Zin Is A Type Of Vin

O' MERRY XMAS FRIENDS!!!

I hope this Xmas Eve finds you all drunk, stoned, in love, or at least not trapped at work with a heavy cold and 17 inches of snow between you and your yule log-infested hearth.

I've been meaning to check in at the Octopus Diary sooner, but friends… I have been getting so many hits from Russia that I'm downright paranoid about it. As you know 2016 was my 10 year anniversary of being an Octopus Diarist (you can read about it here). And I don't plan on quitting just because the Russians are either spying on me personally, or routing a fake news site anonymously through my blogspot address ---

----- OKILLAKATZE COMRADES!---------

but you know. These are silly fragile egg times. And though most of you shun diaryzing as something adults don't do, I will diarize the fuck out of 2017 because we face the reality of having our freedom of press taken away and 

I would rather die pressing freely than live w/ only freedom of speech as my means of getting across…

I have for you today an Epic Poem--now that Moonchild is officially a senior citizen he is eligible for colonoscopies. He is also eligible to be called MoonSenior. This long poem is about my time in the waiting room while he got his colon scoped. I've been writing such long poems lately & they get rejected by the presses for being too long. 

Small, economy-size poetry is in vogue these days. Long elastic odysseys are not. So I will share them here. Feel free to give me feedback if you can manage to read the whole thing.

Also--I have ART for you!!! Yes, I spent the Winter Solstice getting reacquainted w/ watercolors. But don't get too excited--they are just experiments. I literally made something from the rorschach stains on the palette paper leftover from my last painting (of Shelter Cat & Trust Fund Baby). But it was good to get the hands & wrists & brushes coordinated again.

Rorschach experiment #1  Pixel Pisses Off the Puscine Priestess

So here's the COLONOSCOPY POEM:

***********************

We are traffic drooling over the lip of sunrise

Who leaves these big gaps  2-3 car lengths untightened at lights

Texting "out of fuel" perhaps?

We turn and signal parkway pique;  once auto immunity's 4-door wall breaks, usually a surge in the stream of concrete

But speedy's distracted by copilot's 3" French caresses, cranking flow valve

To carb and nozzle to

Slow drip 

Now we've broken walls & laws no one saw

I agree to wait  [?]  hours in this snug McNugget box

Within  [?]  minutes

2 Trump cards shuffle in and slap gnarly hands on my arm rest/privacy fence

One believes her volume's set to Indoor but I endure this: 

I don't write anything from my own head,  just regurgitate content from 

Nooz-sites I believe in. One today re: Reagan calling from the 80s to put prayer back in school & she responds with a long thought from her own head! As if she knows everything!

To paraphrase, poor libtard network kin so brainwashed, reciting all the godless scripture of the classroom, babbling about progress when what we need is a brake pedal, a retraction

I mustn't misconduct this War on Conduct, wherein I'll need a brochure of trigger warnings after every intake of breath, that sublime feline tip off I'm about to claw your flipside to bits  Wherein sensual assault is no mere tone crime 

Bandaging my former armor's spastic knees, strengthening my anti-social core, softened turd-like by lack of use

I clutch my book like a steering wheel, words roll by my eyes but they have pirated one whole 

Brain hemisphere, filled my throat w/ fossilized frogs, 

All sphincters from anal to mental clenched around my spinal flagpole

Because these G-mas would have me carry stones 3K miles from home

To build a border so concrete in the franchise of consciousness

One could only stand before it & try to order tacos

Try to classify rapists, or outline some of the good ones in chalk

These old clucks muted by their own lack of authority, deafened by their

Blocked cockiness, silent bowels waiting to take the exam, 

Can't stop their liquid whisper's confluence 

Live-streaming into my well

Watch towering overprotective over families overvalued

But not appreciated

As if she knows everything!

These G-mas would stack pixels to add VIP room to the Constitution. They'd say it was the divine occult will of their departed Daddies who served 

Heroes, honey, forced Hitler to his hemlock hive

God's own image said the flag was sacred and not to be burnt in red-skinned blue-flamed white-hot protest

While those involuntary vaginas call it Symbol of our fatal design flaw, our flow of scoliosis, our unclasped, neckless genuflection, Daddy rises for the post-mortem anthem

For Him the new fascists cut coupons and throats, cut themselves off at the pituitary knees,

If you were black I'd color you all over & have you drink from the leaden fountain! 

If you were brown you'd be raptured back to Aztec temples, sacrificed to America's

Overnight jungle, to its overgrown honey-do, listing like a ship off a cliff!

And were you queer, you'd plead for Pentecostal boot camp--Make me in your atomic-saxon image!

Make *nameless genital configuration* swell!

O little old lady tilled by the patriarchy when America was ripe for

The pickin' of slim cotton dresses, linen winging it between fucks, 

When America was so well-fluffed everyone had a donkeyshow! Everyone had an acre of virgin g-spot soil!

Now general admission is an admitted mess

But these angels don't even sing in the shower

Before gassing the rainbowed gutter 

11-21-16 

**********************

Congratulations on reading that. You're good. I really hope this weekend is filled with love & joy for everyone.  2016 was one of those years that really rattled the scaffolding and threatened to collapse the structure, the jagged mystical steeple of an Illuminati that reached the pinnacle of its erudite elitism. Not the structure you were thinking, right?

Rorschach turned into self portrait

Anyway…I shuddered w/ dread to face the news of my world, my country each day…and yet…my life, at my house, in my head, was terrific. Fucking grand. I am happy to have my mind back, and I promise more art & less jacking off in 2017. But I am on alert, ready to take action or fight or flight whenever the time is right. No polite nazi here. Intelligent anger, no artifice, 'kay?

My Own Day of Infamy: 1 Year on T

FRIENDS,

A year ago today I began a journey I would never believe. (And please don't think I'm a new age meme-hippie for using the word "journey." It's too early to think of a better word.)

You all know how awed I've always been by the power of hormones. Why, being a lady is nothing but a hormone journey. Each day a new mix of hormones & you never know what you're going to get! I absolutely HATED living that way, and THEN…as if thirty years of unamusing rollercoaster dips were not reward enough for being born w/out a dick…along comes menopause…PRE menopause…PERI menopause….whatever name you give it, it is nothing short of being thrown from the wild carnival ride you've been bravely strapped to for decades….

But as I've said, I was afraid of playing with the hormones. The God juice. (Please…don't think I'm a magic jesus Xtian because I said "God juice" -- I just didn't want to say "higher power elixir." It's too early in the morning.)

In 2012 I stumbled across a blog by a young homeless trans man who could only afford his testosterone part of the time. So he was really on a hormone rollercoaster! It sounded like drug addiction. You have your T--you feel great! You can't afford your T--you slump into estrogen depression.

Until I was completely pinned under the bulldozer of perimenopause I wasn't ready to fuck around w/ hormones.

But oh my god how I wish I'd been braver! How I wish I'd known when I was 12 that I could do this! 

But…scratch that…I wouldn't really want to change anything about my life except how badly I felt about my feminine exterior…how that exterior trapped me in humanitor's binary loop, but kept me separate from the ladies, and the men…

No I wouldn't change the life I've already lived. It is a work of art. It is just right for me, no matter how crappy it looks to you. 

So enough about hormonephobia! I know all you guys want to know is-----

How big is your penis now? 

And I'll get to that in a moment. I want to mention some of the other changes, or lack of changes, first.

You may have noticed I did no art this year. Zero zip nada art. I didn't feel at all like making any art. This is a new thing--usually I crave arting as much as eating or drinking or sleeping.

But all I did this year was feel horny & jack off. [Sorry, I know that's not what you want to hear]

Except--just in the past week--I feel the art imperative rising up against the new hormone order! So get ready for some art in 2017.

Voice = getting better. For about 9 months I've sounded like I have laryngitis. But now I sound like an actual teenage boy w/ deeper pitches than I've ever had. I still have most of my female range too. I kind of like having a voice with so much range.

But it is not helping me pass as male in the world.

And that's another thing. LOOKS = still very feminine. Seemingly more feminine than before starting T. Except for my slight mustache & a few invisible chin hairs…not very much facial hair to be found. I'm of Native American stock & we are not a hairy people. But this is ridiculous.

I'm happy that I haven't had the ferocious outbreak of acne that usually precedes facial hair growth. But a year later, I'm ready & willing to get through that rite of passage.

I think this was right after my 2nd T shot. Who can guess which restaurant we're at? 

I broke down & got a haircut the other day. I get so frustrated that I'm still read as so feminine. But my experience at the barber shop was even more demoralizing--the (female) barber couldn't BELIEEEEEEVE I wanted a short/men's haircut. She kept saying "Are you sure this is okay? It's going to be very short."

Like what do I look like--a fucking Disney princess to these people????  I think I made her very uncomfortable, and I hardly said anything…

So my plans to be a long-haired freaky hipster dude were thwarted by my own insecurites, my fragile masculinity. Now I just look like an older lady w/ really short butch hair. Not even a real butch lesbian. Just an unfeminine unattractive ciswoman who has no sense of style.

Oh speaking of style---I have none right now. I can't find clothes that fit. Mens' shirts hit my upper thighs. The pants get trampled under my feet because they're so long. My manly cargo shorts are just too big & look like droopy diapers. I'm a mess. I will work on this. If anyone knows where a 5'2" 120# girly man can get some clothes, let me know.

I LOVE my chest, scars & all. This is my most masculine feature right now. I took a shirtless run the other day & my god it was gorgeousness & gorgeosity made flesh like a bird of the rarest spun heavenmetal or like silvery wine flowing in a  spaceship…yada yada, you know the rest… 

Anyway, I can't say how great it feels to not have boobs. Again, a part of me wishing I'd never gone through the wrong puberty because those boobs were the main focus of my self-hatred. I knew they were the most glaring attribute of femininity, the thing guys considered my "sex organs." Gross.

The testosterone makes me feel happier & stronger & more confident than I ever did despite how silly I look. This is nice. I was so used to judging myself on my looks & feeling bad most of the time because well…I didn't like how I looked. Now it's not so important.

Hormonal stability is …bliss…peace. I mention T-rage kind of casually here & there, and it's true I had more angry outbursts this year than I had in '14 or' 15.  But I'm really not sure if that was the T or just me getting back to my normal feisty self.

Mostly I just feel good all the time. I get a little sluggish & sleepy when it's time for a shot, but it's NOTHING like PMS was.

You guys don't know how lucky & privileged & advantaged you are. Don't argue w/ me until you've been on estrogen for a year.

How is Moonchild doing with all this? He seems fine--ever the golden lunar presence, the wise orb. I haven't changed overly much, but he has noticed that I am happier & that makes him happy. It doesn't seem like he's about to bolt for Heteronormative Cis-landia. We still speak of our future plans as enthusiastically as ever.

OH, and yes, my dick has gotten bigger, though it's still not as big as yours & I'm all right w/ that! 

So yeah, I can't believe it's been a year on T!!! I remember those 5 grueling months of waiting once I decided this was the path I wanted to take. In those months I studied every nuance of my upcoming identity on the internet. I followed Trans podcasts & blogs. I scrolled thru trans Tumblrs & Twitters & Youtube videos. I even posted my own videos of me singing to my cat because that's what all the trans guys were doing & my god I wanted to do it right!!!  [Note to self: Take down those stupid vids!!]

I had no idea how to "be trans." I knew I was older than most people who were transitioning, especially female-to-male. But I still thought there was "a way" to do it. Certain words to use, specific steps to take. And I was looking for those footsteps to follow.

Now I don't worry about that so much. I'm just doing it, man, winging it. I've taken all the big sanctioned steps, and the little steps are up to me each day. I am thankful & thrilled & transformed & enlightened. But not perfect. And not passing yet, but I'm patient, so, so fucking patient.

I had an epic poem I was going to share, but this T anniversary thought was much longer than expected. I'll share the poem at a later date, like the considerate motherfukker I am.

ARTWORK COMING IN 2017!!!! 

Promise.

'Twas the Day Before the Election

Hey Friends,

I want to take you back to the day before the election. Mon Nov 7, 2016 was a rather strange day for me. I'm usually a peaceful little hobbit minding my own business at home & rarely do I seek the noise of "out there." But every once in awhile a day takes a wrong turn and you find yourself walking far, far from home to get away from the ominous drone in your head.

Drone of one's own sudden locomotive urge and a sense that something is so wrong in the world you may kill yourself if you don't walk out the front door & keep going til you reach the sanctuary of your youth…

…the place where you spent so many hours trying to feel like the sun & the trees & the stars & even the blood that ran through you belonged as much to you as to the people who claimed it all freely & loudly w/out ever questioning whether it was theirs….

…the place that's undergone its own drastic transition since you last took refuge there in your 20s….

I walked an hour to get there, among the people and the beautiful banyans…and I continued to feel "weird"--no words for it--not my occasional T rage, not the excruciating anxiety of 2015, nor the overflowing sadness of '14---but a sickening combo of all that plus a dollop of some new ingredient I didn't recognize.

Of course now I recognize it as that psychic ailment I get when big weird things are just around the corner.

Here's a …..poem…..I wrote while out of my hobbitzone

************

Not the infinite coda of worry

Premature electorate

Orange death rattle softens to static

White noise left over from all races

Popcorn hisses & licorice whacks

I had to leave the house today

AWOL from my hermit stronghold

Painfully detached from self, others, breakdown, recovery

All that work to piece my stained glass facets into a parable

Worth a new gospel, grown up coloring book wax on shrieking alabaster

White house of padded worship, isolationism

I volunteered to be a one-way sensory overload; a listener for life

All around the thrust of voices, pistons striking my whole organic amphitheater temple

No congregation shall be powered by

Sick children

Nail polish bitch bishops taking over private homo church

And its secretly sick adults

Sports w/ balls or politics

Poker Pokemon Pox VOX POP

Broken A/C rescue dog nipping sick sad children under vestments

Histrionic bitemark appears to be a somatic apparition deacon

Banyan canopy above my picnic

So I walked

Far from all those memories of WHY

Why I remain a) alive  b) alone  c) unable to reach my closest primate relatives without plugging into

Streaky blue small talk chakra / direct current here but alternating in afterlife transactions 

My larynx smashed against my jawbone

The dragonfly thought it was a dog  I begged it to heal my flattened heart

I begged for its contempt but it smiled and went to have drinks w/ a helicopter

International airport lifts the lonely cat-free child-heavy crowd so I can pass

Now I practice

Giving no shits "HELLO!" I shout at the rough hewn mister whose home is in the permanent sun

Or was red from crying at a severed phone service, or who just paid a boy still fuzzy & equine for a

Right swipe reach around in Starbuck's upstairs shit pantry.

Not overthinking his precondition how "HELLO" will hit him

Like I always overthink a thing and end up unfriendly

Most words never make it past my teeth and flow through my fingers instead

But I shoved my voice in his face

Like all voices & opinions are shoveled at me faster than I can

Dig out of my reverie 

Of course I got no response which flicked the

Sarcasm on/off on/off on/off til it caught fire & I belted at the grey-collars

Driving their golf cart down the sidewalk "Get the fuck outta the way!" aka "Punch me!"

I never would've begged for rape's pink slip

But I'll put in a request for a black eye

Who the fuck is my new hormone boss?

Stuporvise me. I enter the newly gated & scaffolded Xingxing Xxxxxm Grxxnds where 

I once freely walked & sat & sketched & danced & fantasized & kissed the naked rears of statues 

But where I am accosted by elderly wXmXn more afraid than I of home's resounding hive-silence

Telling me I need to check in at the desk before I can sit or walk or sketch 

"WHAT FOR??" I say w/out over or underthinking or caring or worrying how it will reflect on my upbringing or if anyone will want to hurt me for it

"We need you to leave your zipcode at the desk"

"THIS HAS BEEN MY ZIP CODE FOR FORTY YEARS, BEFORE THE DESK WAS EVER HERE"

I proceed right to the outdoors and no one volunteers to stop me.

Octopus colony of banyans beyond rose garden thorned with babies & sunlight. I try benches for thrones, picnic tables like a fairy princess. I am not at home. The world reeks of oysters but not my own.

Moment of clarity: I'm not so separate from others as I am from my own greatness.

I never met that clone. When you see no end to loneliness your sleight of overthought comes to the rescue

My privilege to be lonely for no common you's & they's could corrupt my program

Crude as a lite brite, future spirograph flower more angelic than 011110010110100101110000

The lips that drip like hoses, the faces unzipped for every needling notion

Too patterned for my wild genius

Right. No one flowers after eons of clarity lead only to

Regression

Intellect w/ no angelic emotional oversight

You haven't clenched that moment and stretched it into a terminal masterpiece

Your claw-machine loosens its grip

On that fuzzy little chicken-beats-egg thesis 

Lost to sick kids, dogs

Broken hunger nail polish chipped window enamel rectangle hacked

A great oboe-blast of wind and children barking me away to a new spot where i write, pelicans splash,

German tourists drag their sandals What would Hitler say? 

Fussen auf! Marz! 

More children drawn to my angry genderless personal space

I offer a gentlemanly 'hi' to the boy in glasses

Who hovers like a mosquito too close to my nerves

And like a charm my acknowledgement disperses him

A flock of tiny molecules who need their mother

More than a sweaty stranger on a harsh covalence of bench

[I need liquid. But which restroom will I use?]

I could feel Satan within a 10 mile radius

So I ended up in the men's room first time since over saturating news w/ potty mouth debate

Made me a glaring error  A room for emperors w/ no mirror

To watch your plastic lunchmeat genitals leak

I almost hoped for a run-in w/ a gender nazi

A sausage inquisitor or heart-attackable G-pa

But I was alone in there with all my power

IMPOSE

DECLARE

ENFORCE

PROCLAIM

INFLICT

DICTATE

11-7-16

*******************

All right. That was a poem about my Hobbity little adventure before the election. I'm sure there will be more days like that one…I can feel it in the air, oh lord. But I'm ready for whatever comes, whatever I have to do to survive it. I found the courage to use the men's room unironically, but now I'm back to being scared again. I wish bravery was something I had all the time, but no…I only get it when I'm jacked up on adrenaline and cortisol and metabolized T.

I'll be back sometime w/ more adventures.

UNITED STATES OF ATTENTION-WHOREDOM

Congratulations America, you are now a reality show. 

And I'm playing to get kicked off.

FRIENDS!!

Wow. What a shocker, huh?  You may have noticed that I was quiet throughout this whole debate/campaign/election shitshow. Sure, I'd post a silly meme now & then (Vlad & Donnie riding shirtless and bareback anyone?) And I think I might've written a scathing Adventure in Reality about Donnie's extravagant and supernatural ego.

I had intended this blog to be a reprimand for all the social media *noise* that preceded this election--the puff-chested posturing, the vitriol & name-calling & bullying, the histrionic doomsaying, the desperate lecturing that became threatening at times, the ignorance of "how America really works." I wanted to line you all up, smack your skulls together like big meaty dominoes and shout "America is not a dictatorship! Or a monarchy! You're all right-fighters and pissing contestants! Just shut the fuck up and vote!"   

Politics is such a sporting event and that's just how the media plays it. Just like someone who will call the Seattle Seahawks My Team!!  despite having never played for the Seahawks, we do the same with our political candidate of choice. We over-identify, we see them as an extension of ourself, a magic wand who will swish into the White House and abracadabratify all our wishes into laws. Overnight even! 

And we try to force others to see how magical & effective OUR chosen candidate will be, and how destructive & invalid THEIR candidate!

But the President isn't endowed w/ all that magic. We do ourselves a disservice to get so lathered up about something that is ultimately an individual privilege and responsibility.

NOW though, I want to swirl back in time--not too long ago--when I voted in my first election. I was 31 years old and had been eligible to vote in 3 previous elections but had CHOSEN not to. In fact, the very first election I could've voted in, I instead drank a cup of Drano and spent the next month in the hospital (long story…gender dysphoria much more severe than any elected official could fix) That was 11-8-88, the Bush/Dukakis snoozefest.

Trump cartoon from 2005

But on 11-7-2000, I decided I was officially a grown up and I needed to get my ass to the polls. I demanded it of myself. I had always lived life so far inside my head that politics couldn't reach me. I hated whispery old red-face Ronald Reagan with a passion whenever he appeared on my childhood TV. I could just see the phoniness of him, how he helped shepherd all the born-again sheeple into a "moral majority" along with the scummy tv evangelists of that era. 

But despite Ronald Reagan's efforts to be Big Brother around the world, my thoughts remained my own at home. 

My dedication to not voting continued through '92 and '96. I had trouble taking Bill Clinton seriously because he had fucked a tawdry stripper w/ my dead girl name!!! I didn't care about Washington in the '90s, I cared about surviving my own life each day, and wiping my mind clean with alcohol before bedtime. 

In the 90s there were no issues on the ballot that were "socially relevant" to me.

But in Y2K my life had taken a  surprising turn for the better, and I was able to care about things beyond the base of the survival pyramid. I had caught some of the debates between Gore and Bush & was frankly disgusted, nauseated by Bush's gibberishy aw-shucksy dumb redneck display. I was frightened by how much he appealed to so many people! He had that familiar Reagany sway over the lowest of brows furrowed into the limelight of corruption!

Couldn't people see how clownish? What a buffoon? I mean, Gore was beige as hell, but he could put words together in a sensible fashion. I had to do my part to prevent this re-Reaganing of America. So I pulled myself together to vote in that fateful election. Ironically, I was living in Bloomington, IN at the time. I got to see Florida in its full frontal ugliness from a geographical distance that made it look all the uglier.

And I thought the Reagan 80s were bad until I lived to see the Bush 00s. I think we will look back on the 00s and find few other eras in American history as monstrous. I won't go into my thoughts on election fraud & who pulled off 9/11 & exactly why the banks collapsed right before Bush left office -- I AM YOUR CRAZY UNHINGED TOTALLY UNREASONABLE CONSPIRACY FRIEND, LIVE WITH IT OR UNFRIEND ME NOW!!! --

But I voted in Y2K and the world went to hell in a Dooney & Bourke bag anyway. 

Orange angles, green skeletor

So were the Bush 00s the absolute worst years of my life? No. They were actually the best years of my life. It saddens me to say it, but 2000--2009 were absolutely magical for me. I was not untouched by the events of that era---quite the opposite. I was devastated and very psychically linked to 9/11 and the wars that followed. Not a day passed that I didn't mourn or relive or rage against Bush and his fraudulent administration. 

And one thing that was painfully clear to me was--this dumb redneck who couln't even pronounce words with more than 2 syllables was not running the show all by his lonesome. He was too dumb to conceive of and execute all the madness. I recognized his key players--Cheney, Rumsfeld, Ashcroft.

These were the seasoned, well-oiled men pulling the puppet strings. And I had not voted for them. None of us had any choice about them.

BUT, I was young & in love, we had lots of cool friends, we lived very creatively & collaboratively, I think I was at the peak of my creative genius in the 00s! How fucking awesome is that no matter who is in office? No matter how many bodies are dying in a war you never would've chosen for the world? I lived the most authentic, most thoughtful life I could EXPRESSLY FOR those who sacrificed themselves for the Bush admin's lies.

I know….I can hear you all screeching about white privilege. But what did you know about white privilege in 2004? That wasn't a buzzword until we got our black(ish) President a few years later!

I knew it would happen. Moments after my heart ballooned with pride & Star Trek arias fast forwarded me into an all-inclusive future, on 11-4-08 I knew that the great white underbelly of America would surface from its soggy lair & expose itself in some perverse manner. And surface it did. Obstruct it did. Disrespect it did. Demand birth certificates it did. Undermine it did.

And until last year it was all pretty passive/aggressive. Until the vermillion billionaire rode the escalator of the Apocalypse into our midst and announced his own plan for world domination. Hope & change gestapo-style. Law & order without either. Walls. A WALL!!! A wall? To keep rapists out?

Sorry, I'm still reeling from things he said a year ago. And this is not just a gibberishy aw-shucksy redneck. This is someone who has said things I never even heard people say before PC code rearranged our everyday vernacular. Not even so disturbed by the obscenities as by the hatred.

ANYWAY, here we are. The day after Election Day 11-8-16. This outcome is still shocking to me and I've been typing this across the hours, trying to make sense of or find some sort of comfort in what America has chosen.

Because that's the hardest part for me--the people have spoken. And this is truly not what I expected them to say. I expected a tight race for sure! But not a Trump win. And I can only blame…people. Us. YOU!!!

Let's get one thing straight. I began as a Bernie supporter, and switched to being a Hillary supporter w/out too much misgiving. I don't think Bernie Sanders would've had much better luck than Obama has had with Congress. He's considered such a whack-a-doo lefty, he would've been obstructed at every turn. But Hillary is moderate, experienced and (I thought) fairly respected. 

I will admit that at 8 o'clock last night I was expecting her to win. And I had no illusions that it would be a proud Riot Grrl moment for me. This was not, for me, like the Obama election. 

Obama was a junior senator who had captured the nation's attention when he gave a speech at the '04 DNC. He rose from obscurity on his own merit. He was no one's partner or relative. He had a weird name & he was black (enough to be black).

Hillary is someone's partner or relative. She has been circling the Presidency for years, waiting for her moment to strike. She's been around a long time, working hard & even doing a great job in some areas. She is not a rising star though…she has not risen all by herself  like I would want my first female leader to have done.

I think I wrote a blog last year about this country not being ready for a female leader. We are still a nation of immature frat boys. And this is something I meant to reprimand you all for--your inner frat boys have been revealed. I have a few friends who supported Trump, who were able to sum up in an intelligent FB post why Trump was working for them & why he had earned their support.

That's fine--I can respect that. But I did have to unfriend a few really vocal, dickish guys whose Hillary hatred trumped their Trump love. These guys were not as hard for Trump as they were against having a GIRL be the boss of them. 

And that's sad for me. It reminds me of the sign that was posted at the hardware store where I used to buy art supplies. The store was owned and operated by a woman and the sign said "A woman must work twice as hard to be considered half as good as a man." 

And I feel like Hillary has worked AT LEAST twice as hard at being a public servant as Donnie Trumpo has. But….the people have spoken….

I really did think we were past that idiotic level of sexism. Just like I thought for a moment in '08 that we could finally get past racism. Now I know Barack may get gunned down the first time he has a broken tail-light back in Chicago…

And I know now that backlash against an authority figure is often more powerful than the authority figure itself.

THAT, my friends, is probably the only thing that comforts me in these hours directly after this election.  I have no real idea what Donald Trump will be like as a world leader, as a commander in chief, as a …god forbid…lawmaker. But I do know that if he fucks up left & right, we will let him know about it. WE, the People, will rise up and put an end to it. Demand an end, an impeachment, whatever it takes.

This I believe about us. I saw where the backlash against Bush led us… I am witnessing sadly the "whitelash" against Obama. There will be a backlash against Trump, and I think it will be tremendous. HUGE.

I just watched Hillary give her concession speech through my own unexpected tears! Then Obama spoke about unity and a peaceful transfer of power. I want to say how much love and respect I have for President Obama. I have felt honored to have such a kind, eloquent, composed person as my President and I'm sadder than I could've imagined that it ends this way!

Peace, friends! Love!

An Act Of God or Inactive God: Top Surgery part 3

Friends,

I'm feeling so much better than I did last week, and the better I feel the faster my memory of this adventure fades, so I'll try to wrap it all up in this post.

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On surgery morning [10/4] I woke up feeling relaxed and foggy and detached. Exactly how I'd like to feel all the time, because who cares what happens when you feel that way? I could do so much more in this world if I didn't have emotions. I need a sympathectomy not a mastectomy. This is what my head was thinking instead of panicking

and I liked it.

But one thing did manage to creep into my psyche--would my snack from the night before interfere w/ the anaesthesia and would I be one of those people who was awake but couldn't move during the whole thing? Yay, thank you mind.

When I was checking in at the surgery center, I noticed they spelled my name with a 'Z' --  Zin? really?--and I had to do my paperwork all over again. Yay for that too. [This tiny, simple name that I've chosen has turned out to be very PRAWBLEMATIC. But more on that another time.]

I got called back to the prep area pretty quickly. I said adieux to Moonchild & put my bodily integrity in the hands of cold calculating medical professionals. I took off my clothes,  peed in a cup,  got a needle shoved into my hand, then Dr G came and drew purple lines on my chest. 

The anaesthesiologist came around this time & I asked them about how often people are awake under anaesthesia. And they looked at each other like, Not this question again. They both said That only happens on TV.

I felt better. Dr G had to run off to do someone else's surgery before mine, so Moonchild came back to my little hospital tent to hang out. I was feeling pretty relaxed. I was actually almost…excited about it!

Cartoon boobies

It seemed like I was lying in that tent for awhile--for the length of someone else's surgery--but finally the nurse came & gave me my "happy juice" as she called. it. And the next thing I remember…

…I was waking up and another nurse was standing over me saying "SHE HAD A SEIZURE!!!"

I tried to say "Who had a seizure?" But my voice did not work at all. The nurse noticed I was awake.

"VIN!!!! YOU'RE AWAKE, VIN!!! HOW ARE YOU? YOU WERE SLEEPING SO GOOD!!!" 

I tried to ask again about the seizure, but I still had no voice. The nurse patted my hand and said "WHY DON'T YOU SLEEP SOME MORE. DO YOU WANT ME TO GIVE YOU YOUR PAIN MEDICINE?" I nodded. She slipped some more happy juice into my IV & I slept for several more hours. 

When I woke up again I could tell it was late afternoon and I could see hurricane clouds swirling in the windows. My ALL-CAPS nurse showed up shortly to begin motivating me for departure. She was a real comedian, sort of reminded me of Aisha Tyler (comedy-wise not looks-wise). But she was really pushing for me to laugh and respond to her, and I just couldn't. I still didn't even have a voice. But the more I didn't respond the louder & more slapstick she got.

She made fun of my pink flannel shirt that I wore for its extreme softness factor: VIN,THIS IS LIKE AN OLD UGLY RUG AT MY GRANDMOTHERS HOUSE!!! As I was getting dressed I got dizzy & hyperventilated a little. She said "VIN!!! YOU'RE GONNA BLOW THE HOUSE DOWN!!!" And she fluttered the curtains at me. I felt like I was in a play again. I tried to laugh just so she would stop, but nothing would come out.

I could see the other nurse taking care of the patient across the way. She was a real Florence Nightingale, all tender and serene. But my nurse was … different from that. I'll just say she made the start of my recovery very memorable : )) And I never did find out who had a seizure, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't me because I felt okay and also…they were using my correct pronouns, so I was not 'She' to them.

Your tits are illegal. Cover'em up.

Moonchild & I made it back to our hotel room and I hovered in my Vicodin paradise as the Bahamas got battered and the death toll rose in Haiti. That evening the path of the storm shifted and it was headed right for us. Even in my haze I knew we would have to make some timely decisions about getting home.

And even in my haze I could tell I was pretty butchered up.  I was wrapped in a very tight bandage that seemed to be "holding everything together." And out of this bandage came dangling two bloody octopus tentacles. Aka "drains". 

Friends, I used to have an iron stomach. I could eat anything. I could inhale any odor or behold any gore without so much as a nostril twitch. I was an embalmer for the love of god. And even grosser, a taxidermist. I could ride any rollercoaster or carnival ride without puking. If my years of childhood bulimia trained my vomiting reflex to be voluntary, then my years of extreme alcoholism did just the opposite. 

I stand before you now, a wretched wretch who will retch at the slightest bee fart. I can barely watch food being prepared. I can't ride carnival rides, especially ones that spin around. I can't watch sloppy television programs like Shameless or The Walking Dead. 

So you can imagine how I felt about having to open up these octopus drains and squirt the blood out of them every few hours. I actually left that up to Moonchild, but every time I almost puked. I just had to tell myself, You cannot puke or you will bust open and be a slab of ribs & a beaty little heart w/ no protection. That worked.

[And I have to say that Moonchild missed his calling as a nurse! Anything I couldn't handle, he was right there handling it, blood, gore, psychotropic meltdown, et al.]

The pain was also a lot different than I was expecting. It felt more like I had been lasso'd by a piece of barb-wire right around where the girl-nips used to be(and under the arms) rather than sliced open. And even though the pain medication worked really well, the tightness and restriction of the barb-wire never went away. And I really had to keep my imagination in check or I would get all claustrophobic & panicky. Luckily the pain meds helped w/ that too.

[I know I sound like a huge druggie, but the best part of a medical vacation (aside from surviving the surgery) is the drugs. DON'T JUDGE ME.]

After watching the storm all night & calculating all the variables, Moonchild & I decided we would leave the East Coast early early Thursday a.m. Matthew was supposed to make U.S. landfall Thurs night or Fri morning and evacuations were starting in some of the counties just north of us. We didn't know what traffic would look like. I didn't know how my whole situation would hold up. But we wanted to be at home, not in a hotel during a hurricane.

So we packed up & got on the road at 5 am Thurs [10/6]. I tried to sit in the front seat but it was too much like a rollercoaster & I almost projectile vomited on the windshield. So I lay in the backseat watching the skeletal clouds dance. Traffic wasn't too bad & we made it home to find only 2 puddles of cat vomit waiting for us.

In the grand scheme of surgeries, I know this was a relatively mild one. But it was much more than I was bargaining for. I seriously thought I would be bedridden for about a week, then I would suddenly feel fine by the second week, back to writing and submitting and getting a goddamn haircut.

Scars & stitches & tape goo & legal nipples

But here it is three weeks later and the lasso has loosened, but I still feel like I'm leaning into a barb-wire fence. The healing process has been grueling. Getting my bandages & drains removed one week after surgery ( & driving to the E Coast again) was difficult. I didn't really want to see my chest while it still hurt so much. But voila! There it was, and my nipples looked really scary. Like they were barely attached and might peel off at any moment. Barf.

I rationed my pain meds so I was able to do my radio show 2 weeks after surgery. But shortly after that the Vicodin was gone and I was on my own. Week 3 without pain med = the hardest part of the adventure. (If I really wanted to throw my life away, I would start a slow dance w/ opiates right now. That is some pleasant shit. Luckily I still have delusions of making something of my life.)

Now starting week 4 post op and I'm doing fine on Tylenol and have resumed most normal activities. Nipples still attached and looking less pukeworthy. I'm starting to feel like this was all worth it after all. I was plagued by doubts for about 8 weeks but now I'm starting to be plagued by amazement.

And I'll be sending hurricane relief to the Bahamas and Haiti. I've been in the Bahamas during a hurricane & it ain't pretty. Now it just seems like the right thing to do.

So, I hope you have enjoyed the Top Surgery Adventure. One thing I can guarantee El Trumpo-style--there will never be a Bottom Surgery Odyssey here in the Octopus Diary. Believe me.

PHOTO DISCLAIMER: I'm aware my photos have been stolen & manipulated in the past. Yeah, I know about this. And though it's really creepy and invasive, I'm not going to let it stop me from sharing with people who may have interest in my story. If you need to steal my photos for your art, I'll let that be a reflection on you. Good Day.

Pre Op Psychoactive Euthanasia Yoga Party

FRIENDS,

On top of having phantom nipple pain I also have a monster headache today, so I will try to relay this portion of the story as justly & eloquently as I can…

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After watching the storm all weekend and seeing that it had stalled in the Caribbean, we took off for the East Coast early, early Monday [10/3]. We arrived at Dr Garramone's office at 9:43 for my 10:00 pre-op appointment.

One thing I didn't realize is that I would be sharing my 10 am appointment w/ about 5 other guys. We all had to fill out big packets of legalese paperwork that had some scary warnings & disclaimers. All stuff about how risky surgery is, how results may vary, how death is a possible side effect, etc…stuff I already know but prefer to remain cognitively dissociated from. It took me the longest to get through the paperwork, so I was the last one to see the doctor.

I could've been kinda upset about having to wait for 4 other people to see the doctor, but I was too excited to be upset. I realized that this was a once in a lifetime venture & I pulled on my big boy thong with lacy trim & waited. I was a little nervous about meeting the doctor as he is pretty legendary in the trans community. I expected him to be larger- and louder-than-life. But he was quite mellow and medium-sized. And way younger than I thought. 

I don't really remember what we talked about during the appointment. More scary stuff about where incisions would be made, and how I would have to take an active part in the healing process. Stuff I had meant to prepare myself for in the 6 weeks before surgery, but you all know that didn't happen. After the appointment, Moonface & I did all our preparatory errands--getting prescriptions filled, stocking up on post surgical necessities like Activia & compression socks, getting checked in to our hotel room.

It was late afternoon before we were settled into our room and my surgery-nerves were taking over. All the doubts & uncertainties I had held at bay for 6 weeks were now realities that loomed only hours away. I'd had surgery in my 20s and one thing I remembered (& was very worried about) was the nausea from the anaesthesia. I remember writhing in vertiginous torment for hours before finally throwing up gallons of bright purple liquid later that evening. I was really hoping to NOT relive that experience.

Luckily, someone was kind enough to supply me with a terrific anti-nauseant for this operation. I'll just call it a "medical edible" and assume you know what I mean. 

I was told this antidote was best eaten BEFORE the nauseating chemicals were administered. My plan was to have it as an evening snack and then just drift off into a peaceful, dreamless slumber. But…my nerves were already at the forefront & I wanted to shut them down. So I nibbled my medicine a little earlier--about 5 pm. We turned on the news to watch the storm a little. I started to feel a little relaxed. I thought, "This is great. Just what I needed."

Then we decided to go eat dinner. And, friends, I don't know what chemistry was at play here, but as soon as I ate dinner, the psychotropic properties of the "edible" kicked into high gear. And I was off on the most juvenile, overblown, exaggerated, unexpected fever dream/waking nightmare I've had since….

……I don't know…? ….7th grade?

Just what I did NOT want in the hours remaining before scalpel-time!!!

The first thing I felt was just disorientation and pure panic--I'M HAVING SURGERY TOMORROW!! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN???

And of course I was certain I was going to die. But I was going to be brave & die anyway, because what better way to die than during top surgery, right?

Then came the GUILT. Those of you who know me know I'm a master of guilt. I've been told I would make an excellent Catholic. Somewhere in my youth I must've gotten the message that feeling guilty about everything you do is super virtuous.

So I was a horrible person because I was spending all our savings on my selfish operation, I was guilty for hoping that the hurricane would hit anywhere else but SE Florida, I was guilty for putting Moonface through all my shit, I was guilty for being born female and not just accepting that. I was just a big hunk of guilty meat rotting on my bones & I can't even describe how HUGE the guilt was in my altered state. It was ridiculous. 

I felt guilty because I know people my age who have already survived breast cancer, and what would they think of me just volunteering to lose my two blobs of bitchflesh? Yep, I deserved to die.

I tried to remind myself that I DID need this operation, that I AM trans, there are words for it now, there is help out there for people who hurt in the way I do--not so much the physical way but that obscure unspeakable psychic pain that debilitates in separate but equal degrees.

But I couldn't convince myself of anything but horror and doom. 

After the guilt came a kind of sadness. I was pacing around our hotel room spouting guilt-gibberish & doing yoga because I knew I would be incapacitated for a few weeks (if I survived at all). I'm a pretty active person & I don't like how I feel when I can't exercise. So I was trying to get my joints & muscles all limbered up for their down time. It helped dispel some of the guilt & sadness.

Then things just got bizarre. I felt like I was acting in a play, mostly because the hotel room looked like a stage set. I kept asking Moon "Are we still doing a play?" 

A little after that, I started to see myself as a dog that was about to be put to sleep. I think I was even panting & jumping on the bed on all fours & treating Moonface like a dog would.

(When Moonface first moved to Florida he had a young Tibetan mastiff who died during surgery. And I kept feeling that the human version of that story was about to play out.)

ANYWAY…  this psychotronic diversion lasted for HOURS and was much more intense than I can describe adequately. It was really quite frightening for awhile!

I imagine most guys on their pre-op eves are happy, excited, sure they are doing the right thing & that they deserve it.

I did not have that experience. I was wracked with nightmarish questions & visions & doubts. And I'm sure that's how I would've felt with or without the medical edible--that just served to crank the volume of my neurosis up to 11.

BUT!!!! I did eventually drift off into peaceful slumber & had ZERO nausea after anaesthesia!! So you can bet I will be voting yes on Amendment 2.

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So, spoiler alert, I did survive the surgery. And perhaps I'll write a little bit about Surgery Day. Next time. In the Octopus Diary. 

Pre Op Detox: Top Surgery pt 1

Octies & Gentlepusses,

HTF are you??? I am fine in a post-surgical, not-quite-back-to-normal, all-my-Vicodin-is-gone-and-I-must-admit-I'm-no-longer-on-medical-vacation way.

That's right, last we "spoke" I had just made my appointment for Top Surgery & I was taking a hiatus from Octopusworld to get ready for it!!

And what an adventure this all became, from the moment I made my appointment, to this very moment 2 weeks after surgery, it has all been more than I bargained for. That's not such a bad thing; I know now that jumping right into the surgical portion of my transition was the right thing to do. I had planned on waiting til sometime in 2017 to do it, and now I am so glad I did not wait!

You all know I am a Hobbit. A hedonist. A kiddult who does not invite stress or noise or pain or people into my life lightly. I live my life in constant defense against those unpleasantries, so to schedule an event that creates lots of stress, pain & peopled-interaction is really against my religion.

But the money we had saved to turn our garage into a creative workspace was just burning a hole in our electronic spreadsheet after we learned that houses w/ garages are worth more than houses w/ a creative workspace & no garage. I proposed the idea of top surgery to Moonchild and he agreed that would be a good alternative way to spend our savings.

I asked him a few more times "Are you sure it's okay? Are you sure it's okay? Is it still okay if I make an appointment for top surgery?" And he kept saying yeah, it's okay.

 So I made the appointment. And I was immediately beset by panic & the reality of all the strength & nudity that would be required to get through this invasive medical upheaval.

I thought a good way to keep my panic in check would be to get really healthy. Detox, exercise, eat like a strict hipster-mommy bunny rabbit. Make myself feel like I was in control of my own flabby mortality.

But life had other plans for my pre-surgical waiting period. Just about everything that could go wrong in 6 weeks did:

A friend died.

My computer died. Stuff went wrong w/ the house. Stuff went wrong w/ the car. Stuff that usually doesn't happen to us kept happening.

Not to mention all the humiliating medical hoops I had to jump through. I was told I would need to get a mammogram before surgery and that flipped me out. I scheduled the mammogram for mid-September & spent all of August in abject fear of having to pull my tits out & put them in a vise.

But…the mammogram was no big deal. I dreaded it & dreaded it & it was over in the blink of a non-judgmental digital eyeball.

However…I was also required to get "medical clearance" from my physician. This I did not dread as much as the boob-fondling. And yet, it was so much more traumatizing.

Our usual doctor died last year and we have a new, young doctor whom I have not really gotten to know yet. During my medical clearance I discovered how little she's been paying attention to my holistic situation. She wasn't prepared to do my medical clearance, she thought I was there for a ….gross, I can barely say it….Pap smear. "Aren't we doing your Pap today?"

No. Look at my chart. When have I ever done a Pap? That's right--NEVER. 

I handed her the paperwork for my surgery--which clearly stated Chest Reconstruction for FTM Transgender Patient--and as she looked at the results of the previous week's mammogram she asked, "Why are you having a double mastectomy when your screens are benign?"

And I had to point out the part about being "transgender." And she seemed surprised, perplexed, dismayed and embarrassed. Which made me feel the same way, but worse.

I've been lucky on my "journey" so far to have a good network of local medical professionals who are invested in helping the transgender community. This was my first experience with a doctor whose mind it hadn't even crossed--oh this patient is on testosterone & is seeking chest surgery…but WHY???

Anyway--my intentions to achieve ultimate health and happiness before going under the knife were thwarted from all angles by life's tainted uncertainty. Instead I arrived at my pre-op appointment on Florida's East coast a stick of homo sapien jerky, gristly and fat and cranky and ready to bust into tears like the sissy boy I am.

Oh yeah…did I mention that the weekend before my surgery a hurricane formed in the Atlantic & was scheduled to hit FL that very day? 

The surgeon's office had called me on Thurs Sept 29th to tell me that they had received all my requisite paperwork & I was set to go!! And I had 24 hours of pure relief & happiness--This is really happening!! -- all dashed by Fri Sep 30th when I saw the weather report & the storm heading right for my operating room.

I was right back to wondering--Is this even going to happen?

Well, you all know it did happen, but there is more to the adventure. This was just the prologue. Unfortunately, I still do feel like a pizza with an autopsy (and two little Frankenstein-stitched nipples for pepperoni). So you will read the rest of this story as I'm able to type it.

I got to meet the holy god of top surgeons (Dr Garramone), I got to experience some lovely drugs, some interesting nurses, some body trauma I wasn't expecting…but the real pinnacle of insanity happened the night before the surgery. I will regale you w/ that adventure next time….

….in the Octopoussoir Diary!

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Sorry I have no new writing or art for you. But remember, there's plenty of epic poetry sprinkled throughout the summer blogs to keep you RIVETED. And I can't wait to feel well enough to get back to it.

Obituary Of Consciousness

FRIENDS,

Will Donnie Trumpo die in an airplane crash a few days before the election? I don’t know. Only the Clintons know that.

But things could get interesting this Fall.

Your Octopus Diary has been getting lots of hits lately from Russia and China. I know Russia is looking for Hillary’s emails (I don’t have them), but what is China looking for??

I’m a bit paranoid about this. South Korea is also checking in occasionally. Hello my new friends & search engines to the east!

THE SERIOUS PART

Here is the serious part where I tell you a friend committed suicide recently.

We all think our friends are amazing, especially after they die. But when I say this girl/woman was amazing…extraordinary…magnificent…kooky…enigmatic…blunt…outspoken….

contrarian…humanitarian…

I couldn’t mean it more.

I hadn’t seen her since we were in our 20’s. But I thought of her often before Facebook, and then found her on Facebook. Still we didn’t interact much on FB –

I don’t think she admired me as much as I admired her—

But…strangely, when I was going through my Great Depression of 2014 I thought of her a lot, especially in those moments when I was barely holding on.

I knew she struggled w/ episodes of mania & depression. She struggled hard through those episodes & wrote beautifully about it in her ‘zine. (That’s what we had before Facebook Snapchat Tumblr Twitter)

And strangely, right when I was going through my horrible episode, she actually made contact with me on Facebook. We reminisced about our days as riot grrls in the 90s. (Riot grrls were people who did stuff besides type on the internet or hack the internet. They weren’t always girls, but mostly they were)

It really brightened my head for a few days to talk to her again.

And then she disappeared … as she was prone to doing.  I sunk back into the Great Depression. And I thought of suicide often. And Robin Williams committed suicide & I REALLY thought about it after that…

I understand the utter horror of feeling like ending your life is the only relief from your own demons…

So it really hurts me to know that my friend was suffering that badly & I had no idea & I couldn’t even find her online to reach out to her anymore…

I have to make a conscious effort not to think all day long about why she may have done it…how could she do it when she was so fucking great?

She spent time with Alzheimer’s patients. She enjoyed that. I would be scared shitless to spend time with Alzheimer’s patients. (You all know I prefer the company of dead people)

But that’s how amazing she was! And it hurts me that she didn’t know how much the world needed her.

She did not survive her final episode of depression, but I, a useless cynical anti-social mediocre piece of crap, did. How is this the way?

I am very grateful I survived, but I do have a little bit of survivor guilt going on.

Anyway, I could go on & on about how great my friend was…it may sound too cliché if I say anymore though…just know that this does not make sense to me.

All right, Friends. I hope you are all doing okay. Please know that I don’t subscribe to the “suffer in silence” motto. If anything is wrong, I am here. Send me a private message if you aren’t the type to openly express your tribulations.