankincense on my altar for about 10 years. I don't think my ancestors mind.)
If you're interested in learning more about henna, its history and uses, there's a free e-book on the Henna for Hair website.
I found the historical information fascinating and feel like I'm connecting with an ancient tradition that goes back thousands of years, even while I wrap my head in plastic wrap and watch Netflix videos while the henna sets.
- Mood:
accomplished
- Springtime in Boston is like springtime on Long Island Sound, but more dramatic. More like La Boheme and less like... um... a Synge play?
- I slathered on the sunscreen and brought my sunhat.
- I've made the decision to lose weight. I've already begun the process. It's scaring the crap out of me, but the prospect of ending up with Type 2 diabetes and/or not being able to reach my arm across extraneous body parts is even less appealing than misguided compliments and unwanted male attention.
- In an effort to make good on my New Year's resolution to increase my creative expression, I'm doing a monthly poetry salon. The date keeps changing. Right now, I'm looking at Sunday the 24th. There will be whole-leaf tea and cucumber sandwiches. Bring some poetry you like or some of your own. Woman-friendly space.
- It's not Sunday the 17th because I've decided to go to Kripalu that weekend.
- I don't like budgets. Not for money and not for things. Coloring outside the lines, including the lines of my five-things list.
- Location:Cubicle 2016J
- Mood:
determined - Music:A/C hum
Five things about him in particular that are awe$ome:
- He said the icon that goes along with this post made him smile. He saved it to his desktop and named the file "cute girl."
- He sent me a picture of a tree in the midst of fall-color changing, colored extra red by a firebox light.
- Whenever I walk down the bike path near my house, I think about a night in the summertime when he told a story about being outside, feeling the breathing of the trees.
- He sends me hugs and kisses via SMS.
- He buys me comic books.
- Location:Couch
- Mood:
loved
http://mealassembly.net/search2.php?doS
Of course, they're all out in the suburbs. I guess us city-hip-yuppified folks are supposed to make do with Whole Foods.
I know there are some foodies on my Flist. Anyone ever use one of these things? Experience with them?
- Mood:
curious
- Had a good, productive day at the (home) office. Killer cramps meant I didn't feel like a human being until around 10am, but thanks to the miracle of technology (if we don't understand how it works, does that mean it's magic?) I still started working before 8am. Of course, now I feel like I need to get just one more thing done before I can go, er, home.
- I've lined up an editor for my
newfirstchapbook. This is good because it'll never get published unless I have deadlines. I can has deadlines? - From our email exchange about the book:
ME: I'd like to get it out before December and the holidays -- it might make a nice gift to some folks, unless it's super-tacky to send off your own poetry as a gift.
HIM: I don't think it's at all tacky - either that, or I'm the tackiest mofo around. - I'm leading the annual open circle of the Women's Sacred Circle at First Parish Cambridge (UU). This is, I believe, my second or third year on the leadership council for the group. Our official church liason/fearless leader has been in the job for about three years. No one wants to take it over from her (especially me) because it involves sitting through interminable Program Council meetings where they debate things like where the table for the group raising money for the thing should go next Sunday. She's very happy, however, that I've taken over most of the planning of the actual open circle. We only open to new members once a year. Usually we get a pretty sizable number of newcomers in October, but not everyone stays. It's always a challenge making sure everyone feels welcome. By the end of the year, we all know each other really well. But it's only this year that I really feel like I'm deeply rooted in the group. It's like all kinds of family: sometimes they annoy the crap out of you, but you still love them.
- Army Guy,
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
mellowtron, and I went to see Neal Stephenson read from his new book Anathem last Saturday. The Harvard Bookstore put it on -- in my church, because my church is just that cool. I was the first one up in line and asked him a question about Snow Crash. In the back the book, he mentions that the book was originally conceived as a graphic novel and I wanted to know whether he'd ever done any other collaborations. In short, no.
The crowd was super-nerd-a-licious, which made the premise of the book (a monastic "mathic" order that studiously avoids exposure to ephemeral technology in pursuit of more eternal truths) that much more apropos. Behind me, kids were talking about Facebook and Netflix. Ten years ago it would have been about iVillage and About.com.
Two great questions: one about some kind of nerd religious movement called "The Singularity." Apparently, some dude is predicting there will be a Rapture of the Nerds, where we all transcend our bodies and upload ourselves into entirely digital spaces. Sounds about as likely as Gabriel blowin' his horn and the dead rising up from their graves. What I want to know is, who's going to maintain the servers? The rest of us, I guess, who'll be stuck behind reading old books and playing with ham radios.
Best question EVAR, though: "If you had to choose just one, would you teach your children to type or to write cursive?" The poor man was stumped. For a minute. Then he chose cursive, "on the theory that handwriting recognition will improve enough to recognize cursive."
My cursive is completely illegible. Of course, so is most of my printed handwriting.
- Location:La Officina de Casa
- Mood:
content - Music:Nighttime traffic
Until he started in on Simon & Garfunkle's The Boxer and I couldn't help but sing out, Garfunkel's high tenor part over the singer's lower one, not loud enough to drown him out or take him over, but he heard me. I hope he didn't mind.
The Boxer -- the song of all the young hopefuls who come to the city.
I am just a poor boy though my story's seldom
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles,
such are promises
all I suggest, still a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest, mmm hmmm...
When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy
in the company of strangers
in the quiet of the railway station
running scared
laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
where the ragged people,
looking for the places only the would know
Li li li, li le li li li li...
Asking only workmen's wages, I come looking for a job
but I get no offers
just a come-on from the whores on 7th avenue
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there, oo la le la le la la la...
Now the years are rolling by me,
they are rocking evenly
and I am older than I once was
and younger than I'll be but that's not unusual,
nor is it strange
after changes upon changes,
we are more or less the same
after changes we are more or less the same
Li li li, li le li li li li...
And I'm laying out my winter clothes
wishing I was gone, going home,
where the New York City winters are ableeding me
leading me to going home
In the clearing stands a boxer
and a fighter by his trade
and he carries a reminder
of every glove that laid him out or cut him till he cried out,
in his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving I am leaving" but the fighter still remains
He still remains
Li li li, li le li li li li...
- Location:La Officina de Casa
- Mood:
uplifted - Music:The Boxer -- Simon & Garfunkle
I met up with some of my circle sisters last Thursday night at the Forest Hills Lantern Festival. There are actually about three different events of this type in Jamaica Plain every year. It's inspired by a Japanese Buddhist tradition that honors the spirits of the ancestors and is very well-attended. The image of hundreds of hand-decorated lanterns floating across the waters of the pond as the light leaves the sky is really magical. Lots of people bring cameras on tripods to capture the event. My friend Butterfly took a photo on her camera phone and emailed it to me (I've posted it here), but I refrained from photographing, partly because I knew I wouldn't be able to get a good shot with my camera phone, and partly because I wanted to experience the event myself without the intervention of technology. There are tons of photos of the lantern festival on the web. I found Innusa's and ReallyStrangeGirl's flickr sets to be particularly beautiful. Still, nothing captures the experience like being in the middle of it.I took the Orange Line from Green Street to Forest Hills and followed the stream of people heading toward the festival. It was one of those hot, heavy, dreamlike evenings we get in July, and the grounds around the pond were filled with people on blankets. My circle sisters had camped out right in front of the performance space, and it was such a wonderful feeling to arrive to see a group of women holding a space for me. By the time I arrived, the festival had been going on for about an hour and a half. I attempted to get a lantern for myself, but by the time I got to the tent where you could purchase a lantern and have a calligrapher paint a word on the rice paper, there was a huge crowd. I didn't feel like waiting in line, so I returned to the blanket to watch the tail end of the Taiko Drummers' performance. I wish I'd gotten there earlier so I could have watched the entire thing; Japanese culture fascinates me, especially the traditional forms.
My circle sisters made beautiful drawings on their lanterns. Although this tradition is meant to honor the ancestors, people at this festival seem to use it as a way of sending out all kinds of energy and prayers. Each of my sisters has something fairly major to release right now: one of them is going through a divorce, the other just split up with her long-term fiance, one is embarking on a new romance, and the last has been recovering from cancer surgery. But for the first time in a couple of years, I have really nothing to release. I have good news. I am in love, my job is going well, and I am overall very happy. I was nice to have some good news to share with the circle and to be able to listen and give my support about my sisters' own tragedies. The Wheel keeps turning.
When everyone walked down to the water's edge to place their lanterns in the water, I stayed on the blanket. I watched the many kinds of people milling around and soaked in the atmosphere of Jamaica Plain. Each neighborhood and community in the Boston Metro Area has its own unique flavor. The prevailing wisdom among people who do not live in Jamaica Plain is that it's geographically isolated and difficult to get to. There is definitely a truth to that, but in the past few months I've found that getting there is not nearly as difficult as people make it out to be. And the neighborhood itself is quite wonderful. I've been considering moving there at some point. Of course, I'd hate to give up my lovely and affordable apartment in Cambervilleton (Cambridge/Somerville/Arlington), but I find the atmosphere of the neighborhood much more appealing.
I lay back and looked up at the sky as people milled around me. It was a blue-green, tinged at the edges with the burnt orange of approaching sunset. Trees ringed the edges of my vision.
Once the sun was down completely, the crowds dissipated. The five of us made a circuit of the pond, watching the slowly changing spectacle of the lanterns on the water. They followed the invisible lines of current and wind, and as the daylight faded away they looked like a line of souls marching into the other world.
It would have been nice to paint "forgiveness" on a lantern and send that message off to my father's spirit beyond the veil. But there will be other opportunities to do so. That night was meant for other people's releases.
Sadness comes apart in the water. Over the course of the last two years, though, my sadness has come apart on dry land. I have no grieving left to do, and nothing to share but joy.
- Mood: contemplative
release the noise
turn from the drum outside the ears
turn inward. the quiet. there.
what you want
oh, fear
oh, fear old friend
yes, you too I embrace
I release you
ever deeper--there
the purpose. here.
I am incurred
recurred. a cur.
inured. assured
unswerved. here the kernel.
the notion beneath the noise
above the noisy genitals
lies the genus. here.
from this I can march.
unswerving.
Frances Donovan
February 27, 2008
- While walking from my car to the office this morning, I saw what appeared to be an insurance appraiser checking out someone's car with a clipboard computer. His little Nissan was parked off to the side, engine running.
- My walking buddy at work routinely throws away plastic recyclable water bottles.
- I had dinner with my ex last night, who told me she "threw away" 40 bags of paper. "You mean you recycled it, right?" I inquired. She looked at me and replied, "It was recycled. It was shredded." But I lived with her for five years. I'm sure she threw it out on the sidewalk with the rest of the trash.
- Some dumb fucker keeps dropping his styrofoam Dunkin' Donuts cup in my recycling bin.
- Canvas shopping bags are becoming more and more prevalent, but a ridiculous number of people seem to be obsessed with enhancing the under-sink disposable-grocery bag population.
- Every day, my coworkers use paper cups and throw them away when they could bring in a ceramic one and reuse it once. Yeah, I read that study about the energy costs of reusable vs recyclable, but it fails to take into account issues around landfill and litter.
I mention all this because I'm caught in a conundrum. I care deeply about the environment and believe quite strongly that the best way to reverse environmental impact is to change our everyday habits--they're all small, but they add up. But I also hate proselytizing. I am using the word "hate" to describe how I feel about it. I find myself leaning more and more toward the libertarian side of the political compass. But this is an issue that affects all us. When you leave your car running, you're fucking up my air quality and climate. I remain silent for now, since I realize what a crazy busybody I'd seem telling some random insurance adjuster to turn off his car when he's not driving it. But I'm not sure I can in every situation.
Perhaps it's just too late for the current generation, and we need to concentrate on
- Location:Cubicle 2016J
- Mood: perplexed
Tomorrow is Pride. Two years ago this very evening, about five or six hours ago,
technogoddesss and I were making out in the grass in front of the Gazebo on the Common after the Dyke March. It wasn't our very firstest ever kiss, but that moment definitely marked our passage into total coupledom. I still have a photograph of her, taken on my cell phone, sitting in South Station with a big crinkly-eyes grin on her face. Then la_directora arrived from NYC and I literally squeeed all the way across the concourse to meet her.It was a happy, happy weekend.
Things have changed a lot since then. I'm obviously not in that being-in-love-is-totally-punk-rock state of mind this year, but I am feeling better, enormously better, than I was six months ago.
Tonight, instead of going to the Dyke March, I went to the Women's Sacred Circle, which always conflicts with the Dyke March, since it meets on the second Friday and Boston Pride is always the second weekend in June. I find myself avoiding a lot of activities in which I might run into
technogoddesss. Seeing her is painful, because when we were together her face and her heart center were all open and crinkly-eyed, and now they're painfully, painfully shut up behind a big redwood fence. She also refuses to coordinate with me about events that we might both show up to. So I guess it's really up to me to just cut the heartstrings loose and, as she said so succinctly via email, "deal with it."I think marching with the femme contingent in Pride this year will help with that. The fact that I'm beginning to look at women again (in that way, god bless me) is also probably another good indicator that I really am getting over her.
I'm having some femme performance anxiety, though. Ideally, I'd strap on my high-heeled sandals and get all glittered up, but I got heat stroke at the last Pride I attended, and I'm thinking that Birkenstocks and a pretty skirt might suffice.
Hee. I'm'a meet some girls tomorrow morning at the BBWN brunch. And I'm going over there with a girl whom I think is pretty cute, too. The possibilities!
- Location:La Officina de Casa
- Mood:
awake - Music:Swooshy traffic sounds very sleepylike
cheqyr and dr_bibliovore were supposed to fly up from D.C. to visit over Labor Day weekend. Ernesto, however, threw a monkey wrench in our plans. By dumping lots of rain on their home. After the June debacle, I can hardly blame them for staying home and sandbagging the basement. It does mean, however, that my lifelong dream of taking a Boston Duck Tour has been foiled again.
Instead,
technogoddesss and I had dinner at the awesome Arlington restaurant Prose and then used the room that our dear guests had reserved at the Governor Brackett House. The house itself was a work of art. We stayed in the Emily Dickinson room, and slept soundly after our big meal. Until about 6:00 am, when what sounded like an electric generator started churning outside our window. I thought my apartment got a lot of traffic noise, but it was nothing compared to the hubbub we heard in that room.We spent the afternoon at the MFA, looking at the Americans in Paris exhibit. I finally got to see Sargeant's famous portrait of Madame X, although I was not, unfortunately, able to see the underpainted evidence of the shoulder strap that was once, scandalously, painted as having slipped off her shoulder.
Other notable canvasses in that exhibited included Whistler's Mother and Isabella and the Pot of Basil. There were lots and lots of Mary Cassats, and looking at them has firmed up something I long suspected even back in middle school: I just don't like her work. I don't like the way she draws faces, the way she paints. In fact, looking at these paintings made me realize something pretty profound: in general, overall, I'm not a big fan of the school of Impressionism. Sure, I know why it was an important movement, yadda yadda yadda. But my favorite paintings are those that evoke the way that light falls on objects and figures, calling out a clarity of line, color, and form. The Dutch Masters. The Pre-Rafaelites. There are exceptions, of course. I love Van Gogh's work and am very fond of Cezanne and Gaughin. Degas I appreciate too, but mostly, I believe, because he continued to emphasize good draftsmanship in his paintings. What I appreciate most about the Impressionists was the fact that they brought brighter, more vibrant colors into use.
There were two artists in particular that this exhibit made me aware of: Childe Hassam and Cecilia Beaux. Hassam is responsible for that painting of the edge of the Boston Common at dusk in wintertime. And Cecilia Beaux, well, I suppose she didn't become as famous a name for two reasons: (1) she was a girl; (2) her canvases were pretty traditional. I was totally blown away by Les Derniers Jours d'Enfance, which they hung right next to Whistler's Mother.
After finishing the exhibit, we headed downstairs to look at some other stuff from the collection from around the same time period. In the next gallery, they had all these lovely stained glass windows by La Farge. Overall, a great visit.
That evening, we met up with
andtruth to see Demonslayers at this teeny tiny little theater in Fort Point. Overall, it was about what you'd expect for a $10 ticket, but highly entertaining. As the name might suggest, the play's plot closely resembled that of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The star also happened to be the show's fight choreographer and an apprentice in the stuntmen's union, which pretty much sums up the play's main strengths. Excellent comic timing made for a nice counterpoint to the fight scenes and (implied) blood and gore. The playwright somehow managed to pack into two hours every major plot point from at least four of the Buffy seasons.On Monday,
technogoddesss and I took a long hike from my house to the Fresh Pond reservoir. We did a complete circuit, and then I bought groceries at Whole Foods and carried them home. Way to live sustainably and get some exercise at the same time.- Mood: cheerful
technogoddesss's house. The walk from her house to Davis Square is not unsubstantial, but it's too close to drive, especially when you factor in (a) the environmental impact (b) the waste of gas and money and (c) the pain in the ass it would have been to find parking.So I found myself in this bizarre conundrum: happy to have a sweetheart to walk to ArtBeat with, but regretting having to drag my body through the hot, humid air instead of coasting along nicely on my bicycle. It put me in mind of something a friend of mine mentioned in a recent post about accepting limitations and boundaries as a means to achieving prosperity. Or, as they might say in one of the 12-step fellowships, accepting life on life's terms. I've become aware of one of the ways I haven't been accepting life on life's terms in terms of my relationship with
technogoddesss. It's a fairly easy mistake to make, a trap that lots of couples fall into. Instead of appreciating her for who she is and reveling in all the reasons I fell in love with her to begin with, I began to notice small tics and and annoying habits. Psychologists call this process "habituation." Another well-known writer calls it the "magical magnifying mind." And what I've realized is that picking at her for her faults is not going to help matters any. It's only fair; she doesn't pick at me for mine. What'll keep the relationship healthy is appreciating the good things about her and accepting that she's not perfect. If she manages to love me in spite of my many imperfections, I think I can do the same.*edit: expanded information about ArtBeat below*
There were a ton of performances going on for ArtBeat. They set up about four or five different performance spaces throughout Davis Square. The main stage was at Seven Hills Park, the little patch of grass behind the Davis Square T Stop that I've ridden by on the bike path many times -- so named because of the sculptures representing each of the seven hills in Somerville. Then there was a sort of roped-off area next to the Someday Cafe, which recently lost its lease.
technogoddesss isn't sorry to see the Someday go, since she has apparently witnessed lots of heroine being bought and sold in that establishment. I'd always just thought of it as a kind of funky coffeeshop, but I do have to say that I have difficulty rallying up enough righteous anger to sign a petition to get the landlord to let them stay there. I just hope they don't put in a Walgreen's— or worse yet, a Gap. I didn't really see performances at either of those spaces, although I did notice that the Subversive Choppers Urban League (SCUL) were displaying a rather bizarre collection of bicycles at the area over by the Someday.Two performances that I absolutely didn't want to miss: The Boston Typewriter Orchestra, which performed at Jimmy Tingle's Off Broadway, a tiny little basement theater that was actually the location of my last gig as a theater techie (some friends of mine run Another Country Productions). By the time we got there, the place was absolutely packed—partly due to the act itself, I'm sure, but partly due to the fact that Jimmy Tingle's is AIR CONDITIONED!
In spite of the total packed-ness of the theater, I somehow managed to score a front-row seat and stayed for about one and a half "numbers." Here's the deal with the Boston Typewriter Orchestra: young guys with a sense of rhythm dress up in white shirts and ties and sit down with manual typewriters, and make a kind of music with the typewriters. Sometimes they answer phones and say funny things. It was mildy amusing, especially the bit where they kept transferring the complaint back and forth between two phones. But for someone who's seen STOMP! performed, it wasn't the most exciting thing on the planet. Sure, it was neat to see some complex rhythms being tapped out by six or seven guys with typewriters. But the execution was far from perfect. The air conditioning was nice, though.
I appreciated DJ Joey Daytona's remix of a Gertrude Stein poem a lot more. The setting was a bit bizarre—midafternoon on a wicked hot Saturday in July—and therefore not very conducive to dancing, but the content itself was definitely appropritate for ArtBeat's theme this year (reCycle/reNew). Plus, Gertrude Stein is really only bearable when set to phat beats and whipped up and down on the one's and two's a few times. That girl had one sweet, sweet gig, writing stuff no one could understand and therefore no one could critique. Plus, she had Alice B. Toklas to keep house for her.
technogoddesss and I met up with Red, a friend of hers whom I really enjoy, and we walked around seeing the sights with him for a bit. Eventually, we ended up at the booth for the Somerville Garden Club, talking with this very nice English woman named Janet. I told her about the garden I made back in Brookline, how I'd dug up the ground in that strip of sidewalk in front of the house and made a sort of spiral pattern with the earth before planting the seeds. "Are you an artist?" she asked.And I paused, took a breath, thinking how to answer that question.
"Oh, you are," she answered.
"She's artsy," said
technogoddesss, but I knew that wasn't the right answer. That demeans what I do. Yes, I suppose is the answer. Even though it's not what I do for a living. A trip through The Artist's Way taught me that much. And 22 years' worth of journals, and a career that took a right turn from programming into design taught me that much as well, I suppose.It's good to get that kind of validation from time to time. When I take my own creativity more seriously, I think it allows me more compassion for others' creative processes. Like poor
cheqyr, whose studio was trashed during the flooding in D.C. recently. So sorry, cheqyr!- Location:desk
- Mood: optimistic
- Music:technogoddess taking photos of my kitty
First I visited the printer to look at the proofs off the press. Long story. Blue the bane of my existence. And green, specifically PMS 2265.
Then, I hightailed it over to Judy Jetson's salon on the highly fashionable stretch of Mass Ave between Harvard and Porter Square. Walking in there was like walking into a time warp. All of a sudden, I was back in 1999. Web development was still the place to be, HTML on your resume still meant you could inch your way up to the $100K tax bracket, air travel didn't involve taking off your shoes, and a man's sexual attractiveness could be measured by the diminutive size of his cell phone.
I've realized that I really hate the industrial look. You know, the whole inside-of-an-aircraft-carrier, but decorated with curtains look? I could totally do without it. I feel kind of bad for Judy Jetson actually. Now, in these more sober times, the salon desperately needs a redecorating job and probably can't afford it.
But Feri, hairdresser to the lesbians of Boston, gave me a fabulous cut. I wasn't particularly convinced it was the fabulous cut for me, especially when she did the short part in the front with the extra pouf in the back. (I've tried unsuccessfully to find a link to a picture). I was feeling less than glamourous that day, and my hair seemed to be one-upping me.
Still, I did get at least one compliment on it. And later that evening, after some good work at the office, I got to drop by
technogoddesss's house to show it off. She answered the door in her paint-stained fatigues and a Nutcracker T-shirt. She smelled like paint, but I didn't care. I was so happy to see her, and to see her looking at least reasonably well, I grabbed her almost immediately. She was all worried that I would get paint on myself, but I didn't. And I got to hold her in my arms.There was a moment when I was standing there in the hallway with her, the feel of her torso through all our various winter layers, that just struck me. A moment purely sublime. And I still remember how slim and tender and ivory she felt. Such a contrast. After all, she's the toughie who goes about remodeling houses and climbing telephone poles in all weather. I'm the big softie who sits in front of a computer most of the time. But physically, I am at least wider than her.
Well, it's time for me to get my butt back to the office so I can rake in those big self-employment bucks o' mine. ::smirk::
- Mood: happy
- Music:hip-hop on the speakers at b.good
technogoddesss this morning at 8AM, cosily waking up after a very long day. She gently but firmly pushed and poked and prodded me out of bed yesterday morning so that I would have time to make my very complex, rather expensive, and highly rewarding stuffed pumpkin recipe for the 36th annual National Day of Mourning in Plymouth. It's put on every year by UAINE, the United American Indians of New England.My take on the event in a nutshell: too much politics, not enough grief.
There was a whole contingent of rabblerousers from NYC, and some more from Providence, and then some from New Hampshire, and of course your usual mishmosh of confused and root-seeking kids from the Boston/WooSTAH/Fall River/other crappy little suburbs outside the Boston area.
Moonanum James, one of the organizers of the event, gave a keynote speech that was almost identifcal to the one I'd read on the website, dated a few years earlier. And a very angry man who had been at Pine Ridge when Leonard Peltier alledgedly shot an FBI man who came to recover a pair of stolen cowboy boots was there, to tell us that America was named not after Amerigo Vespucci, but for the Spanish "ame" (love) and "rica" (riches), and that therefore to call yourself an American means that you love riches.
I'm not sure why that's a problem either. This is, after all, a very rich land. And whichever word you use to describe it, the fact of the right of the native people to live here and the invasion of the English settlers remains.
So there was a lot of that kind of speechifying, plus a man from Inca Son up there in full Inca regalia, which is kind of inappropriate attire for a very cold day in late November but made me feel rather ashamed for being petulant for having to stand around in the cold in four layers of silk and fleece and cotton.
Eventually, we marched through the empty streets of Plymouth shouting "Free Leonard Pelletier!" and "What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!". Twice around the hill with the statue of Massasoit in all his buff, loinclothed, oxidized-bronze glory, past the teeny tiny 3.5 foot-tall statue of Governor Bradford, and on to the church.
I had this image of all the good citizens of Plymouth shuttering their windows and saying "get inside! The Indians are coming!" No police were in evidence, although
technogoddesss commented that there were probably plainclothesmen in the crowd. Afterward, we saw not one not two but three official Plymouth police cruisers in evidence, so clearly the demonstration was closely watched and prearranged.It was, of course, a Unitarian Universalist church. In the square before the church, the keynote speaker related the fact that the head of the Indian chief Metacom was displayed on a pike on that very spot for 25 years.
Eventually, the speeches and the shouting ended and we got to go inside to eat.
technogoddesss and I went back to the car for the pumpkin, which had been cooling. I snuck into the kitchen to offer it up to them, and was gratified for the grateful reception. The best compliment was when all the kitchen helpers insisted on having a helping before sending it out. And eventually we ate.
Overall, I am glad that I went to the event. I was, however, disappointed with the rabble-rousing energy of the crowd. It wasn't a sincere, beloved community. It was simply a collection of so-called grass-roots activists with little ability to effect real change in our present system. Protests and marches are necessary and powerful tools. They serve as a kind of societal conscience, reminding us about what is wrong in the world, what still needs improving.
But they also promote an us-vs.-them mentality that is completely unhelpful in creating real and lasting change in any given situation. Especially one as old, gnarled, and complex as the history of the English settlers and the Indians. What I envision actually helping to heal the wound is an acknowledgement of the harm done, a dialogue between whites and natives, and reparations. A revision of history textbooks and lessons regarding the first Thanksgiving, for instance. Like the truly excellent educational tool created by the folks at the Plimouth Plantation: Plimoth.org/OLC
I did not get a sense of reconciliation from the whites or the natives I met at this event. The whites I met were overeager to learn native ways (a la the cultural appropriation of native spiritual teachings so fashionable during the New Age movement of the 1990s) and to champion their causes (as in the white man who shouted the loudest during the march and eventually ended up with the loudspeaker yelling "Free Leonard Pelletier"). The natives were rather silent and reserved.
In particular, there was one older Native woman from the Bronx sitting across from me at a table. I could tell that she had lumped me and
technogoddesss into the same category as all the other white people who had come to protest something, anything. She was tired of white people. She was tired of the marching. She was tired of the crowd. And she certainly didn't want to talk to one more earnest, overeager white lady from Boston.At least I think that's what she was thinking. But I don't really know. Because despite being a witch and making a mean stuffed pumpkin, I really cannot read people's minds.
The true irony is that after she got up to take the bus back to NYC, a young, earnest, overeager white boy came to sit down in her place. He complimented me on the dragonfly around my neck, and I thanked him politely.
"Illusion," he said.
"That's right," I replied. And was silent. I noted the pendant of a bear around his own neck but refrained from commenting.
"It's all an illusion," he said.
"Well, not exactly," I replied. But I had a feeling it would be useless to have a real conversation with him about the meaning of Grandfather Dragonfly. I didn't want to share the story of my search for his patronage, or how he finally decided to fly down to my tent one day. I didn't want to explain to him the personal significance of the pendant around my neck, or talk about Bear's important influence in my life, or the roles that Hawk and Horse and Badger and Beaver and Rabbit have played as well. I didn't want to tell him any of these things because I had the feeling that he would grab at my words and try to wrestle them down, try to wrestle down my very soul, try to own me and my friendship in that modern white-man way. And didn't want it.
This, I imagine, is something like what Olga from the Bronx felt when she spoke with me.
( Read more... )
- Mood: loved
technogoddesss made a rather sharp turn during the week preceding the 2005 Dyke March.I remember going to her house to have dinner with her and her mother the week before, going to support her because the Maternal Visit can often be difficult. And I remember that she had taken my suggestion to wear more tank tops to Toast because they showed off the muscles in her upper arms. She claims that I looked at her with lust in my eyes that evening as she was cooking. Which I probably did--but not from the front part of my brain, the part that plans and has manners. That part of my brain had been trying to stave off the memory of the smooth skin of her waist which I'd accidentally felt when placing my hand around it during an HLGC soiree a few weeks before.
Her mother very politely removed herself after dinner, saying she would "give us some time to visit with each other." I remember that we made a point of the fact that we were NOT dating each other. And she drove me back to my house and we smoked a hand-rolled cigarette in my back yard. She also said something to me that night up in her study that was like a slap in the face, or a brace of cold water. Something that made me sit up and take notice, and realize that I might lose her presence in my life.
Over the course of the night and the next morning, something underwater in me moved and changed and surfaced, and placed its feet upon dry land and came up to the part of my mind that plans and has manners. And we began a kind of careful negotiation via email.
So that when she came to pick me up on Friday to go to the Dyke March together, and touched my hand, there was an uncertainty, and a sweetness there. It was all rushed, it was all... I kept wanting us to be able to go to some quiet place, some cafe and talk about it while a discreet waiter came from time to time to fill our cups with ice water. And give us more lemon slices. But it was midsummer and there was a hullabaloo and a crowd. And at the end of the march, on the grass there, laying back and looking at the stars, looking around at all the confluence of women-loving-women from all over the world, I turned to my right and she was there and I reached over and kissed her. And the kiss was sweet and uncomplicated, with none of the fear that had been in it when last I'd kissed her, on Halloween night in 2004.
And after the mediocre folk singer left the stage, Leslie and the Ly's came on. And we were fascinated, because it was like a train wreck from which we could not look away. Now, my scale also tips over 200, but I don't see myself in the same light that Leslie Hall seems to see herself. There is a photo of myself from the sixth grade where I have that same sullen expression my face, but that was because I was depressed, maligned by my peers, on the verge of adolescence. Leslie Hall seems to revel in her fugliness. She even has a blog called "go fug yourself." And this persona that she's created has become incredibly successful. She's gotten a cult following and plenty of press coverage.
It's fascinating, and disturbing, and some part of me understands it, even revels in it. But I'm glad that it's not the image I have chosen to send to the world at large. I'd rather that the world remember that women like Kate Winslet in Titanic and the women in the Dove commercials are beautiful, instead of fetishizing the kind of ugliness that Leslie Hall projects. For me, personally. On a larger, political level, I find her work powerful, necessary, fascinating, and delightful.
But
technogoddesss and I still left the concert early. We didn't want to be taken by the Mother Ship. And frankly, the hip-hop just wasn't very good. For those of you who have never seen me, I've posted some photos below. They're not the most flattering photos of me ever taken, but I'm okay with them. That happens when your sweetie calls you cuddly and says nice things about your thighs.
( Photos, get'cher photos )
I was listening to my voicemail while walking, which gave me just the right kind of detachedness when this cute little babydyke came into view, walking in the other direction. And I cruised her hard. I mean, if I had cruised her any harder, I would have driven a Mac truck right into her chest. Oh, she was just adorable! Those little jeans, that little adidas shirt, that little haircut, those little glasses. And before I could think twice about it, get the femme anxiety, all the rest, I saw her smiling back at me.
She knew exactly what I was doing. She was doing it too.
And then we passed on into the sexual springtime sunny afternoon.
- Mood:distracted
- Music:Peter Gabriel = Digging in the Dirt
Okay, there really is.
But it has as much to do with "real" journalism as, say, those blonde bitches with the pancake makeup and the flippy hairdoes who report on the Stoneham prom crisis have to do with that tough-talking reporter in the 1930s who pounded out stories about murders down on Skid Row.
I'm totally talking out of my ass.
I am totally hung over.
To back up a bit, I am a bad livejournalist because (a) I haven't been posting about the inanities of my daily existence; (b) I haven't been posting keen and witty insights; (c) I haven't even been posting about major relevant plot-line events that will make the rest of the story make sense. If my life at all resembles, say, the Showtime drama The L Word (and that's kind of like saying that WBEZ at 10 resembles actual news), then for me to pick up where I left off would produce in readers a similar experiences as, say, the one I had a few weeks ago when I tuned in to discover that certain skinny lesbians had left the show, new characters had been introduced, certain pitiful heterosexuals had disappeared, etc etc etc.
So here's the Synopsis of the Life of Okelle in a nutshell:
(a) Quick and I got back together in February
(b) Quick and I split up again a few weeks ago
(c) I finally got laid last night! Wahoo! First time since, like, Labor Day!
And I'm all hung over and late to work as a result.
- Mood:
exhausted - Music:Doves - Someday Soon (Radio Paradise rocks)
Don't expect to see the girl, though. She is avoiding me so hard, she decided to drive all the way to Connecticut this weekend to sing with a bunch of women who *don't* offer her sexual favors. Just kidding, honey. Kind of.
- Mood:playful
- Music:Artichoke, Essence, Mariposa
It's easy to mistake my name as a man's name -- at least if you are a native French speaker.
I stood up. And said, "I am she."
A small thing, but telling.
I was very aware of my body language throughout the meeting, caught myself smiling and tilting my head to the side -- what they call the "fear grin". A sign of submission. Always, always, always the question: If I overcorrect too much, will they see me as overly aggressive, a ball-busting dyke?
I wouldn't want them to know that until AFTER they sign the contract.
I've been reading a new book called "She Wins, You Win," by a woman who was an Executive VP of CNN. It's a great reminder of why I prefer working with women, why female entrepreneurs are my target market. And why I must continue to play for the women's team. It's so easy to operate from a scarcity mentality -- in business and in life.
- Mood:
discontent - Music:Ambient office sounds
If I don't set the clock, I usually wake up at about 7:30. Of course, that doesn't stop me from puttering around until nine or so. I have a fairly elaborate morning routine. When I do it right, it involves some writing, some meditation, some breakfast, some yoga. But this morning, it went something like this:
* Get up, check to see whether one of my roommates is camped out in the bathroom. (It's occupied)
* Do the pee dance.
* Pet my adopted street kitties, since this is the only time of the day they usually let me touch them. Place food in front of them and reassure them that it is safe for them to eat their food in spite of the fact that their mother is doing the pee dance.
* Pace around the living room.
* Contemplate making coffee, but postpone due to increasingly urgent need to pee
* Contemplate knocking on bathroom door (the noise of the shower has stopped. Why aren't they out of there yet??)
* Sit down on couch in living room and fold legs
* Check on kitties. Reassure them that my entrance into the kitchen is not cause for alarm
* Knock on bathroom door. Apologize for asking roommate to hurry up so I can pee.
* Do the pee dance for a hundred more years. Think about dry, dry deserts.
* Roommate finally exits bathroom. Lunge for the door, hoping that sphincter muscles will hold out until pajama bottoms are safely around ankles.
* Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa
* Sit in bathroom and stare blankly at the walls. Read half an article in the Boston Women's Business Journal. Wonder what forms of oral sex are required to be featured in the Boston Women's Business Journal, and who you have to perform them upon.
* Brush teeth. Contemplate taking a shower. Decide to postpone until after yoga.
* Wash hands.
* Exit bathroom. Door is closed and locked 30 seconds later by another roommate.
* Exchange good mornings and another chapter of life story with fellow coffee-drinking roommate
* Choose from the following options:
(a) Do 20 minutes of yoga poses, including kick-ass arm-strengthening asanas that will cause all women within 20 feet to swoon in admiration. Follow with 10 minutes of seated meditation
(b) Contemplate doing yoga. Decide to postpone for later date
(c) If it's the second Monday after the waning 3/4 moon, put on running shoes and run/speedwalk past ostentatious houses on the edge of the Harvard campus.
* Check bathroom. If empty, carpe diem and take a shower
* Boot up computer. Apply deodorant and baby power (to your body, not the computer)
* Pop in 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and listen to Steven Covey rhapsodize about the P/P-C balance while folding up your futon, putting on fancy work clothes no one will see, and sitting in front of your computer
* Log on to Trillian and MSN Messenger. And.... begin!
