![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
I remember getting on the airplane to leave Boston for Seattle behind back in 1972. That was gutsy, everything I owned in a back pack and a footlocker. It takes a 14 foot moving van now. I will be driving south, cats in their carriers beside me on the front seat, to my new adventure in Portland.
I am not crossing the wide ocean or the wide prairie. I am not taking the One Ring to Mount Doom or going "Over There." But it is a big step for an elderly Queer of modest means, to pack up and go like this.
I don't feel elderly, though. Far from it. I feel like a kid again, like it's spring and I've made the garden green by cutting dead wood and rejoicing in the live wood beneath. Like those kids did in The Secret Garden.
Well, it is spring and I am like them, more alive than I've been in a long time. Wheeeeee!
This is a good move for me. I'm moving into the house of my girl, Penny, whom I met and began dating about a year ago.
I have lived in Seattle for 37 years, since I came here to attend grad school in 1972. It's a bit hard to leave a place I know so well, that's full of so many memories. But it's only 3 hours on the train or down the road to Seattle, so I'll still be visiting old friends. These new beginnings are just right for me at this stage of my life. And I'll be taking the memories with me, so they'll not be lost at all.
My email will remain the same. My phone will, too, at least until September. My address will change, but those who know me, know my phone and email and can inquire about my new address in Portland. I'll still be making corsets and wedding clothes, working in leather, and hopefully working part time in the theatre and/or fashion industry.
Between Penny and me there will be a busload of cats: Fahy, Duffy, Gigolo, and Kitty, some are fat, some are thin, all are neutered, all are male. I really love cats. Good thing!
There will be a spare room for visitors, just so you know. And you'll be most welcome in my new home.
Cheers!
ps. For my fabric-loving friends, the three best fabric stores in the Northwest are all about 15 minutes away by car!
| Even though you are holy you have a mysterious past.  | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Click here to take the "Which Serenity character are you?" quiz... | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
To email this quiz and your results to your friends highlight and copy the results above and paste in an email.
<TABLE><TR><TD><TABLE><TR><TD>Derrial Book (Shepherd)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=85></TD><TD> 85%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Dr. Simon Tam (Ship Medic)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=70></TD><TD> 70%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Alliance</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=55></TD><TD> 55%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Jayne Cobb (Mercenary)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=50></TD><TD> 50%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Wash (Ship Pilot)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=45></TD><TD> 45%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Zoe Washburne (Second-in-command)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=40></TD><TD> 40%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Kaylee Frye (Ship Mechanic)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=40></TD><TD> 40%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>River (Stowaway)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=40></TD><TD> 40%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Malcolm Reynolds (Captain)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=30></TD><TD> 30%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>A Reaver (Cannibal)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=30></TD><TD> 30%</TD>
</TR><TR><TD>Inara Serra (Companion)</TD>
<TD><HR ALIGN=LEFT NOSHADE SIZE=4 WIDTH=10></TD><TD> 10%</TD>
</TR></TABLE></TD>
<TD>Even though you are holy<BR> you have a mysterious past.<BR>
<IMG SRC="http://www.seabreezecomputers.com/s
</TR></TABLE><A HREF="http://www.seabreezecomputers.com/s
Click here to take the "Which Serenity character am I?" quiz...</A><BR>
Any leads will "bee" appreciated!
There has been so much shame and grief in this country in my lifetime. Last night I saw a street full of young men and women get really excited about something really important. And it made me young again, just to see them dance. It made me feel like I, too, could lend a hand.
- Mood:
elated
I think it's a human thing in the blood and in the cells, down through the ages of time, to want ...no, to need our leader to be the best of what we can be, and to have him stand at the head of the battalion in times of trouble and hear him say, "We can do this together, follow me!"
You could see it in our faces all across the nation. We've chosen another hero who's the best of all of us. And the last time we did that, I had a jump rope in one bike saddle bag and a baseball mitt in the other.
Don't know who wrote this, but I keep it close by. This last picture goes with it.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads me back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss,
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal,
to hold it against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it,
and when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
- Mood:
melancholy - Music:Sting singing "That's Not the Shape"
...is thin. It's damned thin. Not that I would have it any other way, at this -- or any other -- time of the year.
I've just had lunch, on this lovely day of yellow leaves and perfect fluffy clouds, with my young friend E. I've been something of a mentor and friend to her since she was in her early teens. She'll turn twenty-three tomorrow. She has called me "Da," which is Irish for "Dad," these many years. Her own dear father died of complications resulting from AIDS when she was about five. We share a fairly consuming interest in the Victorian era, Sherlock Holmes, Jack the Ripper, and theatricals of all sorts. We have also a deep connection with our beloved dead, and we've bonded over that.
We spoke of them today, our beloved dead, while drinking pear cider together. Because of course she is old enough now to have a drink in a cafe with me...hardly seems possible. The sun is warm on a good October day in this city. These are the last few days we'll see of it for a long time, the dark time. These golden afternoons right now are precious, priceless. I bask in their brightness more than in the summer, because I know they can't last.
Would that we had had the foresight, knowing they couldn't last, to bask in the company of our loved ones. Neither E nor I did that. She, because she was a very little girl, and didn't really understand what it meant that her Daddy was dying; I, because my son died suddenly, and the true length and breadth and depth of his death came after the fact.
E's father was a handsome creature, both in and out of drag. I do not have a photo of him to post today. But with him also in mind and heart, I show you some moments in Jake's life.
That's my Aunt Mary with toddler Jake in the first picture. They both loved Jake's "Farmer Says" toy. You pulled the string, an arrow in the center spun round and landed on a picture of a farm animal. Then the recording played the noise that animal makes. Aunt Mary just loved "Baa-aa!" Jake was partial to "Moo-oo-oo!" It kept them both entertained for hours.
The next picture is five-year-old Jake walking in one of the many graveyards on my hometown island. It was a beautiful, sunny March day in 1985.
The last picture is his high school graduation picture, taken in 1998.
It's dark outside now as I finish writing this.
"So dawn goes down today,
Nothing gold can stay."
Time to light candles and sit by the fire.
 | Nellie & Sara from the Art Opening |
 | The First Thursday Five |
 | Circus Circus |
 | The Back of the Mermaid |
 | The Side Front of the Mermaid |
- Mood:
relaxed - Music:Bad Moon Rising
A little something written just a few weeks ago, for the changing of the seasons and the guard.
Persephone Comes To
You have wandered through the crack all on your own,
Your mummy's husk still clinging to your heel,
Your rebel heart excited, full of fear.
I'm old and blind and famished through the ages,
The glamourie wears thin in modern air,
I did not smell you coming, but you're here.
Kiss me at once, little ruin--
My mouth full of beetles, my penis of worms.
I am most fond of this version, below, from the Old Irish. I would credit the translator, but I do not know that person's name.
Out of the world's thread, fates' fingers spinning. Some lives are shot with gold, others with shadow. This is a tale of enchantment and exile, of four lives woven together by white swan's feather, storm and ice and the sound of a little bell.
Long ago, when the high gods and goddesses known as the Tuatha de Danaan lived in Ireland, before they were driven into the hollow hills to become the faery folk, there was a great king whose name was Lir. And this Lir had four lovely children - Fionnuala, Conn, Fiacra and Aodh. Fionnuala was the eldest, and she was as fair as the young rowan tree; her brothers Fiacra and Conn were swift and strong as running water, and Aodh was a little bright-eyed baby boy. Everyone in Lir's court on the Hill of the White Field loved them - except their stepmother, Aoifa, who was jealous of their father's love for them. And her hatred pursued them as the wolf pursues the fawn.
One day, she took them in her chariot to the lake of Darvra to bathe in the waters. But as they played on the shore's edge, laughing and splashing, catching rainbows of mist and light between their fingers, she struck them with a rod of enchantment, and turned them into four white swans.
"You will swim on this lake for three hundred years," she said, "then three hundred years on the narrow sea of Moyle, and three hundred years on the isles of the Western Sea. This only will I grant you: that you shall still have human voices and there will be no music in the world sweeter than yours. And so shall you stay until a Druid with a shaven crown comes over the seas, and you hear the sound of a little bell."
The swans spread their wings and rose up, circling the lake, and as they flew they sang their sorrow in the voices of human children. When the king found out what had happened, he banished Aoifa from his court for ever, and he rode like the wind to the lake and called his children to him. "Come Fionnuala, come Conn, come Aodh, come Fiacra!" And there they came, flying to him over the lake: four white swans, and they huddled sadly around him as he knelt by the water's edge.
King Lir said through his tears, "I cannot give you back your shapes till the spell is ended, but come with me now to the house that is mine and yours, dear white children of my heart."
But the swan that was Fiacra said, "We cannot cross your threshold father, for we have the hearts of wild swans. We must fly into the dusk and feel the wave moving beneath us. Only our voices are of the children you knew, and the songs you taught us - that is all. Gold crowns are red in the firelight, but redder and fairer far is the dawn on the water."
The king reached out his hand to touch them, but the swans rose into the air, and their voices were lost in the sound of beating wings.
* * * * * * * * * *
Three hundred years they flew over Lake Darvra and swam upon its waters. Many came to listen to their singing, for their songs brought joy to those in sorrow and lulled the sick to sleep. But when three hundred years were over, the swans rose suddenly and flew away to the straits of Moyle that flow between Scotland and Ireland. A cold, stormy sea it was and lonely. The swans had no-one to listen to their songs, and little heart for singing on the wild and chanting sea. Then one winter, a great storm rushed upon them and scattered them far into the dark and pitiless night.
In the pale morning, Fionnuala fetched up on the Carraig-na-Ron, the Rock of Seals. Her feathers were broken and bedraggled with salt sea-water, and she lamented long for her brothers, fearing never to see them again. But at last she sees Conn limping towards her, his feathers soaked, his head hanging, and now Fiacra, tired and faint, unable to speak a word for the cold. Her heart gave them a great welcome, and she sheltered Conn under her right wing and Fiacra under her left.
"Now," said Fionnuala, "if only Aodh would come to us, we would be happy indeed." And as the first evening star rose in the sky, they catch sight of the little swan that is Aodh paddling valiantly over the waves towards them. Fionnuala held him close under the feathers of her breast. As they huddled together, the water froze their feet and wing-tips to the rock, so that when they flew up, skin and feathers remained behind.
In the morning they turned westward towards the island of Glora in the Western Sea, and settled on the Lake of Birds till three hundred more years had passed . Then at last the Children of Lir soared homeward to the Hill of the White Field - but they found all desolate and empty, with nothing but roofless green raths and forests of nettles: no house, no fire, no hearthstone. Gone were the packs of dogs and drinking horns, silent the songs in lighted halls. And that was the greatest sorrow of all - that there lived no-one who knew them in the house where they were born. They rested the night in that desolate place, singing very softly the sweet music of the sidhe.
At dawn they returned to the island, and it was about this time that blessèd Patrick came into Ireland to spread the faith of Christ. One of his followers, Saint Kemoc, built a little church by the lake-shore on the Isle of Glora. In a break of day, the saint arose from his heather bed, wrapping his rough brown robe around him to keep out the chill, and rang the bell for matins. On the other side of the island, the swans started up and stretched their necks in fear.
"What is that dreadful thin sound we hear?" said the brothers.
Fionnuala said, "That is the sound of the bell of Kemoc and soon our enchantment will be passing away."
They began to sing gladly and the sweet strains of faery music floated across the lake and in through the reed walls of the cell. St. Kemoc rose in wonder and walked down to the shore's edge, and saw them, lit by the morning sun: four white swans singing with the voices of children! They came to rest at the saint's feet and told him their story and he brought them to his little church. Every day they would hear Mass with him, sitting on the altar. Their beauty gladdened his heart and the heart of the swans were at peace.
Then one day Fionnuala asked the saint to baptize them, but no sooner did the holy water touch the swans than their feathers fell away, and in their place stood three lean withered old men, and a thin withered old woman. In a cracked whisper, the woman that was Fionnuala said:
"Bury us, cleric, in one grave. Lay Conn on my left, and Fiacra on my right, and on my breast place Aodh, my baby brother."
So they were buried, a cairn was raised above them, and their names written in Ogham. And that was the fate of the Children of Lir.
But it is said, that on windy days in the west of Ireland, by lake-shore or ocean strand, you can sometimes hear children’s voices in the air, singing sweeter than you’ve ever heard, as they play with their father at home in the blessed Summerland.
"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree..."
The demon is disguised as a pleasant-looking college student. Probably commandeered to drive by demon overlords. Sitting in that little jeep's driver's seat, pushing that button and playing that tune with no idea of his immense power. And it's not like in early April, when I hate to see the evenin' sun go down. No, siree, in summer it's not the fading light but the cheery music that rips open my heart each night, as the ice cream truck drives merrily down the street in search of young customers.
"...it won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage..."
Summer nights on Capitol Hill my son and I would hear the distant, distinct tune coming closer down the next street over. Jake would raise his ears to the wind, like the young perfect animal he was. "It's Popsicle Joe!!!" he'd yell, bounding down the stairs. I'd fumble for a few dollars in my wallet and, if necessary, grab a fistful of coins from the coin jar. There would always be enough for an ice cream, even if I robbed Peter to pay Paul and hell froze over. If not enough for two, why then we'd share...
"...but you'll look sweet upon the seat..."
And bounding down the stairs after him I'd go, no longer so young and never the perfect animal, but willingly, happily playing catch-up, because that's what you do with your kids, they always lead the way: out to the ice cream truck, into the better future you dream of for them, over the hills and far away, into the Light...
My father taught me to sing "A Bicycle Built for Two" when I was little more than a toddler. He said I could carry a tune and learn the words better than anyone he ever knew. Of course, he never lived to know Jake, who could memorize all his lines in all his plays, who was an excellent poker player, and who learned Latin and Japanese (perfectly!) at the same time.
There was that dream I had, a couple of months after Jake died, about driving my (also dead, and quite cranky) father around. I think I told this story way back at the beginning of this blog. See, I'm losing my memory a bit, something that neither of them will ever do. Anyway, my dad and I walk into a bar and there's Jake, sitting on a barstool. The two of them get talking like it was old times, and I say, "Wow, I didn't realize you two knew each other!" And they look at me, incredulous, and Jake's granddaddy says, "Well, who the hell d'you think the ghost is here?"
"...I'm half crazy, all for the love of you..."
And so I am. I miss them a lot. All the time. The Veil is just as thin in the summertime. I guess I don't mind so much, hearing the music of that little truck. I'd rather miss them as I do than have never had them at all.
I used to think that I'd never be able to feel this much pain and still live. That I'd never stand up to it; that I'd be gone, that I'd quit. For reasons I cannot quite explain, I think sometimes that I'm more alive now than I would have ever believed possible. Still standing...dancing, even.
Pain is memory is time is love.
- Mood:
thoughtful
Uncle Frank -- I feel like we're related -- was part hoodlum, part artist, part ladies' man and totally loyal to his boys. Listening to a Sinatra tune makes me feel like I'm still sharp, still cool. Makes me feel like grabbing some dark-haired, small-waisted creature and doing a little fox trot across the kitchen floor. OK, Fat Fahy,* let's cut a rug!
Now I'm listening to "I've Got You Under My Skin." Oh, baby -- those fabulous horns! Pure 1960's East Coast jazz club, like a couple I used to sneak into. Don't you know, little fool, that you never can win... I don't know how to post music on this blog, but I'm going to find out.
And here's "Chicago." I saw a man dancing with his own wife...
Now that's classy!
*Fahy is my fat little cat.
- Location:by the fire
- Mood:
enthralled - Music:Ol' Blue Eyes
 | Corsets in Japanese Cottons |
 | Goldfish Corset |
 | Japanese 1908 Corset |
Three Litle Maids from School Are We
The Girls on Stage at the Gallery
- Mood:
pleased - Music:James Galway playing the flute
| Verging on Steampunk 1 That screen mesh, wire and steelwool corset |
 | Steampunk Corset and 1870'sBustle black fiberglass window screen, steel wool, copper wire, visible spiral boning, and a large rusty gear from a tractor. |
 | Red Silk Corset & Silk Chiffon Skirt her wedding ensemble |
 | Edwardian Silk Jacquard Corset with Lace from early in my career |
 | Brown Wool Corset with Vintage Lace |
 | Edwardian Nellie in a gown I made for her long ago |
Working again these past weeks at the Opera, I'm reminded of all the lovely coats I've made before. There's a Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson song in there somewhere. And so, I shall make another fabulous frock coat...for me. I found a great tailor's draft from the 1870's.
I attended my first Steampunk concert this past weekend. Abney Park was playing at Heaven in Pioneer Square. I shaved my head so that my tattoo (and not my grey hair) would show. I wore my brown derby and Art Nouveau tapestry vest. There were people of many ages there, and it was great to rock out once again. I did bring a date, but its name's a secret.
In other news: If he were living still among us, today would be William H. Barker's 95th birthday. My dad was something of an Edwardian gentleman who also loved rock-n-roll. I think he might have liked the Steampunk aesthetic and music quite a bit. Rock on, Daddy, wherever you are!
- Location:in my cat's home
- Mood: cheerful
- Music:Airship Pirate
- Mood:
quixotic
Syndicate
