RFD 146 Summer 2011

Issue 147 Call for Submissions

Whitman & Carpenter

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me? Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

–W.Whitman, Song of Myself

What do we have to confide to the Good Grey Poet? How have Whitman and his contemporary visionary Edward Carpenter spoken to you in your life? What have they taught you about your spirit? sex? the erotic play of the earth? When have they comforted and guided you? When have they offended or challenged you?

With an abundance of books coming out recently about Walt Whitman and his compatriot in gay liberation, Edward Carpenter, RFD thought it was a good time to ask our dear readers to share what these two guides have taught them and how they have shaped their worldview.

During their lives and since their deaths, gatherings of gay men and others have honored, even worshipped these men as prophets, visionaries, and preachers of a new gospel of democracy and the body. Others see wealth, male privilege and, with Whitman, the nationalism of Manifest Destiny inextricably woven into their sense of freedom. We want to know what you think.

Many of us have stories to tell of finding Whitman’s words as we sat quietly in some faraway room or loafed on the grass in a park. Equally so, how often have we felt liberated by Carpenter’s bold vision of shared resources and Uranian utopias? Do we still share that vision? Are we part of it?

RFDhopes to evoke or challenge these gay ancestors and archetypes and to explore their connection to our lives. How many times have his words come to mind as you pine or evoke your passion for another? Or as you celebrate your body and the earth? How has Whitman’s fight against censorship inspired you? Have you found your reflection in Forster’s Maurice, in which Carpenter is a major, if thinly disguised, gay character? Do you see yourself in the chain of followers that have carried Whitman’s ‘dear love of comrades’ forward into our day? Have you even slept with someone who slept with someone who slept with someone who slept with Whitman? or Carpenter? Or do you find their ideas hopelessly romantic? even dangerous to our visions?

You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Submissions for this issue are due no later than July 25, 2011. Submissions can be sent electronically to submissions@rfdmag.org -- please send them as attachments preferably in .txt files. We love to see our readers images and artwork, it can also be sent to the same email. Please send image files with at least 300 dpi resolution. Small files intended for the internet do not reproduce well especially now that we have switched to color.

Submissions due July 25, 2011

Rinkle Free Darlings

Vol 37 No 4 #146 Summer 2011

Between the Lines

The Next Generation

The folks here at the RFD Collective have been thrilled by the response to our switch to full color and returning to original format, hearkening back to our 70’s roots. We opted to go full color as a way to make our being a “print” magazine worthwhile. We also felt strongly that the artists and the articles demanded the respect of being the best quality our small collective could offer with the small amount of coin we usually have at hand. So we very much appreciate folks spreading the word about RFD and making whatever donations you can.

We appreciate your feedback about the issues we produce and also welcome your input on keeping RFD’s mission alive for the Next Generation.

The theme for this issue—Next Gen—is our attempt to keep in touch with the vital life of the GLBT community. So we have cross section of ideas about the direction and/or need for direction within the community as well as personal narratives about negotiating the now. We’re also pleased to share as usual works of poetry and imagery from the many creative people who make up the readership of RFD.

A major chord that runs through much of the work in this issue is about defining our values, expanding our visions of ourselves and including more personal responsibility to everything from our sexual selves to our collective responsibility to the planet and each other. It’s always a pleasure working on bringing you such interesting pieces and we hope you our dear readers enjoy them, discuss them and engage in some of the deeper concerns that arise out of this issue.

We look forward to bringing you the Fall issue on Walt Whitman and Edward Carpenter and kudos to Short Mt. Sanctuary on it’s 30th anniversary. We can’t wait to hear your Short Mountain stories for the Winter issue.

With sly hugs all around, The RFD Collective

Submission Deadlines Fall–July 25, 2011 Winter–November 1, 2011

See inside covers for themes.

RFD is a reader written journal for gay people which focuses on country living and encourages alternative lifestyles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, radical faerie consciousness, nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives. RFD is produced by volunteers. We welcome your participation. The business and general production are coordinated by a collective. Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places. RFD (ISSN# 0149-709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302.

Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302 Non-profit tax exempt #621723644, a function of RFD Press with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190. RFD Cover Price: $9.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive it four times a year. Copyright © 2011 RFD Press. The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001. Mail for our Brothers Behind Bars project should be sent to P.O. Box 68, Liberty TN 37095.

On the Covers

Front & Back: Daniel Ford photographed at Short Mountain Sanctuary, TN 2011 by Walt Cessna

Inside Front Cover: Courtesy Walt Whitman Archive and Edward Carpenter Society

Inside Back Cover: Cathy Hope and Dimid Hayes at Short Mountain; Photo by Joshua Smith

Production

Bambi Gauthier, Editor in Chief

Matt Bucy, Design & Typography

Eric Linton, Editor

Paul Wirhun, Editor

Jason Schneider, Editor Myrlin, Prison Pages Editor

Photo courtesy of Brenden Shucart

LETTERS & ANNOUNCEMENTS

Corrections

Oh my gosh! In all the excitement in switching to a new format and going full color, we made some typos or omissions....

On the cover of issue–we inadvertently mislabeled the artist. It should have been titled Prairie Self-Portrait by Mark Hufstetler. More of his photos can be seen on his website, www.pitamakan.com

Page 13 of the last issue included a photo which should have been titled Embraced by Hellür von Howudürin.

Page 20 of the last issue included a photo of Clear Englebert. It should have been credited to Roy Simmons.

Page 56 of the last issue, the image should have been credited to Jordan Reznick.

Letters to the Editor

Praise for our last issue

Many, many thanks to you and the RFD collective for the very nice interview on Moonlight and on producing a spectacularly beautiful issue of the magazine. As a faithful reader of RFD from its beginnings I can honestly say this is perhaps the best issue ever! With ongoing gratitude and appreciation.

Mark Thompson

I wanted to say that this Spring issue of RFD is wonderful. The colored images are really stunning and adds such a different feeling to the publication. I wanted to extend a job well done! Much love and hugs. – Stitch

The latest edition of RFD is simply da bomb! Great layout, pictures, articles... congratulations! –Neil Fernyhough

Just got the latest magazine the photos by Devin Mohr are stunning. –Christopher

Barnes

Congratulation on issue 145. it is beautiful throughout. –Franklin

Abbott

Native American Spirituality for Gay Men

I follow Native American spirituality traditions. I am looking to network with other gay men who

do the same. Would love to hear from you red road guys. (I’ve very much enjoyed RFD through the years–you folks are doing a great service for rural gay men everywhere). In spirit.

Tahnodin

11C Jimenez Romero Rd. Santa Fe, NM 87506 email: bidanimad@yahoo.com

Kawashaway Mailing Address

Kawashaway has closed it’s post office box. Folks can reach them by writing:

Kawashaway

c/o Scott Schroeder (Scooter)

3007 Oakland Ave S

Minneapolis, MN 55407

Faerie Sex Magick Workshop

We are very pleased to announce that the next Sex Magick 169 workshop is scheduled to occur at Faerie Camp Destiny in Southern Vermont, August 20-27. This workshop, now into its third decade, was originally conceived and led by Harry Hay. For the past 10 years the workshop has been led by some of the original participants as well as more recent alumni.

This workshop is intended to explore deeper levels of emotional and physical intimacy. Where gathering Heart Circles and Sex rituals end, there are often levels of unexplored connections. The Sex Magick workshop, though its participants, manifests a container of intimacy with deep bonds between the members.

Faeries who are comfortable and committed to Heart Circle process and exploring heart-centered erotic connections are encouraged to learn, consider and participate in the Sex Magic workshops.

Sex Magick 169 is the initial workshop for those who haven’t attended a workshop before. There is also a Sex Magick 269 workshop for those who have done a Sex Magick workshop previously.

For more information or to register, please go to http://www.faeriesexmagick.org.

Feel free to contact me if you have questions or are at all curious. Thanks for reading this!

–Chas / chas@chasnol.com

Sanctuaries and Faerie Friendly Organizations

Amber Fox

McDonald’s Corners, Ontario, Canada akaamberfox.blogspot.com

Breitenbush (Cascadia Radical Faerie Resource) www.radfae.org/breitenbush

Edward Carpenter Community BM ECC

London WC1N 3XX United Kingdom

contactecc@edwardcarpentercommunity.org.uk www.edwardcarpentercommunity.org

Faerie Camp Destiny

P.O. Box 517 Chester, VT 04143-0517 info@faeriecampdestiny.org www.faeriecampdestiny.org

Faeryland

P O Box 495 Nimbin, N.S.W. 2480 02 6689 7070 ozfaeries@yahoo.com www.ozfaeries.com

Folleterre

Ternuay-Melay-et-Saint-Hilaire France info@folleterre.org www.folleterre.org

Gay Spirit Visions

P.O. Box 339 Decatur, GA 30031-0339 info@gayspiritvisions.org www.gayspiritvisions.org

IDA

904 Vickers Hollow Rd Dowelltown, TN 37059 615-597-4409 idapalooza@gmail.com www.planetida.com

Kawashaway Sanctuary

c/o Scott Schroeder (Scooter) 3007 Oakland Ave S Minneapolis, MN 55407 www.kawashaway.org

Midwest Men’s Festival http://www.midwestmensfestival.com

Nomenus (Wolf Creek Sancturary)

Wolf Creek Sanctuary

P.O. Box 312 Wolf Creek, OR 97497

541-866-2678

nomenus@hughes.net www.nomenus.org

Santa Cruz Radical Faeries www.santacruzradicalfaeries.com

Short Mountain Sanctuary

247 Sanctuary Lane Liberty, TN 37095

615-563-4397 Messages only

Starland Yucca Valley CA www.starlandcommunity.org

Zuni Mountain Sanctuary

P.O. Box 636 Ramah, NM 87321 505-783-4002

zunimtn@wildblue.net www.zms.org

Corrections? Send them to submissions@rfdmag.org with “corrections” in the subject. Announcements can be sent to the same address. Please be sure to list “announcement” in the subject line!

Photo by Adam Stanford

Garrin Benfield “The Wave Organ Song”

By Lucian

I’vebeen a musician a very long time and I’ve never known or heard an artist quite like Garrin Benfield. His new CDtw (his 5th in all) is just pure Garrin! “The Wave Organ Song” easily demonstrates that his song writing skills, voice, and guitar playing has excelled to the point that he deserves international attention. His soothing voice speaks directly to one’s soul and often I find myself suddenly singing along with him. The sixth track, “Colors In You” is my personal favorite. “Are You With Me” is another superb piece. Garrin’s music has touches of Kaki King and Michael Hedges along with a dash of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. But even that comparison is unfair. Truth be told, I don’t anyone that sounds like Garrin. He is original! “The Wave Organ Song” is a beautiful piece of work by an amazingly talented and extremely nice person. It’s a must have to any music lovers collection! w

For info on his summer/fall tour go to www.garrin.com.

Photo by Dave Vann

S.F. Public Library Hosts Faerie Book Launch

By Rosie Delicious

OnMarch 2, the James C. Hormel Gay and Lesbian Center of the San Francisco Public Library hosted the inaugural reading of The Fire In Moonlight: Stories From The Radical Faeries, published by White Crane Books. Held in the Koret Auditorium of the Library, the evening’s program celebrated the publication of this latest compilation of radical faerie writings which was spearheaded by Mark Thompson, and co-edited by Richard Neely and Bo Young. This 309-page book brings together the voices of 50 faeries in a kaleidoscopic overview of radical faerie experiences from the past 30 years. The event was attended by approximately 200 (mostly faeries), and included brisk sales of the book within the first 30 minutes of the auditorium doors opening.

Because we got to the reading early, we were able to see the exhibit “In Paths Untrodden: Walt Whitman’s Calamus Poems and the Radical Faeries,” in the 3rd floor showcases of the Hormel Center. 2010 was the 150th anniversary of the first publication of Walt Whitman’s homo-affectional poem cluster, “Calamus.” The exhibition explored the influence Whitman and the “Calamus” poems had on the earliest GLBT freedom pioneers. It traced out some of the qualities Whitman ascribed to the “love of comrades” and the spiritual and political roles he saw it playing in the larger project of the creation of “America.” Whitman and his poem’s continuing influence on visionary queer/gay consciousness is surveyed through images and documents from the archives of Nomenus and other faeries. To be noted is the poet’s fascination with semen, even in the sperm-shaped letters on the title page of his poetry book. This impressive exhibit was curated by Joey Cain and masterfully installed by library staff.

Once settled in the auditorium, all were treated to a slide show of images from past Radical Faerie gatherings while awaiting the beginning of the program, which was opened by a beautiful blessing and incantation “where the spirit and flesh meet.”

Joey Cain acted as the emcee for the evening. He thanked the Library for hosting this event, and introduced each of the readers, who read selections from their contributions. It was amazing to see Joey Cain keeping the readers to the five minutes allot-

ted, something unusual in faerie experience. Mark Thompson introduced the audience to his thoughts behind the making of this compilation, noting that “we have no history if we have no stories. And these stories will enlighten as well as entertain.” Contributors who read their excepts included Will Roscoe, Jerry (the Faerie) Berbiar, Joey Cain, Myka David, Joe Balestreri, David Kerlick, William Stewart, Ganymede, and Wow (Patrick Geise).

The readings entertained all with a range of personal experiences, from the first inklings of fey consciousness as a mystical child, to a gathering dinner that never happened due to a tripping kitchen staff. The writers opened their hearts, exploring fears, boundaries, excited awakenings and joyous revelations deeply lived in the past 30 years. Faerie

Continues on Page 53

Photo by Rink

Sister Spit: Next Generation

Interview by Bambi

Sister Spit: Next Generation recently toured the country this past March and April traveling from California to Massachusetts. The group is made up of a variety of writers, artists and community activists who put a Third Wave or post-wave feminist take on gender and sexuality. I had the privilege of seeing their University of Massachusetts show in April.

Sister Spit started as an allfemale open mic reading series co-founded by Michelle Tea and Sini Anderson in 1994 in San Francisco. Since then what started off as an local open mic event has morphed into a mixed gender group of queer artists touring the country.

I heard about Sister Spit via Kirk Read’s Facebook page and I was impressed with the variety of artists taking part in the tour, so I’ve arranged to send some questions to Kirk about his experience being on tour.

RFD: First, congratulations on the completion of your recent tour. You must be happy to be back home.

Kirk: Thank you! I love touring but it wipes me out. I know I should be eating kale and meditating right now, but sadly that’s not consistently my way. I’m getting back on track after a lot of truck stop cappuccino and Coke slurpees and double cheeseburgers. I need some serious colon hydrotherapy.

RFD: As a writer and activisthow did you see yourself taking to the road? Was this your first tour of this kind?

Kirk: I’ve been touring the

United States since 2001, doing five or six big tours of 30+ cities each. Since I came from a small town, I feel an obligation to get out of San Francisco and connect with people living outside urban centers. I remember how important it was for me when artists and writers came to Virginia.

RFD: How did you get involved with Sister Spit? And what inspired you to join the tour?

Kirk: I have been a fan of the ladies of Sister Spit since I moved to San Francisco in 1998. Now I’m friends with many of them. It was one of my favorite impossible dreams to tour with Sister Spit, but since I was a guy I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Then Michelle Tea busted up the gender lines and invited me on tour.

RFD: Seeing your show at UMASS you read from a piece about how gender seems to blur based on social / commercial forces shaping our expectations of our selves. It was a funny story about using Rogaine to grow a beard. Can you relate how this story came about?

Kirk: I have a lot of friends who are transmen. I see them struggling over masculinity and navigating testosterone therapy. I’m really inspired by how they are complicating masculinity in some ways and also stepping into some of the male archetypes from my southern childhood— wearing camouflage and driving trucks and getting all moody and ragey. And it dawned on me that my life is ruled in many ways by testosterone surges and depletions. Hormones make you nuts! I was trying to grow a beard at

the time but it never looked right because it came in with bald spots around my chin. I went online and found a message board called “The Rogaine Experiment” where men were putting Rogaine on their face to encourage beard growth. It’s totally dangerous because the chemicals get absorbed systemically on that part of your body. My blood pressure skyrocketed and I had to quit after two days. It gave me a lot of compassion for my trans friends, who are involved in a huge medical and cultural experiment with little to no scientific data on the long term implications of hormone therapy.

RFD: You’ve written a memoir, How I Learned to Snap about your experiences as a teenager in Virginia. Can you tell us a bit about the book and its reception?

Kirk: Sure, it’s about growing up in a small town in Virginia in the 1980s. I came out in high school in 1988 and wrote a coming out play that got produced. So then I was 16 years old and out on television and stuff. I had a 41 year old boyfriend in another town, so thank the Lord I had started saving my lawn mowing money religiously. I bought a car and my parents let me come and go pretty freely. Point is, it’s not a horror story. There’s a lot of humor in it. And I tried to avoid this nasty impulse gay organizations and school systems have to desexualize young adults. I’m sorry, but if you’re 14, you’re not a child. You get to make your own decisions about your body.

RFD: In San Francisco you often work with the sex worker community in the city providing

help through St. James Infirmary and through your open mic events which focus on sex worker issues. As we enter a new generation of queer activism what are your feelings about areas the community should focus on?

Kirk: I think we’re at a moment where we are being forced to realize that the models and methods of 1970s gay liberation and the advent of big visibility in the 90s are petering out. I am such a child of both of these queer power surges. We’re seeing LGBT bookstores going under, bars going under, bars and bathhouses not as crowded as they used to be. I feel like the next big challenge for queer people, and all people, actually, will be how to get people to step away from their computers and devices. How to integrate this technology into the context of their lives in a way that allows for real time spontaneity and magic. Even when people are gathered in real time, it seems like everyone is always documenting the experience, to the point that they’re not having much of an experience because everyone is taking pictures of it.

My friend Jeff told me about how he went to see Madonna. He was right up front and she reached down into the crowd. Everyone around him started snapping pictures. He grabbed her hand. As a movement, I feel like we need more hand grabbing.

RFD: Your work is often in the form of performance art and your second book collects some of that work, “This is the Thing” - how has presenting your work in personal settings with an audience influenced your writing?

Kirk: I do a lot of readings and performances and usually write a brand new piece for each event. So I go into the writing knowing who my audience is going to be. I’ll often write toward that audience. It makes me feel less alone in the writing. I grew up in the church, so ministers were always writing brand new sermons each Sunday. And that was the first writing and performance that I was ever exposed to, and it remains the format that makes the most sense to me.

RFD: Often we find that our identities are complex and labels

fail to capture “who we are” but merely reflect pieces of what we identify with. Does your involvement in the Radical Faeries or Reclaiming influence your work?

Kirk: Totally. I have tons of faerie friends but haven’t been to a gathering in way too long. I am one of the cooks at California Witch Camp each year, which is sort of the home base of Reclaiming. I feel like these two communities influence my writing because I’m a person who is at home in nature. I can sit on a river bank and not worry about the ants crawling up my leg. Unless they’re fire ants, and then you gotta flick ‘em. I know so many people who proudly proclaim that their idea of camping is staying at a Days Inn. That is really sad to me, to live in fear of the natural world.

I first came to the faeries when I was 23. I was living in Virginia and went to Short Mountain for Beltane. There was no phone on the land and no internet. I was trying to get a faerie to tell me what to expect. He said “Oh....you know...” And that was the information I got. I showed up just as the Maypole was being wrapped.

People were tripping their brains out and I was trying to figure out where to set up my tent. Everyone answered me in nonsensical riddles. Finally this daddy/boy couple helped me set up my tent and then we had all exquisite sex.

I don’t believe in the Goddess, so there are times when pagan ritual can be difficult for me. I don’t believe in deities of any sort. I feel I worked to hard to escape one church without running into another. But I still am part of these worlds because that’s where so many of my favorite people are.

RFD: Back to the tour, how was it being on tour with a diverse group of people? I already knew five of the people from tour. So it was a great chance to go deeper with them.

Kirk: When you’re on tour with 9 people in a van for five weeks, the notion of diversity gets really jostled. Because maybe you’re not identifying with other people as much about race or gender or shared interests. You identify with people over whether they get carsick, whether they snore, whether they’re early risers or night owls, whether they whisper violent sex talk in your ear. What kind of fast food and gas station snacks they like. You know, the human stuff.

RFD: The readings from the show reflected a wide range of takes on feminism, gender and sexuality. How does it feel to be a part of such a flourishing queer literary scene?

Kirk: At the risk of sounding grandiose, I really do feel like I’m part of a scene of writers and artists based in San Francisco but also scattered around the country. The writer Bruce Boone once said to me that an art movement or school is really just a fancy term for a bunch of artists who are

friends. We see each other’s work and we instigate each other and we see each other go down rabbit holes of addiction and recovery, good and bad relationships.

RFD: Touring the country must have been an experience in terms of audience reaction to the work? How was the reception to the tour and you being a part of it as a man?

Kirk: I was on tour with the Sex Workers Art Show twice where the audiences were strongly female, and Sister Spit’s audience is even more so. I’m really at home in a big group of powerful women. My mother is not a monster, she is a genius who can change spark plugs on a lawn mower and then serve a luncheon for 15 ladies. Sometimes it was interesting being the gay guy in the show, because I write about really specific things, sexual and cultural, that people might not have thought about.

RFD: With the tour over, what are your plans or upcoming projects?

Kirk: I am going right into a solo show, which goes up in less than a month and I’m nowhere close to ready. It’s called “Computer Face” and it’s about computer and device addiction and the ways technology is impacting us as people and communities. I bought a house in the redwoods last year with my beloved Ed, so I’ll be finishing the renovation and working on a young adult book about an evangelical summer camp.

RFD: Of the other performers, whose work intrigued you or pushed your imagination?

Kirk: Myriam Gurba’s poetry book Wish You Were Me is a revelation. Completely unhinged and surprising. You sit back a lot and go “Did she just say that?” She’s got a fucking filthy mind and she was my favorite person to ride in the back of the van with when I

was too wired to nap or read. She and I would write poems together, passing a notebook back and forth. The poems were disgusting, violent, rude and to this day, no one has seen them other than the two of us. There should be private poems. I like that notion in the middle of a culture where everyone is so overexposed. Hold something back. Not in a punishing way, just dignified. Of course if you read these poems you would not call us dignified.

RFD: Here in Northamptonthe queer community had a lot of dialog about inclusion of bisexual and transsexual people and as a result the area is one of the more trans friendly communities. You spoke during the reading about the intersection of gay men with the trans community. Being in San Francisco how do you think these interactions play out differently from a small college town?

Kirk: I think gay guys and transguys are sniffing each other out a lot in San Francisco. We’re having sex with each other and becoming friends and getting in relationships. I think it’s been a really good opportunity for nontrans gay guys to shake off their vaginal paranoia. And I think transmen bring so much to the table because many of them spent some time in the SF dyke scene at some point, which I have always thought was rich and communal and artistically vibrant. And well dressed. I have fantasies of transmen hijacking the gay world altogether, giving it a new aesthetic, a blend of redneck and punk. There is a sex club here called Eros where I do literary events. Transmen are welcome there as customers and on staff. It’s classic San Francisco for us to form community by fucking each other. But isn’t that how we’ve always done it? w

What is a Faerie?

By MadameFancy

The editors at Hard Times (a Seattle queer culture zine) asked me to write a response to the question: What is a Faerie? My response was published in last summer’s installment.

Ican’t tell you what a Radical Faerie is because we are too many things, we come in so many shapes and attitudes and intentions. We are male and female and the sacred in between. We are urban and rural, giving and needy; we are the interstitial. We come together to have ritual, but our individual rituals vary as much as our individual identities. Most of us come together for emotional and spiritual growth, to share each-other’s love and intimacy, and because when our time together is done, we are more like the people we want to be. At least this is my own experience; all us faeries can only speak for ourselves.

My faerie friend Puppy encouraged me to plug in at gatherings, he suggested that it would add to my experience. My first day at a faerie gathering I did dishes after dinner. My second I helped prep for a meal. My third I assisted as sous chef. My fourth I was asked to handle lunch...for 250 people; I thought it would be impossible. But Sandy told me it would be easy. He said I could make miso souphe handed me a jar of homemade miso and told me

what to do. It was fine, that meal, and everyone ate, and they were grateful. Not as grateful as I though, because when I was done, that kitchen was mine, that land was mine, and I was not only a faerie, I was a Goddess damned kitchen queen!

Seven years later i have attended a dozen gatherings and made as many meals. I have made more friends than I thought possible, and though few of them live here in Seattle, I have received so much love, intimacy and gratitude from them, and it brings tears to my eyes when I speak of it, and I have shed more tears of joy than pain because of them, and my heart swells with love for my faerie family.

And oh yes, I have partied and played so hard with them in the safety that the faeries and our sanctuaries provide us. We dance around fire and drum circle. We dance in the kitchen around the food and the DJ. We dance around each other and come together in the woods, in the river, and in each other’s tents. We laugh and cry and pray and fuck, and we love.

We can be hard to find if you’re not looking, but if you find us, we might change your life, if you like. We are all different, as are our gatherings. The East and the West, the North and the South, the interstitial. Find us, if you like. w

Photo by Walt Cessna

Change is Coming

By Brenden Shucart

We are approaching a time of great change and upheaval. I believe you would be hard pressed to find a Radical Queer or Faerie who doesn’t think so; we can feel it on our skin, and taste it in the air, like ozone before a storm. There is a turning point of the horizon, a time of tumult the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since World War II, and the whole world order will be reshaped. And how we, as a tribe, weather the storm will greatly depend on the strength of our community.

Please don’t think me morbid, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the Holocaust. When these times of great historical upheaval happen it is always the Queers and the Jews who get hit first, and I believe there is much to be gained by comparing the two communities: We comprise a similar percentage of the population, we excise a comparable pull on the Greater Culture, and both tribes are subject to intense distrust/distaste from the Greater Culture. But whereas the Jewish People emerged from the Holocaust (the systematic effort to eradicate their people by a highly focused and dedicated global empire) in many ways stronger than they had been before, being unified in both passion and purpose, with the resolve and tenacity to carve out an independent nation, surrounded by enemies, on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea; we were confronted by mere disease and institutional indifference to our fate, and it left us decimated, a broken people just now coming back into a place of relative stability.

I think the difference rests in the strength of our cultural institutions, or the lack there of. Throughout our history we have always been a hidden people, relying on secrecy and discretion to preserve and persevere. Formal institutions would have only made us more vulnerable. But we aren’t a hidden people any longer. We have magazines and television stations that cater to our interests, elected officials who legislate in our name, and annual parades through all of the great cities which loudly

and forcibly announce our presence to the world. We are visible, and even if we wished to return to life under the radar, we could not; we are living in a postsecrecy era.

Sowhere do we go from here? I am not advocating the whole-cloth creation of new institutions. I believe that they must come about organically, or they will never find purchase in our community. Instead, I would draw your attention to three areas of concern with the hopes of initiating a dialogue.

1. We Must Strengthen the Bonds

Between the Generations. At Beltane this year I was struck by depth and breadth of the skills and talents at our disposal. We count amongst our number some of the most brilliant artists and artisans I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Filmmakers, photographers, performers and poets, farmers, jewelers, designers and discaires… all easily some

Brenden by Walt Cessna

Photo courtesy Brenden Shucart

of the finest of our generation; and we need find a way to pass those skills on to the young radical queers and faeries coming into the community. Some kind of apprenticeship, or mentorship program in which Adults pass on their skills and wisdom to our Youth. We must ensure that young faeries have the tools and support they need to thrive. Because frankly, we owe them more than lives as prostitutes and drug dealers.

2. We Must Strengthen the Bonds Between the Communities. Our nation is far flung; an archipelago of sanctuaries and safe houses scattered across the vast ocean of the American Empire, and beyond. Each island unique, with its own history and traditions, and given to their own interests and way of doing things. The Philly Faeries are so organized, and the Atlanta Faeries so adept at building community, The San Francisco Faeries tend to be historically and politically minded, and New York Faeries have a history of communicating our culture and values to the outside world. We have so much to learn from one another! And I think perhaps we need some kind ‘Faerie Exchange Program’ to build up the bonds between the different circles, and to cross pollinate our ideas and ideals.

3. We Must Engage with the Broader LGBT

Community. If we are to be honest with ourselves, we must admit that we are guilty of some measure of cultural chauvinism. We tend to view nonradical-queer homosexuals with some measure of disdain; we call them ‘muggles’ as if their lives were devoid of joy or magic. We speak openly of their goals and traditions with contempt; I’ve heard Faeries speak witheringly of circuit parties, military service, and marriage equality alike. And many of them return that disregard in spades. But we are brothers and sisters, together in the same family; and those who hate us and would do us harm don’t care whether or not we wear glitter or shop at J Crew. We must embrace our differences, engage in dialogue with, and reach out to other homosexuals. We should go to the circuit parties (they can be fun sometimes, I promise) and we shouldn’t cede the Castros and the West Hollywoods of the world. I don’t claim any special knowledge of the future, and I don’t think any is required to say with absolute certainty, “Change is coming.” And I believe that we can not only survive the coming time of change, but thrive through it, and emerge even stronger on the other side. But only if we are willing to change with the times. w

Walking in the Time of Exile

not an arrow. an arrow has purpose. something less human, alive without breath; something like tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. definitely not a boomerang with a path that loops home. farther, our wandering has taken us farther towards, but never to, a flat horizon. even a cliff will curve, rock faces soften into foreheads. even the fall comes to a stop and a corpse returns to the dirt. a jackhammer. that’s logical. something loud that we can believe, always breaking ground for something new, for tomorrow, or the next day. next week will be nothing like this week, will be nothing like the circle I cannot remember. forward progress has decimated our thatched round houses and raped the round woman who was our priestess, the keeper of our stories, the woman who knew the medicine wheel, how to listen to each stone and know the way home.

the compass we have been given is a cruel joke. death is now the only circle we can trust.

–Griffin Payne

Heart Hawk

Heart Hawk, restless, be calm. The prey you seek is not around today. Stop pressing against my ribs.

You cannot fly away. The lover I find for you may feel you beating inside my chest, but you will never be seen.

Stay. Be calm, until you may sing to my lover. Then your cries will be heard, transformed in my mouth, when I try to say what you have been longing to say.

–James McColley Eilers

Heaven for Real

An orange California poppy hit my eye. It was tattooed between an ankle and a stalwart knee

of a glowing young man, taller than I, exchanging looks of full blooming passion

with his mate, a bespectacled guy holding a real book -Winsome Losesome, philosophical

fun poems by John Rowe. “Am I in Heaven ahead of schedule?” muttered my inner thug.

Wow! I’ll just toss my device, observe the delicious world, and wake up eager for the day.

–Marvin R. Hiemstra

Hope for the Future, or Why the Queer Movement is Doomed

By Arcana

I’mwriting this a few weeks after the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, which was accompanied by a negligible amount of damage to a nuclear reactor built, sensibly, near the seashore in an area prone to seismic, volcanic and tsunamic activity. Pretty much everyone has forgotten about it already. I mean, it was built in Japan, and people are mainly thankful that it’s a stationary radioactive disaster and not a roving radioactive disaster like, say, Godzilla. Well, it’s roving a little bit, the contaminated waste water being dumped into the circulation of the Pacific Ocean, and now showing up around the world, to no one’s surprise but the politicians’, the scientists’, and the media.

Do you know how much you have to pay someone to be surprised about something like that?

Anyway, unlike Japan, here in the States there’s only a percentage of our reactors built near active fault lines, no more than a few dozen among hundreds. (I know! I felt so much better finding out about that, too.) We may not even have the chance to congratulate ourselves, like the Japanese did, on how much better their reactor held up to the earthquake than expected. We did get to pat ourselves on the back after the Three Mile Island incident in 1979, where “catastrophe was avoided—but only by luck”, but it’s been a while, now, and we should have the opportunity to distribute a few more commendations. Maybe we’ll get a chance to congratulate ourselves in another arena, like with the Gulf Deepwater Horizon oil spill.

This, by the way, is what madness on a world scale looks like.

The madness is not that there wasn’t enough oversight of the Fukushima plant, or that there wasn’t a thorough enough contingency plan or that a nuclear plant was built in an unstable zone. The madness is that we allowed anyone—ever—to assemble and create materials that are as deadly, concentrated and lingering (on the scale of a few million years, at least) as those in each one of thousands of reactors all around the planet.

In a recent debate on Democracy Now, a so-called environmentalist was advocating that,

because burning fossil fuel is so ridiculously polluting, we should continue to rely on and expand our nuclear capacity to supply the world’s energy needs, confirming the statement, “The last thing we need is more environmentalists.”

The madness lies here in the belief that the world’s human population has “energy needs”, at least in terms of electricity or extreme amounts of heat. On a cultural, environmental, spiritual, and not least physical level, more than 200,000 years1 of human existence has demonstrated the opposite, that our needs in creating healthy, thriving, spiritually mature cultures and taking care of ourselves and the world around us are actually extremely limited, and can be met simply by the things lying at hand in our immediate environment.

There is no “energy crisis,” in the sense that we don’t have enough energy. The crisis is that we cannot limit our use to what we actually need; we are addicted, in every real sense of the word, to a glut of energy. And our culture—meaning industrial civilization, whether American or Japanese or Javanese or Ethiopian, the culture of 99.99% of living humans—intends to let that addiction run us all into the grave. This will happen incredibly soon, because the oil, shortly, will not be cheap by any stretch of the word. Our entire way of life runs on oil: we eat its products, it brings things to us in the cities, the economy depends on its presence entirely. The superstructure built on oil will collapse long before all the oil is gone; it merely has to be prohibitively expensive ($10 / gallon? $20?) for the whole thing to crash.

There is, of course, more than this culture’s energy use to question. Abuse and degradation of animals, plants, waters, soils: all of the living systems that life depends on. Denial that any of these things, these non-human people, are important. Insistence that we are separate from the world around us. Abuse and degradation of most humans, and refusal of the chance to be valued for what we are. Doing this all for the benefit of a shrinking handful of rich people. The constant destruction of real bonds of friendship and family, and substitution of a million distractions to keep us from noticing or caring. All this, and more, can

Photo by Justin Stone Diaz

1 Or two million or more, depending on what you count as human.

be yours with the purchase of industrial civilization. I, for one, have had enough of it. It has to go.

Thepathology of modern existence goes far beyond what I can describe in these paragraphs. So I’ll get to the point. Most major ecosystems across the planet are on the verge of collapse: fresh water, forests, farmed land, oceans, grasslands, all are barely able to maintain their own equilibrium and provide for their own inhabitants, much less provide “resources” to be “extracted”. And our culture continues to extract at ever-increasing rates, replacing only with pollution. Ninety percent of the large fish in the ocean are gone. There are two drifts of plastic garbage, each the size of the U.S., floating out in the Pacific. Thirty-three million tons of toxic chemicals are released into the environment around the world every year. Many rivers no longer reach the ocean because of being siphoned off for industrial use. We are in the middle of the largest mass extinction since an asteroid killed the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. I could go on for pages.

Whether modern existence grinds to a halt because we run out of free energy or because there won’t be anything left to take, buy or sell, is kind of academic. Point #1: Soon, this way of life, the only one you and I have ever known, will be done.

It is one of the functions of the ruling system to deny this; denial is one of the ways that the system survives. So it’s not surprising that some of you may find my picture of the world to be stark, raving exaggeration: you have been told differently all your lives. (“Things aren’t all that bad…”) All I can say is that most of us growing up in this culture have no fucking clue what a healthy land base looks like. A quote from Aldo Leopold, a naturalist of the early twentieth century:

One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen. An ecologist must either harden his shell and make believe that the consequences of science are none of his business, or he must be the doctor who sees the marks of death in a community that believes itself well and does not want to be told otherwise.2

This is from a member of the mainstream culture, writing seventy years ago. Things have gotten worse since then.

But the prevailing system can never acknowledge the extent of the damage, for if it does, then it ends up conceding that our natural right to subjugate, pillage and foul the world and its people might not work

out so well after all. And since the system is built on the continuation and expansion of those activities, that concession would amount to its death knell. Systems, whether one organic individual, an ecosystem, a social system, or a solar system, are focused foremost on keeping the thing going, remaining alive. This culture cannot continue the activities that fuel it (slavery, resource extraction, externalization of land base destruction) and at the same time denounce those activities wholesale. Denounce a particular activity, sure, but not all or even most. Which brings me to Point #2: our culture will never voluntarily stop the destructive activities on which it is based. It cannot, because it would kill itself in the process. I mean not only “culture”, writ large, but its individual institutions, businesses, leaders, ordinary people, all of whom have internalized our cultural teachings. By and large, given an excessive number of chances and attempts at dialogue, they will not stop.

Take, for instance, the treatment of Africans in the West. Here is a history that has passed through brute slavery and the treatment of humans as property, then moved on to “Emancipation”, sharecropping, lynchings, segregation, civil rights, the fight against racism, widespread poverty of African-Americans, black people comprising 40% of the US prison population (10% of all American black males are in prison), and now, a half-African US president. Note first that racism, after 200 years of fighting it, remains a huge problem, whether you see it in your daily life or not. Note second that slavery has not ended. It was only (mostly) exported. Only the fact that the factory workers, miners, agricultural workers and others in the Third World3 are paid minuscule sums keeps us from technically calling it slavery. That some African-Americans are CEOs and professionals and president does not mitigate the reality that racism and slavery continue mostly unabated. They cannot abate, because the system depends on, in part, slave labor and dehumanization.

The mistake made by those who want to rip out racism by the roots is pretty much the same mistake that almost all other social movements have made: they believe that it is possible to stop oppression (of women, of poor people, of indigenous cultures, of the natural world) within the context of a system dependent upon oppression. Generally, these movements will be happy to accept small improvements to the status of their own group, regardless of whether someone else has to take on the burden of the displaced oppression. (Take, for instance, the

2 From A Sand County Almanac.

3 As well as many farm workers and Wal-Mart employees here in this country.

treatment of Asians in the LA riots.) And in this system, we can pretty much guarantee that someone else will be given that burden.

This brings me around to the question: what does this have to do with the gays? (Was that your chair moving closer to the desk? Did I hear a “Finally!” in the room?) And not only the gays, but the Dykes and the Genderqueers and the Faeries and the Trannies, too; allow me to lump these all together under “queer” for the moment. The queer movement, in general, suffers under the same delusions as other social movements. Those of you who call yourselves Radical Faeries (or radical anything) may have noticed the Faustian bargain involved in gaining any sort of political foothold in this country: our enfranchisement, our legal rights to merely fuck how and who we want, and to make space for our individual expression, has come neatly in inverse proportion to the degree to which we are willing to give up our larger critique of this society. There are many more ways of existing than as a straight couple or nuclear family, and many of them are not only tolerable but valuable and magical. In short, we need difference and diversity in our daily lives.

Here’s the kicker: this society will probably never let you convince them that we need that difference and diversity. On the ever-so-slight chance that it does, it will a) keep all of us from integrating that knowledge, or in other words, applying that principle to situations like racism or sexism or our ecosystems, b) exact the cost of that concession on some other segment of society, and c) co-opt your viewpoint for its own enrichment, such as letting genderqueer become anti-establishment cool, then gaining your support of the system that “celebrates” your difference and sells it back to you—much as has already been done with gays. If you try to alter the situation, the system will attempt to gain equilibrium. And meanwhile, caught in the myopia of our own queer struggle, the destruction of the world, that you entirely depend on for your embodied and spiritual existence, accelerates.

This brings me to Point #3: any individual or group effort to change things for the better that does not take into account Point #1 (the destruction of our world and the imminent end of our way of life) and Point #2 (the system will not allow its own disruption in any meaningful way) will be ultimately ineffective. Dead in the water.

If it isn’t clear what I’m suggesting, let me spell it out. We shoot ourselves in the foot as long as we focus ourselves entirely on queer politics, queer culture, or queer revolution. Our health, our sanity,

our full self-expression cannot be won by isolating that struggle from the context of the system we live within now, one that not only dishonors queers, but virtually everything else that makes life worth living or even possible. And we keep ourselves chasing after Tantalus’ grapes when we try to win justice for queer rights (or for the rights of the Third World poor, or for the environment) from within the system. You cannot get the abuser to stop abusing just you; you probably cannot get the abuser to stop abusing at all.

It is time to stop playing their game, by their rules.

OKnow, let me get clearer about a few things. Let’s say that you, like a lot of Radical Faeries, prize your gender-bending ways, your pretty and outlandish outfits, your transgression of societal norms. Let’s say that you have a community of like-minded queers who love you. Let’s say you write music or make films or create art. Many treat these activities as political actions unto themselves, believing that they will change the consciousness of the people around them, eventually effecting societal change. I can’t say I agree. But to say that I think these are completely ineffective as political actions is not to say that I think they’re meaningless, an important distinction. Dwelling in beauty and thresholds is something that we desperately need to keep alive, for our individual sanity and for those cultures that will come after this one.

But do keep in mind that even our tight-knit communities—and I mean real communities, not just affiliative groups, but communities where your welfare is literally held by the group—are dependent on the services provided by the city. When the food trucks stop rolling in from across the world to your supermarket (and they will), your tribe will have some actual drama if you don’t know how to feed yourselves from the land around you. For that matter, there will be drama if your community hasn’t learned how to cope with things in bad times. How many groups of fair-weather friends do we each belong to? How well do we deal with conflict, other than leaving and starting over?

While I think that personal transgressions don’t alter the power structure one whit, neither do any of the other activities we usually think of as effectual: elections, demonstrations, free discourse, simple living and conservation, international regulation, and the like. None of these tools has ever changed the fundamental pattern of monopoly of violence, destruction and abuse toward people and the natural world that defines civilization, whether capitalistic or communis-

tic. Particular despots or companies or nation-states may rise or fall, but the overall pattern continues and strengthens with each passing moment. And so the first real challenge for us is to ask the question, what effective action can we take? We know its opposite: if society even barely tolerates it, it will not be effective. Effective action will stop something even when they don’t want to stop, and will allow you to go on to protect something or someone else.

Just so you know: if you make a serious attempt to stop, say, the ability of the rulers to use nuclear power, and if they determine that it is necessary to continue using it, no matter how obviously insane it is to poison the land around you for millions of years, they will try to lock you up, shut you down, or kill you. They will do it, probably, without a care.

This is not to dissuade you. This is to help you be conscious of the risks. Because our world vitally depends on our taking truly effective actions, now, for the rest of our lives. It is way past the time that we need to get real about the effects of our actions, within this culture, without it, against it. You cannot purchase your way to a greener or queerer tomorrow. You cannot veganize away the industrial food complex. You cannot protest away homophobia, nor nuclear power and its equivalents. What you can do is start to look at how to go to the root of our problems. There are hundreds of patterns of culture apart from industrial civilization, and we have our creativity. We must flush out the parasite, and put something pro-biotic in its stead. We must find allies where we can, but we cannot delude ourselves that we will ever get much support from the culture at large or its members. And we must act regardless.

News Update: the Japanese government recently changed the status of the Fukushima reactors, three of them, each to worse than the Chernobyl meltdown. It will certainly be worse by the time you read this.

WhenI say that common personal and political actions are ineffective in changing the power structure, I do want to leave that statement in the context of a positivist, logic-obsessed culture.4 I believe that there are ways of accomplishing things outside of a strictly causal, tangible context. I believe that our actions have reverberations on many planes, in some ways that we can never really know. I believe that magic exists, and that I use it daily.

I have to say, though, that if you are acting purely in the realm of magic, if you are expecting just your personal state of mind and magical actions to bring about the end of industrial civilization, then you had

better be a fucking world-class shaman. Seriously, I want thirty years of magical work experience on your witch’s resume, and references that can attest to your bringing down at least one twenty-foot-tall dam without physical contact. Or maybe just getting everyone on your Facebook friends list to protect and re-wild one acre of land. If that’s not the case, then I would like you all just to consider the possibility that vibrating out your own personal reality is sometimes an excuse for wanting to reap the benefits of civilization a little while longer. And hey, I know I have those moments, too, of just wanting to live in my comfortable life. The important thing is that we get ourselves in a position to act effectively in the physical world, as well as the spiritual world. To my way of seeing, any personal spirituality worth the name creates consonance throughout my actions; if I work on spiritual healing of the earth without actively working toward physical healing of the earth, I would consider my spirit life bankrupt.

I will also point out that many of the magical/New Age tools we use now are largely appropriated tools, native to more holistic indigenous societies. I am sure they used them to defend themselves against being swallowed up by civilization, to protect their land against being raped. I might even suggest that they were a little better at using those tools than most of you. Consider where they are now.

I know a lot of people who would consider the viewpoint in this article to be ridiculously defeatist, to be manifesting a negative reality. But to me, this is the starting point for an authentically positive outlook. I cannot begin to create reality anew until I thoroughly recognize what already is there. I can’t know the future, but I can say it’s reasonable to assume, based on an invariant 10,000 year history, that civilization will probably continue its path of destruction until it’s all gone, and that I will plan my actions based on that assumption until I hear otherwise. If it turns out different, fine, I will go along with that, but it had better turn out different real fucking soon. The salmon are almost gone. So are the frogs, the polar bears, the tigers, the wild berries, the old growth trees, the wild roots and tubers…countless others. So much has already been destroyed. What are you waiting for, exactly?

I, now, am waiting for nothing to begin my life of defense of the earth, of creation of new/old ways of living in real harmony and community and love with those around me, human and non-human, and that is the most uplifting view I could possibly give to myself. I know what path to follow for the rest of my life: how could I not be joyous at that?

4 Positivist: basically meaning, if we can’t prove its existence, it doesn’t exist. Unless everyone important believes it, like the “free market” being good for us, and then we’re excused from proving it..

Thereare two broad paths to follow right now, that coil and intertwine with each other: stopping the machine of destruction, and creating the ways of life that we can live in now and that can support us after the machine is silent. For those of us who cannot bring ourselves to destroy, this is a great opportunity to create ways of life that are real again, and not a simulacrum of it. Learning how people lived before agriculture and civilization are good starting points, such as in looking at how primal cultures, in large part, created and rejoiced in spaces for gender variants and queers. But we have to work from where we are now, to get to there, and in the process create a million different glittering pathways. We need to revel in our sense of place; we need to communicate and work together; we need to recreate and invent roles and celebrations for the panoply of gender and sexual diversity we see around us; we need to love the land again; we need to grow up free and wild.

Doesn’t that feel like real movement to you?

This essay contained many assertions that I obviously didn’t have space here to prove or even argue.

If you would like to follow up on any of these threads (and I should hope you do, that was the whole damn point in writing this), whether to see where we agree or disagree, here are some places to start:

-Derrick Jensen, esp. A Language Older Than Words and Endgame; also look for his, Aric McBay’s, and Lierre Keith’s just-released Deep Green Resistance.

-Lierre Keith, The Vegetarian Myth & Sally Fallon, Nourishing Traditions

-David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous and Becoming Animal.

-Will Roscoe, The Zuni Man-Woman, and probably other of his books.

-Clive Ponting, A Green History of the World.

-Elizabeth Marshal Thomas, The Old Way.

-John Zerzan, ed., Against Civilization.

-Paul Shepard, Coming Home to the Pleistocene

Now, go outside and take a walk in the nearest wild area before you do any more reading. w

Photo by Justin Stone-Diaz

My Gender Cartography Lessons: Part I

By Joe Varisco

What do you mean I can never go home again? The roads are flooded? There are ghosts blocking the way? Fires are raging everywhere?

In search of a new place. In search of a new me. I can undress in my room and see the brilliance of a feminine lines down the small of my back and ass. I can shower in the morning and feel radiance of a goddess. I can crawl under my covers and smell the scent of sweat and sweet. I want them both. Can I have them both?

There is this brilliant new dress that reminds me of a photograph of my Grandmother dancing and I want to wear it. I want my beard and my eye shadow. I want to feel sultry and safe. My heels make me feel like a fucking gazelle, like I can hike my way up a mountain, beat my chest and pucker cherry tinted lips and lavender glazed eyes and breathe. Breathe the mystery of our organs and our every changing shapes. Breathe the mystery of father son mother brother sister daughter church and tongues, lovers and trials. I am all all these things. Each spiral of sand and quasar, each cycle of moon and menstruation, each birth of flower and death of star. In my jewelry box is my toolbox. My belt has room for both a hammer and lipstick. Fuck me or be fucked or just breathe here with me.

The Queer Voice? You’re Choking On It

By Albo Jeavons

Mumbling around the balls in my mouth, I sing: do I contradick myself? I contain multitudes—millions swimming with a fierce, blind lust for connection; for some glorious liberation, however temporary.

Give me more queer studs and less queer studies. I’d rather fuck, then switch; changing the world from top to bottom, bottom to top; the world turned upside down but this time it’s not just Carnival Day it’s Cataclysm and something so simple and beautiful that everyone can feel it. Breathe deep and unclench that tight, unhappy bud, bud: there’s a queer hole down there, yearning in you to fill and be filled.

Every day the earth shakes or shoots a hot load; orgasm of destruction and, in the midst of tragedy and misery/catastrophe there comes, sometimes, something queer and beautiful, some inversion, some convergence, some compassion, some seductive anarchy to balm a wound that the chaos of civilization can only salt.

Queer drifts; imagining pulsar Queer and black hole Capital as lovers—binary locked in mutual orbit, sucking at each other’s substance; all of it stolen. Mopped by fabulous, larcenous queens like bowerbirds, or: a bloody, excruciating excavation from the bodies of billions by blind, bespoke paragons of insatiable avarice. Greedy bottoms, please; not bottomless greed and cold, deadly faux-lust.

So. Please continue to dream of queer eruptions, dear friends. We are each of us a promiscuous, permeable universe spit out of star furnace and borne to hermaphrodite Terra in long-tailed space swimmers. Drink, mingle, and conspire.

The Church Barn

By Todd (Tif) Fernandez

A Lore-Like Tale of Magic One Day and Night Did Transpire

At a Sanctuary in Liberty Tennessee

Ona short mountain during an approaching May, spring flowers lingered under baby green leaves crested by a powder-blue sky. The gathering grew, as each night’s drumming announced the darkness and reachable stars encircled drummers and dancers like the blazing warmth of the bonfire. Tempting joy was fixed until water began to purify the land.

From the beginning, daily, the heart circle’s thriving intent weaved its healing magic as a newcomer summoned sightlessly a card from the deck: Defeat first, another day, Abundance, Sun.

One day, Miss Fits arrived uncharacteristically late to the circle, detained by a rapturous personal Stonewall story by a teaching elder. Unbeknownst to her and others, the heart circle ritual had launched with under-guided magic as playful faeries had “selected” a card they “liked”—something small fortunately: the Universe. Shockingly, but not surprisingly, with its attention drawn the Universe chose to stay and the heavens began to mourn for humanity’s collective suffering.

Drenched with His tears, the grassy knoll soaked up water’s love as the faeries flittered with moistened wings and the earth clamored to regain their glittery mindfulness. The celestial cleansing pounded refrains of humility, leading some to atone yet others to pray for sunshine. So the refrain continued as the ground melted beneath their feet.

During a slight reprieve, Crazy Owl shared his wisdom of spirit life with the Enchanted Forest Walk, beginning with an Indian pipe ritual, his wit spicing the air with humor.

In one random musing he revealed: “One of the elders wouldn’t go into the barn. He was afraid to.” Always inquisitive, Miss Fits politely asked: “What was he afraid of?” Without the slightest hesitation, “I don’t know” chirped and giggled Crazy Owl. Miss Fits listened silently to her own loud sassy voice: “I’m not afraid of any spirits in the barn. I go through the barn all the time! I actually prefer passing through the barn. Besides, I’ve faced darkness. It has no power here.”

With the Universe not amused, a trillion droplets

absorbed the trees until their barks oozed tears of joy, while the human crank tightened as faeries huddled, muddled, drag whimpering yet makeup intact. Down came last year’s Maypole, as preparations persisted, abundance flowed from the mighty kitchen, and music swirled through the house, reverberating from strings plucked, hammered and strummed, banjos, pianos and guitars, a washtub base, a violin, two accordions and countless harmonious vocal cords. The dance swirled like comets wiping the flames of sexual desire into pure spirit, as nature and humanity yearned for one another.

Beltane Eve clattered like gigantic castanetplaying fireflies as the earth hole exhaled its heart, inhaling the newly debarked Maypole lying before it, treetop leaves bristling the ground. “Tickling no doubt,” she thought, as trapped energy was released and new energy imbued with the wisdom of the ages. Scatterings of faeries dotted the dripping landscape, semen flowed into the earth, and the rain paused to dance. Miss Fits became a wolf.

Prowling, masked with rainbow sequins she growled, crawling, sniffing and watching, guarding the faeries and this land. Revealed, she was the protector, a protector fueled by anger, seeking purer intent. Aware but not yet there, she growled, prowled, rainbow sequined-eyes piercing your gaze, locking with your spirit, looking for its fear. “Why am I a wolf?” her mind searched. “How can I, the wolf, protect with love and not anger?” And with this new intention thus revealed, shewolf curled tightly amongst the flock to rest.

Commandingly observing the starlit vision on the knoll, the great Barn was fully engaged, mindful, present. Moonlit, soft grey and black, etching the twinkling sky, its distinguished grandeur, respectful as any house of worship, wise, firm, steady, strong, powerful with the stamina of time, It summoned Her.

Released from a wolf’s trance, deeply dazed, Miss Fits then finds herself standing before the Barn, recalling Crazy Owl’s intrigue. She hesitates summoning her ego. Confident, she sets aim on the opening, a vacuous space, free of doors, open wide, welcoming into invisible darkness. “I walk through this barn all the time!” she utters with tinged defiance. “I’m not afraid to go into that

barn,” her mind reassures, walking more aggressively, confidently, cocky, rudely… waltzing, almost skipping, darting inside, she is repelled at the portal by the force, now seemingly melting the barn into waves of indignation, thrusting Miss Fits into a bow of tearful humility and atonement. Humor cries out: “Oh shit! That’s what’s in the barn!” She bows more deeply in respectful awe, sustained, reverent, contrite, as tears flow.

set free. “Control fear, fight fear, conquer fear!??” the Goddess continued to guide. “Well good luck to that. It’s a good trick if you can pull it off! More power to you!” laughing, cackling sweetly ... mumbling under her breath, still melding but identified in mind, Thought sassed along: “I sure wouldn’t want to try it… not me, no thanks. You go right ahead though.”

Synapses

fire, at war with their selves as the Goddess of Fear presides over time, stopped for revelation. “Why are you afraid of me?” she asks puzzlingly. “I guide you and keep you safe, out of harms way. I am your friend. Why are you afraid of me? I teach you lessons: every time you fear something and it does not happen, I am teaching you. I am your friend. Love me as a friend. Fear not.” As eyes cried,

Highly amused and newly lost in this world of truthful rediscovery, where all is magic, Miss Fits communes with the Goddess and the Mountain, radiating, floating, tingling. Hyper awareness of energy transforms itself, exposing intentions, individual and collective, nature exudes, the path illuminates.

Morning Circle then wisps motion, as bees buzz, ribbons bloom, OutFits! emerge, ceremony circle convenes and ceremony is summoned. Clockwise, counterclockwise, the Wicca faeries debate, as the

knees gave way to a lowered head, spine sloping forward toward the earth, ego pouring into mud.

All night the heavens deluged faerie land with cleansing love, engulfing the waiting Maypole’s earthly deep hole, as mechanical pumps engaged to empty and reveal the securing rocks sunk below. Faerie dust clung to rain carrying faerie suffering away, through the valley, to the Mississippi to the Sea, but nothing else could be until all fear was

crank continues to tighten. Tighter. A Witch is not happy, efficiency is diminished for loving process, yippy, intensely emotive, healing. “Clockwise, clockwise, clockwise,” he believes.

Mother wisdom speaks, releasing, healing understanding. It’s resolved, counterclockwise, water will be first, as it has been all week, then, fire, wind, air, freedom reigns. The Goddess of Fear intends that the Barn’s story be shared, and the group so

Painting by Eric Weichel

manifests, persuading a glossy-eyed Miss Fits to guide the Release. Synapses race seeking to realign, seeking to separate the now merged left and right brain, ego rears its wounded face fueling fear, the wolf cries, the Barn watches from a far.

Fear still grasps Miss Fits: “I can’t tell that story yet, it’s too soon. I can’t even think straight,” her words grasping for comfort and freedom from her equally clear duty; the Universe tightens the crank, forcing a script. “Just the essence, two minutes,” faerie witch Eldritch clarifies, wise, loving, comforting “Breathe, mark it with your fingers, four in, hold, four out.”

Miss Fits freaked, though amused, releases: “Just the essence!!?” Ha ha ha ha ha! “Just the essence” replays as blessed Humor chimes in: “And hurry up about it! We’re on deadline, a couple hours.” Fortunately they are blurry faerie hours devoid of subdivision, natural time. Miss Fits laughs at the tension, though less at the mounting fear, and retreats to the woods unresolved.

Offin the woods, Angel is decked out for celebration, creamy white, layered with gown and glitter, bliss and mother; she assents to enter the ceremony portraying the beautifully serene Goddess of Fear. Wonderful, yes we will do this, it resonates calmly in her nurturing bosom, while Miss Fits journeys through fear, excitement, ego, worry, with Mindfulness seemingly floating in jello-like air, confounded, bewildered, alternately elated by truth’s healing release. Fear not. Fear not. Fear not.

Despite the blessed synergism with Angel, ambushed and overwhelmed, Miss Fits still trembles under approaching calm: “But I’m not ready to tell this story. My ego cannot perform this one. I can’t focus,” as was intended. Meanwhile, excitement flows through faerie land, anticipation, anxiety, anger at rain builds, drag goes on and comes off as ambiguity weaves its web and the universe continues its mourning, drenching the knoll, until, amidst great fear, the unimaginable occurs and the word is delivered: The raising of the Maypole has been canceled!? Safety considerations prevail.

Too wet, the hole gushes a muddy pool of liquid love streaming down the mountain, through the valleys’ rivers to the seas.“ On my god! She canceled the whole damn thing! That bitch! She cancels the whole damn event to teach again about fear! Ha!!” she speaks partly, also mumbling and hearing.

Setting aside for now the inherent delusions of grandeur, she instantly knows the feat is complete. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I got part of it last night. But now I really get it. I’m sorry, I see it will always

confront, of course.” – as laughter sweetens revelations’ temporarily bitter tears of joy. “I’m sorry. By the way, you know I’m just kidding about the bitch part, no disrespect here honey! Miss Fits repents to Goddess. That’s just girlfriend talk!”—Giggling selfamused, tingling as truth settles in, Humor dances with Revelation, Miss Fits is free, free, free from the show, but not yet free to be reborn, yet.

Her heartbeat slows and she is summoned to the Barn. Approaching the backside slowly she stands waiting for a sign to enter. It arrives from a faerie “Would you like to come through here?” Pausing, breathing, she enters with fully atoning heart, respect, and hitherto unfathomed humility, and so the ultimate release unfurls as Fear accepts the offering and is befriended and loved.

Passing corner to corner throughout the great Barn, a pale, bark-stripped branch, a miniature Maypole, rattles in her hand, tapping the ground, as Singing Chant whispers: “respect, respect, love, gratitude, thank you, thank you, thank you.” Thought apologizes: “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. How was I to know? No one ever told me.” Deepest sincerity surrenders gratefully to playfulness: “Besides, I never agreed with that crap about: ‘ignorance of the law being no excuse’! If they don’t teach us, how are we supposed to know!”

Solemnly, the calling echoes a renewed refrain to elders to teach the young.

And as Miss Fits laughed with Goddess, Loving Mindfulness flooded the caverns of her being, rinsing the sludge of her of soul, delivering her to last night’s fateful portal, now from the inside, now on the other side, now ready to tell the story. Then instantly and stunningly, as her face flowed through the force, beholding the knoll, anxious with faeries, the Universe beamed a Ray of Sunshine across her glittering eyes, no longer masked by the wolf, inspiring the chant that rang out over the mountain, echoing through the valleys and flowing rivers to the sea: “Put it in the hole! Put it in the hole! Put it in the hole!”

So it was, with great summoning magic, the ceremony swirled frenetically into life, seizing nature’s generosity of reprieve, and with Angel glowing as was befitting the beloved Goddess of Fear, the Church Barn looked on with release, as Her story was told. Dragons circled and danced, the elements were praised, honored, loved, and intent beyond fear heaved the great Maypole into mother earth’s welcoming embrace, rapped lovingly with ribbons imbued with the hope of a fear-aware enlightened humanity, as pre-ordained, on the first of May!

Blessed Be. Hallelujah. w

Memoirs of a Gay Kid

By Jean-Phylipe Thériault

The first memory I hold the most dear to me was when I was a child. I was about two years old. I remember being wrapped in a pink and white blanket. I remember my aunt’s face looking in on me while my mother sang me a lullaby. I remember the Walt Disney wallpaper and an old white changing table I had in the corner of my room. It was the first moment I ever remember having total peace and harmony around me. It was beautiful.

When I finally realized that I was gay I was scared that my father would disown me, that he would hate me just like he hated all those other gay guys he spoke of. It was a mind-boggling thing to go through. No one around me could help me through it so I kept it inside of me. I locked it away in the darkest of places in my heart for the longest of times and I became saddened by it. At the time it was like a world changing revelation to me. It took some time before I could work up the courage to be able to say that I was gay out loud.

The Internet was my savior; I had no real role model in my life. I knew no one that was gay, and so I yearned for information, inspiration and I found it in the form of a comedian, a singer and an artist. Chris Crocker and Jeffrey Star where the real reason I was able to come out to my family. Their fearlessness was so beautiful to me; how could any one be so outgoing and open with the world as they are? And then Lady Gaga came into the mix, which really enabled me to set myself free from the chains that where, holding me back. I became something much more beautiful. I was able to rejoice and live my life with no regret.

Coming to terms with it was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I didn’t want to be different, I wanted to fit in and blend in with the crowd just like every one else. But then I realized being gay is like being a clown fish in an endless sea of salmon. You stick out, you are beautiful, colorful, and you are Mother Nature’s work in all of her glory! And at that moment I realized that being gay is not something that I should have to hide. Why should I have to lie and hide behind a mask? So that others around me can keep feeling comfortable? No, I am who I am and I was born this way.

And so these are the Memoirs of a Gay Kid. A collection of events, thoughts and experiences that have greatly contributed to this person I am today. I, like every other human on this planet, am still growing, learning and loving, I am proud to have taken part in it all. w

“Il reste toujours un peu de parfum à la main qui donne des roses…” –Confucius

Think There Then: A Reflection on the Unseen in the Now

By Free, Lady Now

I believe in the disco ball theory of the Universe

We are reflections of the same source at different angles

We are all at one time the light emerging from the shadow

We are the silhouettes of the dancers and we are the dance

We are ascended and suspended, rotating from light to light

Each of us a reflection of the scene and unseen

I claim no entitlement to the ideas put forth by these writings. That is to say, while I do own the power behind the words, I do not own the words. These movements are inspired by the movements of humans who have done the work of liberation. I cannot have had these ideas on my own. I am not alone in thinking these thoughts and feeling these feelings. I have had a free, radical education by being gifted the opportunity to observe and participate in community.

It cannot and should not end with me. There lies the danger in self-improvement therapy. Bell hooks outlines it in all about love that the love of the self which is rooted in greed is no love at all. I came to this knowledge in my own life by detaching myself of my emotional response to a given situation, allowing myself to simply experience the experience devoid of judgment. I engaged this work whenever a person’s criticism raised my energy to the point of anger.

Thank Yoko Ono and Cat Power: “Bless you for your anger; it’s a sign of rising energy.” I would much rather rise to greet the criticism offered me as yet more shit for me to compost. I cannot disavow another’s experience nor consider it ready for me to digest. To take on a criticism is a huge effort which requires breaking down language, getting personal baggage out of the way and seeing the meaning and intent behind the scrutiny. I hold space for experience which is not my own, which is the work of expanding perspective beyond the personal. Not only is this a feminist principle but also this tool is the very essence behind making subject-subject consciousness work.

We are a culture of cultures. Our movements inspire movement. Our stillness is still here (and being distilled). Be here now: we are each of these things and each of them will fade. Let us dance unto the dawn of the next day, for each day is a gift.

Let us open up to the present. Worldwide disaster is all ova my channel. We are all affected. “Be here now.” Oh. Really? Hmm. That’s not what I’m doing at all. I’m thinking there then. That’s my read into the situation. Remember the histories that are all too often misplaced and forgotten. Too many stories have been brushed aside and the piles are obscuring news from emerging from the rotten news no one seems willing to pick up.

Thinking back then on Katrina and there my response was to the Common Ground Collective relief effort in New Orleans. I watched community emerging through the struggle. I hosed down houses with bacteria to outcompete the deadly mold. Community gardens and wetlands restoration emerged as tools for soil repair. The response of this organization was truly radical. Rather than displacing their agency onto the government, Malik Rahim and Sharon Johnson began this relief effort out of their own home, serving the Ninth Ward out of their front and back yards. Many radical organizations alongside Common Ground brought food and supplies to the starving city, deprived of outside contact by government officials.

Yes, amidst the rotten news there is the black earth. Take some into your own hands. The bioremediation of our earth, water, air, and everyone who lives in it is a worldwide responsibility. This earth is black with rot and alive with possibility. It is our collective responsibility to work with the toxins. With the disasters in Haiti and Japan, I dream in hopes that if the bacterial cultures can thrive in the waste of a hurricane, perhaps I can direct my energy and make an impact on the big picture...with teeny tiny populations of effective microorganisms mirroring the growth and development of movements like the Radical Faeries.

I trust the process. I know there are workers who organize the resilience of the people in Haiti. I trust that as the clouds gather over Japan, so will we—as a movement and a people. Everyone around the world is waking up. Organizing our communities who

An by Walt Cessna

struggle and working with the toxic reality (which is marketed to us as sustainable living) needs to emerge as our priority. The liberation of all peoples worldwide is at stake: no one of us is free until we are all free of the toxins. Look to the microbes to see the big picture. We are truly a culture of cultures.

II

My name is Free, Lady Now to the faeries. I am a 28 year old feminist transgendered sister. I think it is important for you, gentle reader and rough alike, to take a step back for a moment. You should know more about me before I move ahead.

I grew up in the suburban sprawl of Tulsa, Oklahoma, in an aging farm town and railroad stop, Broken Arrow. I wandered the creeks and wild spaces at the borders of fenced in property and wondered what to eat. I chewed on grass, built dams in the water, and had a very sheltered life. I was selected for the gifted and talented program, which basically meant I got to cut class a few times a week and skip out on a lot of pop quizzes because I knew how to manipulate the educational system to my advantage. I used my own autonomy to keep my spirit from truly thriving. My ego thrived in the fond attention given me by my instructors, while my spirit became less and less interested in the crawdads in the flooded creeks.

I grew a pair of homophobic Southern Baptist horns around the age of 12, when I was just becoming interested in politics, sex, and money. I also had great visions induced by ecstatic songs to engage missionary work and serve the Lord.

Deep down, though, I wanted to get away from it all. I wanted to break free into the wild spaces I explored, at the edge of property lines where I knew the food trees grew. I knew it was possible to live off the land though I didn’t have the knowledge to do so. I grew complacent with affection and affected my education, studying this and that and never applying myself. Thus I engaged in occluding myself of the world and my own voice.

My awareness unfolded slowly. Even after I came out at 18 to my parents, my own emotional addiction to tragedy and being the victim prevented me from emerging as an effective activist. Always two steps forward and one, if not more, steps back.

I surrendered all at that point. I did not see any other alternative. I was so numb to reality, taking over-the-counter pain medication far beyond the recommended dosage. Then again, reality was sitting with my mother as she explained to me the evils of homosexuality yet again. Reality was surrendering my

autonomous expression, staying home from senior prom. Forcibly deleting my online journal. Going to the ex-gay counselor who had a few good ideas on picking up strangers that I had never considered. In all seriousness, though, I was met with life’s biggest questions and I had no answers for them. Looking back on it, in all my foolishness, it almost seems as though surrender was the right choice.

All my life I told everyone I was not going to the University of Oklahoma; yet I did. My ignorant lifestyle had led me to make poor choices academically and thus was not admitted to the prestigious colleges of my dreaming. I surrendered my schedule to conform to the standards my parents (well, my mother, as my father could not even look at me) set for me. They were not about to support my art career.

Fortunately, I met the radical anarchists in Norman, Oklahoma. They directed me to the Rainbow Road of possibilities of exploring my autonomy in ways that served me while benefitting others: they called it community. During my freshman year of college, I was sexually assaulted and voluntarily became homeless temporarily. The anarchists directed me to the Women’s Outreach Center and I became an advocate for male-bodied survivors and homeless folks. As a result, my mind was opened to a feminist voices and radical cross-cultural analysis.

The anarchists recommended The Earth, a Norman natural food store. It was a hippie hotspot with a hot momma at the counter. Her name was Maka Laughingwolf and she shared dreams with me that gave me the strength to discover myself. She told me how she found her name and a few months later, I found my name in the same space. I was singing the songs of the underground railroad the night that I found my name. B. Blessed called it out: I was Free.

And soon after, I stopped attending class, eventually dropping out of school. I nearly lost myself, too, in Olympia, Washington. I went on a pilgrimage that many Okie queers do to the West Coast. I loved riot grrl music so I figured Oly was it. A bandmate of mine offered me a place to crash and I took her up on the offer. A week into my stay I was sexually assaulted and my friend told me her roommates weren’t into me. She dropped me off in the rain at B. Blessed’s ex-boyfriend’s workplace. I prayed from the afternoon until the night that he would give me a place to stay. Aspen arrived at midnight and he opened his doors to me. I got on a bus back to Norman after recuperating the next week.

After a summer of trying to settle down and do the work of freeing myself from my parents and their

power over me, I landed a job working for a sweet hippie’s bed and breakfast where I lived and worked. I began to cultivate knowledge of the plants and the wild medicines. The lady of the house released me at the end of spring so I could hitchhike with my best friend and spiritual ally, B. Blessed, to the Rainbow Gathering nationals in West Virginia, in hopes of finally learning how to eat from the forest.

After I arrived, I quickly realized the privilege I had been afforded in my luxuriant homeless lifestyle. I realized that I had built a support network around me of ecofeminists and liberal thinkers; the Rainbow bunch was rough and rowdy in a way that knocked me off my ivory tower and got me to thinking and brooding. I was glad to have B. with me.

I remembered something that Maka said, to go and find the faeries. Well, I honestly did not like gay people at this point. I could not articulate the consent which was obviously lacking in the power dynamics of my intimate moments. But I needed some wild gay yeasts and was willing to see what the fae folks were doing. Anything to get away from those grizzly men yelling at dogs again, I thought.

The faeries came a week or so after I arrived. They landed on top of a hill, building a cock-shaped bliss pit and ass-shaped kitchen fire. I gazed upon the finest faces over that fire. I fell in love with the faeries and left with them as the Rainbow Gathering came to a close. I felt the bonds of sisterhood with the otherbrothers; wild natures emerged from within me that I had left in the borderlands of Broken Arrow. I left B. Blessed, who would return to Oklahoma, and I flew on a wild hare to Short Mountain Sanctuary.

Icouldsay that the rest is herstory, but I cannot leave it at that. Short Mountain’s stewards have given me much. The freedom to travel and see the world, from the very start. The stewards all chipped in to buy me a ticket back to Oklahoma back then, so I could return to work.

I brought back stories of Valencia, the radical black dyke mother and activist educatrix (and so much more) who was the first person I met who actually believed in the Tao. It was her example that led me to serve community in a healthy way while not exhausting my resources. Everyone was interested to hear about the place I stumbled upon. The dream of community was just being realized in Oklahoma when I returned from the communities in Tennessee. B. Blessed was moving out of a co-op house and I was ready to move out of the bed and breakfast. I lived in that rental cooperative situation which hosted an

anarchist infoshop, potluck, and community garden. When Katrina hit and the Common Ground Relief effort asked for volunteers to come help, I had just been laid off; I was unemployed with no desire to make any money. My friends supported my retreat from capitalism and waived any rental fees in my last months there. With the blessing of that space I left Norman and volunteered a few weeks in the gutted out school house called St. Mary’s of the Angels, a haunted elementary school with manarchists and aggressive vegan punks. I slept in the queer safe space and met a faerie named Riley on her way to a place called Short Mountain Sanctuary. We became travel companions and left New Orleans to go up to the Beltane celebration in 2006, arriving in early April.

Sizzle, who I’d met from the Rainbow Gathering, treated me to an evening in a Tennessee production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch on my 23rd birthday. A few weeks later, I worshipped the ground for Beltane’s sake. I saw visions of myself emerging as a steward of the space being held at Short Mountain. I felt eerie feelings of home which drew me to the space in ways that shocked me and convinced me there was truth to the fairy tales of fiction.

Fiction perpetuated the power dynamics of intimacy: take a look at the lack of dialogue before intimate touch coming out of Hollywood. I spent most of my life hiding in fictional books. I wasted so much of my own life in fiction as a substitute for the interactions I was craving in my life yet unable to actualize. I have always had the power to actualize in my life, but organizing around communities outside of the white heteronormative paradigm of Oklahoma did not seem possible until I was given the freedom to express this desire through the autonomous queer spaces in New Orleans and Tennessee.

Even in Tennessee, I was hiding beyond fiction and avoiding intimacy with others. I still had work to do. Markiss had the ovaries to reveal my white privilege for what it was. His mothering stewardship brought me to Short Mountain from Rainbow and he truly led me down the path of understanding my entitlement. He took the time to break it down for me and helped me to shatter my illusions. I was surrounded by his respect for nonfiction and was encouraged to wake up and see, smell, and taste in ways that I had only begun to explore.

After I had declared my residency at Short Mountain, on Beltane, I ground scored clothes, took things out of Lapis’s jacket and excused it as cleaning when he saw me wearing it. I made epic messes in the

kitchen and later hijacked the kitchen to deep clean it. But I was so depressed I could barely stand it. I decided to leave and go to the Rainbow Gathering. When I returned to New Orleans, I would then realize how deeply my thievery had gone, appropriating more than Lapis’s jacket. The anti-racist workshops revealed that I had appropriated culture that Lapis was verbalizing. I realized my desire for knowledge and empowerment had overshadowed any conscious and consensual exchange of ideas between people. I was quick to steal ideas and turn them into my habits because it felt good.

Before I left my residency track behind, Gonoway sat with me and told me about something called Space. While I could see I was taking a lot of Space, he said he was holding it. I didn’t know what that meant.

So he told me about Care. He said there is one thing about a culture of constant appreciation. It takes different forms than just Thank you. It means having the capacity to carry someone in your heart and honor their needs and respect their boundaries. Noticing what makes them unique and carry their experience alongside your own. I had neither the honor nor the respect to have this thing he called Care Capacity. I realized then that I was in a care deficit. I was not cultivating care of myself, let alone a deeply committed form of care for others and the Sanctuary.

IleftShort Mountain and gave up my request for residency. I went to the Rainbow Gathering in Colorado and then Norman, but quickly rejoined the Katrina relief effort with Common Ground through the winter in which every queer person, myself included, was ostensibly kicked out by an avowed FBI informant, former interim director Brandon Darby.

I came back to Short Mountain the next year after retreating to the Rainbow Gathering in Arkansas, and was encouraged by Keith to give Short Mountain a second chance. I approached the Sanctuary with an attitude of seeking forgiveness which has ultimately transformed into a need not to take so much for granted. It was important for my bubble to burst. I found this place to neutralize my own attachment to gender so that I can now see myself as a Lady even if others choose to objectify me as a man.

Many stewards forgave me for the way I treated myself and the space in 2006. I began to wonder if I could return to the Sanctuary with an improved understanding of how to live there. I stayed through the fall and wrestled with the idea after I returned

to Oklahoma. I chose to work towards healing the rifts in my broken family in Broken Arrow. We meditated together by sharing space and renewed our compassion for one another. And the next spring, in 2008, drawn in by Valenica and convinced by Kelley Bella, I moved to Liberty on Sanctuary Lane to engage the radical work of self love which I had denied myself for so long.

III

Two steps forward / miles to go before I sleep.

Two steps back, now, one step forward; look before you leap, rabbit. So Free, what’s next? As I write this, the answer is dinner. Which makes a certain sense—how are you going to eat tonight? How are you growing to eat tonight? A lot of energy goes into making every meal, and I am growing concerned with the faerie children and malnutrition. I am reminded of Arkansas fairy Sasa saying, “Did you get enough to eat?” as an indigenous tradition of ensuring that we are all fed. Healing with whole foods aside, she also delighted in the proverb: “The Goddess is never angry when you’re baking chocolate chip cookies.”

So, if you are looking for vision of what’s next from the younger generation, from me, you are only doing part of the work necessary. I believe the answer to what is next comes from the voice of our elders. So if you ask me, that is what I will tell you: look at the past, don’t look at me. Well, it’s true, that’s what’s next for me. Last year’s work with Be as he told me his life story will be workshopped it at the fall gathering in the pavilion. Others have stepped forward to share their stories with me and I am eager to talk to more folks. It is important to know our legacy is stewarded, and now is the time to do that work. Be here now: think there then.

In RFD’s Queer Sustainability issue in an article by William Stewart; he calls for queer people to midwife the death of our world. To me, that means honoring the beginning and the end, an open invitation to be a part of the process without attachment to survival of a global culture which does not serve those who live within the world. The dried rose petals of one generation must be free to fly in the wind and rejoin the earth, not tossed into a rubbish bin. The wisdom of our elders feeds the soil in which new blossoms can thrive. As we care for the aging movement, we cultivate the traditions of our people and empower the youth (and everyone else!) to continue in and contribute toward the struggle toward liberation.

Here around the Mountain, we are certainly engaging that work. Community neighbor Lamar

recently called me to join with him in working intergenerationally. He and I hosted a conversation about how to care for our elders and differently abled stewards; as our movement ages and our bodies change, radical communities must see care for elders as an extension of the mutual aid necessary for autonomy. Volunteer services, facilities for independent living, and direct care are needed to liberate our comrades until the very end. These ideas came from the younger generation who were brave enough to gather at Lamar’s on the Spring Equinox; together, we dismantled the patriarchal notion that youth are our greatest resource. All generations have a worthwhile voice.

Angela Davis calls for abolitional democracy as the liberation of people in penal institutions and suffering unseen in the industrial complex. While our Supreme Court recently granted the right of corporations to support political campaigns, American prisoners do not even receive the right to have a voice. Nor do they receive the support necessary to express their voice when they emerge into free society. Even our Sanctuary spaces are jeopardized and compromised by ex-convict culture; fear and hierarchy, even the laws which are supposed to protect people, often get in the way of providing real structures of care and support for our family.

Support for Myrlin’s Prison Pages and Brothers Behind Bars is at an all time low. A few people around the Mountain have supported Myrlin in his work, myself included. What he and I don’t understand is how our people have forgotten our people, the ones we love who are not afforded their basic human rights. Myrlin takes it upon himself to open his home to a few ex-convicts, but space is limited. After prisoners are released from their income-generating time in the complex, the newly free are often without any resources whatsoever.

However, Sanctuary provides a model for radical convergence and resource distribution. We have a chance to respond to the repeating histories of slavery unfolding in the here and now rather than putting our awareness under blindfold. We have separate spaces which are open to all people. We provide a space where personal accountability can transform and heal. Dreams and concepts are finally given the chance to breathe. We need more of these open spaces to experience and experiment with the trials of community and living, comrades bound up in each other’s liberation.

Do it for Free. No One Turned Away For Lack of Funds. Our world demands funds and requires

an exchange of capital for the right to exist. The ex-convicts who have nothing have no agency in capitalist society. What about our homeless sisters? How about the wage slaves who cannot afford the time to speak aloud their needs? The demand for free spaces is louder than ever and I believe that Radical Faeries have the capacity to expand their subject-subject consciousness and extend service for cultivating spaces to hold people with respect and admiration for simply existing. We who are engaged in the struggle to grow beyond an existence and flourish unto a full life can all reflect in this shared movement and must do so together. We cannot do it alone or we risk recreating the same isolation that cultivates the oblivion which perpetuates prisons of the mind keeps oppression intact.

Transitional housing, as modelled by the Sanctuary movement (alongside education, spirit, and other basic services), is one way to look at the power of our communities. Holding space and extending residency to marginalized people is what we are striving to achieve. This is a basic model which could benefit urban, suburban, and rural spaces. However, I think that in organizing under the non-profit model, it is crucial for us to organize and specifically articulate our service toward communities of struggle. There are so many people displaced from their homes and their cultures which need to be preserved; we must honor these people with the space they deserve to be truly free. Ex-con workers’ collectives, just like Common Ground Collective. Radical Faeries, it is time to look outside the sanctuary box.

The Sanctuaries we have are not enough. Sanctuaries in their present form continue to marginalize ex-convicts, womyn, children, veterans, and people of color. Ex-convicts are met with shame and misguided benevolence. Children are not always welcome in Sanctuary space and their parents know that often the Sanctuary culture will be too permissive and act out of oblivion, perpetrating the same injustice done unto them in their childhood. Womyn of all ages regularly do not receive the attention that younger men attract among many fairy circles. Many men need to become aware of their cultural blindness which shames and others anyone who is different from them, which is specifically counter to the culture of subject-subject consciousness. The cultural mainstream nourishes its people with shame. As a counterculture, we must be careful not to do the same to those who seek to be free. Some of our veterans who worked so hard to support the mainstream are now among the strongest

voices of the counterculture. Thus, I urge emerging non-profits and Sanctuaries to organize and to arms! Arms embracing each other. As we emphasize the liberation of marginalized people, it must be expressed into their bylaws or express intention. GLBT language mirrors the military industrial complex and its need to create acronyms which reduce people into objects; gay liberation accounts for all people, not just the ones whose identities are clear and easy to express bureaucratically.

There are other models for ensuring that our integrity can grow as a culture. The Naraya Cultural Preservation Council is preserving indigenous culture and giving it back to the people who truly respect the land from which it is given. To me, the Naraya represents a time for folks to come together in collective story telling and sharing of nourishing traditions. I see people become in touch with their narrative, separating the bad tape replaying in their emotional bodies with the good tape shared in the circle. I believe the Fairies have the capacity to mirror the oral traditions and spirit-based performance of the Great Basin/Plateau cultures danced awake by the Naraya.

It is at the gatherings of Naraya, Rainbow, Short Mountain, and elsewhere that I have seen humyns develop cultures of exchange in balance with the land and in harmony with the now. As the cash economy is totally imbalanced and overgrown, it is time for us to immerse ourselves in gift culture. We must develop as a tribe and extend sanctuary to all people. The work of liberation can be done by freely sharing information and empowering each other with tools and knowledge to grow.

In the legacy of Huey P. Newton and Bobby Seale, Valencia Wombone offers another tool of empowering our culture. Fucking across borders. The loving work we do for each other can better be made possible by growing in intimacy and crossing cultures. By engaging the borders and boundaries which generally limit our scope, we can see how to dismantle the structures which keep communities from exchanging with each other. When we love those who are struggling to break free, it is no longer “those people” who are struggling, but “our people.” By loving one another, we can break down the barriers that keep cultures away from each other and unite with each other in collective movement.

There are still some people I have glaringly left out. I am talking about the peoples of the wild. Yes, what about Finisia’s work? When the younger faeries come to visit at Short Mountain, they are

still talking about Britney and Rihanna. Why aren’t the children talking about Finisia? What about the tranny granny whose wise feet walked the hoop in cultivation of the wild spaces? It is a wise woman walking who chooses to listen to the land, not the top 40. While even I implore you to build homes and spaces for the humyns in need of Sanctuary, Finisia and her work in the hoop remind us that everyone needs space to thrive, the plants, the birds, the trees, the fairies, the mountains, the air. . .

Perhaps pop culture will one day burst; until then, we can still roam the cities and find the dandelions growing up out of the sidewalks. Another steward of Short Mountain, TeSek, reflected on the resilience and strength of the chi present in such a wild medicine as that. I believe we have a lot to gain from connecting ourselves to whatever environment we are in, right here and now, even from where you read this article.

I am opening my eyes and throwing away my need to be a victim of oblivion. I am a survivor among survivors and we are here to share our stories. We must pursue ways of understanding our shared narratives so that we may better hold space for each other. All the love we can receive from the mothers and other mothers, fathers, parents and storytellers comes together in our tribe. It takes a village to raise anything, a barn, a child, a discotheque. I am grateful for the radical feminist village who raised me.

What’s next for me is confronting my life story and working with the traumas which have kept me in holding patterns of numbing my pain and forgetfulness, symptoms of a life in disorder. Rosie and Chas are two other faerie stewards who are holding this space at Sex Magic Workshops, and at the recent Beltane gathering, the emotional freedom techniques workshop offered many folks a chance to express their traumas and receive somatic release. There is a huge opportunity to see our collective traumas as a critical point of organizing resistance to complacency so that we can move beyond existence and can truly live, thrive, and breathe free.

IV

50 Cent and Justin Timberlake produced a song in 2008 called Ayo Technology. I liked what they said about getting away from computers, but the new age symbolism it touts can sound a lot like what bell hooks critiqued in all about love as an imbalanced selfishness and greed. We must employ an interpersonal, intergenerational outlook to actualize the collective destiny we are working toward. I

Daniel by Walt Cessna

alphabetized an excerpt of some of the lyrics to give you a chance to see the key words which the song employs to affect and promote a certain type of youth culture:

a a age, all Ayo, Ayo, Baby, baby can club come craze do don’t don’t don’t down front get give got got got hazy, her here? I I I’m I’m in it it, it it, justice, Let’s like maybe me? me me me my need new new new of of of of on Ooh, Ooh, over phase right saying she she she sit smoke’s (So) spotlights start technology technology tired tired The the this together, to to top uh uh, uh uh using using wants wants wants we Why Why you you You you you you’re

Outside the halls of St. Mary’s of the Angels, Friend and Free gathered for safety meetings in the rainbow playground. They talked about St. Therese, a saint whose statue was on the second floor of the elementary school. Apparently St. Therese was the original piggy bottom, a nun who was disrespected by the sisters and made to do the least desirable tasks in her convent. Friend and Free did some research and apparently, St. Therese was transforming this abuse into a radical way of seeing the world. She said: “there is no need for me to grow up: I must stay little and become less and less.” Talk about radical acceptance. There in the playground of all colors, Friend and Free issued their own vows to never grow up and prayed to the saint of the little flowers. Encourage the little flowers and the places for our children to play. We need more mothers that nurture and nourish. We are not the “others”, We are the other mothers. w

Repression and Transgression

By Christina Alley

Careering down the path of least resistance, into a straight and middle-class existence, acquiring signs of status and success, this just left me cold… and, with nagging insistence, feelings I hid resurfaced and were conscious, occupied my thoughts and every awareness, until I cried and fell apart in distress. These feelings, denied, deformed, engorged and twisted, my tortured mind could see no way to fix this… “Successful man becomes a painted mistress”? Outrageous! Shame! A symptom of my madness? Terrified, blind, at sea without a compass, imploring God to be my guide and witness, exploring choice between a rock and hard place… I took the plunge –I braved the scorn and disgrace!

Transgressing norms of gender, social mores, I ventured forth: a deer caught in the headlights. The make up? Hmm, not too bad for a novice. Stiletto heels? They took a bit of practice! My dress sense? Wild, just like a teenage kid’s is! Family, friends, colleagues, were shocked but supportive. Fiancée gone, but, that’s how the seven year itch is. Then, slowly, sure, I realised, ‘I can do this!’ It’s true that fear is less a friend than pain is. The more the risk, the greater the reward is… Expanded mind –a benefit of difference, wonderful friends –they liked me and we bonded, horizons new, multicoloured, unfolded. That’s how I came into a demimonde that’s Soho life… and how fabulous this life is!

Bonobohobo or Homonovus Allucinari An Unclassifiable Creature of the Tranimal Kingdom

By Ellen Degenrate

Thisreport documents the discovery of populations of humanoid primates thriving in the borderlands, fringes, dream-scapes, and between the veils. Homonovus allucinari or more commonly, bonobohobos are, genetically, the closest extant species to Homo sapiens. Anatomically, they differ little from their human cousins, although bonobohobos are less dimorphic in their secondary sex characteristics than humans. In fact, the bonobohobos display great gynandry (having both masculine and feminine traits) androgyny (sexual ambiguousness) and epicenism (displaying no indicators of gender) in their morphology, presentation style, and social behavior. Like mushrooms, their gene pool includes thousands of different sexes.

Polymorphously perverse and pansexual behaviors are the norm amongst the bonobohobos, who are as fond of multiple-partner lifestyles and group sex as of pair-bonding. Bonobohobos have sex for pleasure, play, health, entertainment, experimentation, seduction, sensation, intimacy, spiritual transcendence, in exchange for resources, to resolve conflict, reduce stress, loosen inhibitions, express emotion, awaken the senses, to improve morale, to test boundaries, to make the plants grow, to honor their deities, create group solidarity, titillate their peers or disturb human onlookers, to cast spells, or to incite personal and collective revolution.

The bonobohobos lead a nomadic lifestyle, at times traveling alone, at others, in loose “slorbits,” or tribal circles that change from season to season and often share members and overlap one another, strengthening the population as a whole. These slorbits are non-hierarchical and non-bureaucratic; in other words, they are anarchistically organized for the mutual benefit of all members.

While many bonobohobos survive happily in cosmopolitan areas, their natural habitat is wilderness and most long to live in the forest indefinitely, traveling to the city only to gather resources and recruit others into their slorbit. Unfortunately many slorbits become ghettoized in urban areas, seeking strength in numbers.

Boldly experimenting with language, color, fashion, sexuality, metaphysical practices and altered

ecstatic states, bonobohobos are active creators, tranifesting some of the most innovative and forward-thinking cultures in modern history. They are often the unsung progenitors of social, artistic, and cultural trends among Homo Sapiens.

The bonobohobos’ love of freedom and creativity makes them virtually unfit for civilized life, particularly for work. They are very industrious about their self-directed artistic and community projects, but resist when pressured by authorities. Most spend some part of their lives living among Homo sapiens but fail to assimilate, constantly defying social norms and gendered sexpectations. Eventually they are forcibly or voluntarily exiled from human society.

Panspermia And Bonobohobos

Beyond these observations, it is difficult generalize about Homonovus allucinari because they are such a diverse species. Taxonomists struggle to classify them because each bonobohobo has a unique morphology and behavioral pattern, and most have mutations giving them psychic, metaphysical, and superhuman abilities. Also, the precise relationship between Homonovus and Homo sapiens is questionable, as it has been suggested that the capacity for such abilities also exists in humans, but has become atrophied with disuse. Humans may be able to mutate into Homonovus within one lifetime. Because categorization is so challenging, self-identification of bonobohobos is the only reliable way for the species to classify itself.

The sudden (in the long history of evolution) proliferation of these colorful creatures suggests that their origins may be vast and manifold. Researchers have proposed a number of panspermic theories hypothesizing that life forms can survive the harsh conditions of space for millennia until they collide with a hospitable substrate, where they reanimate, initiating the chain reaction called evolution. Interplanetary transfer of material (e.g. Mars or moon rocks) is well-documented. Bacteria have been brought back to life after spending five years on a satellite in space, and 250 million year old fossilized micro-organisms have also been resurrected. Scientists have found that amino acids will continue

to create new life forms even after being subjected to extreme heat, freezes, and impacts. All of this evidence suggests that all life on Earth could have been seeded by extraterrestrial organisms.

The intergalactic origins of the bonobohobos seems undeniable, especially given their superhuman abilities. Perhaps each bonobohobo comes from a different planet or heavenly body. Life forms may have traveled ballistically, spallatially, psychically, bacterially, energetically, rhizomally, or mycologically. The mycellial nature of their culture and psychic network (see chart below) suggests that bonobohobos may have originated from mushroom spores ejected into space.

Panspermic theories would also explain most bonobohobos’ experience of “alienation” in human society, their resistance to domestication, and their great pride in their unique and diverse characteristics.

The Big Questions

The possibility of extraterrestrial ancestry raises deeper philosophical questions amongst the bonobohobos. Why Earth? Why now? Are we merely wayward intergalactic travelers meaninglessly marooned on this planet? Or were we placed here simultaneously and purposely by an intelligent being? Are we meant to band together for some celestially ordained purpose? And what about our relationship to, and participation in a Homo sapien civilization that is destroying natural habitat? Modern bonoboboho populations are faced with the challenge of discovering their greater cosmic destiny while also protecting healthy wilderness here on Earth. w

The

Life Cycle of Mycellial Memetic Culture

• fruition

• cultural formation

• digesting decaying or dead matter

• collecting/creating resources

• interconnecting with a growing, sentient web of the collective conscious

• collecting/creating information

• mating of compatible memes

• meme liberation or psychic signal

• fertile environment

• meme germination

Picture taken from Radical Mycology zine by the Spore Liberation Front

Are You a Bonobohobo? Take this survey to find out!

DO YOU...

• often wonder about your place in the cosmos?

• feel like an alien on the wrong planet?

• adapt well to anything yet feel slightly out of place in all situations?

• elicit reactions of delight and/or disgust when you appear in public?

• have strange powers or display unusual mutations?

• see auras, feel energies, channel, shamanate, prophesize?

• interpret synchronistic signs and symbols?

• fly or wake up in your dreams or dream things that come true?

• communicate with animals, plants, or other creatures?

• see or feel things that cannot be easily explained?

• love to play outside, climb trees, roll in dirt, wade in muck, eat berries from bushes and greens from the ground?

• feel the life in every flower bud and moth?

• feel like “things” are “happening” and you want to be a part of it?

• confuse everyone with your sexuality or gender?

• prefer to be confusing?

• enjoy in-between states of consciousness and ecstatic trances?

• want to create something beautiful in this world?

• want to ferment a new, diverse live culture?

ARE YOU...

• a freak of nature and a nature freak?

• a shape shifter or a tranimal?

• a hobo, travel bum, a wanderer?

• a prankster or a clown?

• a lunatic in the city and a mystic in the wild?

• a wild, caged creature?

• highly flexible in your sexuality, gender, identity, and perspective?

• obsessed with the life-death-life cycle of mushrooms, sauerkraut, and compost?

• constantly relishing the suspense of what is going to happen next?

• looking for a new sense of humor?

• trying to make contact?

• constantly thinking of new ideas faster than you can tranifest them?

• trying to live free by learning to be self-sufficient?

• thrilled by the possibility of civilization collapse?

• torn between your love of freedom and your longing for camaraderie?

• overwhelmed by your capacity for love?

• willing and eager to be kidnapped?

If you think you might be a Bonobohobo, contact msellendegenerate@gmail.com for a copy of the first communiqué from the Bonobohobos’ Panspermic Circus.

Photo by Xydexx Squeakypony

The Faun

By John Jacob

Heady waft of somnambulant tincture

Vapors mingling with light

Whirling into an evanescent form

Sparkling with beauty

While poison pulses through veins

Synapses exploding to make the light

Brain breaking into spectral bits

The disruptions mistaken for charming restraint

The creature’s sylvan façade

Perfectly blending earth and flesh

Expecting hooves to appear with a leaping gait

Pipes or lyre in hand for the flight

Yet for this enthrall

Which whirls in a swivet

The spectacle and all

Renders this magician mute

Overpowered by his powers

Such a conjurer could not escape that visage

The voyeur’s gaze ascertained and rewrote Confusion and retreat

Trying again, and again

That dark trick, to gain voice

But powers expended exceed returns

When one relied on the mirror so much

Faerie Camp Destiny Lammas / Photo by Olestrah

Positive Consent for Dudes Who Get It On With Dudes

By Nick Riotfag

This article originally appeared in Learning Good Consent, a D.I.Y. zine edited by Cindy Crabb. Its original intended audience was a punk/anarchist community, probably majority straight, and has been very slightly modified for RFD. You can find the full zine with the original article online at www.zinelibrary.info/learning-good-consent.

Icouldfeel his hard-on pushing through the front of his scraggly cut-off shorts, against my own swelling crotch. I was in a daze, electrified by his arousal, thirsting for the salty taste of his neck, intoxicated by the friction of our sweaty bodies throbbing against each other. Finally, the making out ebbed to a point where we each paused to breathe, smile, and make eye contact. I was hot, I was horny, I was ready for anything. Just ask, I’m yours, take anything you want from me.

With arms around his shoulders, my ass in his lap, and our eyes locked, he parts his lips, pauses briefly in a smile, and murmurs in a gruff, soft, sexy voice:

“I’d really love to fuck you. But… I want to get to know you more first.”

Huh?

Holdon, back up. Maybe I should provide some context.

So I’m a punk and an anarchist, and I also identify as a queer guy. Well, more so as gay, but I sometimes sleep with trans guys and non-male people. So maybe as “bi”, but the gender “bi”-nary is bullshit, and I feel much more identified with gay culture… or something. It’s complicated. In any case, I’ve largely dated and slept with men, and I came out as queer and started participating in queer culture and activism before the punk/anarchist scene became my primary “home.” In punk/anarchist scenes, I found the passionate political engagement, unapologetic rejection of the mainstream, fierce music, and lifestyle that feels most compatible with my desires. At the same time, even if I feel more at home at a squat or basement punk show than in a mainstream gay bar, it gets old having most of my anarchist male friends be totally straight, or “queer” in a way that doesn’t involve actually dating guys, least of all me. So I’ve always felt like I have a foot in each of these two very different scenes, and never really able to

Danimal and Zel by Walt Cessna

exist in only one without the other. This subcultural split has been the primary influence on the development of my sex life and how I experience and practice consent.

Some pretty significant differences exist between gay male sexual culture and that of punk/anarchist communities. As I think through my experiences, my desires, and the norms and values I hold around sex, I can see how each community has shaped me differently. Each one has left me with things that I cherish, and certain things that I’m still struggling to overcome. In the following sections I’ll address first how punk/anarchist culture has influenced my notions of consent, then take on gay and bi male culture, and finally bring together some ideas about directions queer men could go towards creating hot positive consent.

Some Thoughts on Punk/Anarchist Sexual Culture, Consent, and Queer Men

In my opinion, the courageous kids who’ve pushed punk/anarchist scenes and communities to recognize sexual violence and transform norms around consent have genuinely shifted our shared culture. Over the past years of my involvement in this motley world of travelers and rabble-rousers, I’ve experienced significant differences in my sexual interactions with folks who’ve been socialized in these settings versus folks who haven’t. Namely, I’ve found the punk/anarchist folks who’ve found their way into my pants to be notably more open to verbal consent and adept at practicing it (and more likely to find it hot rather than mood-killing), less confined by narrow gender stereotypes and notions of what constitutes “sex,” more comfortable with check-ins and communication about boundaries, and generally more compatible with my preferred style of getting it on.

Obviously, these are one person’s experiences, and severe problems persist in every anarchist community: continued belief in rape myths and survivor-blaming, “talking the talk” of feminism or consent while continuing to act out the same shitty patterns, resistance to accountability or acknowledging abusive behavior, and innumerable other examples. Still, I’ve encountered so many steps in

the right direction: the presence of consent-themed workshops and discussions at most radical gatherings, the widespread circulation of zines and writing about consent and positive sexuality, emerging reading/study/discussion groups to focus on these issues in more depth, solid collective structures for community accountability in towns and at gatherings… these and many other signs point towards a shift in our whole way of thinking about sex and consent. In particular, absorbing and applying the feminist principle of politicizing the personal by insisting that these conversations be public and community-wide, rather than privatizing them as just our own personal business, indicates that we as punks and anarchists are striving to radically change the way we do sex and consent.

So why hasn’t this trend translated into lots of hot punk dudes loving each other with verbal consent as an established norm? There are a couple of factors that I think play into this. For one, all though there are certainly all kinds of exceptions to this, in general I’ve observed that predominantly folks socialized as women are leading this shift towards consent and challenging rape culture. Definitely many anarcha-feminist men are following along and participating actively in the movement to shift sexuality in more consensual directions, but I’ve encountered far fewer punk men who speak consent fluently than punk women, both sexually and in all sorts of other interactions. So for me, as a guy who sleeps primarily with other guys, I much more often find myself in bed with someone who may have attended a consent workshop, but not someone who’s led one. Until the norms around who takes seriously and gets involved in pro-consent organizing shift so that men see it as every bit as much of a priority, then I think that one outcome is that consent will remain under-emphasized among men who sleep with men.

And another frustrating and unfortunate dynamic that helps explain why punk/anarchist consent norms haven’t rubbed off on queer guys more is that many consent discussions, workshops, and writings still frame sexual consent in really hetero terms. I’ve seen consent talked about as part of a man’s responsibility in protecting women, almost some kind of weird chivalry, rather than a mutual responsibility to be practiced reciprocally between partners of any gender. Even gender-neutral presentations are usually based on hetero experiences, and almost never refer to specifically same-sex situations. Now, don’t get me wrong—I recognize that a majority of sexual violence is committed by people socialized

as men, and directed against people socialized as women. As such, it’s important to target straight men with the messages that will encourage them to act more consensually. Likewise, it makes sense that the people who are designing and communicating these messages, who in my experience are primarily women whose partners are most often straight men, would see a clear interest in encouraging their current and potential partners to think more about consent. But the exclusion of queer relationships and same-sex sexuality from consent models means that we dude-loving dudes aren’t hearing really important messages that could transform our sexuality in positive ways. And this has a lot of negative consequences.

Even in my own life and sexual relationships, I have felt as if careful verbal consent was more necessary or important in sexual situations with women than with men. Why? I think it’s partly internalized homophobia—the idea that queer sex and relationships aren’t as important or as “real” as hetero ones, thus don’t require the same care and consideration between partners—and also partly because we as queer dudes almost never have pro-consent messages directed at us from the punk/anarchist world. I have had sexual interactions with men that felt considerably less communicative or consensual than what their other female partners would lead me to believe they should be. Likewise, I have seen kinds of harassment, objectification, and boundary-crossing directed from one man at another downplayed, laughed at, or even encouraged, when similar types of behavior directed by a man towards a woman would be immediately condemned. Clearly, in spite of all the positive progress in our community sexual norms around consent, we haven’t always managed to make these shifts relevant to queer men—and as I’ll talk about next, we don’t get much pro-consent support from gay male mainstream messages about sex, either. Along with the norms I learned from punk/ anarchist partners and our infrastructure of consent zines, workshops, discussions, etc, I learned a lot of separate and often very different lessons about sex and consent from gay/bi male sexual culture.

What I’ve Learned From Gay/Bi Male Sexual Culture

From other gay and bi men, I learned the crucial importance of safer sex practices. From as early as I came out, I had older mentors and peers who would talk with me openly about the pleasures and risks of sex, spaces and organizations where I could get free condoms and lube, considerable awareness and

education around HIV and other STDs and their transmission, and a historical sense of how incomprehensibly crushing the losses of the AIDS epidemic proved to gay and bi individuals and communities. I also learned to accept with minimal judgment the diversity of tastes and preferences people experience around sex, from leather and BDSM and fetishes to sex with strangers or multiple partners. I learned that we could talk openly about intergenerational desire without denial or sensationalizing. I learned that sex for sex’s sake can be found almost anywhere: in bars, online, in parks, on the street, and just about any place that men congregate. And I learned that no one can define my desires but myself, that together with my queer comrades we can reject everything the “experts” try to say about us, and that free, open expression of sexuality can be a part of a revolutionary struggle to transform society from the, ahem, bottom up (tee hee…).

At the same time, I learned a sexual consumerism of the worst variety: a system mediated through internet sites and niche market pornography that reduced whole people to collections of characteristics, statistics, quantities. I learned that racist “preferences,” body fascism, femme-phobia, and hierarchies of cock size were accepted as neutral, apolitical, and beyond critique, because “we’re just in to what we’re in to, that’s all.” I learned to define myself in terms of my sexuality, with affirmation of my identity and self-worth derived from the number and type of sexual partners I acquired. In other words, I learned from gay male sexual culture some of the most hurtful aspects of conventional masculinity in terms of sex, on top of similar messages from the dominant straight media and culture to which most male-socialized people have been subjected. This contradictory legacy I’ve inherited from the sexual culture of gay and bi men shapes my desires and how I experience them, and lays the groundwork for what constitutes consent for me.

Gay/Bi Men and Verbal Consent

It’s an uncomfortable but consistent part of my experience: among gay and bi men, I have not very often found partners who prefer verbal consent during sex. On the one hand, something sounds frustratingly authoritarian about the declaration some anarchists make that “any sex without verbal consent is assault,” when the norms of one of the most central sexual subcultures in my life almost never practices that mode of interaction. At the same time, finding queer men who appreciate and practice the style of verbal consent and sexual com-

munication that works best for me has been one of the most affirming, energizing, and relieving (not to mention hot) aspects of my sexual history. The rarity of it helps let me know when I do find someone who likes it the way that I do that they’re probably someone pretty special. But why do so few of the men-loving men, at least the ones I’ve known and been with, practice and appreciate verbal consent during sex? I can think of a few reasons.

One is that for many men who enjoy sex with men, sexual pleasure is fraught with guilt, secrecy, denial, and other painful emotions forced on them by the conditioning of a homophobic society. As such, many guys find it incredibly hard to speak the truth of their longings. Some find it repulsive to say out loud, or to hear someone say, the acts they do or long for. Particularly for closeted or straightidentified guys, verbalizing desire would mean taking on gayness in a way that they can’t handle, so communicating with body language and acts—often through the filter of alcohol or drugs—provides the only means they have of living out their fantasies. Even men who are more comfortable with their same-sex desire and behavior have learned that their partners aren’t always, and have found it more sexually promising (or even physically safer) to simply act and leave their unspeakable acts unspoken. Especially with sexual acts that are stigmatized more heavily as feminine, such as getting fucked anally, a verbal acknowledgement of one’s desire can feel humiliating in a way that detracts from the pleasure of the act itself.

Another factor that diminishes the importance of verbal consent is the fact that a significant amount of gay sex is negotiated through online hookup sites or public cruising, both of which involve engaging only for a limited amount of time on an explicitly sexual basis. If I chat with someone on Manhunt.net or we make eyes in a park, we both know that if I head over to his apartment, it’s for one reason only. As a result, many assume that consent has been preemptively communicated through one’s very presence. In many cases, especially online, the participants agree on their desired activities or roles beforehand, leaving even less room for uncertainty. Of course, a world of nuance exists beyond the fact of mutual desire that complicates consent, but in a sexual culture that commonly involves brief, pre-arranged, exclusively sexual interactions, verbal negotiation in the moment is not always as central as in other settings.

Still another reason why verbal consent isn’t more prominent among men who have sex with men is

that fact that gay/bi male sexual culture involves some reflections of the dominant (straight) culture’s socialization around masculinity and desirability. “Real men” (whom, of course, we who love men are supposed to desire above all others) are those who take charge, who know what they want and get it: active = masculine. Many gay men I know say that they long for a man who will be confident and aggressive with them, taking charge sexually and sweeping them off their feet. There’s something suspiciously feminine about asking first, about not claiming to effortlessly mind-read your partners and take charge to enact their desires on you, about being careful to listen to someone else’s needs and boundaries. And nothing is less sexy, in a frequently misogynist and femme-phobic gay male culture, than that which is feminine. Since gay and bi men have our masculinity questioned, devalued, and denied by the dominant straight culture around us all the time, many of us attempt to compensate by rejecting all things female or feminine. Sadly, this often manifests in hurtful, sexist ways, ranging from outright misogyny and disrespect towards/exclusion of women to chauvinistically rejecting any potential partner whose conventional masculinity isn’t up to snuff. In reality, gay and bi men desire men with a wide range of gender characteristics—we femmes know that we can still get laid pretty often, in spite of their “straight-acting, masc only” bluffs! However, in terms of what’s valued or socially acceptable, the norms of conventional masculinity dictate the standards, and one part of that involves the pressure to be a sexual mind-reader who can please one’s partner without having to ask. Gay and bi men play both sides of that dynamic, both the butch top stud who aims to impress with action, not words, and the guy who’s turned off by anyone who doesn’t just take charge but stops to ask and check in.

Positive Consent for Hot Man-on-Man Action

So in light of all these barriers to verbal consent, what does a hot man-to-man encounter with solid, positive consent look like? Well, it looks different for everyone, but for me at least, there are some key components. There are lots of zines and essays that lay out the most important basics—knowing your boundaries beforehand; asking at each new level of sexual activity; acknowledging nonverbal cues and body languages as well as words; everyone should be sober enough to be clear on what’s going on; and all that important stuff. What I want to add are a few other things formulated with queer dudes specifically in mind. Pretty much all of them are relevant to

people of any gender or sexual orientation, but they come out of my specific experience as a guy getting it on with guys. So when I think about hooking up with a cutie, here are some things I’m thinking:

Respect Yourself

Cheesy as it may sound, this is by far and away the most important part. Queers who love and respect ourselves are more likely to think about, decide on, and assert our boundaries; more likely to insist on safer sex; and more likely to be able to walk away from any encounter that seems sketchy knowing that we will be able to find love, affirmation, and sexual release elsewhere. It is so hard to know what consent means, let alone give it and receive it, without first believing that we are worth being afforded the respect of consent. So please, take the time to learn to love yourself—you’re worth it!

Negotiate Safer Sex First

Don’t fuck around with your health. Before you start fretting over positions or roles, cover your bases around safer sex. Know your limits, communicate them clearly, and don’t compromise—even if they’re reeeeeally hot, even if they claim they can’t get off with a condom, even if they won’t let you blow them if you insist on a barrier, no matter what. Keep condoms with you or handy at all times when there’s a possibility of having sex—don’t rely on your partner(s) to have them. Get tested regularly, and if you have an ongoing partner(s), make sure they do, too. Don’t assume your partner(s)’ HIV or other STD status, and don’t assume that they’ll always be telling the full truth. Remember that acts that are safe for HIV aren’t always safe for other annoying or even incurable diseases (syphilis, herpes, etc) and that even if you’re already HIV positive, staying healthy means avoiding other infections. Make sure that you’re consenting just to the sex, not to a disease that could last a lifetime.

Ask What Style Of Consent They Like

Truth is, some people just don’t like verbal consent. It may be for some of the reasons suggested above; it may be because they haven’t challenged some of the crappy mainstream conditioning from media, pop culture, and so forth; it may be for totally different and valid reasons you don’t have the context to understand. In any case, the important thing is for you to know what works for you—if you can’t have a positive experience without clear, consistent verbal consent, then maybe you shouldn’t hop into bed with someone who isn’t willing to try

Danimal and Zel by Walt Cessna

Dirt by Walt Cessna

it. So ask up front, gauge how someone prefers to communicate their desires, preferences, and boundaries—and be clear enough on your own to say no thanks if theirs don’t line up with yours.

Fuck Out of the Closet

Here’s a suggestion which is sure to be controversial but comes from my experience: it might not be worth the trouble to hook up with guys who aren’t comfortable enough with their sexuality to be able to say what they want. Making it with straight guys may be hot, and it may give your ego a boost knowing you’ve bedded the unbeddable, but in my experience, in most cases it’s not worth it. Save yourself the trouble and hook up with folks who are comfortable enough with themselves and their desires to be able to talk about them openly. It’s not important what identity or label they use for themselves; what’s important is if they’re able to communicate directly about what they want, without having to be wasted to do it, or blundering their way through awkward sex in silence. It’s also safer—watch out for rough trade, aka dudes who’ll let you suck them off but then work themselves into a homophobic rage at you after orgasm.

Fight Homophobia and Heterosexism

Some of the major barriers to being able to love freely and consensually are the oppressive systems set up in our society to make us hate ourselves and feel ashamed of our desires. There are tons of rad ways to fight them, though! First and foremost, we can come out and live openly as who we are—every person makes it a little easier for everyone else. We can organize for liberation, including demanding the rights and respect afforded to straight people, but we don’t have to assimilate into their norms of monogamy, marriage, and nuclear families. We can challenge the blatant and subtle ways that queer people get excluded—for example, demanding that consent workshops and discussions have genderneutral frameworks and include queer-specific examples. We can provide space for queer youth to exist freely, acknowledge them as sexual beings without being exploitative or objectifying, and serve as mentors and positive role models. And fuck homophobic religious assholes—we can refuse to tolerate fundamentalist bullshit that denies our humanity under the guise of the bible, the word of some god or preacher, or some idiotic sense of what’s “natural.” All of these things are interrelated parts of transforming our culture to create more

space for openly acknowledging and asking for the things we want sexually, which will lay the groundwork for pro-consent sexual norms.

Negotiate Online

For better or for worse, a lot of sex between men gets arranged on the internet. Some people think this is partly because the constraints of a homophobic society prevent us from meeting each other as openly as straight people can; whether or not that’s the case, this is the reality we’re dealing with, and we can take advantage of it to promote consent. Talking through a computer screen can lessen the fear of rejection, desire to appear coy or indirect, and other things that make talking about consent harder. And however shitty the consumerism of online sex may be, the vast array of postings can serve as reminder that if we don’t feel comfortable with someone, there will be other options for sexual release. By posting our preferences in an ad or a profile, and chatting with someone beforehand specifically about the kind of sex we want to have, we can set up whatever norms of consent feel best for us. The risk of this, of course, is that prearranged agreements for what to do and how to do it with somebody may lead them (or you) to believe that there’s no need to check in verbally, nor to be aware of body language and nonverbal cues, nor to make space to pause or stop completely if something doesn’t feel right. But if we choose to go the internet route, we can use it as a lower-pressure way to set up consent practices beforehand that reflect our own needs and ideals.

Think About Consent And Gender

For me, good consent requires being aware of and rejecting gender roles in sexual settings. I know that I can’t feel solid about the consensuality of a sexual interaction when everything—from who initiates to what acts we do together and who’s penetrated by what—is determined by the gender role conditioning that strangles us, rather than by our own unique desires, needs, preferences, and boundaries. The impact of this socialization shows itself most clearly in cross-sex interactions, but pops up in same-sex adventures, too. For instance, if a same-sex couple includes a more masculine or butch partner, gender conventions may dictate that that person shouldn’t be penetrated, or should initiate and take the lead, etc. This is understandable, in a mainstream heterosexual culture that conceives of sex so narrowly that it asks same-sex couples “who’s the man” or “who’s the woman”: it’s hard to avoid

absorbing the constant denial of our sexual and gender self-determination. In any case, regardless of the gender of the partner who’s hot for me, and regardless of whether I’m wearing a pink mini-skirt or overalls (or both!), for sex to feel fully consensual for me I need to feel confident that everyone involved has some consciousness of how gender impacts our expectations about what we should do, and that we’ve chosen to reject those imposed expectations in favor of exploring our actual desires.

Of course, sometimes our desires may fall along starkly gendered lines, in ways that may feel uncomfortable to self-defined radicals who may fuck with gender but can’t seem to fuck without it. We can get stuck in guilt and reject ourselves for our illicit desires, just as christian anti-sex bullshit wants us to do, or we can stubbornly defend our most conventional longings without challenging the patriarchal and abusive patterns they may seem to uphold. Between this rock and hard place, the only way I’ve been able to find a place that feels good is just to talk with my partners as honestly as I can about my desires and how I feel about them and how they do or don’t relate to my politics, and go from there. The point for me isn’t to get our desires to conform to our political aspirations— desire will never submit to being civilized into such tidy ideological constructs. The point, as far as I see it, is to set out towards being as consensual and as critical and honest and as self-loving as possible. If there’s any beauty we can find between our quaking bodies in this fucked up culture, it might be along those paths.

Understand The Role Of Sex In Your Life In General

Positive, full, life-affirming consent for me also requires an awareness of the role that sex in general, as well as individual sexual encounters specifically, play in my life as a whole. At different times, I have longed for, pursued, and engaged in various kinds of sex for a litany of different reasons: horniness, profound love and emotional connection, loneliness, curiosity, affectionate friendship, a sense of adventure and daring, boredom, indifference in the face of another’s strong longing, a desire to please or avoid hurting feelings, a need for resources controlled by someone else (rent money, a place to crash for the night, status or prestige), the pressure of masculine socialization, to impress someone, to flout social norms, to have a crazy story to tell afterwards, to sustain a lagging relationship, to experiment with a fetish I’d

never tried, to foster a sense of community, to piss off a third party, to avoid awkward silences… and those are just the reasons of which I’m consciously aware! Can I be confident that I (or my partner[s] for that matter) are choosing freely and eagerly to have sex if I’m/we’re not conscious of the motivations behind our desires and choices? Of course, it’s possible to get swallowed into feeling so self-critical and anxious about our motivations that we over-analyze everything and never muster the courage for a kiss! Still, while avoiding that extreme, I’ve found that it’s crucial for me to have ongoing dialogue with others, and most importantly myself, in non-sexual situations about how sex and sexuality fit into my present life. That way, when I’m stricken with longing or presented with opportunity, I can make a decision based in a more holistic sense of myself, which more accurately reflects how I feel about a particular encounter.

This of course relates to people of any gender or sexual orientation, but it stems in part from my recognizing pressure on gay men to define ourselves as part of a community through sex. I’ve wanted to have sex at times to shore up my sense of gayness, to affirm the feeling of connection to community that I get through my identification as queer. But what I’m really longing for at those times often isn’t actually sex, but the warm feelings of inclusion and affirmation that come from being part of a community. That realization shook me up a bit, and prompted me to ask myself difficult questions about whether or not sex I had based off those desires was truly consensual on a deeper level. The important thing, I think, is that now I have a whole new level on which I think about consent, one that considers the whole context of myself and my life in my sexual decision-making. Yeah, it’s complicated, but it’s important, and ultimately really positive for me.

Anyway, back to me and E. I smiled and exhaled, feeling more relief than I had realized, more than made sense in that hot and horny moment before having had the time to look back on it and appreciate just what that statement meant to me. I like E because he was attracted to me, because he was a flirt and a slut and seductively charming. But whether or not I would have anticipated it, I liked it way, way more when he affirmed that he wanted me to be more than just a body to get himself off on—he wanted to experience a connection with me that included but went beyond just our bodies. Let me be clear—this is not to pass judgment on anyone

whose preferred mode of sexuality is much more anonymous or less connected on non-physical levels. It’s just an acknowledgement that my ideas of consent had to expand when I admitted that even with this gorgeous guy to whom I was quite attracted and with whom I would have gladly committed a litany of perversities, consent meant more than just getting horny and each going with it. It meant for me in that moment a mutual recognition and affirmation of one another’s humanity, one that truly created space for

me—or him—to say no, or yes, or let’s wait, or any number of things. It meant listening to my body as well as my heart as well as my brain, and recognizing that I can’t separate out those parts of me as if I’m not a whole, integrated person.

So that’s what I mean by positive consent for dudes who get it on with dudes! I welcome any thoughts or feedback on this article at xriotfagx@ riseup.net.

Best wishes for a world full of hot queer loving. w

Continued from Page 7

consciousness raised through connections made in personal encounters, at gatherings or workshops filtered into a changed worldview, eliciting calls for equality for all, economic justice, and environmental sustainability. Some of these words were strong, some sweet, some hilarious; they allowed each reader to connect with his audience, offering a glimpse into each writer’s life and story, one thread in the colorful tapestry that we have communally woven in the past 30 years. Listening whetted my appetite to read the entire book.

When the program ended, most of the audience congregated at the front of the auditorium in an informal mass meet-and-greet, kissing hellos with affectionate hugs and big smiles. This typical faerie experience allowed me to experience directly the interconnectedness we have come to expect when we gather, even in this very public, hetero-normative library auditorium. As our sweet communing lingered, we had to be asked to leave the space, as the library was closing. The evening’s frolick continued at a reception hosted by Joey Cain in his swank apartment in the Haight-Ashbury section of San Francisco. w

Photo by Rink

David Womack 1965-2011

By Ian Gibson-Smith

fiber-arts, sculpting, writing, and cooking. All of us, fortunate to be counted in his circle of family and friends, were awed by his keen intellect, recognizing David as a quintessential “renaissance man” who would delightfully debate you on any topic, and almost always win. An eclectic reader, David could usually be found curled up with yet another, obscure book on art, philosophy, history, or social theory. Even at the end of his life, David was organizing the myriad of books he still hoped to read.

His passion for literature drove him to help start Opening Books, Huntsville’s first Gay and Lesbian book store. For many, our first encounter with David was when we were greeted at the bookstore by the tall, skinny guy with the quiet smile, the long brown hair, and oh so many earrings. David spent much of his life working to achieve social justice for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgendered people. In Huntsville, David served on the board of the Aids Action Coalition. Later, David worked for many years at the Human Rights Campaign. Over his lifetime he supported many non-profit organizations focused on the arts, civil and human rights, and providing services to those in need.

David Womack—born July 25, 1965, died at his home in Shepherdstown, WV on March 18, 2011 surrounded by those he loved.

David Michael Womack, philosopher and artist, was at the core both a seeker and a voyager on this world. While grounded by the people he met and the values he absorbed growing up in Huntsville, David embraced the world, never missing an opportunity to experience other countries and cultures firsthand. Blessed with a brilliant (and often quirky) sense of humor he was always armed with a joke (or a well placed zinger). In all his travels, David never met a stranger he did not want to get to know better and he was beloved by everyone with whom he came in contact.

David was a passionate, life-long learner with varied talents and interests including pottery,

David is survived by his husband of 6 years, Ian Gibson-Smith of Martinsburg WV; his mother, Mrs. Martha Delaney of Huntsville AL; his sisters Mrs. Lisa East and Mrs. Holly Snow of Huntsville AL; and his niece Samantha East of Salt Lake City Utah. David was preceded in death by his stepfather, Mr. Frank Delaney, whom he loved and admired. David will be remembered by his many, many friends here in Huntsville and across the country. w

Editor’s note: David was a long time faerie who graced the gatherings from the Blue Heron in Northeast to Short Mountain. His husband, Ian said the following in his email to us: “I know that he loved and knew many of the faeries and had talked many times of taking me to one of the gatherings or to visit Short Mountain. He also requested that I take and scatter some of his ashes there.”

Crazy Owl 1927-2011

By Luther ‘Cam’ Mckinnon and Sr. Soami

It started as a rumor, and was quickly confirmed. Crazy Owl—a.k.a. Charles Emerson Hall—passed away April 4, 2011. He was my friend for many years. Many stories could be told, and here are a few. Here is the biography from his website, Crazy Owls Perch.

His life began August 5, 1927 at 6:02 am in Akron Ohio, USA. In 1960 The University of Wisconsin awarded him a Doctor of Philosophy (PhD) degree. He pursued a career in mathematical statistics and research methodology until 1975 when he predicted that a cancer epidemic would engulf one-third of the population by 1985. Thereupon he “dropped out” and went into the community lifestyle and ate organic food. In summer of 1987 he took the name Crazy Owl and accepted the Barred Owl (the original “Crazy Owl”) as his totem.

Sometime during these years he became interested in Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM for short). In 1980 he started studying acupressure at the Acupressure Institute in Berkley, California. Since that time he has been a Healer with TCM as the core of his practice. From 1985 to 1997 Crazy Owl taught TCM in The School For Gentle Hands in Atlanta Georgia. He had a clientele in Healing and a business in herbalism as well as students.

The School for Gentle Hands was in an old dairy farm on Flat Shoals Road, just off I-20 and Gresham Road. There is a subdivision there now. This space is a mile away from East Atlanta Village and is an up and coming neighborhood now. When Owl moved there in 1985, it was run down. He had a beat up barn, a dirt driveway, and a pipe bringing county water in. Some government agency made him get a porta-potty, a bright green facility with a lot of nicknames.

The School For Gentle Hands was about nine miles due south from my attic apartment. One of the events was the Friday night sweat lodge. You drove down, found a place to park in the weeds, and walked down a hill to the lodge. Owl would start the fire, put the rocks in, and hope that someone was there to join him. I sometimes served as the helper, balancing the glowing rocks, on a pitchfork, while Owl held open the door to the lodge.

One Friday, the sweaters were talking about the things they were grateful for. The previous Friday night, I had been in a tacky bar in Tucker, GA. Everyone except me chain smoked, while the band

played “Melancholy Baby.” Seven days later, I was naked in a makeshift hut. I was grateful for variety in my life.

In those days, AIDS was on a rampage, and there was little that industrial medicine could do. Crazy Owl helped quite a few people. Some did well with his treatment, and are thriving today. He taught that AIDS was not a disease, but a condition, and that it could be reversed.

Crazy Owl was a traveling companion of mine in those days. For a while, it seemed like every time we went anywhere, it would pour down rain the entire time. On a pre-thanksgiving Wednesday, this turned into ice when we arrived at the valley in North Carolina. We woke up the next day to find ourselves in an ice crystal wonderland.

The bulk of his website, Crazy Owl’s Perch, is

about daily diet, herbalism in the cook-pot and many of the little things our ancestors knew about a healthy lifestyle but our parents forgot about.

Crazy Owl was a founder of Short Mountain Sanctuary, School for Gentle Hands in Atlanta, partner in The Healthy Obelisk, SF, and Rainbow Dragon Medicine Show with Sr. Missionary DeLight (1982-1986), a health contributor to RFD and coverboy issue 40!

After a couple of months of illness that included a prostate infection and kidney stones near the end, Crazy Owl died gently and was buried at the organic farm in northern TN where he worked and lived these past few years

The send off for Crazy Owl was sweet at Jeff Poppin’s farm cemetery before sunset April 5 in Red Boiling Springs. 15 Mountain folk and 20 from there. He died peacefully the day before after a weekend

Your note about Crazy Owl passing started me reminiscing on a car trip from hell in the early nineties. When I made it into Atlanta I’d been up for 36 hours and still wasn’t even half way to my destination (car kept acting up). I found Crazy Owl’s info on a scrap of paper, that I’d gotten from someone back home at the sanctuary and gave him a ring. He let me take a long nap in his cot and fed me before I went on my way. It felt like I’d been sheltered at a secret garden with an alternative monastery in the middle of atlanta. I’m glad he had all that support around him for his passing. –Klay

Lindross

May the stars guide Crazy Owl to his new perch. –Joseph Leven

All our love to you and all the others who share in the grieving of Crazy Owl’s passing. Blessed be. –Esteban

I am so sorry I missed the ceremony. Thank you for sharing Sister. He was move important to me than I think you know.

–Susan Stoddard

of reunion with both his daughters, Margaret and Carolyn. I was very impressed by the farm’s interns who sat with him those last weeks most nights and bonded movingly with him. A woman beautifully sang Wayfaring Stranger. I read two Leopard poems, two young guys played guitar and mandolin, some tender remembrances and Spiky read a quote from Crazy Owl that was juicy and irreverent and celebrated sex. We drank a bottle of very good scotch and poured some on the pine box. He was wrapped in the red blanket he had requested and a stunning lavender and black chinese dragon fabric also covered him. He was a pipe carrier and so we broke the stone bowl and scattered the shards over him and his medicine bag before closing the handmade pine coffin. We will have a remembrance for him at the Medicine Wheel during the Founder’s Reunion and at the Memorial Circle during the spring gathering. w

What ah way to go!...the land will be odd with out the old man around...yet he was lucky to a have lived the life he did.

–Ralfka Gonzalez

A great, courageous man of conscience and an inspiration.

–Conant Eagle

He was one of those people who was important to lots of people who did not even know each other. –Clyde Watkins

You are in my thoughts and prayers during this time of loss and grief. I was thinking of him just the other day as I was taking golden seal and echinacea to ward off a cold. So many wonderful memories . . . I remember the two of us walking through the woods the morning after an ice storm and he said, “Who would have thought that we would wake up and discover that the world had been transformed into a crystal chandelier.” He is missed!

–W. Wayne Lindsey

Part of who I am today is as a result of my relationship with Crazy Owl. –Philip Princetta

Sweet reunion with family, lifted up on wings of Faeries, freed to roam Earth, Sky and Stars.

–Eric Eldritch

Blessings to his spirit and may his reunion be swift. He is already an Angel in the eyes of the creator. –Rick Le Blanc

Blessings to Crazy Owl on his transition. –Mark A Fortney

We have lost a great teacher and a all around fun guy. –Donnie Hudson / dhandi

Blessings to him on his journey.

–Sr. Titania Humperpickle

He is back now on an Earth without ‘white man’ as it was in the days of his ancestors. They are danciang to drums, moon in the sky and forever they will be free to be themselves again. Always and forever in their own free land. It was a ‘good day to die!’ My respects to him.

–Charlotte

Gatling

A bright and cranky star, a founder of much and a delight for his time. Well met, care’ frater.

–Phillip Edmund Moon Pendleton

RFD #40

Difficult Teachings

By Mountaine

Imet Crazy Owl in the early 1990s, when he was living in Atlanta. I remember that the urban mosquitoes in late June were overwhelming, and I wondered out loud how to keep the bugs at bay. He showed that jolly smile that was almost always on his face, and said “Just keep moving!” Having expected an answer from his expertise on herbalism, I never forgot this simple instruction.

Another time, he looked into my eyes, noticed something with concern (he didn’t say what), and suggested that I eat buckwheat around 6pm for dinner every night. Well, I admit that I don’t eat buckwheat every night, but when I do cook it up, I think of Crazy Owl every time.

For me, the lessons that came from (or through) Crazy Owl were often difficult. Sometime in the late 1990s, I was at a Short Mountain faerie gathering, joining with John Wall and others to prepare for a sweat lodge. In those days, I often served as the “water pourer,” the facilitator of the ceremony, and John and I had already decided that I would play this role again that day. At the last minute, Crazy Owl hiked all the way down to the bottoms to join the lodge. John and I were surprised to find that he assumed he would be pouring water. I tried to be gracious about this, but something in me wouldn’t let go of the role I expected to play. In the midst of the ceremony, in the dark of the lodge, I found myself in an argument with Owl about who was doing what. This was the most chaotic experience I’ve ever had in a sweat lodge in my life, and both disturbing and painful for me and for the other participants.

Later, I realized this was the only time I’d ever prepared for pouring a lodge without taking time to feel deeply, and express out loud, my humility in this role, my recognition that I was an imperfect human being taking on a great spiritual responsibility, my prayer that I be forgiven like a baby if I made any “mistakes.” During the ensuing days, I discovered I couldn’t turn my neck, and this discomfort lasted for many months, so the lesson retained its potency for a very long time. (I was reminded of the teaching from Louise Hay’s classic books on healing, in which she associates neck discomfort with being a “stiff neck”—being unwilling to see things from a variety of perspectives). It took many years for me to feel comfortable with Crazy Owl again. And when I finally absorbed the powerful lesson of humility

more deeply, and forgave Owl for pushing my ego buttons, he kept commenting (every time he saw me, for many years!) on how much I had changed. Every time he said that, I remembered my delicious humility, and just smiled...

I was very glad to be present at the memorial for Crazy Owl, the day before Beltaine eve, at Short Mountain. Sister Soami brought a batch of Owl’s feathers, and passed on his request that they be burned after his death. Sister encouraged us to take a feather if we liked, to sit with it, and then to burn it in the fire on Beltaine eve. In recognition of the powerful teachings I had received from (and through) Crazy Owl, I took one of these feathers, and put it in a prominent place in my tent.

The next day, Beltaine eve, I had a violent illness, with very high fever that would last for just a few minutes and then recede for about an hour until the next round. I found a few friends near my tent to supply me with water and ginger tea, and a vessel for vomit. But by evening I knew I couldn’t get to the fire, and despite everything, my commitment to burning the feather was strong. When people walked past my tent, I tried to get their attention, but often they were talking loudly and couldn’t hear my weak entreaties. Then I mustered more energy, and used my flashlight along with my voice to attract a passing group—fortunately (serendipitously) they were people who knew Owl, and it felt great that I could trust them to take care of burning the feather for me.

The next day, Beltaine, I was weak but recovering. I couldn’t help but think that on some level my illness was related to my taking the feather, and in that way expressing my willingness to continue to work with Crazy Owl as an occasional teacher from the “other side”. This short illness was not a gentle experience, and in that way was similar to the way I’d experienced working with Crazy Owl in his body. It felt like a deep purging of some old stuff, and the need to vomit felt a lot like what I’ve observed in ceremonies when spirit is really working the body hard. What a way to celebrate Beltaine! Different, but meaningful for sure.

I am grateful for knowing Crazy Owl, grateful for all that I learned from him, and grateful that on some level he is still available for teachings, as an ancestor faerie. w

Prison Pages

Edited by Myrlin

“Hi! My name is Run’a Renne’e. I am a Transgender here in Texas prison! I am soon to be released from my term of 15 years Day for Day! As a result of my extended stay in prison, I have a major issue! “I have no place to go to.” I was told by a friend_________ you write to, that you might be able to assist me in this area. I have nothing to keep me in Texas upon release and I desperately need a place to go to wait on my SSI, SSD to come in then I can make my own way from there! Can you help a girl in need please?” I don’t know what to do?”

Mrs. Run’a Renne’e AKA Townsend

D. Run’a Townsend 802857

Estelle Unit

264 FM 3478

Huntsville, TX 77320

GentleReaders, I received this letter dated March 21, 2011 recently and share it with you as an indication of the problem cropping up more and more now that the Prison Industrial Complex can no longer afford “Business as Usual.” It is no longer cost-effective to keep people warehoused away at incredible cost to the system. Unfortunately there is no planning to prepare people for release back into the world, thus the panic expressed in this person’s letter. It is quite typical and I am currently being asked by another person to provide housing and support while returning to society. Financially this is an impossibility and I am forced to write both Runa from Texas and Todd from Wisconsin to let them know that we are not able to be of assistance at this time. The system is entirely capricious and cruel at all levels and it is even difficult for inmates to find pen friends as many institutions do not allow prisoners to seek pen pals.

Currently we are assisting two other inmates in getting reestablished. The problem both will face if they are released is that they will be given about 48 hours to hit the streets with or without a place to go. It is not unheard of for a person to be put out with no money and only the clothes on their backs with orders to report to a PO office across town later in the day or the next day. In one case, a person was released from a California prison

with instructions to report to a homeless shelter in the city to which he was assigned. Once in that city, he found that the shelter was full. He ended up sleeping in the park where his belongings were subsequently stolen from him. The system does not work and needs to be changed.

If any of this makes you angry I suggest you consider becoming involved in changing the system. Check out www.criticalresistance.org. Please don’t allow our Brothers Behind Bars to remain as second class citizens, the status our society has tried to place them in . After all, like us, they are Children of the Divine regardless of who they are. It is sad when a boy of 12 can be classed a Dangerous Sexual Predator for having played doctor with a friend of 10 and then placed in institution after institution, raped and abused. Yet that is one such situation. Indeed our prisons are filled with sad stories such as this.

It is the purpose of this column and to draw attention to these problems and to encourage you to be involved, if not in the political realm but more so in the personal realm of friendship and support. After nine years as editor of Brothers Behind Bars, I can tell you that I have met some awesome folk, many with incredible talents, and others with deep caring souls despite their actions. And of course there are also stories of people held in prisons who are innocent.

I must share with you that my greatest disappointment is at how few of our RFD Readers take time to request the list and then choose to write an inmate or two. We generally have a listing of about 250 ads in each of the quarterly issues of Brothers Behind Bars including examples of art and poetry. If each of the RFD Readers was writing one person many more would have pen-friends. At present we send more issues back into the system than go out into the general population. I do hope you will make these statistics change. All you need do is to send us a donation at BBB, PO Box 68, Liberty, TN 37095. We generally ask a donation of $3.00 to $10.00 per issue. This helps with cost of paper, ink and postage. There is no one working on the list who receives any sort of salary; all of the money coming in is used in the program. I personally respond to all of the letters received from inmates to let them know if

their ad is placed or if we aren’t the program they are seeking. Please help us out and write. If you wish to contact me (Myrlin) you can e-mail: bbbmyrlin@ yahoo.com.

So let me introduce you to some of our Brothers Behind Bars. To do this I include here a few poems and a few pieces of art from behind the walls. Finally I will tease you with a few photos of guys you will meet in the upcoming Summer Issue of the List. w

Perception

Suwannee Correctional Institution

5964 US Hwy 90

Live Oak, FL 32090

Dade Correctional Institution

19000 S. W. 377th Street Florida City, Florida 33034-6409

If I see a flower in my minds eye, is it’s beauty real? For it’s not to you I ask, what is this peace I feel?

Un-noticed

The water flows from me, My tears will not be seen.

Telford Unit

3899 State Hwy. 98 New Boston, TX 75570

Some of the men you will meet in BBB.

Victor Jimison (TX) Anthony Lipsey (CA) Kevin Garner (CO) Colter Marks (ID)

Michael Kampe #897591

Donny Welch #1375713

Richard St. Jacques #456078

Prison Pages

Edited by Mylin

From You

I hoped I’d get mail from you today But the guard went on his merry way. Right past my cell I saw him go I must not dismay, because I know, mail to me will make it’s way. Tomorrow is another day. For me to hear from a loved one or two. But in all honesty, I want to hear from you.

Jose’ Alvarado 341020

R.C.I.

PO Box 7010 Chillicothe, OH 45601

Poem

Dated: 10-1-2010

I’ve been on this earth 45 years on the 10-28-65. Dealt with death and a lot of fears. Spent good times with the ones I love. struggling with “Is there a God above.” I’ve made my share of bad mistakes, And all the hearts I had to break. Learned some lessons, forgot some too, Things I’ve done and should not do. Life can bring you so much wrong, And seem just way too long. things can happen each and every day, some are good, the rest I shall not say. Choices we make can change everything, Even your mind and, what the future will bring. What you choose to do today can change you in some kind of way. Just trust in God to Give you new birth, When your life takes a turn for the worst. With all this time gone and nothing to show even though you are free to come and go. So if you feel you have nothing left to lose Do what I did, and let the devil play you for a fool.

Richard St. Jacques #456078

Dade Correctional Institution

19000 S. W. 377th Street Florida City, Florida 33034-6409

Freeman Payne, 302858

Farmington Correctional Institution

1012 W. Columbia Farmington, MO 63640-2902

Back Issues

We are still working on the task of counting up the back issues in our storage unit. Please bear with us if you’ve asked for back issues. Once we get shelving in place we’ll be in a better position to do the count of the remaining boxes. We’re three quarters of the way there. So with that in mind, we’re providing you with info on the back issues we know we have on hand.

Folks can email their requests for back issues submissions@rfdmag.org. Prices vary according to rarity of the issue.

We’re also looking to create a crisp clean

complete set of RFD’s for possible use in a scanning project. We have a working set but many of the issues have notations from an early indexing project in them. So we’d like to find some of the missing issues (1-10, 12, 13, 16, 18, 24, 25, 27, 29, 30, 35, 48, 49, 52, 53, 74-78) which we no longer have in storage to complete this set. If you have copies of the following issues and want to consider donating them to the Collective we’d be most appreciative and would consider offering folks a renewal subscription for their efforts. We’d also love to create more complete sets to be able to offer them to sanctuaries which do not have full sets. Any help around this will be greatly appreciated. Contact us at submissions@rfdmag. org with “Back Issues” in the subject line.

in RFD

the skinny.....

SUBMISSIONS

We accept submissions via U.S. Mail, or email at submissions@rfdmag.org. When sending electronic files by either method, save the text files as an MS Word Doc, Rich Text (RTF), or Simple Text. Images should be high resolution (minimum one mega-byte (1 MB) in TIFF or JPG. Your work may also be used on our website.

WRITING

We welcome your submission. Suggested length is 500 to 2,500 words. We will carefully edit. If you intentionally mean to vary a spelling, let us know. We will contact you if your submission is selected. Contributors receive one copy of the issue in which their work appears and a second copy upon request. Your may also be used on our website.

ART

We always need fresh drawings and photos. Drawings should be quality black and white. Photos can be color or black and white. Original digital camera files work well. Original artwork should be scanned at 300 dpi or higher. Line art should be scanned at 1200 dpi. We may crop your photo to fit our format.

DUE DATES

Advertising Rates

October 20th for Winter, January 20th for Spring, April 20th for Summer; July 20th for Autumn.

ADVERTISING

For rates, contact us by phone or email or get it from our website.

BACK ISSUES

Recent issues are $7 postage paid. Many earlier issues are available. Call us or email us at business@rfdmag.org for availability.

COPYRIGHT

RFD is copyrighted. Credited material remains the property of the contributor. Non-credited material may be republished with attribution.

MAILING

RFD is published quarterly and mailed around the Solstice or Equinox of the quarter. Second class mail can take a while. Let us know if you have not received your copy after a month. Second class mail is NOT forwarded. Let us know if you move.

Our basic advertising rate is $4.00 per square inch per issue. For repeat issues we offer discounts of 5% for two issues, 10% for three issues, and 15% for a full year (four issues).

If you do not have a prepared ad, the RFD staff can prepare one for you from your photographs and text. We charge $75/hr for layout.

Prepared ads should be provided in PDF format or high resolution JPG or TIF (300dpi or 500KB minimum file size). We will scan ad artwork for a fee of $20. RFD is not responsible for poor reproduction due to low resolution artwork. Following are some examples to help you size your ad.

RFD PO Box 302 Hadley, MA 01035-0302

Subscriptions: subscriptions@rfdmag.org

Submissions: submissions@rfdmag.org

Advertising: advertising@rfdmag.org

We accept advertising for products or services that we feel may be of positive value to our readers. Repeating ads will be re-run as given unless new copy is provided by closing date. New ads coming in late will be run next issue unless otherwise stated. Full payment for ads is required by closing date for ad to appear in the new issue.

Issue 148 Preview SHORT MOUNTAIN SANCTUARY

In celebration of its over 30 years in existence, RFD will dedicate the Winter 2011 issue to Short Mountain, and seeks words and images to reflect this community’s experience and all it has done for the extended Radical Faerie collective worldwide.

Called “Witch Mountain” - “Hippy Holler” - “The Mound” - “Hickory Knoll” - “The Mountain”“The Sanctuary” - “SMS” - and “home” to a cast of characters known as sanctuarians over its threedecade-long existence...a place of myth and legend that has physically, psychically and spiritually fed thousands who have alighted down its steep drive for Spring and Fall Gatherings.

Known by some as the “Mother Ship,” Short Mountain Sanctuary has spawned an extensive “feyborhood” of radical queers wishing to create sustainable homesteads in the middle of rural Tennessee. Rising above the surrounding countryside, Short Mountain is a temperate rainforest on a unique geological formation with watersheds that feed river systems on three sides, and has its own species of freshwater crayfish. It was also the home of RFD for over two decades.

Its history includes Cherokees, the Underground Railroad, radical free land Hippies and yes, you! Please send us your reminiscences, reflections, as well as hopes & dreams for this very special land and community as it enters the next phase of its ongoing story.

Submissions for this issue are due no later than November 1, 2011. Submissions can be sent electronically to submissions@rfdmag.org—please send them as attachments preferably in plain text files. We love to see our readers images and artwork, it can also be sent to the same email. Please send image files with at least 300 dpi resolution (2100x3000 pixels for a full page). Small files intended for the internet do not reproduce well especially now that we have switched to color.

a reader created gay quarterly celebrating queer diversity