Planet Glee where I could have played my tabla, OH WELL, Y BUENO

Arab Cultural Day San Francisco 2013

[Vietsub]HAHA ft SKULL - BUSAN VACATION [MV]

Planet Glee SF/ Songs for Oscar Grant/Saw Fruitvale Station

Uploaded videos (playlist)

Los Charlies - If You Were There Beware (Tributo a Arctic Monkeys) Lima,...

Amiracle.mov

Cats Puking To Techno; or how I spent my Sunday afternoon at the public techno party

Make-up, or make-over, or David Medina

Is it weird to be into make-up?  I had the blessed experience of having a make-up artist, David Medina, To me, everyone is an artist.  Just getting up and washing your face and what you do after that is an art.  But a make-up artist like David asked me if I wanted my face to be a 'blank canvas.'  I said yes, and we agreed on gothy fire, and I got more than I could have conceived.  David is extremely interesting to talk to and I can't wait to work with him on a Planet Glee video soon with one of my young, gorgeous friends who is herself a make-up artist as model for David's genius :)

FULL - Sacred Grounds Cafe SF Open Mic Mar 7th 2013

Start at 1:35:38  I go to this open mic almost every week.  At the starting point I've given, I sing my song from Martyr Mia.

I can't wait until I get my glasses, or why it's better to see than not to see

Last year at this time, in February, around Valentine's Day, I bought a book here on Haight at The Booksmith.  The book is by Roland Barthes, "A Lover's Discourse; a Fragment."  I actually can't wait to read this book.  I literally can't see, and I've lost my glasses.  Next week I get a new pair.  I will cherish them!

Meanwhile, I have to read Barthes.When I was an undergraduate in the English Department at Berkeley, i audited a course on Plato.  The teacher was Alan Code.  He was a cool lecturer, and I liked going to the class.  There were lots of guys.  One of them, a guy from France, became my friend, and then became my lover.  I did not want him for a boyfriend.  He was so skinny and he was like sleeping with a skeleton.

But he was fucked up by his childhood, too.  He called himself a 'bastard.'  He didn't know his father.  His mother left France when he was 16 and he went to high school in Southern California.  It was really funny to listen to his accent when he tried to use cool amurrikan idioms.  He would say stuff like, "Catch you later..."  And, 'vurry good" for "very good."

He used to tell me that Barthes had all the answers for us unlucky children.  Barthes stated that we are always waiting for the next breakdown; the first one occurred at babyhood probably and then on.

I think Barthes is a genius.  I will find out soon.

Do I Know You, or Was Your Birthgiver's Death Worth listening About

Yeah, do I know you?  Remember my son, Demetrius, who is a Psychologist and works at the Sorbonne?

"Yeah, I know more about him than you do.  I hung out with him when I was a teenager and he was a twenty-something pervert."

"He he didn't toast it, and he gave me an onion bagel.  He is such a sick fuck, kind of like you."

I know, all I think about is money.  I'm the real thing.  I am an American.

"But I don't like onion bagels.  I like poppyseed.  Fuck Americans."

"Fuck Americans who have never heard of Milton and who try to write sensationalist book/mags.   A book/mag is a book that has as many pages as most gossip magazines."

I never will.  I never will get over her death.

"I just heard a bus passing by that's calling your name."

"Shit, it's abcessing again.:

You mean the lady's marriage who can't help people get married but takes all their money anyway.

"It's rather sad that someone who thought only of herself, in the DSM-IV definition of narcissicism had two bleeding ulcers.  With all the practice of being unable to feel the pain of others, she could no longer feel her own pain.  How sad."

"I don't know why I don't feel like crying."

"I'll go with you when the ashes are strewn to sea just like his."

How did you like him for a father?

"What part?  His dick?  His constant complaints about Americans after having married one of the finest American sicka idiots on the dance floor."

"Oh, but according to him, she kept calling him and asking him out."

I do believe you.  He seemed like he was into voluptuous, silky-skinned, blue-eyed pets.

"I asked him about it.  He said, 'A man has to feel comfortable with a woman,'  So, two narcissists collide, create one desperate money-maker and one desperate compassion-freak."

But there are so many would-be compassion-freaks, how can you tell if someone is a real compassion-freak.

"Usually a real compassion-freak is surrounded by abusive beings who continually test the level of the freak's compassion."

Freud was wrong.  It is all about the ego.  I equals it.

"You stole my line?"

I am your line.  I am in control.

Me and Narcissus,kissing, or how much did I cry this week

Ask ME

I am in love with Narcissus
Especially when he kisses
Me into
my black pillow

From Greece even
Me, too then
I am from there
within the moirae

Not his only mistress
have I learned acceptance
Why do I
Still have to cry

Throw me a rock

I have the lock

See me, see me

Ask me, ask me

So many women
Older than ten plus ten
Want to be me
One in lasting glee

I don't have to cry
It's merely another desire
To fill
I am illl.

Throw me a rock
I have the lock
See me, see me
Ask me, ask me

I am from Mali
Oaxaca and Paris
Belfast my love
I have become him at last.




copyright Planet Glee

Amma, back to the Bay Diarreah; and what is Venus doing, looking like a speck of pepper

OMG, I am going blind and cannot type...shit fuck my hole then your hole and slap my ass hard so I can bite it harder.

Now, when I was a baby, I had colitis; I cried all the time, because my stomach hurt.  Being the typical American she was, my mother hated me.  How dare I ruin her life.  Being the typical European snob, my father hated her.  I asked him many times when I was a teenager why he married this black Irish, flat-chested, ignorant woman.

My father would always answer that men have to feel comfortable with a woman in order to be with her, to live with her, to ride on vacations to Tahoe (for the lower classes) with the Giants' game blasting on the radio so he wouldn't have to talk to her.  He and I at least had something--no, actually more things as I think of them--in common: we both hated her,

But, then, step in my brother: skinny, and that's all I remember, because I couldn't stand him either.  When he stuck his hand in my cunt when we were at my aunt's for dinner, I really just wanted to have sex.  I couldn't stand him, but I wanted to have sex.  He, of course, was in constant denial of his preference for she-males, i.e., girls who talked like boys and had no boobs.

Meanwhile, I saw Amma today and tonight, and she has no idea what kind of person I am.  I'm a very good actor.  My art teachers used to tell me that I should continue in art (painting, blah, blah, etc), but my best painting teacher from the San Francisco Art Institute, yes, the place where you can buy your way into being a "fine artist," asked me if I were an 'entertainer.'  Now, I wasn't going to ask him what he meant by that; he was an old guy, and it could mean that I looked like I wanted to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.

So, five million light years, a 20-foot high hill of crushed beer and Bailey's containers, and a shoe box of chiva later, I have a show.  Actually, I was on television as a child, and I got one of my haikus published in some suburban newspaper.  In 2000, I was invited by Bro Jud Presmont, my surrogate father and mentor, to play whacked-out guitar and sing on his public access show, Bro Jud on Love Energy.  This girl Lori was there with her two daughters who were so sweet.  Of course they thought it was cool that another female was going to play guitar and sing.  I should have had them sing with me, now that I've had some time to think about it!?!

In any case, I came on Jud's show regularly around 2003 until 2009 when he died.  Don't think I am a heartless, wicked faerie who has no heart.  Oh NO.  I miss Jud every day and night.  He always had my back, and all the people I know who have made fun of him for being older are stupid pieces of worthless shit.  Not everyone can be intelligent, and how well I know given the parents I chose and family and friends and my karma.  In the United States of Amuriika it doesn't pay to be intelligent, to be  an abstract thinker, unless you are able to decipher derivatives and speak audibly and with potential communicative value in a language from another planet.

Nevertheless, I was going to talk about Amma, and plug the faerie antithesis to Fecesbook.  It is called International Kirtan.com.  It is a marvelous creation.  It was created by a young American woman named Eve.  She lives around here.  Look it up.  Join if you think you have something conscious to share besides what your last dose of hair growth potion for the bald has done for you.

I shall return to Amma.  She deserves all the praise she gets.  When she walked out of the ashram tonight, some little kid whose parents were born in India, said, "Good night, Mommie."  There you have it.  You, too, like me, motherless, can have a mother.  Now what that means to you will be discussed sooner than later.

The night before my birthday, or how talking about political things makes one less popular than usual

My elder cousins called me for my birthday which I thought they knew was tomorrow. Oh well, we only grew up together. Every Saturday night my brother, father and I would have to go to my mother's sister's house for dinner. My aunt would, after serving mashed potatoes (of course, and I loved all the potato variety of dishes I had while in Scotland) and some sort of meat, and after having consumed about 5 "high balls"--drinking glasses full of ice cubes, whiskey or gin and some other substance, commence deriding someone sitting at the dinner table. Since I always kept my mouth tightly shut, I was not often a direct victim of these derisions. And, unfortunately, even though one of my two cousins would keep their mouths shut, one of them would become a target of their mother's hallucinations. It was too bad, really, that she so often had these really bad trips, one could say. Maybe, if she were given some peyote or mushrooms and let loose in the wild, she might find that staring up at the sky would be calming instead of infuriating.

Of course, I digress. I think I was talking about my cousins having called me today. We are all so much older now than we were then...kind of. The elder of the two, a natural red head, has remained the one with the most psychiatric need yet channels it into severe self-absorption. Her sister, one of two natural blondes in the family at large, has worked as a nurse for a very long time. In fact, she is the one who called me today. I have always preferred her company over her sister's, but since we are closer in age (only 5 years difference) and with the most experience with men, we tend to get competitive and insecure if one of us has a boyfriend and the other doesn't. I have noticed that when we both have boyfriends, and even if mine were somewhat scurrulous, there would be much less insecurity between us.

It's weird. I was really letting some anger out today and saying some very unpopular words for a polite person when speaking with Jeannie, the sexy, blonde should-have-been starlet who has worked as a nurse, giving people shots, sticking thermometers up their butts, and so forth. Her sister talks about herself, and if I were to say, "Oh, you almost fucking died from anemia this year," her response would be unpredictable. She admitted that she wished her 17-year-old cat would die. Pathetic, kind of...

And then there's the getting older part. Both of them still talk like they did when they were in high school. Somehow my voice and inflections are different. Patty, the elder one, said she thought she was getting old. I wonder if anyone remembers a stamp that the U.S. put out in the early eighties. It had a sepia line drawing of two elders and a baby. It had the caption "Aging Together." It used to crack me up....how existential.

Meanwhile, that was my connection to family for my birthday and for "the holidays." I went to a meditation/talk at the Shambhala Meditation Center in San Francisco on Wednesday night. The talks given here are very sophisticated and intellectual, especially the ones given by a pretty woman in her late fifties whose name I can't remember. Their are only three people that I have met there whose names I recall: Peter, Seth, and Yolanda. Of course, the woman is the most like me than the men. Peter used to work as a huge businessman in New York and owned a place in the West Village, and Seth I don't know about but I like his name. Yolanda is around my age, Latina and pretty. But she always looks sad. But I am afraid to ask why. In fact, I'm afraid to talk to many of the people there. But during the talk we are usually supposed to get into groups. We were to talk about what "wisdom tradition" we grew up under and what we feel about this other name for religion...kind of. The woman spoke about being brought up under Judaism and all she got out of it was that we should treat others the way we want to be treated. All I could think about was the picture on a poster I got at anti-war rally of a 9-year-old Palestinian boy with piss stains running down his pants surrounded by 4 Israeli soldiers, fully-armed, fully-grown men. The man in our group was from Iran and talked about how his father wasn't into Islam but his mother was so he tried to show some interest in it but was the least concerned about having to have his own 'wisdom tradition.' I spoke about my father being Catholic in a non-Catholic country and how I've embraced Hinduism and love all the gods and think about one of them every day and try to fit into Shambhala's wisdom tradition. The Virgen de Guadalupe is still an image I hold onto.

So, the very next day I had lunch with someone who comes from a completely other wisdom tradition than all these other people. We decided it was time for me to take down alot of my Hindu stuff...kind of, and not all of it. Then, I thought, I should get over my fear of having the least bit of awareness of Islam. I have two hijabs from Maroc and one from Egypt, thanks to my fwb of the past five years, Rene from Mexico City. He was always travelling. At least he brought me back some beautiful stuff, and even though sex and my undivided attention were all he ever wanted from me, I won't forget him. I just can't call him now if I need something...

I have been on my own now since September. Monday I got an iPhone for cheap (it's a 3G). Although I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't give someone whose parents came from India any bit of my attention (save this one for another time), I was chatting on OK Cupid with a guy who is part Indian and told me of one of the best Indian restaurants in the city (it's in the TL). We were then on our cellphones texting until I wrote that OK Cupid says it's OK to drink but that what most of us in my neighborhood (upper Haight) call medicine is called a 'drug.' He laughed. Then I wrote, "At least OK Cupid doesn't ask about my politics anymore." Then the guy stopped writing to me.

Planet Glee has become much more political. Last night I had the wonderous opportunity to hang out with an important filmmaker from Pakistan. I intend to work with this man on a doc...Someone we know who is from Belgium is almost finished with his doc on a similar topic. I wonder who will be less popular given the poppolitics of their work.

Why I can't write right now, or edit, or play guitar or finish DEATH ON THE INSTALLMENT PLAN

I feel like Frida Kahlo, no I don't know who feels like I do at this moment. Having a physical injury with pain, anxiety (will the pain stop--or, why can't I concentrate....) and wanting to do physical things are very antithetical things.

Unless one thinks of pilates or yoga, two breathing-method-based forms of core, 3rd chakra physical movement. Yesterday I had traction. It feels really good to be pulled out of pain and asked to keep the neck and head tucked in in ways that are unnatural to the person who got the pain there in the first place.

Nonetheless and what-then, I have not been able to do any video editing for 8 months. It's not that I love editing, but I do like to do it the way I do it and one day I will do it the way I want to do it and revolutionize cinematic narration.

And THEN, I'm talking a sound class for cinema class, and I want to play my guitar for some tracks. Who knows, maybe guitar-playing will make me feel less stuck in my body.

I just then had a negative thought. Om tare tu tare to re so ha

Frightwig - I want to live

End of the internet, international communication?

Could this be true? Egypt's government cut the communication cable for its citizens and visitors?

What would it mean for us not to be able to "speak" to each other this way? How would I miss being able to touch on any subject (almost) with someone far away from me or even a few floors away?

Getting our feelings and thoughts expressed takes many forms: painting, sculpture, music, the way we breathe, the words we choose to use when we write, the way we sing, what we like to read, haiku.

Red hello from me

When I couldn't be blessed

Since pebbles kissed

GUTWORM-SCRAPE THE BLOOD

Clean Up Woman - Betty Wright (1971)