Not y’all stocking up on jalapeño poppers…
It’s 23:54 PST, March 13th, and there’s a Lunar Eclipse in Virgo
Notes: So, technically, there’s no pole and there’s no hole. I only drew bulge and a bootie. Yay, me! Still, I am determined to warn you of forthcoming nudity. As always, sit this one out if you must. I love you, sister girl. (Yes, the eclipse was yesterday. Just pretend it’s right now. Half of you don’t “believe” in astrology anyway. Relax!)
Dearest F@ggots,
Shortly after taking over the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. claimed that poppers causes AIDS and sent the Food and Drug Administration to Double Scorpio in Austin, Texas. Yes, a search-and-seizure ensued. It was immediately followed by a halt in production. No more poppers, ladies. When inhaled, alkyl nitrates whip up a rush of euphoria that flushes the face, opens the hole, and brings you that much closer to God. Speaking of my Heavenly Father! Before Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and reunited with the Most High, she prepared a speech. Her last words were exemplary: I borrow them lovingly. “But without these things I cannot live,” she confessed to her inquisitors, “and by your wanting to take them away from me, or from any human creature, I know that your counsel is of the devil, and mine is of God.” Listen to me and listen to me carefully. Stock the fuck up. Poppers sure but, Prep and Doxypep too. Between trigger happy Trump and lying RFK, I foresee wave upon wave of health-related suffering for faggots and their friends between revolutions. Go get tested, go get treatment. Please. These idiots are not fucking around. If you need help getting connected with resources, email me and let’s brainstorm. They haven’t lit my kindling just yet! As always, I love you heauxes. Take dick if that’s your thing, but more importantly, take care.
Sincerely,
E.Y. Patriceanne Washington
P.S. Years and years and years and years and years ago, I wrote an essay called “Sinners, Books, and Witches Burn.” I mused excessively about attending book burnings as a child, witnessing gay climate activists self-immolate, and bringing lost one’s back to life through the laying on of hands. Truly, I have no idea why I’m telling you this. (Cool story, bro.)
Wild Bookslut Caught Reading in the White and Wicked Wild:
Earlier this week, I was reading A Short History of Trans Misogyny when a child shouted an expletive in my classroom. I closed the book, addressed the twelve and eleven year olds, and turned to see a crowd of kids surrounding my music stand. “May I help you?” I asked them playfully. All except one ran outside to play. One child stayed, eyed the book, eyed me, and eyed the book again. “Yes, dear. I’m reading a book about misogyny. Do you know what misogyny is?” I asked gratingly. They looked me up and down. (I was wearing light pink sweat pants, a black t-shirt, a couple of abalone rings, and a colorful headscarf.) “No,” they replied, “but I do know what trans means.” I made my way around to the music stand, sat on a stool, and continued my lunchtime reading. “I’m sure you do," I said shooing them away.
Children!? Am I right? Long and lonely commutes, y’all. They are the secret to my resilience. An hour up the freeway and an hour back down, I turn my brain off and turn on Vincent Woodard’s The Delectable Negro. (Audiobooks are so weird.) There he deftly contextualizes the consumption and eroticization of enslaved African men during chattel slavery in the 19th century U.S. of A. Revisiting the text, even auditorily, is a t-r-i-p. (Honestly, I am so jealous of you Heartstopper-House-on-the-Cerulean-Sea-Frog-and-Mister-Toad-Bert—and-Ernie-Puff-the-Magic-Dragon bitches.) Bold, heavy, and eye-opening, I revisit his work and reckon with the consumption of my peace and personhood at the hands of the state and its inhabitants. How weary the impermanence of anti-Blackness is. Please, if you see my salvation, kindly send it my way . . . quickly.
Books with Pictures, Books with Words, Books that Caught My Eye:
Today’s Lunar Eclipse is brought to you by the self-depracating figurative artist @blkcatamyte. A few days ago, they went to a life drawing session and felt rather proud of their erotic little renderings. Then, a few day afterwards, they showed their drawings to a stranger they admired and had their pride dashed upon rather judgemental rocks. Don’t be dismayed! Our artist-in-residence, a big girl with even bigger panties, self-soothed by reminding herself why she chose to pursue erotic art in the first place. “I love men,” she said through embarrasing tears, “I don’t understand why I love them but I do.” And that, I presume, is why she must draw them. She wants to understand them more . . . no . . . better.
Notes: Toni Morrison’s Beloved first came to me a few months before Philando Castille was murdered. His death encouraged a rather depressive retreat into the novel. Nearly a decade later, I’ve reread it a dozen times. Baby Suggs’ Sermon in the Clearing has kept me over a dozen times. Read it if you need saving.
Beloved
Part One, pg. 88-89
by Toni Morrison
“Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh tha tdances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They do not love your eyes; they’d just as s oon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they fly it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, strome them on your face ‘cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and gtive you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking abut here. Flesh that needs to be loved, Feet tha tneed to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you. And O my people, out yonder, here me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver——love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. more than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.” Saying no more, she stood up then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while others opened their mouths and gave her the music. Long notes held until the four-part harmony was perfect enough for their deeply loved flesh.
Okay but where can we read the essay you published years and years and years ago 👀