Angela Bocage


Category Archive

The following is a list of all entries from the Lesbiana category.

Hot, muggy, alive!

Love this weather! The puppies and their women at the dog park (today we magically got there at an all-dyke, almost-all-smaller-dogs moment!); my sweet lovely-mannered gentleman dog; the Single Carrot Theatre in Baltimore and their razor-sharp play, Crumble: or, Lay Me Down Justin Timberlake; and lots of things in Baltimore, like my new studio, the community garden, the mutually helpful neighborhood spirit, and my old-school feminist pal Carolyn, and all the awesome people at the Creative Alliance’s Charm City Kitty Club, where I got to see one of my favorite performers, Bitch! I love her violin playing, her gutsy, no-compromise-with-bullshit songs and stories, and the fact that she was wearing awesome glittery eyeliner and so was I totally made me happy! hee hee!

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A beautiful blog to which I subscribe

I miss Mary Daly sometimes, but I know she’s always with me. I love to read her books aloud. I will be more accurate, more truthful, more observant, more aware, for the rest of my life because of her. Today I saw a blog by a woman of far greater expressive and analytical powers than i possess, and am subscribing to it. She writes so brilliantly on how the world has changed. I sometimes talk with a friend in Boston about this, about how the world has changed, but the author of Radical Feminism in Otherland fleshes out and fully paints that vision I grope to even put into the simplest words. Here is an example of her good sense and the beauty of her writing:
“Ideals of self-empowerment mystify the reality that patriarchy and capitalism in their neo-liberal formations remain structural and systemic, despite appearances (spectacles) everywhere of gender-neutrality and the neutrality of the ever ‘free’ market.”
My Boston friend and i are imagining theater about what this blogger calls the “One-Dimensional Feminism” of these Orwellian days. May Radical Feminism in Otherland inspire us and help us to be as honest and measured and aware and passionate as we can be!


Spring is here; will I manage to become diurnal?

I was walking around outside today with tiny dogfriend, thinking about taking pictures whenever I saw new bulb-sourced plant-blades vibrating with green like just-plucked cello strings. I didn’t want to take disappointingly imprecise telephone pictures of such beautiful tender things. Such newly-minted sunlight, such a blue blue sky today. I remember desiring spring with a clawing greed, but apparently I had recently become resigned to winter. I know that it’s likely to be this warm for at least three more days; that doesn’t mean I take it for granted. It was the first warm day. Therefore it was the first day my friend and I had walked outside together in weeks. I didn’t want to hurry him. I wanted him to get a chance to sniff the world. We had gotten almost to the big street to cross to get to the green grass of Lemon Hill before I fully realized I had no coat on! My clothes were naked!

Despite the pants of my outfit being raggedy and filthy, my clothes weren’t ashamed of that, no way, my clothes have been borderline proud lately, because of the way I’ve been inhabiting them. I don’t mean just wearing them til they’re filthy and crusty, though I’ve done that some, but more that since I moved to Philadelphia it’s been winter and I haven’t gone outside unless I had to, so inside, clothing’s been chosen for cozy warmth: no bra would clutch my flesh for days at a time, if I were inside, even outside if I could manage a baggy enough, hidden enough look. Outside clothing’s been judiciously chosen to say “I am not trying to look nice for you,” and “leave me alone,” and “F off I am none of your business!” except when I’m going to see a girl I like or a friend I trust. Sometimes it’s been the same clothes to see my local friends, but the same clothes with with a very different attitude: hey, y’all know I’m a train wreck right now, so you’ll see me in this faded hoodie/baggy sweater, these pants of my tall ex’s hacked off to no semiotically intelligible length just above muddy salt-damaged black combat boots, and go, “yep, she’s a train wreck,” and that’s cool. I thought it best to just let myself be a train wreck for awhile, because damn it seven years, that’s longer than lots of marriages.

I didn’t catch any pix of the crocuses today, but I might tomorrow, because I have a beautiful little digital camera that’s new. I haven’t fully figured out my new camera or put it in communication with my laptop yet, I almost forgot I had a camera, because I got the camera as a gift from my ex mere days before I moved out, it’s bright red and beautiful and fantastic and I have no idea how or why she gave it to me for Christmas (while with her I eventually gave up on celebrating Chanukah though this was in no way her fault; she got me a pretty chanukiah and candles the first year, and the second or third, a light-up plastic 1/4 size miniature donkey we called Zev the Chanukah Donkey). I mean, I know we got it at an indistinguishable suburban Wal-Mart, we were making a lot of late-night trips to indistinguishable suburban Wal-Marts (“Bourses des Murs”) in the last couple weeks before I moved out, for things like more plastic bins and duct tape, but I hope I didn’t somehow get her to give me the camera by being manipulative. Why I was so afraid of being manipulative I don’t know, as clearly she was not changing her mind about taking away my partner/life/home/marriage/cats/car/garden/lover, which mind-change was the one thing I would have wanted to gain from successful manipulation if at all possible.

I was so horrified and devastated that she’d broken up with me (that was back in September, or maybe October, I can’t remember how it fell with respect to what would have been our seventh anniversary). I flatly insisted there was no way I could possibly move before December first because of all the organizing and packing and judicious, intelligent paring down of my clothes and art supplies (two categories equalling most of my earthly treasure) that’d have to be done for a sensible, rational move. But, then I just cried all day for weeks, couldn’t sleep at night, and didn’t really do much of that clever stuff at all. With makeup, however, I did an excellent job of organizing. I have tons of it, mostly good, because I had, when life was whole and normal back long ago and far away, done makeup for performers and wanted to get a license and join whatever union necessary and do it for a living. Also my clothing, to a great extent, was carefully organized; except any clothing I hadn’t worn recently was bagged and I got rid of it without even opening the bags. That might sound like a pretty insane move, and perhaps it was, but the only item about which I’ve had the least twinge of regret is a black suede 70s vintage miniskirt with metal buttons, and I’ve been losing so much weight by being vegan again (also forgetting to eat at times) it would be falling off of me now.

Now my ex and I send each other funny emails. We wish each other to get well soon if sick. We have friendly conversations. She calls me “darlin” during these friendly conversations, as she used to do her just-friends-friends in my hearing, which I now realize shot jealousy-adrenalin through my body. I know she was right, I repeat to myself, she was right to break up with me, I wouldn’t go back, I wouldn’t go back for so many layers and dimensions and concentric quantum shells of reasons. Knowing that, I still let myself cry or sleep whenever I need to, because that has got to be the way to get any last vestiges of grief sickness out of my system faster. Well, healthy diet, hydration, exercise, vitamins, flossing, brushing, rinsing, canine communion, maintaining friendships and activities whenever possible. All this means I am SOOO determined to survive, survive and succeed in living my own life, not a satellite existence, trading all autonomy and free choice for the feeling of trust/protectedness/safety I had with my ex. Besides the obvious point that all of those nice feelings were delusional—i.e., the person I thought was providing that protection was in fact going to dump my caressable shapely ass—safety itself is a joke, when a car or an aneurysm could hit any given day.

So I am often up until four or five in the morning. Diurnality may reorient itself as I get better and better, more and more clear and happy and strong, or maybe nocturnality will prove a more personally workable schedule. After all, this way I get to enjoy the beauty of both sunset and sunrise. One of the most helpful things to remember after any personal setback: never compare the roller-coaster careen of one’s own life to anyone else’s, so often what seems devastating was in hindsight salvific.


Spring IS gonna come.

I’ll simply have to insist! A couple days in the last week when the snow had melted and I could walk along actual damp SIDEWALK…and then this last couple days’ vaunted blizzard being a “Feh, THAT you call a blizzard?!” sort of event for the now-ever-so-much-more hardy citizens who’ve been digging out from several feet, and I’m convinced. Yup. Spring! Maybe not THIS week, but…it’ll get here.

This spring at the Willliam Way center in Philadelphia my friend Pearlette Toussant is presenting a supremely cool event—which she’s already blackmailed me into attending because now that I’m dating again, girl has way too much inculpatory evidence which, while formally inadmissible as hearsay, could prejudice my case.*

On Tuesday, March 25 at 6:00, jumping off from the lobby of the center, to “Whet Your Appetite for Spring:” a walking tour of Philly’s Gayborhood to pick out all manner of places and things creatively includable in romantic spring date plans—but ahead of time so we’re not all frantic! Whee! This is also just a cool way for newcomers or visitors to Philadelphia to learn their way around and discover some amusing, healthy, fun and fascinating LGBTQ destinations, for Philadelphians of all tenures to meet nice people, and for everybody to enjoy.

*Anyone who knows me knows what a big lie that is; if I were a language I wouldn’t have a word for “overshare,” or “TMI”!** I love information! It’s all about the information…which reminds me to recommend, as well, Lisa Lutz’ shriekingly funny, like when you can’t help but yelp like a sea lion with laughter,  Curse of the Spellmans! A lot more than funny, too, in its unsparing but ultimately nonjudgmental portrayal of a most non-traditional family. (“Uh, I request Mal Blum’s ‘For Making Art’ song plizz, goin’ out to Lisa Lutz…”) I hope the first one, The Spellman Files, is as good, since I’ve accidentally ended up reading them out of order, but I’ll let you know when I read it, which WILL be as soon as possible!

(**In terms of MY life I’m like that proverbial open book, that is. Secrets told to me, I keep to the grave. Serious as an aneurysm about that.)


D.I.Y. takes on new meaning! Or: a yam by any other name is just as sweet?

Brilliant lovely accomplished Spouse is lunching with her adorable distinguished top-attorney-in-all-the-land-in-her-specialty Mentor. Ms. Mentor is bemoaning the lack of quality help compared to way back when Miss Spouse was her law clerk.

Mentor: They give me people like “Bob” [probably not his real name]. He’s already bilged outta two other practice groups! Then they sent him to a satellite office. And the satellite office sent him back! Oy. I mean, he’s a sweet guy–”

Spouse: Hmm, when I was a wee lass, saying “sweet guy” in that tone was my Daddy’s way of intimating “dumb as a yam.”

Mentor: Ahh, but don’t insult the yams. They have growth potential!

So Don’t Insult the Yams is gonna be on a homemade t-shirt for my beloved. Don’t tell her! I put her on a secret “ridiculous t-shirt of the month plan” since she looks so adorable in them; “I failed driver’s ed,” with an upside down automobile; “I do all my own stunts” with a universal human symbol racing forward with its butt on fire; and The Da Vinci Cod: the Mona Lisa cradling a large fish. But this one I shall create myself.

(Although I must encourage everyone to support the wonderful science education site from which the Cod shirt comes. It’s got super great nature stuff and supports science education: www.whatdidyoubringme.homestead.com. We got one of our elderly aunties a lovely hummingbird totebag, and my son a glow in the dark bats hat. And I got a lovely black praying mantis hat and black praying mantis t-shirt, nostalgic for my brief career in the Praying Mantis Women’s Brigade. Viva Nikki! And viva science education!)


The Arachnophobe and the Butch Knight in Shining Armor

I’ve only met one individual, my lovely co-worker Mahesha, who seems to really understand arachnophobia. She agreed that when a spider’s on the ceiling, the worst thing, ever, is for some klutz (or–and a very arachnophobe-specific paranoia kicks in here: a crypto-arachnophile! *shudder!*) to take what will inevitably appear to the arachnophobe as a half-hearted shot at it causing it to dangle or drop rather than eliminating the threat! The memory of the fear of arachnid revenge this phenomenon evokes is visceral; so is the red rage at the inept or possibly species-quisling would-be saviour. Mahesha, Goddess bless her, even understands that part of the fear is that of the spider’s inexorable return to avenge. It would appear to be some kind of preverbal-infancy-rooted powerlessness thing or guilt thing….but analyze away, and it makes no more difference to the physical panic of the phobic experience than the fact that I intellectually know all about our garden friends, their spinnerets and spicules and elegant design, their gorgeous webs and mythic relations to a Goddess who wove a story of injustice into her cloth. I am unable to sleep with a spider wandering the walls or ceiling until it’s dead or physical exhaustion enables me to rationalize myself to sleep. 

What happened to the tarantula in one of my favorite movies, Nadja, upsets me each time I see it. I cried like every young girl who reads Charlotte’s Web. Nevertheless, when I saw a strange shadow on the ceiling last night, and slipped on my glasses to resolve the blur into a spider the size of a cookie (including the longish legs–if it had been the kind with the sturdy legs I would’ve screamed) I knew it had to die. “I shall kill it,” announced my gallant beloved upon my confirming the sighting, musing that she usually uses magazines for that. Reading her mind effortlessly, I knew she was thinking that her print-crack, People magazine, had only just arrived and she’d been just about to read it.

I offered her a thick paperback instead, as my racing thoughts about the situation took an anxious turn. We are mature women, as she puts it, “when left with no viable alternative.” We’ve been together for some time and by no means initiated cohabitation on the second date or even the second year of our coupledom. “My driveway is steep, to discourage U-Hauls,” quoth she. But would she fail at this most important task? (Providing the psychic sense of safety I’m too immature and irresponsible to provide myself?) Would I be enough of a jackass to let it affect my trust in her if she missed?

She declined the book, and stood on the bed with her shiny new mag in hand as I babbled incoherently about the importance of waiting until the spider was over the bed and not the pile of knitting yarn and clothes and books that have accumulated on the my-side floor, so it wouldn’t be lost in the mess if it fell: no body, no proof of death! I was at the same time attempting to underline the importance of getting it in the first blow. The importance, the importance. WHAM! The tiny body fell. On the sheets. My love scooped it up in some Kleenex, threw it in the toilet. “Burial at sea,” she muttered, humming Taps in acknowledgement of the nobility of her opponent; and proceeded to freight the groaning symbolism to the breaking point by peeing.

“You’re peeing on the spider,” I croaked. “Aren’t you afraid it could crawl up and bite you on the–”

“It’s dead, Angela,” she said firmly.

“You are my destiny,” I concluded.


“–Look, a rose-breasted grosbeak!”

 That’s the back of the t-shirt. The front is, “They say I have ADD. But I think…”

I decided to make a change. I have too many things going on. I want to talk about playing bass, or a great new book, or a  site where you can find great stuff for dogs, or other items that didn’t seem appropriate to my original vision of this blog…so I started another one. So far, it’s mostly the beauty and skincare info from this one, but not entirely. So, from now on, if you want the info on skin care, hair care and beauty, without all the other things I want to write about Philadelphia, animals, books, the law, ADD, et cetera, I started a separate blog just for that purpose. For pure, lovely, friendly, fun Dyke Beauty….my other blog’s devoted to just that: www.dykebeauty.wordpress.com. OK, animals do enter into things as well, but that’s the “dyke” part–isn’t it usually the case that we who were blessed with the lesbian gene also have the Dr. Doolittle one?  🙂 



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