there's more to life than books, you know

It must've rained lots during the night and then it started pouring this morning because the bottom of my road near River Road was flooded, the creek all brown and roaring high on the left and up the banks on the other shoulderless side water rushing down from the rocks. The river is huge and chocolate brown, all the way up past the bench on the Frenchtown side. Colin and his friend Diana and I took an oregon trail tour around Tinicum and Bridgeton, up Headquarters across the flooded dirt plain of Sheephole Road, making every precarious bridge crossing we could think of. Eventually we went up to Ringing Rocks all cool and herbaceous with rain, the mud rising up against our feet, and walked down over puddle-rocks to the waterfall which'd grown huge with rain and pounding endless patterns of shale-red water swirls down. We climbed up onto the rocks above where it gathered force, down below where it crashed in a fine spray, ferns and bugs and spongy mud. On the walk back up I found a little yod-shaped stone.

It's so gray and foggy here today, it just rolls thick over everything rising off of fields and roads. What does it take to make (allow) people to see the land as sacred? More traffic lights here than ever and if I see one more "___ Acres For Sale" sign I'm gonna puke.

Thunderstorms yesterday as soon as I disembarked, huge winds whipping trees, downpour and hail, lightning streaking across the sky. Then it calmed down and only started raining again later that night, while I lay in my room wilting like some cold-blooded plant in a greenhouse. I want to go chew on cold red meat for breakfast, which is a kind of disgusting desire but one I might fulfill anyway. I don't know what's going on with me but I better lay claim to some sort of vegetarian practice cos this can't go on like this- meat should be intermittent, not full-face plate-down back with a vengeance, yes?

I started reading Max Valerio's book. Some parts when he talks about not wanting a radicalized trans movement to speak for, denigrate, and dominate non-politicized transsexual experiences, I want to give him the benefit of the doubt (as parts of this are to me a very valid critique) but instead just feel my stomach turn because of the way he establishes himself as an epistemic authority on FTM realness, linking it to medical intervention and a red-blooded understanding of male masculinity. (To wit: the excerpt in this bridge called home.) Anyway, I like the plan to pass the book along the FTMoron mailing list.

Dreams I can't remember but I woke up feeling sad. Maybe it's the heat. I sure would love to go to shul tonight. Also I feel like making an offering of this half-bottle of too-smokey scotch, pour it on the ground watch it soak up sink down and rise, but I don't know: is it rude to give Them something you don't enjoy too much yourself?