The peepshow has just had another paycut, making it not worth it in my eyes to be a new dancer there. I don't see the business lasting more than a couple more years, the city just doesn't have room for it in it's yuppie ego. We're a throwback, a relic from when Seattle was a dirty port town that didn't lie to itself. Now everything is glossed over, most people don't even know or care about the dirty deals between the port and the city council, nobody blinks an eye when millionaires build things with our tax dollars, and somehow us strippers still aren't pulling in enough money to keep our place of work afloat.

This is topped off with me dealing with this situation and finding that far from anyone wanting to kick my ass, nobody cares. Either nobody believes me, or they honestly don't understand why I'm pissed off. I don't want to be a apart of a community that thinks sexual assault is okay and acceptable. I didn't think I this community was so fucked up until now.

That's a lie. I knew, I just wanted to be complacent like everyone else.

That time is done.

It's a good time for a change of place and a change of profession. I'm trying to get emt jobs, and I'm saving money to visit my sister in Japan. I wanted my next big trip to be a long ramble around Asia, but I don't have the money or the information to do that in October, when I want to visit clockworkwings.

I am trying very hard to deal with everything without having a meltdown, and despite one drunken weeping session, I think I've succeeded so far. To be fair, I've been sober since I returned from Mutantfest, and I might stay that way for a while.

I am attempting to decompress and formulate plots simultaneously. My brain machinery is not oiled in the right places and I am trying to get out of a "trap" rather than build new plans and I think I am abandoning photography for fun and dance that does not pay for reasons that might not be right.

Here, have a tree.

It is made of METAL.

Heading to Mutantfest.

Will be out of technology rage for probably two weeks.

See ya.

I've abandoned every writing project I have, spending my time being social and dealing with disasters and whatnot leaves little energy left for writing. For me writing is a solitary thing, and I am rarely solitary these days. I'm trying to find more time for solitude though, more time to process everything.

I was looking over the little collection of haiku I put together this spring, and decided I disliked many of them. I suppose they were just meant for a time and place. It also struck me as odd that there were no haiku about traveling (well, one; but just barely) or about hitchhiking. I did a lot of hitchhiking this past lifetime. I suppose it's just a mundane action to me, like brushing your teeth and so I don't bother to write about it.

Though to be fair, brushing your teeth can be pretty epic.

I also need this book.

My homie Jory killed his spleen in a bike accident.

Everyone in Seattle should come to this show.

Even if you don't know him, this is gonna rock.



Whoever made this flyer can't spell Jory's name. :(

Is "real art" solely based on how seriously you take yourself?

Yesterday's BBQ

This is the only shot that turned out decently from the Spread magazine fundraiser I attended two weekends ago. The performer is Andrea, one of those people you meet and then realize knows everyone you know and is dating an ex lover from this last winter. She does anarchist themed burlesque. I am personally pretty tired of burlesque, over saturated if you will, but her performance was actually very good.

I woke up this morning with missives from a doom cult in my pocket and an overwhelming sense of shame. I didn't do anything other than drink last night, so I suppose I'm feeling shame at not causing glorious trouble.

I'm heading to the Portland Anarchist Bookfair in a minute, too late to attend the medic/herbalist workshop I wanted to attend. But there will still be books.

Books!

Oh goddammit I hate forgetting to switch which email address I'm responding from. UGH. Probably lost work. Damn I can't afford that right now.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

As I was getting together my leather corset and pants, tossing everything plus a wig and makeup into a German military issue backpack I found in a free box in Berlin; I realized I spend most of my activist energy helping out junkies and whores. I could be growing my trustafarian dreadlocks and becoming vegan and spouting rhetoric constantly, I'd probably have more friends. But I prefer being a meat-eating heathen who supports causes looked down upon even in most of the punk and activist community. Besides, some of my best friends have been/are junkies and whores. We work with what we know, except those of us who have such a savior complex that we must force ourselves into other people's communities to "make a difference". (To be fair, some people do great humanitarian works within communities other than the ones they have experience with, but often I find the psychology of the privileged traveling to other countries or locations in order to feed their egos and help out the less fortunate when there's things to be done in their own communities offensive.)

...Back on topic.

I'm about to leave for Olympia to attend and possibly perform at a fundraiser for $pread magazine, put on by a fellow stripper and activist. Her blog is here, though she doesn't write much of late.

Boy howdy it's the sheriff of dicks!

I don't remember his name.

I have a fresh sprig of rosemary and a long turkey feather a friend brought from a Kansas graveyard whilst searching for ghosts. I have many angry friends, some of them angry because of the bust of a local rub and tug temple. (I will write more about that later, no doubt.) I have been interviewed at Folklife about being a queer homeless youth, despite not being currently homeless or technically a youth. It's always validating to be interviewed, it makes you feel like you exist in the world's consciousness outside of the community. But it also usually feels like cultural appropriation, and our generation holds the precious things about our communities close, burying them in an outward transparency because we've seen every "subculture" and every culture (both of which were communities to begin with) stolen from and appropriated and sold back to the people they used to support and nurture.

But enough of that. The people who interviewed me, Junkyard Amy and our crew of random kids were nice. Their blog is here http://www.pridewalk2009.org/. They're walking across the country, talking to the kids and raising awareness to help the kids. They take themselves very seriously. A noble goal, we'll see how it goes. They started here in Seattle, and I can only imagine they will have completely new outlooks on life by the time they end their trip. Right now they're fresh and green as hell.

Last night I was visited in a dream from a person who could use many lessons in consent. He apologized to me, wearing the face he had when we were just young junkies squatting and shooting dope on Capital Hill, long years before shit went down. Even in a dream, apologies are welcome and I woke up feeling closure and calmness.

I absolutely fucking love this shot.

It helps that the kid is gorgeous.

This is what my backyard looked like this morning.