The rainbow comes and goes

I like the painting.

And, despite being in the midst of the resfriado from Hell [visited upon me, I'm sure, by the twisted, yet ever powerful, demi-Demons of the lower orders, in punishment for many things, two of them, most certainly, being the sins of Temerity and Voz], I wanted to let some of you know that [checking here, ah, yes] the Sexta has issued some Considerations [by SupMarcos] concerning a Proposal for a Plan of Action.

Said Plan of Action was submitted by him at the end of yesterday's [the 29th, as I have not retired as yet] La Otra Assembly in DF.

I will be translating it tomorrow.

The summaries have already been published elesewhere [LJ], and the demi-Demons know I wouldn't dare to venture such temerity here [although I am more than certain that there shall be some discussion of Considerations, Consequences and Concupiescence in one or two of those odd, drafty corners to be found hereabouts].

Suffice that there are some changes afoot - or perhaps not, if one has been following things.

In the interim, I might innocently suggest that those amongst us of negligible ingenuousness, cynicism and ego investment, might wish to revisit a previous post. The one dedicated to most dear Chiquita.

Artless pursuits

Well, whilst waiting for the news from DF, and, with absolutely nothing better to do with our time, some of us - with no ulterior motives whatsoever - have added yet another room to our ever evolving Salon.

Its purpose will most likely be self evident from its title: Dangerous Liaisons.

We simply felt the time had come, and goodness knows only good can come of it. A bit of amatory bliss, or even musing: a consummation devoutly to be wished, no? Providing occasional respite from the Big Bad World of rage, angst, peer pressure, vacuity, extraordinarily bad hair days, and all those other predictable slings and arrows.

And, while I promise no more references to the Dane's soliloquy, we do promise something special for the first few daring souls who are valiant enough to venture there. A lagniappe, of our own choosing, and we really do have the most exquisite taste.

A note might be in order, as well. We would suggest that only those with at least a modicum of maturity and innocent wisdom might wish to visit our new chamber.

Primrose Alert

We wished to alert all our most adventurous and broadminded readers that our journal of choice, YO! Basta, has just issued a special, thoroughly frivolous yet incisive, weekend edition.

As for the rest, we're hoping for a quiet, news-free weekend.

And more

Just a clarification...the "treat" referenced below is the statement by Marcos on women, and I have now added a few more translations to our Library, so do scroll down in our archives to find said treat, if you haven't already had the pleasure.

So lovely to have printer cartridges again.

A treat...

...awaits you in our Library.

On a number of levels, as I so adore saying.

It's hard out here for a pimp

“…It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit

I'm tryin to get rich 'fore I leave up out this bitch

I'm tryin to have thangs but it's hard fo' a pimp…”



Only fair, of course, to give the boys a turn. After all, where in the world would we tarts be without our pimps?

[Well, perhaps we should sequester that particular discussion in an annex down a Byzantine little path off the Attic in our glossy.]

Now, for those salonistas who are not familiar with the title we’re referencing, [or at least this evening’s] it’s from a film of some note, and a fine ditty it is. Truly. Those who know me well will know how well and truly I mean the truly.

The hoes might come easy, but no, it’s not all bling and Cristal out here. Would that it were.

Posses, for example. Reassuring, always, to move from place to place surrounded by the usual homies. Nothing like shared history, words and, occasionally, ladies, to lend comfort and endless solace. No surprises, back-up when needed, alibis at the ready.

But they are, by nature, ubiquitous, making it impossible to sneak out for the odd adventure. Not to mention their annoying habit of assuming they know you better than you know yourself, and that nagging sense of being frozen in time, ossified at the age of, oh, 16 or 18, whenever the pack formed.

Then there’s that us against them thing, the filtering of outside evidence through the prism of posse, the fact that some of the older ones really are getting a bit long in the tooth and, frankly, tedious.

But the hoes have become absolutely exhausting.

The younger ones have gotten way too young [some of them can even last for seven hours, and then they still disrespect you]. But the older ones are the devil’s own work. They think they own the street, make you come to them, behave as if they don’t even fancy the bling anymore.

Our hearts go out. Really.

The options seem so limited. One can simply soldier on, slipping further and further into self-parody. Christopher Hitchens comes to mind. And one or two others whom I shall not name.

Blind obsession is another. Raging against the night, caution and wit thrown to the winds. A blaze, most certainly, though not of glory.

Odd, given that what is so often desired - simple understanding, warmth, a heart known and knowing – has nothing to do with immolation, rage or bling. Time, perhaps, to come in from the cold.

Nature v nurture

[Written, obviously, yesterday and for Mothers' Day.]



My day began as best it might, given untoward circumstances, with a flurry of phone calls from all those much too various time zones which I magically inhabit.

Child first, as should be. Exhausted pobrecito, understandably. The Fair City demands much of its residents of a Saturday night, but the Morrison? Goodness, we really are growing up [though I should imagine the evening might have ended at Fibbers].

Then others, friends, some who have claimed me [or I, they, one never knows – the laying claim of heart and home always so mysterious] as mama or friend or cohort ever after. The joys of maternal certitude have never been limited to biological imperative.

Which brings me to someone who has been, and often is, on my mind:

Chiquita.

Once upon a time, in my most favoured city, we were blessed with a multitude, an endlessly swarming extended family of felines. At least 30, sometimes more, all of whom would drop in at least once a day, demanding to be fed. Our yard was uncommonly large, and I thought the unbroken vistas allowed them some sense of safety.

Anyone who has ever lived in Barcelona knows these tribes, more or less circumscribed by block and family ties.
They came in gaggles, and there was similarity within each gaggle, of age, color and even temperament. We came to identify them as the “cousins,” the “uncles,” “the mean ones,” and so forth.

One amongst them was heavy with child, and we kept special eye on her, inviting her in when we could and making sure she received more than her fair share.

And one day she didn’t appear. Then another and another, and so we assumed she had given happy birth and was tending her babies. But we worried about where she was dining.

Then, softly at first, the unmistakable low mewling sounds emanating from somewhere. Just on the other side of the high back garden fence, perhaps. Sad, lonely, unrequited murmurs.

My son, who even then was more than a foot taller than I [and equally unable to ignore the pleas], jury-rigged a chair, a stool, precarious ladder to scale the fence and climb over, peeking into a tiny shed and finding the source. Then, day by day, hour by hour, he somehow managed to introduce saucers of milk, the softest of foods, quiet reassurances of sustenance.

Then, a few weeks later, one bright afternoon, there appeared a caravan of tiny kittens, picking their way carefully across the top of the fence. There were 5 – four of them the typical black and white. But in the lead, Chiquita.

He – yes, he, as it turned out – equally diminutive, and surely a sibling, but odd gene out with his distinctive Siamese coat – was two steps ahead of the others, firmly in the lead.

Cannon fodder, we thought.

Not valor, strength or wisdom, but cannon fodder, self-imposed out of some innate necessity. If unknown - and everything was unknown for them - danger were to appear, then Chiquita would take the hit.

And so he raised them well. Bringing them to our back door several times a day for the very special stash of tinned food kept only for the “babies.” Later bringing them to “play” with our house cat [a surprise gift of sort from some other children], a massive, ungainly, dim Persian. The “babies” were the same age as silly Bedivere, but a fifth his size.

Chiquita taught them to rush the silly one, pouncing from under table, knocking him over on his back, and, I swear, giggling as they watched his feet foolishly tread air, his girth rendering him incapable of rolling over.

He loved the attention, the “babies” felt duly empowered and Chiquita could rest for just a moment.

So, yes, maternal certitude is thrust upon one, does not allow for hesitation or nuance and is certainly not limited to biological imperative. And there are some who live in a state of such self-absorbed certitude that their universe of one will never have to fear such visitation.

As for cannon fodder - in this particular tale at least – Chiquita took it upon herself to provide cover and lesson for her babies/siblings. I am sure there are universes where the circumstance might have been reversed, untutored babies thrust into unknown [or not] minefields.

But, all things considered, I would rather not consider such universe.

The girls are back in town redux

We're so glad to have our logo back!!

Especially since it's almost as fetching as our lovely Lady of This Evening in YO! Basta.

Just in case you haven't been following our entertaining, yet gravely serious, glossy, you might be surprised at how much Real News, not to mention frivolous gossip, has been appearing there.

And not just on the Primera Plana.

It's hard out here for a tart

Strolling though the Page yesterday, I was struck by the wide variance in numbers of comments.

Whilst all things Atenco were garnering several hundreds, the poor Ladies of the Night have only collected 9 [even fewer than the CNI conference received], most of them having to do with breathless requests for photos, such a surprise.

And since we know I have nothing better to do at the moment, my mind began wandering aimlessly about, immersed in a happy fantasy of choice and direction. Faithful readers will know that this subject is quite dear to my heart.

First, as is my general wont, a word on words:

Sex workers.

Horrid, unremarkable, off-putting. The image brought to mind is 30s poster art: huge, sweaty, muscled steel workers, bending over for the good of mankind. Or Rosie the Riveters, starched head scarves in place, servicing the masses assembly-line style.

I understand the choice of the word – the context, perceived and otherwise. The need to be taken seriously, to establish their credentials as bonafide “workers,” and to be afforded the same rights and protection as any other.

And, given the climate, not just in Mexico but in most of that continent, there is the further perceived need to get beyond the discomfited giggles and leering [“where are the pics?”], thus “sex worker,” rather than harlot, courtesan, ladies and gentlemen of the night, trollop, fille de joie, tart. Any of them, for me, vastly preferable and much more descriptive of the delightful services on offer.

But back to my fantasy.

I cannot imagine any group of persons, in most societies, who are forced to live more precarious lives than they. Truly rendered “invisible,” ignored when they are lucky, preyed upon when not, stigmatized, marginalized, ridiculed, assaulted. Literally and always “of below.”

Yet absolutely necessary and always everywhere.

My flight of fancy had taken the OC into other barrios, streets, clinics, homes, brothels and boudoirs. Much too valiant to give a whit that some might see the turn as less than serious, less manly [irony of ironies], less likely to inspire rage and passion [certainly true of the former, in fact, rather more likely for rage to find its inspirative opposite].

The visuals might have been so very different. Instead of helicopters circling overhead, nightsticks and machetes, students rushing into the streets to be thrown into prison, the endless cycle of violence begetting violence and rage its rage, there might have been others.

A tiny storefront clinic, in the middle of nowhere, dispensing little and never enough. An exchange of stories, thousands of them, of lives lived and what is needed. No stump speeches on podia, but the deepest of winding back alleys, where cameras never reach. Not ready-made photo ops or soundbites but simple visits, meant to delight and instruct all parties involved.

A profession which lives by its wits, long schooled in survival, flourishing and omnipresent, might have much to impart and much to demand.

Basic supportive services, for example, especially modeled on those in Amsterdam, which have little to do with licensing and regulations and much with providing security and health and social services.

Not fierce, circumscribed little groups with their “leaders” and manly symbols, but a vast swath of idiosyncratic individuals, accustomed to much and more than schooled in providing hospitality.

I told you it was mere fantasy.

And, what’s more, they wouldn’t have to be harangued about avoiding institutional politics, since, in my experience, most tarts don’t bother to vote.

As mentioned here previously, I certainly don’t.

Another peek

Yes, I know...

But I wanted everyone to know that I just put Part 1 of Bellinghausen's interview with Marcos in our Library - the first he's given in 5 years. A bit of a media whirlwind right now. Appearances on mass media TV shows and such.

Stay tuned.

Just ducking in

I know I'm supposed to be out playing, but I wanted to let everyone know that I just posted a new piece in our Library, and, given the nature of the piece, I thought it was exceedingly timely.

It might be of special interest to those who have been hanging out in the Attic which has been so generously provided by Yo! Basta, our tabloid of such renown.

Back to the slide and swings...

Promiscuous posing

This lovely view of our meeting place is provided for the grumpy old gentleman who left his note in the wrong place.

And we much prefer a little Remy XO to domestic "champaign."





Making lists, giggling, having a stroll in the alley…just another Friday night in Hell’s scullery.

A fair amount of the giggling has to do with a new spate of missives from a very specific subset of gentlemen and their current meltdowns. As I hinted last evening, I’m currently strewing crumbs here and there, so, if you would like details, you shall have to peek about.

Not exactly what I would call a treasure hunt – but one of the gentlemen just popped up here a short time ago. I so hope he doesn't rue his visit.

By way of news, SubDelegado Zero has just announced – during a speech he was giving in Atenco – that he shall be remaining in DF until “all political prisoners are released” there. I’m mentioning this – and assuming the reportage is correct [always a cardinal error] – because I assume it will be impacting on scheduled events. Most immediately, in San Luis Potosí from the 5th to the 11th of May.

Other news, political and otherwise, might be found…elsewhere.

Fun and games

Estimadas salonistas, a bit of housework.

First, having been diverted somewhat the last day or two, I’ve yet to mention that a new communiqué has been placed in our Library. And it’s not what you might think. It is from a domestic group, calling for some rather startling actions, quite unlike what we’re accustomed to seeing. I might suggest a quick read, for those left standing.

And I must say that one of the many lovely consequences of fevered times is that one gets to hear from many of one’s old friends. All my various in-boxes have been overflowing today, a veritable Aladdin’s Cave of queries, demands, gasps, entreaties, billet-doux and one of the most astonishing little pieces of Jesuitical sophistry my eyes have ever beheld.

As a consequence of the above consequence, some reshuffling is required. Some items will go to our Library, some to our Serious Tabloid, a few to the dustbin.

There. Now what should we get up to?

Red Alert

I'll translate this shortly. Without comment.

EFE
May 3, 2006

El líder zapatista, "Subcomandante Marcos", anunció hoy que decretó una "alerta roja" en los municipios rebeldes de Chiapas a partir de mañana debido al conflicto entre campesinos y policías en el Estado de México, centro del país. "Nos estamos declarando en alerta roja", dijo Marcos en un acto político en la Plaza de la Tres Culturas, en Ciudad de México, y señaló que "a partir de este momento está funcionado ya un mando alterno por si algo me pasa". El líder zapatista hizo esta declaración tras conocer un choque hoy entre campesinos de San Salvador Atenco y policías, que ha dejado hasta el momento al menos 42 heridos, tres de ellos graves. El Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN), que ha recibido expresiones de apoyo de los pobladores de San Salvador Atenco, controla desde hace varios años municipios en el sureño estado de Chiapas a los que llamada "caracoles". Marcos aseguró que "en el EZLN somos 'atencos'", en relación a los pobladores de San Salvador Atenco que desde 2002 han realizado varios movimientos de resistencia. "Desde este momento cancelamos los eventos programados y vamos a asistir en caso de que se necesite a la comunidad de Atenco", dijo Marcos, quien después de su acto público entró a un departamento de la zona de Tlatelolco, norte de la capital mexicana.