Fruit, Fruit

James Bond

I think I really like James Bond for what I remember the movies to be. And can't decide if I want to be James Bond, M, or the girls.

For Thursday - The Wind in the Willows

"Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."

Ruby

Seriously, Ruby is staring to lilt, and look really pale. I think I have let my first (and favorite) cactus die.

I don't know what to do. Universe?

List of Joys

• Walking home from the shop, clutching the 12 pack of recycled paper toilet roll to my chest, and crossing the street, repeatedly, just to walk in the sunshine.
• Putting cinnamon in my afternoon hot chocolate to give it a little kick.
• An email exchange with a friend all morning.
• The warmth of the sunshine through the window in my work space.
• Figuring out that I could sit on the floor in my bean bag, positioning myself in the sun, and maybe warm up too.
• Breathing.
  

Out & Proud

On the bus this morning, I remembered that yesterday, October 11th, was National Coming Out Day in the U.S. and I thought, 'Hey, I should change my Facebook status to "Out and Proud" when I get home." Thinking, yeah, I'm out and proud and I'd like to say it out loud!

The afternoon carried on quite nicely out of the house and away from computer, tucked in a cafe and wandering the streets of a posh area of the city. I felt much different on the bus ride home, unlocking the door, plopping down on my sofa to wet laundry in the wash and the fading light.

Out and proud, I am, but I had forgotten what a privilege it is. To be young, have accepting families and friends, inhabit a privileged body with a girlie sense of fashion, fallen in love with someone of the same sex (and be able to be with them), to be out AND proud, or proud AND out.

So what am I exactly out and proud about? Four years ago I made the decision to come out to people I met: in passing conversation, an intimate chat, a budding friendship. My decision to come out--as a bisexual, a queer woman, a fluid human being--was based on a few decisions: a) I had just moved to a new country and was living in a totally new environment and I felt b) due to my feminine appearance (a conscious performance on my part) that I would not be read as 'not-straight' unless I told people and c) I had finally figured it out and I wasn't going to back track now. I was 20 then, and it was a year for learning, a lot of learning, much of which wasn't exactly pleasant.

The decision, though, became grounded in me and I have stuck to it, almost to a fault sometimes (i.e. conversations across a pub counter), in another new country which I now inhabit. In all understandable definitions then, I am out.

Which, in turn, makes me proud of myself, for my own journey. But it is a pride in which I do not feel 'better than.' 'Out and Proud' echoes other rally cries of joining together for the cause of equality or visibility or justice. All valiant causes to be pursued vigilantly.

I do believe that if everyone everywhere who was queer stood up and was counted, without effect to their current position or family or status, it would be something to be proud about--a truth told. But it isn't always that easy--or queer-forward, if you will. Coming out is an individual decision with its own story and its own journey, and this is part of mine.

Ruby, Milligan, Big Ben and Santa Maria

My cacti are dying.

Well, three of my cacti are dying: Ruby went pale and dry, first; then Milligan caught a bad case of vitiligo at his base; finally I noticed, Santa Maria, in all her squat, radiant glory, browning up one side. I can't say they are dying for sure--I am a new cactus mama--but there is definitely something amiss.

A friend says it is probably rot. She suggests cactus food and replanting them. I am to check the root in the replanting process, though, to ensure that it hasn't rotted. If it has, there is not much to be done, like lung cancer apparently.

I would more than happily go out and buy my cactus family whatever it needs, and indeed I have wanted to be the provider of such wonders as cactus food, but I have stopped myself from even looking. "Where in England am I going to find cactus food!?" my mind inquires while I let it get away with it.

I live in a city, a very large city, in fact, and one can get about almost anything here. Plus, I bought the cactus IN ENGLAND, after all. It was just a few days before New Years, a few days before my new life in London and I wanted a little piece of California to come home with me.

We named them in the car park: Ruby for her bulbous red head; Milligan after Spike: tall, skinny and wiry; Big Ben for being just the right height with a little extra on top; and Santa Maria, the spines are so dense on top that one sees brown instead of the body of green--basically, I always liked the name of the city as a child and somehow it just fit.

And now they are dying. Ironic somehow that the only one seemingly making it in our damp, English flat is the one named after an iconic piece of London. Maybe Big Ben liked the chilly air and the keeping moist after March. I hoped the desk lamp would warm the rest, revive them. I don't know how to have a cactus funeral.