Y’all, my dad calls me all the time now to explain gay people to me and how you can go to church and be gay and have a happy life. We are through the looking glass here.

I was supposed to be working on my marketing materials for Dynamite Nashville this weekend. Well, phrasing it that way makes it sound like I didn’t work on it. I did. I just don’t have three blurbers to say nice things about me.

And I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with who would be just the right name to pull eyes to the book. And I just don’t know.

I also have been tromping all over trying to find old Benevolent Society cemeteries. I’m looking for Edmondson grave markers and a thing I’ve realized is that this is the missing component in the Venn diagram of where to find his stuff–black cemetery, dead person is someone from his neighborhood or worked in his neighborhood or worked with him at the hospital, and it’s a Benevolent Society cemetery.

This does make the Mt. Pisgah cemetery the anomaly, though, since none of his markers in there are for folks from his neighborhood. I’d like to know how he knew those folks.

Today I’m getting a fish-tank heater for the indigo vat. Who would have ever imagined a summer in Tennessee where you weren’t sitting in the high 80s all day?

Friday night, I dreamed about Rufus. There was some commotion in the back yard and I got up to shut the door to the garage so he wouldn’t get out, but he was too fast and he slipped through the door, even as I felt it shutting on him.

Doing The Things

The play reading went great! My parents even listened in and were supportive. I was confused and suspicious, but I tried to just enjoy it.

Last night my dad told me that, even though he has a daughter who is way out in the atmosphere, he still thought women’s rights and gay rights are a distraction from the anti-racism work that needs to be done.

And, y’all, I did not give a shit.

I don’t think that’s progress or anything. I mean, I suspect I’ll be back in a deep funk at some point and the shit he says to me will hurt me.

But not today. Because I am also trying to be anti-racist. I can try to be better about all the things!


A lot is happening. I went and got tested for Covid on Friday. My parents came back through this weekend. The Butcher may be leaving Arizona.

And I finished my afghan.


I got too far in my own head to remember to show you all what I’ve been working on.

Here’s the scrap afghan I just finished:

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Yep, that’s as satisfying as I thought it would be.

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And here’s the afghan I’m trying to finish now:


I lived through my parents’ visit. My therapist said I should not try to think like someone I don’t want to be like.

Well, there goes that pastime.

I’m still working on collecting enough urine for my indigo vat. But I have many deep feelings about the idea of creating the thing that will dye the wool, like using my body as the medium for dye delivery.

There’s a kind of physicality that I find really satisfying.

I was looking for the source for my belief that sleeping under an indigo blanket grants you prophetic dreams, but the main source for that on the internet now is Tiny Cat Pants.

But when you get what’s involved with dying something indigo–at least traditionally–every step does feel like magic. You make this liquid that, as it ferments, is perfect for indigo dying. You spin the fiber you’re going to dye. You do the dyeing. Then you sleep under the blanket.

It feels like a circle, like you put out all this stuff that results in a blanket that, when you wear it, dumps stuff back into you.

Also, the occasions when I feel like this body is perfectly suited to do the things I want to do with it are very rare. I don’t need to improve anything or alter anything or suffer in any way.

It just does the thing I want it to do.

It’s weird. Nice, but weird.