Written in the Sand

Last year I committed to spending more time at the beach. AND I DID.

My priorities and my visions of normalcy and success shifted with every minute I spent at the shoreline.

My intention was to continue regular beach visits in 2019 — multiple times every week — but so far this year … I haven’t gone much.

Today I didn’t even want to leave the house. Like most days this month. February is the worst month of winter in Washington (even without the snow that piled up last week); even though the days are getting longer, it’s not nearly enough sunlight after months of reduced daylight hours. It feels like darkness falls way too soon every day.

But I had to get one of Delia’s checks in the bank. It seemed like a waste of gas and putting-on-clothes to turn right back around and go home, so I made myself go to the beach, telling myself that I could just sit in the car and read. Just GO. Just GET there.

And there it was … proof that THE BEACH IS FOR ME, written like a personalized welcome mat:

Without planning it, the tide is often low when I get there. Especially on days like today when I had to ease myself into just the idea of being upright.

Funny coincidence: last night I read a story featuring sandwriting that was also like a personal bridge, but between where I picture the author Emma Donoghue and here in the Pacific Northwest. Starting out reading Slammerkin and The Sealed Letter, she has always seemed SO across-the-pond and decades and centuries ago from where I be, but in Touchy Subjects there she is writing about JESUS and TACOMA and the word COCKSUCKERS in the sand.

So far this book is full of stories I would never have imagined her writing, but I was totally surprised by Room coming from her, too. But maybe she was just making fun of us for that big JESUS CARES ABOUT YOU sign you can see from the freeway that you can imagine was an inspiration for it. It makes me miss Tacoma, actually. Lots of things make me miss Tacoma. But then I go to the beach here and don’t give Tacoma another thought.

Anyhoo … I had very tender feelings for “The Man Who Wrote on Beaches” when I read it last night.

“…he had a home with a view of Puget Sound and a good job and a great collection of German steins and a lot of laughs. Above all, he had Margaret, who was twice what he deserved.”

The older I get and resign myself to being My Authentic Self, I have to accept that even though I’m capitalizing those words like I’m in on the ridiculous joke of myself, I’m honestly NOT joking. I’m earnest and can say with my whole heart that I love The Man Who Wrote on Beaches. With recognition, relief that I haven’t taken it QUITE that far (but only because I got the idea of asking Jesus into my heart out of my system as a teenager), forgiveness … and no measurable amount of irony.

Easter Goodness: Cute AND Cummy!

Last year I painted Delia’s balls like Easter Eggs and took pictures and video of her doing a holiday-appropriate fertility kind of thing, culminating in creamy egg-filling landing on a dandelion.

You know dandelions are edible, right? And so is creamy egg filling! Cum-eating is one of my wife’s specialties. I’d say she does it in over half of her videos, and I think this is the PERFECT time of year to combine cuteness with cumminess!

This year she posted the Easter Bunny picture set; we shared thirty of my favorites over on her blog if you want to see more!

My shadow is not in ANY of those thirty pictures, by the way … but this is definitely my preferred format for making appearances these days: barely visible. Just a hint of Trixie. SHADOW Trixie! Man-behind-the-camera Trixie. Sunshine-on-my-shoulders Trixie.

As the days get longer I do feel more like coming out. More hopeful I’ll feel more visibly radiant one of these days soonish.

Staying off of social media helps. Easter is actually the one day I specifically resolved a few years ago to never look at what other people are saying or doing. I may not need to do anything to celebrate Easter myself, but I do find a lot of joy in a wide variety of Easter stories, rituals, traditions, etc. Including the story of the resurrection of Jesus.

While I appreciate and understand criticisms of Christianity — like how paganism was co-opted, perverted, criminalized and lethally punished by Christians, and Easter is a particularly good example of that — I’m still fed by some of those stories I grew up with. When you’re a kid, those things are real and bible stories are some of the first paranormal stories you hear and see PICTURES with rays of sunshine breaking out in all kinds of tragic places. The image of the stone being rolled away and the mystery and hope of his body being gone, and of him appearing to people who loved him afterwards are beautiful stories that most people need in one form or another.

While the Christian stories are understandably stupid and/or too inextricably tied to ugliness and horror for many people (and nobody should be forced to honor or respect what is just pure scary bullshit to them), some of us still love simple aspects of those stories and want to bask in the rapture of them. The stuff that old songs are about that have made people throw their heads back and arms into the air for centuries, craving love and relief and for magic to be real, or at least to suspend disbelief long enough to enjoy the stories that tell us they are so. It just feels more powerful when you participate in it with your voice and body.

On Easter I don’t want to be around or listen to people who tell me not to fuck outside like rabbits or not to believe in Jesus. Neither one of those peoples do I want to listen to so much, or share my voice or body or suspension of disbelief with. Which is part of why I’m being invisible a lot lately. And it is good.

 

Values & My Favorite Things: Week 1

Like a lot of people resolving in January to do things differently or better or more or less, I committed myself to working on my values in three tangible ways, and blogging about it weekly. The first couple of things I’m dedicating myself to practicing weekly are like a lot of people’s resolutions: go outside more! Keep this one area of life clean and pretty! Blah blah blah … you’ve heard shit like that before from all kinds of folks. But my third values-magnifier is probably not something anybody else is devoting a year of mindful practice to.

The third way I’m connecting to and meditating on my values is through an object I treasure: my dancing bananas ashtray.

trixie's dancing bananas

It’s cheap metal. I think it cost about $2.57 over a decade ago, wrapped in crinkly cellophane. I DON’T EVEN SMOKE but when I saw it, I had to have it. I’ve kept it ever since.

There are a lot of things I’ve bought compulsively, but there’s something special about my dancing bananas. I need them on my nightstand. Sometimes I forget about them, but whenever I pick them up I get a surge of some kind of rightness that cuts through everything else competing for my attention as Most Important. I experience a rare sense of easy and relaxed happiness; THIS is CLEARLY what’s most important: my dancing bananas ashtray.

If I were to measure the worth of all of my possessions against this Most Treasured ashtray and throw away everything I don’t love as much? Pretty sure my environment and priorities would be cleaner, happier, and more in keeping with my honest values and aesthetics.

Classy People with Good Taste would dismissively call it kitsch. If they were giving me the benefit of the doubt they’d assume I love it as kitsch. I DON’T. It is a fucking spiritual touchstone and perfect example of beauty in my eyes. My dancing bananas remind me what makes human so lovable and fucked-up: our imaginations.

If you do not love my dancing bananas, I’m pretty sure you’ve advanced yourself into a profound disability that renders you unable to find comfort or delight in basic human yum yum. I do not want to spend a single night in your dry complicated irrational land of sophistication. I will stay here where we tell each other stories of saucy faceless slow-dancing fruits dipping their toes in gluttony’s sweet hot goo.


 

Like many Americans, I have way too many things. Many of them I value so much that I’m afraid to use them, even though they’re mostly worth nothing. So I’m going to check in every week with my dancing bananas to remember what it’s all about, this thing called (my) life.

Visit TrixieCams.com for a delightful array of webcam performers — you can probably even pay one to show you her favorite things!

Happy New Year!

full moon happy new year

I’m stoked about the new year!

Normally the New Year holidays depress me and make me feel (even more) weird & alienated from “normal” people, but the longer Delia and I are together and the more I get comfortable with my introversion, the happier this holiday is for me. This is the second year I’ve used the Dragontree Dreambook & Planner (I get the PDF version and print it out myself at home). I love the new year invitation to spend time planning, focusing on my own values and visions and wants.

While I don’t feel like I’m where I “should” be at this age, I’m happy that I keep making (crooked, jaggedy, sometimes backsliding) progress. The gift of this past crazy-ass year in the states has been confirmation beyond any doubt that people — ALL people, just about — are fucking crazy.

naked new year reflection

We can comfort ourselves into abandoning our best selves or make ourselves MORE crazy by measuring ourselves against each other: our sanity, our normalcy, our financial success and accomplishments, our appearances, our ways of expressing ourselves, our guilt and complicity, our contributions and our ability to fit in and obtain approval from each other. 2017 insisted it’s best to set that yardstick of “normal” on FIRE and live by our own values, guided by something higher and brighter and rooted deeper and stronger into the earth and the best purest efforts of humankind since we arrived here. And if that is too much, it may be just as wise to dance and fuck and scream and give up everything BUT embracing the insanity. And reading all the books with all the answers and timeless questions frustrated wise folk have been trying to give and ask one another and the rest of us since the beginning of time.

It’s absurd how much we care and how much we kid ourselves. But fuck it: I’m here, I’m alive and I want to be fully human: that’s what I’ve been given. So I took off my clothes and stood outside at midnight, laughing at my reflection in light and shadows both natural and unnatural. Believing in my sanity and rightness more than all the fireworks bombing the neighborhood. More than all the flying champagne corks in the whole wide world.

Maybe my plan for 2018 is to step up naked in the outside-air to every door and mirror on my path, day or night, winter spring summer fall. Confident in the knowledge — not a guess or suspicion, but the CERTAINTY — I am behaving as best a sensible rational fleshy LIVING human can. I hope you have the freedom and resources to do the same (or whatever is best for YOU in your life) this year!

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15 Years (and a Decade) Ago

The first time Delia told me she loved me was 15 years ago … the day my dad died. I wish he’d been able to know her … he would have loved her so much. Their loving kindness and senses of humour are so exceptional and similar.

And just over ten years ago, near Mother’s Day of 2007, is when Delia decided to transition. My memory of that day and her announcing this beautiful change is one of the happiest and most hopeful, joyful memories in my whole entire life.

I fervently wish for everyone to be able to be their best, happiest, truest, most green-growing radiantly-thriving selves, and be surrounded by love, safety and the certainty that we all want the very best for each other, and allow each other the freedom to determine what is best for themselves. It may not be true today, and it doesn’t seem probable … but it is possible, and I want to focus on believing that kernel of goodness is in everyone as much as our capacity for fear, willfully self-centered comfortable ignorance, and cruelty.

 

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