Local food?

Outside the student cafeteria today, a group of people were holding a protest, to raise awareness about local foods. They were handing out hot squash and potatoes, bread and some sort of pesto for free.

Of course I partook. What do you think me, a fool? I'll take good free food anytime, local or not.

These people were yelling with signs out in the wind and cold things like "NO DEBOT, FREE LOCAL FOOD!" (Debot being the name of the cafeteria). And not surprisingly, the food was rather good, but then I'm a sucker for food cooked simply, especially potatoes.

Later I found out that the Debot director came out and told them that all their fruits and vegetables are already seasonally local. I don't know if I believe that, I've seen the french fries being taken out frozen from sysco food boxes.

If the food is local, they could at least learn to COOK it better. Nothings worse to eat than good ingredients prepared poorly. At least if you are eating crap ingredients you don't have it on your conscious that the food could be better.

A short rant on ethanol

And no, I don't mean the delicious CH3CH2OH that we love to drink in large quantities. I'm talking about fuel ethanol, and more specifically, corn ethanol, the substance many people seem to think will solve all our transportation problems. A presentation I saw tonight got me thinking again about how full of shit that idea is.

The only thing that will come from use of corn ethanol as fuel is we run out of water, and all the nations agricultural topsoil will end up in one of two places: the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans.

The problem, of course, is agricultural practices. You see, in this country we have a sustainable agriculture subsity that gives farmers money for using sustainable agricultural practices, like crop rotation, and letting fields lie fallow. Since there is "so much money" in ethanol compared to other crops, and since this extra money gives them no initiative to continue with the subsidy (why let fields go fallow and rotate crops when you can run corn on the same land ALL YEAR ROUND and make the BIG BUCKS?), they abandon these practices which keep the soil on the land and not in our water supply. The result? Large scale agricultural erosion from bad farming practices, the dust bowl all over again. Furthermore, the scale that such farming would need to be done to produce the amount of ethanol needed for our transportational system (which is only growing as time goes on) is more than we can spare, water included.

So get corn ethanol out of your head. Sugar cane, or cellulosic ethanol, on the other hand, might just have a future. Both have massive returns on energy in comparison to ethanol and also petroleum. They just might work, whereas corn ethanol doesn't have a chance.

So, lets use corn for what its always been for: eating. And how!

What am I? And should I care?

x post from Susans.org

I've been taking hormones for a month now. Yes, I know how some of you feel about this, and how others of you feel about it. This post is not about that, or anything that might be wrong to say.

I'm coming on to the realization that I have budding breasts. Yes, I'm male bodied, or I was, or still am and its just a slight alteration. I know because when I poke at them, there is soreness, and something is going on in the tissue.

The problem I think, is I don't know if I care right now, at this very moment. I certainly cared this morning, and then there are other days where everything is dysphoria, and I hate my body, no matter what sex it might present, or I hate one part one day and another part the next. Here I wanted them so bad, wanted an androgynous appearance, wanted to be in between, really in between, and at this very moment, I just don't care. Maybe I'm tired.

Maybe I spend too much time alone.

I used to think I was plain mixedgender, but now I see that there is null gender mixed in with that, and other things too. 0-gender, mixed in with mixedgender, a big genderqueer mess. I'm realizing no matter what I do, I will feel there is something wrong with me.

Male, female, androgyne, mx, femme, butch, null.
Maybe I'm a pregender who got postgendered.
Maybe I'm a neutrois dreaming I'm gendered.
Maybe I'm gendered and I should JUST FREAKING PICK MALE OR FEMALE ALREADY.

But then I'd feel bad, no matter what I end up as. None and ALL of them are right. I guess thats what androgynes mean when they say "both and neither" (mixed and null).

And here I am, hoping that switches will click more and more as time goes on. And finding out more and more that the things I thought I cared about, I don't really care about.

Like sex. It was a conscious and unconscious decision, learning that I didn't want it, or need it, and hated what it entailed, for mysef anyway. And where I am now with that, a flip of the oversexed being I used to be, its comfortable. I find myself loving in ways that are so much more wonderful, attraction in all new venues, and a complete infatuation with people based soley on their personalities and their belief that I am worth it.

And then there are the things I thought I wanted. Like graduate school, like working in the field I have been studying for 3 plus years now (and arguably my whole life, from before I was born, my mother running around with a butterfly net in her pregnancy). This want is becoming less and less important, as I face burnout at the hands of mediocrity. How can I care when the professor doesn't? How can I bring myself to enjoy even Entomology when the teaching is either banal or confusing and always dissapointing? What about my friends who are happy enough, doing simple things, and obtain their joy from the people they love rather than the work they do?

Or the things I needed were so completely different than what I thought I needed. Like cuddling, which I thought was just some weird thing about me, something bizarre that couldn't possibly be an actual NEED, right? I was wrong, so wrong, keeping myself from that for almost a year, until I let myself come to that situation again, out of need (I actually ASKED for help) and I cried, for an hour maybe, and then passed out in someones arms, and I knew, that maybe I could be well again, if I could just give myself what I needed instead of what I thought I wanted.

Maybe its the hormones fault. Maybe the hormones were just the catalyst. Maybe the hormones have nothing to do with it, and I should stop it now, cause I'm just digging a hole. Or maybe they have everything to do with it, and I should be satisfied because I've finally figured out what I want and I just have to figure out how to get it and wait for opportunity.

Maybe I'm over thinking everything, or not thinking enough about the RIGHT things. Maybe I should get Fox news, or CNN, or whatever else is on that TeeVee to tell me what to think. I'm on the cusp of figuring out my gender and finding out it doesn't want to be described.

So I used genderqueer, and don't try to explain to people that who I am is some crazy mix up of all these different archetypes and influences and the gender is so screwy it doesn't have a name. Its not some simple dicotomy or some simple mixture or some simple lack.
Its not simple, period. And I wonder sometimes what/who the hell being made me so crazy inside or was it biology, or was it my childhood, or was it parents, or was it friends, or

is it all my own damn fault?


I think I'm stuck like this, this raw mixture.

A smart person would settle down and try to get used to it.



Where was I going?

I wish

That I was close to my parents. I wish that I could go up to my dad and hug him the way I want to, without any akwardness. I wish my mom and I could really talk about things together.

I wish I could open up to the both of them, let them know that they don't have to treat me just like a boy anymore, tell them I'm genderqueer, mixedgender, androgyne, inbetween. Let me be the daughter they always wanted too. Let me be the person I want to be with them.

I keep hiding this secret. I let them treat me like something I'm not, because I don't know how they would react if I told them the truth. They might be horrified. They might just think its a phase. They might tell me I need medical help, that I have to go back to the shrink, that there is something wrong with me.

I'm going home, later this afternoon, and I wish I could just tell them, let them know that I'm both their son AND daughter AND something other, that I'm outside the binary, and that I like it this way. If I could do that, the walls would be broken, and I think I could just love the way I really truly want to.


Too bad its not going to happn.

Every morning

I struggle to get out of bed. Things used to be different, and it was a different kind of struggle. In those days, back in high school, I was hiding from the world, or, the world was hiding from me. I wasn't aware of the kind of person I would become, only of the person I was, and I hated myself, hated the life I was living. It was easy to be depressed back then, when all I had was moving through every day to get to the end of it, so I could sleep again. Even my friends, as good as they may have seen now, were all so wrapped up in their problems, and none of us understood each other. There was no shared pain, and we all suffered for it. Back then the tiredness seeped into the bones of my face, entangling cordage and muscle, pulling a weight on my eyelids. I was never ready to get up then.

Now, I struggle to escape my mattress in entirely different ways. As I lay there, just reviewing the contents of my mind, I wish I could spring up, like a young person would, and land on their feet, and walk easily. Instead, I slowly pull my legs out of horizontal sliding them up, feeling the creaking, the incoming pressure, accompanied by a dull pain. I brace myself against the bed, and against myself as well, and push my lower back into a U on the bed, to try to stretch some of the stiffness out of these muscles and joints.

When I feel I have waited long enough, I slide slowly towards the side of the bed, not slowly enough. A stab of brilliant pain runs through my left leg, paralizing my breath and my movement for a second, causing a low gasp to escape. This all to familiar pain I feel is like a stab of white lightning, a crushing pushing, like a needle is being inserted down my leg, down the whole length. It comes from my siatic nerves, rebelling against the incoming push of piriformis muscle tissue, a last holdout against the pain, which knows it can't escape but fights, like a riot completely surrounded by police who continue closing the circle tightly.

As this continues to happen, I pause, feet poised to fall off the bed, and as they slowly cascade off, I push down with my elbows, trying for once to pull myself up straight, to avoid the pain. Let the nerve continue its riot just once please; the police are too good at what they do. Once I am finally in a sitting positiong, I relax for a moment, pushing out with my stomach, feeling the pressure against my thighs, the pulling, the almost stabbing crushing burning tingling pain. In one movement, I am up, hip sockets finally poping back into place, or near it.

Once again, I've made it out of bed with great difficulty. There are days I worry I will never make it, that I will just lay there till someone finds me. I keep a phone nearby, just in case.

"A butterfly flaps its wings...."

I was thinking about the past 3 1/2 years of my life just a few moments ago. I was thinking about how, in October of 2004, I was on the forum of a certain webcomic. I was fresh into college, and this was the first period of my life where internet was an easy resource. One day, I found this thread. This particular member had posted something about discordianism, and I PMed him about it. Shortly after, I was searching the web, and came upon PD.com. The things I learned there over the next couple months opened my mind to a miriad of possibilities, new interests, and the person who I was in highschool began to erode away. In 2005, I joined EB&G, and learned more about myself. This was a long process of growth, but the friends I have here have aided it so much. Then it was early 2006, and I met Rev. Michal, my best and closest friend, family to me. It was by hir impulse that I finally figured out I was genderqueer, and as I look back, I can see points in my life where it would have been obvious to anyone that I was, but I didn't know it, and would have denied it. More recently, Michal directed me to this transgender webforum, where I met Sam, wonderful Sam, whom I love so much. Sam, prodding me, got me to join the GSA on campus, to open myself up to other people; his own activism was largely my impulse. And so, last week wednesday, I went to the GLBT group, and there I met Jacob, another genderqueer (from my past actually, but I barely remember hir) and others too. A group of people to understand me, to share pain with.


If I had never PMed that person, I would have never joined PD.com.

If I had never joined PD.com, I would have never met Michal.

If I had never met Michal, I would have never realized I am genderqueer.

If I haddn't figured out I was genderqueer, Michal would have never suggested me to the transgender forum.

If I had never gone to that forum, I would have never met Sam.

If I had never met Sam, I would have never gone to GSA last week.

And if I had not gone to GSA last week, and met Jacob, I would have not ended up in hir arms today, crying myself dry and shaking, harder than I have in many many years, releasing 22 years of pain, or actually, a small fragment. There will be more times like that in the near future, I guarantee it, as I have many more tears to shed, and I passed out, hyperventilating, safe in hir arms, before I could cry them all.


I left out lots of things, lots of people that worked in synergy with these events, all the things I learned, that made me the person I am today. But they are there, and the people in the audience who took part, you know who you are, and I thank you.

So, you see, the person I am today, over three years of growth and living, is largely dependent on one event, one personal message, in October of 2004.

If I had never read that thread, never sent that PM, I would not be the person I am today.

Two reactions to a cripple with a cane:

Sympathy, that borders on awkwardness, and aversion.

Truthfully, I like the second better than the first. Its a benefit to know that one could wear bizarrely outrageous clothing, or act in an absurd manner, and as long as you're limping along with a cane, no one touches you, bothers you, stops you to harass you, unless they are TRUE assholes. Most people are uncomfortable with those who are "differentially-abled" (fuck that word; I wear my cripple pride like a big star). But even the harassment from assholes doesn't last long. Most people look down on those that would bother a cripple, especially the sympathetic.

I guess I can't complain too much about them, they mean well, or they are just trained by society to have that nurturing want to look out for people "less fortunate". I can't complain about people wanting to open doors for me, I do the same for other people, whether or not its been a bad day. But I do have my pride dammit. I don't want to ask for help usually, and unless I truly can't do something myself, I do it myself. If I fall down, I WILL get up, barring apocalypse, and unless I say "could you please lend me your hand for a moment", I want to jam my cane against the ground, and pull myself up it, by myself. It takes alot of inner strength to get out of bed some mornings, but I pull it off. And these people with this awkward sympathy, often they see only the cane, and the gimp legs, and the cripple back, when I am so much more than that. No, I won't humble myself, I know what I am capable of.

I can see where some cripples feel differently, they like the attention, or they need the help. But I don't need the help, and I've spent 19 years of my life trying to get attention. I've had enough of attention getting for the wrong reasons. And then, the well meaning, awkward questions, which I don't mind from people who are close to me, but from the random passers, the ones who knew me from highschool, asking "what the hell happened to you!?", and I know they don't really mean it, don't really care, just want to affirm themselves that it can't happen to them. I have the whole speel written out in my mind, exactly how to say it, same thing every time, how to reply to the comments of sympathy, to the people who wouldn't have stopped to say hello otherwise, because all they see is the cane. Friends tell me it makes me distinctive in a crowd, and I guess thats true. But when your entire image is focused down to a length of scratched and dented aluminum, I don't know if its a good thing to have that distinction.

What could be worse? The days I feel well enough to go without the cane, people ask me why I'm not using it. Like its an inseparable part of my body, as important as my heart and lungs.

Ignore the cane, people. Its not me; look at my face, see my smile? The pain makes me stronger, makes me realize most what I love about life, and the cane is MY reminder, not yours, of who I am.