We deserve it. This evening’s national and world news is unbearable. I don’t mean the Trump crap; I mean the real-people-doing-real-people things like trying to live in tents in the Carolinas, people stuck on highways in 23 degree temps, or people trying to help other people survive in the Middle East and Ukraine, Sudan, etc.-that is unbearable. So, the fairies decorated today while I decorated. I sometimes see them flitting around (the white lights,) but they decorated their big trees! Enjoy some beauty because we are fortunate to be able to do so.
Tag: Art
Some listening and gifting resources-
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Trans Artists Have Always Shaped Music. TRANSA Pays Tribute to Their Power
Perfume Genius, Yaeji, Teddy Geiger, and more on the power of the compilation album.
Queer artists have always subverted musical boundaries, shaping the sound of culture itself. That truth is the guiding ethos behind TRANSA, an astounding new compilation from the nonprofit production company Red Hot that puts a spotlight on trans, nonbinary, and queer artists, celebrating the unique gifts they have brought to the world. Artist, model, and trans activist Massima Bell, who produced this compilation alongside senior Red Hot producer Dust Reid, puts it best. “I see in the quality of music trans people make this ability to create a portal out of their music and take you to a different place in a way that is really powerful,” Bell tells me.
TRANSA provides precisely that kind of transporting experience. Featuring 46 collaborative tracks with over 100 contributing artists, the compilation was inspired by Bell and Reid’s love of the music of Beverly Glenn-Copeland and the natural world. The passing of trans musical visionary SOPHIE in 2021 prompted the pair to focus on a project which they now describe as a “spiritual journey in eight chapters.” Individual chapters with titles like “Womb Of The Soul,” “Awakening,” and “Reinvention” serve as a blueprint for a winding musical narrative with multiple missions, one of which is to be a living document of contemporary music by trans and nonbinary artists. “We often don’t get to understand our history and the long legacy of trans people,” Bell says, “both in music, but throughout time and human culture.”
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Queer Handmade Home Decor Gifts for Everyone on Your List
These queer creators make the kinds of artful, colorful, and unique gifts you won’t find at big stores.
Queer artists and makers work hard all year long, but due to the seasonality of product sales, many only make the majority of their income during the final three months of the year. So this holiday season, instead of buying from mega-retailers who love to slap rainbows on their merchandise for Pride month, you can put your dollar to better use by shopping small and buying direct from LGBTQ+ sellers.
Plus, with your house being such an important space for relaxation and recharging, what could make a better gift for queer loved ones in your life than handmade home decor? It’s a win-win: Your friends and family will get quality things to beautify their abodes, and you’ll help pay a queer person’s bills.
If you want to help your friends and loved ones jazz up their space, here are some incredible options for handmade home decor made by queer artists. (Buy something for yourself, too. We won’t judge.)
For plant parents
The thing about adopting plants is that it’s too easy to go from having a few here and there to an apartment full of aloe, monstera, and pothos. If you know someone whose home is overrun with greenery, you can never go wrong with the gift of a new container, so get the plant parent in your life a bright, 3D-printed flower pot to really make those leaves look good.
Made by the completely queer-owned design shop Object Lover, these pots are constructed from recyclable, biodegradable corn-based plastic, so your eco-conscious friends can feel good knowing their plants are helping the planet.
For candle lovers
Nothing is more synonymous with the holidays than a good candle, especially as the days get shorter and darker during winter. But there’s no one-size-fits-all candle, so here are two very different options:
Queer Candle Co. is your go-to if you’re buying for someone whose style is a little more subtle. The glass jar and black-and-white label are both fairly nondescript, but the scents spill the tea. You’ll find blends like their astrological bundles for Fire Signs, Water Signs, and Air Signs as well as decadent scents like dark plum — all of which are tastefully designed by a queer-owned company who wanted to “promote visibility and amplify the voices of members of our community.” The company contributes 10% of their profits to the Sylvia Rivera Law Project.
If you’re looking for another candle company with product names that elicit some queer rebellion and cheekiness, look no further than Violet&Jade. With scents like Leather Daddy, Campfires & Carabiners, and Drag Brunch, these candles will make a great addition to any queer person’s mantle or side table.
For people who like to burrow in a nest of blankets
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Nov. 30’s Poem On Sunday
A Cry from an Indian Wife Emily Pauline Johnson
Please click through to read more about this poet, and her poem (especially in light of some terms she used in her work. It is fine history.)
My Forest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;
We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell
What mighty ills befall our little band,
Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?
Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.
No roaming bison calls for it to-day;
No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;
The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:
’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.
Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.
Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,
Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack
Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell
Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel.
They all are young and beautiful and good;
Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.
Curse to the fate that brought them from the East
To be our chiefs—to make our nation least
That breathes the air of this vast continent.
Still their new rule and council is well meant.
They but forget we Indians owned the land
From ocean unto ocean; that they stand
Upon a soil that centuries agone
Was our sole kingdom and our right alone.
They never think how they would feel to-day,
If some great nation came from far away,
Wresting their country from their hapless braves,
Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves.
Then go and strike for liberty and life,
And bring back honour to your Indian wife.
Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?
Who pities my poor love and agony?
What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,
As prayer is said for every volunteer
That swells the ranks that Canada sends out?
Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?
Who prays for our poor nation lying low?
None—therefore take your tomahawk and go.
My heart may break and burn into its core,
But I am strong to bid you go to war.
Yet stay, my heart is not the only one
That grieves the loss of husband and of son;
Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;
Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;
One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child
That marches on toward the North-West wild.
The other prays to shield her love form harm,
To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.
Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,
Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.
She never thinks of my wild aching breast,
Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest
Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,
My heart the target if my warrior falls.
O! coward self I hesitate no more;
Go forth, and win the glories of the war.
Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands,
By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,
Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low . . .
Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.
Copyright © 2024 by Emily Pauline Johnson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 30, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
2Fer Poetry on Saturday
Click on the titles to read more about each poet, and their poem.
Wooden Window Frames Luci Tapahonso
The morning sun streams through the little kitchen’s
wooden panes; its luminescence tempts me to forego coffee.
But I don’t. The dark coffee scent melds with the birds’
chirping along the hidden acacia. Then, a small bird
alights on the cross of the wooden clothesline.
Its tiny head turns from side to side, then as if sensing me,
it gazes at me through a window square.
We ponder each other, then remember our manners,
and it flies off into the clean, cold air.
My Kiowa friends say a visit from a bird
is the spirit of a departed loved one.
I think again of Marie, my friend, my comadre –
the many feast days, powwows, and trips we shared.
We cruised down Taos’s one main street,
and rushed to Smith’s grocery for last-minute necessities,
or Walmart for the white cylinder candles for wakes.
We hauled huge, bulging bags to the town dump.
Oh, sister, this entire town brims with memories
of our long sisterhood, since our early twenties
when we were young mothers,
but that was in the last century.
This quiet casita is surrounded by tall stands
of elm and cottonwood trees, their bare, brown
branches stark against the deep, blue sky.
Every other week, snow falls in thin waves
onto the flat ochre houses
that seem anchored to the ground.
Outside of these thick adobe walls, a stillness settles upon everything.
As memories drift all around, I gather ingredients for a stew,
scents of coffee and toast linger around the arched doorway,
and the warm air in the kitchen lightens the chopping of vegetables.
Soon, the windowpanes are damp from the simmering stew.
All there is now, is to wait, sip coffee, and watch the snow
fall in layers on the roofs, trees, fences, and cars.
I am in a serene cocoon of memories.
All our conversations and laughter are silent now.
Somewhere north of here, dogs bark playfully,
probably romping in the fresh snow.
Just up the road at the pueblo, your family gathers.
They replenish the fire, stir pots of red chile
and place potato salad and platters
of sliced oven bread on the table.
Copyright © 2024 by Luci Tapahonso. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 28, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
Here is a place where nothing can die
Darkness that lives beneath the leaves
We bring our nights there without knowing
We bring our fear there before the singing begins
We bring our silent names there hoping we are forgiven
We bring our hands there scented of a river
We bring our prayers that hide and watch us
The landscape where we have held the loose feathers
Of a fallen bird
And awakened in the land of the unseen
Here is a place where nothing can die …
Copyright © 2024 by Lance Henson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 29, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
Fun, beautiful
Maybe the other way around. Dance, dance! I don’t know a lot of Dua Lipa’s work, but I really, really like the work that I’ve seen and heard of hers. She’s quite talented, and has a neat attitude, too-
This is accurate, and I haven’t swept the floor today, either.
Dark Side of the Horse by Samson for November 29, 2024
Perfect.
Needs No Intro
I hope each and every reader is having a fine day today! 🌞 ☮
Happy Thanksgiving, However You May Observe It!
Protect your keyboard, and enjoy some Cover Snark!
Cover Snark: A Possible Bathroom Emergency
by Amanda · Nov 25, 2024 at 4:00 am · View all 18 comments
Welcome back to Cover Snark!
From Jen: Maybe it’s me but this head does not look natural on this body.
Sarah: Definitely not the head that body came with. Also, is that the dude from Downton Abbey?
Elyse: Looks like Sebastian Stan to me.
Maya: It looks like BBL Spaceman had one too many surgeries.
…
I think we need some input from all of you! Does this cover say:
- Stain-Crossed
- Stair-Crossed
- Stan-Crossed
- Other
Sneezy: Why is his left hand in a different plane of existence than the rest of everything? Are push-up bras in fashion again? Where did her legs go? Are those flying jellyfish? Inquiring minds want to know
Shana: I wish more covers incorporated flying jellyfish.
Sarah: I too am most curious about the glowy flying jellyfish! Like, are they buddies? Do they follow the Cursed One around like little night lights?
Shana: Something is wrong with their bodies but I can’t put my finger on what…
Elyse: They look like mannequins.
Sarah: The one on the right has a very very long sternum.
And the hand on the shoulder seems detached? Not touching anything?
Katee Roberts quoted someone when I interviewed her saying that looking for AI in a cover is like trying to see the fae.
That’s how this feels.
From Kareni: Here is a cover to consider for cover snark. Frankly, I have a difficult time figuring out what I am looking at.
Sarah: WHEEEEEEEE!
Elyse: Does he have to pee? Is that why he’s pulling on his pants?
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Poetry: Meetings
Twice on other travels a wolf stood on the periphery of lamplight.
Our eyes intensified in the silent distance between sanctity.
There is one who appreciates secondhand revelations of wolves.
Sparrow hawk waves fast hinges of small capture in its apex of watch.
Where are the absent coyotes of Willamina?
Winter-sleepy mice are slow.
The salmon pass the fishers’ drift into deadline.
The count is a button pushed in the rapture of instinctual homing.
An eye squint records the shrapnel glimpses of Chinook.
Our river’s low, as manly winds blur the edges of inland clouds.
Aspiring rain is a sleepy feminine whisper.
Grasses sweep patterns of mock celestial visitations.
Otter pelts feel soothingly moist in the rich depth of velvety pelage
Small bare edged ears are symbolic of ocean’s chill.
One secret otter strip is owned for future weaving.
Otter woven into a 1Ravenstail robe is royal and tide riddled.
The otter dances on prominent lineage hidden through survival.
Copper light resumes ceremony from absence to embrace our shoulders.
1. Tlingit weaving and a form that nearly died out.
Copyright © 2024 by Elizabeth Woody. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 27, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
Scottie's Playtime 