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| Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. |
It's starting to feel as though that is where they'll always be.
We were lucky on Tuesday: My body cooperated (for the one and only day this week), and so did the weather, and we got the hay in.
It took every last resource we had, but we did it.
Since then?
The lowlight of my week came two days ago. Twin lowlights, actually: A fourth potential sale in as many days fell through for an utterly illegitimate reason; and I found myself burying the tiny broken body of a baby Bullock's Oriole, its neck torn out by a larger bird in the act of ripping it from the nest.
I am incredibly frustrated, and utterly discouraged.
I watch silently, holding my tongue, as racist profit is made off the pain and death of others. I watch the endorsement and lifting up of people who do actual harm to others, to those already marginalized. I see who benefits, who profits, who makes bank off the exploitation and theft of other people's work and off the erasure of other people's identity.
I have made many, many mistakes in my life. I don't believe in sainthood; it doesn't exist. I don't try to pretend to such nonsense; I am as profane as I am passionate, and I will not hesitate to unleash a torrent of swear words in the service of venting my frustration . . . or in the defense those in need of it. It never ceases to amuse me (and by "amuse," I mean its polar opposite) how many people are shocked! and outraged! by my use of some variant of the word "fuck," but can't spare a drop of concern for the victims of the racism or other bigotry practiced by those against whom I've used a vulgarism.
I have no choice but to go the Patreon route, although of course, I have exactly zero expectations from it. My entire life has taught me that people are mostly unwilling to pay for good writing, in part because (especially if you are not white and male), they all believe they could do what do you, and easily, too, and also better. It'll be set up in a few days, and will remain up unless the stalking and hacking and harassment ratchet up again, in which case I'll take it down without a by-anyone's-leave.
Even if something comes of it, it won't be soon enough. I've staved this day off once, but I can't do it again. We're going to have to scrounge gas money to Santa Fe, and I'm going to have to sell my Indian jewelry. Which will, of course, go for not even a tenth of what of it's worth, but that's life. No, this is not the jewelry that Wings has given me over all our years together; I would die before putting that up for sale (and I can hear some folks right now rubbing their hands together gleefully, saying to themselves, "That can be arranged"). Still, it's a part of my past that I would have liked to keep. Then again, most of my past is already gone, in material terms. I've lost more than I've ever owned, and I know that will not make sense to anyone who thinks in linear terms, but trust me, it's true.
I'm so tired. Every day is a battle for my health, in very basic terms. A battle for survival in ways most people will never understand. And every day I work to promote Wings's art; to bring to the world the spirit-filled beauty created by this man who I love and believe in; to make it rain just a tiny bit, not too much because we're not greedy, just enough for us to make it, and maybe to be able to help someone else every now and then.
But when it's brought home to you that your very existence renders that effort a failure, as happened this week . . . . I'm sorry. I draw the line at erasing my existence in order for us to make a sale.
I don't know what to do anymore. The first six months of this year, and I've been to hell and back several times already. I can't keep making the trip.
So I'll figure out the gas money, and I'll sell more of the very few things I still own, and a little more of me will disappear.
It feels as though those who seek my erasure are winning handily.
[Comments are closed. I just don't want to talk to anyone.]
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
