With every generation, there's an uprise in New Uppity Women (a.k.a. Loud-Mouthed Bitches—and I am fine with that), who Just Won't Take It No Mo', Evah Again, Or Even For the First Time.
And hallelujah: these Witnesses Against Wrongdoing are of every hue, every age, every background.
Girls of my daughters' ages: pay attention. While the perp in this video happens to be Latino, it is still a statistical truth that most rapists are white, heterosexual males. Gropers, however, are of every stripe. You hear me, when I say: Be safe, at at all times—and yes, in certain instances, like the one in this video, you are allowed (even if you're six years old) to use language normally not approved by most adults. Get everyone's attention. Form a posse. There will be someone to help you, so long as there's a crowd and you're loud.
This man, from Queens, pleaded guilty to "forcible touching," and was sentenced to four months behind bars. The woman's name (if not the rest of her) was kept from the public.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
quick, quicker, more quickly: who are you?
current SEO standards (that's geek speak, for website managers, who need to follow a thing called Best Practices, and SEO has to do with page ranks, visibility on the web, and all that nonsense) . . . all o' that, compiled, as it tends to be, has driven me back to the faceplace. mm.
i did contemplate the tweetie bird thing, but . . . um . . . yeah. still can't get to that.
so y'all know, these branded forms of quick talk, "sharing," "liking," and "faving," are seriously not my style.
i'm not ethically opposed, so i can do it.
how are we able, as a culture—as cultures and communities of peoples—to represent ourselves, to our fullest, most comprehensible degrees, in those tiny boxes?
yeah, fine: i'm old-school, OG, potentially luddite. i don't text message; don't own a microwave; rarely use store-bought food in a car or a jar; those candles without flame seem both counterproductive and counterintuitive, to me; i don't read self-help books; i have literally ended a (faltering) friendship, over the gift of fuzac, because, mi gente, fuzac is not music.
i had a maintenance guy, for about five years, who always said i was born in the wrong century. be that as it may. i'm here; i'm queer (in so many ways); get over it.
does anyone have a burning interest in what time i arose from bed, today, or whether i post snapshots of my newest culinary or decorating feat? erm, i'm not entirely certain i have feats of any kind, on a daily basis—though i'm a bit of a linens whore. i purchase linens. you want photos? seriously?
the daily detritus of life intrigues me not. i can't even sustain phone conversations about it. my last lover asked me, in a bit of angst: "how do i discuss the mundane with you? or don't i?" this, after she'd sent me an email, and called to ask whether i read it. i had to ponder a moment; listen to her description of it; then answer, honestly (like i do), "oh. yes. i started to read that . . . then i got bored, and went to do laundry."
that was very early, in our interactions. i don't sugarcoat. what she was attempting to convey to me, i don't recall . . . but it didn't register as anything i could read, without . . . effort, and some sort of compelling context. i'd planned on asking her why she'd sent that to me, so the context could push me forward, into understanding some rationale for reading the words.
as it turned out, it was a simple narrative of her day. we determined, between ourselves, that she had better friends to whom that sort of thing might be sent. after successfully navigating the entire text, i still wouldn't have anything of merit to say. i'm just not that kind of girl.
hence, faceplace is not really for me. i want to discuss what my friend jdr once termed "the creamy middle" of life. the stuff of excitement, passion, direction. seriously.
one of my exes used to laugh, and say, "you go deep, fast." she loved that, about me.
if it's between profundity and what your pet ate for dinner . . . yes? i'll take the former. please?
now that i've been ill so long, and can't much focus on anything, i'm hoping my people will at least cut me some slack, on the notion that small talk is painful anathema, at this point in my isolated existence.
do hit me, if you want to say all the things nobody else wants to hear, about changing the world, and how to make life bearable, for those who go unheard.
i'm about that.
~emmanuela
i did contemplate the tweetie bird thing, but . . . um . . . yeah. still can't get to that.
so y'all know, these branded forms of quick talk, "sharing," "liking," and "faving," are seriously not my style.
i'm not ethically opposed, so i can do it.
how are we able, as a culture—as cultures and communities of peoples—to represent ourselves, to our fullest, most comprehensible degrees, in those tiny boxes?
yeah, fine: i'm old-school, OG, potentially luddite. i don't text message; don't own a microwave; rarely use store-bought food in a car or a jar; those candles without flame seem both counterproductive and counterintuitive, to me; i don't read self-help books; i have literally ended a (faltering) friendship, over the gift of fuzac, because, mi gente, fuzac is not music.
i had a maintenance guy, for about five years, who always said i was born in the wrong century. be that as it may. i'm here; i'm queer (in so many ways); get over it.
does anyone have a burning interest in what time i arose from bed, today, or whether i post snapshots of my newest culinary or decorating feat? erm, i'm not entirely certain i have feats of any kind, on a daily basis—though i'm a bit of a linens whore. i purchase linens. you want photos? seriously?
the daily detritus of life intrigues me not. i can't even sustain phone conversations about it. my last lover asked me, in a bit of angst: "how do i discuss the mundane with you? or don't i?" this, after she'd sent me an email, and called to ask whether i read it. i had to ponder a moment; listen to her description of it; then answer, honestly (like i do), "oh. yes. i started to read that . . . then i got bored, and went to do laundry."
that was very early, in our interactions. i don't sugarcoat. what she was attempting to convey to me, i don't recall . . . but it didn't register as anything i could read, without . . . effort, and some sort of compelling context. i'd planned on asking her why she'd sent that to me, so the context could push me forward, into understanding some rationale for reading the words.
as it turned out, it was a simple narrative of her day. we determined, between ourselves, that she had better friends to whom that sort of thing might be sent. after successfully navigating the entire text, i still wouldn't have anything of merit to say. i'm just not that kind of girl.
hence, faceplace is not really for me. i want to discuss what my friend jdr once termed "the creamy middle" of life. the stuff of excitement, passion, direction. seriously.
one of my exes used to laugh, and say, "you go deep, fast." she loved that, about me.
if it's between profundity and what your pet ate for dinner . . . yes? i'll take the former. please?
now that i've been ill so long, and can't much focus on anything, i'm hoping my people will at least cut me some slack, on the notion that small talk is painful anathema, at this point in my isolated existence.
do hit me, if you want to say all the things nobody else wants to hear, about changing the world, and how to make life bearable, for those who go unheard.
i'm about that.
~emmanuela
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
and it's about damned time.
San Francisco will be the first city to ban fast food junk for children from including toys as lures. How cool is that?
While opponents, including the McJunk corp, argue that parents should determine what children eat, the SF Board of Supervisors determined to legislate against predatory marketing aimed at minors.
I'm about that.
~Emmanuela
While opponents, including the McJunk corp, argue that parents should determine what children eat, the SF Board of Supervisors determined to legislate against predatory marketing aimed at minors.
I'm about that.
~Emmanuela
Thursday, November 4, 2010
oye putos.
I'm so pleased this one comes with a stuffed burro: anyone who wore it needs demonstrate Dead Ass Syndrome.
This is the Hey Amigo costume—which, we are told by the marketers, is "hilarious."
Again, note skin tones of the fake legs.
Dear Uncle Zappa, The answer is C.) none of the above: that is neither a real poncho nor a Sears poncho.
People who find this appropriate attire for Hallows' Eve, proceed directly to a reputable, indigenous source, for edification on Día de Los Muertos.
Boo.
~Emmanuela
scary. uh huh.
This, gente, is the costume mask of an illegal alien.
Notice the latex skin tone matches . . . um . . . 'k.
You go on and protest the sellers.
I'll be here, shaking my head about the "Ghetto Fabulous Wig" pulled from Kohl's.
Scary weekend, gente. Mm hmm.
True colors and all that.
~Emmanuela
Thursday, October 28, 2010
are we there, yet?
Clint McCance, yet another of the wayward Xians who cannot spell, punctuate, or properly utilize English grammar—yet is, of course, employed as a teacher in the U.S. public schools—is the latest hate-monger against queers.
Why a social networking site would be his platform is a curiosity, to me—but I don't do the faceplace. Apparently, poorly educated, rabies-infected mongrels like McCance (if that is the correct spelling of his name), step away from darkening the hearts and minds of the young, long enough to announce themselves publicly.
"Seriously they want me to wear purple because five queers killed themselves," McCance wrote. "The only way im wearin it for them is if they all commit suicide. I cant believe the people of this world have gotten this stupid. We are honoring the fact that they sinned and killed thereselves because of their sin."
Of course, he's also intent on performing a ritual banishing of any of his children, who might come out as gay.
Clever cat.
Have we reached the outposts of incivility on this topic, yet?
Read more.
~Emmanuela
Why a social networking site would be his platform is a curiosity, to me—but I don't do the faceplace. Apparently, poorly educated, rabies-infected mongrels like McCance (if that is the correct spelling of his name), step away from darkening the hearts and minds of the young, long enough to announce themselves publicly.
"Seriously they want me to wear purple because five queers killed themselves," McCance wrote. "The only way im wearin it for them is if they all commit suicide. I cant believe the people of this world have gotten this stupid. We are honoring the fact that they sinned and killed thereselves because of their sin."
Of course, he's also intent on performing a ritual banishing of any of his children, who might come out as gay.
Clever cat.
Have we reached the outposts of incivility on this topic, yet?
Read more.
~Emmanuela
Friday, October 22, 2010
fuehrer furor and calling cards
Oddly, Germany's central bank went completely off-course, last month, when board members unanimously agreed to dismiss a member of their own board.
Why Thilo Sarrazin ultimately—and rather unapologetically— "resigned" his post at the central bank of Germany is another odd, but oddly familiar, notion: the man authored a book, in which he denigrates the country's Muslim population, and claims (amongst other outrageous notions) that "all Jews share the same gene."
Among Sarrazin's statements is his concern that Germany is being changed beyond recognition by its immigrant population and what he says is its unwillingness and unsuitability to integrate.
"I don't want my grandchildren and great-grandchildren to live in a mostly Muslim country where Turkish and Arabic are widely spoken, women wear headscarves and the day is measured out by the muezzin's call to prayer," he said.
In his more pointed remarks, Sarrazin decried Germany's ethnic blending, in saying the country was being made "more stupid" by poorly educated and unproductive Muslim migrants with headscarves.
His remarks have been condemned by almost every political figure in Germany, as well as Muslim, Jewish and Christian groups. At the same time they have received the backing of far-right groups such as the National Democratic party, as well as a substantial portion of television viewers and radio listeners, who praise Sarrazin for having the courage to address issues that are largely taboo.
Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany, publicly described Sarrazin's published remarks as "completely unacceptable" and in danger of causing division.
Germany, of course, is home to approximately four million Muslims, mainly of Turkish origin, and approximately 280,000 Arabs.
Fast forward a few weeks . . .
Chancellor Merkel announced last Saturday, to a Christian Democratic Youth group, that "multikulti" (multiculturalism) in her country has "utterly failed."
Merkel is referencing the last wave of immigrants for hire to Germany: the Turkish Muslims.
"At the beginning of the sixties," The Chancellor said, last week, "our country called the foreign workers to come to Germany, and now they live in our country."
Merkel added, "We kidded ourselves, for a while; we said: 'They won't stay; sometime, they will be gone.' But this isn't reality." She concludes by adding that "to live side by side and enjoy one another" in a multicultural environment is a project that "has failed, utterly failed."
"We feel tied to Christian values. Those who don't accept them don't have a place here," said the Chancellor.
"Subsidising immigrants" isn't sufficient, Germany has the right to "make demands" on them, she added, such as mastering the language of Goethe and abandoning practices such as forced marriages.
Stop me, when this starts sounding familiar . . .
This announcement came a week after Merkel met with Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan, for talks in which the two leaders pledged to "do more" to improve the poor "integration" record of Germany's 2.5 million strong Turkish community.
"Integration" here is to be read as the direct opposite of "multiculturalism": Horst Seehofer, the leader of the Christian Democratic Union, stated that the Union parties are "committed to a dominant German culture, and opposed to a multicultural one."
"Multikulti is dead," he said.
Turkish President Abdullah Gul, in a weekend interview, also urged the Turkish community living in Germany to master the language of their adopted country.
"When one doesn't speak the language of the country in which one lives that doesn't serve anyone, neither the person concerned, the country, nor the society," the Turkish president told the Suedeutsche Zeitung.
"That is why I tell them at every opportunity that they should learn German, and speak it fluently and without an accent. That should start at nurseries."
That's called assimilation, bub. Remember?
Jewish leaders in Germany meanwhile warned that German society and democracy were under threat from extremists.
A recent expert study should prompt the government to act against antidemocratic ideas, the secretary general of the Central Council of Jews in Germany, Stephan Kramer, told the Rheinpfalz am Sonntag weekly.
Far-right attitudes are found not only at the extremes of German society, but "to a worrying degree at the centre of society," the report noted.
The study, by the Friedrich Ebert Foundation think tank, showed that more than one third (34.3 percent) of those surveyed believed Germany's 16 million immigrants or people with foreign origins came to the country for the social benefits.
More than half (58.4 percent) of the 2,411 people polled thought the around four million Muslims in Germany should have their religious practices "significantly curbed."
Thirty-two percent of people said they agreed with the statement: "Foreigners should be sent home when jobs are scarce."
Around the same number (35.6 percent) think Germany is being "over-run by foreigners" and more than one in 10 called for a "Fuehrer" to run the country "with a strong hand."
Hey. So. Wanna work in Germany?
According to the head of the German chamber of commerce and industry, Hans Heinrich Driftmann, Germany is in urgent need of about 400,000 engineers and qualified workers.
"The lack is causing a loss of growth of about one percent," he said in an interview.
While warning against "immigration that weighs down on our social system", Merkel said that Germany needed specialists from overseas to keep the pace of its economic development.
Let's not pretend.
After reading this, only white Christians, fluent in German (or willing to become so), are likely to want to work in Germany.
If we think about it: what country truly, successfully is "multicultural"?
Merkel is a bit more outlandish than most internationally-visible leaders—and that fact, in itself, leads one to question why her activities aren't more splashed about in daily news. Still, the quarrels of the rights to place and worth for Muslims in the U.S. are a fairly dominant discussion, these days. (No one's really talking about Merkel's hand in the Lisbon Treaty, c'mon.)
Why there's not a national discourse, comparing Sarrazin's work to that unpleasant document, The Bell Curve, is another wonder, to me. The two works hit all the same unsavory points (that's a hint to you sociology students).
If the international chatter can't get to that, there's still the national debate over what color to paint that damned fence dividing México from whatever parts have been "christened" the U.S.
Then there's that whole thing about people saying, "Why don't you just go back to . . ."
Some of the most sadly amusing moments of that line, recently, were in watching Southerners shout at college students, telling them to "Go back to Mexico." The students were from South America . . .
Meanwhile I've decided to stop talking, and just hand out cards: "I have never lived in México, but my ancestors' land was stolen from there. If you're completely invested in the notion I visit, check your family tree and, if it turns out your ancestors were slavers, pillagers, or colonizers, you may pay for my plane fare. I travel first-class, and I'll need to decide which part of that vast country I'd like to visit. Then, too, I'll expect you to send reparation monies, for my family, and for those still suffering, wherever I decide to go. Thanks for the offer. Bye now."
I'm going to make some of these cards, as gifts, for my friends with other colonized histories.
Mm hmm.
This message brought to you by Angela Merkel's metaphorical shiny white hood, from those of us affected, in no metaphorical way.
~Emmanuela
Why Thilo Sarrazin ultimately—and rather unapologetically— "resigned" his post at the central bank of Germany is another odd, but oddly familiar, notion: the man authored a book, in which he denigrates the country's Muslim population, and claims (amongst other outrageous notions) that "all Jews share the same gene."
Among Sarrazin's statements is his concern that Germany is being changed beyond recognition by its immigrant population and what he says is its unwillingness and unsuitability to integrate.
"I don't want my grandchildren and great-grandchildren to live in a mostly Muslim country where Turkish and Arabic are widely spoken, women wear headscarves and the day is measured out by the muezzin's call to prayer," he said.
In his more pointed remarks, Sarrazin decried Germany's ethnic blending, in saying the country was being made "more stupid" by poorly educated and unproductive Muslim migrants with headscarves.
His remarks have been condemned by almost every political figure in Germany, as well as Muslim, Jewish and Christian groups. At the same time they have received the backing of far-right groups such as the National Democratic party, as well as a substantial portion of television viewers and radio listeners, who praise Sarrazin for having the courage to address issues that are largely taboo.
Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany, publicly described Sarrazin's published remarks as "completely unacceptable" and in danger of causing division.
Germany, of course, is home to approximately four million Muslims, mainly of Turkish origin, and approximately 280,000 Arabs.
Fast forward a few weeks . . .
Chancellor Merkel announced last Saturday, to a Christian Democratic Youth group, that "multikulti" (multiculturalism) in her country has "utterly failed."
Merkel is referencing the last wave of immigrants for hire to Germany: the Turkish Muslims.
"At the beginning of the sixties," The Chancellor said, last week, "our country called the foreign workers to come to Germany, and now they live in our country."
Merkel added, "We kidded ourselves, for a while; we said: 'They won't stay; sometime, they will be gone.' But this isn't reality." She concludes by adding that "to live side by side and enjoy one another" in a multicultural environment is a project that "has failed, utterly failed."
"We feel tied to Christian values. Those who don't accept them don't have a place here," said the Chancellor.
"Subsidising immigrants" isn't sufficient, Germany has the right to "make demands" on them, she added, such as mastering the language of Goethe and abandoning practices such as forced marriages.
Stop me, when this starts sounding familiar . . .
This announcement came a week after Merkel met with Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan, for talks in which the two leaders pledged to "do more" to improve the poor "integration" record of Germany's 2.5 million strong Turkish community.
"Integration" here is to be read as the direct opposite of "multiculturalism": Horst Seehofer, the leader of the Christian Democratic Union, stated that the Union parties are "committed to a dominant German culture, and opposed to a multicultural one."
"Multikulti is dead," he said.
Turkish President Abdullah Gul, in a weekend interview, also urged the Turkish community living in Germany to master the language of their adopted country.
"When one doesn't speak the language of the country in which one lives that doesn't serve anyone, neither the person concerned, the country, nor the society," the Turkish president told the Suedeutsche Zeitung.
"That is why I tell them at every opportunity that they should learn German, and speak it fluently and without an accent. That should start at nurseries."
That's called assimilation, bub. Remember?
Jewish leaders in Germany meanwhile warned that German society and democracy were under threat from extremists.
A recent expert study should prompt the government to act against antidemocratic ideas, the secretary general of the Central Council of Jews in Germany, Stephan Kramer, told the Rheinpfalz am Sonntag weekly.
Far-right attitudes are found not only at the extremes of German society, but "to a worrying degree at the centre of society," the report noted.
The study, by the Friedrich Ebert Foundation think tank, showed that more than one third (34.3 percent) of those surveyed believed Germany's 16 million immigrants or people with foreign origins came to the country for the social benefits.
More than half (58.4 percent) of the 2,411 people polled thought the around four million Muslims in Germany should have their religious practices "significantly curbed."
Thirty-two percent of people said they agreed with the statement: "Foreigners should be sent home when jobs are scarce."
Around the same number (35.6 percent) think Germany is being "over-run by foreigners" and more than one in 10 called for a "Fuehrer" to run the country "with a strong hand."
Hey. So. Wanna work in Germany?
According to the head of the German chamber of commerce and industry, Hans Heinrich Driftmann, Germany is in urgent need of about 400,000 engineers and qualified workers.
"The lack is causing a loss of growth of about one percent," he said in an interview.
While warning against "immigration that weighs down on our social system", Merkel said that Germany needed specialists from overseas to keep the pace of its economic development.
Let's not pretend.
After reading this, only white Christians, fluent in German (or willing to become so), are likely to want to work in Germany.
If we think about it: what country truly, successfully is "multicultural"?
Merkel is a bit more outlandish than most internationally-visible leaders—and that fact, in itself, leads one to question why her activities aren't more splashed about in daily news. Still, the quarrels of the rights to place and worth for Muslims in the U.S. are a fairly dominant discussion, these days. (No one's really talking about Merkel's hand in the Lisbon Treaty, c'mon.)
Why there's not a national discourse, comparing Sarrazin's work to that unpleasant document, The Bell Curve, is another wonder, to me. The two works hit all the same unsavory points (that's a hint to you sociology students).
If the international chatter can't get to that, there's still the national debate over what color to paint that damned fence dividing México from whatever parts have been "christened" the U.S.
Then there's that whole thing about people saying, "Why don't you just go back to . . ."
Some of the most sadly amusing moments of that line, recently, were in watching Southerners shout at college students, telling them to "Go back to Mexico." The students were from South America . . .
Meanwhile I've decided to stop talking, and just hand out cards: "I have never lived in México, but my ancestors' land was stolen from there. If you're completely invested in the notion I visit, check your family tree and, if it turns out your ancestors were slavers, pillagers, or colonizers, you may pay for my plane fare. I travel first-class, and I'll need to decide which part of that vast country I'd like to visit. Then, too, I'll expect you to send reparation monies, for my family, and for those still suffering, wherever I decide to go. Thanks for the offer. Bye now."
I'm going to make some of these cards, as gifts, for my friends with other colonized histories.
Mm hmm.
This message brought to you by Angela Merkel's metaphorical shiny white hood, from those of us affected, in no metaphorical way.
~Emmanuela
Monday, October 18, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
more on the difficulty of ease
My best girl (friend) reminded me of this one, today . . .
Recently, we've had major rounds of thunder, lightning, and windstorms, here in the moody autumnal Northeastern U.S.
For me, on the literal edge of a State Forest, that means power outages. Frequent power outages (wtf with "blackouts" and "brownouts," gente? mm hmm).
One of those knocked my router off its normal course of behavior, so I did what any normal person would do: I reset the thing.
At which point, I was again online, but my network had disappeared.
So I reset it again. And again. And again.
Then I said to PJ, "Remind me I fucked up the router. I'll fix it tomorrow."
PJ reminded me thusly, "Hey! I can't get online!"
Oh. Um. Right.
I continued on my quest to reset the pinche router. I was way deep into the advanced settings, wondering what the fuck I did wrong . . .
We rebooted the router manually.
I was in the midst of rebooting my computer system, also, when I said aloud, "Maybe I should also turn off my firewall? That could be causing a significant issue . . ."
Duh.
Mi gente: you cannot, cannot, expect to tweak certain outgoing or incoming 'net services, from behind a firewall.
After momentarily disabling my cloak, I reset the router once, and all was well.
Then I put the firewall back in place.
Things to know, before one wastes time, tilting at windmills.
From an expert on wasted time,
~Emmanuela
Recently, we've had major rounds of thunder, lightning, and windstorms, here in the moody autumnal Northeastern U.S.
For me, on the literal edge of a State Forest, that means power outages. Frequent power outages (wtf with "blackouts" and "brownouts," gente? mm hmm).
One of those knocked my router off its normal course of behavior, so I did what any normal person would do: I reset the thing.
At which point, I was again online, but my network had disappeared.
So I reset it again. And again. And again.
Then I said to PJ, "Remind me I fucked up the router. I'll fix it tomorrow."
PJ reminded me thusly, "Hey! I can't get online!"
Oh. Um. Right.
I continued on my quest to reset the pinche router. I was way deep into the advanced settings, wondering what the fuck I did wrong . . .
We rebooted the router manually.
I was in the midst of rebooting my computer system, also, when I said aloud, "Maybe I should also turn off my firewall? That could be causing a significant issue . . ."
Duh.
Mi gente: you cannot, cannot, expect to tweak certain outgoing or incoming 'net services, from behind a firewall.
After momentarily disabling my cloak, I reset the router once, and all was well.
Then I put the firewall back in place.
Things to know, before one wastes time, tilting at windmills.
From an expert on wasted time,
~Emmanuela
Thursday, October 14, 2010
in the spirit of change . . .
The Claiming Masculinity Project is now closed to new participants.
Verdad, mi gente.
I'll continue to follow the current participants' lives in photos, when the opportunities arise for such things.
Other than that, life is hectic, tú sabes . . .
And, of course, if I find the occasional person I simply must add, that will happen.
So don't fret.
It's not a dead thing; it's just a changed form.
Shouts to everyone for the support, all these years.
xo
~Emmanuela
Verdad, mi gente.
I'll continue to follow the current participants' lives in photos, when the opportunities arise for such things.
Other than that, life is hectic, tú sabes . . .
And, of course, if I find the occasional person I simply must add, that will happen.
So don't fret.
It's not a dead thing; it's just a changed form.
Shouts to everyone for the support, all these years.
xo
~Emmanuela
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
the difficulty of ease
I am a master of making simple tasks consumingly difficult.
That which is pointedly obtuse, for me, is forever conquered with diffident ease. Just give me something glaringly obvious to solve or resolve, and I'm your person to create a conundrum . . .
Today, por ejemplo, I went to my Viewshock site, for a comparative analysis of which photos I had online, and which I wanted to add.
My site was gone.
People consider me a "techie." I should be, by now. I have the training and the logical capacity. What I did not have, at the moment I discovered the page I had not created, was coffee.
Things not to do upon awakening include: bother people in other states, because you've not yet accessed your Basic Logic.
Um, yeah. I did that.
First, I called my Web Daddy—the great ISP provider and host with whom I've been working ever since ever since . . .
I got voicemail, so I sent him an email, asking what I'd done to deserve this, and pointed him to a screen shot of the travesty.
Next, I phoned my best girl, and asked her whether she could see my site (as if I were viewing the thing locally, rather than remotely. I know. Duh.).
She asked which one.
I said, "Oooh, good question: you look at Viewshock; I'll check . . . huh, that one's up . . ."
My girl said, in a flat tone, "Your site's toast."
I still hadn't made coffee, but Basic Logic was starting to rise in my consciousness. I told her I'd already emailed my host; I'd checked my server, to ensure I hadn't somehow changed the index page; so, really, the only logical entity left to investigate was the registrar.
And, yeah: my domain name expired yesterday.
While I was hurrying along through the payment pages for that, my Web Daddy phoned.
I answered, by saying, "I love your ring tone? And, um, I figured out the problem? I'm dealing with it? I'm sorry? I love you?"
He laughed, in that rich, hearty tone he has. The man is possessed of the finest voice I've ever heard. Jazz musician turned techie. Mm hmm.
"Pay your bills," he told me.
"I didn't get a bill," I insisted.
"Get your bills," he laughed.
Well. Yeah. There is that.
My gratitude to all the good people who've called and emailed in support of our family crisis.
Everybody's handling the best we can.
To an approximate understanding of ease,
~Emmanuela
That which is pointedly obtuse, for me, is forever conquered with diffident ease. Just give me something glaringly obvious to solve or resolve, and I'm your person to create a conundrum . . .
Today, por ejemplo, I went to my Viewshock site, for a comparative analysis of which photos I had online, and which I wanted to add.
My site was gone.
People consider me a "techie." I should be, by now. I have the training and the logical capacity. What I did not have, at the moment I discovered the page I had not created, was coffee.
Things not to do upon awakening include: bother people in other states, because you've not yet accessed your Basic Logic.
Um, yeah. I did that.
First, I called my Web Daddy—the great ISP provider and host with whom I've been working ever since ever since . . .
I got voicemail, so I sent him an email, asking what I'd done to deserve this, and pointed him to a screen shot of the travesty.
Next, I phoned my best girl, and asked her whether she could see my site (as if I were viewing the thing locally, rather than remotely. I know. Duh.).
She asked which one.
I said, "Oooh, good question: you look at Viewshock; I'll check . . . huh, that one's up . . ."
My girl said, in a flat tone, "Your site's toast."
I still hadn't made coffee, but Basic Logic was starting to rise in my consciousness. I told her I'd already emailed my host; I'd checked my server, to ensure I hadn't somehow changed the index page; so, really, the only logical entity left to investigate was the registrar.
And, yeah: my domain name expired yesterday.
While I was hurrying along through the payment pages for that, my Web Daddy phoned.
I answered, by saying, "I love your ring tone? And, um, I figured out the problem? I'm dealing with it? I'm sorry? I love you?"
He laughed, in that rich, hearty tone he has. The man is possessed of the finest voice I've ever heard. Jazz musician turned techie. Mm hmm.
"Pay your bills," he told me.
"I didn't get a bill," I insisted.
"Get your bills," he laughed.
Well. Yeah. There is that.
My gratitude to all the good people who've called and emailed in support of our family crisis.
Everybody's handling the best we can.
To an approximate understanding of ease,
~Emmanuela
Sunday, October 10, 2010
production cessation for mourning period.
pj whitt, beloved business partner for my photography works, and sterling project director for claiming masculinity, has tonight lost one of her three brothers in a fatal accident.
the matriarch of the whitt family, grand marie, celebrated another birthday into her seventies, in july. marie has always been exceedingly proud to boast of her ten children ("and two gay daughters," she loves to add); her many grandchildren; her great-grandchildren.
tonight marks the first loss of any of that very close-knit clan.
for nearly all her nearly six years, my youngest child has been co-parented by pj.
they were together, when they received word. tonight, la nena has elected to remain with pj and the grieving family.
i will not be processing the photos from recent sessions, or participating in further sessions, until further notice.
thank you for your understanding.
~emmanuela
*edited, after my head cleared, a bit . . .
Friday, September 24, 2010
On Harm Reduction, NGOs, and Photography
ay, processing the new photos of la lenni has been difficult . . .
it's one thing, to have a concept worth shooting (excuse the pun). another world, entirely, to feel the impact of one's own concept.
earlier today, i was reading statistics from the world health organization. yeah, i do things like that. i had a question about current trending in HIV transmission, amongst women of color, both in the usa and worldwide. i didn't believe much had changed, since i checked the stats a year or so ago, and i am current with reportage, but i wanted to be certain.
turns out, the last compilation of statistics from the WHO is from 2008, so i hadn't missed anything of extreme importance, though the white papers are still issued on a regular basis.
all of this, yes, is part of what i do, as a non-governmental organization (NGO) photographer: all of my work, and my availability to other NGOs, is just the end result of my commitment to a host of nonprofit peace and justice actions.
i won't say it's "entertaining" work, but that's not really what i set out to do, on a daily basis.
after pondering the confluence between HIV realities; the necessary gendering of the topic, by the world health organization, and every other influential policy-making group; putting that together with recent activism for women in the congo; bringing that back to grassroots work, to end violence against women, in prisons and throughout the u.s.; together with some assumptions still held about the relative "safety" of sex within HIV+ groups, given "the cocktail" . . .
i went searching for two things: images depicting strong HIV education information, and harm reduction or needle exchange program data. i searched in several languages.
what i found were the same tired icons i've been seeing, since the '80s. i guess i thought, since i don't get out much, these days, maybe things had changed. nope.
so i turned to lenni, who happened to be in my office, and said, "hey, you wanna do something bold?"
she looked nervous.
i explained the concept to her, and she relaxed *s
what's hard for me, in reviewing these photos, is the raking memory of the night lenni inseminated me with our daughter—using a needless syringe, from a local women's clinic. it was part of an actual home insemination kit. (and you all thought we actually used turkey basters, back in the '80s. uh huh.)
we got pregnant, on the first try—despite the fact i'd had surgery to remove endocervical cancer, just a month prior, and the oncologist told me i wouldn't be able to conceive for at least a year. well, he'd also predicted i'd die . . .
lenni's never been able to stop crowing about what good aim she has . . .
the donor, a gay male friend, was not in the least hurt or upset, when we asked him to take blood tests, for everything from genetic disorders to HIV. he understood completely.
and lenni, as everyone in my close circle knows, is a recovering addict.
putting that syringe between her legs, to become the poster child for needle exchange and harm reduction, was hazardous for her, emotionally. we discussed babies born with addictions, and those who die of AIDS-related complications. i had to express to lenni why i wanted to do this . . . and i said i was willing to do it myself, if she wasn't comfortable.
so, big ups to la lenni.
i just gotta say: for everyone who finds these photos (the two i even allowed into public view) to be "beautiful," here at home, they're hitting some major sore spots, for two older women of color, who have seen too fucking much, and are just happy we're here to make a difference, if we can.
~emmanuela
it's one thing, to have a concept worth shooting (excuse the pun). another world, entirely, to feel the impact of one's own concept.
earlier today, i was reading statistics from the world health organization. yeah, i do things like that. i had a question about current trending in HIV transmission, amongst women of color, both in the usa and worldwide. i didn't believe much had changed, since i checked the stats a year or so ago, and i am current with reportage, but i wanted to be certain.
turns out, the last compilation of statistics from the WHO is from 2008, so i hadn't missed anything of extreme importance, though the white papers are still issued on a regular basis.
all of this, yes, is part of what i do, as a non-governmental organization (NGO) photographer: all of my work, and my availability to other NGOs, is just the end result of my commitment to a host of nonprofit peace and justice actions.
i won't say it's "entertaining" work, but that's not really what i set out to do, on a daily basis.
after pondering the confluence between HIV realities; the necessary gendering of the topic, by the world health organization, and every other influential policy-making group; putting that together with recent activism for women in the congo; bringing that back to grassroots work, to end violence against women, in prisons and throughout the u.s.; together with some assumptions still held about the relative "safety" of sex within HIV+ groups, given "the cocktail" . . .
i went searching for two things: images depicting strong HIV education information, and harm reduction or needle exchange program data. i searched in several languages.
what i found were the same tired icons i've been seeing, since the '80s. i guess i thought, since i don't get out much, these days, maybe things had changed. nope.
so i turned to lenni, who happened to be in my office, and said, "hey, you wanna do something bold?"
she looked nervous.
i explained the concept to her, and she relaxed *s
what's hard for me, in reviewing these photos, is the raking memory of the night lenni inseminated me with our daughter—using a needless syringe, from a local women's clinic. it was part of an actual home insemination kit. (and you all thought we actually used turkey basters, back in the '80s. uh huh.)
we got pregnant, on the first try—despite the fact i'd had surgery to remove endocervical cancer, just a month prior, and the oncologist told me i wouldn't be able to conceive for at least a year. well, he'd also predicted i'd die . . .
lenni's never been able to stop crowing about what good aim she has . . .
the donor, a gay male friend, was not in the least hurt or upset, when we asked him to take blood tests, for everything from genetic disorders to HIV. he understood completely.
and lenni, as everyone in my close circle knows, is a recovering addict.
putting that syringe between her legs, to become the poster child for needle exchange and harm reduction, was hazardous for her, emotionally. we discussed babies born with addictions, and those who die of AIDS-related complications. i had to express to lenni why i wanted to do this . . . and i said i was willing to do it myself, if she wasn't comfortable.
so, big ups to la lenni.
i just gotta say: for everyone who finds these photos (the two i even allowed into public view) to be "beautiful," here at home, they're hitting some major sore spots, for two older women of color, who have seen too fucking much, and are just happy we're here to make a difference, if we can.
~emmanuela
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Yom Kippur, atonement, and packing
"You're an excellent packer."
That was first full sentence I spoke today, after awakening.
Every person in our queer and trans communities would have laughed, at my manner of clumsy expression.
Not Michael MacFeat—one of my few straight, white, male friends.
In today's mail, I'd received an original print of a photo I love. Clever knife work and a good deal of wrangling was required to access the thing.
"I'm trained to do that," is all Michael said, words in gravel and phlegm, as always.
MacFeat is something of a legend, for his gravel and phlegm charm in the sculptural and political arts, around the Philadelphia area.
These days, he's knocking the hell out of Flickr, with various computer graphic series on arcane philosophical notions: Savoir Brut; Lies and The Truth; and, one of my personal favorites, the investigative Trading Card Series.
I strongly suggest you have a free Flickr account, set to moderate, to view these works.
For those with a strong mind for the absurd wrapped in eiderdown nostalgia, in a bit of beer haze, there's MacFeat's blog, which asserts History Will Absolve Mike.
That which has been afflicting the soul may have been released, for some of us, during last weekend's solemn rituals of Yom Kippur.
Personally, I was off my meds. No kidding.
Lyssie said she was going down to the shore, to throw her sins in the sea. I found that a lovely image, and was drifting toward her, spiritually, when she added she would bring me some sand—from the . . . whatever shore is two blocks from her house.
I had such a fit, then, telling her, in no uncertain terms, I've had it, with people bringing me sand or sending me shells . . . and don't people realize I came up in San Diego, so all that tourist crap encrusted with sand and shells is anathema to me?
She said she was just kidding. She said she was sorry. It was too late. I'd have to do my atonement on my own. And off my pinche meds.
It was a hard weekend, gente.
Y, tú sabes, we're taught, as indigenous peoples, our actions affect the coming seven generations.
Still, I believe the most difficult absolution is not from history, but from ourselves, no?
That's not egocentricity. It's what I know to be true: our egos tend to stand in the way of our abilities to heal, to release and go on with the business of atonement.
Just sayin'.
The package I received this morning contained an artwork my friend Michael produced, emblematizing a serious condition that nearly caused his death.
And it's a thing of beauty.
Thank you again, mister *s
Survival. Movement. Getting beyond ourselves.
I'm for it.
~Emmanuela
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Jack Radcliffe's 70th Birthday
This weekend marks the 70th birthday of my beloved friend, Jack Radcliffe.
The photographer, gente, not the gay bear porn star. Seriously.
And my Jack's not surprised by that reference, cuz he is well acquainted with the other Jack, mm hmm. Oh yes. But that Jack's not my Jack *s
My Jack Radcliffe is a premiere photographer, and—little is it known—a world-class raconteur. You bet.
On Thursday, he turned seventy. All weekend, we'll be celebrating his life and amazing achievements.
Everyone is invited to join. I made that possible, over on Flickr.
Come write a little something, for the face of contemporary photography.
I'm about that.
~Emmanuela
The photographer, gente, not the gay bear porn star. Seriously.
And my Jack's not surprised by that reference, cuz he is well acquainted with the other Jack, mm hmm. Oh yes. But that Jack's not my Jack *s
My Jack Radcliffe is a premiere photographer, and—little is it known—a world-class raconteur. You bet.
On Thursday, he turned seventy. All weekend, we'll be celebrating his life and amazing achievements.
Everyone is invited to join. I made that possible, over on Flickr.
Come write a little something, for the face of contemporary photography.
I'm about that.
~Emmanuela
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
how cool is this?
didn't know i remembered the address of the house of horrors.
just saw myself running from it.
trees overtook the world.
thank you, kathy.
try it, people.
if you're in a mood to go there . . .
emmanuela
just saw myself running from it.
trees overtook the world.
thank you, kathy.
try it, people.
if you're in a mood to go there . . .
emmanuela
Saturday, August 28, 2010
today, i finally learned how to use the remote for my camera.
yes, i have one camera. with one lens.
and this remote thing has been in my possession, for several months. i just didn't understand how to use it, and i'm not great with change. also, i thought it wasn't much different than setting the camera to auto, so i didn't see the point.
i was wrong.
great little device.
now, i can actually prove i have two breasts, without enlisting the help of another photographer *s
that is a difficult feat, when shooting handheld, i'll have you know.
so: mark this as a day of freedom.
and: the babe starts kindergarten on monday.
who knows what sorts of trouble i might find . . .
shouts out to joe mario, who contacted me tonight, looking for a new shoot—and giving me the honey i needed to finish my own shoot. i do adore you, mr. mario, mm hmm.
my first self-portrait (look, no hands!) from the remote is on flickr (but you can't see it, unless you have a free flickr account, set to moderate . . . cuz, yeah, there are breasts involved *s).
freedom!
happy days,
emmanuela
yes, i have one camera. with one lens.
and this remote thing has been in my possession, for several months. i just didn't understand how to use it, and i'm not great with change. also, i thought it wasn't much different than setting the camera to auto, so i didn't see the point.
i was wrong.
great little device.
now, i can actually prove i have two breasts, without enlisting the help of another photographer *s
that is a difficult feat, when shooting handheld, i'll have you know.
so: mark this as a day of freedom.
and: the babe starts kindergarten on monday.
who knows what sorts of trouble i might find . . .
shouts out to joe mario, who contacted me tonight, looking for a new shoot—and giving me the honey i needed to finish my own shoot. i do adore you, mr. mario, mm hmm.
my first self-portrait (look, no hands!) from the remote is on flickr (but you can't see it, unless you have a free flickr account, set to moderate . . . cuz, yeah, there are breasts involved *s).
freedom!
happy days,
emmanuela
viewshock upgrade
yes, my site is now fully bilingual, spanish and english. i know no one has a problem with that. mm hmm.
okay, so . . . now those amongst the claiming masculinity participants who wrote accompanying texts have their words with their galleries, again. i am regretful at having been so lax about that, when i moved my site.
the galleries, in general, should be more easily navigable, as they're all interlinked. if not, lemme know.
i've also added a page of links to some of my fave photographers and activism groups.
there are but a few thumbnails and the like which can be dragged and dropped from the screen; in the main, the photos are protected by various coding mechanisms.
hey, a word about protecting my photos: when you, as a model or project participant, have a copy of my work, we have that long talk about your duty to keep my copyright on the photos, riiiiiiight? right.
so, could i please please please not be sent links from various sources, showing me that my photos of various models are being used as false social networking profiles and the like? i mean: y'all look good, but do you really want someone pretending to be you? that's just creepy.
i'd recommend you put those photos on whatever settings stop the general public from accessing them. and please: use the copyright. thank you.
don't hate me cuz i'm dutiful,
~emmanuela
okay, so . . . now those amongst the claiming masculinity participants who wrote accompanying texts have their words with their galleries, again. i am regretful at having been so lax about that, when i moved my site.
the galleries, in general, should be more easily navigable, as they're all interlinked. if not, lemme know.
i've also added a page of links to some of my fave photographers and activism groups.
there are but a few thumbnails and the like which can be dragged and dropped from the screen; in the main, the photos are protected by various coding mechanisms.
hey, a word about protecting my photos: when you, as a model or project participant, have a copy of my work, we have that long talk about your duty to keep my copyright on the photos, riiiiiiight? right.
so, could i please please please not be sent links from various sources, showing me that my photos of various models are being used as false social networking profiles and the like? i mean: y'all look good, but do you really want someone pretending to be you? that's just creepy.
i'd recommend you put those photos on whatever settings stop the general public from accessing them. and please: use the copyright. thank you.
don't hate me cuz i'm dutiful,
~emmanuela
Saturday, August 21, 2010
first time for everything . . .
yes, talib cancelled.
it was a combination of foul weather, an insane traffic jam . . . and nerves *s (you thought i didn't know about that last one, honey, but of course i did . . . mm hmm).
and everything happens as it should, for the most part: i'm not in love with ambient light photography, which is all we would have had, on that dreadfully rainy day.
look for a new session with talib, sometime in september.
which is any minute. crazy. already the leaves here in the fabled poconos are drifting toward my skylights, in pale yellows. when the rusts, ambers, merlots, and other deep foliage begins, the splendour of autumn is at its height—and tourism here traffics in madness.
to be honest, i've never lived in a place that wasn't a tourist area.
san diego is a desert oasis built with water purchased from the colorado river, all to attract tourists. coming up there, i didn't know what it was like not to be surrounded by all sorts of people, from many nations, and with many different accents.
the foothills of the rocky mountains, in colorado, are a much smaller version of tourism—and much less diverse. still, there are some differences, amongst both the inhabitants and visitors to the region.
here in the forests of the colonial period, it's easy to imagine nothing has changed for a century, even while standing at a contemporary construction site. there's a settled quality to this entire area: even the city planning evokes streets built for horses and buggies, rather than for the ease of vehicular travel.
and here is a place of so little diversity, people of color instantly acknowledge one another, as if we're all visitors to the island.
while i lived in boulder, my community teased me that i "imported" most of my friends from denver. that was largely true, due to the dearth of people of color in my immediate surroundings.
out here, my friends are mostly located in nyc. i've yet to become comfortable with the tiny streets and what seems to me unnecessary frenzy of philadelphia—though i do work in philly, when i meet models who reside there.
people keep telling me i should get to know philadelphia. my only lasting affiliation, at the moment, is with bread & roses, the organization for change (not charity) i support.
i might venture that way, rather than spending my free hours in nyc.
at the moment, i'm not convinced. new york offers endless . . . everything.
but, you know . . . first time for everything *s
petitions of convincing should be sent to my direct email address.
otherwise, now that my girl lyssie can drive (woot), it's back north for me.
thanks to everybody who's keeping up with my site, and offering comments,
~emmanuela
it was a combination of foul weather, an insane traffic jam . . . and nerves *s (you thought i didn't know about that last one, honey, but of course i did . . . mm hmm).
and everything happens as it should, for the most part: i'm not in love with ambient light photography, which is all we would have had, on that dreadfully rainy day.
look for a new session with talib, sometime in september.
which is any minute. crazy. already the leaves here in the fabled poconos are drifting toward my skylights, in pale yellows. when the rusts, ambers, merlots, and other deep foliage begins, the splendour of autumn is at its height—and tourism here traffics in madness.
to be honest, i've never lived in a place that wasn't a tourist area.
san diego is a desert oasis built with water purchased from the colorado river, all to attract tourists. coming up there, i didn't know what it was like not to be surrounded by all sorts of people, from many nations, and with many different accents.
the foothills of the rocky mountains, in colorado, are a much smaller version of tourism—and much less diverse. still, there are some differences, amongst both the inhabitants and visitors to the region.
here in the forests of the colonial period, it's easy to imagine nothing has changed for a century, even while standing at a contemporary construction site. there's a settled quality to this entire area: even the city planning evokes streets built for horses and buggies, rather than for the ease of vehicular travel.
and here is a place of so little diversity, people of color instantly acknowledge one another, as if we're all visitors to the island.
while i lived in boulder, my community teased me that i "imported" most of my friends from denver. that was largely true, due to the dearth of people of color in my immediate surroundings.
out here, my friends are mostly located in nyc. i've yet to become comfortable with the tiny streets and what seems to me unnecessary frenzy of philadelphia—though i do work in philly, when i meet models who reside there.
people keep telling me i should get to know philadelphia. my only lasting affiliation, at the moment, is with bread & roses, the organization for change (not charity) i support.
i might venture that way, rather than spending my free hours in nyc.
at the moment, i'm not convinced. new york offers endless . . . everything.
but, you know . . . first time for everything *s
petitions of convincing should be sent to my direct email address.
otherwise, now that my girl lyssie can drive (woot), it's back north for me.
thanks to everybody who's keeping up with my site, and offering comments,
~emmanuela
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
the intrusion of possibility into circumstance . . .
Word is in: no cancellation for the shoot, tomorrow, so I need to do laundry; plan the concepts, sets, and props; and perhaps eat? Ay . . .
Fortunately, assistant PJ will be here (sans child, thank all good things), to help prep, and to act as Prop Master and Wardrobe Assistant. Life is not too bad . . .
And I have the mighty pleasure of visiting with Talib. Y'all won't recognize him (which, of course, is the point of transitioning, to some extent *s).
It is 1:06 a.m., Eastern Time, and a woman is screeching . . . in my forest. My property literally abuts State Forest Land, so one doesn't live any more "in the forest" than do I. Generally, this is safe harbor. I hear the nightly chorus of frogs and crickets. Strange, the intrusion of a human voice.
Fortunately, assistant PJ will be here (sans child, thank all good things), to help prep, and to act as Prop Master and Wardrobe Assistant. Life is not too bad . . .
And I have the mighty pleasure of visiting with Talib. Y'all won't recognize him (which, of course, is the point of transitioning, to some extent *s).
It is 1:06 a.m., Eastern Time, and a woman is screeching . . . in my forest. My property literally abuts State Forest Land, so one doesn't live any more "in the forest" than do I. Generally, this is safe harbor. I hear the nightly chorus of frogs and crickets. Strange, the intrusion of a human voice.
viewshock update
apparently, it takes me half a month (plus the time . . . oh, let's not think about that) . . . to update my website.
but it's finished.
ta da.
go have a look, and . . . tell me what i did wrong *s
i'm sleep-depraved, and i have a shoot, tomorrow. i think. unless i have a cancellation *s
thanks for hanging in there with me.
~emmanuela, tired
but it's finished.
ta da.
go have a look, and . . . tell me what i did wrong *s
i'm sleep-depraved, and i have a shoot, tomorrow. i think. unless i have a cancellation *s
thanks for hanging in there with me.
~emmanuela, tired
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
and, on a personal note . . .
Being without a proper computing device means I've been able to do fuck all, as the Brits say, for the past couple of weeks.
I'm communicating, now, from what an Apple agent referred to as a "vintage iMac"—the computer I borrowed from my five-year-old's bedroom. This is the machine on which my little girl learns applications, but does not have access to the internet. For the latter, the child is with a parent, alriiiight? And: let's call this sweet lil machine "shabby chic." It's a cute iMac, and we love it. I just can't do a damned thing with it, with respect to actual work. Sigh.
PJ's been in da house, coparenting the child, of course. And PJ has her own lovely MacBook . . . but I can't be stealing her computer every minute. Plus, I toss everybody outta here, on weekends, cuz this is my time to either do shoots or just regroup.
I don't have a shoot, this weekend.
So.
This is the first series of days I've had to confront just Being in This New Body.
I'm told there are rumors borne of confusion about my health. Geez. Why. Pay attention, people. I did that Face thing, for a minute *s
Yes, I'm "sick." No, I don't have a cold. No, I'm not likely to "get better."
I have a chronic, degenerative, aggressive autoimmune disorder. Not a lot to be done about that.
At the moment, I can't really walk very well. I can move around my house without much assistance—but yeah, when I leave the house, I do the wheelchair thing.
PJ and the Wonder Boy (my favorite doc) were teasing me about doing up my wheelchair in tie-dye.
That's just wrong.
I'm considering decorating it in shoes. Going down to the Sally Annie, and getting a bunch of garish high heels, no two alike. I'm'a string 'em together along the back, with lace, mm hmm. Just to be perverse.
Dunno what to think of the prognoses of physicians. Every time they say I'm going to die, they're wrong. When I had encephalitis, at age 24, they said I'd die within days. I did not die. When I had cancer, the next year, they said I'd die. I'm still here.
And clearly I'm not dying: I'm typing *s
What else I'm doing is evacuating my life of every source of boredom, irritation, and barrier to joy. Luckily, I've always been honest, and I've fairly well done as I please, for a long damn time. Now, it's just a matter of how long, before I say, "Yeah, I'm not doing that." *s
My friend Jack finds it odd that I am generally happy. Jack's new, in my life—I just met him, in March, when I was in Baltimore for a visit to Johns Hopkins, so I had the chance to buy Jack a meal, cuz he lives in B'more. He said, "You always seem happy, on the phone, but I thought . . . well . . ." and he looked at PJ. She looked at me, and smiled. Then she said to Jack, "Well, that's just her."
Why would I be different, now?
I have been so many things, over so many years.
This is one more change.
After encephalitis, I was told I'd never dance, swim, or ride a bike again.
Took me less than a month to get back in the studio, dancing. Back in the sea, swimming. So I had to modify a few of the asanas in yoga. Meh.
Now it's no feet. I've had feet a long time. They were good to me. If they need a break, I'm good with that *s
Perhaps I approach life differently than others. I came up with an extraordinary amount of abuse and trauma. Hell, I'm just happy with what I got, day to day.
This, too.
That should cover the gossip. I know you don't think I'm'a tell you whether I'm seeing anyone. Fuckers *s
Now. Let's get back to the Important Business of contributing to the betterment of the worlds around us. That is an infinitely more worthy topic.
There is art to be made. Politics to be produced and changed. Lives to be touched.
I'm about that.
You?
*s
~Emmanuela
I'm communicating, now, from what an Apple agent referred to as a "vintage iMac"—the computer I borrowed from my five-year-old's bedroom. This is the machine on which my little girl learns applications, but does not have access to the internet. For the latter, the child is with a parent, alriiiight? And: let's call this sweet lil machine "shabby chic." It's a cute iMac, and we love it. I just can't do a damned thing with it, with respect to actual work. Sigh.
PJ's been in da house, coparenting the child, of course. And PJ has her own lovely MacBook . . . but I can't be stealing her computer every minute. Plus, I toss everybody outta here, on weekends, cuz this is my time to either do shoots or just regroup.
I don't have a shoot, this weekend.
So.
This is the first series of days I've had to confront just Being in This New Body.
I'm told there are rumors borne of confusion about my health. Geez. Why. Pay attention, people. I did that Face thing, for a minute *s
Yes, I'm "sick." No, I don't have a cold. No, I'm not likely to "get better."
I have a chronic, degenerative, aggressive autoimmune disorder. Not a lot to be done about that.
At the moment, I can't really walk very well. I can move around my house without much assistance—but yeah, when I leave the house, I do the wheelchair thing.
PJ and the Wonder Boy (my favorite doc) were teasing me about doing up my wheelchair in tie-dye.
That's just wrong.
I'm considering decorating it in shoes. Going down to the Sally Annie, and getting a bunch of garish high heels, no two alike. I'm'a string 'em together along the back, with lace, mm hmm. Just to be perverse.
Dunno what to think of the prognoses of physicians. Every time they say I'm going to die, they're wrong. When I had encephalitis, at age 24, they said I'd die within days. I did not die. When I had cancer, the next year, they said I'd die. I'm still here.
And clearly I'm not dying: I'm typing *s
What else I'm doing is evacuating my life of every source of boredom, irritation, and barrier to joy. Luckily, I've always been honest, and I've fairly well done as I please, for a long damn time. Now, it's just a matter of how long, before I say, "Yeah, I'm not doing that." *s
My friend Jack finds it odd that I am generally happy. Jack's new, in my life—I just met him, in March, when I was in Baltimore for a visit to Johns Hopkins, so I had the chance to buy Jack a meal, cuz he lives in B'more. He said, "You always seem happy, on the phone, but I thought . . . well . . ." and he looked at PJ. She looked at me, and smiled. Then she said to Jack, "Well, that's just her."
Why would I be different, now?
I have been so many things, over so many years.
This is one more change.
After encephalitis, I was told I'd never dance, swim, or ride a bike again.
Took me less than a month to get back in the studio, dancing. Back in the sea, swimming. So I had to modify a few of the asanas in yoga. Meh.
Now it's no feet. I've had feet a long time. They were good to me. If they need a break, I'm good with that *s
Perhaps I approach life differently than others. I came up with an extraordinary amount of abuse and trauma. Hell, I'm just happy with what I got, day to day.
This, too.
That should cover the gossip. I know you don't think I'm'a tell you whether I'm seeing anyone. Fuckers *s
Now. Let's get back to the Important Business of contributing to the betterment of the worlds around us. That is an infinitely more worthy topic.
There is art to be made. Politics to be produced and changed. Lives to be touched.
I'm about that.
You?
*s
~Emmanuela
Bad Seeds Mean New Business for the Home Fronts
So.
I'm still here . . . but my computer is not.
Shall we ponder that?
Are you instantly bored by that query?
Right. Intelligent friends, you should be incredibly apathetic, even irritated, at the thought I might begin so much as a paragraph suggesting thought about my personal computer.
Let me say, instead, I would like us to ponder when the hell the Apple corporation became the insidious monolith of greed and cultural impropriety it now represents in our midst.
Did I miss that conversation?
I know, mi gente, mis comunidades, I've been a champion of All Things Apple (well, except the Stupid Shit everyone finds so necessary, meh), since the literal dawn of the company: I've owned Apple computers, from the first issuance of the Mac. In fact, I've never purchased a computer or even a peripheral from another company.
Go ahead. Be surprised. But. It's not that I'm rolling in the Big Bucks. The truth is, for long years, I was associated with universities, and the campuses where I worked paid for me to have new computer bundles, with every new fiscal cycle. So, yeah: that means I had a brand new Apple Mac computer, with all the peripherals, printer, scanner, and anything else I needed, every single year.
The one I own now is the first I've purchased on my own dime, registered directly to me, not via a university. Okay, well, it's registered under my legal name, the one under which I'm an author, tú sabes. Still.
These Apple people now wanna act like they don't know me. And I'll tell you what, mi gente, mis comunidades: after this experience—which has, without merit, flavor, or passion, devoured the better part of my last ten days—I do not wanna know Apple.
They are some rude, ineffectual techs, working for a megacorp driven by nothing but greed. In the center are a handful of midlevel PR punks, trained to "handle" whatever bad news may come their way. Which is code for endlessly repeating what Apple is "not authorized" to do, and plying the customer with undergrad Soc tricks (grad school, if you get one real clever).
Bullshit and mindfuck, people.
Which is to say: I had a deep and abiding love affair with Apple, and we are having one huge, nasty, public divorce. Pity the children . . .
On the upside, my Web Daddy can now stop teasing me about how all Mac people wear sandals (especially since I barely and only ineffectively walk, fuckyouverymuch, and I never owned a pair of Birks in my life, gah).
More good news: I have determined to go Linux. I shall have myself the most tricked-out machine evah, do you hear me? Mm.
This is the new dream of the common people: a spectacular Linux machine, personally designed by your favorite tech artiste.
You remember when a bunch of us took off in a hurry from the Microsoft corporation? There were stickers, in the best of our community stores (still are, in the best), proudly proclaiming "Microsoft Free Zone."
Apple, Inc. has become the industry leader, mi gente. It's the monolith, now. Maker of gadget fuckery, with the legal department to ensure class action suits are settled with coupons.
'K, then.
Let's take our business to the queer, unemployed, person of color we all know, who's a damned genius, and will build a computer from scrap.
Years ago, I believed I was helping the tiny Apple company get its start, toward making something good happen, and making a difference.
So, that didn't play.
Now, we don't play Apple.
Let's bring our business on home.
Spread the love.
~Emmanuela
/ rant *s
I'm still here . . . but my computer is not.
Shall we ponder that?
Are you instantly bored by that query?
Right. Intelligent friends, you should be incredibly apathetic, even irritated, at the thought I might begin so much as a paragraph suggesting thought about my personal computer.
Let me say, instead, I would like us to ponder when the hell the Apple corporation became the insidious monolith of greed and cultural impropriety it now represents in our midst.
Did I miss that conversation?
I know, mi gente, mis comunidades, I've been a champion of All Things Apple (well, except the Stupid Shit everyone finds so necessary, meh), since the literal dawn of the company: I've owned Apple computers, from the first issuance of the Mac. In fact, I've never purchased a computer or even a peripheral from another company.
Go ahead. Be surprised. But. It's not that I'm rolling in the Big Bucks. The truth is, for long years, I was associated with universities, and the campuses where I worked paid for me to have new computer bundles, with every new fiscal cycle. So, yeah: that means I had a brand new Apple Mac computer, with all the peripherals, printer, scanner, and anything else I needed, every single year.
The one I own now is the first I've purchased on my own dime, registered directly to me, not via a university. Okay, well, it's registered under my legal name, the one under which I'm an author, tú sabes. Still.
These Apple people now wanna act like they don't know me. And I'll tell you what, mi gente, mis comunidades: after this experience—which has, without merit, flavor, or passion, devoured the better part of my last ten days—I do not wanna know Apple.
They are some rude, ineffectual techs, working for a megacorp driven by nothing but greed. In the center are a handful of midlevel PR punks, trained to "handle" whatever bad news may come their way. Which is code for endlessly repeating what Apple is "not authorized" to do, and plying the customer with undergrad Soc tricks (grad school, if you get one real clever).
Bullshit and mindfuck, people.
Which is to say: I had a deep and abiding love affair with Apple, and we are having one huge, nasty, public divorce. Pity the children . . .
On the upside, my Web Daddy can now stop teasing me about how all Mac people wear sandals (especially since I barely and only ineffectively walk, fuckyouverymuch, and I never owned a pair of Birks in my life, gah).
More good news: I have determined to go Linux. I shall have myself the most tricked-out machine evah, do you hear me? Mm.
This is the new dream of the common people: a spectacular Linux machine, personally designed by your favorite tech artiste.
You remember when a bunch of us took off in a hurry from the Microsoft corporation? There were stickers, in the best of our community stores (still are, in the best), proudly proclaiming "Microsoft Free Zone."
Apple, Inc. has become the industry leader, mi gente. It's the monolith, now. Maker of gadget fuckery, with the legal department to ensure class action suits are settled with coupons.
'K, then.
Let's take our business to the queer, unemployed, person of color we all know, who's a damned genius, and will build a computer from scrap.
Years ago, I believed I was helping the tiny Apple company get its start, toward making something good happen, and making a difference.
So, that didn't play.
Now, we don't play Apple.
Let's bring our business on home.
Spread the love.
~Emmanuela
/ rant *s
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Still here . . .
So I don't love the face place . . . deal with it *s
I am not, in general, a proponent of "social media." Those of you who know me well understand that socializing, in itself, is not something at which I truly excel—doing that via the internet, with people I barely know does not come easily to me. The endless echolalia of strangers . . .
Work I understand, and I've had more than plenty of that on my hands. The new issue of Standards is now officially put to bed (yes, I still employ old-school printing terms, from back in the day when the journal was a print publication, and long before that, when I edited papers printed in ink . . .)
Shouts out to the galaxy of international contributors, who made this issue so beautifully strong.
While managing housefuls of guests, I've also been doing some not for profit web designing, for a few people who are in need of their own sites. Why do I do this? Um . . . because I can? Because they can't? Ask me, after I've had some rest . . .
As soon as I'm done with all that, I'll be back to redesigning my own site, and moving it to (yes really) another location. Viewshock is going to be my site for web design. Seems people keep asking me to do that, and I'm fairly quick at it, so I might as well "put up a shingle," as they say *s
I'll announce the new site, when I'm more prepared . . . and rested.
Thank you all, for your continued support.
Emmanuela
I am not, in general, a proponent of "social media." Those of you who know me well understand that socializing, in itself, is not something at which I truly excel—doing that via the internet, with people I barely know does not come easily to me. The endless echolalia of strangers . . .
Work I understand, and I've had more than plenty of that on my hands. The new issue of Standards is now officially put to bed (yes, I still employ old-school printing terms, from back in the day when the journal was a print publication, and long before that, when I edited papers printed in ink . . .)
Shouts out to the galaxy of international contributors, who made this issue so beautifully strong.
While managing housefuls of guests, I've also been doing some not for profit web designing, for a few people who are in need of their own sites. Why do I do this? Um . . . because I can? Because they can't? Ask me, after I've had some rest . . .
As soon as I'm done with all that, I'll be back to redesigning my own site, and moving it to (yes really) another location. Viewshock is going to be my site for web design. Seems people keep asking me to do that, and I'm fairly quick at it, so I might as well "put up a shingle," as they say *s
I'll announce the new site, when I'm more prepared . . . and rested.
Thank you all, for your continued support.
Emmanuela
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Poet Ai Has Passed . . .
One of my favorite people, the renowned poet Ai, passed from this earth last weekend.
I didn't know, until I phoned her, about something that now seems irrelevant. She didn't answer, and I thought: Oh, she's listening to NPR; that's what she does, at this time of day . . .
Can't say why my intuition failed me, this time, mi gente. Perhaps I've been ill so long . . .
When the word came down, in response to the voice mail I left, I was stunned.
More so, when I conducted a google search, and found there was but one news story on Ai's passing—and that was from the university in Oklahoma, where she was faculty.
One.
This is the poet who won the National Book Award, in a year that heralded the first time the award had ever been given to Black women in two consecutive years. And that is a major achievement, notwithstanding the accomplishment of winning the award on her own merit.
Ai's voice is not that of the soft and genteel poet. Understand: having her works published is akin to the way we all felt, when Sapphire finally got some recognition, with Precious.
So where are the news stories?
Today, there was a small piece in the LA Times.
Oh, this happened with so many of our people.
Wait until Norton runs a few of Ai's works through their approval mill. The classrooms will start recognizing; the children will have a sudden comprehension of the talent du jour . . . and Ai will be "seen."
I'm angered.
And saddened.
I do know, however, how very grateful was this woman, for every blessing she received throughout her lifetime.
She was not one to hold tight to bitterness.
For her, I will celebrate the day.
My love, Ai.
May you walk in peace with the ancestors.
Emmanuela
I didn't know, until I phoned her, about something that now seems irrelevant. She didn't answer, and I thought: Oh, she's listening to NPR; that's what she does, at this time of day . . .
Can't say why my intuition failed me, this time, mi gente. Perhaps I've been ill so long . . .
When the word came down, in response to the voice mail I left, I was stunned.
More so, when I conducted a google search, and found there was but one news story on Ai's passing—and that was from the university in Oklahoma, where she was faculty.
One.
This is the poet who won the National Book Award, in a year that heralded the first time the award had ever been given to Black women in two consecutive years. And that is a major achievement, notwithstanding the accomplishment of winning the award on her own merit.
Ai's voice is not that of the soft and genteel poet. Understand: having her works published is akin to the way we all felt, when Sapphire finally got some recognition, with Precious.
So where are the news stories?
Today, there was a small piece in the LA Times.
Oh, this happened with so many of our people.
Wait until Norton runs a few of Ai's works through their approval mill. The classrooms will start recognizing; the children will have a sudden comprehension of the talent du jour . . . and Ai will be "seen."
I'm angered.
And saddened.
I do know, however, how very grateful was this woman, for every blessing she received throughout her lifetime.
She was not one to hold tight to bitterness.
For her, I will celebrate the day.
My love, Ai.
May you walk in peace with the ancestors.
Emmanuela
Saturday, March 20, 2010
A little taste treat I'm trying for a google ad. No idea how this is going to work, but google says everything "integrates."
Okay, maybe I am a Luddite *s
Lyssie says the fact that I can code an entire website on a napkin does not save me from being a Luddite. So . . .
For those of you who have been laughing at my recent . . . erm . . . forays . . . into facebook . . . yeah . . . I'm a little slow with gadgets . . . mm hmm . . . and? *s
The fact of the matter is: I find most things unnecessary, therefore uninteresting. If it doesn't capture my attention immediately, I can fairly well determine I'm fine living without it forever. Ask my grown children, who never could convince Mamí of the "need" for a microwave (or get her to read the labels on microwave popcorn, when we stayed in hotels . . .). We have a popcorn maker. Por díos.
Yes, I'm laughing . . . *s
M'kay, so . . . I'm dividing my time between polishing View Shock, my new site; adding fairly regular photos to my Flickr gallery (most of which you can't see, if you're not a member of the site, due to flickr monitoring standards, which cause me to put the majority of my works on either "moderate" or "restricted" status, and those aren't available to the general public, sorry); trying to redesign and add content to the new issue of Standards, the journal for which I'm Arts Editor; spending time with my crazed and beautiful 5-year-old (the smartest person in the forest *s); running around to physicians here and in Baltimore; preparing for my teen, Elle, and my ex/comadre La Lenni to turn up, next week; doing the business end of View Shock; trying to catch up with a few of you, for shoots; and deciding when to move to join Altaira down on the beach in North Carolina.
In short: I'm mad busy.
It's 5 something to the a.m., gente, and I'm typing with eyes at half-mast. Is that a mixed metaphor? *s
Wish me luck.
Emmanuela
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