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May 12th, Two Thousand Three: I'm taking a week or so off from journal writing (really, from
journal publishing, I write regardless). Not only is there just
WAY too much going on, which is tremendously complex and difficult
to express, a lot of it is just plain private. So, I'm fine, not
to worry. I just need to process and sort my thoughts privately
right now, as well as figure out what I'm ready and willing to
put here in terms of my life and head as of late and what I'm
not.
Because what I've tried to sit down and write has ended up being
pages and pages of unsorted babble, much of which I'm not all
that comfortable sharing save with my closest friends, even if
it were coherent. Which it isn't. |
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May 9th, Two Thousand Three: What is sexy?
I've seen that question used as a slogan for Victoria's Secret
lately, and I'm told and shown, via the accompanying photos on
the ads, that it's nubile, young supermodels, tanned and looking
a bit sweaty and feverish, in heels and lingerie. Quelle surprise!
I'm not saying that can't be sexy. Because I think it can be.
But I don't know that I'd say that sums up what sexy -- or beautiful
-- is very well.
When I was growing up, there was a man in the burn ward of my
mother's hospital for a while, who later would wander the streets
of the North side, often frequenting the library. Before he had
gotten full body burns, he'd already had vitiligo (a condition
which causes spontaneous irregular depigmentation of the skin),
so that combined with the burns gave him the appearance of a wild,
spotted leopard.
He was one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen in my life. I was awed and amazed and entranced, and over
the years I'd see people who did body painting projects to make
them look similar, and they'd strut and stretch, feeling -- and
looking -- feline and exotic and otherwordly. Beautiful.
Many people averted their eyes from him on the street. He didn't
ever say much, but he didn't shy away, or hide his face and skin,
and he always had a jackal's smile for me. One could choose, I
suppose, to see the man as ugly -- but that would be a choice,
and but one way of seeing. For me, I still find his image comes
back to my mind again and again and I'm still awed and amazed
and entranced with his stunning and poignant beauty. I can envision
no way in which I could NOT see that beauty. Because it is all
right there, right in front of my eyes and my heart.
At the BECAUSE conference last month, I had what I'd say was a
pretty remarkable opportunity. I had 12 models -- everyday people,
nearly all of whom had never modeled in any capacity before, all
queer, no less -- and I had three hours to shoot them all in,
in segments of 15 minutes a piece, with no breaks, save the occasional
sprint outside for a puff of a cigarette or a swig of water or
coffee. The setup was sparse: just some faded black tablecloths,
a chair, one set of tungsten lights, and the horrid overhead fluorescent
lights of the hotel. There was so makeup or hair person, there
was no stylist. There was no time for tons of primping. There
was a table of very minimal props: a few scarves and pieces of
fabric. Most of the participants shot nude or seminude, and while
the door to the room was closed, all the other participants waited
inside while one shot with me, so privacy was very minimal. I
knew all of two of the participants before the shoot, but had
only met them a few times in passing.
They all wanted to look beautiful. Some -- I might even say most
-- didn't realize they already did.
Here's the thing: I'm not sure you can make anyone look beautiful.
I'm not sure you have to. I've met very, very few people in my
life who I didn't think were already beautiful all by themselves,
with no help from me or anyone else or this cosmetic or that special
exercise regimen.
Instead, my job as a photographer and an artist is to see that
beauty and document it, highlight it, bring it to the forefront
of my mind and eye, and capture that in the photographs. And that
isn't even half as hard as it looks.
One of the amazing things about doing portraits of other people
is that while I'm in the midst of shooting them, I am totally,
utterly, and completely in love with each of them. |
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Photography: 05.09 (40 photos): members • sign up
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My pants are charmed off, I want to take them home, I can't help
but wax poetic about all the little details and quirks of them
that come flooding out as I work. After each set, I nurse a crush
until the next one, and little bits of those crushes always linger.
I have a *lot* of crushes. For me, to do this kind of work, my
eyes aren't the only things that have to be open; my heart has
to be open -- wide open -- as well. I have to be as open and vulnerable
as I need my subjects to be, if not more so.
None of these participants look like Victoria's Secret models.
All of them were, and are, incredibly sexy, and moreover, incredibly
beautiful. I didn't make them that way. Certainly, I chose to
highlight what I found beautiful and sexy in each of them, and
the dance we do, artist and subject, encourages that: it's a kind
of flirting, really. Seeing someone else's rapt interest in you,
hearing little snippets of "what a glorious neck you have," or
"what beautiful skin," engages us in that dance; we, as subjects,
fall in love in our own way, we rise to these occasions and flirt
back, stretching out that neck further, or showing more of that
skin.
It's intensely rewarding to have subjects like these look at the
raw photos and gasp "God, I'm so beautiful" instead of "You made
me LOOK so beautiful." It's amazing and miraculous to get lucky
enough on occasion to watch someone be able to see themselves
without immediate, rote body negativity or critique; with absolute
or even just partial acceptance, not with an eye towards looking
for what needs be improved or removed. We aren't dealing with
Cinderella or Eliza Doolittle transformations here. Instead, these
are quiet and simple realizations, about learning that when we
look in the mirror, all too often we do not see what it shows
us, but what we decide to see in it. Whether we see ourselves
beautiful or the ugly is entirely up to us -- they both have the
capacity to be in there.
So, what is sexy? What is beautiful? Us -- all of us -- just as we are.
(There's more brewing in my head today; quite a lot really. But
I wrote this yesterday and wanted to get it out there. And considering
that I'm sitting here half brain dead from a sexathon that lasted
about seven hours last night that shook me near to my foundation,
and, on another note, have been asking myself some pretty tough,
but needed and evolutionary questions lately, the above is more
ready for public consumption than what I'd start babbling uncontrollably
at this point. So.) |
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May 4th, Two Thousand Three: Don't believe me for a minute if you mark me and I look at you
with a glare.
Instead, search for the easy grin hiding beneath my eyes and know
that for days afterwards, I'll finger your impression. I won't
cover it. I'll watch it fade slowly, hoping by the time it's gone,
you'll be back around to replace it with another. I'll pull my
hair back on purpose, and make it look coincidental. When someone
asks who gave it to me, I won't say your name. I'll smile suave
and smug and coy, and shrug my shoulders -- knowing full well
they'll know just who from my smirk alone, leaving them to imagine
how or where or when I earned my stripes.
The first hickey I ever got I wore like a medal. I don't remember
which one it was exactly, but I have a good idea who it was from.
I relished my friends in braces pulling back my hair who'd yell-whisper,
"Ohmigawd!" I could taste their excitement, finished with the aftertaste
of envy. I wore a turtleneck out of the house when I left -- one
of those with a repeated small pattern on it, hearts or rainbows
or tiny turtles, the sort that apparently invited the shop teacher
to snap all of our visible bra straps -- but rolled the neck all
the way down in school, not wanting to hide it from even the most
disapproving eyes (which may be the best eyes of all). It was
an ugly eyesore of a mark, but I thought it was the most beautiful
thing in the world.
Nothing is blemished in my blemishes: I find no flaws in a flaw.
I'm a sucker for pain and hard sensation that makes its mark.
I like to be brought sharply, harshly to my senses, but I'm not
a submissive: I relish the fight and the struggle and working
my ass off not to be broken, taking each lash or bite or pinch
with a sharp intake of breath and a hot shot of adrenaline. I
like the girls who are so sure they can break me best; they try
so hard, for so long.
So, you can leave more than hickeys if you like. Bruises, welts,
lashes, burns, scars, stains, teeth marks, pinpricks, rashes:
I crave and cherish all. The other night your intent thumb left
a circular bruise on my mons, red and tender from the ball of
your hungry hand pumping in and out of my cunt, holding tight
to it. I'd set my own hand on it the next day to feel the lingering
soreness and remember where I'd been the night before. The marks
you left on my neck were deepened by your other hand, pressing
on my windpipe just enough to make me dizzy. I'd remember this
with the same stilted breathing.
They're the wardrobe door to my private Narnia. I look at them,
touch them, someone else sees them and asks or gasps and I'm right
back inside the last fevered place I left. My head swims; I feel
flushed and heady. My sexual memories are visceral and sensate;
I am ever-willing prey to a swift assault of images, sounds and
scents. Just one glance in the mirror and the room smells like
you, of fresh-mowed grass and laundry soap on velvety, worn cotton.
The smallest touch of this sore spot or that one and you're here:
your eyes shut tight, lower lip sucked in slightly, the baby chick
fuzz of your just-shorn hair tickling my nipples and thighs.
I bruise easy; the usual curse of the fair-skinned is absolutely
my boon. Much of the time, no one intends to leave marks on me.
If I don't cry out or wince, I can trick them into leaving me
with these prizes unknowingly and tease them about them later,
but I won't mark you unless you ask.
That's a half-truth. There are times I'm so caught up in the fever
and the frenzy that I suck or bite forcefully, and initially,
I don't know I'm marking. But if you don't stop me, brush me away,
say no... I'll realize in short moments what I'm doing and suckle
all the more; harder, deeper. If I leave a mark and was left without
myself, I'll hint or ask for one in return. Just to be fair, you
know. For symmetry and balance, you know. Because I envy yours
and want one of my own, knowing you might get all of the images
and memories from yours and I want them for myself.
A woman at a cosmetics counter the other day spied my spotty neck.
In the most subtle way possible, she eyed the marks, halfcocked
a brow, and gestured to the rack of concealer samples. I shook
my head, subtly, in return. I wanted to ask, "Would you?" Knowing
she would, but she'd only cover it enough so as to look like she
made the attempt at decorum: not so much that it wasn't still
visibly green-blue under the thin veneer of cakey porcelain pancake,
and that the effort to conceal didn't make it stand out all the
more.
Once every five years, I allow myself a tattoo. The rule is, I
have to wait those five years, and then spend at least a few months
working on the flash. The five year rule is in place because without
it, I know I'd look like Bradbury's illustrated man by the time
I'm 40. The adrenaline and the endorphins are addictive: each
time round I plan a piece slightly larger than the one before,
and look forward to the afternoon or evening spent high on my
own chemicals, remembered in color and line just beneath my skin.
This year I'll be able to get another, larger than ever, crossing
over muscle and bone, and before I've even got the piece designed,
I'm relishing its sensation and its significance. All of my marks
and stains, my scars and blemishes, the wounds and the weft of
my history as evidenced on my skin mark time, not merely flesh.
They simultaneously exist in one moment, celebrate and document
those past and anxiously tease and toy with moments to come.
My purpled emblem from last week is nearly invisible now: no one
else can likely see it, but I can hear the hushed vespers of its
ghost haunting my skin and sinew. You'll be back round tonight,
you can freshen it up. I'll make a point of pulling my hair over
my shoulders and showing you how much it's faded; invite you with
the blank canvas of my long, pale neck, my round ass or my tapered,
freckled back.
You'll accept the invitation, if I'm lucky, if I don't look like
I want it as badly as I do. I'll glare at you when I find it.
I'll feign shock we both know is false and plastic, and I'll mark
time with my brands, savoring the permanence of their impermanence.
I might not ever tell you these things. But you won't believe
me for a minute if you mark me and I glare. |
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May 4th, Two Thousand Three: Lynda Barry tells it like it is. Because she is a goddess incarnate, but
we all knew that (Didn't we? If you didn't, shame on you!).
When asked by Blair Magazine for her advice to teens, Lynda said:
- "There are rotten people in the world that cannot be cured by
magical hippy love. They will always be the way they are and if
they are friends/ romantic partners/ parents/ co-workers/ dude
who just cut you off in his Acura/ GET AWAY FROM THEM! DO NOT
LINGER! You cannot fix Dracula by trying to convince him to just
party in the sun with you.
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- This is what I wish I knew earlier. Bad people, jerks, sociopaths
and narcissists are always among us. Do not try and help them
with your loyal love. RUN! NOW! GO!
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- Also... um... meditation is harder than they say it is and also
a lot easier and it's decently cool and so is yoga. It's not mystical
or righteous. It's a way to get into more sections of life. Also
when you are 41 you'll be able to hold your foot in the air higher
than your head which is really a nice thing to look forward to
every day."
Listen to Lynda, kids, whatever your age.
I've got a pug adventure brewing from yesterday's jaunt, but must
hit the farmer's market first before it starts to storm, because
it's finally open again and it feeds my little soul (and my little
tummy). |
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May 2nd, Two Thousand Three: There's been a bit of interesting discussion lately about sex
workers at the Scarleteen boards brewing.
I always find it amazing to hear myself painted as a sad, confused
victim, especially given the assumption that sexual assault survivors
who do sex work must be doing so out of their "victimization."
Given, I don't work for a strip club off the freeway, and I don't
turn street tricks (in which case, for various reasons, including
legal and cultural issues, I do think it's safe to discuss more
issues of safety, of consent, of economics, of gender imbalances,
etc. -- though the same issues apply for male sex workers). But
do I look sad and confused to you? I don't feel very sad and confused.
And if I'm victimized, I have to wonder who is victimizing me
and what any of us have to gain from it when it comes down to
the capitalist quid pro quo. In what I do, who do you think has
the power, really? I do, sugar. Inside and out. And I try and
share it, well outside the old power-over/power-under paradigm:
that's part of the job.
I know, it's a tired conversation to some degree. I also know
that the sort of work I do has vital differences from some other
sex work: I am my own boss. I'm not in it for the dough. I have
a much higher female "clientele" than your average female sex
worker, and my male viewers hardly count as mainstream in most
cases. And I've heard, time and again, that I don't count as a
good example (or Hanne doesn't, or Carol doesn't, or Jane doesn't, or Magda doesn't... the list goes on), because of whatever our notable
exceptions may be. But to cut to the chase, I think more times
than not what's not being said but is being meant is that those
of us who "don't count" or don't represent accurately don't because
we are intelligent and strong, and the rule is, sex workers don't
get to be intelligent and strong, and if we are, we're the exception,
not the rule.
I'm not going to go on about that at length, but consider it food
for thought. I think that belief is incredibly pervasive and constantly
cloaked, and if you want to fish for sentiments which are antifeminist,
saying that women who work in sex, unless they're racking in serious
cash, must be stupid or weak? That pretty much takes the cake.
Let's focus on less heavy bits today, though, shall we?
Had yet another great data with J. Wednesday/Thursday after she
came back from her trip. Grabbed dinner from my favorite Ethiopian
place, headed back to her house to help rename a batch of Girl
Scout badges she and the girl-posse found on eBay (apparently,
we're allowed to try and earn these this summer, yeeha). And got
to catch up in more ways than one through the night. J. wanted
to sleep in, claiming allowance to do so since she worked so hard
on me the night before, so I got to sneak unto their sunny wraparound
porch in the early hours, and hammer out a really strong piece
for an anthology I'd wanted to submit to by the deadline. So,
I claimed some of the morning time I'd been needing, and it was
just the most perfect thing. After the girl woke up and stumbled
out, I also got a stick-shift driving lesson. J. says I was a
champ, but I'd set my own goals low: no crashing into anything,
no maiming of pedestrians. Given I did not accomplish either of
those things, I consider it a success. I didn't bust into tears
either, which is what has happened in the past when I've tried
to learn stick driving, mostly due to never being able to even
get a whole block because I couldn't get the fuck out of neutral.
Okay, and because I have stick-shift trauma. Lauri, my old boss
at the garden I did farmer's market's for in Chicago, once told
me, when we were in a rush to get some new package designs I'd
done set and printed, that it would be no problem for me to jump
into her stick-shift car, roll unto Lake Shore Drive and just
learn as I went.
No one died, and it's a total miracle they didn't. I'm still convinced
I developed heart palpitations from that incident. I certainly
learned to be a lot less gullible.
I tried this, again, because I'm considering buying J's old car
when she gets her new Mini on Saturday. I got a good half hour
of used car-salesmanship the other day (she's immensely talented,
should she ever consider leaving the legal field), and I have
been talking about finding a cheap junker so I could have a little
more mobility, and it is cheap enough to be exactly my budget.
Which is saying something. Just have to make sure I can learn
to drive the thing decently, and get a license here soon. I let
mine from Illinois expire when I moved up here, since I sold my
van when I moved. So.
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Life still rocks. The amazing dates aren't hurting any. I've been
feeling very silly over the last day because I've been walking
around with a handful of rather huge hickeys on my neck, something
that always makes me feel giddy.
And this girl is so truly fabulous. Have I mentioned that yet?
Yeah, thought maybe I had.
I've been doing a lot of thinking and a lot of processing lately;
about what I need and what I want, about limits I've been trying
to set for myself, about getting better about articulating those
limits to others and, when need be, enforcing them, which is always
the hardest part. I recognize in myself that I don't like being
the bad guy, or being perceived as such, and that's a real sticking
point for me, one which keeps me from really getting what I want
and need all too often. |
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Photography: 04.27 (36 photos): samples (1 • 2 • 3 • 4) • members • sign up
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I have to get better at that, like, yesterday. More news as it
progresses and I figure out how, exactly, to get better at that. I know full well some of that is going to
be hard, it already has been.
The plan for the afternoon is for Becca and I to play hooky this
afternoon, a fine plan, in my book. Tomorrow is the Humane Society's
Walk For The Animals, and we'll be bringing the dogs out for it.
It's a five-mile walk, and the weather has been glorious here
as of late, so should prove to be a fun afternoon. The camera
will be in attendance -- Sofia has gone a while without a documented
pug adventure. We're finishing up the walk with some cocktails
at Becca's with one of J's housemates and her dog, and I'll be
finishing up that night myself with some coding to update Scarlet.
Aaron grabbed a copy of The Garden of Vegan (finally here, yay!)
for my birthday, so I want to try out a few things in there over
the next few days, as well as mining it for something new to bring
to the dinner table on Monday when I've got J. over for dinner.
I'm so all about aphrodisia in the kitchen.
Oh, but I have to go review some new vibrators first. Yep: poor,
sad victimized me. |
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