felt

Do you know the feeling of tearing apart a soft fibrous material, like felt or spun wool? Imagine a little square of white felt, held firmly in both hands between your thumb and forefinger. Now pull, gently. There is a surprising resistance at first. But then individual fibers start to break apart at their weakest points. The break points start to connect up with others forming a sort of fault line of stress and strain that was undetectable in the whole cloth. If you keep pulling--can't stop now, can you--the ripping becomes easier but not clean; a daydreaming dog's ears rotate with lazy curiosity at the high frequency screek of tiny threads disengaging from themselves. Two distinct pieces now in each hand. The space between is a nest of wayward tendrils--reaching back, dangling with newfound freedom, recoiling from the snapping tension of the break. And a few still bridge the widening gap whether out of stubbornness, naivete, fear, or denial none can say.
Go ahead, rip it apart, pull hard, quickly, twisting if needed. The frayed edges are beautiful in a way, like an open-armed meadow of swaying grass or some undiscovered thousand-legged sea creature slowly making its way through the inky black of the deepest deep. But the compulsion to tidy it up is hard to resist. Needle and thread are brought out, scissors made ready, glue gun heated up. But the little edge won't be folded down, or hemmed, or cut or even glued back. Toss it to the wind, let the wearing, healing motion of air and time do their work.

Tranny on a beamer

In an odd coincidence today, I found a picture of the woman who sold me my beloved table saw. I didn't know that shortly I would be buying a table saw from her when this picture was snapped--she was just the person in front of me in the Dykes on Bikes contingent of the SF pride parade. She came over and struck up a friendly conversation as we all waited impatiently for the parade to start.
She was very tall and lean, and in the picture she's smiling broadly, leaning on her bike with one hand resting delicately on the handlebar, the other dangling idly off at a tangent from her hips, a result of her jauntily off-center stance. I knew she was a transsexual (this is 1994, before "transgender" came into its own, and "M to F"--well, of course what else?) when I first saw her, heard her voice, but the pose captured in the photo emphasizes plainly what few token masculine features remained -- broad shoulders, giant hands, and a certain squareness of the jaw. I guess she identified as a lesbian as well, but probably not as strongly as a motorcyclist. We talked bikes for half an hour, from chain lubricants to spare parts dealers to reaching nirvana on route 1.
When the parade finally started, we revved up and were off on our 5 mph cruise down Market St. It felt great to be following someone who, back straight, head up and smile flashing, seemed to embody the notion of pride despite the fact that the parade at this time didn't officially support or want to include transgender people. "Fuck 'em" was, I like to imagine, our shared sentiment.
So, a couple months later, when I found myself in Berkeley at Whole Earth tools I was delighted to talk shop once again with this defier of gender-norms. I couldn't have articulated this then, but the deep resonance I felt with this woman was a glancing recognition of the true expansiveness of gender, the rich variety and inherent contradictions within us all. I believe we contain many many ways of being, and when we overcome fear and doubt and the conditioned urge to templatize and assimilate, we may be who we are, all that we are. And man, did she know her table saws.

old now new part two

Craqueleure of old words
sweet and thick multi-layers
of hardened facts
spoken now
dissolve like cotton candy
on my tongue
Acute light fills eyes
shaping former existence
sub-exposure of anti-archaic element
reveals fresh and crispy purpose to live
What time is not like the present?

Ryobi BT3000 my friend

Of course you can love a machine more than a person. It is a sad irony that the selling of my home means at least temporary retirement for the table saw that made the house so darn sellable in the first place. There is no part of this house that did not benefit in some way from the Ryobi's masterful combination of power, control and accuracy -- qualities which, in that nigh magical transference that happens between mechanical objects and the humans that care for them, I would for the duration of a cut embody as well. The smell of sawdust, sweet and slightly acrid. The almost embarrassing pleasure of touching together two perfectly mitred corners. The deep satisfaction of positive locking parts snapping firmly into position.
I will miss you Ryobi BT3000 my friend.

old now new part one

How close can you come
to the absolute
bang, bang, bang
I am nearest to my
extinction, my initiation,
non-stop trip to nirvana nevada
stop now not for preservation
save the wails exorcise those
demons spring expected
to solicit you
to slithery pools of dank buddings
gash, gash, gash
camoflauge shucked skin
like potted plant arches to light
swell with relief embrace remission
crawl to me
if you dare to spy on likeness it requires full attendance