cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (why we can't have nice things)
Wow, I was really angry yesterday. And I suspect I'll be equally enraged by the end of today, what with the fuckery unspooling from the George Zimmerman trial, the Supreme Court shitting on section 4 of the Voting Rights Act, and Texas's SB5 threatening women's rights, health, and lives… Yeah, I'll be needing a drink sooner than later. But today's bitchfest concerns not these macro-aggressions, but what I'll call meso-level aggressions, the periodic outbursts of sexism and racism from SFWA members (SFWA = the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America).

I am not a member of SFWA. Maybe one day. I like the idea of their grievance committee, which helps to resolve contract disputes, and I can see the value of their emergency medical fund. I know there are smart, mega-talented people working their asses off to make SFWA an excellent organization.

I also know that SFWA, whether or not I am a member, represents "my" genres to the public. So when SFWA's official publication's cover is one I'd be embarrassed to carry around in public—woman in a barely breast-defying chain-mail bikini, in the snow?—I shake my head in chagrin.

When two of their long-standing writers "Dialogue" about "lady editors", "lady writers", and see fit to comment on said professionals' physical appearances when the topic is supposedly their work and legacy, I roll my eyes and hope none of my non-genre friends ever see this travesty.

When another SFWA columnist upholds Barbie as the role model for young girls "because she maintained her quiet dignity the way a woman should", I grit my teeth and swap sarcastic jokes with other SF writers on Twitter.

When, in SFWA's next Bulletin, the authors of the "lady editors" piece are permitted a lengthy rebuttal of (completely justified and well-reasoned, passionate) critiques, and that rebuttal is essentially "liberal fascists!" and "CENSORSHIP!!!", I feel like SFWA is a sinking ship and I'm caught in its sucking vortex. (For the text of their article, scroll to bottom of this link roundup or read this evisceration.)

But when some jackass uses SFWA tools to spread his racist hate, to denigrate a fellow member with more talent in her pinky finger than he has in his whole waste of organs, to call her a savage and her plea for reconciliation within the SF community "a call for its decline into irrelevance"…?

I cannot, in the parlance of our times, even.

Forgive me if this seems like old news, if I am hopelessly late in joining the choir. The irony is, I had to choose whether to speak out against this racism and misogyny in the SF community OR work on my science fiction novel with a female protag and characters of color fighting for their lives within a quarantined environment. I didn't have the spoons to do both. I wonder why.

Other writers have already written passionately and insightfully about SFWA's inability (or unwillingness) to quash these concerted efforts to sabotage the organization's credibility. I agree that the racist dickblister should be expelled from SFWA for hate speech and improper conduct. I agree that SFWA should take proactive measures to ensure a safe environment for all its members, rather than working around the pus buckets.

I don't want to belong to an organization where I must survey the scene and wonder, Which of these folks doubts that I'm "equally homo sapiens sapiens"? How many of these guys wish I were a pink plastic doll whose mouth didn't open? This is not a free speech issue. My humanity is not up for debate. I will not join a group that allows members to behave as if it is.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (destroy everything)
A lot of shit went down last week (and the week before, and…). I couldn't comment on this shit because I had goals I absolutely had to achieve, and diverting any intellectual focus to people's asinine behavior would've meant my own bodily disaster. My body was already rejecting demands for such frivolous things as sleep. So I put my blinders on. Despite my laser focus, however, certain matters kept creeping into my awareness, and though I couldn't formulate eloquent responses to them, you'd better believe I had emotional responses throbbing just below the surface of my forced calm.

Well, now I'm at a point that I can remove the blinders.

I am so sick of hearing that people who call out racist, sexist, classist, or colonialist behavior are just "looking to be offended." Last week, I certainly wasn't looking to be offended. I was barely even looking! And yet I was deeply offended.

I was fucking offended by the US House of Representatives even debating a farm bill that would've cut more than $20 billion from the food stamps program over the next ten years. My family used food stamps when I was growing up. My mother worked night shifts as a waitress to support three kids, and we would've starved without food stamps. I saw how hard it was for her to get those food stamps, too. Not just psychologically, but logistically. Hours she should've spent sleeping, she wasted on bureaucratic bullshit to prove how bad off we were, because god forbid we get a loaf of bread or carton of milk we didn't deserve. The rate of misappropriated food stamps is a measly 3 to 4 percent, and most of that is due to honest clerical errors, not intent to deceive or steal. The 234 representatives who were willing to pass that bill were willing to let children and old people and poor people starve.

What's more, before the bill got voted down, the House passed two amendments on it, one that would've allowed states to administer drug tests to food stamp applicants. So on top of everything else, my mother might've had to pee in a cup? My fury is too vast for me to keep track of the alphabet, so I'll try numbers.

1) Drug testing is an attempt to shame people out of applying, with its implication that if you need assistance, you must be an addict, with all the moralistic baggage that accompanies such a label.
2) Drug testing is an attempt to scare people out of applying, because what the hell happens if you test positive?
3) Lest we forget: False Positives. They Happen.
4) How many hoops must hungry people jump through before they're "deserving" of aid?
5) WHO THE FUCK CARES if an applicant is using drugs if they and/or their dependents might die without those food stamps?! Really, you're saying that if my mom had a toke to blur the edges of her hard-scrabble life, my siblings and I wouldn't deserve to eat?
6) If you report the guardian for illegal drug use, what the fuck do you think happens to their dependents?

Don't get me started on the other amendment, which would've required applicants to meet federal welfare work requirements. (Although you, dear reader, are welcome to rant about that one in the comments!)

I suppose I should not be surprised that the House deliberated over whether or not to let people starve when it also passed a ban on abortions 20 weeks after conception. Twenty weeks is five months of pregnancy. Do representatives sincerely believe anyone that far along would choose to terminate without a Really Good Reason? Maybe it's because I'm a writer, but I can think of a whole helluva lot of awful scenarios to explain why someone would seek an abortion at that stage of pregnancy. Which is pretty ironic, considering my genres of choice are often considered "escapist." Furthermore, I can imagine the time taken to plead one's case before a complete stranger might result in irreparable harm that a speedy abortion could prevent. But I honestly don't think it's because of my storytelling prowess or even my capacity to become pregnant that I know it's not my place to judge what another person would do in any of these terrible situations. I have so often been powerless, I will not rob fellow humans of power over their own bodies. And I'll be damned if my legislators get away with it. Not in my name.

Two other items of national note that offended me, because I was looking, ie., because I haven't gouged out my eyes or eardrums yet:

Congress's ongoing immigration reform debates
Kickstarter: We Were Wrong – you bet your ass you were, and your apology is too little, too fucking late.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (sugar in my coffee)
I know it's grouchy of me and I'm not saying I'd do any better, but I swear these last two weeks of school are nothing but my kid being used for community focus groups. Yesterday, someone from ACT came by to beta test a writing exam on Tweetie's class. Earlier, there was an assembly so a spokesperson from the public library could tell them all about the summer reading programs. They are the captive audience for older students' end-of-year recitals, and their unit review of Levers and Pulleys was a video about the rides at Disneyworld. This is why I don't feel guilty at all about Tweetie missing the last (snow make-up) day of school so we can get to the Grand Canyon; she'll be a much more active participant in learning with us on the road than being used as a test subject.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (coffee wtf)
I had been hearing something about the school district holding a "listening post" in regard to the "diversity policy," but those terms triggered the wrong set of bullshit detectors, and I figured this was just a "We're Not Racists, Really!" pep rally. Only this morning did public radio news translate for me: the diversity policy is about equalizing the distribution of students receiving free or reduced-cost school lunches. Which means pushing kids around like poker chips to spread out the resource burden and improve test scores. Which means busing students. Which means making poor kids (mostly brown and black kids) get up earlier to get to school, get home later in the afternoon, forfeit after-school activities if they can't figure out another way home, be the high-profile new kids, make new friends...Not to mention how this system would break down the sense of community for these kids.

I feel like screaming. Just give everybody free lunch, already! Just fix the fucking rundown schools. Ignore the stupid tests for a while. Hire more teachers. Stop wasting money on "smart boards." Treat people like people, not numbers.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (sad panda)
On Saturday I had a marvelous art date with my buddies. We made monsoon paper.

photo (51)
monsoon paper 12-15-12

We also experimented on huge canvases with all manner of ink and acrylics and wet leaves and pine needles. We talked about politics and family. And I was reminded that people worry about me. I have been somewhat a-verbal lately. I get tired or feel glum or just empty, and I really can't think of anything to say. Also, since I'm doing poem-a-day again, I post fairly regularly on LJ, but under a poem filter, and I don't say much other than to introduce the poem.

Which brings me to the PROMPT, or rather, a REQUEST for prompts. You may leave me a word or image prompt in comments, and I will incorporate each into a poem. If you're not on my poem-a-day filter, I'll email you the poem inspired by your prompt.

And now for the RANT. )

Car Sick

Nov. 19th, 2012 01:16 pm
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (FML)
Goddamnit, our car got rear-ended again! At least this time J wasn't in the vehicle; it happened in a parking lot, with witnesses. I am beginning to think Agent Green's bodacious ass is the problem. Maybe her butt is just too big for this town. Poor girl.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)
Last night, because of severe weather in our area and trying to stay informed via local news, we ended up watching the national news for the first time in a long time. One of the stories was about Michael Marin, a former attorney and banker, who was found guilty of burning down his mansion for the insurance money. (At this point, Tweetie had left the room.) The video of Marin in the courtroom appears to show him react to the verdict, then swallow two pills, and die. 

I framed it out loud for myself: "I just watched a man commit suicide. On the evening news."

It should've been shocking, but I would've had to feel an iota of sympathy for the guy, which I didn't.

I am so sick of people who act as if being poor is the worst thing in the world that could happen to them. This guy had been rich, then he wasn't. Rather than filing for bankruptcy, or shit, just skipping out on the mortgage and starting life somewhere else, he decides to burn the mansion down for the insurance money. Then, when he's caught, the idea of 16 years in prison is too much and he commits suicide. That last part is a little more understandable to me, who wants to go to prison?, but really, it was the idea of being poor and losing his status that set him on this course. God forbid he live the reality of 46.2 million Americans subsisting below the poverty line.

Good riddance.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (book)
This is one of those times I wish I could have a single, simple reaction to something, like I so often do with chocolate cake. But if stuff has to go through my brain rather than simply my senses, it turns into a muddled mess of compartmentalized appreciation and deflated fury.

Reading the cover of American Poetry Review, Sept/Oct 2011, I was delighted to see "Chicano/Latina Poets, 12 poets introduced by..." But I wondered about the label. Chicano slash Latina? Both, either/or? Seemed like an awkward combination. What were the editors trying to accomplish by that strange slash?

Personally, I grew up with the label Hispanic, which comprises the populations of Spanish-speaking peoples and was in my case especially ironic, considering I did not speak Spanish (well). But we are now/always in a state of nominative flux, and the same way Americans have variously used Negro, colored, black, and African-American, and one can sometimes spot generational differences from the use thereof, we have struggled to choose the "correct" label for my ethnicity. I'm sort of resigned to the Latina identifier now (it includes Brazilians. Never understood Chicano though.) Likewise, I grew up saying Chippewa, but am now more inclined to use Ojibwe. And Winnebago is giving way to Ho-Chunk, at least in Iowa and Wisconsin.

Those were my initial reactions to the cover. Only now am I chagrined to note that Chicano/Latino poets is highlighted the same way other poets' names are: Robert Bly, for example. There are reasons, I'm sure, the editors chose not to highlight any one name from the group. But I doubt they're good reasons.

[ETA: These are the 12 poets featured in the supplemental section. Their names do not appear in the Table of Contents, either.]
Angel Garcia
Cristian Flores Garcia
David Campos
John Olivares Espinoza
Luis Lopez-Maldonado
Ruben Quesada
Sara Aranda
Wendy Silva
Iuri Morales Lara
Yvette Luevano
Scott Hernandez
Adriana Sanchez Alexander

The introduction makes clear that, more than "Chicano/Latina"--whatever that means--the poets are specifically from southern and central California. (I am pleased by how familiar their stories are, though I grew up in Texas.)

I feel pretty confident that most of these poems wouldn't make the pages of APR without the special ethnic focus. It's not that they're not good poems. Most are great. I enjoyed almost all of them. But they are strongly narrative; they throb with a sense of physicality and focus that is generally too raw or "naive" for APR. They are stories, whereas most poems printed in APR seem designed to deflect as much as describe.

Elsewhere in the journal, in the essay on Robert Bly, Tony Hoagland writes, "contemporary American poetry seems less political and more esoterically self-involved than ever." I posit that, if this is the case, it is for the exact same reason so few of the C/L poems would normally make it into APR: critics and editors deliberately turn away from the flourishing counterexamples. Somehow, brown poetry doesn't count. [Echoes of the SpecFic anthologist's lament: "I'm just picking the best I can find--and it's all by white men!"]

Another painful quote from Hoagland's essay: "In his advocacy of poetry from other traditions and cultures, Bly's assertion has been that, unlike cultures subjected to Western European Christian rationality, poets like Neruda and Lorca rediscovered the radical psychic freedom of the imagistic leap. Thus they can remind us how to get to a neglected part of the mind."

Aside from the festering Noble Savage rhetoric, I'm disgusted by this mentality's erasure of immigrants and in-betweeners. Don't get me wrong; I want ALL the poetry, from EVERYWHERE. But did Bly really have to look so far afield? As if there weren't Hispanic poets in America at that time? Their writing not consonant with the same luminaries Bly was chasing? I don't know; I can't rattle off names to prove my point, but I feel a nagging suspicion of erasure.

In her acceptance speech for this year's Tiptree, Andrea Hairston showed some black-and-white slides that validated such suspicions. One showed a Native American director, apparently quite successful, whom I'd never heard of. These omissions are on par with the "historical accuracy" in feudal fantasy worlds that conveniently obliterates women from the storylines. A special APR supplement dedicated to my people's poetry hardly makes up for the widespread erasure of said poetry from the status quo. Especially if it can't be bothered to name (the poets') names on the cover.

Cat: this is why we can't have nice things!

In a Mood

Feb. 24th, 2012 02:32 pm
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (FML)

This morning as I tromped home through the snow, I encountered one of my neighbors, who was carting her toddler in a pull-wagon. Usually the child does his best to ignore me, but today he must've had a bee in his bonnet (or Luigi cap, as it happens), because he frowned at me and made an impatient gesture. Amused (Luigi cap, after all), I put my fists on my hips and gave him a cartoony "darn you" look, to which he gave a full-on glare and turned around in his cart so he didn't see me anymore. I laughed. Until I realized that was probably how my friend Joe (before he was my friend) felt when I glared at him in second grade, like, "Ho ho, aren't you cute with your little moods? I could crush you like a flea." You, ma'am, are a jackass, I thought and hied myself home. 

At home, oh so groggy, I did some busywork, then figured maybe I needed more sleep. So I went back to bed and had infuriating dreams. In one, I came home to find an armed, elderly couple had broken in, one of whom had this delusion that highly contagious "embryos" were floating around in people's bloodstreams; "You mean 'embolisms'?" I tried. Nope. Embryos. In another, my overbearing family was trying to tell me I couldn't take my child trick-or-treating because it was already dark. In yet another, a convenience store clerk grifted me, then accused me of theft. Man, I woke up pissed off.

I thought watching some Supernatural might cheer me up. I don't have Season 6 memorized, and I remembered some goofy episodes, so I dialed up Netflix instant streaming. Error message. Repeatedly.

If I'm this cranky going into a four-day weekend, I don't know how my family will survive. :P


Jan. 19th, 2012 02:50 pm
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)
Today I received a form reject from a literary magazine that began, "Look. We're all writers, too..."


Look is one of those words that starts to look wrong the more you look at it. Also, prefacing a sentence, it connotes exasperation.

"Look, I didn't mean to damage your toupee. I thought it was attacking you!"

"Look, they don't call me Roboslut for nothing!"

"Look, this is Iowa, we have 42 kinds of pizza in the frozen foods aisle, don't tell me to 'just pick something'." 


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (skull gloves)
Part of an ongoing series that doesn't need to take up space in my brain meats.

PH 1: Def Leppard

Why I hate it:

The spelling, FFS!

Two words: Hair. Metal.

It's like my walk of shame for the entire 80s.

And it follows me around, station to station, like it KNOWS.

Why it's petty: Because, honestly? It's hypocritical. I will ALWAYS crank up "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and dance libidinously. And purely on the strength of that song, the band should get a lifetime free pass.

So I should stop the hate.


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (skull gloves)
So, last night and all this morning, I felt like, "I've been so fucking good, I just want to smash something."

But now, I guess I've burned out, because I've still been very good, but now I only kinda want to smash something. Something small.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (hammer head)
Tamora Pierce ([info]tammypiercesounds off about the upcoming NBC tv show "Playboy Club" that completely infuriates me as well, but for which I couldn't summon the necessary righteous eloquence.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (book)
I love an unsympathetic protagonist--I AM an unsympathetic protagonist--but there's a world of difference between unsympathetic and just fucking annoying.

Last night I finished reading A Quiet Adjustment by Benjamin Markovits, which is about Annabella, who marries Lord Byron with predictably disastrous results. The deliberately affected narration reminded me of Jane Austen, with all its qualifications and discretion and seemingly contradictory descriptions. I almost stopped reading because "I don't have time for this. Say what you mean and mean what you say!" But, like Austen's books, this one teaches you how to read itself; there comes a critical mass of accumulation, repetition, and nuance, and one's focus suddenly shifts, like with a Magic Eye picture, and finally you can read between the lines. (Though there are bits of dialogue that still mystify me.)
Annabella is insufferably calculating, vain, and superior. Yet Markovits makes it clear to me for the first time just how suffocating women's roles were at the time, that an intelligent woman like Annabella was forced into vertiginous interiority because she wasn't allowed to direct that power outwards. Instead she measured every word and gesture, kept a running mental tally of "moral" victories and defeats, and orchestrated her relations with the precision and foresight of a chess master. (The reader can see very well how Annabella's daughter, Ada, would become the first computer programmer.) And yet, for all my understanding, I still didn't like her. Unlike the Marquise de Merteuil in Dangerous Liaisons, Annabella takes no pleasure in her machinations, demonstrates no verve or style in her persecution of her wayward husband or sister-in-law. She is neither hero nor villain.
I endured Annabella's point of view because I'm fascinated by how a gnarled intellect like hers navigated the nightmare of her marriage, the potential disgrace of separation, the continued relationship with Byron's half-sister/mistress even after Byron left the continent. As a reader, I suppose mine became equivalent to the curious eyes Annabella felt watching her post-separation, and I felt the same cold reproof as she dealt them.
Whereas Annabella fell in that uncomfortable space between unsympathetic and just annoying, the protag of The Road (movie version) fell squarely into the annoying camp.
(Spoilers galore!

You've been warned!)
I remember, with the book, being frustrated by Cormac McCathy's rambling, faux-biblical style, but watching the movie, style didn't bother me as much as characterization. Beginning to end, I wanted to strangle the father. First, it wasn't clear to me whether the movie premise was stupid--some sort of nuclear apocalypse killed all the animals and plants but not all the humans?--or if it was just the father who was stupid, since he thought that was the case. Near movie's end, we see the father, despite being a doctor, was mistaken. There are, in fact, other signs of life, and his malevolent view of the universe is not supported by the facts.
(Neither is his notion of necessity; at one point he destroys the family's beloved piano--for firewood, we are given to understand--but how 'bout using all the houses in their ghost-town subdivision, dumbass?)
Another frustration, the father is constantly veering between "Must save son!" and "Can't save son, so must KILL son." I swear, no one threatened that boy with extinction more often than his sniveling father. The man had more endurance than will to live. The boy's hopeful optimism is validated at movie's end, but I don't see the point in dragging him (and us) along behind his sinking ship of a father for TWO HOURS just to "reveal" that humanity's not a total wash. Seems like a perversely Job-like trial.
And this reminds me of that other supposedly specfic-by-way-of-literary-luminary book-turned-movie, Never Let Me Go. "Stop wallowing in your misery and DO  SOMETHING!" I want to scream. "Even if it's pointless or half-baked or more symbolic than useful, sweet ass-grabbing Jesus, DO SOMETHING!"
lilo and stitch gif
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Gawd teh stupid!)

I am in such a mood. I've been achy, hungry, and mad all afternoon. So I took some ibuprofen, and I ate a bag of popcorn, and we'll see about the rest. I'm not ticked off for any particular reason; it's just the writing.

So I've paused on p 287 of Nine Layers of Sky by Liz Williams. I don't know if I'll finish it. I enjoy the real-world settings, and I find the plot abstractly interesting, but the language isn't what I need it to be, and I don't really feel for the characters. I'm a bit curious as to how Williams pulls off the multiple-dimensions-colliding scenario, but...meh. (Tweetie is intrigued by the title and said maybe she would read it, if I don't. I told her, Uh, no.) I will still keep an eye out for William's first novel, The Ghost Sister.

I am now on p 140 of Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse by Victor Gischler, which--if you know me at all--sounds just right. The writing is tight, but it's also over-varnished. I can't get under the slick surface to identify with the main character unless he's talking about food: Now the idea of hot pasta and meatballs and garlic bread dripping butter almost gave Mortimer an erection.

Or this, about his first coffee in nine years: His eyes slowly widened. Every molecule in his body came alive. His bones hummed with electricity, the caffeine flowing the pathways of his body, a latent memory in his veins moaning ecstasy...Fat tears rolled down his cheeks..."Could you leave the room please? I'd like a moment alone with the coffee."

Mortimer's motivation for navigating this post-apocalyptic America is tenuous at best, and so far he just runs from one jokey horror to the next. (Damn, why am I rhyming?) Also, I am so so so tired of post-apocalyptic landscapes where women are just another commodity. (Of course, this is probably a case of you get what you pay for; what was that title again?)

Tweetie and I finished reading The Hobbit. Excellent, of course. Now we are stuck reading a novel that her whole school is supposed to read. I'm sure it's a fine book, but we have so much of our own stuff to read. The rah-rah-literacy agenda is just annoying to those of us who are already, you know, hyper-literate.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (castiel sigh)
I spent most of yesterday morning resisting the urge to go back to bed, and much of the afternoon trying not to cry over nothing. I am taking my meds, I am exercising, I am using my blue-light special, I am thinking positively and I still feel like a miserable husk.

In the spirit of "Don't Just Stand There, DO SOMETHING," I am taking up the 10 Day Meme I've been watching [ profile] asatomuraki do. Mayhaps the meme will kickstart something in my brain. Do Something, Say Anything.

Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now

1. Ohfortheloveofgod, just answer the motherfucking question!

2. Not my problem, sucks to be you.

3. It's hard, really really hard, to tell you I'm struggling, even when you're great about it.

4. It's not you, it's me, I suck, let's just forget I ever said anything.

5. Drop Photoshop. No, srsly, drop it or I'll have to gank you.

6. Baby come back!

7. You've never said a single positive thing about your wife to me, even that you love her. Don't you think that's a bit weird?

8. Don't bitch to me about your husband not helping around the house. I don't know what to say in response, and it makes me think your priorities are messed up.

9. You mumble, you know that?

10. Your rape jokes...I should be mad at you for them, but instead I just tamp it down, all my hurt, and I function at half capacity because I'm trying to keep up with the 'fun,' until I manage to forget. And then you drop another one. And then I feel sick for putting up with it, and the whole crummy cycle starts again.

Wow. I'm in a bad mood.


Sep. 24th, 2010 10:10 am
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)
"Institutionalized power. You can do things people acknowledge as wrong, and suffer no consequences, and even be protected by the system.

Thankfully, this is a stupid, small example.

Not like police shooting unarmed children, cities cutting off vital services to unwanted communities, withholding medical supplies in the face of H1N1 infections or the many, many other examples [which] kill people and/or ruin lives.

But hey, small stupid examples sometimes are clear, because people haven't already built up a layer of myth of who deserves and doesn't deserve to be served by institutions." from yeloson.
cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)
An angry yet erudite response to some of Moon's tangential insults. Because that whole "dead drunkard Indians" and "invasion is the same as immigration" thing? I could not *believe* she went there. But [ profile] sanguinity has the screen caps to prove it.
cafenowhere: Dean from Supernatural scratching his head, text reads: Never knows what's going on (confused)

So, I wrote this novel, you know? And I'm working on it again. And meanwhile I'm reading Patrick Ness's The Knife of Never Letting GoWhich, talking dog on page 1 and macho melodrama dripping from the first coupla chapters, so, no brainer choice for me. I'm there. The main character, Todd, describes an absence thus:

It's like a shape you can't see except by how everything else around it is touching it. Like water in the shape of a cup, but with no cup.

And there's this spot in my chapter 2 where I swear there's a not-cup. I can just about outline it for you, and I know in general what goes there, but I can't see yet what it is. It's like a Magic Eye picture just before it resolves for you. Inexorably vexing.

So I'm moving on and pretending not to watch the not-cup from the corner of my eye. But not-cup is not fooled.

cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (bruised)
* Your body is not the enemy. She's gotten you this far, right? So give her a break.

* You cannot punch a child. No matter how sick you are of kids asking Tweetie if she's wearing boys' clothes/shoes or if she's a boy or a girl. (Although, George Clooney on a cracker, what the fuck is up with that? 1, she's so clearly a girl and 2, what does it matter if she's a boy or a girl? are they going to treat her that differently, and if so, DUDE!) Never mind. You cannot punch a child.

* Everything will get done, and in time enough. You are awesome. You have a heart so big it could crush this town. (Thank you, Tom Petty.)


* It's not sane how angry you get when "sugar skull" is used as a descriptor for things that are neither made of sugar nor in the form of a skull. Just LET IT GO.


cafenowhere: coffee cup with sugar packets that read WTF (Default)

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