This wasn’t the clinic, this was right around the corner from it, where some private unlicensed construction workers hitting a gas line caused an explosion/building collapse concurrent. So far at least there have been no deaths, although 20 are injured, 2 missing, and 4 totalled buildings means any number of people displaced. (A hotel has offered to give anyone who can offer proof of residence in those buildings complimentary 3 night stays, and a realtor has offered to help them find new places to live ASAP. Noble gestures. But let me just say I don’t remember offers like that pouring in when a similar explosion occurred last year not far from my Dad in Spanish Harlem…just sayin’…)
Anyway, at the time there was a lot of confusion as to what exactly had happened, other than it had been some kind of explosion. Early on I heard someone say it had something to do with Con Ed, and in the lobby where I was waiting a plainclothes cop with a badge on the outside of his grey trenchcoat stepped in, discussing something on his radio about bring in the “terrorist unit”. He stepped back out when he caught me looking over at him. The Loisaida long-timers we know think it smells like dirty landlord/real estate tricks. It wouldn’t be the first time.
It also smells like lots and lots of smoke, naturally. I’ve had an irritated throat and shortness of breath for most of today. Thankfully Eric was on the west side running errands, though when I got through to him and let him know what was going on he immediately wanted to come east and get me. I thought momentarily. “It’s too confusing. The cops keep putting up tape in new places every minute, and giving people contradictory directions of where they can or can’t go.” Besides, why should both of us asphyxiate?
I joined the throng of strangely silent people, save for those arguing with police, in wandering up and down the avenue trying to find a way to actually leave the area said police were telling us it was so unsafe to be in. I finally was able to cross over on 1st street and made my way towards Eric, lines of cop cars and ambulances up and down the streets that were still being closed off. When I reached him I drank his presence in, his energy, our connectedness…I was aroused like an explosion unto myself. I’m a terrible, inappropriate person, but brushes with near death or harm tend to do this to me for some reason. We got home, consummated the terror sex, and I feel into a deep, exhausted sleep.
“My God! but I love Thee!
Why hast Thou whispered so ambiguous things? Wast Thou afraid, O goat-hoofed One, O horned One, O pillar of lightning?
From the lightning fall pearls; from the pearls black specks of nothing.”
From tonight’s (now last night’s) reading for the Thelemic Holy Season, Liber VII Ch 1. Some various lines jumped out at me and inspired things like play-piercing and later, photomanipulation collages.
Oh, and have I mentioned “Blitz” means “Lightning”? I know I have. Fuck it, I’m mentioning it again.
I put this together last night with some odds and ends of sound and sight…
We rang in the Vernal Equinox over the weekend doing our best to ignore an all day snow. We fed one another strawberries and cream kicking off a preoccupation with red-on-white that culminates today when I prick my finger on a sewing needle against my white lace skirt, more appropriate for a fairy tale princess than a Hell’s Kitchen slum-goddess.
Reasonable Accommodation: The Supreme Court Case That Will Decide Whether Or Not Mentally Ill Lives Matter
Horrifying and tragic… I’m schizoaffective too. Our lives matter.
Originally posted on Virally Suppressed - Muckraking For The Modern World:
There are no surer guarantors of the extraordinary than a story which is prefaced by a explanation of how ordinary things had seemed in its beginning. Ask survivors of the attacks on the World Trade Center or Pearl Harbor to describe their experience and they will almost invariably comment on how it started out as a day like any other. And yet, the details of those unremarkable few seconds or minutes before the arrival of the catastrophic become seared in their memory—tattooed on the undersides of their eyelids so that they can’t help but see them as they try to sleep. We remember these things in part because we hardwired to do so, our brains being designed to experience more cellular activity in the centers for emotional processing during negative events—but also because it provides a necessary contrast from the horror and trauma of what we endured shortly thereafter. It…
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Thanks to Heartafire for nominating my for this challenge.
“To My Beloved As A Dagger”
With dagger in claw as I bore my breast
You cut La Anima free.
Ascendemos del infierno
As one flame too pure to be.
Lightning strikes toward moss as soft
As a whisper under mi Querido’s breath.
With shelter under crooked wing
Blade pierce again O little death!
I trace upon Alsatian skin
With remnants of my sacred blood.
Symbols of the fire within
My molten lava heated flood.
As the city slowly dies and Sun
One day grows black and cold
We dissolve in a million sparks
Embers in the darkness whole.
In unions of celestial ties
None profane can tear asunder.
Trembling dagger to my thighs
Consumed in Lightning force of thunder.
My mirror soul, my Beast, my All
Into one another fall.
So the first part of the challenge is to write 10 sentences about love (and possibly fire?) and the second part is to nominate 10 other poet bloggers. But I’m disobedient and I’m sure I know more than 10 talented writers here…so I’m calling out to all of you to write 10 sentence poems about love! :D
You can check out the poem I saw here:
And if anyone who does this wants to link back to my poem that’s cool too.
I don’t know who the bringers of peace are. Sometimes I go half in half out in the other space, especially when we improv, and I only plan so much for what I actually say.
Other times I have pre-written words.
The levels are uneven here and I think I’m going to leave them.
St. Paddy’s was mercifully low key this year, by which I mean I was exposed to a minimum of drunken frat types trading in their Santa Con suits for green plastic hats. My Catholicism is too lapsed/excommunicated to connect with a saint’s feast and there’s not much else to warm the cockles and mussels of my little half-Black Irish heart. In Hell’s Kitchen I ponder this side of my heritage. My mother would tell me dismayed “you’re your father’s daughter” in my temperament and values. I think she’d rather I not identify with my Cuban half so much, but my Irish? She was mortified to speak much of them, and the things they did, and so I only know a very little about it. Gin and artillery and rivulets of blood that trickle into the gutters, but hasn’t history borne out that Prohibition was a stupid idea anyway? The word of Sin is Restriction.
I’m transferring to a different mental health center, I have intake in about two weeks, and hopefully this one doesn’t have metal detectors and fussy police, exerting power because both they and I know they got saddled with what’s gotta be one drag of a beat assignment, I might commiserate more if it all weren’t such a pain in the ass. This new place is down on the Lower East Side and he thinks they may be better equipped to work with artists (that shouldn’t matter, but I’ve learned from time-wasting first hand experience that it really kind of does.) We were last down there two nights ago in the rain, at some invite-only-but-not-really art gallery fashion party because Ryan and this other guy Dave (he seemed cool) were running electronic sound for a performance by Genesis Breyer P-Orridge. Gen had collaborated on designing a lighter with Yang Li (they didn’t bring any with them) and this was a release party replete with complimentary white wine and fashionistas, enough fashionistas to fill me with perverse pride at my home-shocked hair and under $5 Washington Heights ensemble.
Sadly many of them weren’t as keen on art as we were and sloshed off by the windows looking to schmooze and have their outfits seen from the street, if anyone was out the the downpour. They weren’t really necessary anyway, but I wish they didn’t feel the need to flap their gums so loudly.
Anyway, last of all, here’s a sketchbook page before I go. Contains: L from “Death Note” rendered under the influence of schizophrenic cat artist Louis Wain, some random notes on Butoh and it’s influences, and a bloody mutilated corpse. All very important, I’m sure.
So it looks like we’ve been blessed with two months of Friday the 13ths in a row! And Miniature Minotaurs, which aired today in the course of WFMU’s fund drive, invited people to do remixes of their tracks or other tracks from last month’s Friday the 13th show. So here’s “Astral Sabbath”, a 90 second mashup/loving tribute I put together between Astral Knife and Black Sabbath (who’s song “Black Sabbath” was also played on last month’s 2/13 show.)
You can visit the page for Miniature Minotaurs With Kurt Gottschalk on WFMU’s site to see the whole playlist and stream the show. Hell, you can pledge too if you’re so inclined, because non-commercial free form radio will save us all from the slim repetitiveness of Top 40 or AOR formatted radio. No, I’m not subscribing to Sirius or whatever. What?
An illustrated personal account of solitary confinement at Riker’s. Creating more “EDP’s” than rehabilitating or treating.
Originally posted on Fusion:
Every year, thousands of teens are held in solitary confinement in jails, prisons and juvenile halls nationwide. This is the story of Ismael “Izzy” Nazario and the time he spent in solitary confinement in New York City’s Rikers Island jail. Izzy’s dialogue is taken from transcriptions of audio recordings from several interviews.
There are currently thousands of kids in solitary confinement nationwide. New York state prisons recently agreed to ban solitary confinement as punishment for inmates younger than eighteen. But this doesn’t apply to Rikers Island and other New York jails.
The New York City Department of Correction declined interview requests and would not let the Center for Investigative Reporting visit the box.
Izzy is now a case manager for teens and adults coming out of Rikers Island.
Reported by Daffodil Altan and Trey Bundy, and illustrated and designed by Anna Vignet. Senior multimedia producer: Michael Schiller
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Eric is the most wonderfully supportive person I have ever been with, even if he doesn’t have all the solutions to my mental states (that’s cool, if anyone actually did, we wouldn’t be having a mental health movement would we?) I truly feel blessed that our souls have connected with one another. Today when I met him after my counselor, he surprised me with this little phurpa dagger!
Phurpas, in addition to being very beautiful, are used in Tibetan Buddhism to exorcise and pin down malignant thoughtforms, demons, as-you-will, so there also seems to be an aptly metaphoric aspect to it as a gift for someone with schizoaffective disorder. The three sided blade represents three spirit worlds…or three poisons.
Also Phurpa the band is shamanistic, droning, throat singing goodness.