Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 22

Post the Fifty-Fifth: Memorial Day

Today is Memorial Day, Gentle Reader, today is Memorial Day in the United States, and I am going to keep quiet out of respect*. However, here are some patriotic photos and things that I thought you might enjoy.

†

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* I have problems with that whole military-industrial thing, kids, as well as propaganda and [redacted]. I can respect those in the service, though, and can certainly respect those who have died. And that is all I have to say about that. 

†Sexy Lincoln really has nothing to do with Memorial Day, but he was way too much of a babe too perfect not to include.

Tagged: 'MURICA, America, Memorial Day, Patriotic Hotties, Patriotism, Sexy Patriotic Dudes, What

Poetic Interlude LIX

If you’ve enjoyed these guests posts by my deceased father, Gentle Reader, please note that a book of his work will be available on or around Father’s Day. For our last Poetic Interlude in June, I leave you with:

You have given me
Yesterdays to cherish,
Silver Clouds to walks on
and pillows to dream upon,
Rainbows for the soul
Tomorrows to hope for
and forevers to achieve.
For all the tomorrows of the future,
I think the best is yet to come.
I can’t think of a wish I could
Grant you
To repay what you’ve given me.
 
 

©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: James Yoder, Poetic Interludes, Poetry

Post the Fifty-Fourth: #NoHetero

Gentle Reader, I’ve fallen into a tumblr-hole and it’s glorious but you’re just not getting a real post this week, I guess. I’m doing research, though! So it’s legitimate, right? Right?

All I want to talk about at the moment is Queer This and Gay That and Bisexual Awesomeness and Trans* People Kicking Ass and how we Always Need More Lesbians. And ordinarily I would have no qualms about that – I do that a lot! However: June is Pride Month and I intend to only blog about QUILTBAG things during the entire month of June. I’ve even made you a handy graphic!

So you can understand why I’m holding off, right? I’m going to inundate you; I may as well give you fair warning and some time to prepare.

So instead of a post here are some amazing things that I’ve found in the darkest heart of Tumblr. Enjoy.

Tagged: Awesome Shit From The Internet, Not a Real Post, Pictures, Queer, QUILTBAG, Tumblr

Post the Fifty-Third: Cabin Fever

I am currently in the process of double-moving, Gentle Reader, and I’m still fairly housebound.

Double-moving entails fetching my remaining possessions from my roommate’s place because they’re being forced to move, yet again. This time the situation is far less hostile, but is more dire: There is far less time to find a place to move; they have a temporary solution – a place to stay, while they’re searching.

At the very least, I need to retrieve my things and remove a bit of the burden, if I can’t, in fact, actually help them move.

Meanwhile, my mother’s place, where I’ve been staying since The European Fiasco, will shortly be for sale. Maman is selling Arvingdale and moving in two weeks; I am helping her prepare for that, etc. etc. While I’ll be able to stay here until it sells, it’s remote and the transport situation is, again, dire. Finding a studio of my own is dependent on finding work in Tacoma.

Meanwhilier, despite the urgency of all these things, I remain housebound, like some sort of shut-in. Not constantly – I manage to get to see Dr. Boyfriend about once a week, around his hectic schedule – now and then I manage to make it to town. Still, the fact remains that I’m clawing the walls, while worrying about new walls to claw.

If you have resources, leads, or advice, I’d be thrilled to have it. If you have a truck and are local and can help any of the fifty-three moving days coming up, please let me know.  If you can swing by and give me a nice evening out before I pull out all my hair, that’d be lovely too.

Cheers, kids. I’ll leave you with this:

 

Tagged: Cabin Fever, Double Moving, Employment, Isolation, Madness, Moving, Seriously Please Help Me Find A Day Job, Tacoma

Post the Fifty-Second: In Which We Examine #MyWritingProcess

Hashtags in my elaborate system of titles and numbers that’s incomprehensible even to me? Why not, Gentle Reader? Especially since my internet-girlfriend Ekgo tagged me in this blog tour about the writing process, and it’s sort of required. Well, not required in the title, but it’s required when I tweet about it and I’m lazy, so this way it’ll be automatic. FASCINATING. Alors.

Ekgo is a font of hilarity, and I was really touched when she selected me for this leg of the tour. She’s been in the process of reading the blog from Post the First – every entry, in order – periodically for months. I don’t expect her to reach this post until sometime in the future, so – Hi, Erica! Thank you! You’re wonderful!

You *could* be right, Public Domain Ghost!

So, the game is this: There are four questions that I have to answer, wherein I have to wax complimentary about myself and my body of work*. And then I get to gush about somebody else and tag somebody else, which I’m far more comfortable with! Hurrah! Therefore:

1. What are you working on?

Officially, I have four or five separate projects right now. It’s only five if you count the blog, which gets the most attention. I’m working on a new collection of poetry, as that’s where I feel my talents lie, but accumulating enough poetry to fill a volume takes a while. I’ve got about half of a novel finished, that I’ve been letting rest for a few months – it was necessary for my favorite character to die, and I needed some time before I could move on with the story. I’m compiling and editing my late father’s work – which is strangely painful; Originally, I was going to be writing coordinating pieces, and have a sort of father-son thing going on, but I decided to release his work on its own merits. On Father’s day, this year! There’s also my interminable etiquette book, which is taking forever and which may be obsolete by the time I’m finished with it. Finally, I’ve been working on this charmingly silly round-robin style story with some blogging friends, which is ongoing, that you can read here.

This photo will make more sense if you click that link, yo.

2. How does my work differ from others in its genre?

How about some bullet points?

The Blog: In the world of silly little blogs, it doesn’t really. Outrageous anecdotes and public-domain ghosts, I guess.
Poetry – My poems are variously archaic, yearning, and dark. I’m a bit stuffy when it comes to my poetry, and while that certainly isn’t the fashion these days, it suits me.
My half-novel is a fantasy-dystopia heavily featuring a polyamorous relationship, which I have no personal experience with. It also uses the word “ziggurat” quite a bit.
The etiquette book deals with situations that aren’t covered by the Posts, Vanderbilts, and Savages of the world. It’s also partly a family memoir.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I began this blog for some much-needed practice in prose, and to develop my voice. Everything else springs forth at probably 3 a.m. and I have to wake up and find a pen, or that sort of thing. I know that relying on inspiration is not a good way to get work done, which is another reason I began blogging – as a way to learn how to generate writing without that mad spark from nowhere. That *is* still how I write my poetry, though – and after I’ve caught the poem in my net, I let it cure for a few months before heavily editing it.

I suppose I write what I do because it interests me, because it amuses me, because I’m passionate about whatever I’m writing about, or because it makes me feel something.

4. How does my writing process work?

Well, I already described the poetry, I guess.

Before I write any prose at all I make myself do at least five hundred words of journaling to exorcise daily-humdrum-bullshit from my mind. This is a daily thing – I’ve learned that making myself write every day, setting aside a specific time for it, is the most effective way for me to get anything done.

I also set myself specific word-count goals. Before I let the novel rest for a few months, I made myself write at least five hundred words on it per day, and if I failed to do that, I owed myself a word-debt that had to be made up by the end of the week.

The other thing that I’ve learned is to just sit down and write. It doesn’t have to be brilliant prose the first time out; it’s a draft. You’re going to do an edit and a rewrite, aren’t you? Get the story onto paper, flesh out your outline – it can be utter crap the first time around, because you’re going to keep reworking it until it’s good. So just write it.

Seriously. Like twelve times, and then you completely rewrite it from scratch.

Right. So that’s #mywritingprocess. Now for the bit I’m much more comfortable with!

Natalie DeYoung is incredibly talented, and one of my heroes. She’s musical, she paints, she writes prolifically – you can read her work at her blog, The Cat Lady Sings, at Lefty-Pop, at the whimsical story I mentioned above, and on the Huffington Post.  Despite dealing with incredible amounts of stress and strife, Natalie always has a sort of serenity about her. Even when frazzled, she’s one of the most gracious, kind people it’s been my pleasure to meet on the internet. Check out her work!

Tagged: #mywritingprocess, Blog Tours, My Writing Process, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Poetic Interlude LVIII

Yet another guest post by my father, Gentle Reader.

I sat on a moss-covered rock
in a high mountain meadow.
Realizing the joy the father must have felt as
He gave His creation the gift of color.
The ebony wings of a raven in flight,
The white breast of a magpie
showing briefly through a willow.
The green grass waving gently,
among the wildflowers in bloom.
He finished the world
like a painter from His palette,
daubing soft pastels among vibrant hues.
Every shade uniquely different.
Each brushstroke lovingly applied.
The soft red petals of a rose contrasting the
rich yellow of a daffodil,
growing and thriving in the same common soil.
All the colors merging and blending
into His glorious vision.
I wonder when His people will do as well.
 

©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: James Yoder, Poetic Interludes, Poetry

Post the Hundredth: In Which We See Amanda Palmer’s Tits (NSFW)

Gentle Reader, today we’re revisiting my most popular post of all time: Post the hundredth: In Which We See Amanda Palmer’s Tits (NSFW?). It was a very exciting evening, and I’m thrilled to reprise this post.

When Amanda Palmer left her band, the Dresden Dolls, and her record label a few years ago, she struck out on her own. Yes, she made a tidy sum from her solo album, Who Killed Amanda Palmer, but we’re not really talking rock-star money. She married Neil Gaiman at one point, and then got a lot of flack for doing a kickstarter to help fund her new band, the Grand Theft Orchestra. Yes, Neil donated heavily to the fund-raiser, but she didn’t want to rely on her husband’s money for it. She raised over one million dollars, produced an album, and the band went on to tour the world.

 

I’m more than a trifle obsessed with Miss Palmer. When I found out that she was coming to Seattle, I actually swooned. There are not many musicians – or, indeed, famous people – who cause such a reaction from me. I bought my ticket within minutes of them going on sale – thank you, Twitter – and would not shut up about the amazing, wonderful concert I would be attending for the next two months. I got the new album, and listened to nothing else. Everyone in the house was excited for me to go to the concert, because it meant that I would stop talking about the damned concert. It was a magical time.

I arranged to stay with Uncle G and Auntie T, and made my way via bus to Seattle. The Stones wined and dined me, and helped me navigate to the Neptune Theatre. According to @amandapalmer, there were several vintage records – rare ones, at that – hidden about the theatre; who ever found them would get to go backstage. No such luck, but who needs it? I was doing my very best to overcome anxiety – I picked a corner, close to the bar, where I had a good view. I ordered up a Strongbow cider, and took the edge off my fear. I was about to see my favorite musician! I wasn’t going to allow anything to ruin it.

Lord, the woman can sing. As the evening goes on, she does dozens of costume changes on stage. During the song Bottomfeeder, she launches herself into the crowd, with a train that is fifty feet long, flowing over us all. It was an act of supreme trust; then, intermission.

I dashed outside for a cigarette, quick as I could – it was very loud, and crowded, and despite the fact that I was supremely uncomfortable, I was loving every second of this show. A pair of teenagers – a heavy goth-girl and her chain-smoking gay best friend were comparing cigarette holders with me; a middle-aged woman who seemed both out-of-place and very drunk joined us. As we chatted, it turns out that she is Jherek’s aunt, and if I meet her right there after the show, then I can go meet the band. Jherek Bischoff is a local boy, you see – his family’s from Shoreline. He is the bassist for the Grand Theft Orchestra, among other things.

At any rate, intermission over, I pick up a second drink and head straight to my corner. I am directly below one of the balconies; the band plays on. The second half is sadder, stranger, more entrancing and sad, serious. I am rapt. The set closes, but naturally there’s an encore. On this first encore, they did some of the songs from the Dresden Dolls – including Girl Anachronism, one of my favorites. A few more songs, and the encore is finished. Cue applause, of course.

Strangely, the applause continues, and suddenly everyone is looking directly at me. When they point the spot light in my direction, I begin to lose my calm; it was then that I saw the band leaning over the balcony’s edge directly above me.

Amanda Palmer made a moment of eye contact with me; she registered my surprise, gave me a sympathetic smile and a wink, and the show went on. This time they played a few songs from the album that hadn’t made it into the stage show, such as Massachusetts Avenue. More applause, and after they’re done, people begin to leave the theatre. These people are fools.

The third encore was back on stage, and featured Jason Webley, who had been in the audience. They broke out some songs from the Evelyn, Evelyn days, and some of Jason’s work, like Icarus. Jason wandered off; there were fewer than twenty people left in the theatre. For our dedication, Amanda Palmer whipped off her bra, and rewarded us with these:

 

Tagged: Amanda Palmer, Concerts, Grand Theft Orchestra, Neptune Theatre, ReRuns, Seattle, Tits

Post the Fifty-First: In Which We Take Exercise

Gentle Reader, I’ve been increasingly out of shape for the last year or so, and in accordance with the damned list, I have to do something about that. I mean, I want to be in better shape – I just want it to happen in a shower of pixiedust, or possibly a quick montage.

Pictured: My Ideal Workout

Despite the fact that I’m technically a Disney Princess, that’s unlikely to happen. Which brings us back to everyone’s favorite List.

The Task: Begin a workout regime. Stick to it.

The Execution: This is obviously still in progress, because it’s open ended. So, as I said, I’ve been getting out of shape – to the point where I went up a pant size for the first time since high school. I know that isn’t a huge deal compared to some people, but my body image has never been the greatest, and it’s just getting worse. Plus, as a heavy smoker for the last decade, I’m getting a trifle wheezy these days  - it wasn’t so bad when I was working in Concrete, or even later on, on the Farm – just now that I’m more sedentary. HOORAY!

So, I did a little inconclusive research about what the best beginning exercises would be, and was vexed. So on day one, I did fifty crunches and fifteen pushups? I then did my Deportment Exercise*, and had a twenty minute dance party†. This was the daily routine for week one.

Week two, I doubled down, with 100 assorted crunches and thirty push-ups per diem. The dance party part was also increased, to the point that instead of walking across the house for any reason, I was dancing.

And, except for a few days during week three when I was having adventures with Mr. Darling in a cabin in the woods, I’ve been pretty good about sticking to this routine. Except when I’m depressed or hungover or concentrating really hard on putting a book together. But I’ve been sticking to it most days. The dance-party part is the best bit, anyway.

The Verdict:  Well, I haven’t really been seeing any results, but I’m only a month or so into this. And it’s a bit of a pain, to be honest, but I need to do it. Besides, I have a boyfriend now and I’d like to be in better shape, because I’m weird about my body anyway. So meh? I also plan on swimming a fair bit this summer, so there’s that.

If you have suggestions for better exercises for beginners, or for things that have dramatic weight loss results, I’d love to hear what they are!

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*Deportment is all about grace, posture, and moving elegantly. This particular exercise involves shifting the center of balance lower, imagining your spine as a strand of pearls, and having heavy elbows.

†If the dance party and discoball/disney imagery didn’t already make this exercise routine pretty gay, the fact that I was dancing to the soundtrack from Cole Porter’s Anything Goes ramps this up to at least a Kinsey Five, and it’s an exercise routine that can’t even have sexual experiences. 

Tagged: Athleticism, Deportment, Excercise, Exercise Routines, Self-Improvement, The List

Post the Fiftieth: In Praise of the Femme

Gentle Reader, I am distraught.

I mean, no particular event sparked this – it’s more a sort of general ongoing malaise.

Femme Men get no love, and as a part-time femme, I’m sore distressed. When seen at all, we’re either a straight-up joke, a punchline -

Sorry, Jack.

- or we’re cast as the villain, suave and sinister and not quite right.

This doesn’t just take place in literature, tv, film – it happens in real life. Not just in safely heteronormative spaces, either – queer men are heavily anti-femme, and have been for years.

That photo is from the Stonewall Inn, a few days after the famous riots – which I’ll talk about in a moment. The Mattachine Society, one of the earliest pro-gay organizations in America, put it there. Mattachine, like the modern Marriage Equality movement, was very pro-assimilation – their male members were to wear suits and ties at all public events, and the women were to dress demurely. Like this:

Femme men, Butch lesbians, drag queens, transgender folk* (when they were acknowledged at all, which was rare) – were bad for the image. Again, much like the modern marriage-equality movement.

At the Stonewall Inn, in 1969, the police were performing a routine raid, and some drunken drag queens were tired of it, and staged a riot. They were non-conforming, and they’re the reason that QUILTBAG rights exist at all.

The Mattachine Society, which advocated quietly melting into society and demonstrating that Queers were worthy by being otherwise model citizens, has quietly faded away.

For a long time thereafter, the femme was celebrated, made welcome. Being queer meant that you didn’t have to fit into any of society’s little boxes if you didn’t want to.

Is that a tattoo or a bruise, Prince?

These days, “No Femmes” is a mantra constantly chanted by every baseball-cap wearing twink, each gym-toned otter, each dominant bear.

Most gay men are flattered to be called straight-acting, value their ability to pass, and often say that they’re not one of those gay guys. Being femme is seen as something shameful.

Femmes are seen as perpetuating harmful stereotypes, rather than human beings who are living as they wish to, expressing themselves authentically.

Femmes, when seen positively, are fetishized, and prized for their value as a straight girl’s fashion accessory.

Personally? I think the world can use every last scrap of beauty, of glamour, of elegance that it can lay its hands on, and femmes provide that in spades. They live outside the rigidly-policed gender lines prevalent everywhere.

Do you know how much courage it takes to be publicly femme? A hell of a lot.

To my mind, being femme is an act of rebellion, a blurring of lines, an announcement that I don’t have to enact any roles that I don’t want to, that were decided by society as a whole long before my birth. My life is my own, and I’ll live it as I see fit. No one – not the straight world, which is appalled by my disregard for the rules, and not the QUILTBAG world, which finds that kind of thing harmful to the cause as well as deeply unsexy – no one can stop me. No one should stop me.

Keep fucking shit up, you delicious, delightful, deviant femmes. Keep changing the world.

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*Butch Lesbians, Genderqueers, Trans* folk, the rest of the QUILTBAG community – I beg your pardon. You do all the same things I praise the femme men for, and I’m equally grateful. I merely lack personal experience living your lives. Your struggles and victories are your own, and worthy of respect, and they deserve to be told in your own voices†.

†The cisgender white gay man graciously allowing people to tell their own stories in their own voices? Oh, dear – the F.A.G. will yank my license.

Tagged: Angry Queer Voices, Femme Men, Gender Expression, Gender Fluidity, Gender Roles, Genderfuck, LGBT, LGBT Visibility, QUILTBAG, Sissyboys

Poetic Interlude LVII

Today’s Guest-Post-By-My-Deceased-Father was written one Mother’s Day for Grandmother. I hope you enjoy it, Gentle Reader.

I thought I’d seen everything.
I’ve been over the mountain and seen the other side.
I saw wonders there I couldn’t describe,
But then I saw a mother’s love as she looked
At her own little one:
A devotion so deep no one has seen its depth;
No one has ever found its limit.
I realized it was the most beautiful
and profound thing I’d ever seen.
The small smile as she watched him play
when she thought no one was looking.
The pride shining in her eyes and the worry at some perceived danger.
I knew at that moment it was time to go home,
to see my own mother.
I wanted to see her pride in me
always there but unspoken.
The memory of
a special look
a soft touch.
Sustaining me when the hills were steep
and the loads were heavy.
Reserved and unsaid but cherished
over the long trails I’ve traveled.
 
Thank you, Mom.

I love you.

Tagged: James Yoder, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing