Fling

Someone asked me what you were
“Is that your girlfriend? I saw you with.”

And I’m like… maybe?

Mostly she was important talks and giggles and… you know

And someone who needed things I had to give and to teach

We weren’t long (well, I was)

We were flea markets and ice cream and one damn fine summer

And that one night with the two of us and my friend

Late night walks and learning each others quirks

We were that salted caramel and the salted duck eggs she left me

We were salt, and sweat, and central air

We were the Mayan chicken salad at Olga’s and she was picking out the crumbs with those tiny little hands I like so much because sometimes I’m embarrassed to say “celiac”

We were a late night poetry reading on a bench in the park

We were invested—I was invested—in a way I didn’t expect and wasn’t prepared for

We weren’t around each other for long enough

We were… something.  I don’t know what the word is.

I don’t think it’s “girlfriend”, but I know what you mean

I know what you’re really asking behind the words and the answer is

We were a thing, for a while, but she had to leave

Maybe we will be a thing again

We’re a different thing now

The answer, I guess, is

Maybe?

Listening to the audio book of Fire on the

Listening to the audio book of Fire on the Prairie, which is an excellent book read by a terrible narrator.  Get it in print.

Anyway, I wanted to find a cite for a statistic that’s mentioned in it, because it startled me in one of those this-shouldn’t-startle-you-Nick sort of ways.  One of those moments where one realizes ones own subtle racism.

Anyway, found a reference here which had a slightly different number but is close enough:

The term “black on black” crime is a destructive, racialized colloquialism that perpetuates an idea that blacks are somehow more prone to violence. This is untrue and fully verifiable by FBI, DOJ and census(pdf) data. Yet the fallacy is so fixed that even African Americans have come to believe it.

What Will, Steele and O’Reilly failed to mention is the exacting truth that white Americans are just as likely to be killed by other whites. According to Justice Department statistics (pdf), 84 percent of white people killed every year are killed by other whites.

Look, I try, but I had no idea how staggeringly more likely it was for a white person to be victimized by another white person.  Despite it being obvious with a moment’s thought.  Despite the only time I’ve ever been a victim of a real crime, it having been perpetrated by a guy who looked like me (eerily so, down to the goatee and windbreaker at the time). I’d just never checked.

Every time I find another one of these, it’s a shock.  There must be a million more in there, little toxic pods leaching poison in my mind. That part of my brain that throws up a black face when the word “thug” is uttered.  The part that’s relieved when I walk into a Mexican restaurant and there’s at least one other non-Hispanic white person. The bit that thinks “black on black crime” is an understandable result of economic conditions but never gets around to asking whether it’s actually a thing at all in comparison to anyone else.

There is ugliness in me. I’ll never be done digging it out.

Music and copyright

I haven’t been able to work out a good venue for this, but it’s been percolating for a while and I need to write something, so here goes.  Let’s talk copyright.

 

Let me start by saying that, while I lean more toward the “free culture” end of things, there are a lot of problems that people on the techy side of that argument are ignoring when they go into “information wants to be free” mode.  It is true that there is very little marginal cost to producing a copy of a recording these days, and it is true that labels in the “bad old days” were often shitty to artists.  And while it’s true that some small number of artists out there are also rich jerks, those artists are a rounding error on an industry that’s mostly full of struggling folks who aren’t making a living.  Even if you’re on the right side of history when you talk about free distribution and the death of copyright, you are usually gloating and it’s unseemly.  Artists ought to make money from their labors.

 

We have a sad tendency to dismiss creative endeavors in this society.  There’s an odd sense that if someone wants to do something, if it’s a calling, it doesn’t count as work.  But I don’t see a lot of people suggesting that nurses, or engineers, or programmers, or policemen ought to work for free and be grateful if someone drops a dollar on them.  A lot of people want to be nurses, too.

 

Another bizarre argument I’ve seen bandied about is the idea that there’s an “infinite upside” to writing a song—do the work once, then profit forever.  That works, perhaps, if you write Louie Louie, or Mr. Boombastic.  But that’s essentially like winning the lottery.  Those are outliers and can also be ignored for any reasonable discussion.  The vast majority of recordings are a labor that won’t really ever pay for itself, and that’s only more true every day.

 

Also, there are a lot of people who essentially made a bargain with the world that the world is reneging on. Newer artists, sure, know what they’re stepping into, but people who began recording five, ten, twenty years ago built a career on a set of entirely reasonable assumptions that have been suddenly rendered unreasonable.  And it was mostly a kind of shitty career to begin with—see earlier re: undervaluing creative endeavors.  Much like a construction worker in the current climate, or an automotive worker twenty years ago, their life model doesn’t work anymore and it’s not a simple thing to pivot that.  Not only that, but recording music was much more labor intensive and expensive before, so older recordings required a great deal more investment that is now not ever going to be recouped.

 

There is a great deal to be optimistic about here, but there are real people who are losing out and we owe them both sympathy and help.

 

I had a whole bit in the middle here about David Lowery’s piece at the Trichordist, but I don’t think I need it so I’m excising it.  No one wants to rehash that, anyway.  If you want me to go over each of his assertions for you, let me know and I’ll do it privately.

 

There’s a lot to be optimistic about, there are a lot of winners in the new paradigm here, and things are looking good for a lot of people.  Worldwide music industry revenues are actually climbing—the numbers that you keep hearing about falling sales only count recorded music (http://grabstats.com/statmain.asp?StatID=67).  People are spending phenomenal amounts more on live music worldwide as recorded music gets cheaper.  Folks don’t pump less money into the music industry, they just consume more, and the more they’re consuming are the less labor-intensive recordings.

And there really are big winners out there who prove that you can still become big, if “bigness” is your measure of success.  Everyone brings up Jonathan Coulton, and then  everyone else dismisses him because he’s a niche nerd act, and that’s fair.  I don’t want a world in which only the Jonathan Coultons can make money playing music.  Have you heard of Justin Bieber, though?  He was discovered after he released his recordings free on Youtube.  There are people out there doing it, and there are more of them every day.

 

It’s not impossible now, but it may be harder.  And if so it’s on those of us with the know-how to make it easier.  If live music is the way to make money these days, we need to be using our tech tools to connect small artists with small venues at least as much as we’re using them to download music.  If recorded music has to become a loss leader, and it probably does, we need to find ways to minimize those losses.  And if we download music and we like the artist, we need to buy some merchandise or kick in some funds, or we’re not right with the world.

 

Labels, at the core, are not a bad thing.  They aggregate risk for artists, but because they can’t predict who is going to be a winner, they need to be able to recoup their costs from the ones that do win.  Labels will probably have to move toward a role more like a venture capital firm, funding bands as if they were startups in return for some cut of total revenue, especially if playing live becomes the way to make money.  The music industry could also do with some “angel investors”, individuals who find bands they like and give them smaller startup loans, again against future revenues.  And we need to drive costs further down; not just costs of recording, but costs of promotion and distribution.  We need better ways to “discover” new music from artists that aren’t established yet.

 

It is simple economical law that the marginal cost of a copy of a song is going to approach zero.  There will be no revenue here, eventually.  But professional musicians predate recorded music by thousands of years, and professional music will survive the internet.  What gets lost too often in the shuffle are the current musicians (and authors, etc.) who put their career plans together in the brief 70-year window when the way to make money was to put a lot of personal time in up front recording music and then try to sell that.  Maybe those people need to find another way to make their living, but those of us who are benefitting from their discomfort owe it to them to make it easier.

great     ...

great

 

                                                                                wild

 

                                beast between my ears

 

hold still you fuck

we have all these fields to plow

and still you buck

 

you know I love you

                you know

I hate to do this

 

I would

 

                                                run free

 

                with you

 

                                                in the green night

                               

but we and those we love must eat

so you and I must sow

accept the yoke god damn it

Grandma Zeigler Stories

We always used to talk about science, whatever we’d run into that was new and interesting. One time—I forget the context—I brought up the then-new research indicating that womb conditions after having multiple boys seem to have a tendency to trigger genetic preconditions that cause a boy to be gay.  Grandma misunderstood what I was saying, and thought that I was implying that being gay was a choice, and she laid into me, because it sounded like I was saying the sorts of things she’d heard about her son from friends, family, and acquaintances for years.  Her Donny was a gift to her, and she was going to spit furious fire at anyone who tried to imply otherwise.  Or even anyone who, as I did, just sounded like he was trying to imply otherwise.
I eventually convinced her that I was on her side, and that I would never say anything like what she thought I had, but it was a perfect illustration of the fierce and protective way that she could love.  There was no hesitation, and I have no doubt that she has launched the same salvo at dozens of people over the years.  It was too practiced to be anything but a common occurrence.

An Ally's Manifesto

I am overprivileged compared to virtually everyone in the world, and I know this.  Recognizing my own privilege incurs certain obligations on me.  This is a place for me to write down the ways that I will be an ally.  It is a living document, because I will never be done documenting these things.
It is not my allies’ job to make me feel welcome.  Safe spaces are not for me, because spaces are safe for me by default.  Sometimes, generous folks will invite me into private spaces, which is gracious of them.  If my presence makes anyone feel uncomfortable or unsafe, I will leave, just as graciously, because it is not my space.

When I am told to check my privilege, I will check it.  When I am told I am derailing, I will stop.  I am virtually always operating with privilege; if anything, I am called on it far less often than it happens.

Before I was an ally, I operated on the assumption that my privilege was simply owed me, and I acted thus.  I will attempt to correct for that behavior, but I am not owed forgiveness for it, nor should it be forgotten simply because I am attempting not to be toxic any longer.

I am human, and I will backslide.  When I do, I must do my best to make amends. After those amends, I will not be owed forgiveness, or acceptance.  Some of my allies will forgive me, but it is not incumbent on the others to do so, and it is understandable that they would not.

I cannot usefully contribute to arguments between different groups that I am allied to.  I can only mediate between my allies and people like me.  Attempting to interject or intercede in arguments between allied groups or individuals is necessarily patronizing, and my opinion is not needed.  I will not participate in these arguments and, if I find myself doing so, will bow out with as much grace as I can manage.

There are words that I cannot use, even though others can.  There are places that I cannot go, even though others can.  There are roles that I cannot perform, even though others can. These things are not unfair.  There are so many things open to me that are not open to the vast majority of others that the balance is and will always be far in my favor.

While it may be obvious to me when I am being ironic or sardonic, it is not always obvious to those who know me, let alone obvious to those who don’t.  Jokes that rely on the listener’s knowledge that I would never actually espouse bigoted beliefs do not always come across as jokes.  When they don’t, they aren’t jokes.  The line between parodying a thing and simply performing that thing is very fine, and I have to police it very carefully.

I am not, will not, cannot and should not be a leader in these movements.  That is simply another form of colonization and appropriation.  It is not my role to cajole, coerce, or guide.  It is mine to aid and abet, to advise and comfort.  It is on me to assist from the background with my privileged position, and not to use it to step to the forefront.

Just as I am an individual, so are all other people.  We do not exist to represent the races, classes, sexes, religions, creeds, etc. to which we belong.  I, however, am recognized for my own actions by default.  I must always remember to extend that courtesy to others, and to correct it when I see other overprivileged folks failing to do so.

Pursuant to the above, I will not boil people down into categories. I will be very careful with this, and will especially treat the following words with great care if I use them, which should be uncommon. I will take this care even when applying these words to myself.

  • articulate
  • inspiration
  • X for a Y
  • foreign
  • exotic

I will not engage in conversation merely to demonstrate my status as an ally.  I have plenty of cookies.  I will especially not engage strangers in conversations about my status as an ally to “people like them”.

When I see someone acting in a privileged manner, or failing to recognize their own privilege, I must call them on it.  I am the one with the standing to do so.  I cannot be dismissed the way that my allies can.

I will handle the 101-level instruction for others like me.  Having learned it myself, it is both something I owe to my overprivileged fellows and a burden I can shoulder for my allies.

I am not a hero.  These narratives are not mine.  I am not The One Good Man.  I am not The White Guy Who Is Down.  I am not the Pahana.  I am not The Straight Friend, the Cis Friend, or the Able-Bodied Friend.  I am a sidenote to these struggles. I am the supporting cast, not the protagonist.

I am not doing enough.  I do not have laurels to rest on. I am proud of the my recognition, proud of my actions, but they are not sufficient, let alone above and beyond.

The things in this document are only things that I owe, and not things for which I am owed gratitude.  They are minimal requirements, and if someone thanks me for them, I will appreciate that but I will also recognize that it is a sad commentary on the state of the world rather than something at which I am excelling.

Ouch

I burned my fingers tonight.
It was stupid, really. I tried to steam a tamale in too little water. I used a ceramic plate as a lid because the pots with actual lids are wastefully large for this application. Some time late I smelled smoke, and took everything apart carefully, cooled the pot with water, and retrieved the mercifully edible tamale. The smoke smell ranged.

Back at the stove, I tried, foolishly, to pick up the plate. A quick spinal reaction, three jumps, more curses, and a run to the sink… ouch. Only first degree, but right on the fingertips.

It’s my left hand. Non-dominant. It’s hard to explain how crippling this is, though. Typing at speed requires two hands. Even at full speed, the words back up, but one handed is terrible. I can manage something like 20 words per minute with just my right hand. It’s not nearly enough.

Writing is not good.  I have motor dysgraphia. My hands cramp and I slow to a fucking crawl. I can’t move. When I try my hand at handwriting, I

am

trapped

in

my

head

and

I

can’t

get

out.

 

I need my words.  This is how I breathe. Without a keyboard I suffocate.  Burnt fingers are a collapsed lung and I am using ice as a respirator.

Feast

Summer strolls through my windowsRedoles with Maillard
Cracks and pops
Slow roast over compressed char wafting

Heat means
Cooking raw meat while we wear
Skin in the lazy sun gone orange
This is a good time
For legs of all sorts
Flesh slowly browning all around
My every sense devours

If you can create, you have an obligation to do so
No, I don’t care if “everything ends”, I don’t even care
You are still required to go out screaming
Defiant
Beating your fists into bloody stumps against the Second Law

I wounded myself
You know, you were there
Of course, we were both
Distracted
And didn’t find out until later
We laughed

I was dressing it some time after
When I noticed that
The wound had the smell of you
Something
About it
Platelets, proteins
Carried
Or mimicked
Your scent

I want to tell you
But first
I want to know
You’ll take it for the compliment it is

Disagree

I loved you
Like
Fire
Like
I wanted to crawl inside and just live there
And
I love you
But
It’s

Less
It’s

Not
Physical
It’s affectionate
It’s deep but it’s not desperate and I know
I know
That that means that
We have to end
But
I disagree
Strenuously
When you say that we have
“Failed”
I don’t think that we have
Failed
I loved you
So hard
And
I don’t think that’s a
Failure
You
Sheltered
Me
You saved me
You kept me and held me through some very dark times
And
I’m pretty sure I did the same for you
Because you told me so, many times
And I have
Gained
So much I have
Learned
So much from you and I will always be
Grateful
That I had
Your time
Your touch
Your love
We had
Four
Wonderful years
Two
Good ones
And we ended it without
Hatred
Without
Destruction
With
Tears but not with despair
And compared to everyone else
I think
That’s
Wonderful
And so
If you need me to
I will be
Sorry
That I loved you
Sorry
That I stopped I will
Apologize to you
For this pain
Because if I felt different then you wouldn’t feel it
But
I do not agree
I cannot agree
With you
When you say that we
Have
“Failed”
We did not
Fail

<3

You are wondrous to watch
With enemies about
And your foil shook free
With pithy dispatch you dispatch
Fallacy after fallacy
Your razor bright a thing of beauty
(Except, of course, when turned on me)
And as your ally idly by
I exult with you
Appreciated but unnecessary

I don’t need to fight your battles
I just need to have your back
And I love you for that

Ode to my Snot

O, snot of my nose! You drive me to dose
With NyQuil or Quil of the Day
And yet do I knows, O snot of my nose
You can’t be fully driven away

O, snot of my nose, I can smell no rose
Not flower nor Shakespeare’s small pun
Ambiguous goes all my thought on my nose
But I do rather wish he’d not run

O, snot of my nose, I self-diagnose
With itis or lurgy or plague
I superimpose on my effluent nose
Diseases as vile as they’re vague

O, snot of my nose! May I propose
A much better bond with my face?
For when I hover just over my lover
Preferably you’d stay in place

O, snot of my nose, I pause and compose
A long serenade from my head
With tissue and throes, o snot of my nose
I’ll replace you with headache, instead

Persephonic

You rode forth from a crack in the earth
And drew me into your embrace
Of course, the parallel is imperfect
As the chariot was my own
And I was so much more than willing

You took me to your home
While wiles and strange liquors plied me
And my skittish fear faded
(without disappearing)
And left me yours

You brought me to your land
(For certain values)
And placed me in my chambers
And there you fed me pomegranate
Three. Six. Twelve.
I ate so many more seeds than there are months
And by rules as old as time I must remain

But luckily

My mother likes you

So the world

Need not

Be fallow

All year long

Spacy Pay

The tired astronaut would loveTo stay at home today
But if he doesn’t travel up
He’ll lose his spacy pay

Poor old cosmonaut, he’d like
If he’d not go away
His grandkids all have brand new toys
But he just cannot play

His ancient, elder spaceman suit
Fits unwell and astray
It once was tailored perfectly
This causes him dismay

He wants to be a normal man
And in his bed he’d lay
But he cannot afford his bills
And costs he must defray

Oh, tired astronaut, I wish
That you could have your day
But if you do, you know that you
Will lose your spacy pay