Archive for the ‘Updates’ Category

Wednesday, November 4th, 2015

I woke up this morning missing my bed. I’d had that bed for 14 years and loved it that entire time. It had been a bed lifted off the floor with various frames and posts and it had been a mattress on the ground and in those and in all the incarnations in between it was still perfect. It was soft but not too soft and thick but not too thick. It was the perfect size for me and small enough that not only could I manage to fit it most anywhere I moved to, I rarely invited anyone into it hastily. Along with my bed I miss my cats, both feline and human, who so often spent time in it with me. It was ripped and stained but still fresh and lovely after all that time. I miss my my ancient pale gold and olive green striped heavy comforter that I’d gotten when I bought that bed, that had once been stuffed with fluff but that I’d ripped open and sewn into just a blanket a few summers later. That bed was my last link to a lover and supporter of mine, who has loaned me the money to buy it when I got my first apartment of my own, and later let me pay them back via design work. I miss the sun and the lighting that so often surrounded my bed, even when I lived in flooding basements. I miss the countless throw pillows and blankets I’d accessorized my bed with over all those years. I miss how that bed was always there for me.

That bed was my friend.

The economics of racism

Sunday, November 1st, 2015

I’m used to racist rando’s coming on my facebook page to preach their ignorant self-involved crap, but every once in a while an actual friend does it and I really just can’t even.

The concept that racism is only about choosing to behave like a “racist” is a convenient fallacy. As is the belief that the political issues facing our country don’t rely on racism to exist. In my ‘healing via a smack upside the head’ fashion, the stone cold truth here is that your butthurt over the reality that as a white person your life game setting is set to ‘mega fucking easy’ AT THE EXPENSE OF BLACK AND BROWN PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLD is inconsequential to me.

Why, Nee, you ask? We’ve drank together, I’ve bought you dinner, we are pals, therefore why, everwhy have you forsaken my injured sensibilities, you ask?

Behold:

Did you know that the median net worth for a white family in 2010 was $134,000, but the median net worth for a Hispanic family was $14,000, and for a Black family it was $11,000? That the median wealth for a single white woman has been measured at $41,000, while for Hispanic women it was $140, and for Black women, $120? Did you know that? Do you know what that’s called? Systemic Racism, and yes, it’s really a thing.

Did you know that no matter what else is going on in America, year in and year out for the last 60 years, Black unemployment is always about twice as high as white unemployment? And even if you just look at Black college graduates, they’re still almost twice as likely to be unemployed as white college graduates? And if you just apply for a job with a white sounding name, you’re 50% more likely to get a callback than with a Black sounding name?

And if you HAVE noticed that, have you found yourself rationalizing that it’s just because those people are lazy or stupid or somehow inferior to you? Welcome to the exact reason why systemic racism is so insidious — it masks and rationalizes racism to the point that even someone who jumps to obviously racist conclusions like this can actually walk around believing that they’re not racist. Because systemic racism is on your side, every day, ‘proving’ to you and those who nod in agreement with you how white people are just better and more deserving.

What would you call it if lifetimes of legal segregation followed by decades of pervasive racist housing policies still, to this day, disadvantage Black people in almost every aspect of life, because where you live can decide everything from how safe you are, to what food you eat, to the quality of your health care to the quality of your job, to the quality of your children’s education? (Also known as living in a ‘good’ AKA ‘white’ neighborhood, and the gentrification of ‘bad’ neighborhoods being synonymous with making that area more ‘white’.).

Did you know that out of every 100,000 Americans about 700 are incarcerated, but out of every 100,000 Black men over 4,000 are incarcerated? And one of the many effects of that trend is that combined with felony disenfranchisement laws, it means 13% of Black American men are denied their right to vote? (This is called the Prison Industrial Complex which is fed by the school to prison pipeline that targets Black and Brown children for disproportionate punishments for the same petty crimes/insubordination as white people — read about it in the book The New Jim Crow)

Have you ever wondered why, even though undocumented people come to the US from all over the world, the face of undocumented persons is always assumed to be from Central America or South America? And our heavy-handed enforcement policies, that ruin lives and tear families apart every day, are focused almost entirely on the Southern US border, and the Hispanic people of color who cross that border?

Oh, and also, having just COME from Mexico, have you ever wondered why all you ever hear about the place is how supposedly dangerous it is? Two months I spent there, traveling alone for most of it, barely knowing the language, and not once did I feel unsafe. Not in Michoacan, not in Mexico City, never. I felt safer in central Mexico during a fucking tenseass government transition than I do in most places in the US.

Why exactly do you suppose it behooves the media to paint such an ugly picture of places populated by Black and Brown people? Why do you suppose our narrative about Black and Brown populations is that they are insane, blood hungry terrorists who threaten our way of life? Why do you suppose that as an American who has never been to Africa all the imagery I’ve been pumped with is of a dirty, technology bereft wasteland of nearly naked Black people with their junk hanging out?

It’s because of racism you fuckin ninnies — and racism is way bigger than your bruised pride or your identification with having survived your game of life thus far on nightmare mode. Until you at least begin to recognize the fallacy of that shit and how it’s colored your view of the world, I can’t help you.

So, friend, buddy, pal — quit bitching your petulant ignorance to me about your hurtass fucking feelings, and get to waking the fuck up already.

https://www.raceforward.org/videos/systemic-racism

Milestone acheived: A new mantra

Wednesday, October 21st, 2015

For the last 6 months or so, my self mantra has been “I love myself”.

I say it to me randomly, I say it to me when I realize it’s been a while since I said it, I say it to me when I’m sick or feeling badly, I say it out loud in the mirror sometimes.

It works well for dealing with depression, too — I still feel tired and need rest and recovery, but being depressed is not an experience in being hopelessly sad as it once was, and I credit my self talk with that.

I also credit that new self talk with my recent experiences of basically never tearing myself down when I’ve made a mistake, the most notable incident being when I wiped my own blog database.

I’ve noticed lately a new mantra emerging. Not to replace this one (I’m keeping it) but to add to it. And it’s a doozy, for me, one that has taken a lot of growth to come to, and has been almost as hard to learn to say — for different reasons, including embarrassment, social conditioning and a deep sense of identity.

It is: “I am not poor.”

Because I’m not. And I never actually have been, actually, poor.

I’ve had to make hard decisions about what my money was going to pay for, and I’ve had to go without things, some of which many people view as integral to a basic life.

But I’ve never been so poor that I couldn’t maintain a bank account, and got caught up in the circular scam of high fee check cashing joints and payday loans.

I’ve never been so poor that I didn’t have ID.

I’ve never been so poor that I starved.

I’ve never been so poor that I didn’t have some form of transportation, be it public or a bicycle or a car or a motorcycle.

I’ve never been so poor that I couldn’t get at least a small line of credit, and I’ve never been so strapped that I had to get marred in using that line of credit for basic life needs for more than a small amount of time.

Part of why I’ve never been in those situations is because I’ve had help in those time periods where without support I would have needed to resort to those things, many of which are choices that are incredibly difficult to come back from. Much of that support until last year stemmed from my romantic relationships.

But when I am honest with myself, those situations were a matter of choice, no matter how limited in my options I may have felt at the time. Just like moving into the van and leaving Seattle was a choice, as much as it felt like the entire world was rejecting me and spitting me out of the city.

I was in the position to lean into the support of others to sustain my life not as a need, but as a privilege. A means to live my life the way I am compelled to live it and to contribute to larger society in the ways I discover I am best suited, which often fall outside of the normality of a financial structure that’s become a matter of course for most everyone else I know.

And that has not been easy, by any stretch, to accomplish, or to receive, or to ask for, or to maneuver. I do not live a comfortable life by many, many standards.

But what it really comes down to is that I’ve been lying to myself for a long time, about my situation, about my opportunities, and about my lot in life. Because all that time, from when I was 5 years old and understood but couldn’t hold my dad’s fears of being evicted, his constant struggle with earning and leveraging money, I’ve identified as being poor, as being class oppressed.

I’ve seen and read and experienced some of what poverty really, honestly, looks like. In real life, rather than just on paper as an arbitrary number.

I am not poor.

And I never was poor.

And that’s really just the truth of it.

Achievement: Unlocked

Friday, October 16th, 2015

Todays wisdom: Sometimes, I am not given the chance to improve a situation because it is not in the interest of the other party for the situation to be improved.

Sometimes what I am to others is a mirror that reflects their light, and other times what I am to others is the mirror that shows their shadow.

I’m not sure that I’ll ever get fully used to the sting of it, or the hurtful and sometimes vindictive behaviors people adopt in response to it, but I am definitely learning how to let what is theirs be theirs, what is mine be mine, and to let the petty shit go.

In fact, before I used my perception of my shits as meditation to visualize and release what no longer served me, I used people.

Kinda like what someone used me for, today.

Thoughts on love

Friday, October 9th, 2015

For most of my life, it has seemed like the people who have claimed to love me have loved what were ultimately illusions.

Some loved my masks, my performance personas, the art I’ve made from the ashes of my self-discovery.

Some loved my blossoms when in bloom but quickly became confused and withdrawn when I went into hibernation.

Some loved my dark quiet roots but were threatened when the fragrant, colorful seasons came.

Some loved my looks, how I moved, how I fucked.

Still others loved the hologram they projected onto my skin, loved the fantasy of what could be were I to contort permanently into their self serving visions.

Many have loved the reflections of themselves they saw in my mirror, or were drawn like familiar magnets via our interlocking patterns motivated by deep, unconscious wounds.

I am not proud to say that it took me a long time to choose to forgive them for those abandonments I felt, when I found I could no longer ignore what I, when honest, had known all along: that their love wasn’t directed at my actual, existing self.

I am even less proud to admit how much work it still is, sometimes, to do that. How much work it likely will be again.

But my time alone and in my own unfettered integrity has helped me see that none of those disappointments were the failure of anyone else to truly love me. They were the result of my loves having valued the same particular aspects about me that I was actively acquainting my own self with during different stages of my ever-expanding life.

“Love” falling away from me has had nothing to do with losing others; It has had everything to do with gaining my Self.

“You torment yourself wondering how they could not love your burning heart; the answer is, darling, you are not the star you thought you were. You are the fucking universe, and not everyone is an astronaut.”

My time alone and in my own unfettered integrity has also helped me see that there’s nothing that’s gonna make the highs celebrated or the hurts bearable like knowing you’ve got your own back.

Knowing, not just in your brain and in intellectual obviousness, if you’ve made it that far yet; but also in the intangible experiential knowing of literally holding yourself. Of treating you how you treat someone you give a fuck about.

Washing your own scalp, purposefully, like you’d touch a kindred.

Kissing your own shoulder while you’re curled up in a ball crying. Or not crying.

Stroking your own hair while you struggle to fall asleep.

In my origins of self loathing and a learned emotional neglect that stood like a monolith in front of everything I tried to take in for the first 25 years of my life, the most horrible truth of all truths to me was knowing that I, in all my previously wretched worthlessness, am all I’ve REALLY got.

It’s literally impossible for us to see and feel and hear outside of our own perspectives, the way these stupid soul-vessel machines are designed.

So if it’s literally impossible for us to see and hear and experience outside of our own embodied perspectives, how the fuck will you know the first thing about what it feels like to be loved if you’ve never honestly and truthfully focused that attention on yourself?

Not sexualized or aggrandized or tough love pushy inner voice bullshit attention. Not even allyship and cheerleading when tough decisions need to be made attention. But tenderness. Space holding. Understanding.

Cradling and carefully rubbing your own belly when you’re sick and cramping diarrhea into the toilet.

Adding a fresh raspberry to your own water.

How is it that you could know the first thing about truly receiving love, or what your own love looks like; how much worth and power it has, how precious and unique and empowering that love is, how gracious it is to give, if you’ve never once felt it, yourself.

Camp Half Blood: 2015 wrap-up

Tuesday, September 15th, 2015

POST IMAGE: Week 8: Courtnee, having finally harnessed her powers, reads out the rock monster, Oudi, to vanquish a Shrieker Mummy which nearly destroyed the entire camp. To celebrate, the next morning, they shared tea and zebra cake in the grass as campers arrived.

There is simply too much that happened during my time with Camp Half Blood to share it all. But, here are some highlights from my time at Camp Half-Blood Austin this summer, in chronological order.

—— WEEK 1

VIDEO: The magical journal of H.G. Wells, which Homer crashes the claiming ceremony to ‘return’ to Topher, and negotiate staying at camp.

IMAGE SET: Hmm… There is something very strange about Courtnee, says Mr. D. https://twitter.com/CHBAustin/status/613095689854189569

VIDEO: The video I excitedly made for you guys the first week at camp, when I learned how information spreads through a group of 100 suspicious campers:

IMAGE: I played The Mother of Bones, as old as death itself, who was an unlikely ally for the camp. Every week, she shuffled, silently, bringing a clue or helpful item which were instrumental in the camp managing to save the world. Only the children can see her, and Mr. D, who, along with the other Olympians, was extremely unsettled by her interference in the mortal world. https://instagram.com/p/4cDOGfCZiH/

IMAGE AND STORY: Week 1 wrap-up post. Hint: Most camp weeks were this rich if not more. https://www.patreon.com/posts/chb-week-1-2774560

—– WEEK 2

VIDEO: Wil (whistle), Cullen (ukulele), and Homer (accordion) introducing the final sword championship match of week 2. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2RF182rLLM

IMAGE: Homers selfie in the Vardo: https://instagram.com/p/4hBWJICZuH/

IMAGE: I played the DollMaster, who is the cumulation of the souls of all the charred, bloody babydolls from the Creepy Doll Nursery. There were thousands of them, who were discovered at camp years ago, and you can still hear their voices whispering around her. She, too, was helpful — she entered into the minds of the adults who escorted the campers to her for information as to where to go in order to have a successful quest. Her help came at a cost, however: Her psychic touch is anything but gentle. https://instagram.com/p/5BOAS1iZg4/

—— WEEK 3

VIDEO: Homer, recording a rough draft of his theme song. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yOq693rHWsE

VIDEO: … And Courtnee also had a chance to work on her own music a little, too. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gL-kcbR8qI

—— WEEK 4

VIDEO: League Agent Johnny Ringo was one of the first copies read out of the Diary by Homer, long before Courtnee began reclaiming her consciousness with the help of the magic at camp. He had been dead for two years. Ringo met his demise on the last day of camp, just before Courtnee was freed from Homers curse. Here is a video of Ringo and I learning the fight. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPiBpLXxw3o

——– WEEK 5

IMAGE SET: Courtnee decided to try her hand at photography (after a camper slipped back to the bathrooms unaccompanied and caught her blind ass using her cellphone). The results were.. mixed. https://twitter.com/CHBAustin/status/620993606690586624

—— WEEK 6

IMAGE: I got to play one of the thousands of mummies from the underworld that had been summoned by the League of Machines and Monsters. We heard recordings of harrowing communications from the cities all over the country which were being overrun by them. Entire (small) towns were lost. That was a rough week at camp. https://instagram.com/p/5uXWKRCZgt/

—— WEEK 7

STORY: Courtnee learns about the perils of Demigod Dating https://www.patreon.com/posts/date-camp-half-3164353

—– WEEK 8

IMAGE: “End of summer update: we freed Courtnee from Homer’s presence and Apollo’s curse, did away with Ringo once and for all, defeated screamer mummies, charmed Kedalion, rescued CITs, and had an utterly epic dance party to top it all off. We are so happy to welcome Courtnee into our demigod family with a giant group hug and are so proud of the amazing work our campers did this summer!! Stay safe out there (as we know, monsters tend to attack even more annoyingly throughout the school year) and we can’t wait to see you all next summer!!” https://instagram.com/p/6Y5bBRDpxQ/

“And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” — John Steinbeck

——- THE END

VIDEO: Goodbye Camp Half-Blood, Part I — Saying goodbye to the Vardo, the dining hall, and a nod to my next destination: The Bosque Village, Mexico. hhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQWE7AU5pP0

VIDEO: Goodbye McKinney Falls Park https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2sgx2lu5Dc

—— FACEBOOK QUOTES:

“Remembering the moment today where I taught a little girl how her vocal chords worked. <3" ------- "Y'all remember the time I inadvertently rage screamed myself blind while driving? Yeah so a high of 105 and 8 weeks of camp apparently means when I shriek in the woods I almost make my own ass faint. 3. Moar. Days...." ------- "I've already decided there will be no method to the madness that is the van, packed from camp. I will sort it later. I still am just sitting here in the cabin staring at the stuff, as if roiling over what I'll load out next will make this any easier. The bikes are on the rack and thus the back is not accessible and thus my capabilities of loading are impaired. How on earth will I do this with only three other doors to use. I am not ready for this place to be so empty. My heart aches bigger than my brain can fire." ------- "Never could I breathe Love, if I did not first learn to inhale a little bit of chaos" -- Chris Poindexter

Thursday, September 3rd, 2015

Friendly neighborhood reminder: With the exception of odd, inconsistent jobs as I travel, I survive directly on crowdfunding. Patreon is how I eat, write, create, and Keep Going. If you follow my posts/activities please consider signing up to support me there.

Http://patreon.com/courtnee

Nearing the Bosque

Saturday, August 29th, 2015

As is per usual for my cycles of things, I’ve spent the last two weeks or so in a weird funk, anticipating the next stage of my life, which has me leaving the van behind with friends in Texas and traveling to Mexico.

“So I’ve noticed a lot of procrastinative anxiety and difficulty articulating the source, even though I can sorta tell what it is.

And I get the sense that if I can get it out somehow, even imperfectly, that maybe I’ll feel some movement happening with the energy that’s been sitting in my fucking large intestines and backing me up doubled over in gas pain periodically for three days now. (I HATE WHEN MY BUTTHOLE BLEEDS ARGH takes FOREVER to heal stupid giant hardass shit..)

*ahrm*

I know that I write about stuff and talk about stuff and seem to be pretty clear and focused about looking at my own uglyass faults and dipshittary, but it’s hard. It hurts. Not like it used to when I was mostly uncovering the horrible crap I’d pulled in service to my unconscious avoiding bullshit, but it hurts. Worldviews are sacred and delicate, and even though I do challenge mine periodically, getting there fucking sucks. For every goosebumpy triumphant blog post imbibed in clarity and direction you may have read, there were weeks or months or more of petulant, painful fucking suffering to come to terms with what I wrote in it.

So, here’s the thing; for the last year or so I’ve been really focused on unpacking my role in a structurally oppressive hierarchy that favors, on a systemic basis, people who look like me and/or choose to maneuver socially the way I do. I can fill out spreadsheets and have a nice phone voice and charm people at social gatherings, I can easily look fitting for success, I am fluent in basic technology, I have a lot going for me — if I want to play the game, I can play it.

I’ve recognized I really don’t want to play it. I really just want to tell the whole system to fucking fuck itself, I want to dig a hole in a mountainside and never set foot in a city again, I want to be off the grid, I want to create a tribe with a new social order, I want to unplug, and I want to leave this entire festering pile of colonized bullshit behind.

In fact, in these fantasies, I don’t much mind if the way I do that equates to tearing the whole fucking thing down entirely. And in many ways I do think I am an abolitionist, but we’re talking like, bombs and shit, which in reality, I’m really not into. I’m more into tearing the system down by refusing to participate in it and starving it, and on many levels, my peeling away my belongings, getting out of residing in typical housing, and giving myself the freedom to move around has been a part of that life trajectory.

But there’s a thing, a nasty little thing, that keeps bugging me about this phase in my life right now. An aspect of my ‘privilege’ I haven’t really dug into, yet. The part where I grew up in tech, have tech at my disposal, and rely on tech as my avenue to receive my income — and simultaneously fucking hate it and everything I’ve come to see it standing for.

I can’t find the words to properly illustrate how uncomfortable I am — how uncomfortable I’ve been, under the surface. As I am looming over my trip to the Bosque — a move that was rooted in my desire to shed, to leave tech behind, but quickly became about my bringing tech and my technical skills to help the social reach of the forest expand and grow — it’s boiling over, hissing out from under a shuddering lid.

I’m unable to ignore the symbiosis, the reliance, how intrinsically the net and computers are a part of me and have been a part of me, how fucking privileged that makes me, and how deeply fucking conflicted I am about it. How fucking disgusted with myself I am that I use Apple products of slave labor whether they are handed down to me or not, that in attempting to extract myself from the machine my entire livelihood, even more so, revolves around using, leveraging, and myself slaving over technology that represents, to me, so much of what is profoundly, disturbingly, hopelessly fucking wrong; What is, quite literally, fucking destroying *everything*.

And I’m just really not fucking ok with it, right now.” — Facebook, Aug 25th

Just like the process I went through when I was choosing to leave Seattle and all the shit I was deciding that meant, I’ve been going through that again lately when processing my temporary move to The Bosque.

And, just like the process I went through when I came to a point where I broke through all the worry and displacement and inner voice naysaying that accompanied my new mobile life, I’m coming to the point now that I am starting to trust that I’ve actually got this thing maybe.

“I don’t think anyone will understand what I am trying to create until It has been created, and even then it will evolve.” – Brian Fey, regarding new ways of communicating, documenting and publishing The Bosque.

My response? “Proof of Concept; it’s a thing for a reason.”

I realize that is what I am doing, here. My proof of concept that I can survive, thrive, make a difference, live, and find some form of solace by doing things this way. I have to remind myself that this is brand new. I left Seattle 3 months ago. Each new step is a challenge in so many fashions, confronting my views of myself, my limits, what it is I need, why it is I chose this for myself.

I googled images of Patzcuaro, the small Michoacán town nearest The Bosque, for the first time today.

It is beautiful.

Belonging

Saturday, June 27th, 2015

I used to think I would never find a place I belonged.

The lonliness filled me to the point that for a long time I didn’t even have the energy to wander anymore, looking for it, literally or figuratively.

I’d talk myself out of going anywhere I felt I might find my place before the possibility could take shape.

I talked myself out of distancing from people who I could feel saw me as projections of their fractured selves and believed they were smarter, better, and more worthy than me.

I struggled against a rising tide to stay where I was, even as it became clear while the life I’d built for myself fell away piece by piece that it was time.

For years, opportunity and the damn near limitless directions I could take overwhelmed and paralyzed me. And it seemed as though no matter where I went in the world, no matter how well my skills or personality fit into a certain group of other humans, I would never be free of that feeling; I don’t belong. Anywhere.

So in a way, it didn’t matter what the fuck I did. But I had to do something.

So I decided to belong to myself, even though I only felt it part way.

I decided before I was ready, before I really believed, that I had to figure out a way to believe that the possibility of belonging was someplace other than where I was told it was, where I had been encourage to look for it.

I decided to give up most of what I know the majority of the people in my life to work their entire existence stabilizing. I let go of things that I know friends of mine lose sleep over getting, having, and keeping.

I gave away massive amounts of expensive possessions, one of a kind art, things that had defined me for decades.

I flew the nest I’d spent 17 years building and tending as it smoldered behind me, wrought from the merciless determination of a universe demanding transformation, and I left.

One thing I’m quickly learning after doing that, one thing that keeps coming up for me as I look around Texas and camp and experience myself in this environment, is that I don’t actually ‘belong’ any more here and now than I have in any other time of my life.

Yes, it’s true, this camp is strangely well suited for my natural theatrical gifts. And yes, it’s true, the recycling mentality in Texas makes me actually cry sometimes. It’s a mixed bag. Seattle was a mixed bag, too.

But the path to belonging, that feeling I thought meant I was so close to having belonging for myself for so long, was actually control, and dominance. I felt I belonged when I was in charge, when I was leading, when I was on display, and when I was in power.

I learned a long time ago that sort of ‘belonging’ was not only fleeting, high maintenance, and high anxiety — but that I didn’t feel very good about myself once I was dethroned, either. The mist that rationalized the oppressive nature of my height and status, and the grief of having worn mask after mask to maintain the facade that I enjoyed it, once gone, paved a view of someone I was deeply ashamed of.

Belonging is something I now know as a learning.

It’s something that helps me grow, expand, and something I take with me in my soul when I move on.

It’s not popularity in high school, it’s not being the better half of a beguiling power couple, it’s not running a nonprofit — belonging is a muscle I work, that gets stronger and stronger when I am where I should be, experiencing and connecting in ways that feed my soul.

So much has changed in my life. Almost everything. But those changes aren’t why I belong where I ended up.

What’s changed is me.

I belong with me.

Achievement Unlocked: Year of the Nee

Friday, May 1st, 2015

Commonly, upon achieving some sort of long term goal, a leader is supposed to have some sort of rousing speech full of pithy insights and inspiring prose.

But what of long-term goals that ultimately involve only the leader? Who are those speeches really for, anyway?

In short: I don’t have a speech or a big post to commemorate the last year I have spent celibate, without intoxicants, focused on my own health and what ended up being yet another extensive series of transformations within transformations.

I don’t have a lot to say about the lessons, the experiences, the challenges, the tests, the few times I faltered and righted myself just in time.

I don’t have a lot to say about the subtle fueling clarity of being sober, how much I like it, or how avoiding bonding sexually did not in fact serve to keep me from breaking my own heart open on others’ moats lined with jagged backbiting rocks.

I imagine at some point when I have easy access to a computer again I will go back and read through my YotN posts, to reflect on all the journey has taught and shown me, much of which I wrote very little about.

I might also observe how the changes in my life which I adopted as part of YotN supported me in the massive internal shifts that had been so long coming and still continue to come. How challenging my most deeply embedded patterns of self avoidance accelerated me to the point that, sometimes, I actually felt my skin ballooning from my bones and whipping off.

I might have more rousing speeches in me, then. Maybe.

For now, I’ll let something my dad randomly said at lunch today speak for me:

“You’ve really become a free spirit, haven’t you?”

‘I guess that depends on what your definition of a free spirit is?’ (Expecting some gripe about what a vandwelling hippie I am about to be)

“You’re not bogged down in an 8 to 5. And, when you want to change something, you… Change it.”

Yeah.

Yeah, I fucking do.

Friday, May 1st, 2015

I’ve broken through. I’m done with the fear phase.

I am so fucking glad I am getting out of the cycle of modern capitalist society.
I am so fucking glad I will no longer have the weight of paying for a stupid fucking building on my shoulders.
I am so fucking glad I will no longer be fighting tooth and nail to gross $20k so that I can actually net $5500 after taxes, licenses, continuing education, and fucking expenses in order to make that stupid money.
I am so fucking glad I am done writhing in the grotesque in-between place I’ve been festering in for YEARS resisting leaving all this absurd fucking shit behind even as it’s been crumbling around me, begging me to fucking wake up.
I am so fucking glad to finally be feeling some fucking sovereignty and some fucking freedom.
I am so fucking glad I am getting the fuck out of here.
I can’t fucking wait.

Amazon Wishlist for van buildout and basics: http://amzn.com/w/2WL00KSMHSOXW
Patreon link to help, and follow art and music updates on the road: http://pateron.com/courtnee

Trip Brainstorm

Tuesday, April 14th, 2015

Been thinking about places I want to be heading when I hit the road next month, and how long I might actually be gone, where I might want to be during winter, etc.

Some places I am going just to check them out, some places I am going because I have a friend or two there, some for specific reasons. Here’s my latest ever-shifting soft itinerary.

Seattle to..

Spokane, WA (house show)
Boulder/Denver (friends, cuz)
Grand Canyon (cuz)
Sedona, AZ (cuz)
Los Almos, NM (friend)
Austin, TX (friends, AND SUMMER JOB!)
New Orleans, LA (friend, just cause)
Wetumpka, AL (friend, with a FARM!)
Jacksonville, FL (friend)
Savannah, GA (recommended)
Asheville, NC (art!)
New York, NY (friends)
Woodstock, NY (friends)
Boston, MA (friends)
Madison, WI (cuz)

If I were to hit them all in the timeframe and seasons I anticipate, and if after that I return to Seattle, I’ll be gone roughly a year.

But who knows, really.

Fluid

Monday, April 13th, 2015

Identity. It’s ideally supposed to be fluid, but not too fluid. Stable, but not stagnant. A means of psychic survival, context, and reference. A way to form and rationalize our routines and habits.

A way to garner an illusion of a security and control in ones experience, and view of, life.

Part of my approach to that illusion of security has depended on figuring out, identifying, who the fuck, I, consistently, am. Or so it has been that I have told myself.

Thing is, I would think that someone who has spent the kind of effort and energy and focus scrutinizing themselves, changing shit, and showing the world exactly what they’re fucking made of, would have a bit better concept of who they are and what they’re about in their core than I seem to.

Instead, I have spent as long as I can remember struggling with shaping my identity, and in many ways resisting against the natural fluidity of my personality in the face of attempting to establish one.

One example of how I have struggled with identity is having seen my tendency for picking up the mannerisms, gestures, and accents of the people I admire as immature and shameful. As childish indication that I don’t know who I am, can’t be trusted to hold to my convictions, and don’t know how to be my own person already.

Another example is seeing my propensity for diving, passionate and headlong, into activities, communities, relationships, and cultures, as proof that I am not strong enough to maintain a selfhood of my own free from the frivolous influence of others.

Yet another example has been seeing the impermanence of these dives as being a fault I can work away somehow, a problem with my personality that needs to be solved.

And, worse, I have seen these sorts of things as confirmation that I just leech my messy hodgepodge selfhood off other people.

Which is sort of a fucked up way of looking at things since that’s how people.. you know. Grow. Which is sorta my thing, I think, maybe.

And yet on the flip side, I periodically ignore what I *have* come to know about myself.

For instance, I do things like experimenting with attempting to form myself into a person of routine and habit when I have never in my entire fucking life accomplished having the same fucking morning twice. As if that isn’t really me, I just, what.. haven’t found the right habits, yet? Am not disciplined enough, yet?

Sure. The person who kicked heroin, meth, cigarettes, and has transformed their existence on multiple levels multiple lives over with no end to the rebirth in sight just hasn’t picked up the *right fucking habits* to be a person who functions on a basis of reliable morning routine?

The fuck outta here.

I have yet to come to a balance between what I know myself to be, and what I expect to be able to convert of myself, with enough effort to ‘grow’ as a person. My self-dar in this way is broken.

Currently, I am in the midst of a deep personal transition, probably the most core and uncomfortable, uncertain one I’ve ever experienced.

In picking apart what I’m going through, limping along as this half-mutated caterpillar sprouting butterfly limbs thing with no fucking shelter to speak of as the life I built over the last 17 years crumbles away, I’ve started coming to a bit of clarity about this. A bit of clarity as to my hopelessness in attachments and love, and in my hot/cold fear complex that virtually guarantees the continuous re-enactment of abandonment in my life.

I’ve come to think I’ve been stuck, and resisted a lot of my self-knowing in this way, because I believe somewhere deep that it’s the reliable, steady ones who are, ultimately, deserving of love and longterm devotion.

Which sort of explains why I’ve always kinda hated people like that, the lazy stagnant self-avoiding fuckers.

I think it’s true, though — in my subfloor belief system, it’s the stable ones, who don’t move around much, don’t shift much, have a consistent manner, can be trusted to do the same things the same ways, who are the deserving ones.

Because somehow (kidding — I know exactly how.) I picked up the notion that it’s those people, the ones who stay forever, the ones who can be counted upon to be there, stationary, prepared to reflect that dedication back; Those people deserve love.

People who are me do not.

So I went along my merry way, thinking, I expect, that if I can just figure out what I am, consistently, and represent that accurately to others, I’ll finally be worthy and capable of lasting love, and finally be drawing people who appreciate and can joyfully roll with those things about me, to me. Right?

Except what happens when what you keep finding out about yourself is that you’re not conventionally consistent at fucking ALL?

What happens when you equate a fixed, resilient identity with personhood and worth, while simultaneously being of a personality that is a constant rolling boil of introspective challenge, experimentation, movement, transformation, and change?

I won’t bother describing it. Imagine it for yourself. If your stomach drops into your asshole and you feel like you have to cry, chances are you’re my people. Sup. *fistbump*

Ultimately, what I am finding is that identity is a piss poor reflection of personhood.

Regardless of what I identify myself as, whether it be a drug abuser, an artist, or a ‘healer’, or snarky, or someone without a racist bone in their body, at any moment that identification, if I’m paying any fucking attention at all to the world around me, can be utterly shattered.

And it’s been my experience that if I am at all actually living my life, my identity is shattered in that way often.

I guess even my identification with identity wasn’t safe from my bulldozer personality.

Good.

Tiny dreams hit the road

Tuesday, April 7th, 2015

As part of Year of the Nee, I’ve recognized a few things about myself that I’d discovered at one time and then lost again. Things like an affinity for dinosaurs, and reading fantasy and sci-fi books.

I’ve also gotten back to music by making a very focused album (the whole thing is about patriarchy) in a way that I haven’t approached creating albums before.

I’ve come to accept that I miss performing, particularly after performing in Los Angeles during Amanda Palmer’s ‘Art of Asking’ tour, and that I want to do a lot more of it somehow. I periodically miss Little Red Studio, theater which laughs in the face of the fourth wall, and being part of a troupe.

I’ve also come to accept that I need, desperately need, to relearn how to have fun again. I’ve been saying that, but I’m getting it now – I am fucking dying over here without that shit. YotN showed me how imperative it is that I relearn how to relax for the joy of it, not because I am in an isolated burnout from the weight of the world. One avenue toward that is to reconnect with my skills as a performance artist in a way that also helps people — like what I had set out to do when I created Vita, but with way less weight and responsibility.

And I really, really need to be out in nature, more. Less media. Less internet. Less fucking ‘stuff’. More rest. More air. More dirt. My hatred of capitalism, my horror at the declining state of the world, following politics, following activist movements, trying to fit in with this fucking society.. it hurts. I gotta get rooted in the basics, get grounded with being an actual part of this living rock rather than an earth raping meatsack alien invading it, or I’m going to lose my fucking mind — and I need all the practice at that I can get.

All these things have been swirling around as I’ve been working within the status quo I’d created for myself around making a living and maintaining a private healing practice in the heart of a gentrifying city.

I’ve been wondering how to put it all together, melding past and present interests, sticking as close to my ideals and what I want to support in life as I can and still manage to eat. At the same time, I have become aware of how fatigued I am of doing it all myself — maintaining my own office, putting on and producing my own shows, etc.

It seems this summer, I may be getting a little taste of what all that might look like — just as I was finally, finally letting this life of mine as it stands now, go (and completely fucking freaking out about it, frankly).

It all started when I put some ‘home’ savings, which I’ve been clinging to for a year now, where my mouth has been, and bought a friends van to live and travel in. Nothing particularly hospitable for that purpose, mind you, but something with enough room to carry my gear and art supplies around, small enough to park anywhere, big enough to crash in.

That set in motion the desire to set something, anything concrete really, to actually travel toward. I’ve been planning to leave the area near the end of May, when Shedlyfe has run its course, but hadn’t had a specific destination in mind. I had ideas of what I want to be doing (busking, sleeping, playing open mics, visiting old friends, meeting new people, checking out healing and arts communities), but not where. Mostly I’ve been kinda suspended in this super uncomfortable what the fuck am I doing freakout place without actually having a vehicle to do any of this stuff in.

One thing lead to another, and I found myself planning to visit a couple friends in Austin, TX as part of my trip. As circumstance would have it, no sooner had I pinged my friend about when would be good for her, she asked if I would want to hang out in Austin to do a job.

For two months of the summer.
At an immersive literary theater camp.
For creative, booklovin’ kids.
Where I would play a 3000 year old androgynous storytelling singer poet.
With a story outline, and tons of improvisational interaction.
In a realm created in a series of fantasy books for 6th graders.
Which is rooted in greek mythology.
Wherein the 12 year old protagonist is dyslexic and has ADHD (both of which indicate that you might be a demigod).
In a state park.
For money.

Um. Yes.

Yes the fuck I would.

Sweltering heat be damned: Camp Half-Blood, here I come.

http://kylekurlick.blogspot.com/2009/10/camp-half-blood.html

The support of my patrons at Patreon is how I am getting to Texas to do this (and eating, and filling the van with gas, and basically living, period): Thank you.

bobbing cork in a bucket

Monday, March 30th, 2015

On one hand, my ‘fuck the bucket’ epiphany (and artistic ritual) was really valuable to align myself with a deeper knowledge.

Taking into account that myself, crabs who snip at my heels, and the crabs whose heels I am compelled to snip, were never meant to be in a fucking bucket in the first place really blew the doors off my views of the socioeconomic and interpersonal warfare I witness and am actively resisting.

It also really fucking crushed the shit out of my spirit, I am finding. It wasn’t apparent at first, but I am finding now that it was around that time that the little precursors to my epic nosedive, which I am still exhausted and recovering from, began manifesting.

It was around that time I started becoming quietly overwhelmed by the vast uncertainty in my life. Everything, from income, to vocation, to housing, to location, to intimacy, to resources, are in flux. It’s a time in my life where things I thought were stable are dying, where things I thought I needed are shedding. Things I invested years in maintaining are ending their life cycles, too. Everything is changing.

A friend described himself this morning as ‘Hanging in there. Like a cork on the ocean.’

Man. Do I feel that. Disorienting. Lonely. A little freeing, maybe? A cork on the ocean needs only to continue to do what it does; float. I relate to the frustrating simplicity in the circumstances of a tiny seabound cork. And I rather liked the implication of the impossibility of his drowning in them.

I won’t drown, either. Right?

Right.

Also I want some answers goddamnit. Any time now.

Perhaps they will come later this month, as I bob like a cork in the actual ocean.

Wednesday, February 18th, 2015

A fight for ‘equality’ does not rely on disavowing systemic oppression to rationalize ones idea of justice. A fight for ‘vengeance’ does.

Valentines 2015

Saturday, February 14th, 2015

“I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself”
― Simone de Beauvoir

This Year of the Nee valentines day, I am celebrating myself, my accomplishments, my efforts, and the fruits of those efforts.

Most pointedly, I am celebrating my album release, my release party performance (which was fucking amazing.), and having finally, finally learned, deeply in my guts, the profound difference between woundmates and soulmates.

Stay Focused. Keep Going.

Sunday, February 1st, 2015

Been trying to narrow roots down lately. You know, to save my sanity. Been thinking on this a bit, and I’ve come to the conclusion currently that all the shit I’m mad about and think needs changing leads back to two things: Capitalism and Patriarchy.

So, if considering the main sources of our current social problems can be traced back to Capitalism (classism, ablism, racism, production-based human worth) and Patriarchy (sexism, rape culture, devaluing of bodily sovereignty, feminine ideals, and care work), would it then suppose that the root of what we must shed and transmute in our social evolution is simply: Toxic Masculinity (supremacy, domination, control, emotional disconnection, and power based upon fear of that wide spectrum of physical and emotional violence)?

And how is it that people generally wake to their realities of these issues, even when they’ve already known they are against the patriarchy and or capitalist ways of operating?; They then suffer a period of deeply adopting toxic masculinity themselves to manifest the ‘power’ needed to stand in their resistance without being annihilated while in transition. And some will never make that transition.

Ghandi was a sexist rape apologist. Mother Teresa was against violence unless that violence attacked the sovereignty of women’s bodies. The toxic masculinity permeated these people as well, people who vastly and fundamentally inspired and changed the world and are widely considered saints, superhuman. But organized religion, the cause of which so many wars and so many saints have rallied behind, in and of itself is based upon what? Toxic masculinity, that’s what.

And here we still are, dealing with the deep rooted tendrils of the same old shit.

Every once in a while we erupt in toxic masculine (and deeply cathartic) violence, making a tiny baby step by forcing the patriarchal empire into changing the rules a little in order to make that toxic masculine a little less obvious (see: The civil rights movement). But it, that toxicity, is always here – piled over our grief, stuffed in the corners of our coping mechanisms, whitewashed away by the lies of our generally accepted history. For centuries of conditioning and ancestry, it is deeply, fundamentally, here.

I wonder that toxic masculinity is a game that is subconsciously perceived as must being played in order to survive this world, much less overcome and thrive. For all people, including children.

And I wonder that this here is the impetus, the toxic masculine that goes beyond patriarchy which centers around gender and seniority of male lineage, beyond capitalism which leverages these teachings for the gain of few at the expense of many, rather than simply another symptom, of why we’re all so royally fucked.

Beauty in the Breakdown

Saturday, January 24th, 2015

I had come to the title for this piece while it was in progress a couple weeks ago.

It’s fitting that I finally finished it today, which was largely spent processing through a complex and incredibly irrational emotional trigger.

I figured it out, and figured a few side notes out, too. Like that my ex now represents abandonment for me rather than my mother — he shows up when my little is feeling desperate and lonely — and no matter how grown up I get or how professional I act or how ‘correct’ the response is, it hurts and is deeply scary as fuck when someone I care about doesn’t seem to care too much about losing access to our intimacy.

While I was finishing this watercolor, I sobbed and wept a lot, and I sipped through the last of the discontinued tea that marked intense bonding and sense memories from my last romantic relationship. It felt like the right time to officially complete that part of my life.

These hideous and beautiful and incredibly uncomfortable processes helped me figure out what was happening with me today, and what needed to be done to balance it. Hint: I’d forgotten an important step in completing a grief transition.

Always comes down to that, doesn’t it.

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FuckYouDelete

Friday, January 16th, 2015

It’s become so amazing to me how much commonly-accepted forms of dialogue are just flat out silencing, erasing, entitled fucking bullshit.

Not long ago I would feel ‘irrationally’ slighted over it, and blame my ‘damage’ for my ‘sensitivity’ and wonder what was wrong with me.

Fuck that noise. I ain’t internalizing that manipulative crap anymore.

“Grow some balls and smile” while I systematically minimize and belittle you, little girl… unless of course I am appreciating how hot I think you are. FuckYouDelete

“Feel free to delete this patronizing, uninformed comment” that I as a complete stranger have left on your accessible facebook post about feminism, which I see as my right as an entitled white guy rather than a courtesy you offer. (I did).

“Notice now how I’m coming in here to point out something completely irrelevant which paints you as a naive overemotional idiot so I can talk about this thing I think is more important. Also I didn’t read the article this conversation is linked to” FuckYouDelete

Y’all. These are just some of the silencing, minimizing tactics used on me this week. It’s rather incredible how utterly common this shit is. But in particular, here’s my thing lately:

“You should be helping more caustic abusive men because they’re just wounded, not calling out the privilege and misogynist sexism which keeps them from seeking help for themselves in the first place”. Mmmm. Right.

I have a soft spot for these privileged, wounded geek males who are whining about how mean girls are being to them by insisting they wake the fuck up and level the playing field by, I dunno — unlearning their ridiculous fucking programing and not treating women like subservient magic objects that are supposed to make your life worth living for you, maybe.

I grew up with them, and in a lot of cases, they’re still basically exactly where they were back then, stuck in their same old patterns, which basically look like: ‘your poontang would save me if you’d just give it up more/differently/better/easier/whatthefuckever’ or ‘your poontang scares me’ plus ‘and that’s your fault somehow’, even though I’m so immature and emotionally stunted all I really have to consistently offer is paying for shit and standing around impotently when life hits the fan and you actually need real loving support and some fucking backup.

Hearing their tales of misguided blame and agony is sad. Even though 5000 years of women being treated as livestock and sexual property is immensely sadder than the plight of these nerdlords who still think they’re being oppressed by society into the bowels of their parents basements, I recognize that they are fucking trapped, and I’m all about doing what I can, safely, and within my scope of skills and ability, to combat the consequences of the capitalist patriarchal conditioning that’s causing these guys (and ME) so much pain.

AND: It is not feminisms, or women’s, job, to heal the men who make feminism needed right now. It is the job of feminism to work toward equity by raising up and supporting the people who are systematically beat down by the existing structure of inequality (women: US. WOMEN.), and to point out how the privilege of that structure is hindering the powerful from healing themselves (and one another) so they can address the power dynamic they perpetuate among themselves.

The idea that a feminist should shift to focusing on healing men is simply another symptom of the patriarchal ideal that women are supposed to sit around taking this shit and ultimately focus their efforts on feeling Stockholm syndrome for, and going out of their way to ‘help’, their oppressors.

And most importantly; no one, woman or otherwise, can help a person who doesn’t want help. No woman with any sense of self preservation will willingly engage in ‘trying’ to heal a person who a) hates them and b) isn’t asking for help.

“An overwhelming majority of us come from dysfunctional families in which we were taught we were not okay, where we were shamed, verbally and/or physically abused, and emotionally neglected even as we were also taught to believe that we were loved. For most folks it is just too threatening to embrace a definition of love that would no longer enable us to see love as present in our families. Too many of us need to cling to a notion of love that either makes abuse acceptable or at least makes it seem that whatever happened was not that bad.”
—All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks

What men are suffering from is the same fucking childhood traumas we all suffer from PLUS the dark side of their supremacist status in patriarchy. I truly hope you break free some day. To do that, ‘men’ need to step up to the plate to heal themselves, and then one another. Men need to learn how to do that, rather than insisting that the ‘women’ they benefit from collectively (and often subconsciously) erasing and raping and blaming step up to help them fucking do their god damn work for them.

pa·tri·arch·y
ˈpātrēˌärkē
noun
a system of society or government in which men hold the power and women are largely excluded from it.

The nature of this sad state of affairs that none of us signed up for is: This is your fucking supremacist shitshow. Without your active engagement as the empowered group, we all stay fucked in this soup of fuckary. You are the ones who need to use YOUR fucking resources to pull your shit together and then help US pull this bullshit paradigm apart. Use the fucking money you’re making to get some fucking therapy, use the power your voice inherently has to influence others as you learn, stop trying to suck your healing from us for free using your fucking sideways patriarchal shitbaggary against us. Grow some fucking integrity.

If you want help to heal, I will fucking walk with you through burning pillars of dog shit to do it. I will bare compassionate witness with you through your patterns worst petty death throes. I will stand firm while I get hit with the ripples of your previously unfelt agony. I will hold a safe, intentional container for you while you lose your fucking mind and everything you thought you knew about yourself dissolves into a shadow. I will teach you every fucking thing I know about overcoming that shadow. I will fucking remind you over and over again how brave and powerful and strong and viable and good you are even when you make mistakes. And I will call you on those mistakes so that we can work together to ensure you have what you need to do better next time. I will blow your fucking mind by being the best teacher and champion you’ve ever had, if you want (and pay) me to do that for you. To HELP you, support you, guide you, as YOU make the effort to work through YOUR OWN fucking shit.

What I will not do is cater to those who presume I should spend even one more moment of my life martyring myself for stubborn, privileged men who deeply, profoundly, subconsciously fucking hate me AND WANT TO KEEP HATING ME.

What I will not do is ever, ever be in an intimate relationship, professional or otherwise, with another person like that, ever, the fuck, again.

What I will not do is spend another fucking moment of my life making the pain of wounded manchildren with their fingers dug into their fucking ears more important than the devastating impact their sickness has on me.

What I will not do is pretend that these unwoke guys don’t sit on thrones with fistfulls of cake while insisting that women set aside their fight for their own sovereignty and female equality to bring them fuckers more fucking cake. Often so that said cake can be thrown back in our pretty painted faces for us not being capable of magically chewing it and swallowing it for them, as well.

What I will not fucking do is spend even another second of my life ‘trying’ to do your fucking work for you so you can sit around fat and happy and fucking ignorant, syphoning the energy I generate.

If going back to doing any of that is what it is you think I am good for, if that’s what you think I should be doing with my life and my work and my social justice efforts: FUCK YOU.

Truly. Fucking fuck you. I been through way too much growing and pain and subversive fucking abuse to fuck around with y’all. Not even a little. Block, delete, go fuck yourself, byebye.

Thursday, January 15th, 2015

Impromptu road trip. I am not taking as many pictures as I might have expected, but I also haven’t gotten to where I am going, yet. I did stop in Idaho to take in the lake for a bit.

That one time rape made me racist

Friday, December 26th, 2014

When I was in my early-20’s, I spent some time as an escort. In that time, I had many lovely experiences, some weird experiences, some forgettable experiences, and some gross experiences; three particular gross experiences with Asian clients, which seemed a notable pattern, and one awful one (which ended my career) wherein an Asian man attempted to rape me.

I was doing sensual bodysurfing stuff (and didn’t offer sex as a service), so when he physically attempted to force himself in me, one of the things I recognized immediately was that I had hundreds of dollars of expensiveass equipment with me — and was trapped in the guys house.

My response was to coo redirections at him over and over with a pained ‘we cant do that’ face and pet him and still get him off, while he continued multiple other physical attempts to force me back on top of him. It was like some kind of fucking surreal fake mating dance with a psycho, who belonged to a demographic I’d already begun to experience as high maintenance in my extremely dangerous (and lovely) and vulnerable (and empowering) work.

As soon as I was out the door I was utterly sick to myself. I hated, hated, hated how weak and accommodating I had been. I hated how afraid I had been that if I had been more forceful he would give me a bad review. I hated how all the smart verification hoops I made prospective clients jump through before they were able to see me didn’t protect me from this guy. I hated how if I had been more forceful he may have turned (more) violent.

No sooner had I stepped out that fucking door, I started in on myself. Ruthlessly. I couldn’t even let myself be hurt or afraid because he hadn’t actually managed to rape me (ladies, take note: this is what internalized misogyny looks like), all I could think about was what a fucking doormat whore I had acted like.

Part of me wished I had fought, so that at least I would have had my dignity even if he butchered me. Part of me wished he’d butchered me so I could have torn his fucking face off his skull. I toiled over and over about the things I must have done wrong. My instinct had taken over, and I am sure now it served me well. But back then? Fuck was I mad. At me. Stupid whore.

For years after, I proudly and loudly expressed to my friends that I wasn’t racist, but I hated Asian men. And I had reasons. By George I had reasons. The stories were funny and engaging, too. News of my distaste spread like fire ants through my group of friends and soon none of them could think of an Asian man without remembering my horror stories of lizard kissing and smegma plugs stuck to my back. It was a grand old time.

Funny how I mostly avoided telling that rape story, though.

The truth is, I never hated Asian men. I had trauma associated with experience and used an accepted avenue: racism, to vent it.

Because vulnerability wasn’t as kosher as racism was.

It wasn’t safe to talk about how trapped and helpless and fucking violated I felt, it wasn’t worth the potential silencing, being mishandled, to open myself up and express my frustration and regret in how my autopilot maneuvered my shock and being in danger.

There wasn’t a place, with my friends or in me, for the truth of my feelings. That I was hurt, that I was injured, and that I had lost faith in doing a kind of healing work that I valued and had been truly gifted at. 

Racism was how I coped.

Even after I had my big racism get and I was fiercely tackling my automatic neuroassumptions about Black people, I hung onto my distrust of Asian men. I backed it up with cultural criticism of how they treat women ‘over there’, I made myself feel all smart and rationalized about it, and for a while, I even dropped the “I’m not racist” for “I know I am racist.” and kept on keeping on like that for a bit. For real.

What allowed me to begin to heal my prejudice around Asian men (I say begin because I am still on constant alert for it, though it looks very different now when it shows up – like a toilet bowl in need of a new blue bleach cake thing after lotsa flushes) wasn’t even race related: it was addressing my internalized misogyny, including how I devalued and shamed myself for being a sex worker, by healing my issues with my mother.

Of many things that were passed down through my parents, my mother passed internalized misogyny down to me, and then behaved in a manner that allowed me to corroborate why all women were hateful deceitful lying abandoning bitches (my dad helped). The hurt wasn’t about race, it was about my response to being violated by someone else’s choices being to, frankly, hate myself for it.

Of course it wasn’t only from my parents that I developed these tactics and beliefs – we are all steeped in it as a culture – however, when I got to the place in my healing work where I started working on my family of origin stuff, the murk in my race water cleared drastically. It was the combination of absorbing, listening and learning about the struggles of Black women, and being in my own therapy, that did it.

And this brings me to the thought I want to leave you with; I want you to consider that not only are you racist, (Spoiler alert: You are.), but I want you to consider that you are racist because of trauma.

I want you to consider that racism in and of itself is derived from pain and hurt and heartache that’s been buried and mutated – whether by direct experience like mine with Asian men, or by osmosis like the Black and Brown racism that I inherited from people around me, or potentially by something that may have absolutely nothing to do with race at all.

I want you to consider that racism as a systemic civil structure (and as a climate you learned to cope within) is also perpetuated and sustained by our inability and unwillingness to process our traumatic experiences. To believe we are superior than weak people who need that kind of help and guidance.

And I want you to consider that perhaps one way to transform your confusion and frustration and guilt, to rise above the status quo, is to split off a thread or two, and invest in healing yourself, for real.

Three days of food for $14

Thursday, December 4th, 2014

I got:

Celery
Carrots
One Russet Potato
One Sweet Potato (which I haven’t used yet)
An Onion
Two cloves of garlic
Package of stir-fry chicken on sale

Eating celery and carrot sticks for snacks and lunches, still have half the onion and garlic left, and have still been keeping this tiny crock pot full and at the ready for the last three days, likely another.

I will just need another $3 package of meat before I will be needing anything else to keep it going.

Thank you for the gift, Serret.

PTSD no moe

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2014

EXPERIMENT: Cognitive Process Therapy to address nearly 30 years of a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: Fin.

Here are the results.

Shed Lyfe: Coming soon

Saturday, November 8th, 2014

In a couple weeks, CJ and I will be moving into this 8×10′ insulated shed in a friends back yard, to complete the last phase of saving for my Itty Bitty Hizzy build this spring. It’s 16 feet tall with an 8×6 loft, is wired with electrical outlets, has a toilet and a fridge, and soon will have a utility sink too.

Rents in Seattle have skyrocketed completely out of my price range in the last year and a half, even when sharing. It’s fucking ridiculous. Not only would I have stalled in my savings plan, I would have been hemorrhaging money from what I have saved attempting to both maintain a contemporary residence and my office here. So for the winter, this is where I’ll be!

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I found some maple flooring for free on craigslist…

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But it wasn’t quite enough to cover the floor in the loft. So, two colors, because it’s not really worth sanding it all down and staining it. Just way too many hours and I have to be moved in in less than two weeks.

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