Yesterday was not a good day for your favorite butch blogger. I pretty much sat around in my pajamas clicking the refresh button on my Twitter feed. It was not pretty or handsome.
But then W came home and I vented. I started Maggie Smith’s The Argonauts before I went to bed. And I was like hell yeah, because words and ideas and poetry and unapologetic truth telling. The world needs more of that right now, if you ask me.
And then I started thinking about #PressOn, which is a campaign to support facts by paying for journalism. It’s critical right now. So, pubs like The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Atlantic, The Guardian … and Teen Vogue, they need our support.
That’s right, Teen Vogue. They’re kicking ass these days in the world of journalism. With a bold lip, but kicking ass no less with in-your-face articles like “Donald Trump Is Gaslighting America.”
Teen Vogue, Vogue, Vogue
So here’s my offer. Are you the parent of a young feminist? Do you know a young feminist in the making? Teen Vogue says the magazine is appropriate for those 14 years of age and older. Keep in mind it is a fashion magazine but does a good job with politics, LGBT issues and self-identity. Drop me an e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org and I’ll pay for a gift subscription to Teen Vogue for your fierce, fresh youngster.
Because words matter. And the truth matters.
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What are you reading these days?
Posted in Books, Life, Uncategorized
Tagged #PressOn, books, facts, gay, giveway, journalism, lesbian, resist, story, Teen Vogue, truth, Twitter, words, writers
When W came home from work yesterday, I was assembling my new electric lawnmower on the front porch.
“It’s so cute!” she said.
“Really?” I said.
She knows how I feel about the word “cute.”
“Oh. Right. Handsome.”
“No,” I said.
Neckties and squared off sideburns are handsome. Me? I’m a handsome devil. But a handsome lawnmower?
“I have no clue,” she said.
Once again, my wife was flummoxed by my rules.
I looked at the sleek neon green, lawn-cutting machine.
“Your new lawnmower is sporty,” she said.
We went inside for dinner exhausted by our exchange.
Posted in Being Butch, Gender, Relationships, Uncategorized
Tagged butch, gay, gender, humor, lawnmower, lesbian, love, marriage, wife, words
“You’re not drawing me,” W says. She says it in an innocent way with her eyes wide and bright and a bit of a grin starting on one side of her face. She says it as if she’s daring me to sketch her there in the June sunlight.
I’m sitting on a folding chair with my little red Moleskine notebook and my silver astronaut pen. I’m pretending to sketch her as she sits on a folding chair across from me.
“Of course I’m not drawing you,” I say. “I’m a writer, not a drawer.”
“Draw me with words,” she says.
“Okay,” I say.
We are at a yoga/wellness festival with our prayer flag for Orlando.
“You’ll love it,” I had told her. “You’ll feel at home with all the other hippies.”
“Maybe I’ll go full-on hippie on you some day. With dreadlocks, the whole deal.”
She says it like it’s a deal breaker. Like I will stop loving her with dreadlocks and bare feet that peek out from the bottom of her flowy tie-dye skirts. Like I will stop loving her with hairy legs and armpits and the scent of patchouli following behind her like a puppy.
“Don’t you know I don’t love you because of your hair?” I say.
What I don’t tell her is that I love her hair. The way it is long and brown with a few strands of silver that look like they were sliced from the moon.
It is the best part of her. The outside part that shows her inside light.
I don’t tell her I know her secret: Her heart is the moon. That’s why she has moonbeam hair.
Instead, I tell her I don’t love her because of her hair.
Posted in Relationships, Uncategorized, Writing
Tagged butch, gay, lesbian, LGBT, love, moombeams, moon, queer, relationships, words, writing
I have a cat who naps on my old library desk where I write. This is one of my favorite pictures.
I have an old library desk where I write.
I have words swimming in my head. These are some of my favorites — bric-a-brac, innocuous, innuendo, ubiquitous, kismet, juxtaposition.
I have notebooks: big ones and little ones and a million scraps of paper that I use to record my thoughts. Once when I couldn’t find something, W pointed out that I save everything. I couldn’t tell if this was a criticism or a compliment.
I have a king-sized bed covered in flannel sheets. It is warm and soft and inviting.
I have books and magazines and newspapers. When I am in bed, I surround myself with them. It is a fortress made of paper and words.
I have pens and markers that I use to make notes and jot down ideas. At night, the paper and pens get mixed in with the sheets and the blankets and our slumbering bodies. I tell W this is what happens when you live with a writer.
I have dreams. Good ones and bad ones that I remember in snippets. I try to write them down, but I am almost always too late.
I have good intentions to empty my brain every day and transfer my thoughts to clean sheets of paper. It never works out the way I had planned. Sometimes this is a good thing, and sometimes it is not.
I have writing that I am proud of. My pieces always seem different when they are in print. More important and truer for some unknown reason. When I’m alone, I read them out loud and wonder who that person was who wrote like that.
* * *
I wrote this from a prompt in my writing group. The assignment was to write a list poem starting each line with the words “I have” similar to the poem I have a horse by Tomaž Šalamun. You can read the poem here. Try it yourself.
Recently, I had a piece published in an LGBT anthology. Off the Rocks, Volume 18 can be purchased here.
Posted in Books, Gay & Lesbian, Life, Relationships, Writing
Tagged books, butch, dreams, gay, lesbian, list poem, list poems, poems, poetry, queer, relationships, transgender, words, writer, writers, writing, writing prompt, writing prompts