Nothing Like Waking Up To The Sunny Chill Of November. A Blessed All Saints Day.

hey, solidarity to everyone out in philly tonight protesting the police murder of walter wallace jr. i know the story’s probably gonna get buried by all the supreme court stuff, so if anyone out there has a specific bail fund or mutual aid org that people trust out there please let me know about it so i can boost it. i’ll be keeping an eye out in the coming days

My girlfriend and I talk a lot about our different generations of queerness, because she was doing queer activism in the 1990s and I wasn’t.

And she’s supportive of my writing about queerness but also kind of bitter about how quickly her entire generation’s history has disappeared into a bland “AIDS was bad, gay marriage solved homophobia” narrative, and now we’re having to play catch-up to educate young LGBTQ+ people about queer history and queer theory. It gets pretty raw sometimes.

I mean, a large part of the reason TERFs have been good at educating the young and queer people haven’t is, in the 80s and 90s the leading lights of TERFdom got tenured university positions, and the leading lights of queerdom died of AIDS.

“Excuse us,” she said bitterly the other day, not at me but to me, “for not laying the groundwork for children we never thought we’d have in a future none of us thought we’d be alive for.”

“The King of the Cats”: a British folk tale

One winter’s evening the sexton’s wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn’t come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, ‘Who’s Tommy Tildrum?’ in such a wild way that both his wife and his cat stared at him to know what was the matter.

‘Why, what’s the matter?’ said his wife, 'and why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?’

'Oh, I’ve had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr Fordyce’s grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up by hearing a cat's Miaou.’

'Miaou!' said Old Tom in answer.

'Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?’

'Now, how can I tell?’ said the sexton’s wife.

'Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chestesses. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, Miaou – ’

'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.

'Yes, just like that!’ said the sexton; 'and as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly; because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin, and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like – but look at our Tom, how he’s looking at me. You’d think he knew all I was saying.’

'Go on, go on,’ said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.’

'Well, as I was a-saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, Miaou –’

'Miaou!' said Old Tom again.

'Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr Fordyce’s grave, where I was, when they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom; he’s looking at me just like they did.’

'Go on, go on,’ said his wife; 'never mind Old Tom.’

'Where was I? Oh, they stood still looking at me, when the one that wasn’t carrying the coffin came forward and, staring straight at me, said to me – yes, I tell 'ee, said to me, with a squeaky voice, “Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toidrum’s dead,” and that’s why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum’s dead if I don’t know who Tom Tildrum is?’

'Look at Old Tom, look at Old Tom!’ screamed his wife.

And well he might look, for Tom was swelling and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, 'What – old Tom dead! then I’m the King o’ the Cats!’ and rushed up the chimney and was nevermore seen.

Repeat after me: I am healing.

I think about my ancestors all the time. They were people, people who fell in love, people who had pets, people who had a favorite book, people who were passionate about a specific topic, people who went through their own tragedy and suffering. Every single one of them was a person with their own unique life experiences.

And sometimes I think of the really old ones- the ones who spoke languages that are no longer spoken, who lived alongside wildlife that no longer exist, who belonged to cultures that are only known through remnants of pottery. I think of the people who saw the world when it was wilder and more beautiful.

Halloween, Oíche Shamhna, Lá Samhna, Neo-Pagan Samhain, Día de Muertos, La Calabiuza, and my birthday. An actual 13th blue moon to close out the Witch's Year on the Neo-Pagan New Year that is Samhain?! I'm not Wiccan but I can't wait to see what that magic brings regardless. An eclipse coming as well. Woo! Action packed next few days! The Ancestors and Mighty Dead have been very strong and active this Dead Season. La Santísima and Her Husband Mictlantecuhtli really out here ready to shower in miracles. Can't wait to see what the future brings! May one book close and another more blessed narrative begin. A new story, new chapter open up.

My eyes are like pools of rich xocolatl, when hit in the right angle, they light up like amber on fire. Like the holy sun pouring through stain glass windows in the cathedral that is my body. Othertimes like the dark bark of redwood trees along the foggy coasts. They are a reminder of our connection to the Land and the richness of life, though bitter at times it might be. They aren't signs that we're full of shit - full of holy shit, maybe. Full of gold. Like the honey wine of poetic inspiration. Like the resin tears of Electrum, mourning the fallen star and dead sun. Windows to our soul, to our own inner Divinity. Native brown eyes are beautiful and aren't romanticized enough. I'll do it myself if I have to.

1 dead after Quinault tribal members were run down by man in pickup truck at Washington campground

Law enforcement officials are seeking a man in a white pickup truck who allegedly ran down two members of the Quinault Indian Nation over Memorial Day weekend, according to multiple reports.

One of the victims, 20-year-old James “Jimmy” Kramer, died of his wounds Saturday night. His friend, 19-year-old Harvey Anderson, was released from Tacoma General Hospital on Sunday.

The incident occurred Saturday morning at a campground off Donkey Creek Road, near Hoquiam, Washington, 100 miles southwest of Seattle. 

Witnesses said a white male in his 30s driving a white Chevrolet pickup truck pulled onto a gravel bar around 1:30 a.m. and started doing “donuts,” spraying debris in the camping area.

Kramer, Anderson and other campers reportedly yelled for the driver to stop. The driver responded by targeting individual campers, driving over Kramer and Anderson before fleeing into the night. 

Police do not have a suspect yet. In press release, the Quinault tribe said the driver was heard “screaming racial slurs” as he drove, according to Last Real Indians. Read more (5/30/17)

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we are not born to die!! what are you talking about!! do you think a book begins just to finish? do you think a song opens with a beautiful chord just for it to end? you don’t read the book to finish it, you read the book to eat up the excitement and the emotions it evokes!! to learn and to digest and to fall in love and be heartbroken!! you listen to the song to dance and dance and sing your throat raw!!! to cry and smile and swell with the harmonies!! yes, we are born with the inevitable fate of death, we are mortal after all, but that is merely the finale of the play!! the final act, the closing of the curtains - we are not born to take a bow and exit stage left!! we are born to love and be joyous and yell and move and learn and cry and feelfeelfeel!!!  we are not born to die, silly, we’re born to live!!!

the great pumpkin 🎃