my biologically female body is sore.

I worked the KISS show the other night. they offered me tix! but I was too tired to take them up on it. (also, no one I texted wanted to go. what gives? it's KISS!). they/them being my boss, not KISS themselves, tho I did catch a few songs of their afternoon sound check, all decked out in plain clothes. it's one of the great perks of my career in Stage Hand, seeing behind the scenes stuff, getting free/$3 tickets. it's a trade off for slaving away, hauling kilometers of cable, pushing around gear boxes thrice my size, dealing with Road Crew Dudes till 2am-ish.
Road Crew Dudes, the ones who work on bigger, arena sized shows, are an interesting breed of human. I understand the ease with which one can find themselves acting crotchety/gruff. I mean, their job isn't the easiest. but for reals, you don't have to verbally innuend other's lives as being lesser than thou cretins. news flash: we are just like you. 'cept we don't know what we are doing because, oh wait, we are waiting for you to direct us. that goes out specifically to that one Lighting Dude who I was not stuck working for, thank you, lucky stars.
but anyways, for being such a Dude's club, I work with some great non-Dudes. maybe being in Seattle has a bit to do with it, but at one point during load in, I was working with one (ok, I am totally assuming) straight (but you would too if you saw him) not too much of a Dude dude, one older trans guy, and one my age-ish trans woman. wow, what are the odds of that? Seattle rules. my union siblings rule for being so accepting/not openly assholes about it.
Road Dudes (Bros?) from So-Cal, not so much use to the gender variety that grows so well in this weather. at one point I found myself standing with Stage Dude, who earlier had been "discussing" trans woman with Sound Dude ('her hands were bigger than mine!'), and he asked me what her gender was. or, more specifically, 'that's a guy, right?' honestly, honesty got the best of me. 'well,' I began, 'biologically, yes male, but she identifies as female.' those words precisely did not go over as well as I had hoped and I think they reached his brain in the mutated form of 'yeah, that's a dude.' to which he replied something to the effect of 'eh, he's a wanna be.' sigh.
dear fellow queer union worker, while I did indeed try my best under the put on the spot circumstances to be there for you, I recognize that my efforts fell really really short of their intended mark and will try harder next time by replying with a firm, resolute, 'no, she is a woman. she not wanting to be anyone other than who she is. where do you want this cable to plug into?'

M., O.W., I'm glad you are here.

strangers amongst us. well, stranger. there was only one, actually.

a couple of years ago, I picked up my roommate at the time's copy of The Stranger, by Senor Camus, read it, and as soon as I finished the last page, returned to the first page to start it again. I do believe that is the only book I have ever done that with. apparently, I liked it. (incidentally, it is not my most favorite book. both Life of Pi and Watership Down are well above, yet I have yet to revisit either fully. once I chose Watership Down as my at work book, I love it, had been talking it up to roommate to date, wanted to relive the lapine adventure. well, turns out I love it a little too much. After a mere handful of chapters, I forced myself to put it down and pick up something less engaging after missing a cue ('sound, go.' warren this, warren that. 'SOUND?! GO.' 'oops, sorry.') for the first - and last - time that particular show. this concludes my tangent.) I didn't like it enough to write a song about it. no, scratch that. I didn't like it enough to finish a song about it, remember it past a few months, teach it to my band mates, get radio play, and be super cool to boot. owner of said copy of The Stranger roommate informed me that The Cure had beaten me to it. it's called 'Killing an Arab.' oh. alright then. well, at least I'm in good company.
but all this is basically just a lead in to talking about THE STRANGER that we, seattle, are more familiar with. our beloved always weekly, sometimes snarky, name rhymes with danger, artsy hip rag. and why do I chose to bring this up? BECAUSE I'M IN IT! HA! I got a serendipitous review in the Party Crasher column. they called me an 'artistic love child,' to take their words totally out of context. you can read the whole thing at

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/party-crasher/Content?oid=2712010

or just find pick up a hard copy and flip to page 65. there you will see a photo of two persons I know and a clever title that refers specifically to yours truly, me. yesterday, a friend of mine commented on the article, wondering who it was. 'it' being Party Crasher, 'Party Crasher' being random stranger coming to your party taking photos, taking notes. all I gots to say is that, it is really nice being friends with peeps who eventually end up working for local media. in other words, big warm shout out to my non-stranger stranger. muchas gracias, jv.

trying to awaken my computer's compassion

I just spent like a good few hours (some last night before going to bed, some this AM soon after waking) trying to download the ebook, Awakening Compassion, by Pema Chodron from the seattle public library so I can listen to gentle posi affirmations whilst I clean/wait for the bus. I am looking at a 50% success rate right now. the other book, also by aforementioned American Budhist nun - which, on a slightly unrelated note, did you know that Michael Flatley, AKA Mr. Lord of the Dance, is American? I thought that was pretty funny. anyways. - would not download because the program that the library required me to downloaded in order to download the library book wouldn't support the format of the file even tho the other book that I successfully downloaded is formatted the exact same way. also, the 'wizard' living in the downloaded program couldn't find my ipod (this is all I've ever really wanted to use this ipod for, books on e)(er, ebooks) even tho the icon was right there staring at me from the desktop - I had to go the round about way and, using geode's smarts, find it thru itunes. I have yet to even crack the virtual spine of this book and already things are awakening, tho I think at the moment frustration is beating out compassion.

rounding out my resume

hmmm, it has been a while. . .

so, to bring you up to speed. I spent the later half of my summer in europe, came back to the states and promptly got in a car accident, have been recovering ever since (ie last two.25 months) - a process that includes going to physical therapy, massage therapy, acupuncture, the occasional mental therapy, and taking 3 classes. oh and working oh so minimally.

last week I decided that maybe it is time I look for some kind of regular job. I cast my lines. no tugs to speak of.
then I get an offer for a regular, paid job at a place I like a lot, with flexible hours, that's super part time: cleaning person at a yoga studio. while I don't think this is the most perfectly sculpted gold brick in my illustrious career path (actually, it's more like a bar of soap in the rest area restroom just off said career path than a strong foot hold), I'm doing it. besides, I like to joke to mostly myself and sometimes my roommate, I'm rounding out my latina resume. so now I can proudly put 'maid' above 'dishwasher' and 'farm labor.' I jest. a little.

and just so there's no confusion, allow me to explicar. I am in fact latina. half. tho I look 125% white (how I ended up paler than my midwestern dad is some kind of mendelian genetic conundrum. my honduran mother has been mistaken as nanny to my (pale) sis and (paler) I).

my first job was a dishwasher. not the most fun job, but whatever, it was fine while it lasted. especially when I graduated to fruit cutter/juice prep. I started the job last year of high school and left the job half way into my first year of community college, to focus on my studies which were undecided at the time but fell under the general field of engineering. oh my future looked bright.

farming didn't happen till the rest of college came and went. this time I found myself back at a menial job (bagel and coffee slinger) after trying a few laps around the professional track. ie I worked as an analytical chemist for a pharmaceutical company. for about one month. not wanting to watch my entire soul dissolve in an erlenmeyer flask, or watch it fall cream cheese side down on the crumby deli floor, I sought out other options. and a small door opened to fortuitous fields in northern california, working for 3 weeks that later became 3 months at a small organic, beautiful, mountain side river running thru it farm. I was miles from lab coats, espresso machines and everyone I knew. I couldn't have been happier.

this new chapter in my career book follows several years of working freelance as a theater techie stage hand type. work I love, work i am good at. work that takes more back strength than what I am able to offer at the moment. I'm not giving it up, but I am taking it easy. and looking for something steady. my mother would love me to get a 'real job.' this is nothing new. either for me or, i suppose, for any other kid who isn't working a full time textbook job. I have yet to tell her of my recent new employment (which, interestingly enough, pays like twice what I usually make hanging lights). I think by now she is past the point of being super worried and usually only gets mildly concerned about the choices I make in the job field. I wanna joke with her and my family about filling my quota of latina appropriate jobs but I have a feeling they won't think it's that funny. the look in my mom's face when she found out I've never made more in my adult life to put me above the poverty line. the look in my grandmother's face when I told her I applied to work at a car wash. I mean, I suppose that would be disappointing news on some level to any parent or relative, but to my family, there's this extra edge, a hidden heaviness. my mom (& dad, gotta give credit where credit's due) didn't put me thru school to wash dishes. my grandmother didn't move to the states for me to scrub toilets. my great aunt is baffled (and ashamed?) that I would lower myself to picking vegetables in a field. I'm basically putting myself in every typical position that they, not for who they are but for what they look like, would get stuck doing, would have no other option but to do. me with an education, me with white skin (save for myriad of tattoos - but that is another blog altogether), me with smarts and opportunity. me with a broom in my hand.

It's not like I'm trying to go down the list and check off all the minimum wage jobs. wait. i guess i'm not not trying either. in my brain it is a ping pong debate of 'all jobs are important' vs just doing the job because I can and don't NEED to. no one is forcing me to work these jobs (half) my people are forced to do. is it solidarity? I wanna connect with (half) my people. is it insulting? I can leave when I want to. or rather, when I figure out what it is I really wanna do.

in the meantime, let it be known that I am really good at what I do. that studio will be the cleanest it has ever been. or close to it. I enjoy beautifying my surroundings. I'm already seeking out recipes for alternative cleaning solutions. the supplies closet has been organized to my liking. cobwebs and dust bunnies are on the verge of extinction. at least for 4-5 hours of the week.

dem nuts sho hard to crack.

a while back, the universe bestowed upon me a small gift. the universe being my buddy Cyrus and the small gifts being 30+ pounds of Brazil Nuts still in their shell. i heart Brazil Nuts. i heart even more free Brazil Nuts.

so then the problem arose that i had no nut cracker. cracking 30+ pounds of nuts was not on the front burner of my industrial stove of a life so i just havent bothered. either to find a nut cracker or to do anything productive with the nuts. wait, i take that back. the majority of the nuts, housed in an old pillow case, have come in quite handy maybe once or twice when they were able to double as a hard lumpy bean bag. or nut bag, if you will. contrary to what you would think, sitting on a reasonable sized nut bag is more comfortable than one would think.

but i digress. more recently, that same universe who thought it fit to bestow upon me a large lode of tree nuts, has come forward to gift me what amounts to be the key to the city, a nutcracker, for 27 cents. thank you u district garage sale circa last weekend.
now, the single jointed crushing device turned out to be somewhat of a double edged sword. yes, now i can harvest the gold out of these suckers, but a) Brazil Nut shells are formidable and my hand is sore and b) i am one of those people that likes to do a job thru and thru, not leave it half done, no matter how tedious a task. so now, yes i am feasting upon most excellent Brazil Nut Creme ala ilvs, yet my enjoyment is clouded as the project of cracking the as of yet uncracked shells looms heavily before me.

on a positive note. i did find out that cracking Brazil Nuts is a job made infinitely easier when you soak the nuts in water for at least 2 hours if not over night.

on a different note altogether, i have noticed that when i spend any amount of time around those who speak with a marked or even slight accent, the urge to mimic it is great. i catch myself tossing out words with oblong vowels and clipped consonants. not to the point of being annoying but sometimes it gets real close to the boarder of where charming meets weird. this is something i know about myself with regards to the spoken language. this week, the written language has some thing new to teach me about myself. i am 3/4 of the way thru 'Their Eyes Were Watching God' by the incomparable Zora Neal Hurston. for those of you not in the know, reserve a copy from the library and check out the fact that the practically the whole thing is written staying true to 'the dialect spoken by blacks of African and Caribbean descent in the South of the early 20th century.' that accent has been floating thru my cerebrum for the past 4 days and it is threatening to bubble out my mouth. the result of which would be neither cute nor charming but more along the lines of awkward bordering on inappropriate. lucky for me, i live in a bubble on capitol hill and i dont have any black friends i hang out with on a regular basis so the chances of me insulting someone is real low. er. i mean, lucky for me, the book is only 197 pages long...

this weekend i . . .

... hung out at the canterbury and watched 3/4 of the seahawks game, drank 3 glasses of water, shot 4 arcade stags...
... watched the last 1/4 of the paul taylor dance company and stayed to work till 3am but felt like 4am...
... learned about 3/4 time signature from book one of three in the adult learning piano book series...
... took the 43 to university district twice but only 3/4 of the time cuz i got a ride home late after buying 3 apples and 4 carrots...
... bought a nutcracker for 1/4 dollar, spent 3/4 of an hour filling a jar 1/4 full of brazil nut meat...

things better said and done.

as of this morning i have discovered i like to go for long walks with my headphones on, music turned up louder than usual. i space out, enjoy the mosquito net of invisibility it offers me.
today, mid-space out, i saw a guy stop walking his dog only long enough to hit the beast hard on the back. twice. with some space in between that he filled with some incomprehensible, loud human speak. i was taken a back, half a block back, and started to gain ground on him and him as a taste for green grass halted the pair on the corner and gravity continued to pull me downhill.
i wished for this to happen: i went up to him, still with my headphones on, and with out waiting for him to talk, i said: sometimes i think about how i'm really glad i don't have kids cuz i don't think i have the patience to deal with them and how that probably means i have a lot to learn. and then i wonder about what it takes to raise someone and take care of them and then i'm filled with a sense of uneasy relief that i am the sole person under my care. that's all.
or something to that effect.
what really happened: i stopped at the corner, not 20 feet from where the dog was grazing, where the dude was standing, and just stared, listening to my headphones louder than usual.