Space and Sea: Some Thoughts on Not Writing

I still have the art school brain. The philosophy goes like this: every free moment must be spent in studio if you’re ever going to get better. I am forever caught between anxious labor and trying to affect the calm appearance of someone more collected than I actually am. For so long, working was a way of having fun. Real fun, like watching TV or going out, rots your brain so much that art becomes difficult or impossible. It has taken me many years to work on this art school mentality–to remind myself that writing is about observing and collecting from the world as much as it is about getting those thoughts down on paper and in stories. But if you go out into the world, you are not writing. It’s a tricky balance, and one that has everything to do with tricking yourself into some kind of healthy lifestyle. I’m terrible at this.

I believe I can stop writing anytime I want as long as I never quit. When I did stop, knowing that I had to collect and observe the world before I could produce any fiction or art reviews, it made relaxing impossible. I had to walk across a minefield of guilt just to get out of my house every day. I got so far behind on my deadlines, working on anything practical meant not working on ten creative projects, which made working on everything very stressful. Stress led to inactivity, which led to watching TV, which led to guilt, which led to work, which led to impostor syndrome, which led to inactivity, which of course repeated the whole cycle over again. This made me think one can never be truly happy if they live their lives in competition with themselves. So I came up with a temporary solution that would help me get back to a balance: I stopped doing most things expected of me, regardless of the consequences. On this list was writing, so I stopped writing too.

When I stopped writing I watched TV and read books about outer space. I couldn’t get enough of future societies forming haphazardly after a great war or societal reorganizing. I was into the civilizations that emerged. I felt, because I had lost control of something I loved to do and was a little trapped in, that the time I was living in was insufficient. There wasn’t a real requirement to the escapist programs and literature I sought in my bout of not writing, only that they take place–at least partially–in outer space. I justified my break by thinking I could stop writing if humanity dissolved into chaos, took to the skies in clunker rockets or sophisticated vessels of fiberglass and chrome. I could allow myself to stop writing only if I suddenly had to pack up and shoot off my demolished planet on a rickety DIY spaceship (the kind I would prefer, since it’s the end of the world anyway). This was the only scenario I imagined acceptable to excuse my lack of writing. I imagined the night sky sparkled eternally around me. When I looked out of a little circular window on my imagined space craft to watch a minor comet, or glowing bit of space debris shoot across the distant night, I imagined there was something so profound and extraordinary about the universe that I didn’t–couldn’t–understand, that it was OK if I never wrote again, because the truths were all suddenly different. I was no longer a writer because I was no longer on my home planet. I was in a little ship without earthly concerns. I was very OK with this.

I used to like riding in airplanes, but not anymore. Preparing for an airplane ride is an uncomfortable hassle, followed by a series of ever-tightening restrictions on the body’s natural shapes and excretions. Traveling by airplane requires too much forethought. The correct amount of fluid ounces, the easiest shoes, the emptying of all the carry-on pockets to remove stray lighters or pepper spray. It’s a too-restricted form of traveling for anyone who hopes to soak and savor messages exchanged in spaces in between spaces. One must plan for the discomfort of an airport in advance. Somewhere between boarding the plane and arriving at the next airport, brain function bottlenecks. We become essential again, primitive. Language is obstructed by growing discomfort. Etiquette lies somewhere, flattened in some rural area after being ejected from the aircraft. No matter how many times I clean my hands, my fingernails are always black after flying. But a spaceship allows for the freedom to choose what you carry, and the spaceship is designed for long distances and relies on sharp mental faculties. I had a checklist for my perfect spaceship-driven story arc. I dreamed of strong female pilots, conflicts and tensions on different planets. There should be at least one elaborate heist to get the blood pumping. Romance was a take-it-or-leave-it. Honestly, I could do without.

Before I was into outer space, I was into oceans. There weren’t enough programs on the ocean to keep me satisfied. I watched everything I could find, and then I watched them all again. This is also a bad habit of mine: I like things I’ve seen before. It was a wonderful distraction from writing! I would do it again if I could grant myself the permission. I watched all the ocean documentaries and then I watched the documentaries on life on earth. I read about giant squids and took myself my favorite museum exhibits alone, where a winding ramp took me down through a blue display of deep ocean life and backwards into history, when ocean plants were as strange as those on distant planets. I thought, if all this doesn’t bring me inspiration, it at least will bring me pleasure, one of the rare feelings during a period of sustained creative inactivity. I was obsessed with finding either the ancestor of all life on the planet, down in the deep sea where we all emerged and became erect and walked as giants on dry land, or with imagining the future hybrids that would emerge from a fragmented society. My progression into a period of not writing was a movement from the first sparks of sentient life on earth, to contemplating an advanced, utopian society. The story of my procrastination was the story of life itself.

In time, I began to live in darkness.

The late, exhausting hours spent ignoring my deadlines and responsibilities branched out like neurons, until I was aware of every minute blinking in and out, and of the circular behavior of thought patterns. This pushed me into a premature period of writing again, and I wasn’t ready for it. At night in the oceans, coral polyps bonk around with each other (sex) while the host bodies do the dirty work waging turf disputes (conflict). They encroach on their neighbors, throbbing and clawing with their intestinal webs, devouring the hard shell of the adjacent body. I shouldn’t have forced my writing to happen during my not writing period, because during those nights, my mind turned into coral. It chewed up old ideas and turned them to dust, spitting out fragments of weak flesh and new buddings. I watched on in horror. Everything I made during the daylight hours was turned into food for the more aggressive and terrifying part of the creative brain, that insatiable, horrific critic that is most active in the evenings. This signified something important that I have taken many years to learn: when you’re not working, own it. Be the observer, the normal person, the sponge. Don’t be a writer or an artist when you are supposed to be taking a break to learn.

This was a wonderful piece of wisdom to discover, even if I have to relearn it each time. And in spite of, or maybe because of this, I turned into a night writer. Which I hate. I prefer daylight activity. I photosynthesize like a houseplant with ideas in periods of writing. But when I was finally plugged back into writing again, the days were taken over by the crushing to-do lists I had accumulated while I shirked and procrastinated my responsibilities. Nighttime was when I felt some sense of freedom from what I expected of myself, and as long as I wasn’t lying down and thinking at the same time, I discovered I could write again, just a little bit. Many nights, at a time when I would happily be headed off to bed, an idea struck my head like a book falling from a shelf, and I knew I couldn’t just lay there like an idiot. (The biggest lie I still tell myself is “I’ll remember that tomorrow”.)

What I discovered about this process seems, in retrospect, like an inevitable evolution. In the nighttime, I was closer to the color of space and the color of the deep ocean. Being surrounded by the dark, even in the light polluted city, renewed my sense of freedom from the world. At night, in my little apartment, in a submarine or a spacecraft gliding through a weightless environment, I could imagine I was free from the self-generated pressure to write and write well. Responsibility, commitments, deadlines, criticism, and self-doubt all disappeared behind me as I cruised further away from the scattering dust of earth into as much blank space as I could dream. It’s unfortunate that I am this kind of writer, who can’t snatch up and utilize free moments like acorns falling to the yard, because I need much more space and patience than any creative person should be allowed. So this is what I’m getting at: I’m writing now, and I’m going to post more finished work up on the website. I promise it won’t all be publishable work, or even work that is polished (to my obsessive Virgo standards) but it will be something.

In the meantime, if you have any recommendations for your favorite space and sea books, TV shows, or movies, I will save them in a list for the next time I stop writing.






Image courtesy of Studios Inc

I’m going to tell you about my first nightmare. I walked up the stairs to my room, the first room I was ever conscious of belonging to me, of being my space in a house. There was a creature over my bed. It was a skeleton, and it was flashing colors, jerking wildly on unconnected bones, and it was making my bed. This is the first nightmare—maybe even the first dream—I remember. Of course I had this long before my natural anxiety latched on to everything plausible a naturally anxious person could be afraid of. What makes me tell you this is the eerie resemblance between Ricky Allman’s Domestic Dusk to my first encounter with oneiric fear.

For those of you who are still with me in the second paragraph: Allman’s exploration into the nightmare realm involves genetic modification, emotionally reactive technology, and colorful skeletons in impossible human poses. The paintings strike a comparison between the infrastructure of our bodies, and a city experiencing a sudden surge of technological resources. Closing in on the rich details of the paintings adds to the mounting stack of questions. Are we floating in space? What are the laws of physics in this dimension? Is that a body or a machine? Little is revealed in the minutia that cannot be grasped by taking the whole thing in at once. That doesn’t mean the details aren’t worth considering. Allman has spent enough time on them to reward the viewers approach. Every inch of the canvas is a traffic jam of information, potential opportunities to dive deeper into the microscope of Allman’s mind, to see exactly how this painting, these ideas, work at their atomic level.

Thrumming synth filled the gallery on opening night. Allman’s distorted speech joined a looping musical component, played live on keyboards and computers hooked up to pedals on the floor. A projection hit the two white walls behind the set up, dragging the audience through prairies and mountains and cloud spattered skies. The accompanying music was droney, panicked, and built complex relationships that looped and self-complicated. The more the notes repeated, the less predictable the track became. Such is the method Allman employs in his brushstroke too. Patterns are shattered by bursts of rhythmic color and sound.

On my second visit, the gallery was much quieter. The speaker between the angled walls emitted something in Italian, and then a loop of spaceship beeps that were quiet enough to tune out. Allman’s paintings and music capture a specific anxiety about the evolution of humanity and technology. (Experiencing the music and paintings combined, I couldn’t help but remember the film Koyaanisqatsi, that this is what it would would look like if Francis Ford Copalla took a bunch of acid and shot the film in 2090.)

Seven Simultaneous Sunsets must refer to the number of pieces in the show (five paintings, an installation, and the musical projections) and to Allman’s fixation on unacceptable earth phenomenon. In every piece, Allman imagines seven ways humanity could sink below the horizon of the imaginable, into the dark nightmare of the distant future, where genetic editing, technology sentience, and omniscient experience are the next stage of evolution. If we can build a better city, we can build a better body.


Ricky Allman

Seven Simultaneous Sunsets

At Studios Inc

Until October 14th

Wide Angle

For his first solo exhibition in the United States, French photographer Nicolas Dhervillers introduces Kansas City to monumental landscapes on the bridge between modern day and history. Big, dramatic photographs contain cinematic magic imbued in the dark light of the landscapes. These require slow—preferably solo—viewing, and are best experienced at their full intended scale. Inspired by hard-hitting landscape painters, Dhervillers channels the emptiness of Gustave Courbet, the depth of Claude Lorrain, and the gray menace of Andrew Wyeth. The eye is naturally fixated on the human subjects, but the real subject looms dark and heavy in the rest of the environment. Albert Camus wrote in The Myth of Sisyphus, “Man stands face to face with the irrational. He feels within him his longing for happiness and for reason. The absurd is born of this confrontation between human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.”

The human inability to contain the world seeps out of the images and into the viewer. It is an intuition that translates from the art into every rational being, into everyone who has ever sought to understand the elusive, chaotic heart of the natural world. In the photo series “Detachment”, Dhervillers explores the figure as he faces vast and unyielding entropy, even when it coexists with modern developments. There is fog, dense greenery in the recesses of a wooded area, empty stretches on a gray road, and a single figure caught in an uncertain moment. It often appears to be the edge of winter.


Many of the images clearly embrace contemporary visual hooks of a fictionalized cinematic style—a cabin goes up in flames as a 70s era Citroën coupe cruises away down the winding valley road. These hooks sometimes feel too clever, but can be forgiven if only because it does not diminish the pleasure of taking it in. Period specific clothes and modern technology make some of the photographs feel exempt from time—part today and part yesterday. The two men on the side of a shattered mountain certainly don’t belong in the same frame as a yellow backhoe, but it works, because this is theater. There are narrative threads to follow in every image, and sometimes the technical digital magic can feel heavy handed, causing the suspension of disbelief to crack, just a little. In this medium, and with such an emphasis on perfectly executed stage setting, any infinitesimal flaw in the digital process won’t go unnoticed by a searching eye.


Nature, the world and all its familiarity, can leave us to our terrible solitude without warning. There is another passage from The Myth of Sisyphus that feels an appropriate philosophical descriptor for the work in the Dhervillers exhibition. It is this: “The world evades us because it becomes itself again. That stage scenery masked by habit becomes again what it is. It withdraws at a distance from us. Just as there are days when under the familiar face of a woman, we see as a stranger her we had loved months or years ago, perhaps we shall come even to desire what suddenly leaves us so alone. But the time has not yet come. Just one thing: that denseness and that strangeness of the world is the absurd.”

Indeed it is. For Nicolas Dhervillers to take on the conceptual weight of these philosophies while achieving perfection in his craft is definitely one of the quintessential struggles of humanity.

Nicolas Dhervillers

At Sherry Leedy Contemporary Art and Cerbera Gallery

Until October 21st

Bad Bitch: Women, Autonomy, and Embracing Villainy



Angela Davis


One day, I finished being good. Like a timer on a clock it just ran out. I was crossing the street to my car after a meeting with an energy-draining person who did not captivate my attention, but I had been too polite to adhere to my formerly imposed hour-long cap. Because I was too concerned with being polite, being liked, and ending on a positive note, the meeting lasted three hours and threw off my plans for the rest of the afternoon. Why am I like this? I wondered. What compelled me to seek someone else’s approval to such an extent, I was willing to sacrifice my own agenda for someone I didn’t even find interesting? “That’s enough, Raab,” I said to myself—a adage I had cultivated to cope with the amplified spiral of chatter my brain turns on in moments of self-criticism. “You don’t have to be good.”

In fiction, a hero is one who practices good behavior, who does the right thing, at times to the detriment of their own health, happiness, and well-being. Good behavior is selfless and just. The villain, being the antithesis of the hero, therefore must be the pinnacle of bad behavior. Villains get to be selfish, even if their selfishness harms other people, law and order, and society at large. Villains don’t let their plans and ideas be corrupted by societies expectations, whereas heroes are forever at the mercy of what society demands must be done to preserve a moral way of life. This is not to say villains don’t live by some ethical code, and in the non-fiction world, women who exercise Bad behavior often have complex moral compasses. In the context of our society, a society dominated in most areas by men, bad behavior from women translates to rejecting the norms of this condition. Women who behave badly are not women who behave poorly: they are women who behave in accordance with their autonomy. By this rhetoric alone, one would be inclined to believe misbehaving is a state of childish spite or bitchiness. But to examine the ways women misbehave on a societal level and not and interpersonal one, we must distinguish between the two concepts.

Society was built on the backs of well-behaved women. A girl on good behavior is not too opinionated, not too loud, and not too brash. Good behavior is sweet and sexy, but not slutty. Healthy and smart but not egotistical. Good behavior is letting things be explained, letting things happen, and reacting with grace. Good behavior is giving without expecting return, obeying laws that are put in place for our own safety. It is saying “OK” to things that run opposite to your own agenda or goals. Good behavior is letting others get ahead, even if it’s your turn. For years, this is how I tried to behave. I admonished myself for exclaiming my beliefs in mixed company. I endured having things I already understood explained to me so I wouldn’t bruise another’s feelings. I kept my sexcapades on the DL. The consequence of trying to be on good behavior at all times is feeling like you’re not being good enough, modest enough, or polite enough. What I was really doing was fighting against my instincts to be myself because I thought that version of me was unattractive to too many people. While others were benefiting from my good behavior, I was suffering under the weight of my own self-criticism, one I had developed from borrowed concepts of women’s expected behavior in society. Choosing to be yourself at the risk of displeasing people is, at least for women and minorities, a radical act of bad behavior.

Who benefits from good behavior, specifically, my good behavior, and the good behavior of women everywhere? The day my dutiful meter ran out was the day I really asked myself this question for the first time. But as I thought about it, a more accurate question took its place: who profits from my good behavior? My lifelong drive to please people has resulted in a certain amount of cultivated naïveté, a reaction I employ because I want to see the best intentions in people who commandeer my time. This is a learned behavior, and one I, as I approach my 30th year, am unlearning every day. That afternoon when I felt the last of my good behavior wane and disappear in a feeble poof, I knew exactly who profited. They had a name, a face I spent watching talk for the last three hours, an agenda, people to rely my information to for monetary gain (which I would not benefit from). But this person was neither the beginning nor the end of the line of profiteering entities, entities I had tried to please but was somehow always coming up short.

I woke up on November 9th, 2016 feeling like someone I loved had died in the early hours of the morning. I spent the next two weeks numbing myself against the news and glancing sideways at strangers in the same room. I felt there was nobody I could trust unless they were in my closest inner circle of friends. As a white person from a family in an average economic bracket, it was a humbling and eye-opening two weeks. For the first time, I began to experience the world I imagine people of color, transgender individuals, poor people, atypical and differently-abled people live in every single day. I have never felt so empathic, yet totally distant from the people society has crushing expectations for. Never before had I realized the full extent of who gets to decide who has rights and who doesn’t, and it pissed me off so bad, I immediately began to make changes. I doubled down on replacing judgment with empathy. I showed the people in my life I cared about them and their well-being. And I stopped trying to please people for good.

The first thing I changed when I decided I wasn’t going to be good anymore had the most immediate results: I decided I wasn’t going to step aside for men when I stepped out the door for a walk. It seems innocent enough, but I’ve been shoulder checked by a number of guys who I’m pretty sure were unaware of my existence until they ran right into me. I’ve always been a non-physical person. I don’t like concerts or crowds or touching strangers, but this silent statement declaring my due space in the world flared up more than one temper in the men who walked into me. (Even the statement “they walked into me” runs counter to the way I’ve thought of myself all my life.) I expected this to happen. I’ve been yelled at from cars, from the sidewalk, in stores, and pretty much everywhere else considered a public space in the city. I’m used to ignoring cat-callers and their increasingly agitated and sometimes violent attempts to get my attention. I know there are men out there who feel so entitled to the world around them, they won’t even step aside for someone on the sidewalk. I spent 27 years stepping aside for them without a second thought, but now, it’s my turn. The responses I get range from polite stepping aside, to muttered slurs under breath, to aggressive confrontation. The only solution for me is to keep walking, but I’m aware of the danger this puts me in. Bad behavior is knowing there could be consequences, but sticking to your moral compass even though it could upset someone else’s carefully balanced ego. I encourage safety and situational awareness for everyone who isn’t a straight white male, but the problem of social entitlement is not caused by the people in our nation who are routinely and viciously oppressed.

No one knows how old the narrative is, but society values tough men, compliant women, quiet Black people, birth gender conformity, tragic White heroes, standard beauty, and sexual agreeability. As long as we stick to these rules, our good behavior is rewarded—not with advocacy or social gain—but with tolerance. good behavior doesn’t move the needle closer to equality or understanding, it only performs the status quo. A conscious choice to behave in a way counter to these expectations results in overblown consequences that unevenly mirror what good behavior gains. I grew up with many strong and loud women who were shamed or cut off by their bosses, their mothers or fathers, and their peers. Don’t cause a fuss. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t argue. Don’t stomp your feet or ask for more or expect a return on your efforts. Do what you are supposed to do and take pride in the knowledge that you made life easier for someone else. Phrases like these have a way of sticking in our heads until we absorb them as truths, but when we embrace bad behavior, when we ask for what we need instead of wait for things to be bestowed upon us, we see these words only as tools to keep us on good behavior.

In 2014 I wrote a criticism of a young woman who had her face Photoshopped into different versions of beauty in countries all over the world. The project was meant to challenge beauty standards, but when I saw the project pop up in Harpers Bazaar, Cosmo, Elle, and other traditionally female targeted magazines, I wondered how the project rose to the challenge. In the critique, I concluded that it didn’t, that any momentum the project originally had ended as soon as the spread appeared in the entities that heavily control the feminine image-agenda. This was the first time I explored how even when our intentions are radical, women are funneled into being perceived as practicing good behavior when it comes to media presentation. The young woman agreed to have her project published in the same magazines that once published a headline that read: “Here’s How Many Calories a Day Victoria’s Secret Model Taylor Hill Eats to Look Like This.” The woman set out to explore standards of beauty throughout the world in order to challenge the status quo of today, but by agreeing to publish in such magazines, remained on her best behavior without moving the needle away from pervasive female stereotypes.

Women misbehave by being themselves. For young women, self-awareness is inextricable from self-loathing, at least at first. When I was a teenager, I became aware of myself by becoming aware of how people looked at and treated me, and these were for the most part negative experiences. I was unaware of the expectations I was meant to meet in society. As a skinny white girl, I was privileged in many ways, but some of this privilege was connected to the image of the ideal sexualized woman, and I was twelve or thirteen when this actually dawned on me. When the grown men around you start to say “you should be a model,” it’s flattering until you begin to understand how models are treated, how they treat their own bodies, and how they are expected to release their autonomy to corporate agendas. The first thing a young woman realizes about models is that she will never be one, because she will never be good enough. It’s too much responsibility for a young woman—to grow up and be self-sufficient, strong, smart, autonomous, while protecting yourself from the onslaught of beasts that expect your image to yield something that only benefits others. Good behavior is doing both: growing up and being strong, but giving yourself piece by piece to society that demands your image, your body, your beauty, be used to their exclusive gain. This makes bad behavior, villainous behavior, an attractive draw from an early age. But it is a struggle to achieve unless you are totally impervious to pain and criticism. For women of color, autonomy is a risk with consequences that are multiple times scarier than what I face as a white girl. When a woman of color started the civil rights movement, the reaction from society was violent and motivated by fear. The simple act of not doing anything when something was expected of Rosa Parks launched a battle for black women to fight for decades to come. Society expects a different set of good behaviors from them—quiet, out of the spotlight, wise only when it benefits white heroes, and above all: grateful for any slim opportunity. Young women of color have experienced the cruelest duality of sexualization and suppression by society, it’s difficult to imagine how they manage the strength to push back during a time when it’s so easy to become exhausted.

When I was growing up, under the wing of second wave feminists and part-time lesbians, I learned the power of sex. The problem was, like it is for many girls, it was not a power I discovered myself and therefore had no control. It’s a power that is not consciously operated by adolescents, like a machine with sensitive controls, but it is one that magnetizes men of all ages. There probably isn’t a single woman on the planet who could avoid this entirely during the years she grew into understanding her sexuality. My experiences taught me that young women are gifted something powerful and menacing, something they should be careful using and exercise extreme caution when wielding. I was taught sex complicates every relationship, because it is something you can never take back. It is something the men you sleep with own. Sex was about giving up a part of myself, not gaining a part of someone else. We have been teaching young men and women two completely different things about sex for so long, I still feel guilt for past sexual experiences that I should have tossed off long ago. When I wonder if the men of those moments feel the same way about it, I feel a sick and empty sense that this is a uniquely feminine guilt, that for many women, it’s so hard to let go of sexual guilt because of the way we were taught to think about using our bodies. Certainly, I can’t think about this problem without linking it to LGBT youth, who must experience the same kind of guilt and conflict at the start of their personal development. These issues are tricky to separate into male/female/straight/gay/trans/etc exclusivity, but I’m trying to say I don’t believe the way we talk to young people about sex and their bodies has traditionally been in favor of anyone besides straight cis men and their experience of intercourse and sexual prowess. I wasn’t really aware sex was something I could enjoy until I got to my third or fourth partner, but until then, I never questioned that what I did was for someone else. And this problem is not unique to my life. It’s a symptom of a culture that associates good behavior with giving without asking to receive. Women who demand to be reciprocated for what they give, or worse, expect good things to happen to them without giving anything in return, are the villains of many real life and fictional tales. This comes all the way down to basic human rights. Women who expect to be in control of their bodies, their decisions, their autonomy, even their voting rights, are punishable in the eyes of capitalism and sanctioned by the law.

In contemporary society, women are demonized for owning their sexuality. The expectation to be virginal—if not anatomically, than at least soulfully—is an unsustainable pressure on young women in particular. We see villainous women wielding their charm and sexual authority and are meant to believe it is further evidence of their immorality, of their lack of restraint when using this powerful tool. We interpret villainous sex as women who are less discerning about who they sleep with and who they wield sexual power over. Sexual contentment—whether or not the woman perceives what she is doing as sexual—is disqualifying in almost every field outside Hollywood. Sexualizing women is only acceptable if it’s non-consensual. Vanessa Williams began her illustrious career by being on her best behavior. The 1983 Miss America was pressured to forfeit her title when Penthouse published racy photos of the young model. The photographs were taken consensually and published without her authorization, causing the Miss America committee and fans to question her credibility as the crown winner. Williams returned her title and could easily have faded into the ether of shame the public projected onto her image. Instead, Williams turned her bad behavior into a successful career as a singer, author, actress, and award winner. She defied the media and public expectations of self-flagellation after the controversy, turning the tables on how young women are meant to carry themselves after this level of public admonishment. The time-honored tradition of using women’s sexuality and consent to ruin their lives and careers continues at a steady rate with the rise of social media, because shame and fear are qualities of good behavior. At the time of the backlash, Williams no doubt felt an unbelievable weight of discouragement over the storm, but her decision to own her choices, her sexuality, and her status made her the hero of her own story and a role model for bad girls everywhere. In 2011, Michelle Obama did the unthinkable: after all the backlash she received for wearing sleeveless dresses, she had the nerve to wear short shorts on vacation. Of course, the shadowy nay-sayers on the internet lashed out saying this was not appropriate attire for a First Lady. Photos of Mrs. Obama in the racy garments show the hem of the shorts about four inches above her knee—hardly what I would consider short shorts by any stretch. Nevertheless, the fact that a woman in power exposed a little more of her skin, more than 25% of Huffington Post poll voters were comfortable with, caused a knick in her credibility and image. (Meanwhile, Vladimir Putin rides around horses shirtless and is heralded as a champion for masculinity.) Femininity, specifically one woman’s ownership of femininity, specifically a black woman’s ownership of her body, has potentially damaging consequences for a woman in power. Society treats Melania Trump the same way. Although her whiteness allows her much more leniency, her clothes and body have been sexualized and celebrated or condemned before her intelligence and capabilities were even considered. Her evolution as an individual is only almost as interesting as the career of the man she is associated with. Image is praised before autonomy, and women who flip this expectation are automatically at risk of public scorn.

A villain is, above all else, familiar with rejection. She has been told no so many times in her life, she has been told she is not good enough, it no longer means anything to her greater agenda. This frees her to go on her way the way she has learned to function: without support. This might be the definitive difference between the hero and the villain. The hero is used to being told yes, while the villain is used to opportunities being withheld and has no more disillusion about why. I bring this up to address the new realities of rejection in a technological society, part of which includes online dating. Everyone gets rejected at some point, but with the rise of dating apps and other means of romantic communication, we’re seeing the phenomenon of men who have perceived themselves as heroes of their own world for most of their lives burst into flames at the first hint of rejection from a potential partner. Young women are more confident and secure than ever before, and the expectation for women to blush or contradict with self-effacement after a compliment is not as realistic as it used to be. The amazing thing about this phenomenon is we can provide evidence of male fragility to a thousand people in a second, with the press of a key. Women misbehave by being confident in their romantic lives, and not cutting themselves down for men to rebuild with compliments and words of assurance. Confidence for women is becoming, if not for the first time, at least for the largest public, self-generating. This poses a threat to individuals who rely on searching for insecurities to gain something from a relationship. The contrast between young women who fight each day for things we shouldn’t have to earn–basic respect, equal pay, access to healthcare–and young men who lose it when a woman says “no thank you” to a second date is a micro study in the social order that grew out of women being pressured into good behavior.

I could go on. I could talk about the wage gap, the fragility of masculinity, America’s prison complex, the raging political fire that is sure to grow. But bad behavior is tiring and not exactly rewarded. Young women, grown women, women of all colors, all gender and sexual identities, it’s time to consider your good behavior, the context of your manners. Ask yourself who profits from it, and are you seeing enough, or any, of that profit in your own life. It’s time to rethink your place in society. It’s time to use the power you have, not the power you’ve been allowed to wield in a designated space at appropriate times. It’s time to misbehave.


Counter Culture: Justin Beachler’s Babalon Working

In many ways, the late 2010’s are starting to resemble the 1960s. There is a new attitude of political distrust and a bitter sense that the country is trying to revert back to values that espouse racism, sexism, and recently, neo-fascism. While artists are busy finding ways to fight the swell of hate overtaking our country, Justin Beachler is bringing back hippie era coping mechanisms of occult magic, stoner dens, and tye-dye. His solo show, Babalon Working at Bunker Center for the Arts plays with the light and dark sides of 60s counterculture in an incense scented installation.

We met at his home studio to discuss the upcoming show at Bunker and take a look at the work in progress. “I was very interested in the 60s and psychedelic culture when I was younger. I’ve been making work about it since I was in Charlotte Street in 2013, creating Head Shop with Tim Brown from OK Mountain.”—an artist run collective in Austin. I didn’t see Head Shop, but I did see Beachler’s Old & In The Way last year at Haw Contemporary. The display of homemade water pipes made from flavored beverage bottles was congruent with Beachler’s interest in clashing colors and inelegant display. Haphazard as it looks, his aesthetic has specific origins. “When I was a kid I spent a lot of time in head shops and music stores. It was a weird capitalistic form of subculture. Everything in all the stores looked the same, with the same posters, the same weird dragon wizard holding a glass orb. And after I made the funny work, I went back to the darker side of psychedelic culture that I remember from my childhood.” Beachler sites one particular experience that awakened him to the culture of drug use. “My dad’s a biker, and I remember being in these biker houses with him, in spaces with Easy Rider centerfolds everywhere. Once, I found a medical clamp with macramé woven to the bottom, with a roach clamped on the end. ‘What’s that?’ I asked. My dad stopped bringing me after that.” Pulling from this formative memory, Beachler reconstructed what he saw that day for Babalon Working, tying his own macramé helixes and found feathers onto medical clips, now with sticks of incense pinched between the teeth instead of the last puff of a joint.

In his own words, Beachler describes his work as “frivolous and irresponsible.” Exploring the conceptual potential in consumer objects in a time of great global distress is a way of watering down the conversations we need to be having. “The concept’s I’m working with aid in nothing but distraction from the serious cultural problems currently at hand,” he says of his work. The Internet has certainly provided us fantastic tools for distractions, and Beachler uses his Instagram feed to layer hyper-colorful and erotic stimuli into images of blended meaning. These posts are flavored like a bad acid trip, shrill and lurid enough to wipe all thoughts of political outrage from your mind for a moment during the scroll. Beachler’s posts are hard to untangle on a little screen and feel more like sketches of the finer art that enters the gallery. His posts contrast the phenomenon of using Instagram to sell a twee bohemian lifestyle, as many successful accounts portray the sun flared wanderlust dreams of the flower children. Beachler’s psychedelic/occult/erotica aesthetic leans into the digital age with a well-curated false reality.

The show’s title Babalon Working refers to a “sex magick ritual” performed by L. Ron Hubbard and Jack Parsons in 1947 based on Aleister Crowley’s Scarlet Woman. The ritual was designed to manifest the liberated woman archetype, a stand-in for the Whore of Babylon. (Parsons felt he achieved this when he met Marjorie Cameron, but the second part of the ritual—impregnation—was unsuccessful.) Beachler relies heavily on myth and assumption to inform the audiences experience of his installation, which evokes a ritual recently completed in a dark area of the gallery. “Everyone has a different part of the story before they arrive at the gallery. I gave my friends one piece of information, the press another, and the gallery another. Nobody walks in with the full story.” He cites a party with the Terry Radio crew before he installed the bongs at Haw. One party-goer walked in and smiled, turned to a friend and said “We smoked out of those.”

Though the work lacks real authenticity (Beachler was born in 1981) it is palpable to an age group that grew up with the same occult culture curiosity and access to the Internet in the early aughts. “The psychedelic thing is making a comeback, and the Internet is full of it,” says Beachler, who grew up reading the classic drug experience review site It’s a joke to equate a few tye-dyed tapestries and beaded curtains with any anti-capitalist and anti-consumer sentiment today, but Beachler sees this as a source of irony for today’s generation. “We’re using irony to fight a crippling sense of or hopelessness for the future. Irony is one of the only conceptual forms that feels right at this moment.”


First Days at Art Farm

June 2nd, 2017

I arrived at Art Farm yesterday late afternoon. I claimed my studio—a square hut at the edge of the property—and cleaned all the raccoon poop and old junk from the previous resident. My hut has no electricity or internet or water or a bathroom, but it’s a good hut. I’ve been trying to write and I realized I didn’t have any coffee this morning. I’m considering walking all the way back to drink some, but then I’ll have to walk out here again. The walking isn’t really what I’m worried about, it’s needing to use a bathroom and being so far away. Getting old is like that. I’m happy to get down to writing business again. How long has it been since I produced a complete story? A year? Six months? Too long, but the graduate school application and rejection ordeal had me thrown way off course. I thought by now I would have chosen a school and started to prepare to leave for a new city to focus all my energy on writing. But nothing is happening the way I pictured it.

I sat down to write in my hut and I listened to the birds and rabbits chirping in the grass. Women’s voices muttered outside the walls and I turned to the new residents coming to check out the hut. Nobody was there. I looked out the windows, the grass stretching for acres before meeting another landmark for civilization. I turned back to the computer and a half-baked sentence I was working with when I heard the muttering again. I stood and walked to the doorway to prepare for visitors, but again nobody was coming my way. I walked around the hut to see if there was something I had missed. Only empty birds nests, a white sheet hanging from a tree, and a machete stuck in the wood. Could it have been the wind rippling the thin metal blade? The empty gown in the tree? Was is coming from the walls of the hut?

I left to make coffee to prevent a withdrawal headache and burned my hand on hot water as I cleaned the machine. Mold grew from the filter left in over the winter, white and blooming like the cotton tufts that decorate the driveway. I ran clean water through and washed the entire thing again. There were no filters, so I tore off a piece of paper towel and tucked it in the funnel. I carried my coffee carefully back through the tall grass, the sun now burning the dew off the farm in the late morning, and sat back down at the laptop. The open door rattled against the brick I set out to prop it open and birds chattered in the tree outside my window. It is windy on the prairie. No women sang.

When the sun appears on the other side of the hut, I pack my things and head back to the farmhouse. I’m too slow to see the animals that dart off the path into the blanket of grass, but they are small and timid and, obviously, very fast. I think they might be rabbits. It gets dark in a way I’m not used to. The sky is everywhere, unbroken by buildings or tall trees or highways. When the sun goes down it takes a long time for the light to go with it. When it is finally dark, it is prairie dark, rich and infinite, the door to space flung wide. I forgot what real dark is like. It’s coming back to me. This last year I thought about Anne Boyer’s Not Writing poem a lot. What is not writing when you’re a writer? Does it make you something else, even when you spend all your time thinking about writing, and studying it, and feeling your way through it? I also thought about productivity and guilt. I have discussions with art school friends about this. When you are not in studio you are not moving forward, and when you are not moving forward you will be left behind. This was our mantra in college. Every moment of spare time, no matter what your personal environment is like or what life changes are happening, must be spent in studio making things. I am always writing, but I am not always producing great and interesting work. This is a hard ongoing reality for artists, because we compare our worst work to other artists’ best work, then admonish ourselves for not being brilliant on the first try. Does this ever change? So if I spent a year not being brilliant or attentive in the work I was making, it’s still a fairly small amount of time in the big picture. You can be not writing or not creating for as long as you need to get your thoughts in order, but it doesn’t make one not a writer or not an artist.


June 3rd, 2017

This morning I got up at 7:30 and had cereal. Nobody else was moving around the house until I was almost finished, then another resident came down and we listened to the news together. I walked to my hut and spent 30 minutes watching birds through the binoculars. There is a brilliant fire breasted Baltimore oriole that sits in the nearby tree. I watched a male brown-head Cowbird try and woo a female. How lucky! Then I watched three Cowbird’s try their luck at the same time, standing in a row on a T-post behind the female. They groomed themselves, puffed out, and tiptoed with backs straight and their heads tucked into their chests, and made high popping calls for attention, which I have been practicing with my cheeks to confuse the flock. When the female turned to look at them, they all pointed their beaks up and stretched up tall, flattening their wings against their iridescent bodies. She wasn’t impressed, or perhaps the mood was all wrong. When they fly, they produce an alarm clock rattle that is hard to ignore.

Starting to write again is strange–both new and familiar. I have good energy and willingness to sit down two or three times a day and work, taking short breaks for lunch and to recharge my laptop. Whatever is coming out of this is mixed, but at least I’m working those brain muscles again. Honestly, the months leading up to this have been difficult, and my energy was all caught up in not writing affairs. It’s good to have time, space, and a routine. Everyday I get up, eat breakfast, got to the hut and write, come back to the house and eat a sandwich, charge, go back to the hut and write, come back for dinner, and sometimes go back to the hut and write until the sun pierces the windows and bakes my brain.

Send good thoughts if you have some to spare. I’ll take what I write in the next two weeks to my writing group and have complete fiction up here again in no time.

Blood for Babies

The nurse marks a yellow smear of iodine on my vein and tapes the needle down. In a moment, the blood starts to flow into a clear bag. The bag rests near enough to my hand I can touch it and it surprises me by being warm. Of course it would be warm. It is the temperature of my body, of my flushed cheeks when the handsome nurse across the room runs his hand through his exhausted hair. My nurse gives me a rubber ball to squeeze and moves the blood bag away from my hand, pretending not to notice I have it pinched between my fingers. The warmth is gone. I give the rubber ball a series of pumps and feel the rush of heat trail down my arm.

“I try to do this every year,” I say to my nurse, a girl with blue eye shadow and red scrubs. She leans against the machine and crosses her arms. “My dad is a blood donor. He used to tell us about the cookies he got afterward. It made me want to donate when I was young.”

My nurse gazes up at the face of the clock. “Uh-huh. We have Oreo’s.”

There is a pretty round nurse chatting with a blonde square-headed man reclining in the chair next to mine. The man on the donation chair has a red blanket across his lap, which adds a certain sweetness to the bond between him and the nurse. Before I got to the donation center, someone—I like to think it was the nurse—tucked him in. He’s hooked up to a clunky machine that makes pops and hisses as it extracts and separates an oily yellow fluid from his blood. He and the nurse are watching a music video on her phone, I guess, to try and keep the man awake.

“My blood type is O negative,” I say.

“We’ll do a test later to determine your type.”

“I know my type. It’s O negative.” I squeeze the rubber ball again, feel the prick of the needle in my stretching vein.

“If that’s the case, your blood will go to our baby bag.”

“Your what?”

She glances down and kneads the bag, massaging into place the blood that falls evenly down, down.

“The baby bag. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Your blood will go to babies.”


No more handsome nurse. I can see him in his regular clothes outside the window that faces the parking lot. He wears a messenger bag across his chest and is maybe younger than I guessed before. Twenty-eight?

“How long until I can donate again?” I ask casually. But I’m not smooth about it. She already saw me checking out the handsome nurse and gives me a dirty look.

“Sixty days,” she says. I squeeze my ball and check the blood bag. It starts looking full.

Two bags slowly fill up with the clear yellow platelets in the chair next to mine. If I saw this blonde man anywhere else, I would guess he was uncomfortably close to passing out.

“You’re almost done,” says his nurse. The man smiles, his grin a little dopey from all the extraction.

“Do a lot of babies need blood?” I ask. The donation has me lightheaded too.

My nurse shrugs. “More than you might expect.”

I don’t know what I expect. I expect babies to be healthy, to not need blood from strangers my age, who only walked in one afternoon because it occurred to them giving blood was something that must be done once in a while. Do I expect babies to need blood from other babies? It forces me to consider the age and plasticity of my blood, which has recycled itself for twenty-seven years, which I have dumped senseless amounts of toxins into an embarrassing number of times. If I have any relationship with my blood, it can be summed up in one word: careless.

“What about that stuff, the platelets?” I nod to the machine making quieter sounds now as it slows down the process.

“Spoken for at St. Luke’s General. A patient there needs this particular batch.” She seems bored with my conversation so I hold back my next series of questions. Together we watch the blood stream out of my arm and into the bag that will be transported to some babies, somewhere near us or far away.

In another ten minutes my bag is full and the nurse pulls the needle from my arm. She covers the entry wound with gauze and lifts my arm above my head. I am instructed to stay like that until the bleeding stops. When the bleeding stops, I am escorted to the snack area and given a bag of pretzels and a bottle of apple juice. The platelet man is at the table, eating a Nutter Butter, watching a cooking show. We sit there like kids, woozy, peckish, under the watchful eyes of the daytime nurses disinfecting the chairs we left behind. The small room smells like a hospital.

“How you feeling?” he asks. Without the blanket covering him, I see he’s in blue scrubs. He slurs, just a little.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ve done this lots of times.” He smiles another foolish grin and I wonder how long it takes the body to replenish the oily matter that binds our blood together. We eat and I watch the cooking show. It’s something I know how to do. Eventually, the man in blue scrubs who donated platelets gets up and wobbles off down a hall that leads to the back of the building. I sit alone a while longer and eat a second bag of snacks while the women on TV spread icing on a chocolate cake and engage in inane banter. Nobody comes or goes.

Ghost Post: Brad Hagen

There are 65 million refugees on our planet. We are currently facing the worst displacement crisis since the second world war, and America has decided to turn away people who are fleeing their homes in search of a better life. When I read Brad Hagen’s reaction to the temporary ban on travelers and immigrants in seven Muslim countries, I had to wonder if it’s possible to encourage people to learn and explore the ways of other cultures and religions without submitting to anger. Brad’s self-directed pursuit of understanding Iranian culture moves me to believe a more inclusive world is possible.


Iran in America

By Brad Hagen

Partly due to my own curiosity, and partly from being immersed in a community of Iranians at a young age, I’ve had a long standing love for Iranian culture- from its history and artistic traditions to the contemporary aesthetic of Persian pop culture, fashion, and the fascinating events that have shaped/are shaping the Iranian identity. I’ve been planning a two week tour of Iran for a while now. I’ve been doing a ton of research, making an itinerary, contacting a plethora of tour agencies and private tour guides, and taking Persian lessons. I am SO incredibly disappointed that this will no longer be a possibility since the Iranian government, in response to Trump’s insane ‘Muslim-ban’ (that excludes Saudi Arabia, the biggest funder/source of terrorism, as well as countries which he has business ties to) is not allowing US citizens into the country.

Immeasurably worse than my own inability to visit Iran is the situation of the over one million Iranian-Americans that after having endured legally emigrating to a new country now find themselves isolated from loved ones back in Iran. It is extremely frustrating that Iranians are continuously used as political fodder to push conservative agendas and drum up defensive, militaristic agendas, especially since they are a population which has a surprising enthusiasm for Americans and American culture. Part of that enthusiasm is because SO many Iranians live here in the US. The large Iranian population in America has created millions of family ties between Iran and the US and allowed for Iranian popular culture to resettle, primarily in LA, meaning a lot of music and other facets of contemporary Iranian identity are created and exported from the US.

Sadly, Iranians are viewed through the lens of events that happened in 1979, and the vast majority of Americans are entirely oblivious of what led to the so-called Islamic revolution and establishment of the current political system in Iran. America, which is so proud of liberating itself from a king to establish the first democracy, orchestrated a coup to overthrow Iran’s first democracy in 1953 when the democratically elected president Mossadegh decided to nationalize Iran’s oil industry and redirect profits to the Iranian people. America then put in place a KING (note the hypocrisy) that was beholden to American corporate and military interests- often at the expense of his own people. America responded to the 1979 revolution against the American-backed government by fueling the war and bloodshed between Iraq and Iran in the 1980s, selling massive amounts of weapons to both sides to create weakened, vulnerable, (and oil-rich) states. It has since crippled everyday Iranian people with sanctions, and now labels them as potential terrorists from the “axis of evil.”

To be clear, the Iranian people living in the US have never committed a religiously/ideologically inspired attack against Americans WHATSOEVER. People need to look at history as a whole, and start viewing Mulsim-majority countries in a fresh way. The frustration felt by many in these countries is not some religiously-inspired insanity or macho-tribal-jealousy of America’s power. These are complex, multi-faceted, modern people with depth, ability, and the right to be self-determining. I’ve allowed myself to be the only American in large gatherings of Persians repeatedly from the age of 12 to age 23, working at the Persian Culture conference in Chicago, to age 28 when I went to the Greater KC Norooz concert. In the beginning it was awkward but repeatedly allowing that experience of vulnerability in a group I didn’t initially identify with has been healing. As I was met with love and friendship and exposed to new things my sense of self has grown to incorporate a culture and group of people that conventional wisdom would have me fear.

Allowing this vulnerability is the only way to truly overcome prejudice and ignite the empathy and emotional investment in other groups of people necessary to deeply care about their well being. So, until I can go to Iran, thank you to all the Iranian friends I’ve had who have always responded with such kindness and inclusion towards me, and encouraged my interest in their culture.

Unwanted Gifts: Quilt

One Christmas, after I had grown up and moved away and started and then ignored my own traditions, my best friend gave me this blanket. It’s made from used saris and hand stitched in India. The fibers came to me already worn and handled, containing a personal history of all its previous wearers. Reincarnation, rebirth and regeneration are common beliefs in Eastern religions, and this blanket embodies the ethics of this code. My friend found it and thought of me, and I know she didn’t over-think it. If you look close, you can see the places in the fibers where the seamstress made a mistake and, instead of starting over, used a patch of cloth to cover the flaw.

When I met my best friend, we were both starting over in Kansas City for the same reasons. We both came from the Midwest and from divorced parents. Both our mothers started living with a woman. Both of us fought with our fathers about the same things. We had all these things in common, but one thing made us very different: she was amazing at giving gifts and I was terrible at it. This blanket hits me right where all our words never could, and even though we stopped speaking to each other about a year ago, I still have it. Maybe it’s the cold child in me that can’t let go of something that keeps me warm, as if I am still sleeping pressed up against the wall over the heating vent in a bitter Wisconsin winter, waiting for the breath of hot air that kicked on for five minutes every hour.

I don’t like getting gifts because one year I ended up with two of everything. “Why do you have two moms?” I remember the unintentionally cruel question from the other middle school students. “If your mom is gay does that mean you’re gay too?” I didn’t have an answer to that question, thinking my mother’s gayness was a phase that would recede when she was done being angry at my father. Instead, she and my step mom moved into a house together, interlocking our lives, and all of our things. My mother’s house reflected her newly uncovered sexuality. 2000 was a glamorous time for two women in their 40s. We had two dogs, two couches, two televisions, two cars, two sets of knives and two sets of pots for two moms to ignore while they went out to places with names like Juniper and Gads.

Meanwhile, on the other end of the zip code, our father’s house became a museum. He kept close the hand-crafted objects collected from his travels around the world, things that couldn’t simply be duplicated or replaced. He’d downsized to a ranch with a dark interior, where he curated the rooms to reflect the kind of single man he could finally be. With a cigar hanging from his lips, expensive black caviar under his fingernails, and a useless hunting dog sighing with his head on my fathers lap, he presided over this home where he could sink into the natural state of his shibboleth. His house slowly transformed into the colors and odors of a Flemish painting, where it always smelled faintly like Limburger cheese and it was somehow always winter.

Bedding is a powerful thing. When children suddenly have to choose whose house their beloved bed and covers and pillows go to, the other parent goes out and hastily finds a small creaky frame and scratchy wool blankets that smell like dust in an attic. The second bed is never as nice as the first. It’s always a little too small, a little too old, and lumpy in places a ninety pound child can feel poking into her ribcage. Blankets can ruin a perfect bed, and they can make perfect a ruined bed. A blanket is the ultimate symbol of a new beginning.

My best friend knew these truths, because she lived through them too. She knows the value of a blanket. It must be warm enough to make it through the winter when one parent was cheap with the heat. It must be pretty enough that friends who sleep over will be jealous of it. It must be light enough to wrap around our shoulders and walk to the kitchen like that on a Saturday morning.

I ask myself: how can a person who knows so much about me one day not be a part of my life? The end of our friendship left behind all these textures I don’t understand but am now responsible for mending. Were her gifts a way to cover up the holes in our friendship, and did I hold up my end by providing the patches we could use to mend it? Or did we avoid talking about what made us tick because we have the same emotional guards that characterize children whose parents made them the weapon?

So how do we face unwanted gifts without facing our own history and our own shortcomings? The comfort of the objects we seek out only serve to reaffirm who we believe—in our most generous way—we really are. It’s easy to do what my parents did, to fill our homes with objects that reflect our ideal self back upon us. It’s easy to gloss over our faults and flaws with things that keep us bobbing on the surface above our chaotic emotional depths. To disrupt this dream is to be a better human. We must find some objective flaws to remind us we have them in the first place.

Obviously I kept the blanket. I sleep with it every night and I wrap it around me when I eat cereal hungover on my couch. I finger the threads and trace the patches that cap a hole to protect the delicate insides. I think about my friend and where she is, how she’s doing, and if we’ll ever really be friends again. What else are we supposed to do with the parts of ourselves we have a difficult time facing?

This is how you deal with an object given to you by someone you love who is no longer part of your life: hold it closer. Recognize the parts you haven’t patched up are not broken, but simply incomplete. An unwanted object, one with patches and stitches in the places that were torn, can remind us to do the only thing left to do after something is damaged: repair.


Listen to the live version from David Wayne Reed’s Shelf Life series.

Holiday Special



I’ve seen a lot of artists use their work for good, especially in light of recent American developments. Sometimes I don’t know how to use my writing to construct a better world, but this December, that will change.

You’ve seen my rates & services. You’ve thought about your business, or art practice, or self-promotion. You’ve thought about hiring a writer to take on some of the work for you, but were waiting for the right moment. That moment is now.

For every project I work on in December, I will take 20% off my usual rates as a holiday gift to you.

But wait, there’s more!

I want to live in a world we can be proud of. That’s why I’m donating 50% of my December project profits to one of these organizations:

Earth Justice

Campaign Zero

The Trevor Project

Planned Parenthood

NODAPL (various places to donate)

When you hire me as your writer, you get to decide which of these organizations you would like to see the money donated. This is a small way for us to support those who are committed to building a better world for us to live in. Donating is just the beginning, but it’s the least we can do to begin to find peace during the giving season.

I hope you will join me in the fight for compassion and equality.

Love, and happy holidays,

Annie Raab