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April 30th, Two Thousand Three: Just a few days ago, I was watching Bloody Sunday, an excellent, if tremendously upsetting as may be expected,
film recounting the 1972 Derry Massacre in Ireland. Not even a
full day afterwards, I see this. The eeriness of it all sits in the pit of my stomach; a sadness
-- not just with this, but with so many tragedies like it -- that
we never seem to learn from mistakes that have already been made
so very many times over, that so few want to learn from them.
I'm short words, really, have been for a couple of days. But this certainly will suffice. As will these words: "They stole our oil, now they are killing our people." |
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April 27th, Two Thousand Three: I've been a sickie the last couple of days. I blame Becca, because
I can -- we shared glasses on my birthday and she was getting
sick, then I got sick. It may have nothing to do with her, but
I'm blaming her anyway. of course, I always get some bug or another
when the seasons finally change.
It's been brilliant outside, and I've been too congested, tired
and sinus-headachy to really enjoy it, damn the luck. I've also
been working my rump off.
Had the shoot yesterday morning with J's ex and her kid, which
went well. I discovered that having a flippable LCD screen on
one's camera is HIGHLY helpful for taking portraits of children,
especially the hammy variety. The little one had way too much
fun making faces at herself and essentially playing in a veritable
mirror, and I got direct eye contact for nearly all of the shots.
Bless technology. I confess, it was also nice to be around someone
J. cherishes while she's off in NYC for the week -- got a little
connection there, soothed the miss-yous some. Plus, she's a helluva
kid. She pulled Where the Wild Things Are from my bookshelf and asked me to read it with her; it's one
of my favorite books ever, and it's been much too long since I
could sit down and read with a wee one. I miss it loads.
Did another shoot myself a day or so before, the results of which
I'm very pleased with as well. I'm struggling a bit, through,
to get back to some more creative writing at the moment, and am
finding it terribly hard. I think I'll need to shift my schedule
so I can start waking up really, really early again.
I'm never sure if I'm a morning person by nature or by sentimental
attachment or training. Growing up, all of the solitude I got
was always in the morning. When I was just starting school after
we'd moved back to Chicago from Lancaster County, my mother always
worked incredibly early shifts at the hospital. We'd wake up and
walk to the hospital in the dark, and I'd get set in some office
or another until it was time for me to walk the rest of the way
to school. I usually spent that time drawing or reading or doing
my schoolwork, and as the goal was to put me somewhere where I'd
be under no one's feet, I'd always be left totally alone for those
couple hours, unless, that is, I opted to make some mischief now
and then, as was my wont. Apparently, there are still older doctors
and nurses at that hospital who shudder at my name, likely due
to such things as the Blood Sample Popsicle Debacle or the times
when I used to skateboard on IV carts.
Later, when my mother remarried the giant bastard who was my stepfather,
I'd wake up on my own around 3 or 4 in the morning, to do the
same sorts of things: it was a time I could earnestly feel safe
and private, and if I timed it right, I could be dressed and on
my way to school without having to see him at all. I'd dread the
evenings, but during the week, I had peace and solace I could
count on every morning and it was my salvation. I started writing
very earnestly when I was around 10 or 11, and still have plenty
of those early morning scrawled sheets. Wasn't too long before
they'd have coffee stains on them, either. Years later, in high
school, when I'd forget to put my name on my music theory papers,
Doc -- my favorite professor and a brilliant composer who sadly
died of AIDS -- would simply look at the coffee ring and say,
"Heather, you forgot to put down your name again."
When I was teaching, I had to wake up very early to write or so
creative work, because by the time I got home after a day full
of kid-juggling, I was way too wiped to think straight. To do
the farmer's markets for years involved waking up as early as
2 AM depending on which market I was doing on a given day, and
never any later than 5 AM. Bleary as I was, I loved driving across
the city when it was pitch black, and setting up my stands as
the sun was just rising.
So, I've basically always done this, and at this point, the only
time I can really do my best work (written, actually -- not the
visual work, that so doesn't work early in the morning, because
I am not naturally mechanically minded), I find, is if I start
when I'm still bleary, not quite lucid, and the whole world is
quiet and still and asleep. I can't do it with anyone around,
either, or the knowledge that anyone could pass behind me, even
unobtrusively. I need to be able to forget that the rest of the
world as I know it exists at all, and have it come back to me
slowly, only intruding on the work in small glimpses or shafts
of memory, in order to make new worlds of words.
It's funny, working in both words and images. Often, it's a bit
like having a dress that's great regardless, but more right for
this occasion than for that one. Some things seem to be best expressed
visually, while others want the words, even when they are images
themselves.
But the words are hearkening to me: I hone my face and my movements
a lot, these days, to be as expressive as I need them to be for
the imagery, and that feels great, but my throat feels silenced
-- it misses the words and the rhythms, and maybe the mornings
that make them, as well.
Addendum: I just received notice that my friend Will/Liam McNurney passed
on recently. I hadn't talked to him for at least six months, and
knew he had cancer, but was hoping for the best. I am truly sorry
I didn't get to say goodbye, though knowing him, he wouldn't have
been very thrilled about my doing so and would likely have told
me to shut up, sod off and go get a drink or twelve.
Will was incredibly special, truly cantankerous, an absolute joy,
and fuck, I'll miss him; miss just knowing he's out there somewhere
making trouble at his ripe old age. I'm not so great at expressing
grief right when it hits me, but wanted to pass on loads of love
to his partner, Christine, who he met a couple years back and
who I know lit the end of his life an awful lot. Since I'm bad
with expressing myself at times like these, I thought instead
I'd just load up a journal entry from a great weekend he and I spent together a few years back
that meant the world to me, with a few extra anecdotes tossed
in in honor of another wacky gael who must always embellish all
stories to death.
Céad míle beannachta, you lovely, crazy old man. You'll be dearly
missed. Especially when I'm wearing that ugly pink sweater. |
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April 23rd, Two Thousand Three: I can't get over what an excellent space I'm in right now.
It's spring; sunny, warm and beautiful outside, with a glorious
breeze that's blowing little pieces of hair unto my cheeks. The
air smells new and reborn. I'm out on the front stoop at the new
place, Pink and Peggy Lee bopping in my headphones, toes tapping
on tops of my sandals, a permagrin on my face I couldn't erase
if I wanted to. Which is fine, because I have absolutely no desire
to erase it. It goes nicely with the new freckles I'm harvesting
at the moment. I'm buzzing from my toes to the tops of my head,
I just feel so incredibly alive today, a feeling that's been growing
a little more every day for the last few months.
I won't pretend that falling in love/mad like/crazy girlie-girl
lust and swoonage isn't a contributor, because it very much is.
I came back home around 10 or so this morning, tummy full of a
good breakfast, not quite enough coffee, and a serious groggy,
grinning glow. Last night was yet another stellar date with J.,
before she heads off on a trip for a week. She kind of co-parents
the daughter of one of her exes/present best friends (who I may
be taking some portraits of sometime in the next few days, schedules
permitting), and I got to see her with the wee one yesterday afternoon.
I liked her enough already, more than, but seeing people be able
to be selfless and free enough to really get into a kid is incredibly
endearing to me. I tend to be a little wary of anyone who is funny
about kids or animals. So, watching her -- especially as indulgent
and happy as she was with her -- was supremely cool. Only in my
life, of course, would it happen that of the two partners I have,
it's the queer one with a quasi-kid, not the straight one.
Makes me worry about writing fiction sometimes: all too often,
my life ends up far too much like my stories. Not complaining,
just sayin' that life imitating art thing isn't always a pile
of crap.
So, yes, I'm still in that total NRE stage where I'm there's no
need to ask me about much. Just come up with a random sentence,
insert "J." somewhere in it, and you get the gist. But it's good.
Buzzing, burning, joyful, open, crazy, fun, sexy, craving, happy,
shiny, smiley, blushing, sing torch songs too loudly and dance
around the house in your underpants good.
It's a strange thing to get exactly what you ask for. Weirder
still that happened first time out with a bleedin' personals ad,
but I tell you, the girls over at J's place took this gig pretty
seriously -- they researched, man, and did this jobbie as an organized team. A second member
of the household has had pretty damn similar luck with her ad.
I'd also like to take some credit I feel is well-deserved for
apparently busting the bisexual glass ceiling in the Minneapolis
lesbian community. I'm a trailblazer, all right. But this getting
what you want stuff is really a little surreal, especially since
I'm seeming to get what I ask for to a pretty decent degree in
most areas of my life at the moment.
That isn't to say everything in the world is totally hunky-dory
right now, because it isn't. I've actually never been in a poly
scenario where I was the one involved with two people who I liked
so much. Before, either I've been the one with only one partner
to another partner who has had the secondaries or multiples, or,
when I've been seeing a bunch of people it has all been VERY casual,
and entirely sexual, not at all romantic. So, figuring out how
to work this, even doing what I do and being really well-versed
in poly stuff, is taking some doing, and I feel a little blind.
I'm terribly worried about hurting anyone or fucking things up
somehow, yet at the same time, I'm torn because I really don't
want to worry about it, and when I just let it all be in the moment
is when it feels best and fine. I'm hoping I'm talking things
out with everyone involved, with friends, and in my own head enough
to be as in tune as I need to be. But it's a process, and to some
degree, an experiment to see if I can manage this sort of thing,
or rather, what the way is I can manage and work it best between
all of us.
But you know, I have this feeling in my gut that this is my year.
Workwise, things are going really well so far. I have this great
new place I'm now almost settled into, and I love it here. I have
all this new energy in my life, and people in it I am just so
incredibly into. Most of all, I feel so able lately to just be
myself, something that's not always been easy for me to do, not
fitting into any expected molds or boxes neatly, at all.
My mother sent me a really sweet card the other day. On the cover
is a photo of a little girl in glasses in a rather appalling striped
shirt. Mom said, inside the card, that it reminded her of me as
a kid, that while she always tried to sell me on pairing stripes
with something solid, I refused, always wanting to wear stripes
with polka dots or plaids. Years later, she said, one of her friends
told her I just am a "stripes and patterns kinda girl." My mother
apologized in the card, for trying to curb that, saying she felt
she was trying to create control in her own life by controlling
me, and expressed support and enthusiasm in my always being a
"stripes and patterns person." It was really touching, vague corniness
aside.
It's not always so easy to find your way in a solids-with-stripes-only
world when you dig the clashing patterns. It's a cool thing to
feel like I'm getting better at doing that. For such a long time,
I was very apologetic about my eccentricities and uniqueness (that
or I had a huge, honking and in-your-face attitude about it).
I don't feel like I have to apologize lately or defend myself.
And I so love having my life be such that not only do I not have
to say sorry, so many people around me -- and the really important
people -- really dig my uniqueness completely. Last year, that
was really my biggest battle, and a very private one: feeling
so hemmed in and unable to be the person I am; the person I want
to be and like being. And very unable to express or see how terribly
much that was eating me alive.
I feel so, so incredibly good right now. So alive and whole and full and warm.
I've gone on forever today, I know, but you know, this is real
life -- at some point, things will get complicated or difficult,
tough challenges or even little daily annoyances will intrude
on my bliss, what I have now may not always be mine to have --
and I so want to be able to look back at moments like this and
cherish them, keep them close to me so I can keep perspective,
and not get overwhelmed by the bad stuff. So much of my life has
been so incredibly hard, especially way back when. I want to remember
clearly that these moments make even all the worst sorts of shit
terribly small; that sometimes, it just gets this bloody good.
Dance around the house in your underpants good. Damned good. |
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April 21st, Two Thousand Three: What would Jesus do....
... if he really did rise again on Easter? This is what I couldn't
help but ask -- and then grumble, and then shout -- yesterday
while trying to run some errands, only to discover that for the
WHOLE day, places like Target and all out major grocery stores
were closed. I mean, come on! Jesus would need clothes! And shoes!
And feckin' band-aids, for crying out loud!
If he really got desperate, though, he could buy a fluffy little
girl dress at the Mexican clothing shop on Lake St. and grab a
tamale at La Loma. But really, if Hispanic Catholics see no reason
not to work on Easter, I really, really can't see how any other variety can get away with taking the
day off to go schnocker up on ham and hard-boiled eggs while Jesus
is out wandering the rainy streets with cold, bloody feet.
Honestly.
Speaking of schnockered, it is a testament to how few operative
brain cells I have that late last night, I nearly wet my pants
laughing at myself by envisioning a scenario in which at the next
date I have with my fetching butchgirl, I put on Peter Frampton Live, at the worst possible moment, just to see what happens. In this
mental mishap of a daydream, I also have a camera crew outside
my door with a timer to see how long it takes for her to run out
screaming in absolute terror. I make loads of cash from people
who will pay to see my special brand of (sur)reality TV.
I wholeheartedly confess, I had a bit of a buzz on when this idea
came to me, though that hardly excuses it. I also confess that
I am now tempted to do this just because I've been feeling that
silly (and then we can see if the girl really isn't reading, eh? Because no one, no one, hears Baby, I Love Your Way and says, deadpan, "Frampton Live eh? Great tune, babe," without being prepared for it in advance. If you do, seek help
immediately.).
So, yes, I've been silly as all get-out lately. I am utterly goo-goo-gaga
over J., all drunk on the NRE and the sum of what we've got going
on, feeling totally high school about it, and more than a little
embarrassed to be as smitten as I am. And my being so smitten
makes working the poly scenario more than the wee-est bit tricky.
I'm more than a bit rusty at this, and feeling mighty clueless;
worried about hurting feelings, but having a hard time putting
a lid on what I'm feeling myself.
But I digress. I do have to say, I had one of the best birthdays
ever this year. Ever. The drag show rocked (though I was cheated
a bit -- it was "Revenge of the Femmes" night, so only one lone
drag king in there for me, sigh), Becca was having a great time,
I got my best friend and my new galpal/playmate/girlfriend/whatever
and her posse in the nix. Dinner was good, drinks and such were
fun, being out and about was great. Staying in later-later was
even better, and that was topped by lovely sleep-snuggles and
morning playfulness and gabbing that just plain rocked.
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Last stop on the nonsequitur-train before I head out and tote
Sofi to her annual checkup, which she will despise me for for
days: I'm not usually vain. I don't think I am, anyway. I also
don't have any real hang-ups about getting older. But I have to
confess that with the most recent set I put up and shot on Friday,
I did indeed stop at a few shots and just said to myself (okay,
and out loud), "Damn, I look fucking good for 33."
And I think I do, which is somewhat gratifying. There's something
nice, albeit somewhat superficial, about that; about feeling that
way. And I feel even better than I look, the cold I'm battling
notwithstanding. The karma train appears to be pulling into my
station. I'm a lucky girl, these days.
(Aaron is not so lucky: he just woke up and shuffled through blearily,
and the only way I felt I could inform him properly that hot coffee
was in the thermos for him was to bust into "The Thermos Song"
from The Jerk. Poor boy.) |
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Photography: 04.19 (28 photos): members • samples 1 • 2 • 3 • sign up
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April 17th, Two Thousand Three: Hee hee (Girlfriends Magazine, May 2003). |
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April 15th, Two Thousand Three: Oh boy, catch-up. I've got quite a bit of it to be doing here
today.
But a big plug first (No, not that kind of big plug. Gawd.) All y'all who have been hollering that you want to buy some prints?
Now's your chance to show me you weren't just shooting your mouths
off for shits and giggles! I have a big batch of prints from the
show, all signed, beautifully colored and ready to go for the
asking. So, if you're interested in that -- and I have to tell
you, usually after a bit, I'm bored to tears with my own work,
but some of these had me oohing and ahhing because the color and
texture is just that cool in print -- go on and take a peek here to check them out and get the skinny on ordering.
</shameless self-promotion>
Couple of folks have asked that I post my keynote for the conference
this weekend, so I'll get that up somewhere shortly, but really,
the best part of the whole thing was doing the photography workshop
on Saturday. For three hours, I had 12 different people who got
about 15 minutes of my time to have portraits, dressed, nude or
seminude, done. Thankfully, I got in my zone pretty quickly, and
stayed in it the whole time, buoyed by the incredible energy of
everyone there, by being drenched in what was -- especially for
such a small groups -- a really great diversity of body size,
shape and color, or differing genders and identities, of everyone's
varied personalities. Through my camera and the headpsace I'm
in when I work where I'm trying to essentially cut through the
crap and really just SEE people as they are, I got to be charmed
totally by each and every person there while I was working. Haven't
edited the shots yet (and most of them I do have permission to
use for my own galleries, so my patrons will get to see them),
but the roughs are incredibly beautiful and quirky and original
and different, for every single session, with a very minimalist
setup. I really had such a wonderful time. While I practically
dropped from exhaustion the minute it was over, I felt totally
geared up and energized while I was working, and the three hours
just zipped right by.
But I'll tell you, here's the thing that makes me.... I don't
know if sad is the right word -- I find this interesting, but
also a little depressing. Every single person who got a peek at
their proofs as I was pulling them onto my laptop off the card
said, almost verbatim, "You made me look so BEAUTIFUL!" Now, I fiddle with light, I play with angles and space when I
photograph, and I am after seeing the beauty there and playing
it up (and, I always realize when I see other people's snapshots
of me, in making space look a lot bigger, I tend to look a lot
bigger and taller myself -- Gray took some snaps of me working Saturday, and I look just like
the hyper midget monkey I am IRL). But a photographer is not a
painter. And while I don't do a whole lot of retouching anyway,
these folks were looking at unretouched work and still saying
this. The point is, I'm not painting them or making them into
something they are not: I am, while artfully, merely capturing
what is right there in front of me, what all of anyone I'm photographing
is every day of their lives, or at least a given side of them
they're showing.
It's just astonishing to me how unclearly people seem to see themselves.
How much baggage and insecurity and doubt gets brought to the
table in terms of not just their physical beauty and originality,
but their beauty entire. I'm tremendously glad everyone left feeling
all pumped up and fabulous and beautiful, and it makes me feel
good that I can help with that. But it also makes me sad -- I
guess it is sad -- that they don't have that without someone like
me, or without a lover to tell them how lovely they are. Certainly,
I'm not immune to that either, I'm not sure any of us really is,
but while I still have my days where things feel incongruous because
I grew up playing the ugly duckling part, I think for the most
part I see me as I am more than a lot of people I encounter. I
know that I'm beautiful even when my hair looks like I went through
a wind tunnel, when I'm not in my best shape, when I've got a
zit the size of Mount Everest right on the tip of my nose. I have
no idea, really, what one or everyone needs to do to get all of
us there, really there, not just now and then, but I know I wish
we all were there.
And I have got to do this sort of workshop more often, and write
a bigger piece about this. It was just a fantastic experience.
And damn, was I at the top of my game, and that feels fantastic.
Even the lighting tests I did before shooting that Aaron kindly
sat down for created a fantastic couple of shots. All good. One
of the participants even came all the way from New York for hers,
which was a pretty overwhelming compliment.
Finished off my weekend by having what was easily one of the top
ten dates of all time with J. on Sunday (and have determined her
journal moniker, so I can talk about her all I want now, la la
la). I'm not sure that one has really lived until you've had an
entire dyke household cook you an amazing meal, getting to sit
meanwhile on a porch in spring with the object of your affection
and nuzzle shamelessly, followed by the mass hilarity of group
girl-porn watchage, followed by some... erm, more private endeavors
(the sound of which apparently provides entertainment for the
remainder of the very sleepy household -- how it is I always forget
how loud I am, I will never know. I will now forever be accused
of having "porn star sex" in that particular household, but I
guess that ain't all that far from the truth, so. Blimey.), followed
by much moonlight talking and general blissed-out snugglefest.
THAT, friends and neighbors (and if you're the neighbors on J.'s
block, I apologize for my volume to you as well) is a date. Hot
damn.
And some of the reason why I spent most of my day yesterday grinning
or babbling like a total idiot.
Hilariously, the person nuttily rushing to houseclean before J.
got here to pick me up on Sunday wasn't me, but Aaron. Guess I
owe him a totally backwards pre-date cleanup now when it's his
turn. This may be one of the few instances in which I know full
well I can't give as well as I get. Hopefully, if I just shove
shit in closets, it still counts.
I've been feeling a little awkward, because I am experiencing
some mild dissonance with some friends, readers, etc. about my
new thang. It's not at all horrible, and everyone has pretty much
been happy to see me squealing, but it does seem that some of
the resident opinion or idea is that I tend to be pictured with
femmes. Now, some of that may be because literally I usually AM
pictured with femmes, but not only are life and work two different
things, femme women tend most often to be the ones who want to
get naked and have their picture taken, with me or for me. As
well, without sounding insulting or like I'm stereotyping, most
hetero men and women -- and even a lot of bisexual ones, as I've
found a lot of bisexual people still tend to operate or have relationships
in a hetero sort of framework -- seem to fall into a sort of media
and mainstream porn-fed trap of seeing femmes with femmes, or
thinking that butches look or act like femmes, just with short
hair and a little less lipstick. Jeepers.
I've had the journal up here, and thus my more personal life,
for four years. During that time, I haven't been dating any women,
and during most of that time, I was only with B., period, outside
of work. Everyone knows I'm queer (and if not, are REALLY not
paying attention). I know I've waxed rhapsodic about the butch
mystique, as it were, more than once, and I'm pretty sure I've
made it fairly clear that I have never gotten into femmes. I'm
a classic butch kinda gal. It's what revs my engine, much in the
same way that genderqueer, androgynous boys rev me up, and tend
to be my taste. It's been my wiring for as long as I can remember,
femme boys and butch girls, and I SO have absolutely no complaints
that it is. :)
I'm giddy enough right now without going into extended discourse
about my love/lust/longing for butch women, though I truly should
do an extended piece on such at a later date; it'd be awfully
enjoyable. Honestly, I'd probably give myself a heart attack at
this point, I'm just that goofy. But it can be a little tricky
with some folks who just kind of can't get the appeal when it's
so terribly strong for me. My closest friends seem to get it enough,
even those who aren't at all queer (well, but queer enough to
like being my friend), so that's all rocking, but it's a spot
weird to answer questions about it in my email to readers or acquaintences.
My guess is, it's just a matter of a) the difference between hearing
me talk about it now and then in the abstract and then having
it be more concrete and b) the fact that most folks who aren't
lesbian or queer women or who don't have lesbian relationships
(was trying to explain differences between same-sex and lesbian
relationships to a friend the other day, and I'm sure I did a
truly lousy job of such) aren't going to get it all the way in
the same way that I have a hard time wrapping my brain around
some heterosexual attractions or models or partnerships, even
with a hefty dose of heteroprivledge.
Ah, the endless quest for all of us widely varied folk to try
and understand one another. I'll get back to you on how that's
going just as soon as I finish pushing this insanely heavy rock
uphill.
I might be better able to apply myself if I shut the hell up for
a while. Besides, I have another date in a bit and some boxing
to do. Yeeha. Friday, I even get a big girl-posse, including Becca,
to go to Dykes Do Drag with me on my birthday.
I gotta say, the usual dissapointments inside (I don't make enough
money, I work too feckin' hard, I need more support for the work
I do, we have a shit government from hell, the sun isn't out every
day, they don't sell vegan doughnuts, etc.), this year has already
more than compensated for last year. And it's only feckin' April.
That is just righteous.
(And yes, I know, I'm behind on shoots. Planning to shoot something
nicely cute and perverse for Easter tomorrow, none to worry.) |
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