Blackout, Bowdlerization, Bullshit

bowdlerization

 

Today is fucking frustrating.

This whole week has been frustrating, upsetting, triggering, disheartening, and fucking terrible for women in North American. I refuse to talk about the fucking shit this week that has proven that women’s voices mean nothing, but I will talk about me being able to do my best to claim some sense of dignity and power in a world that has stripped me bare.

In fear of feeling ostracized by folks, I will not post the cartoon that caused the reaction that questioned my self-worth. Out of fear of being told that I am a contributor to someone whom I admire and look up to being ‘trigged af’, I will not post the cartoon.  In order not to be shamed and called out publicly, I will not post the cartoon that in one small brief moment, made me feel like I had a voice.

I won’t even post this on Facebook in fear of offending that one person that hurt my heart and my pride and my dignity.

I have been silenced in fear of not being considered a good person, a decent feminist, an ally to those that have been sexually assaulted.

The cartoon in question is from Bruce MacKinnon of the Chronicle Herald printed on September 29th. What was shown was a woman with blond hair, much like Dr. Christine Ford, held down by a man in a suit with Republican logos on his sleeves. She is blindfolded and her mouth is covered by his hand, while the scales of justice are strewn behind her, victim to the disintegration of justice she has experienced.

She, Dr. Ford, and all women who have been silenced in the face of assault were that woman in the cartoon.

Never before, have I EVER felt so akin to a depiction of anything as I have with this cartoon. I have never been sexually assaulted, but I have been very close. I have never called out these men that were ‘so close’ in my assault because I never thought it was anything. I say I have never been assaulted, but I really have – I just thought that it was something that happened when you were young and drunk.

So I made this post my Facebook cover photo.

And I was promptly told that it was triggering as fuck by someone who I hold in the highest regard.

And than I felt bad and took it down.

But I am still mad.

Furious.

Hurt.

I am feeling censored, silenced, bowdlerized.

It was my wall, my thoughts, my fears and my power. I apologized to her and said that it wasn’t my intention to trigger her.

She told me my intention was irrelevant.

I felt like a terrible fraud.

But I am not.

This whole week I have felt like I have been attacked over and over again by every white man in power, by my own father that claimed this all to be a witch hunt. So I claimed my power by posting something that was everything true in my eyes.

Shot down.

Silenced.

Fucking bullshit.

Now we are attacking each other.

I feel defeated.

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Blackout, Bowdlerization, Bullshit

To all the Pride’s I’ve loved before…

Today, Pride Calgary officially raises its flag at City Hall. For the first time in years I have decided to check it out before heading to work. At some point, a few years ago, my absolute elation with the Pride movement took an ugly turn, and even now, talking about it immerses me with anxiety. As most of you know, I (and dozens of other volunteers) spent 5 years digging Pride Calgary, the organization, out of a bit if a hole. The finances were iffy, our relationship with the city was tumultuous, and the faith of the queer community in Pride Calgary was toxic at best. I am so proud of the work that myself and all the volunteers that tirelessly dedicated themselves to serving a community that we all love. This was a part of my life that stands out above all others.

Once my tenure with Pride Calgary was done I moved to Toronto and worked just as hard for the Dyke March, but it was very different. In Toronto I was woken up to the realities of the injustices of the Pride movement and how I played a direct part in it. I was blessed to be surrounded by the best sort of Dykes in my committee who questioned me on my priviledge, called me out on my whiteness, and taught me how to recognize my cisgender priviledge.
I understood the need for $$ but the heartache of corporate greed. I felt like I truly understood the power of community, particularly when my mom was sick thousands of miles away and my people showed me how to deal by the simple art of crocheting banners of resistance. I also realized that this community of Dykes that I felt so connected to were not connected to the Pride Movement. We were seen as disruptive, grassroots, and political. I realized that Pride did not represent everybody.

When I came back to Calgary, I didn’t want anything to do with Pride, except for publicly challenging them with my new found knowledge. This hurt me more than helped because I was exerting my frustration with anger which was not fair to the current board and it was killing me inside.

Years later, I became much more aware of the injustices to the folks of colour in my community that felt unsafe at Pride. I was invited to listen to the community. I can’t thank these folks enough.

Today, I have began to do the things that matter the most to me. I am working with an amazing organization that empowers the kids in our community to be themselves and live as equals. These are the folks that are going to make it better. I am so excited for that.

So, for those who will take this.. Happy Pride, however you chose to celebrate and/or fight.

For those that do not, please know that this is ok too. There is no universal queer have-to-love Pride pact. Stay safe, take time for yourself.

To all the Pride’s I’ve loved before…

Orodomop

 

220px-Il_pomodoro

 

 

I hate ‘technique’. I hate rules of ‘creativity’. I hate identifying nouns, verbs, and constantinoples or whatever they are called. Who made these rules? Why are they rules that we have to follow? If I am baring my soul to the masses of strangers that read my blog (there are at least 10 of you), why do I have make certain that I have inserted a semicolon and not just a colon! A colon is a part of your ass, not something one needs to pay attention too during writings of emotional strife.

Like right now.

I am sitting here, on my laptop, legs curled, yelling at my cat because he won’t stop meowing because he murders birds (whole other story), watching the Real Housewives of New York (the one where Luann gets arrested), and testing out the ‘Pomodor’ technique. For some reason, saying the ‘Pomodor’ technique reminds of saying a favorite and very reliable system we used as teenagers called ‘the pull-out method’, but I digress because the two methods/techniques are not even remotely similar.

I am a procrastinator. I have lists and lists of things that I must get done. In my ever quest for seeking meaning in my life I have created things that must be done to attain this. I am fantastic at making lists, and should probably market my technique, however I really haven’t figured out how to actual do what is on my list. Actually rewind that. I can do the things on my list that mean nothing.

  1. Wash dishes
  2. Clean carpet
  3. Floss
  4. Pluck
  5. Clean windows

Everything else remains on my list, and gets carried over to my final task:

  1. Make new list.

On this new list (and every new list) is the task ‘write’. Make sure to write. Write an outline. Find that book on how to get published. Finish your story. Find apps to help you finish your story. Again, finish your fucking story.

Finishing a story is a tall order, I know, and as a writer I will not stop writing until I am dead, or my fingers fall of because of my inability to control my Diabetes – whatever. What I actually mean by ‘write’ is to actually sit down and create. My hard drive is chalked full of beginnings of stories, ideas of stories, paragraphs I wrote when I could not see through my tears, and words that inspire me. I also have finished stories, however before you ask me than what my problem is, these stories and essays were given to me as assignments. If I did not do them I would not pass a course. So, regardless of how I feel about the finished product and how great they are, they are still assignments. What I mean when I list ‘write’ on the top of every list is to actually write because I want to, because I don’t feel scared, or full of self doubt, or tired, or hungry, or anything else I can think of to not write.

In this search to keep myself focused I recognize that I need help. Help on my own. Self-guided guidance if that is a thing.

I have found one thing.

The Pomodoro App.

I know that the Pomodoro (pull-out .. argggg) technique is not a new thing. Apparently it is a big deal that many people have done for many reasons. It is also a pasta sauce. I really don’t care about the history of it – I just want it to work. I have also just decided to rename it the Orodomop because I don’t want to think about the pull-out method anymore. Anyways, I am so happy that I found something that was simple and what thrilled me the most about this technique was the little photo pops up as my App icon on my phone.

A little tomato timer.

My grandma had one of these, and a tomato pincushion, and each one these fascinated me to no end. Call it nostalgia or a far cry from Grandma Alma from the grave telling me to get my shit together and write. Either way, it worked.

I am on day two or writing 750 words per day. This is a big deal. It may not be sole focus of the bestseller I am writing (or not writing), but it is something.

I will take something over nothing at this point.

And a bowl of pasta.

And another 16 words to make it 750.

But, I won’t, because, you know, rules.

Orodomop

Missing, not missed.

white framed glass window

 

Meh.

I just ate a hot, Italian sausage, 10 tiny potatoes, a cup of frozen brussel sprouts and a shit ton of fake, 25% less salt, brown gravy. I am not going to lie – it was fucking delicious. I was going to have some bread under the sausage to soak up the gravy, however I decided against it because of the carbs. The gravy was a great idea though.

Anyways…

I attended a wedding this weekend. I was super honoured to go, as I had not seen my friend (one of the brides) but once in three years. We used to be tight – like every weekend Dexter watching marathons tight. There were five of us on each of those nights. Five queers (two couples and me) crammed into a living room, super excited to watch Dexter’s latest moral kill, debriefing about it afterwards. My friend, the betrothed, always kept us sugar-filled with cakes and cookies she was testing recipes for. We ate a lot. I was happy. Happy with the sugar and companionship.

Betrothed and her girlfriend at the time broke up. The other couple also parted ways. There were harsh words and side taking. Betrothed was my only ally after the battle.

My heart hurt. There was so much that I missed about the sugar and companionship. There were misunderstandings and so many tears shed. I was broken.

But I let it go.

Without consideration.

Fast forward 8 years.

Marriage, breakups, and wrinkles.

There is only one other person at the wedding that I know. A remnant of a life I once knew. A one-nighter that intrigued me. She welcomed me with a smile and asked how things were.

‘The same.’

‘Me too.’

It is an awkward tension that only two beings that have seen and tasted parts of our bodies that not many have. I was happy to see her though. I had someone to sit with. I felt a bit of excitement, the kind that made me want to ferociously make out with someone other than my ex who I hate saying that I am not over.

I wondered though, at that exact moment, why I was so sad. Why I couldn’t say much. I was surrounded by love, but empty.

Why?

To be honest, I don’t know. I have thought about it over and over. I have mulled, contemplated, and mourned my happiness, my sense of belonging, my connection.

Where did it all go?

I have heard (don’t ask me where), that when one door closes, another one opens. My new door must be broken. I feel like a shell of myself, and it has taken me years and years of therapy, hospitalizations, food eating, and food avoiding to figure out where I went. This time at this wedding was an exact manifestation of where I was before – something – and where I am now.

I was a spectator of my life and what it could have been. Kind of like that Christmas movie that is really old and have never watched, where that guy sees what life would be like without him in it. This was what life was without me.

And I hate it.

I miss being a part of something. I miss connections. I miss having places to go. I hate that I can count my friends on one hand. I used to have another hand of friends. I love the friends I have.. I really do, but I feel like I have lost my happy. That time, that time with my friends, my family, is lost.

And I really don’t know why.

That’s a lie. I do know why.

As much as I want to blame everyone for my losses, I really have no one to blame but myself. And my crazy. But, really, the rest is me.

One can only use crazy as an excuse for so long. At some point you have to take accountability for yourself and your actions.

I didn’t have to listen to what others think, and what others wanted me to do.

I knew better.

I didn’t trust my gut.

This eternal search for my happy – the happy I knew, is still a search – but maybe not so eternal.

The only option I have is to rebuild, and I accept this challenge with courage and authenticity.

 

 

Missing, not missed.

Niceness Not Needed

There comes a time after a breakup that you get fucking angry. After the tears, the questioning, the attempts at rekindling, you really just come out of it with a shit tonne of rage.

I am here now.

With my rage comes the memories of heartaches and betrayals from

Every

Single

Fucking

Relationship

Or any form of an interaction that was categorized as ‘more than friends’.

Patterns swirl like watery mud going down a sewer drain.

Betrayal.

Cheating.

Bottles.

Pipes.

Mirrors.

And through it all, no judgement from me. Only hope that niceness would be prevail, and the love and respect I had given would one day be returned.. flaws and all.

After all, I was nothing but flawed.

So I can’t help but wonder where faith, respect, and kindness get you.

At this point, I am not sure it gets you anything but a broken heart.

Niceness Not Needed

Martika and Me

Love, thy will be done
I can no longer hide
I can no longer run
No longer can I resist your guiding light
That gives me the power to keep up the fight
Love, thy will be done
Since I have found you my life has just begun
And I see all of your creations as one
Perfect complex
No one less beautiful or more special than the next
We are all blessed and so wise to accep
Thy will love be done
Love, thy will be done
And make me strive for the glorious and divine
I could be no more satisfied
Even when there’s no peace outside my window
There’s peace inside
And that’s why I no longer run
Love thy will be done
Forlorn feelings make me think of Martika. Specifically that song…
Martika and Dallas
Stagnant, sad, questioning, alone.
Martika and Dallas
Tired.19fecf76befa6bc2334a7dc64bc3e194-640x360
Martika
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Dallas
When I think of ‘love thy will be done’ I imagine a love conquering me. Done. It won. Like some bullshit Roman Emperor slaying its fearless foe. You won love, and you left me behind. Down for the count.
Martika and Me