Lost In PuberSpace

Hey Buddies,

Sorry I haven't been the most reliable Octopus Diarist lately. I'll explain why in a moment.

********(a moment passes)*********

I started Testosterone in December and I'm going to tell you all about it.

But one thing I've realized is--I am a horrible disgusting no good writer. I can't convey an honest thought or emotion to save my life. When did this happen? I think it happened when I decided to become a serious writer. When I stopped writing from my intuitive giblet basket & started contriving genetically modified responses to the controlled environment around me.

Also, I think I lost a lot of creative brain matter when I went through that nervous breakdown thing. That thing I've tried to write about, tried to document in words, but failed. Word retrieval is not in my wheelhouse anymore. I cannot adequately describe what happened from mid-2014 to mid-2015--

Was it a nervous breakdown? If it was, it was a really long one. 

Was it Major Depressive Disorder? As severe as that sounds, I think what I went through was more acute and dangerous than that even.

Was it my Chakras suddenly aligning with the new world order? To me, this makes more sense than any medical diagnosis. 

Was it the emotional backlash from solving my mystery? Definitely, but not exclusively.

Was it evolution? Was it peri-menopause? I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS!!!! And I may never find out exactly. And it may happen again. All sanity is temporary after all…

What I do know is: when I realized how serious it was getting I sought help. Not just for the anxiety/depression but for the big "secret" thing that plagued me all my life--

gender dysphoria--

(go ahead & laugh)--

At first I just wanted to meet people who felt like I did--ie, really bad about their gender. 

It was good to know there were other people right in my own area code who knew the struggle.

Between my first transgender meeting in Aug '14 & the second one in Sept was the peak of the nervous breakthing. I got on medication and things improved.

I had no real plans to start hormone therapy. I didn't think Moonchild would be in favor of it. And he wasn't. I didn't think transition would be a real goal for me, but I still wanted to be with people who had their own stories about transitioning.

Once I got on medication, things were mostly okay but I did keep having little relapses. Most notably in Winter & Summer of '15. During the Summer relapse it was Moonchild who asked if I thought testosterone would help the situation.

I said I didn't know but I was willing to try anything. So I inquired of the mental health professionals and they provided the documents I needed to start hormone replacement therapy (HRT).

The only thing was--that was in July and I couldn't get in to the endocrinologist til December. It was a long wait but I had the feeling that this was going to be the answer to my lifelong dilemma.

Aug 2015 Waiting patiently...

So…that beautiful day in December arrived and I was so excited. I was kind of dreading the injection because who likes needles, ya know?

But it was just a little pinprick and was nothing compared to the elation I felt at starting this new adventure.

I noticed changes right away. Mostly that I had more energy & was way more horny. 

I did my next injection on my own with the nurse's supervision. Then I started doing them at home. Definitely getting used to needles. Not just from injections but because you have to have your blood tested often, and if you're lucky like me you'll develop polycythemia and have to donate blood ever so often to get rid of excess red blood cells. Those needles at the blood bank are the killers. Like 12 gauge shotguns shoved into your veins.

Anyway--it's been three months and that's the point where many guys start to see real changes in appearance. And vocal range.

I am seeing some very slight changes. My cheeks, nose & upper lip look bigger. I have some lip fuzz. Definitely a little pitchy in the vocal region. I still sing every day and check my range--I can still hit some pretty high notes but I keep waiting for that to change.

When I was being fueled by Estrogen my main concerns were write/write/write draw/draw/draw sing/sing/sing

On Testosterone my main concerns are skate/skate/skate ????/????/???? sleep/sleep/sleep

[I won't say what ???? is, but I'm sure you can guess…]

My lack of interest in the creative pursuits that sustained me for most of my life is a little worrisome. But I hear it is normal to be consumed by other thoughts--I am literally going through puberty again!

This makes me laugh. I've been in denial about how old I am getting and it finally caught up with me. And what did I do? I went and started adolescence all over. I feel like a kid who has all the knowledge & experience of a grown up. Who doesn't want to feel like that?

There are some scary aspects of transitioning. Not everyone is down with it, and even people who are accepting don't really understand much about it. At this stage of the game most trans people are ambassadors of transness. I feel pressure to be a good representative of what Trans is. That's a tough call-out for an anti-social surrealist like myself.

There is the social policing of the trans experience. Now that Transgender has made its way into mainstream culture there is this big uproar about who's doing it wrong & who's doing it right. What language we can use to talk about it because--hello--if you use the wrong words to describe your own experience you could come across as transphobic or god forbid trigger some yucky sad feelings in the millennial sitting beside you.

But I refuse to use dead phrases like "designated female at birth." That sounds like some kind of technical/clerical error someone made at the hospital the day you were born. It totally discounts the grievous incongruity that follows you around while you live in your "designated" role. The absolute Twilight Zone your life can be when you feel like 'he' and people keep 'she-ing' you. It also removes all blame from God, who is totally to blame. (<

Then there is the bathroom issue. Public restrooms, as you may have noticed, are the battlegrounds on which trans rights revolutions will be fought.

I know that when I tell friends of my transition the first thing they ask after "Are you going to have the surgery?" is----

"Which bathroom do you use?"

And it's funny because---- ----- -----when I presented as female and was so dainty & femme--- I used to use the men's room all the time. It was part of my surrealist charm. 

When I knew I was going to start T, I got nervous using the men's room. Now that everyone knows there are trans people lurking about I'm a little wary of …getting my ass kicked in the bathroom. This is something all trans people worry about, male or female. It is a THING right now, but I hope it stops being a THING and that using a public restroom becomes a less gendered experience in the future.

For now, I try to not have to use the restroom any time I'm out. Since I am not yet passing as male I don't want to attract any unwanted attention. But it's also getting awkward to use the women's room. I'm in that between-phase where it's best to leave your bladder at home (with your American Express card).

And as for that other question "Are you going to have the surgery?" I know that it means "Are you going to have a dick somehow, someday?"

(or if asked of a MTF, are you going to have your dick cut off?)

Basically, it's a dick question disguised as a medical inquiry. I've been trans long enough to know this.

And I know the politically correct answer that I, as a trans ambassador, am supposed to give is--"It's not appropriate to ask about someone's genitals. Would you ask a cis-gender person what's in their underwear?"

But here is my answer (listen closely because I don't want to have to say this ever again):

I do not plan on having "the surgery." There are two surgeries that trans men can get on their lower regions, and the results are much better than they were last decade. As of now I don't plan to have those surgeries. The effects of testosterone on the lower regions are good enough for me. So if you're asking if I have a dick--I'll say "I have two."

Puzzle over that for awhile. But then quit asking me or anyone about their genitals. It really is inappropriate.

Btw, the only surgery I plan to have is top surgery. I'll wait to see how the T redistributes my body mass and for insurance co's to cover it! : )) 

Another strange thing is---I think I have been called "Ma'am" more since I started T than in my whole adult life. It really pisses me off, but it tests my ability to be a patient reasonable ambassador. Seriously though, it's getting to the point where i might get violent.

Feb 2016---3 month on T

Also…pronouns. In a politically correct world, you cis-people are supposed to honor my wish to be called by male pronouns. I do understand how hard this is when I still look like a female pronoun. So you get a grace period from me. I know when I start looking more like 'he' it will be much easier. If you call me 'she' and I have a moustache and talk like Barry White--you're going to look like the weirdo.

All right!! That's my first 3 months on testosterone. I will write more when it's time. I kept trying to put my trans experience down on Tumblr or Twitter but that seems dumb to me now. I'm going to put it in the Octozone. 

Hopefully I'll be back to writing & drawing soon. I'm only writing today because the ice rink is closed. Have patience w/ me.

Adventures in Underachievement

Here's the thing, Friends

So out of focus lately

So much incoming data…so much of my favorite stuff becoming 'just stuff'

It's a processing error moreso than a lack of inspiration, but...

I'm too old for the sharp twinge of inspiration…my brain is crammed with a lifetime of thoughts memories emotions sensory overload

Sensory shock sensory awe sensory exhaustion

Can I pick through the landfill and salvage what I'll need for the rest of my days?

I don't even know if I can manage that sort of sorting…

******Here's The Thing********

I used to clamor for androgyny

"The world should be less concerned with masculine & feminine and just BE," I used to say

And I meant it.

I still want that.

And now it's happening.

What I didn't realize was how painful the transformation would be.

As I've been known to exclaim, "Ouch! Evolution hurts!"

It does. But it will all be worth it when we've aligned our hearts/minds to a life w/out such binary restrictions/privileges.

********

COMING SOON TO THE OCTOPUS DIARY:

The Adventures of SHELTER CAT & TRUST FUND BABY

As if I don't already have enough unpaid, self-indulgent projects going on--here's another one. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Guns Don't Kill People, Overpopulation Does

FRIENDSHIPMATES,

Hi. How are ya. I'm fine.

I know you're wondering why I've taken on yet a new blogger name--Valentine Tremens--and I'll tell you:

It's for purposes of anonymity. As I become a more serious writer, and a more mature* citizen of this nation exercising my 1st amendment rights, and more infused with the paranoia of living in an electronic age, I don't want my personal-ranty-ravey-silly-place to be the first thing that comes up when my name is searched. That's all.

*mature in years not attitude

Here is part II of my gun poem series

**********

ARMS & ARMS WITH LEGS

I knew the story from the song

She didn't like Mondays, she shot the whole day down

Boomtown Rats stole the summer of '79

Kicking disco in the balls til Reagan's 80s

Flashed into existence

Nobody really hated anything enough to shoot it 

Into TVs main artery

Everyone busy (sniff, sniff, swipe) making

Powder into gold

Kids were happy in the 80s!

Chopping up their hair and holding

Out their hands for daddy's trickle down allowance

Guns were in the house but they didn't come

To school

Clinton's 90s--what a happy time!

Every baby a miracle!

Every child a precious helmeted trophy snowflake!

Those cognitive enough to watch

Such stellar lives burst onto the scene

Gagged a little at the goo goo ga ga glory

Resistant to their incipient grunge

Baby on Board, please…

I'll be happy to put your baby on a board

One clean cervical stigma

And a whack at your skullful of hormonal glitter

Come as you are to my art installation

Then I grew up & all the babies on boards

Meant something new--

They'd gone back to their Empyrean starting gates

And I was there to care for their remains

Babies on metal trays

Too small to withstand the force of our machines

We embalmed with carefully aimed

Horse needles

In the news one day a gun went bang in Kentucky

Killing a pile of rascals too old to be babies on boards

Too young to be the centerpiece on

Our porcelain slabs

We sympathized with those in our profession

That Kentucky location

Got a terrible death call in 1997

Then it happened in Arkansas,

1998, and we sympathized

And then Columbine 1999

Columbine forever until 9/11

Then we forgot

Kentucky made room for Virginia, meanwhile

Amendment 2 was being stretched like canvas

To cover the long hypotenuse

Spanning the right-to-bear angle

Criminal backgrounds searched but not seized

Mental illness wouldn't fit inside the bill

No school system trained in clairvoyance

Though it was suggested as the only real solution

You cannot pull my arms from their inalienable sockets

You can however learn not to be shocked

When you're about to get shot

Draw your arm, thinking on the right side of your feet

Meanwhile,

Chicago erupted in deadly locks & pops

New venues plowed for random violence:

Malls 2008

Military base '09

TV studio '10

Political rally '11

The theater in '12

Then the supreme Hook

Embedded in the leviathan's jaw

The Hook that punctured our raw bare feet

Because we never saw it w/ our psychic scholastic elementary

Vision

A vengeance so unthawed

The frozen finger that fell on the trigger

And stuck there like a Connecticut tongue 

In winter's vomitorium

We never saw that day until it came

We pulled the sheets over their heads & ours

Bodies who had the right but no desire

To bear the third arm all good guys must grow

Right out of their sandy hearts

I am good w/ my gun and I shoot your bad arm

With my impeccable aim

And reputation

Where do I get my badge of honor

The certificate that states

Good Guy #808 saved the day?

St. Elliot the Master Manifesto Bro amended

His arsenal in '14

With cutlery and automatic transmission

But it was still his right to own the fire in his mind

And Charleston's burning hot '15 summer

Blue eyed visitor bridging gaps

With Bible verse hypotenuse and

Bang! and Pow! and rat-tat-tat-tat…

So, what about those good guys 

Protecting on duty and serving on camera?

Projecting & perverting

A bias cut through black fabric that bleeds

But doesn't fit the

Hypo-criteria

For tragedy's patterned genre?

1-27-16

***********

Thank you for reading this long piece. You won't regret it when I'm a famous poet. Err…whatever.

p.s. I just heard there is a moratorium on childbirth in Central American due to this new virus that causes babies to be born with tinier-than-normal heads.

I've always though a childbirth moratorium would be a wonderful way (possibly the ONLY humane way) to get the population of the planet down to a reasonable number of people. 

Because guns don't kill people, overpopulation does.

This Is An Octopus Diary, Not a Kraken Journal...

...or a Squid Manifesto.

FRIENDS,

Though the new year actually begins on Mar 21, I will conform to the bank's decree & wish you an all-caps HAPPY NEW YEAR right now!

And though I don't believe in new years that start in January, I do know that the end of December is when America goes underground to have its spiritual orgasm. And there's no better time to reset all your dials than after a spiritual orgasm, so that's what we all do.

We make new pacts with ourselves. We decide we're going to do better things, be better creatures not so beholden to habit. I have no problem with this aside from the obvious one-- we should be having spiritual orgasms far more often! Then we could decide to better ourselves more than once a year.

What have I resolved to do in this new year? 

1. Return to writing for editors rather than myself. Last year, writing got very loud and ugly. I stopped submitting work and tried to remember why I ever started writing in the first place. I couldn't remember. 

I realized that my years as a student, an apprentice, an audience are over. At my poetry firm, I am the coffee person, because I can't say whore, slave or blower w/out getting fired.

2. Forget more stuff. Because remembering stuff is for losers, apparently. Remembering is a lost art. Only forgetful people get far in life.

3. I can't remember what else I wanted to do this year. I guess that's a good start.

Pixel is God and music is an Aquarius

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

One thing I usually do at this time is list the music I liked most from the previous year. Did I forget to do that last year? Yes, because I was still crying too much to make lists of music. 

So here is a list of my favorite music from the last TWO YEARS!! Maybe not newly released, but newly discovered by me:

1. ANALOG REBELLION = this guy Daniel Hunter was a MySpace phenomenon. Now he's an independent nontractor. Check out 'Full Frontal' and 'Ancient Electrons.'

2. COEUR de PIRATE = do you love beautiful pop songs sung sweetly, sickeningly in French? I thought so.

3. DAMAGED BUG = slightly experimental, slightly discordant, jangly bug wing of delight

4. DAMON ALBARN =  'Everyday Robots' was Albarn's 2014 release that really charmed me through my nervous shakedown.

5. DE-PHAZZ = they landed on my radar well past their heyday, but if they haven't landed on your radar yet let me just say "better late than never."

6. ELECTRIC PRESIDENT = do I like EP because they remind me of Analog Rebellion? Probably.

7. EXCUSES FOR SKIPPING = punky one minute, poppy the next, always enjoyable. Check out 'Tonic For Hysteria.'

8. GUTS CLUB = I can't describe it--you'll just have to listen for yourself (I'm sure it fits into some sub-sub-genre but I haven't memorized all of those yet!!)

9. HOP ALONG = Do you enjoy gritty, range-y, joyously pissed off girl singers? Me too.

10. MORNING HARVEY = remember a few years ago when I was obsessed with dreamy beach pop (how's that for a sub-genre?) Well now I'm kinda favoriting upbeat mod psyche-street rock like Morning Harvey!

11. PARQUET COURTS = the U.S. version of Morning Harvey (who are Australian)

12.  And speaking of Australia--new releases from COURTNEY BARNETT and TAME IMPALA last year were much appreciated

13. While here in America we heard from THE DEAD WEATHER, METRIC, and PHANTOGRAM much to my auditory pleasure.

*******

Okay friends…I didn't have much to say except "Happy New Year and here's a list of music" so I'm gonna go now.

You can rest assured that I will find things to write or draw about as the year chugs along. Patience, my darling owl-faces.

Photoshop a dick to this and call it art!!

Tentacle Porn: A Lengthy History of The Octopus Diary

FRIENDLINGS!

Happy week before Xmas. I hope your credit cards are all maxed out and the scent of pine has wiped out all traces of pumpkin spice around you!

I just wanted to stop by the Octopus Diary for a nice fireside chat. 2016 will mark the 10-year anniversary of my blogging habit. It has been a wonderful thing for me to have this forum/format in which to communicate and I have no plans to quit, though I would like to make some changes. Upgrade. Renovate. Reinvent.

Octopus Art from 2012

My very first blog was written in 2006 on the hushed aquamarine backdrop of MySpace. It was just an empty shout-out to a galaxy known as cyberspace and it didn't get much of a response. But I kept at it, and soon I had a small circle of bloggers I shared my thoughts with--mostly my take on politics and the social constructs that made me go "WTF??"  Oh, and my morbid fascination with America's Next Top Model!

It was all fun & games back then.

The Octopus Diary didn't get its name until 12-19-08 when I branched off from MySpace and onto Blogger, where you still find me today. I kept to my satirical politics and social commentary, but also added some personal elements, which everyone loved.

Then in 2010-2011, things got really personal. The blog became my therapist and basically I wrote what I now know to be my "Bro Manifesto." [Always ahead of the game] : )))

My manifesto was much more literary and creative than most manifestos I've read, but the spirit of it was there. My fragile male ego was lashing out of its feminine entrapments and making everyone else go "WTF??"

Ahhh, those were lonely times in the blogosphere. And unlike the other bros with manifestos, I actually had a grand epiphany that did not lead to mass murder, but rather to a place of growth & forgiveness.

Octopus Art from 2015

At the end of 2011, as a reward for your patience, I decided to branch out again and include artwork with all the monotonous text I fed you. I tried a Wordpress location for my new venture & made a valiant effort to BRAND myself & become a Blog Emperor!!  [remember how big "branding" was in 2011??]

I renamed The Octopus Diary "The Centipeep Show!" and burrowed deeper into the soft tissues of the internet than ever before. What I found were lots & lots of people doing the exact same thing and doing it way better than I was. 

I was more of a Sultan than an Emperor. But I was enjoying my delusions of grandeur and just kept at it.

It wasn't until 2013 that I asked myself WTF am I doing here? Is this even a thing anymore? Do I have anything to say? Does anyone care? Do I still feel the need to dump the contents of my head onto this phantom platform?

And the answer was No. And Yes. And no. And yes. And…well…I'm still here.

Art from The Centipeep Show 2011

2014-2015 gave me (and everyone else) lots of heavy shit to handle. Lots of new scary things to consider about ourselves and the world. It was hard for me to coordinate my senses into anything resembling communication. It was hard to know where to begin a sentence let alone string a bunch of sentences together into something that made sense.

So I made even more art & put it here between my words just in case my words were big unreadable clots of thought that had no meaning the way I'd arranged them.

Somehow I kept doing that until I felt a little better and could see the meaning in words again.

Now I have begun a new journey that would be very interesting to document. Much more tangible and visual than some of the abstract, esoteric journeys I've documented here before. I'm changing. Upgrading. Renovating myself. It's a little scary to think of sharing this new journey, but I probably will…

…and if I can't muster the courage to do that, well, there's always the state of our world to report in a scathing unsentimental fashion with all traces of humor removed because...

…NOTHING is funny anymore. Not politics. Not cats. Not even dicks are funny anymore.

Will we (I) ever laugh again??

Find out here…

in the OCTOPUS DIARY 2016. 

Art from the 1990s before anyone even knew what a blog was

Art from 2014 when shit got weird

Art from 2006 when I was drunk all the time

Art from 2013 when life was good

TARANTULA VACCINATION

FRIENDS,

I've been threatening to write something serious about mental illness/depression/anxiety for quite awhile now. This is a topic that everyone should have an opinion about, if not a firsthand account of.

I was a person who struggled pretty hard against depression & anger & gender dysphoria all my life. Sure that sucks, but the beauty I now see in it is that I was ABLE TO STRUGGLE AGAINST IT. I fought it on my own with a very determined nervous system, a heaping self-prescribed dosage of alcohol, and ART of all kinds.

On top of (or in spite of) all that, I found someone to be in love with and to share the dreams and disappointments life serves up in unscheduled increments. In other words, I was finally able to feel that thing called "happiness"--the thing I saw other people enjoying all around me for years. The thing my mom practically demanded of me but I could never deliver. Happiness.

I treasured my happiness, and I even took measures to guard it from the world by retreating more into the love & art and backing away from society's noise. 

I believed that as long as I was surrounded by art & love & quietude, the happiness would keep paying its dividends into my nervous depository. And it did for a long time.

Beautiful cherries

Then in 2014…something happened. I don't really know what. I won't even try to describe it, but something in my nervous system went haywire and no art, no love, no amount of positive thinking, no amount of delirious exercising or exorcising could make it go away.

And though I'd sworn off the mental health professionals many years ago (for good reason), things finally got critical enough that I surrendered to those very professionals. I probably surrendered to them in the nick of time too--I couldn't have gone another week without the medication I was given. I wouldn't be here now writing this enchanting & profound piece of bloggery.

[As unserious as that sounds, I am totally serious.]

But here's what I'm seeing & hearing all around me: more people than ever struggling with a degree of depression or anxiety that cannot be conquered in old familiar ways. 

We all struggle. Struggling is what we do most. But we're usually up to the task. We don't like it, but we put one foot in front of the other until we can have that drink, or call that friend, or gaze at that porn video rubbing our gooey crotches until they explode.

All that self-ministration is failing to deliver the needed respite from stress levels that can barely be graphed.

Alien ministrations

Here's another thing--I see men struggling more. More than women. More than I've ever seen men (admit to) struggling. 

I think mental health is something women may have a leg up on because they've historically been allowed to explore it. To be vulnerable, needy, or emotional. To seek help. I see women more able to handle stress in these times because they have done the hard work of evolving through the stigma of it.

I don't want to "genderify" mental illness too much. But in this age of the "internet confessional" I have feasted my eyes on lots of male vulnerability I didn't know was there. I've read your manifestos, bros.

And I feel your pain. I am a feminist who also champions men's rights. Or am I a "masculist" who champions women's rights? I'm not sure yet. But…I've slipped & slidden across the gender divide many times and I get that society places a lot of pressure on both genders to be a certain way. 

I can also see how these enforced, abstract gender roles can easily go from complementary to antagonistic. This is another thing I've seen flying around on the internet too much--lots of rancor in the binary. 

It makes a genderqueer like me very sad. But I'm also hopeful that this is just a big paroxysm of evolution. Women have fought hard to have their voices heard, to be granted the rights and the protections they've been granted. And I have been in that fight from the time I was a small child who was told that girls & women were some sort of "inferior other." 

Gender roles as presented to me when I first arrived on Earth

Now women are tough, bad ass bitches--though there is still much to fight for. 

I think we've reached a plateau where women will not be able to advance until men are able to fix what is wrong on their side of the binary scale. These sprees of violence perpetrated on large groups of people and often ending in suicide, this backlash against political correctness, the abuse of power in business and law enforcement, the fact that we've been at war for 15 years--

--these are all largely "men's issues." And they have grown to monstrous proportions. These things will not change unless men are allowed to let their inner momma's boys be heard. This may be quite annoying until we get used to it. Remember how women were called "shrill" when they spoke up about abuse & inequality? Well…men will probably be called "whiny" if they speak up about what they need…I have heard/seen the word "whiny" applied to men who speak up about…anything.

We don't like a whiny man in our society. Just like we don't like a shrill woman. Too bad. We need to whine & be shrill when the greater good is at stake. So…next time you hear a man whining---listen. Try to respond with something besides "Stop whining & man up."

In the 90s & 00s I remember the benevolent "male feminists" who fought alongside women in their riot to be heard. Sure they may've just been in it for the sex, but I think we've evolved past that insipid pay-off mentality, (haven't we??) I think it's time for women to "woman-up" and be "female masculists" or whatever we want to call it.

Fight for the rights of all of us to be equally tough/ equally vulnerable/equally paid/equally responsible for the human race. Fight for the right of all of us to be sane & healthy & at peace with ourselves so that we may be at peace with each other.

Well…that was my big important blog about mental health, as always viewed from my gendery microscope. All opposition in the world begins & ends with that most fundamental double standard of all…

********

AND NOW!!!! If your attention span is not spent like a $1.97 at Wal-mart…here is some stream of consciousness:

Excessive force from the spirit world. As opposed to a war in the flesh it is appropriate to bare all. To lay all your cards on the bathroom floor and wear your uniform in the shower. Unlike hand to hand combat there is only one mortal in the game---and you're it. In both types of war you must be on high alert, listening for bootsteps, crunching leaves, pindrops or IEDS. But spirits will show you pictures in your dreams, and you must follow their command. There will be no shouting sergeants or practice raids. Only a soggy pillow and the haunting sense of deja vu--you've done this before in broken frames. Now you have to do it in one take. 11-9-15

*****

Yesterday,

I was injected w/ tarantula venom. Those of you who think I always speak in code be gratified for this is code for something. And those of you who know the code--I accept your congratulations. Code is metaphor for code; metaphor is code for metaphor. But it's all imagery to me. And it's powerful & evocative & disruptive & clever & it's not quite as forgiving as political correctness, yet it's not as fascist as blowing hard just because you can afford to get sued by a globeful of people and not be eating from a dumpster.

Hooray for tarantula venom!

XO,

Today 12-8-15

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

Cecil & Pixel

Bye, folks, bye! bye! bye!!! I'll see you next time in the Octopus Squishery

UNCONDITIONAL BLOG

Friends,

*PLEASE READ THIS BLOG IN SARAH SILVERMAN'S VOICE*

[I the undersigned agree to this term and condition] X______________________________

Well, friends, in about a week or so I will be going through puberty again. This may sound like one of my super-secretive ultra-witchy coded-backhanded attempts at surrealistic realism. But honestly, you can take it at face value. Don't read between the lines (in Silverman's dulcet-electric tones).

Here's another thing--I forgot to worry about polka dots. When I take the time to worry about every tiny thing that could possibly go wrong in any given situation, then usually nothing goes wrong. But it didn't even occur to me to worry about the dots. Now they are here, doing the polka on my flesh. Uh-oh. And it's too late to worry so I'll just have to deal…

Here's another thing: Thanksgiving is all about shopping and football. And gluttony. But for me Thanksgiving has always been a secure place from which to assess the entire year & decide what to be most thankful for.

I saw lots of thankful posts on Facebook yesterday & I loved seeing that even if I didn't comment or hit the 'like' button as many times as I wanted to. I think we really have shifted from being an ego-driven species to being a spirit-driven species in just a matter of years.

I like to say this shift started happening around 12-21-12. But it really started right after 9/11. It has just taken this long for enough of us to get it. And we couldn't have done it without Facebook (or MySpace. Don't forget about MySpace. MySpace is the Mary to Facebook's Jesus). 

And we couldn't have done it without making mistakes. Oh, I've made many mistakes in this life! But I've been watching you & you have made many mistakes too. But I don't feel as horrible about my (or your) mistakes as I once did.

It's all okay. And the millennials will do a much better job at facilitating evolution than any other generation. Once they turn 40, that is. They still have to go through their own generational puberty pangs.

So…yeah…thankful for Humanitor surging ahead in its evolution.

Another thing I'm thankful for is that 2015 was not 2014. 2014 was unspeakable. But I will never forget it. Never bury it deep in my anatomical graveyard. And I will indeed speak about it. Someday soon--

--because I've seen & heard a lot about anxiety & depression going off the charts recently. And I have my little 2 cent contribution to that conversation. But not today.

Today I want to enjoy how thankful I am for many things, not just the date on the calendar ( and in spite of these hideous polka dots!)

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During our move I found lots of old boxes of stuff. Including some Childhood Art!! Here we see a very old version of Vin & Juliet. In 1st grade I became obsessed with wanting to be Chinese. [This was well before the Michael Derrick Hudson scandal or the Rachel Dolezal fiasco] I was not only gender dysphoric, but racially distressed. I think my yearning to be Chinese had more to do with past life remembrances than any real understanding of race. But all of my artwork from 1st-2nd grade was Asian inspired.

NOW--HERE IS SOME SURREALISTIC REALISM TO SINK YOUR EYEBALLS INTO !

How do you make new friends? How do you recover from 40 years of grief that welled up overnight and spilled from the rotten core of your soul all at once? What is this boulder left sitting in my chest? Who do I call to haul it away? Surgeon? Saul? Jim Beam? I'll just sing through it--my boulder song. The rock song that'll finally make me a star. Just in time to save the world from Hard Sparkle Countrycore and Postgangsta Gratitude List Hiphop. How do you make new music? How do you know where to put the words you want to say? How do you know you've wandered to the ends of the internet? How do you ask your imagination for forgiveness? 10-30-15 

*****

Forced spontaneity is ripping at a fog east of the highway. It's tying a spider web at all four corners of my mind with the pair of hands I keep in my skull. It's pretending there's no spider in any of the silken strands. It's pulling teeth from that spider's phantom jawline. It's chewing on a rough idea that tastes like a cow pie in July. It's November with 80 percent humidity and moderate chop. It's 50 percent anxiety in the morning--down from 100 percent a year ago. [Yay] 11-4-15

*****

Even the Cat In The Hat had to be Asian

Aggravated apiary blessed by cathartic calm. Deafening didact eliminated early from fatal germ galaxy. How hexagonal it is juggling javelins, kidnapping killjoys, letting loose…My maudlin neighbor narrates octopus obituaries. Purple pansies quell quarrels, relieve riots. Savage songbirds tag trenchant uvulas under 'vintage vomitoria.' Why would xylophones Xray young yaks, zone zodiacs? 11-19-15

*****

Pixel rolls on the patio, belly up, purr-meowing in permutations of sunlight that penetrate this thick rainy day. Eloise is about to step outside when an airplane growls by. She waits with her ears on crooked then joins us shyly.

Pixel eats a spider right out of its web. Eloise sits, gopher-like, attentive, her big pink schnozz enraptured by something I can't see.

There is lots of debris on the porch. I think it is mud and leaves from the rain. It is really a bunch of dead frogs.

As I sweep I realize some of the frogs are still alive, and it becomes a rescue mission. Pixel gets a frog before I can save it and a leg goes missing. Eloise, more enchanted by the birds & squirrels beyond the screen, is missing out on easy meat. She chatters back at a squirrel. It tells its friends about the dangerous psychopath in their midst.

I go get my computer and some coffee. I sit at the picnic table and type something about my cats.  11-22-15

*****

A fun drawing from 3rd grade

Where is the edge of this existence and how do I get there? Or, rather, how many times have I been there? I think the edge isn't so much a distal drop-off as it is these bodies we live in. When you live in a body that doesn't match your soul, you live in mid-fall. A dead leaf who will get raked into a mass grave if it ever touches land. You fall a hundred times a day as people call you "miss, miss, ma'am." You refrain from shooting anyone but you hiss and spit like a cobra-panther. You bury yourself in a grave of flannel 2 sizes too large and you fill your head with another world. In your head-world, there is no country music. There is no hormonal divide. And there are no people, only angels sharing space like pie. Every living moment an act of divine street performance. 11-27-15

*****

And here's the very first incarnation of the Flowers in the Attic drawing. Probably 11 or 12 years old, but the drawing skill looks about Kindergarten. I added a 5th person to the line-up, because I always saw myself as the 5th Flowers in the Attic sibling. I'm the boy on the right.

The most recent Flowers in the Attic sketch. From 2011 Brooklyn Art Library Sketchbook Project.

See you soon Octopus Diary-snoopers. I hope you enjoyed the childhood art gallery too!