On Pain

I. The Weird World of Variable Disability

I DON'T SPEND my days lying on the floor now. I do things, which is lovely. It is a great pleasure to blast the radio on the way to the grocery store, or walk from a parking spot near the lake to the gym, where I yoga and sauna.

It is difficult, then, to explain how Pain infects my life. So many of my dreams and ambitions feel stunted by Pain. One might suppose the operation of Pain on my life would be logical, a static set of limits, within which I function freely. The truth is more chaotic. Pain can overwhelm, even when it's not at its worst. Everything becomes hard. Thinking becomes hard. At some point Pain becomes a sickness. It's not just discomfort felt in one place; the whole body becomes incapable, lethargic, like when you can't run or speak in a dream.

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The Drizzy-Jhene Duet of Smooth Ambivalence

   "From Time"

   Drake ft. Jhene Aiko

   Nothing Was The Same

YOU DON'T really hear straight up love songs nowadays. Artists are too cool for You're mine baby I love you old-timey stuff. Everything has to be complicated, flippant, vengeful, sexual, ambivalent.

Drake is undisputed king of complicated, flippant, vengeful, sexual, ambivalent sorta-love songs. He excels (so Jewishly) at hyperanalytic relationship talk. He seems to spend ungodly amounts of time ruminating on woulda-couldas and past flames, which I find endearing and relatable. "From Time" is easily his best riff on this theme, with his neurotics calmed by some understated piano and the placid voice of Jhene Aiko.

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Love, Loss and Cheek Feathers Vol. II: Hard Knock Life

By Ximena the Hen, guest plogger

I BEGAN laying later than most. The other pullets were stepping out of the nest box clucking, tweeting egg pics, preening smugly like they knew they were real hens now, while I just waited. I waited for that feeling you are supposed to get, the deep soul urge that sends you looking for a bit of straw in which to leave your indent. 

Finally, after fall had turned to winter, the urge came. I needed the quiet of the nest box and the undulations of my oviduct as I needed feed and water. There is no greater satisfaction than laying an egg. In my early laying days I would set proudly atop my creation for a good hour after it emerged, enjoying the round certitude under my breast feathers. Sometimes I clucked. Mostly my celebrations were quiet, private.

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On Gender

Gender is not a crime.

Feels a tad controversial to say so, as many nowadays consider gender roles oppressive, and condemn 'gender essentialism' in favor of some sort of neuter ideal. We humans do have a sordid record of forcing each other into restricted roles based upon gender, skin color and so on; I suppose our skittishness on the matter is understandable.

No one should be pressured to adhere to any rules of gender. We ought to all be free to express ourselves, gender-wise and otherwise, as we like. This seems an obvious platitude. And yet, we might remind ourselves how widely it applies, scolding not just icky misogynists with retro notions of femininity, but also Women's Studies majors who would denounce my tight jeans. Both, after all, implicitly impose their own gender ideas on others. My ass is mine to objectify as I please.

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Letter to Game

Game darling,

Been too long since my last letter.  I actually wrote this one ages ago and straight forgot to send it. Accept my apologies. Where have I been? You know: hustlin. 

I'm on that money grind, backyard grind, spine care grind. Every morning homie, it's the microwave heat pack and the yoga strap and I'm lying on tennis balls and hanging upside down and shit. But hey. I get to be out in this world, going places & doing things, so I am nothing but happy to spend an hour every day mollifying the left psoas and putting space between those lumbar discs. And since I know you'll ask, fuck yeah I'm working them muscles too. I dare any of those health care bishes implying I might need to "strengthen my core" to take a punch at these abs and break a damn hand.

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La Crise Plogxistentielle (Deuxième Partie)

Over the past couple years I have many times feared my plog would die. It has not died. It has, however, limped along pitifully and huddled in the corner with drooping wings. And you know...

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The Clebilicious Review: Born Sinner

    J. Cole

    Born Sinner

J. COLE HAS a soft power delivery. His touch is light, but when he gets his words right they make deep impact. He doesn't wear an armor of swag and yet, in his understated way, he's extremely swaggish. (The author would totally do him. Take that haters.)

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