Blog
In the queer labyrinth, you refuse to choose
‘It’s Only Forever’ by Jes Battis. Who is someone else to define our options and order us when to choose? Our refusal is queer. Our reframing is queer. But how to exit the labyrinth?
What rights don’t trans people have? (many Facebook bots ask)
This is what I spend a great deal of time writing about. I hope everyone will seek knowledge from many people. Learning is collective. Also, it’s liberating. It’s a process and a journey.
Impossibility I Represent: A poem of transgender persistence
With a nod to 3,100 mostly anti-trans bots. Thank you, bots, for giving me this poem. From your unsubstantiated positions and your occasionally rhythmic words, I’ve forged this.
In the queer labyrinth, you refuse to choose
‘It’s Only Forever’ by Jes Battis. Who is someone else to define our options and order us when to choose? Our refusal is queer. Our reframing is queer. But how to exit the labyrinth?
What rights don’t trans people have? (many Facebook bots ask)
This is what I spend a great deal of time writing about. I hope everyone will seek knowledge from many people. Learning is collective. Also, it’s liberating. It’s a process and a journey.
Impossibility I Represent: A poem of transgender persistence
With a nod to 3,100 mostly anti-trans bots. Thank you, bots, for giving me this poem. From your unsubstantiated positions and your occasionally rhythmic words, I’ve forged this.
Change your thoughts. Go forth! Change our world
20th-century U.S. preachers on anti-fundamentalism and the law of attraction. Let’s embrace our own growth as individuals and pay attention to how our cultures are growing too, so our own lives might be well-lived.
We’ll always have stories
Robots may someday have more rights than people, but I doubt they’ll experience stories at greater depth. Stories of Great Depth are knit collectively to express what we don’t know and don’t say, stretching from before our births to after our deaths.
Do we find truth in stories? In nostalgia? (A contemplation)
‘Beneath the exhausted rubble of our hearts, this miraculous potion awakened something strangely precious’ — Heinrich Böll. Snow falls lightly on the street vendors. He smells cheap tobacco, hears the squeak of chalk on a blackboard, sees a woman scrubbing a front step.