back, and to the left

We’re lying on the couch, grinding on the couch, when he says, finger to my lips, in an overly innocent voice that has no idea the incredible faux pas it’s about to commit, “Now you be a good little girl and don’t move. Just wait right here.”

I pause, distracted, jolted. “Excuse me?”

His eyes widen as the multiple potential layers of his statement sink in, meanings rife with candy, white vans, and puppies. “Oh dear!” he says, “I promise that’s not where I meant to go with that.”

We collapse laughing, the moment lost now in something else. We lie curled together, our hands lost in each other’s hair, and I tell a story of being approached once by a young man in a nightclub who’d had one too many beer, “We’d been dancing, nothing special. We didn’t know each other at all, but he came up to me in a pause in the music, drink in hand, smiling, and said, You know what I’d like? Of course I shook my head no. I didn’t even know his name. If you came home with me so I can show you who your daddy is.

I can’t help but feel squidgy whenever I remember there are people in space!

via Warren:

Astronauts discover a long stretch of damage on the space shuttle Atlantis.

The shuttle appears to be in good overall shape, but the survey did uncover a 53cm (21in) line of chips on the vehicle’s right side. The line of chips uncovered by the inspection are in thick tiles that make up the protective heat shield on Atlantis’ starboard side. The damage is located where the right wing joins the shuttle’s fuselage. Nasa said the chips could be related to a debris event detected by the wing’s leading edge sensors 104-106 seconds into the lift-off.

This report leads to one of those surprising and uncomfortable truths about humanity’s current space travel skills:

If something goes wrong on this mission, Atlantis’ crew will not be able to shelter on the International Space Station (ISS). The station orbits at around 350km (220 miles) above Earth, while Hubble occupies an orbit about 560km (350 miles) up.

The Shuttle can’t fly there. It can’t shed 130 miles of altitude, establish a new orbit on a radically different inclination and maneuver to ISS. Because our things that fly in space still aren’t really spaceships as we’ve been brought up to think of them. In fact, the Endeavour’s on the launchpad now, ready to launch an unprecedented rescue mission if it’s determined that the Atlantis may not survive re-entry.


He kisses me, and I thrill. “What about over there?” I ask, pointing at the tall stone cathedral across the street, “Those confessional things you were talking about, they have doors, right?” He looks at me, shocked, amused, and laughs. His body twists, he mimes my body on top of his in the cafe seat. “Oh”, he says, panting, “Father,” a gasp, “We’re sinning!”

zen flowers

Vicki Silva

Louisa May Alcott’s Letter to Her Mother

“Whatever beauty or poetry is to be found in my little book is owing to your interest in and encouragement of all my efforts from the first to the last; and if ever I do anything to be proud of, my greatest happiness will be that I can thank you for that, as I may do for all the good there is in me; and I shall be content to write if it gives you pleasure.”

Happy Mother’s Day, Vicki and Silva. Thank you for all your love.

where to be on Sunday

a musical bazaar of sorts with

“These are the times, my friends. And these are the days. Where the world becomes malleable, palpable. When novelty and genius are within our reach. We are cautioned against being passionate about these things by tales of progress turned to greed and of technology turning on us. And yet, the golden light is just right, the clocks are synchronizing, the stars are in alignment.

This is what we celebrate tonight. We celebrate these transient times, with these transient artists.” – c. lantz

Sunday, May 10, 2009 3 pm to 10 pm
The Little Red Studio
750 Harrison Street, Seattle, WA
ALL-AGES, $15 donation

Wearables, craftables, and edibles provided by a plethora of local and regional artisans. (ex. Sock Dreams will be arriving from Portland to vend excellent foot/legwear.) We will take a dinner break (with DJ) at 6:30 pm – please bring your own sack meal, a picnic to share, or food can be acquired from two of our vendors. Vegan options available. Adult beverages can be purchased by 21+ individuals.

Spread the word. All are welcome.

[Another fine event brought to you by the incomparable Libby Bulloff and Willow Brugh.]

putting the growl back in purr

Electricty conductive body paint.

Falling from the bus, pushed to my knees by a wave of car sick nausea, falling down to find him waiting, two roses in hand, one scarlet, one jade, waiting and in love, curiosity transformed over half a decade into smitten into smote, a slow walk, arms linked, step in step, finally a pair five years later than when we met, when I had taken him home.

We had been dancing at the same place, a night club gone goth for a friend’s industrial night, everyone in black, fishnets, and spikes. Somehow I convinced him to come with me for tea, (yes, actual non-euphimistic tea), curled on my couch, my cripple’s cane leaning against my leg, his sardonic conversation leaning against my heart, as pleasantly dark as his pleated kilt and kinky, curly hair. In the morning, he had gone home, leaving behind only his name, an assemblage memory of a warm, witty smile and an e-mail address to which he only barely replied. After awhile of silence, I chalked it up to one of life’s silly things, counting myself lucky having a hot boy over for tea, and that was that.

Until it wasn’t.

We found each other again through Eliza, her paintings up at Anachrotechnofetishism luring him out and into my orbit again. Soon he was visiting, tangling back into my life, staying on my couch as we went to arts festivals, as I would stay on his on my way through Seattle, the both of us blazing. Eventually, more recently, it was silently decided we would try again where we left off, an arbitrary agreement with no forethought and no warning that coalesced out of air, a relationship wrought without words, twisted together from a few meaningful glances and a deep understanding of what needed to happen next.

“You know I dreamed about you.”

Fast forward, I am pulled from a bus by the fury of my sickness, out and down, and out, having been on a bus for three hours, reading, waiting, wishing I could sleep, the sky on fire with yet another one of those perfect west coast afternoons, beautiful, boring, cliche as a painting, traveling unknown toward a moment for five years, feeling conscripted to the inevitable, as if slotting back into a path I never should have left, the parsed coastal combination of manipulated reasons I can lay out like cards. Curled around my belly, I am struck dumb on the sidewalk, a crumpled ball, but then I look up to see him, poised in sudden terror that I didn’t get off the bus at all, and suddenly everything is okay.

“Tony,” I wave, and he turns, and his face is all I need to know.