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Letters for Paul Owens-Troupe

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A stalker is an admirer is a lover scorned. An equal is a learner is a teacher is a friend. A diamond is forever. This is the one.  He grabbed a hold of me, the first moment we met. Right from behind and close enough for me to warn You'd better be gay or I'm going to get you fired.  I was never his hag, though he had several very close ones who I imagine are hurting right now. We were fags together. Me in the closet of my own failed sapphism. He in the flames of his unabashed queerness.   What I only ever wanted was a close friend, and for the past 2 decades he was often my best one. It's not lost on me that in that time only my surrogate dad shared that title. I don't play favorites, not with people and not with anything else. I surround myself with bisexual women, fruit flies and lesbians... I tend to keep gay men in the periphery ( we don't usually like women in the same way) and there's often the token straight femme (not fruit fly) and always the male partn...
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Schizmogenesis and The "Ethics" of Eating and Pooping

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  El Perro, Francesco Goya This is a several years tardy answer on whether there are ethics as to why my family still occasionally eats meat. I finally finished my response because I value friendship more than I value winning an argument about lunch. But also because I am slow.  It’s not a question that I think can be properly answered in a few sentences. Interpersonal moralizing and moral grandstanding in general is counterproductive to bonding and friendship. This essay is NOT arguing that animal welfare, industrial farming, or the general over consumption of people in the states, Europe and other post industrial societies don’t matter. They absolutely all do matter, I'm just not addressing this point here. Instead my answer challenges the framing of a question and all other questions like it. Why?  Why do this now, in the midst of what is happening?  Because I’m trying to ignore the 4th estate which has devolved from watchdog of the government to rabid guard dog f...
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Di dove sei? Hatred killed Good

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Hatred Killed Good  Hatred killed Good.  That's all it's ever done.  Good is a poet, many poems now. Good always has been.    Di Dove Sei?  Last night I dreamt of running dogs. We hunted, together. Later in the dream an octopus came ashore, I watched it advance behind me and then out of the sea walked a little dog/fish/cephalopod creature. It struggled on land, in a way the octopus did not. It looked for its mother. I carried it to a cat bowl to eat kibble.  This morning at the bakery, while paying for our daily bread, the owner finally asked me after months of seeing her twice, sometimes thrice weekly... "Cara, di dove sei?" And without my usual hesitation, I'd answered this same question last night when the woman I see several times a month at the citrus stand asked it, I told her.  "Tejas." I say it, always, in Spagnolo. Why choose one colonizer from another? But what connection do I really have, have I ever had, to the English besides their la...
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Coming Home | A Case For Analog Research

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It's been a long time since I kept a blog here, but after several years of posting on Substack I'm exhausted with the Feed-ing.  I've been carrying around artwork and notes that people give me for decades. I carried them across continents, tucked neatly inside my Vital Statistics. I'd like to share what I haven't lost or thrown or given away.      There are stories here, that have crossed some geographical, temporal and existential distance.  Stories about little girls who show others how to poop in buckets. Driving a manual car for the first time, almost into a wall, and then biking to another village instead to watch some forgettable movie. Nazi youth becoming Christian elders reflecting on the mundanity of their past evils. Best friends becoming architects and being widowed. Failed Friendships and Failed marriages. A sat house I almost died in, and a wild artist whose drug addiction almost killed them.  Among the things I've lost or given away are a turt...
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