By Melanie Nathan; 11-17-10    -

I miss South Africa – its sounds, its smells, its sky and its storms – I miss sitting in a tree and pretending I am a cheetah.

I miss blaring radios,  the loud conversations and the Xhosa click – I miss biltong a good braai and my father’s kiss.

I wish I could place a stone on Mom’s grave, and Lulu’s too -

The one thing I can have here in the USA is the one thing that there in SA – saves all from pain on the rainiest day -

To the rescue is its Music,  respite from pain , as  in the midst of sadness and strife it provides the refrain-

With magical notes and unique-Township –rhythms-

Its celebration will halt that moment of pain, as its power draws all in-

as if the apartness never was, not will ever be again.

SO in this series of great music my friends, here in the diaspora – Meet some new friends

Freshlyground – is the band and watch – and listen – and let them take your hand through a

diverse glory of rainbow fun ……

Watch the first Video and then the second One.

Melanie Nathan
nathan@privatecourts.com

Wanna get more info about mel
www.visualcv.com/melnathan

Tweet me at – @oblogdeeoblogda

Below me on the beach are children playing in the filthy sands.  Globs of oil have washed up on the beach and a thick miasma hangs over the land making the light look dirty.  I see a girl sticking used needles into the sand in order to give a pointedness to her sand castle.  I see a boy running towards his sick looking mother holding a rotting bone.  The shell of a turtle roils in the thick sludge that is the ocean.  The rollicking people do not seem concerned that the ocean is polluted.  One little girl puts her hand into the water and starts to cry as her father runs over to grab her and pull her back from the water.  The five year old’s skin has been eaten off by the water.  Her father rushes her over to the medic who looks over her hand, but before he will do anything to help her, demands payment.  When the father cannot produce much money, the doctor does a rough amputation of the girl’s left hand.  The girl collapses in pain as the medic chops off her hand and cauterizes the wound.  The father cries as he takes his unconscious daughter away.

A plump looking woman sitting primly on the bench tugs at my sleeve.  “You had best get ready for the concert, young lady,” she says.  “Death Clock’s concert begins in an hour.”

“Thank you,” I say, and pick up my bundle of pilfered clothing.  I walk down the hallway looking for a private place to change.  I pass the father and his daughter as he is trying to explain to his wife what happened.  The girl is still unconscious and her stump of a wrist is bandaged.  “No one will want to marry her now!” his wife wails.  I pass through a set of double doors and into the next section of the building.  The lights here are softer and the glare from the sun cut down.

As I enter that section, which seems to let me pass unhindered while the other seem barred from it, I see a woman in a French Maid uniform.  She is wearing spike heels, a short skirt which barely covers her panties, and a blouse which plunges deeply only just covering her nipples.  Her breasts are overflowing from the top.  She is carrying in her hand, a tray with a single drink in it.  She walks up to one of the doors and knocks on it.  A man opens the door.  He is naked.  The maid does not seem to notice.  The man grabs the drink in his left hand and then shoves his right hand between the woman’s breasts and pulls her into the suit.

I walk into the bathroom next to the man’s suit and unroll my clothes.  Other than the frilly panties and bra, I have two choices, a thick plaid dress and a pale blue dress.  Both seem horribly warm for the heat that is outside.  I frown in disgust at this world that men have wrought.

I feel the soft back of my lover and wonder what she is thinking.
I hold her in the night and listen to her breath.
I kiss her sweetly and know that she is part of me.

My eyes see the forest and long for more.
My hands weave complex webs of thought and feeling.
My blood leaves me and I am renewed.

Tiny spinning shards dance across the world.
A cloud of sparkling dust and razor thin splinters.
They cut at the mind and reflect memories.

The storm clouds that rumble in the distance, I am them.
The rain that comes to nourish the land, I am that.
The winds that come and move the trees, I am that.

I walk through the darkness and into the light.
I walk beneath the sun and stand under the moon.
I walk a path through the unseen mist.

Blood flows through my veins.
Blood seeps from my womb.
Blood drips from every wound I endure.

The shards continue to spin off.
Shattered metal cracked and broken.
The light dances off of the splinters.

I sing a song of times past.
I sing a song of days to come.
I sing a song of what never was.

I listen to the wind, and she tells me her stories.
I listen to the rivers, and she tells me her tales.
I listen to the land, and she gives up her secrets.

The wandering one.  That is me.
The searcher in the forest.  That is me.
The voyager on the river.  That is me.

The metal is gathered up by hands unseen.
Each splinter accounted for.
Each shard tallied.

Photo via Wikipedia

“Visit To The Cultural Museum”

Mother, sister and I are driving down the road. Around us are trees, mostly pines but others as well. The occasional splotch of yellow passes by as the leaves begin to turn. Sister is next to me in the back seat. Mother is saying something about seeing a special exhibit, but I am not really paying attention. We pull into the parking lot of a small building. The sign outside says “Cultural Museum”. After Mother parks the car, we get out. Sister tries to run and play, but Mother grasps her hand and tells her to stay near. Sister is very small, maybe half the height of Mother. Sister is wearing a red dress with white trim. Her sandy hair is tied into pig tails. I am wearing white and red with black shoes. My hair is wild, as usual. Mother is not overly tall, but I am almost her height. She is rounded in form and face. Her hair is brown, deep brown. She wears greens and blues. I walk besides Mother into the building. As we approach, I notice two uniformed women who are standing guard. It is the first time I’ve ever seen a woman in uniform. I know that there are police out there, but I had never seen them up close. They are carrying unfamiliar weapons. I ask Mother what those are, and she says “They are guns. They are used to kill people. There are still unruly elements here close to the border.”

“Unruly?” I ask innocently.

“Men who have not learned to share with women. Men who are not willing to give up on the old ways.” I stop asking questions as we enter the museum. I am confronted with a statue of a man unlike I have ever seen. It is massive with a massive phallus sticking out of it. It is all out of proportion to what I see on real men. I feel dirty just looking at it. At home, there are statues of men. A few statues at least. Mostly our towns and cities are filled with statues to the Goddess in all her forms. I rub my hands across my belly. I am not sure if I am trying to clean my hands or my womb of some remembered shame.

“Why did we come here Mother?” I ask.

“So that you do not forget what happened before. Women were treated like chattel.” She points to a depiction of women being dragged off in chains. Another depiction of women being raped, fantastically by a swan. Another one of a woman whose vagina has been sewn shut. I shudder as we go through the depictions one at a time. They all seem horrific. Sister seems oblivious to it all, but she may not be old enough yet to understand. As I move to wipe my hands again, Mother grabs my wrist.

“You do not need to feel shame. You did not do this,” she tells me, but I feel shame none the less. I want nothing to do with men, even the men back home. Even the men who will treat me with kindness and caring.

“Why do women marry men, Mother?”

Mother chuckles at the question. It is such an innocent question. “Not all men are like this. The men back home are not like this, you know.”

“I know, Mother,” my voice has a hint of whine to it. “But men are so disgusting even when they are not like this!”

“Little one, Bridgette dear, remember, you do not have to marry a man. You can marry a woman if you want and have a family. I mean, don’t you have a crush on that cute little black haired girl in your classes? Lilith, right?” I blush scarlet. I do have a crush on her, but she has not seemed to see me.

“She does not seem to be that interested in me. I’ve thought about asking her out, though.”

“Give it time, little one. You are young.”

“I just want a wife, not a husband. I could never stand to have a man inside me.”

I am near hysteria, but Mother only chuckles. “Is there someone who says you have to marry a man?”

I open my mouth and close it again. I look down at my feet for a moment. “Well, Susie said I should, and Melissa too. And…and Samantha. They told me men are better lovers than women. They told me it was only proper for women to marry men.”

Mother’s lips compress. “I will have to have a long talk with their mothers. Bridgette, dear one, you do not have to marry a man.” I start to object. “No buts- got it. If you do not find men attractive, do not marry one. That only leads to more problems for you and him.”

We turn a corner and are confronted by something even more horrific than the displays of patriarchy’s cruelty. Ahead of us is a hallway full of women, but they are distorted. One woman has breasts which seem to be large enough for two cows. Another has a face like a mask. Another is stiffly dressed in a skirt and suit jacket. She is wearing high heels. Her brown hair is curled up in a bun on her head and her finger is pointing at the sky. She has a lump like baby in her arm which seems about to fall on the ground. There is a sign that says “Hall of Traitors.”

“Maybe this will be less disturbing.” Mother guides Sister into the hall, and I follow. We go through exhibits of women who distorted their bodies badly for the Patriarchy, or who sold their souls to God for power. They are not victims, per se. They gained from the system. They sold out. Mother is right that it is only a little less physically disturbing. It is still horrific.

As we get halfway down the corridor, an alarm has sounded. A loud voice tells everyone to evacuate. We start to make our way to the entrance. People flow towards the exits while warriors make their way towards the lake behind the museum. As we get outside, a woman in a white robe is standing just the other side of the warriors. Mother walks over to her with me and Sister in tow. “Director, what is going on?”

“Mistress,” the woman bows slightly. The gesture is one of respect, and the title indicates a married witch. “We had a trog break into the lake area. We are containing the situation now.”

“May I watch, my daughter needs to know that we are safe. I think the displays disturbed her badly.”

“Certainly, she can watch the feed over on that monitor.”

I watch as the warriors begin to get near the man and his band of followers. There is a twisted looking woman who keeps clutching at his legs. Around him are a few followers. I see with horror that there are dead people near him. The boat must have just moored when he attacked. Most of the people on there are alive and off shore. I see six dead. Four women, one man and one child. The man’s followers have begun a small fire and have started roasting and eating the dead. I wonder why it is taking the warriors so long to get to the intruders. I feel the Director’s hand on my shoulder. “It will be alright. Do not be afraid.”

When the trogs have eaten their fill, they throw the woman on the ground and begin raping her. One of the men grabs a woman’s partially eaten corpse and begins raping her body. I bite my lip. Mother has taken Sister down to the car. Finally, I see the warriors approach. I now see why they were so cautious. They are within a few dozen meters when the Alpha realizes that he’s about to be attacked. He picks up a savage piece of metal and throws it scything towards one of the warriors. She is wounded across the belly, but not disemboweled. The warriors begin picking off the Alpha’s followers one at a time. One of them runs at a warrior blowing himself up when he is close enough. I gasp out in horror. I must be crying by now since Director tells me that it is alright. The warrior will return to life once more after spending time with the Goddess. A dark haired woman rushes up from behind the Alpha. She slams into him from behind and pushes him to the ground. She shoots him in the heart, killing him.

The only one left is the pathetic woman that they had with them. Medics are already tending to the wounded. One of the women takes the Alpha’s former mate and guides her towards the museum.

“We will help her as best we can.” I hear Director say to me.

((a trog is short for troglodyte, a form of primitive man.))

The L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center’s Lily Tomlin/Jane Wagner Cultural Arts Center and veteran stage, television and film actor David Youse are joining forces with Oscar® and Tony Award-winner Joel Grey to present the historic, 25th anniversary staged reading of Larry Kramer’s classic drama, The Normal Heart. This extraordinary celebrity reading, featuring some of the finest actors working today, will take place at Westwood’s Geffen Playhouse at 8 p.m. on Monday, May 17.

Proceeds from the one-night-only event will benefit the L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center’s Jeffrey Goodman Special Care Clinic, which provides quality, free or low-cost medical care for people living with HIV/AIDS (this event does not benefit the Geffen Playhouse). Tickets may be purchased at: www.lagaycenter.org/thenormalheart.

The cast features Emmy® Award-winner Lisa Kudrow, in the key role of Dr. Emma Brookner, Clark Gregg (The New Adventures of Old Christine) as Ben and David Eigenberg (Sex in the City) as Mickey. Additions to the cast will be announced in the coming days.

Among the countless highlights of Joel Grey’s nearly sixty-year career is his starring role in the original production of The Normal Heart, in which he played the central role of Ned, based semi-autobiographically on Mr. Kramer himself. This experience accords Mr. Grey an incomparable insight into the play, as well as a passionate commitment to the piece and to the issue it revolutionized: the AIDS epidemic.

The Normal Heart focuses on the terrifying early years of the AIDS epidemic in New York and the criminal silence of official America in dealing with it. First produced by Joseph Papp and directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg for New York’s Public Theater, the play was a critical sensation and ran for 294 performances.   READ MORE …..

WHAT: THE NORMAL HEART
25th Anniversary staged reading

Written by Larry Kramer
Directed by Joel Grey

WHERE: The Geffen Playhouse
10886 Le Conte Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90024-3021

WHEN: Monday, May 17 at 8 p.m.
Pre-performance reception at 6 p.m.
$50 (General admission)

Available on-line at www.lagaycenter.org/thenormalheart.

“I have seen evil from the eyes of the subversive fatwas in a time when what is lawful is confused with what is not lawful;

When I unveil the truth, a monster appears from his hiding place; barbaric in thinking and action, angry and blind; wearing death as a dress and covering it with a belt [referring to suicide bombing];

He speaks from an official, powerful platform, terrorizing people and preying on everyone seeking peace; the voice of courage ran away and the truth is cornered and silent, when self-interest prevented one from speaking the truth.”

Hissa Hilal, said her work was inspired by “subversive” fatwas.  One such example was issued  by Sheikh Abdul-Rahman al Barrak, a Saudi cleric, on his website last month.

Many viewers praised her for her courage, while others attacked her for criticizing clerics and reciting her poems in public; one website called for her death.

The Poet, Ms Hilal, ignored the threats, and defiantly delivered another Poem after the threats.  On the subsequent show – and she received the highest score of the round.

The judges praised Ms Hilal’s courage for expressing her opinion “honestly and powerfully”.  By reaching the final, she is guaranteed a prize of at least Dh1 million (US$270,000).

Sheikh al Barrak’s fatwa had called for the execution of anyone who says mixing of sexes is allowed in Islam because “he is allowing what is not allowed, and therefore he is a kafir who left the religion and should be killed if he does not change his opinion”.

Article lead by Hassan Hassan-         Read the article here…

Note: Picture from The National.

related articles by Zemanta

• Female Saudi Poet, Known for Controversial Verses, Reaches Game Show Final (thelede.blogs.nytimes.com)

INTERVIEW   http://www.abigmessage.com/

By Melanie Nathan.

Jo and I needed to let loose.  Hence, Friday was “Girl’s Night Out.”  In my pre-Navy existence, this would have consisted of our beautiful lesbian friends and a hot ‘girl’ party in the city.  Jo and I would slow dance, kiss, and walk home, hand in hand.  While we can no longer be publically affectionate, we still get giddy drunk and love dancing with our new girlfriends.  For Friday’s festivities, we chose a Cougar hot spot, as our friend Candy is a recent (hot) divorcee.  I love any reason to put on my favorite dress and paint on smoky eye makeup (yes, I am what you may call a lipstick lesbian.)  Jo, typically cozy in her kicks, broke out heels for this rare night out.

The best thing you’ve ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously, it’s only life after all…

The evening began fabulously.  We snapped photos, danced to the live band and sang loudly. Grabbing a drink and cooling down at the bar, I was approached.  Tall, blond, chubby and not so handsome, he asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”
This is certainly not the first time I’ve been hit on by a man.  But it was the first time I could not respond with my usual, “I don’t think my girlfriend would like that.”  I suppose I could have said boyfriend, but I just said “No thank you.”

I am so proud of who I am and who I am with.  Moments like this,  blatant  denial of who we are, make me want to cry.  I suddenly longed for my lesbian haven.

Well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable
And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear…

My sad darkness started to close in around me and then the night got worse.  Lightness was farther and farther away.  Our friend Rose, single, straight and very sexy, was approached by a man with a buzz cut.   As I walked up from the bathroom, Jo sharply whispered, “He’s military, don’t touch me.” I hadn’t touched her once the entire night, but that didn’t matter. Her fear had kicked in and punched me in the gut.

I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it…

As Rose danced with Buzz cut, my head began pounding.  I stopped ordering cocktails and began tearing up, sitting there listening to “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Regardless of our night OUT, we always have to be IN.

I stopped by the bar at 3 a.m.
To seek solace in a bottle or possibly a friend…

There is no solace in this gay Navy world, just constant reminders of the fact that we can no longer be true to who we are.  This will never be even CLOSE to fine.

I woke up with a headache like my head against a board
Twice as cloudy as I’d been the night before…

As I drove to get coffee and bagels on Saturday morning, “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls came on the radio (hence, the italic song reference throughout this post.)  Oddly, I immediately felt peace.  Jo and I may feel isolated in this new world without our lesbian network, but you are out there.  Just when I seem to lose sight of the community we were so actively a part of, an iconic lesbian duo streams through the radio and pulls me out of my own trenches. Perhaps we’ll be fine after all.

**Dish of the day is the story of Joana Lane, a chef and the owner of a small restaurant inherited from her mother, who writes in a very spirited way about her love affairs and sexual adventures in a cookery book/diary.

Date: Nov 19th 2007

Dish of the day: French onion soup

Reminder of the day: God counts women’s tears. (Cabala)

Pierre came to work with my mother as soon as the she opened the restaurant. The only French thing he had was the name. He’s always been the father I never met and a really loyal friend. I could always stand by him. He was the first person to whom I told I liked women and he loved me and supported me all the time. Well, later he gave me this horrible nickname Helena-Cippola (Helena-onion), because, as he himself used to repeat, I made women cry. He obviously didn’t have any details of what I did to them in bed – he’d give me a different nickname if he knew.

It’s true I made them cry. Not on purpose, no. But I never met a girl I’d like to make breakfast to. They couldn’t understand it. They loved me the whole night and hated me by the morning. Some crazy girls would keep calling for days, go to the restaurant and break some plates, burst out crying. Pierre was the one comfort them. He’d explain I am the way I am, that I like experimenting both inside and outside the restaurant, that I was always trying to unveil the secrets of dishes, and I like the taste of everything. “It’s not easy to find something you’ll never get tired of eating”, he’d say. “Helena couldn’t survive the sucession of ordinary days. Please, forgive her.” He would turn me into this beautiful cookery poem and I wouldn’t feel that bad at all. So before leaving, Pierre would offer them the opportunity to warm their hearts with some onion soup – the last good memory they would have of me. But why the hell do women cry so much?! It doesn’t have anything to do with onions to me…

French onion soup

Ingredients

• 6 tablespoons butter
• 8 medium size onions, sliced thinly
• 4 thyme sprigs, leaves stripped
• 1/2 cup sherry
• 4 cups brown chicken stock
• 2 cups veal stock
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• French bread croutons
• 2 cups grated Gruyere cheese

Directions

In a large saucepan or Dutch oven, add butter and melt over medium heat. Add the onions and lower the heat to medium low. Add the thyme leaves and cook, stirring frequently, until the onions start to turn golden brown, about 25 minutes. Add the sherry and cook until the sherry is almost completely evaporated and the onions are brown, about 15 minutes.

Add the stocks and bring to a boil. Lower the heat to a simmer and simmer for 30 minutes. Season, to taste, with salt and pepper.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

Ladle the soup into 8 oven-proof soup bowls. Place the soup bowls on a sheet pan. Place the croutons on top of the soup, to cover. Top each bowl with 1/2 cup grated cheese. Place in the oven and cook until the cheese is golden brown and bubbly, about 10 minutes.

Lezzie is half-closeted Brazilian Philosophy High School teacher writing on everything she has the opportunity to read, listen to and see (as a good Gemini).You can find out more about here by checking her profile at http://lezgetreal.ning.com/profile/Boudecca.

Date: Oct 18th 2007

Dish of the Day: Spicy memories

Reminder of the day: You should never forget who you are and where you come from.

Let me tell you a little about Lapis, my mother’s restaurant. Many lesbian women come to the place everyday for breakfast, sometimes for lunch but mainly for the ‘happy hour’. There’s this lesbian community center across from the restaurant and you can always see them around. They organize events and stuff all over the State. I wanted to join them once, but mom wouldn’t let me, obviously. At the time, she thought I was just annoyed by the problems I was facing with my date with Jon who worked at the flower shop around the corner – she had no idea he was gay and I had been sleeping with his daughter, Beth, for six months then and we were even considering moving in together. She was as hot as red pepper – and you know it’s really good for health, don’t you? The problem is that many people do not appreciate eating it for long periods – including me. Spicy food may put you in trouble – and so do ‘spicy’ women.

So, Lapis has always been lesbian territory downtown, mom was best friends with many women and she never cared about what the other customers would say. “If you can’t eat with them, then you’d better eat in another place”, she used to say everytime anyone tried say anything against them.

My first-time woman was really close to my mother. Her name was Anita, she was an Italian teacher and worked two blocks away from Lapis. She generally ordered black coffee, toasts and strawberry jam. When she was done with breakfast, she’d go to the restroom to put on some make up with a little help from me. One of these days, I followed her as usual, and she locked me inside. I felt like fainting when she started to unbutton her white linen blouse, breast popping out of it.

“If you don’t want, I can get dressed.” – She said.

“I’m sorry Anita, but I’m not a… – I tried.

“A lesbian? You’re not a lesbian? – She laughed and I almost felt a bit angry about it.  “Oh, poor child, I see the way you follow me everywhere with the eyes… but if you say you’re not, I think a test wouldn’t hurt, would it?” – And it was then that she started to touch herself in such a way that I couldn’t breath properly. For a second I say I thought my heart had officially stopped and I was dead. But I wasn’t, fortunately!!! I would be, if my mother caught us there, though. Ok, I have something to confess: I had seen some x-rated movies with girls perfoming pretty convincing sexual intercourse before, out of curiosity… and it was thanks to these movies that I knew exactly what to do when the opportunity arrived. And people say you can’t learn anything from porn! How come you can’t?

Spicy Jalapeño Salsa

Lezzie is half-closeted Brazilian Philosophy High School teacher writing on everything she has the opportunity to read, listen to and see (as a good Gemini).You can find out more about here by checking her profile at http://lezgetreal.ning.com/profile/Boudecca.

Date: Oct 10th 2007

Dish of the day: Chicken salad pita sandwich

Reminder of the day: Big changes start from small opportunities

Dear cookery book,

Today a customer asked to see me right after she finished her meal and my legs wouldn’t stop trembling. Had I possibly disappointed on of my mother’s customers?! How could that have happened?

When I reached her table (the one on the left to the entrance), I couldn’t look her in the eyes.  She is around 35 I guess, she has hazel eyes and short chocolate-brown hair. There was something ‘royal’ in the way she was sitting. Gosh, she is beautiful. A lot more than Melissa, or Lisa or Chris. And I’d get an earful for flirting with “customers I wish where lesbian” again  if mom were still alive…

She was talking to someone on the phone and she hipnotized me right there. I found myself wishing she could see me in that fabulous dress I had bought as a gift to myself the previous week. I’d get a manicure, get my nails clean and trimmed – she would be impressed, but reality was that I had that stupid uniform on. Damn it!

As soon as her eyes met mine, she said goodbye to the person on the other end opening up a smile that almost melted me down. I was still trying to find a way to stand in front of her when she started:

“You’re way too young to be such a terrific chef! What College have you gone to?” – I admit I had stopped eating Pierre’s lemon trifles to avoid putting on more weight, and I had also started running through the neighborhood park for an hour and a half every single morning to lose each pound I’d gained since my mother’s funeral and I was pretty happy with the result of 28 non-drinking-or-smoking years, going to bed as early as possible, eating healthy and putting magical face creams on, so I replied:

“It’s very kind of you ma’am. I’m not so young as I look, and I’ve learned everything I know with my mother, ma’am…”

“Ah, please, let’s forget about formalities;” – She interrupted me.  ” Just call me Helena. Can I see your hands? I’m crazy about chef’s hands.” – For God’s sake, why didn’t she say feet, ankle, elbow, knee, tummy??? My hands have always been hideous! I hated them since I was a teenager! I’ve always felt as if they didn’t really belong to me. It was impossible to control them, I would drop things whenever I was nervous or anxious, besides burning myself in the kitchen all the time. But her hands fast grabbed mine, and she touched them as if they were something really precious.

“Simply beautiful.” – She said. I collected my hands and couldn’t think of anything else to say. In addition to that, I had forgotten her name.

“What’s your name again?” – I asked sounding extremely stupid.

“It’s Helena. Helena Stephens. And you’re Joana, isn’t it?”

“Joana Lane. Were you friends with my mother?  This restaurant belonged to her. She passed away 2 years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, dear. I didn’t know her, but she must have been an impressive woman, judging by this charming restaurant… not to mention the chef.” – I felt my cheeks burn and she went on:

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Jo.” – She could totally read me. I was pretty happy with the signs she was a lesbian, though. Plus, she was comfortable enough to call me by a nickname.

“I’ll be back, if you don’t mind.” – she said.

“Our customers are always invited to return. It’ll be a pleasure to have you back.”

“You bet it will. Thanks for your attention, Joana Lane.” –  She said with a grin.

“ Don’t mention it, ma’dam.” – I finished, turning back to the kitchen, sure I couldn’t feel my legs and under the impression she was following me with the eyes. I had to resist the temptation of giving a last  look at her – dumb decision. I didn’t stop thinking of her. I tried hard putting her image at the back of my mind and managed to get to end of the day with nothing but a few small cuts and a burnt apron.

Chicken salad pita sandwich

Ingredients

4 c cooked chicken
8 pita pockets
1/2 c nonfat vanilla yogurt
1/2 c lowfat mayonnaise
1/4 c green onion, chopped
1/2 c carrot, shredded
6 oz crushed pineapple
1/4 c raisins
1/2 t cumin
1/2 t curry powder
1/4 t cayenne powder
*salt and pepper to taste
1 clove garlic (optional)

Instructions

Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Season to taste; add more or less of yogurt/mayonnaise according to taste. Stuff into the pockets of the pita bread. Garnish with grapes. Serve with nonfat or lowfat milk or your favorite fruit juice. Serves 8.

Calories: 436. Carbohydrate: 45g. Cholesterol: 101mg. Sodum: 457mg. Dietary Fiber: 1g. Protein: 37g. Fat: 9g. [%Calories from Protein-34, Carb-47, Fat-19]

Lezzie is half-closeted Brazilian Philosophy High School teacher writing on everything she has the opportunity to read, listen to and see (as a good Gemini).You can find out more about here by checking her profile at http://lezgetreal.ning.com/profile/Boudecca.

Kayla Tate is a 19 year old high school graduate looking to attend Winnipeg Technical for Carpentry. She loves sports,being out doors and is happily dating. Kayla had a 19 year old mid-life crisis and decided that her voice needs to be heard, so she writes to help the LGBT community.

when someone takes their own life,

you feel powerless.

there is nothing you can do.

there is nothing you could have done.

there is nothing you would want to do now.

there is nothing you wouldn’t have done.

now what? just move on? it’s okay?

no, no it’s not ok.

something has to be done…

i just don’t know what.

what i DO know…

is that

I

am

absolutely

…

devastated.

]]> http://lezgetreal.com/2009/04/original-poem-absolutely-devastated/feed/ 0 http://lezgetreal.com/2009/03/original-poem-lingering/ http://lezgetreal.com/2009/03/original-poem-lingering/#comments Sun, 22 Mar 2009 01:00:00 +0000 kaylatate http://lezgetreal.com/?p=5909
your eyes are lingering on mine
once our eyes meet
time stops..
nothing else exists in that moment
of time
nothing…
you can feel the tension
taste the sweetness
the love floats in the air
we touch hands
but only for a moment..
for the shock is too powerful
to great a love we have
a love so great
its intoxicating
your my own brand of drugs
I can never get enough of you
your touch
your smell
every time I’m near you..
I get butterflies..
your my one
my only
my world
girl
I love you

**Thanks to my lovely girlfriend who inspired me to write this poem amongst others.

Kayla Tate is a 19 year old high school graduate looking to attend Winnipeg Technical for Carpentry. She loves sports,being out doors and is happily dating. Kayla had a 19 year old mid-life crisis and decided that her voice needs to be heard, so she writes to help the LGBT community.

]]> http://lezgetreal.com/2009/03/original-poem-lingering/feed/ 2 http://lezgetreal.com/2008/11/original-poem-the-masquerade/ http://lezgetreal.com/2008/11/original-poem-the-masquerade/#comments Fri, 21 Nov 2008 13:00:00 +0000 Lez Get Real http://lezgetreal.com/?p=414

Are you all so selfish, so indifferent, too apathetic to care?
No bother to wonder if you are all there.
I would trade everything for meaning, a simple chance to be seen
without the label of Judgment.
I guess I was wrong to perceive that such an existence was possible.
I found Life on the edge of a puzzle, and upon the edge I read my name.
But the rules are always changing in this game!
Must I search until I dig my grave? I fought for life on the edge of a cliff
and peered into the belly of Bliss.
They warned me it would come to this: the end of all meaning
through madness.
What could I believe? What could I see?
But the Perception of Reason masquerading as Myth.

(c) Copyright 2008 Nicole Terry
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

You can find out more about Nicole Terry at www.NicoleTerryCreates.com.

Things have been tough

You know that’s true

Yet even the tough times

Can’t stop me and you

We are deeper than most

The hurts are deep too

But no matter what

It’s always only you

You’re the one I fight for

The one that I love

So no matter what girl

There will always be “us”

dressed in silk and lace,

my head held high,

chin and back held straight

my verdant blue eyes

miss not an overture

from these pompous powdered peahens

in their purple or green silk,

nothing matters to them,

I walk lady-like

and dance with the men,

I feel no passion for it,

or for them,

in their miserable dream,

an illusion of mirrors,

holding no truth,

how I abhor this and them

This pretense of society,

this sleight of hand,

Lady above spare me this,

it is all worthless,

meaningless, empty,

and I am lonely,

outside of them.

so… we may wed
enter the institution they said
what a wonder to have the choice
stand tall stand proud have a voice

no on 8 is the word
raise up and we will be heard
rights granted may be
couples happy, gay, and full of glee

but wait resist the haste
to jump in and bind at such a pace
oooh how times they have changed
remembering the gamble that was once waged

Baby Baby i Love you, i would sing
right down to providing a ring
i will mary you, i would
i would marry you, if i could

now possible i’m not so sure i would
valid too is the pain of divorce
a failed love unable to force
life’s pressures will test the truth

is it marriage you want to pursue
take time and have thought
I DO or I DO Not

Rejoice we have the Choice!!!!!!

Butterfly1Love is a single lesbian living in L.A.

Healing From The Disappointment

time seems slowed

tension within will not fade

tears remain easily ready to fall

hope has taken the toll

love and happiness having no home

the disappointment cuts deep

rewards unable to reap

the first, second, and third time left broken

a lesson that should have been learned

the last was a final chance

failure again was all that was earned

drawn in by a wanting belief

she led me to believe

reluctance was not strong enough

the heart said yes

pride said no

weakened only to be put down

losing everything else around

he is with them now

in their life they have made a home

all this woman could not hold

healing is in progress

yet the disappointment continues to grow

paralyzed & engulfed in a lonely stillness

a place were no one will touch

yet needing so much just to be touched

never in love again will there be a trust

Butterfly1Love is a single lesbian living in L.A.

a random moment
where our eyes will not part

some say it’s love

some say it is pure magnetism

we all agree that it exists

yet to pinpoint it is futile

flirtatious women
know how to monopolize on it

shy women
run away in fear of it

strong women
absorb it vibrantly

weak women submit

patient women fan the fire

caring women build a desire

a woman’s mood
may vary yet ignite

strong emotions intertwined
with heat & passion

wanting touches
& caressing smiles

wanting to keep her close
& standing near

come with me
that moment is here

feel it, I feel it, we feel it

wow