The Fall of Icarus
by Marisa Cole
The Cure
by Marisa Cole
In Marisa Cole's own words: A graduate of the Pacific Northwest College of Art, I have been painting steadily since and have beenexhibited in many galleries including the Portland Art Museum, Seattle's Center on Contemporary Arts and the Williamsburg History and Art Center in New York City, Brooklyn.
My work is akin to surrealism and deals with my very personal private symbolism that comes from beingborn both transgendered and intersexed. Some LGBTartist try to claim that their art stands separatefrom who they are as a gender identity. However for myself, it is impossible to separate my work from the fact that I am transgendered. The reason as I see it,is that having been raised in orthodox Mormon Christian Culture, I was taught to both hate and despise myself. All through my life I felt ugly, eviland alienated from others. Introverted, I lived in the fantasy worlds of my mind where I could be whatever and whomever I wanted to be. I think this state ofperpetual fantasy is what draws me to surrealistic___expression.
As I developed both self-esteem and skills as aartist, I began to explore ways to communicate toothers in terms of symbolism how I felt about my sex,my body and my sense of separation or alienation from other human beings. Even in art school and in the last 10 years of my professional artistic endeavors, I still could notdirectly address the private ' Rosetta stone' in which to decode symbols within my paintings. I told galleries and persons that my symbols were made forpersonal interpretation. I still like the idea thatmany people can look at a symbol in my paintings andcome to have different views to what they mean. However, as I have gradually become open to discussion of my personal reality, I am more willing to make comments to how I paint and as to what my thoughts were in choosing certain symbols.
I paint in both acrylic, oils, water color andcollage. On a technical stand point, collage issecondary to paint and a second reality embedded intothe reality of the paint. Between the two, I try toblur the lines of integration so that it is hard to tell where collage begins and paint ends. In life,this is how gender functions. However, humans attempt to make clear distinctions between the two gender seven when in reality they are often blurred. Although I can not express and interpret every symbol in mywork, I can say that my paintings deal with certain general concepts.
First, they largely deal with that sense of isolation people feel from one another and how isolation and alienation relates to each of our'secret' selves or identities we have insideourselves. These are our identities that for onereason or other we do not allow to be visible in ourrelation to other people, whether it be because offear, embarrassment or shame.
Another topic within my work deals with myworship of femininity and the female form. In these, Ipaint strong and mystical looking women as icons of womanhood. There is also and embracing of the goddessor feminine aspect of God. And there is also a running idea of women warriors.
And finally, the third common theme to my work isthe idea of body modification and body in bondage. Here symbols relating to the transformation of males into females takes place. Or there are symbols relating to our bodies or skin that represent how'foreign' or 'claustrophobic' a body might feel onones inner identity or spirit. Bound restricted mummies hide female forms trying to get out and likethe Egyptians represent transformation of the soul orthe body. Mummy wrappings gradually lead to astronautsuits, which are large bulky barriers worn by the'inner self' but keep them simultaneously disconnected from the air, earth, water andenvironment of the natural world. Astronaut suits arein many ways how I feel as a spirit in a body. Ultimately, my paintings are about bodies, skin, womanhood, identity and transformation
Sincerely,
Marisa (Maurice) Cole
Turtle
by Dalelynn
As a dive professional (instructor and divemaster) I stand in awe at the mysterious wonders of the aquatic world the Creator has provided to us. This picture is mixed medium with some of the natural items coming from the waters of the Persian Gulf.
Championing Me
I’m not some kind of lesbian,
Though I owe my life to some.
I’m not some Father Knowsitall,
Though at times I sound like one .
I’m neither man nor woman.
No matter who may try.
I cannot change who I am.
I’ll be me when I die.
I need no operations.
I need no shots nor pills.
I could hide among you,
But who would want the bills?
Cut off this and grow some here.
No one would have to know.
A new ID, Start to shave,
And off to work I’d go.
Yeah I could walk among you,
And you’d never have to see,
The beautiful blend, the work of art,
That nature’s made of me.
We’ve cut away enough of nature,
To see that we lose that game.
We bulldozed hills to ease our path,
And the world’s never been the same.
Hills that once rolled free for miles,
All sliced and diced with tar,
Gravel, asphalt, Stores and malls,
scarred to accommodate our cars.
I cannot save the hillsides,
But I can champion me.
I’m different sure but that’s no cause,
To cut away what I’ve grown to be.
I’m not some show for nip and tuck.
I just won’t fit in either box,
As a man, I’m too tender and nurturing,
As a woman I’m a lummox .
I’m a gender blending outlaw.
I’m wild and yet have manners.
Two Spirited a Native American said.
A parade before the banners.
If you see me don’t be frightened.
I’m not deviate nor evil of the mind.
Look long enough to really see me.
You’ll find that I'm quite kind
Protective, nurturing, gentle, caring,
Ticklish, cuddly, warm, and strong
Nature’s made a harmonious tune.
It’s up to me to share that song.
The Firefly
I’ll tell you of a firefly captured by a boy,
Imprisoned for it lovely light and used like a toy.
The firefly lived happily in an open field,
And at the break of dusk a sweet light it would yield.
One day as it slept a young boy happened by,
And took this chance - one of few - to catch a firefly.
He took it home with him in both hands cupped - not tight,
Peeking in now and then to see the pretty light.
He put it in a jar and on his window sill,
But no matter what he fed it his firefly lay still.
He prayed for God to fix it, he asked his Mom and Dad,
But No matter what he did for it his firefly seemed sad.
So with his cap and coat on he took his firefly,
Back too the open field in hopes it would not die.
He opened up the jar e’er so carefully,
And watched his firefly happily fly free
Now he goes back to that field,
When he wants to see,
The firefly he could not own,
And it’s family
My life is like that firefly’s.
I was born to shine,
So I let you live your life,
So you’ll let me live mine.
But if you cage me or try to change me,
My light would surely fade.
And why would any want to dim,
A light that God hath made?
Poetry by Casey Covington
Casey was kind enough to allow us to place some of her beautiful words on our site.
More of Casey's work can be see on her web site under Poetry Of A Menacing Mind
If we don't let the infinitely diverse harmony of freedom include a tone from everyone we will never realize the truly beautiful thing that the ring of freedom can be, and we are only paying lip service to freedom.
Rivers idly bend toward me.
hold me in wet corners
of their meanderings,
hold me prisoner
to their slow intentions.
Captive to their beauty
they steal the earth
beneath my feet
‘til there is no place
left to stand,
‘til like love,
I am left to drown
in the drunken joy
of their waters,
in the myth of their
endless journey,
to spend all my days
in their endless embrace
like the days,
I spend;
with
you.
by Gina Wilson © 2006
Formagini
by Gina Wilson
© 2006
Formagini
There were once two women who lived in a small village near Formagini, one tall and blonde, the other shorter and with dark hair. Both had beautiful smiles.
One day in February, when the capricious winds of the Fata Morgana scurried in tufts of chill air over the damp cobbles, the two women found themselves together in signore Princies Salumaria.
His small Aromatic Shop and Tratoria was off the central piazza. On days like this it was a warm and inviting place. If two women were to meet - in a province where farms are scattered and opportunities rare - then Signore Princies shop was as near to an invitation as the location and circumstance could conspire to make.
They did not enter the shop together, nor did they intend to meet.
The tall blonde woman had arrived mid morning, as habit, for coffee and warmth. In summer, when the winds made sweltering days limp and moist, she could be seen under one of the many plane trees around the piazza with cool iced water and book. In winter her nest was here.
The dark woman arrived later, when the other might ordinarily have been about to leave. She was not squat nor was she lithe; Her beauty was that of the landscape from which she came: round, fertile, deliciously moist and earthy.
She had come for oil and small goods, the ones her farm could not provide; the delicate touches that made ordinary fare delectable.
At the counter Signore Princie cut and wrapped, to her precise instruction. The blonde woman stopped, page half turned, and watched, her head cocked slightly to catch the conversation, then returned to a fresh page.
The fragrant fat warmth whispered, in ways words cannot, a desire for conversation and the communion of shared food.
Outside the morning whistled cold. In Signore Princie’s Salumaria it yawned and smiled like a blanket at bedtime.
She had chosen and picked, he had cut and wrapped ‘til the simple loveliness of their transaction had run its course. She paused and glanced - not sharply, no, glanced as twilight glances at the night - at the seated townsfolk.
The shop mumbled with conversation from the few tables where regulars lingered, avoiding the chill confrontation of the journey home.
She ordered Mocchiata, a treat, an exception to her weekly routine. There was a kind of sensory conjunction that demanded it.
As signore Princie busied himself at the espresso machine she turned to her seat.
But where…?
There were several vacant, and all but one opposite men. She chose a seat at the table where the blonde woman, curiously looking over the top of the page, was seated. She sat and sighed as a wave sighs when it meets the sand. The blonde woman, involuntarily, sighed in misplaced harmony. Realizing the gaff she whistled warm air between close teeth, a quickly inhaled silently acknowledged apology.
For some seconds only the noisy gush from the coffee machine filled the cloth between them. The dark woman sat, hands placed one upon the other, opposite the now inquisitive blonde.
Unexpectedly she stooped and drew from her handbag a small cloth bound book, placed it between them, opened to a blank page and began to write on its soft white emptiness.
The day rolled on its side, smiled briefly, then nodded off.
Signore Princie joked, at the far end of the counter, with a snaggletoothed elder, of boules and the leafy summer afternoons of yesteryear.
The two women fell into conversation. The cloth bound book passed between them for one to read the other to write. The dark woman wrote in curved green ink, as curved and verdant as the hills of her home.
Quietly, nearly imperceptibly, the air in the Salumaria grew smoky dark. The tables nearby emptied, the mumbled buzz of conversation receded till there was only that of the two women. One or two old men remained, slowly drinking now cold, dirt black coffee and reading papers at a polite distance near the door.
The two women noticed their solitude as a sudden chill, as if a sharp stream of outside air had poured onto the still interior of Signore Princie’s Salumaria.
The blonde woman removed the pen and book from the hands of her companion. In square capital letters she wrote an address on the last page, then stood and with unintended elegance donned her coat and handbag. Smiling briefly she placed the green inked clothbound book beneath the hands of its owner, then left through the milk grey doors to the chill remainder of the day.
The Salumaria grunted twice.
The dark woman turned over her book slowly; as a child might turn a turtle thinking that’s its undersides might reveal something of the mystery within. She did not open the book as impulse demands but held it warmly to her forehead, then, slowly standing, placed it in the buckled side of her handbag.
The Salumaria, now cold and dark, was left without acknowledgement. Signore Princie, busy and stooped, did nothing to show he had noticed, nothing to show the morning, now noon, had changed.
Yet if he was observed closely, observed with the intensity reserved for insects below a glass, there was a moment, brief, concealed, private, where still stooped, he turned his head and with the day and her receding shape in his eye, he watched.
He was warm enough.
Somewhere, from a mouse hole in the wainscot or a broken tile on the roof, the wind ruminated, sighed then, softly, howled.
For many weeks after the dark woman could be seen, in the piazza, in the back streets of the village, and occasionally, for long mornings as if in anticipation, in Signore Princie’s Salumaria.
Often, very often, she could be found in the ancient quarter of this very ancient village, at the door of the old DeLucia house on the Via Aguilla.
She never entered the house, she never knocked on its door; she did not appear to want to discover if the house was inhabited and if so by whom.
She stood before the house and waited.
The cold Morgana winds were warmed by the arrival of spring and so renamed by the townsfolk according to custom.
The dark woman ceased her journeys to the village, but not at once; rather she withdrew by degrees until at the post office, the library, indeed even at Signore Princie’s Salumaria the locals noticed. They noticed with a knowing wink.
The blonde woman had not been seen in the village since that morning, when coffee tasted like an opening paragraph and they were strangers.
This too was noted by the villagers and added to a gossip older and longer than their Sunday bible, added to her small reputation where the words foreigner and witch were joined to her name.
The weeks sparkled with early rain and new life until the first still days filled the air with the hot fug of summer.
A youth, the son of Signore Vincenzi a sheep farmer in the remote hills, had found a single shoe on an isolated pathway. It was beige and practical yet not one for the path on which it lay; nearby was the battered remnant of a book, Poems by Rimbaud, not a book the locals would need or even know of.
These facts were added to the gossip and given context according to convenience and salacious whim. They were added to a gossip where, it was said, the dark woman was to be married, it seems, to a cousin from Sasulo. He was young, handsome and, most importantly, well connected. It was a good match. The marriage was arranged by an Aunt, the wedding day was soon. The haste was noted with a knowing nod.
In the early autumn, when the winds begin their journey back to the chill Fata Morgana, the dark woman was again seen about the village. She was seen in the Pasticcerie ordering Torta nunziale , at Il Fioraio and at Signora DiBendetto’s Abbiglimento Fimminile, speaking with the Sarto.
The marriage, it was rumoured, would take place in Moderna where the young man worked, and the dark woman would soon leave the district. This news was received with clucks of approval and relief, as if word of a plague had proved false.
And so at length both the blonde woman and the dark woman passed from the attention of the villagers. From time to time, in the years ahead, when men and women gathered to expand the gossip or ruminate on its contents, the name of the dark woman’s family might be mentioned and some curiosity expressed concerning her fate. For although Moderna was nearby, nothing more had been heard since the arrangements for her wedding, nor could anything be found concerning her cousin and groom.
For the villagers this was a mystery as dark and tantalizing as the woman’s hair. They also spoke with satisfied certainty of the Strega Bianco and, when they did, the shoe was always mentioned.
These things though were seldom mentioned; the villagers were more interested in adding new delicacies to their delinquent chatter.
And so the tall blonde woman and the short dark woman disappeared in body and slowly in memory from the villages and hills around Formagini.
In the Blustering wetness of a suburban Sydney spring, I warm and reward myself with a ritual morning coffee.
I have my own Salumaria - for me a delicatessen - my own book with pages waiting for words, and the meditation that comes when aromas and circumstance calls me to the goddess.
From my seat I ponder the texture of the morning air and the lives of those on the street, at the tables, behind the counter.
I sit, I ponder, I write.
This morning two middle-aged women enter the delicatessen - one tall and Blond the other shorter and dark.
Both have beautiful smiles.
They sit at a table close by me. The short dark haired woman stoops and draws from her handbag a small cloth bound book.
She places it on the table between them.
Anger
I had to let the anger go.
It got in the way of everything.
It did not help.
It still can well up.
But the aftermath is often not good.
It hurt others, and it hurt myself.
I did not want to carry on with my life driven by anger.
It would have destroyed me.
This is the thing with this anger, it is not my anger.
Somebody else put this anger inside of me.
If I allow myself to hang on to that anger,
they are still there, inside of me.
By letting go of that anger, their power is broken.
Only by letting go of the anger could the true healing begin.
To accept the anger took half a lifetime.
To recover from it will take the other half.
I want to love, not hate, for I was born to love.
I will not waste the other half of my life on anger.
Michelle O'Brien
June 2006
Pity
Ignorance and idolatry are terrible things, and cause immense suffering.
Pity those who in ignorance have made their nation an idol at the centre of their faith.
Pity those who in ignorance make an idol of ideology.
Pity those who in ignorance make an idol of their religion.
Pity those who in ignorance idealise the body, idolising only some bodies as fully-human.
Michelle O'Brien
June 2006
God is not gendered,
it is we who have en-gendered God,
saying God is male,
(and then there has to be a Goddess).
Just as it is supposed that in the beginning
man was like God.
But, man was not gendered,
it was in differentiating man into woman
that man became gendered.
Man and woman are one flesh:
All are man.
This gender comes from us,
We made our God in our own image:
male we made Him.
So it is that we,
like our God,
are not gendered.
It is an illusion.
Michelle O'Brien
June 2006
Organisation Intersex International
Art, poems, stories and other works of those in the community
What Ails You, Hermaphroditos?
each day is as a riddle
a giant game of twister
for I won't be your brother
nor shall I be your sister
I won't be your "disorder"
nor a "false" to what is "real"
I'm humyn, all too humyn
because that's the way I feel
your "science" won't define me
no matter how hard you try
nor shall your law confine me
as I breath a heavy sigh
your "faith" can not condemn me
for I have faith in my own
we will turn back your attack
'til we free your heart of stone
Poem by Testika Filch Milquetoast
© 2007
Old Hat or All That
Subdued music's piercing strings,
swaying lovers are unshackled statues -
What a played-out bore!
Romance show or Roman's shower?
Laugh, lovers, yes in public.
Humor is a magic seduction.
Words from the heart have their place,
as does alluring desire,
But bonding takes place on all levels.
Pick up a new instrument,
and play something
that hasn't been heard in awhile.
Beth & Amy, self-identify as little old ladies
of the lavender persuasion with mohawks to match,
that burst in a head-on collision when they snog.
Born with CAH, outcasts from every community,
they improv perverse epitaphs at SRO comedy clubs.
Recognizing talent is a far cry
from recognizing humanity,
but we all must start somewhere.
© Testika Filch Milquetoast '07
Double Helix
The burning reaction behind your brow
That saline solution within your veins
The very last breath your lungs withdraw-
Hidden in the pile of dust that remains
Elusive answers you've struggled to find
Speaking truths you may not wish to hear
New paths forged for you and your kind
And Orwellian nightmares are also clear
For those who climb the spiral ladder
& ultimately decide which applications fit
Might find new hierarchies created
If the gaps aren't bridged before the rungs are split.
Testika Filch Milquetoast
Fallen But Not Forgotten
Sylvia Rivera,
and Marsha P. Johnson,
folks who made a difference,
fallen, but not forgotten.
Refusing to be victims
of ignorance, fear, and hate,
they freed us all at Stonewall,
their own freedom, it would wait.
At a watershed moment,
they put their lives on the line,
and stood-up for what is right,
so openness could be thine.
So never forget Stonewall,
and all those who fought for you,
particularly Trans-folks,
payback is long overdue!
Testika Filch Milquetoast
Cloacina's Children
Black latex spins
o'er blacktop sins
on a moonless summer night
for nasty sparks
in local parks
seek the absence of daylight
raping or bashing
pillage or thrashing
are the vicarious thrills
of the small of mind
and the most unkind
of this society's ills
with cesspools for eyes
and heads full of lies
with hate covering their fear
what a waste they are
less power by far
or perhaps they are too near.
Testika Filch Milquetoast
