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LSD Tabloid
Schmoozemagazine of Love's Supreme Desire
New Moon, December, 1997
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This is LSD Tabloid, the monthly and then some newsletter of Love's Supreme
Desire, an evolving indeterminate network. Feel free to copy/distribute as
long as the Tabloid is reproduced in its entirety and not deliberately misrepresented.
Entire contents copyright Blue aka Bloobird unless authorship otherwise noted.
Submissions of visions, dreams, questions, comments invited. Back issues available
at http://www.eskimo.com:80/~davidk/faeries/pubs.htm.
Pruning the dead branches
Hello everybody, how's it going? It's been drizzly and cold lately and I
thank the Great Spirit that I have a roof over my head. Homelessness is a
big issue in San Francisco because the rents are among the highest in the
country. So many people move into the city that there is always incentive
to raise rents ever higher. About a month ago Mayor Willie Brown asked to
borrow a heat-detector from the City of Oakland so that police in helicopters
could ferret out the homeless who have been living in Golden Gate Park. In
a tourist town like San Francisco, the mayor (who parades around town in brash
high style) would prefer that the homeless disappear. Many homeless have
been driven into the park from more visible parts of the city, but now they
are being forced to leave there as well. I am lucky to have a happy and warm
home life and I hope you are lucky, too.
Things have changed since last time I wrote the Tabloid. I got a new job,
working as office manager at a small company. I like it much better than what
I was doing. I'm learning new things and I enjoy having responsibility for
a change, though it does bring additional stress. I was so tired of washing
dishes, that, as you will recall, I declared that I would jump into the void
and quit doing dishes after Christmas to focus on writing and creating jewelry
for the new "Rock Candy" line that I started with my friend Lars. Within days
of making that declaration my friend Racer told all of us in the Thursday
night faerie circle that there was a job opening where he works. I brushed
up my resume the next day, met with the boss, and got the job. While I always
used to rail on and on about how I hated working in offices and that I never
wanted an office job, I have eaten my words because I like this one so far.
I must admit it's nice making more money and I feel like it was a blessing
from the universe to have gotten a new job right when I was so terminally
sick of the old one.
Last weekend Lars and I had the first open house of Rock Candy, which was
a big success. Many people showed up and enjoyed our white trash dessert reception.
We sold more jewelry than either of us expected and are looking forward to
our next open house, which will be held a week or two before Valentine's Day
at my place. It feels good to be making something with my own hands that people
find beautiful. It also feels good to be doing something creative, but which
doesn't consume my entire life (as did theater, because it took so much time).
I also like creating something of simple beauty, not of divisive intellectual
or emotional words.
I'm going to change some things about the LSD Tabloid. In fact, I was pondering
taking a longer time away from it so that I could gain some perspective (but
decided not to). After all, I'm not convinced that I know what I'm talking
about half of the time, and I'm questioning my motives for having written
much of what I've written in the first place. Was I hoping to cash in on an
unhappy childhood and/or being HIV-positive? Was I trying to hurt my dad in
absentia by smearing him in the Tabloid? All this time (over two years now)
I was hoping I could create a collective of radical faerie (and other) artists
doing stuff together and frankly there has been a near-total lack of interest
(other than in the LSD Tabloid). I blame myself for this, since I have been
so emotionally needy and passive-aggressive that I have probably turned people
off to such a project. But then on the other hand, maybe when I started the
Love's Supreme Desire collective it was intended to be a spiritual outlet
more than an artist's collective (though I didn't realize it), and it has
been playing itself out that way (at least for me, and I hope for some of
you). Trying to be an "artist" has been less fulfilling and more draining
to me in the past than pursuing my personal spiritual growth, though obviously
the two are closely intertwined. I've recommitted myself to my personal spiritual
quest, which has been my true motivation even in my most frivolous and/or
depraved explorations, and I still don't know where it will lead.
The LSD Tabloid will go on, but as far as the Love's Supreme Desire collective
goes, it's time to let go of things which are not working and concentrate
on what is working, so you might as well know the "collective" has mostly
only been me and my aspirations anyway and one person does not a collective
make. The artist's collective will have to organically evolve if it is to
happen at all, and I'm not pushing for it anymore. I'm not saying it's dead
or that I am unilaterally killing it, but it never really lived anyway (except
for the LSD Tabloid). Nobody ever calls the Tellafool events line, and so
that is a thing of the past as well. I really don't know what the next step
is with this whole thing but I know that I want to continue to write the LSD
Tabloid because I think its purpose will reveal itself in time even though
I clearly don't know what it is right now, other than for giving me a voice
I don't feel I have elsewhere. It's easier for me to write some things than
to say them aloud. Maybe in time that will change. I do know that I'm going
to stop bitching about my past.
As always, I welcome your comments, your letters, your experiences, your
questions, your suggestions, etc. There are well over one hundred internet
subscribers to the LSD Tabloid and I appreciate your interest and support.
I'd like you all to be able to connect with one another through this Tabloid
somehow, if you so desire. I'm more into listening these days than I am into
spouting my fool mouth off, which has so often gotten me into misunderstanding
and frustration in the past. Again, thanks for listening, and blessings on
the holiday season.
Trip to Portland, part two because there was so much to do
So anyway, continuing my story from way back when about the trip to Portland
and back, we had a great time. My friend Desert and I stayed with Lambchop
and Earthbeam in the SE Belmont part of town, where lots of mellow people
live in cute rose-covered houses. They were the most kind and gracious hosts
and we enjoyed meeting many nice Portland gentlemen at their garden party.
We met Mark Murphy, who is a tremendously talented man who makes teeny wooden
replicas of furniture. His skill and craftsmanship are incredible, and if
you are interested you can call him at (503) 235-3719 to find out more.
We strolled up and down SE Belmont street one day checking out all the fun
stores. My favorite place was Wunderland (35th ave., SE Belmont st., formerly
the Avalon theater). For $2.25 you gain entrance to a big theater full of
arcade games which you can play for a nickel a game. They have old-fashioned
arcade games as well as modern space-age virtual grooviness. I became totally
obsessed and blew up at least one hundred million virtual things, finally
leaving only when a huge blister developed on my thumb and my head began throbbing
with explosions. Too late we discovered that in a small theater up front
they were showing episodes of the "Six Million Dollar Man," one of my boyhood
favorites. Left Wunderland feeling strangely guilty and hollow. Why do I
like video games? Why do I like to virtually blow shit up? Oh well, whatever.
It's cathartic.
Earthbeam and Lambchop had a poem on their refrigerator which I really liked.
It is written by Marie Howe. Please don't sue me, Marie. I'm not making any
money off of this, and your poem was so beautiful I wanted to share it with
other people, that's all. It's called "What the living do."
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensils probably
fell down there
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous and the crusty dishes have
piled up.
Waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we
spoke of
It's winter again, the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours
through
The open living room window's because the heat's on too high in here and
I can't turn it off
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the
bag breaking
I've been thinking: this is what the living do.
And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk,
spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: this is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called "that yearning."
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass.
We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss-we want more and more
and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing
so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
Had breakfast at the PaRaDox Palace Cafe, 3439 Belmont st. Great place!
Gen-x vibe, cheap food and lots of it, good coffee, white trash art on the
walls, my favorite. Lounge music overhead. Two posters on the wall: red on
white word "EAT," and black on white word "DIE." Big wooden letters on the
counter, paint flaking off the word "EAT" rescued from some old greasy spoon
shit hole. All the aquamarine-and-white-swirlized tables had little green
and red plastic lamps and smiley japanese bobbing head figurines.
Found this in a deadhead store on SE Belmont st.: yellow paper with big
Jesus face on it. At the top of the page, "WANTED. Jesus of Nazareth." Down
below his face: "Galilean, 33 years of age. Born in a stable. Olive skin.
Wears sandals. Hippie-style hair. Scars on his hands, feet, forehead and
left side. Usually accompanied by sinners, lepers, vagrants, malcontents
and twelve undesirables. Headed by an illiterate fisherman called Peter.
Known to visit Mary, his mother, a jewess of great beauty, in Nazareth. He
attacks the nation's leaders as 'hypocrites,' scandalizes the masses, inflaming
them with such revolutionary slogans as 'God is your father.' Incites the
riff-raff to 'love one another,' 'forgive your enemies' and 'visit those
in jail.' Encourages anarchy by telling the peasants 'not to worry about
what you eat or what you wear.' If you find him, follow him. Eternal reward."
The reason I include this in the Tabloid is that I believe Jesus to be closer
to the person described by the flyer in the hippy shop than the person some
people who ought to know better go on and on about.
Somebody who lives in Asheville, North Carolina anonymously mailed me one
of those Chick publications, those little cartoon books with a hellfire and
damnation theme. Thank you, Mr. Or Ms. Anonymous Chick Publication-sender.
I have always loved those little books and found them to be entertaining.
If you sent it to me because you think I am anti-christian or doomed to burn
in hell, however, I must say that you are mistaken on both counts. First of
all, I am not anti-christian, just anti-authoritarian. I even occasionally
go to Glide Memorial Methodist Church here in San Francisco, and my partner
Dan is on the Board of Directors of their new transitional housing facility
named after Rev. Cecil Williams. Glide Memorial Methodist Church warmly accepts
and embraces people of all backgrounds and experiences; gay, straight, black,
white, rich, poor, suburban, inner-city, clean-and-sober or addicted. They
talk about the power of love and the possibilities of personal transformation
and self-empowerment. They're too busy helping people lift themselves up;
they don't have time to slap anyone down, judge them, reject them, or condemn
them. Glide is one of the fastest growing churches in the country, so, my
friend in Asheville, you may want to take a few notes.
Secondly, I do not believe in hell, though I believe we can create our own
personal hell right here on Earth by living in fear and ignorance of self
and one another, by fighting wars over religion, politics and other institutions
of wordly power, and by ruthlessly consuming the global environment right
out from under our feet. I was living in my personal hell when I was in the
closet, living a lie, drinking too much to hide my pain and alienation. I
was in my personal hell as a child living under the thumb of a highly intellectual,
distant man who read us passages from the bible at the dinner table but who
knew almost nothing about showing us the love hidden inside of him. That is
where I learned to be anti-authoritarian and it's also where I learned to
look around and find other ways to nurture my spirit. Over the years I have
been to hindu and buddhist temples, native american sweat lodges, a synagogue,
and of course faerie circles. I gravitate toward where there is the most
warmth, acceptance and love. No single religion (or non-religion) comprehends
or controls the flow of love throughout the universe, but they all share
a glimpse of its possibilities and power. Some religions are more afraid
of love than others. Love is messy, uncontrollable, boundaries come down
and (gasp) sex may even come into play. Love is not authoritarian or judgmental.
It flows freely but is blocked by fear and the illusion of separation by
race, creed, sexual orientation, gender, nationality, intellectuality, class,
and on and on.
I hasten to add that even anti-authoritarian groups like the radical faeries
can seem fundamentalist and regrettably separatist at times. There is a debate
now about whether straight people and/or women should be allowed to stay on
the land at Wolf Creek in Oregon. As hesitant as I am to enter such a charged
discussion, I can't ignore it, either. While I understand and respect the
need for "separate space" at times, I believe that unity should be the long-term
goal. When I came out of the closet it was not so that I could be separate
from other people, it was so I could be equal to and welcome among them.
I wanted to be who I was meant to be, but that doesn't mean I didn't want
other people to be who they were meant to be. We can live in peace together,
freely expressing exactly who we are while respecting those around us as
we would want to be respected.
That was a big diversion from the trip to Portland but c'est la vie. Back
to the story. Desert and I hooked up with my good friend, sculptor Nan Curtis
and her husband Marty and had a blast. Nan took us to "Mini Dodge City" in
Vancouver, Washington at 805 West 15th st. A man named Ace Spencer loved the
TV show "Gun Smoke" so much that when they canceled the show, he decided to
build a miniature version of Dodge City in his backyard. Ace has been on
TV 23 times because of Mini Dodge City and his eccentric house, which is
covered in multicolor spades, hearts, diamonds and clubs. We were lucky enough
to meet Ace, a very personable, elderly guy, but unfortunately his wife was
inside with an extended illness so we did not get to meet her. He also has
a pond which used to be full of frogs, "Goddamn 'coons ate 'em!" Near the
pond were many elves and a windmill.
Next, Nan took us to visit the Starke's vacuum cleaner museum, corner of
NE Grand and NE Couch (pronounced Kootch). The first vacuum cleaner was patented
on October 3, 1899 by John S. Thurman. It was called the Pneumatic Carpet
Renovator. There were vacuum cleaners from that time to the present and an
electric display which had a couple of dolls moving vacuum cleaners back and
forth for the benefit of those visiting the museum who had never used a vacuum
cleaner. One of the dolls was Marilyn Monroe.
Later, Nan took us to a huge Goodwill outlet store south of the city where
everything was $1.29 a pound! I bought a large piece of red fun fur, a pink
frilly dress that doesn't fit me (but I just couldn't leave it there) and
a brown pleather jacket, among other things. I was so thrilled about the jacket;
it made me feel like the late River Phoenix in "My Own Private Idaho." Unfortunately,
later in the day I was walking around holding the jacket over my arm and
I noticed that the pleather finish of the coat was sticking to my sweaty
arm and flaking off like dead skin from Senator Strom Thurmond's face. Desert
and I were walking through an overly self conscious kitschy home furnishings
depot when I glanced at my arm and saw that it was covered with tiny bits
of brown pleather. I started scratching them off and then I realized that
I probably looked like I had some hideous skin condition: "he has brown spotted-flakey
freckle syndrome and he's getting it all over the floor!" I left the jacket
outside for someone else to claim and cursed the cruel God of thrift-shopping
which would dangle the coolest of pleather outerwear before me and then reveal
it to be just a stinky old jacket with eczema.
Some of you may have heard about the 24-hour Church of Elvis in Portland.
Well, I went there a few years ago and found it to be a sufficiently kooky
and fun place. The last time I went, the artist (whose name escapes me) had
set up these cool interactive machines wherein you would insert a quarter
and out would pop advice from Elvis beyond the grave as well as other little
trinkets. It was silly and fun. On this trip I was disappointed. The lady
who runs it has moved the church up from the street-level storefront in an
alley into a boring old office building. Desert and I went up to find the
door locked but the lights on. We could see inside cool bits of trashy American
pop-culture strewn about the place: a Barbie hair-modeling head, a day-glo
orange standing plastic piggy-bank (like the one I have in my living room),
flashing lights and Elvis paraphernalia (also, like I have in my living room)
and lots of other Pee-Wee's Playhouse-type stuff. We could also see the proprietress
of the long-running Church of Elvis gag chatting on the phone, walking about
on the other side of the glass door, totally ignoring us for about ten minutes.
Two others walked up behind us and she continued to ignore the lot of us until
we got tired of it and left. We were both bummed-out because Desert had never
seen the place and I wanted to see it again. Maybe she was getting bad news
on the phone, so I shouldn't dish too much.
Desert and I went to get a drink at a gay bar called CC Slaughter's. The
bathroom walls were covered with pictures of cute naked guys circa the 1970's
in various states of arousal, and smack dab on one wall was a life sized poster
of the handsome Italian guy who used to be in the TV series "Mission Impossible,"
and he was NAKED! I always had a crush on him because he was strong and silent
and masculine but not in an overbearing sort of way, and there he was, nude
and hairy and smiling at me from the bathroom wall of CC Slaughter's!
After that we went to another gay bar called the Brig. I loved the interior
design! The carpeting was a trashy zebra print, the walls were red, and the
couches were silver leather! Desert and I played several games of pool and
had some cheap nibbles and a Bud or two before departing. Nice place.
Nearby in the neighborhood we found some good bookstores with lots of 'zines
and nudie magazines from the seventies. We also found the combination UFO
museum and Contemporary Art Museum, which is a subverted newspaper-vending
machine. You put in a quarter and open the box to find a variety of fun trinkets
from which you can make a selection. I took a little green-haired smiling
troll because I just love those little guys. Unfortunately, on this trip we
were unable to find the Portland version of "The world's largest hairball,"
which was fished from the belly of some hairy old pig. You may recall that
Dan and I were also unable to locate the Michigan version of "The world's
largest hairball." Hairballs are hard to pin down.
A lovely day spent care-free with the animal friends at General Hospital
---by Haia The Venusian
I enter General Hospital at 7:30 am and take the elevator to the heart catherization
room. The cardiologist, a knowledgeable, cheery woman doctor who I meet for
the very first time when she inserts the plastic tube into the pre-numbed
artery in my groin... and threads it up up into my heart chamber... It is,
I think, a cosmic worm returning to its source... Robin's egg blue surgical
sheet over my tummy. In my narcotized mind, Sean materializes as a heavenly,
night-enshrouded space angel. I remember his hands on my ankles, and the healing
pulses coming from and through him. As I lay on the surreal white bed, my
groin shaved by the nurse and electrodes on my nipples for the x-rays of
my damaged heart chambers... The monitoring machines beep rave constant vibrations.
And flashes of my beloved animals thru my mutant mind... My cat companions
Elf and Sam together in boddhisatvic faery land and the new Sam still to
be reborn as a sharpe temple dog from mother dog Suzie in Southern California...
Earth guardians Steele and Tree to arrive at wherever my space-cave will
be in August of 1998 and dear Bloobird and his companion and their wonder-felines
Davey and Miss Lene and my indispensable doppleganger soul-brother musical
collaborator Garrin and Josh and their sweet wonder-dog Zack and their bird
and fellow insane musical geniuses, Larry and Cindy and their cat friend Psycho
and my brother Bruce's rabbit visitor and Scooterpie's dog familiar Larry
and Racer's ever-aware Iron Maiden and so many others zoom through my mind
as the dye enters my heart and I dimly hear the babble of the doctors and
the pipes of the erect mischievous Pan! Animals rule!!!
In the next issue of LSD Tabloid, I'll describe our trip from the very northwest
corner of Oregon all the way down the coast and back to San Francisco. Upcoming
trips on the horison: Tucson for Christmas, Maui and Las Vegas in January!
I'm also hoping to take another road trip with Desert to some ghost towns
outside LA.
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Great Spirit, may I walk in Beauty!...
May I touch myself, my Life and all others with Beauty.
May I walk this Blessed Beauty Way...
(from the Twisted Hairs Navajo Blessed Beauty Way Prayer)
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Unique splendiferous beaded jewelry at unpretentious prices: ROCK CANDY,
designed by Blue and Lars. "Don't eat it! You'll crack a tooth." Ask me for
info about an upcoming open house in San Francisco.
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