Just until

the footage is edited and uploaded for your standing judgement, here are some teaser pics from the show that was my favorite so far in my newest version of life. Scorpios, you have been given your due homage.

The rest can be found here thanks to Bethany's boyfriend, who I did not meet but who must be lovely to have come and taken so many pictures.

On second thought I can't call you Bethany, Bethany, because the Bethany name slot is already taken up in me thanks to Tuesday, who incidentally I rarely call Bethany. You will now be, for the purposes of blogdom, Panty Beth, for reasons myself and Panty Beth alone know. It is meant with the highest amount of affection. If you would prefer another nickname just let me know. If you would prefer I don't have conversations with you over a public medium that's ok too...just let me know.

Without further ado:

Thighs R Us.












I love this moment. "OMG! No way!"













Broke my arm off for this show.




















Pam, the female video eye, who did a great job but looks as though she's getting a closeup of my ass here.

November the 18th

Has come and gone. I remember to pay attention today. I rehearsed for 9 hours on and off. I have to sleep now, almost immediately, but could not let this day pass undocumented.

Di Fortes Annuo. Tiny victories. Rebellion suits.

Rebellion.

Do you know who this is?

As a literary metaphor, do you know who this is?

If you were a quixotic, book-obsessed child*, can you or can you not eff the ineffable place this character had in your hierarchy of good vs. evil? *Shar...this one's for you!

I can't, obviously, that's why I'm using a picture and a blog post to eff it for me. The movie, while an exquisite childhood memory, is not what I'm talking about, but you can't post a picture of a 400 page book. If you've read it, I hope you will understand me. If not, this post is already cryptic and will not improve.

Do you remember what she consolidated?
What she fought against, and the only thing she was vulnerable to? It was the shovel. More specifically, it was the force behind the musculature that moved it...and more than that, it was the force that allowed this to happen at all. The silencing.

On this note, I think that learning to talk is a lifelong endeavor for me. I used to be jealous of people who could do it well, until I realized they couldn't. They just used more words than me.

Does this seem scattered and inhomogeneous? Probably because I'm going through DT's. That's right. And when you give up a drug, you can use any metaphor you want to get through the first two weeks. That's not an apology.

To Tell the Truth

at least about yourself, is usually a double-edged sword. A swift, clean, beautifully efficient sword. There is no purpose behind this post other than to tell the truth as it comes out, as I know it, which is through words. This is not the truth of my immediacy, but it has been my truth and probably will be again...hopefully not if I am strong enough to resist the tides.

November 9, 2008

Shovel it under. Load upon load of wet black earth. I work through the work and shovel it under, the gem, the life, the voice that keeps me what I am. I work hard, and steadfast. I never allow questions. I shovel it under. The voice is almost completely silent now. Even when I wish to hear if it were still alive, the most I can hear is the din of its silence, reminding me that I silenced it.

What am I to do? Surviving in the world, I must know. Surviving in the cosmos, I really have to know. And yet the questions can’t be asked. Yet the shovel is lighter the stronger I get. Load upon load I shovel it under. The din reminds me that where there is silence there should be shrieking. I never know how to let it out without destroying something precious, so I shovel it under. The stars, they know.

They watch everything. When I was young I saw the face of the man in the moon, but everyone said it was a smiling face, and I saw it was not. I saw a face grave with sorrow and melancholy, always watching something on earth, someone hurting their brother. Someone hurting themselves. People betraying themselves as I am doing with each lift of the shovel. Load upon load I bury the light.

Now it is almost completely dark. Now it is almost completely silent. There is no peace, because once someone has committed murder they never forget it. Never for one moment can you be unaware of this treachery you have committed, this crime against the force behind your heartbeat. It is a crime to waste it. I go outside in the afternoons and I see it wasted until I come home in the evenings and pick up my shovel. In the days I imagine things could be better. I push through the pain in my bones to stretch them further, to balance solid through the pain of gravity, to make something beautiful, something impossible from my youth.

This is the only reason I am not completely fallen. I have been fighting for something I know is good, even though the way I know it is become buried under the black weight of deny deny deny. The black, wet, moist solidity of avoidance.

I am very careful. I make sure that when you see it from the outside I look as I always have, fighting in the fields for the crops to grow, when in fact I am only burying them. Load upon load I shovel it under.

I know better. Every fiber of my body and mind tells me I know better. My body screams out in a rage and makes me feverish and tired. But I am very careful. I give it what it needs, and so I coax it into silence again.

It wouldn’t be the first time. The grand old duchess in her maiden gowns, the homeless people that disgust me on the streets, the piles of vomit that fill me with hatred, they are all because of the shovel. How can I take part in such beastliness?

Easy. It is designed to be easy. It is designed to be nearly undetectable.

...............
Have you ever wondered why, if the Gods that create us wish for us to be sentient, awake, worthy vessels of creative force, is it so difficult to remain so, and so easy to half-sleep? It wouldn't be worthy if it weren't hard enough to hurt sometimes. It means you really, really have to want it. Everything is by design. So what becomes of us when we wake up to find a shovel in our hands?

Rebel.

Oneday.

It's morning time and I have to make an extra pot of coffee to satiate myself, my cousin, and the traveling Norwegian who is draping himself over our apartment for a few days. We met two years ago in Sveden, dismissed each other, then grew a friendship through long and wonderful letters. The object of the day yesterday (for me) was to clear up the difference between V and W in pronunciation.

I go to knock on the building manager's door to get her to open the laundromat for my Scandinavian friend. She doesn't answer, but I linger around the door just long enough to hear the unmistakable sounds of her cat puking near the threshold. I accept this as true defeat and go back upstairs.

It is time for productivity, I stayed in yesterday to nurse my ill health. I suspect it has been brought on by victorious backbends at Circus school, which opened up the lymph nodes in my hips and they have remained swollen ever since. Circus teaches you all kinds of weird shit about your body. Tonight I shall drag my lanky, wintery companion to circus cardio with me so I can die in company.

Pictures to follow shortly.

Harlot

Vau de Vire Halloween gig- left to right: Maria, who looks put-together even after sweating for four hours, powerhouse T, creepy dead me, and the beloved ineffable Kristina.

Usually, when performing you're recognized as a performer by your dress. Not so on Halloween. Try and make a grand entrance by virtue of being dressed all weird and you'll be met with a room stuffed full of Pirates, Nurses, Sexy Bugs, Sexy Fairies, and Sexy Construction workers. They really make you work for it.

Good times. Beautiful venue, Harlot, and Mr. Gaines had built a small stage for us on top of the coat check.

Got mildly groped by Jesus. Punched him in the back. That is all.