This morning at our Unitarian Universalist church service, I did a Buddhist meditation on what one word that we want for the next year — or as the minister said, “the next now.” My word started out as Joy but migrated to Change. My mood has changed since I went vegan and is not hard for me now to conjure the emotion of Joy. But Joy to the World is a bit of a cliche. Besides, Change is what it’s all about.
As a vegan I sometimes find myself feeling disgusted with humanity. I didn’t go vegan until after the age of sixty when I had a health issue. But still, sometimes I am down about the fact that more people haven’t gotten the message. The other day I woke up thinking of our cow friends who are routinely slaughtered. This includes the dairy cows who are slaughtered for meat after they are done being milked.
Walking in a park near my house that afternoon, a man approached me saying that the frozen ground we were walking on was hard to walk on because it hurt his arthritis. “Go vegan,” I told him in no uncertain terms. “You’ll feel better.” He walked away and left me alone. I still find it amusing that I used veganism as a kind of self-defense. I was walking near the woods where it was isolated.
I probably came off as a grumpy older vegan lesbian and the man I spoke to probably wondered what else I had up my sleeve. Maybe he thought I’ve been pumping iron (I have).
I still find the entire thing amusing, but I think my partner was right in telling me that I shouldn’t take chances.
So as the sun streamed in the window into me this morning when I meditated and the word Change came to me, I thought about what I would like to see change. Everything, really. And change will happen. It is inevitable. But specifically, I would like to see the human animals treating each other and the non-human animals better.
I figure that’s a good starting point.
Namaste.
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
Lately, I’ve been working on revising my novel Pictures (now called Portraits: queering hidden stories from the twenties)
I am decided to repost this YouTube video of the chapter that was inspired by a photo that I found of Tina Modotti and Frida Kahlo.
Very shortly after I finished the first draft of my novel a year or so ago, I heard from David Acosta (formerly known as Juan David Acosta) who invited me to be one of the readers at his new series at Casa de Duende. The piece that I read was a chapter set in Mexico which features the characters Frida and Tina. The YouTube video, below, includes David’s wonderful introduction. If I were to rate this YouTube piece, it is definitely PG-plus. It’s called “Ecstasy” and is influenced by lesbian sex, philosophy and LOVE.
You can view my reading on the YouTube video or read the revised piece below that.
“Oops,” laughed Tina. She sat in the dinghy and threw the rope again. Leaning over the side, she tied the rowboat onto some of the island’s thick vegetation.
Tina scrambled out of the boat and stumbled onto the small, square island.
“It’s okay,” said Frida reassuringly. She had climbed out of the boat first a few moments ago and now sat cross-legged. “The island is naturally spongy. Let yourself descend into it.”
As if to demonstrate, Frida leaned back and stretched out. She was lying on top of the vegetation with her face up. Slowly, she sunk until she was barely visible.
Tina stretched out. She looked up at the juniper trees on the other side of the canal. The trees reached straight up and seemed to scrape a sky blazing yellow and blue. Tina calculated the exact shade of medium silver-gray that the clear blue sky would convert to in a black and white photograph. Her eyes fixated on the image above her. The junipers looked like tall bottle brushes.
Tina’s heart leapt a few minutes earlier when Frida had steered their rowboat into a side canal where there were no other boats.
Tina kept sinking in the vegetation until she landed on something solid. It felt like the island was built on a block of earth.
“Here I am,” said Frida.
Frida’s breath warmed Tina’s ear.
Tina realized that Frida was lying alongside of her. Now there was no denying the tension that had built between them.
They had first met at a party where Frida was spoken of as the young artist who had great talent. This chance meeting led to several more parties and then to walks between the two women and to this outing. Tina had commented on one walk that she liked strong women. Frida smiled slyly and nodded. Hints had been dropped. But Tina didn’t say that she had never seen anyone more beautiful than Frida. She didn’t say that she was attracted to the intensity of talent. Tina was the essential energy of talent. It ran through her like a current. From the moment Tina had seen Frida, she knew she Frida was special. Suddenly, Frida was everything to Tina. She was the water that Tina drank. She was the air that Tina breathed. She was that essential.
There was a rustling. Tina saw a hand and then a face. She pushed aside the vegetation between them.
The roughness of Tina’s dungarees rubbed against the light but coarse fabric of Frida’s magenta dress.
“Don’t worry about touching me.” Frida spoke huskily.
“It doesn’t look like I have a choice,” replied Tina. “Not that I mind,” she added playfully.
They were in Xochimilco, a borough on the outskirts of Mexico City. Edward had told Tina that the islands were once floating rafts where the Indians raised vegetables and flowers. He also said the Indians had put soil on the rafts to plant seeds–and that the roots had migrated from the rafts to the soft loam at the canal bottom.
Before it was a borough of Mexico City, Xochimilco was an independent city. It was located of the southern shore of Lake Xochimilco. The canals were part of the far-reaching system of waterways that connected the districts that made up what was known as the Valley of Mexico at the time of the Spanish Conquest in the early fifteen hundreds.
When Tina was here with Edward, they had just drifted by on a canvass covered boat and admired the islands. Edward said he had wanted to come back with his camera, but he never did. Probably he had been afraid of dropping it in the water. Tina had wanted to stay, but Edward insisted they leave. Older and more experienced, Edward had taken her under his wing. He had been her photography teacher. Tina learned everything she could.
She was a young photographer, thirsty for knowledge. In a few months, she had learned everything she could from him. She had started developing her own style. She could tell he was threatened by her. He found fault with her photos even when they were technically brilliant. In the end, she found him boring.
She had always been busy, so busy that at first, she didn’t notice when he left. There had been others for both, but for a while they were an item. He had taught her what he could, and when they were still in love, he had brought her to this beautiful place.
Xochimilco reminded her of the canals in Venice. She had gone there with her father when she was a child, when they still lived in Italy. Her first memory was sitting on her father’s shoulders and looking out to a sea of faces, people–he told her later–who were in the Italian Communist Party. Perhaps, this was why she had always loved the people–meaning the real people, the masses. Perhaps that’s why she had joined the Communist Party. Even here on their small island, she could hear the distant thrum of marching of thousands on thousands. The rhythm echoed in the bird calls and in the hum of insects.
“Don’t worry about getting wet–at least not from the canal,” teased Frida. “Some people say that they are floating islands. But a woman whose family was here for generations told me that the islands are man-made extensions built up from the bottom of the canal bed. They were originally made with wire fencing used to contain the soil. The plants will hold us. You may have noticed that the growth starts above the waterline, so we don’t have to worry about the water crashing down on us. Since the vegetation is thick, no one can see us–even if a boat goes by.”
Tina looked up and saw a veil of lacey green, dappled with yellow sunlight. She was lying next to Frida on squashed vegetation. They were surrounded by water. But it felt stable. Frida wrapped her arms around her. Tina felt as secure as she did on her father’s shoulders as a child, looking out on the mass of people in the Italian Communist Party.
“How do you know that no one can see us?” asked Tina.
“I’ve been here before,” replied Frida.
Tina decided that Frida was more adventurous than Edward.
“I heard that some of the juniper trees are bare at the top because the mistletoe is taking over,” stated Frida.
“Mistletoe? Like the mistletoe when I was a child, with my family in Italy, at Christmas?” asked Tina.
“That’s right,” replied Frida. “Like me, Mistletoe is from Mexico.”
“Then I guess I have to kiss you,” teased Tina.
“You don’t have to. But you can if you want. My guess is that you do.”
Coming out in a growl, Frida’s voice sent a thrill through Tina. She did want to kiss Frida–and more. If asked, Tina would have described herself as a proponent of free love. But she already wanted more than that from Frida. She wanted to possess her. Making love to her was just a start.
“How did you know?” asked Tina.
“I’ve seen you looking at me. Besides, you’re always wearing dungarees. You know what they say about women who wear trousers.”
“Mmm,” murmured Tina. “Maybe that’s true, but what about Diego?”
“What about him?”
“You told me that you’re in love with him.”
“Mmm…” Frida closed her eyes.
Tina didn’t know why she was worrying about Diego. She had modeled for him, and they had been lovers. It was around the time that Edward left for good. Edward had thought the world of Diego. After Tina had secretly become involved with Diego, Edward seemed to start losing respect for him. One time she overheard Edward referring to Diego as “the elephant.” That was what people–including his so-called friends–called Diego behind his back. Tina wondered if Edward suspected she and Diego of having an affair. She didn’t feel guilty. Her body was hers to make love to whomever she desired. Besides, she knew for a fact that Edward had had other lovers too. Diego wasn’t her type. She preferred men who were slender and slightly effeminate. But Diego was a great artist. And she could tell that he wanted her. That was always a necessary part of the allure.
She met Diego when she was photographing Mexican murals. Then she had befriended his wife, Lupe. Lupe was pregnant and suspected Tina and Diego of having an affair. Diego said his marriage was coming to an end anyway. Tina felt bad about Lupe. But at least her affair with Diego had helped Lupe end a bad marriage. Tina lost interest in Diego when Lupe left. Maybe it was because Tina didn’t want him getting any ideas about settling down with her. She didn’t believe in marriage. It was just legalized ownership of a woman by a man. Besides, even just being the lover of a great artist was overrated.
Tina met Frida through a friend who wanted Tina to see Frida’s paintings. The friend invited Tina to the party that would change Tina’s life. Tina remembered being particularly struck with Frida’s latest piece, “Self-Portrait in a Velvet Dress.” Tina told Frida that she’d like to photograph her sometime. Frida started coming to the small parties that Tina threw at her apartment. Frida had met Diego a few months after Tina had ended it with him. Tina could see sparks fly between them. Frida was beautiful and intense. Her dark eyes smoldered. Diego’s eyes followed Frida. Tina’s eyes followed Frida. Who wouldn’t fall in love with her?
Tina could see that Diego loved Frida. He changed around her, turning from a clumsy elephant into a graceful panther, pacing around her, with the intent of surrounding her with his aggressive acrid scent. He might have sensed her talent as well as her beauty and wanted that talent for himself.
Tina was surprised when she realized that she wanted Frida. It wasn’t the first time she desired a woman, but it was rare. And it was different than falling in love with a man. Not only was Frida the air she breathed. Frida was the ether that Tina walked through. Without Frida, Tina would cease to exist.
Frida was young. She could still be anything. But Tina could tell she was going to be a great artist. She was petite–especially compared with the mammoth Diego. But she was strong. She had muscles like steel. She looked like she could endure anything.
On the small island with the plants growing over them, Frida lay next to Tina. Tina parted the leaves that had sprung up between them. Even with her eyes closed, Frida looked like magic. Tina moved her face closer. Frida parted her lips.
“Love usually doesn’t last,” grumbled Fate.
“You don’t know. This might last,” responded Love.
“I doubt it,” replied Fate.
“Always the pessimist,” observed Love. “Maybe they’ll stay together and be happy and make art for a long time.”
“We’ll see,” said Fate. “But I say they don’t stay together. The odds are against them. I don’t know why we are here anyway.”
“Because of Nan’s imagination,” replied Love somewhat indignantly. “She saw the photograph of Frida and Tina standing on the bridge–with their hips touching–and suspected they might be lovers.”
“So,” said Fate, sounding bored. “Lots of people are lovers for a time. Then they go on to live conventional lives.”
“But Nan wondered what Tina and Frida are doing that they weren’t telling anybody,” said Love. She sounded defensive.
“She must be wondering about them for a reason,” stated Fate. “Maybe Nan is thinking about taking a lover herself–in secret.”
“I doubt it,” replied Love. But her voice wavered a little as if she really didn’t know.
“We’ll see,” said Fate. “Now let’s see what happens here–if Nan was really right.”
Love was as quiet as a mouse.
Tina felt a cool breeze go bye–surprising since she and Frida were under the vegetation of the small island. Tina almost felt like they were being watched. But since Frida was such a huge distraction, Tina dismissed the feeling.
It would be easy to kiss Frida–too easy. Tina wanted to make Frida wait.
“What about Diego?”
Tina inhaled a scent that was green: like lush foliage and the loam that it sprang from. Under that was a musky scent that smelled like Frida.
Frida’s almond shaped eyes flew open. Her shiny dark hair was parted in the middle and pulled straight back. Under her high, pale forehead, lush eyebrows looked like the top arches on the wings of a black swallowtail butterfly.
Frida raised and lowered her eyebrows in one movement.
“So, I love him. That doesn’t mean I can’t seek pleasure with others. You are here now. I am Mexican and I am an artist. I believe in free love. I am not a member of the bourgeoisie and I do not love like them–in monogamous couples. Besides, Diego doesn’t have to know.”
“But what if he figures it out?” answered Tina.
“He won’t, believe me. He’s too preoccupied with his work. He is like most men. He thinks all women are for him. So, we have some pleasure for ourselves. I have no need to confess. I had enough of that–having been raised in the church. The priests want to hear your sexual sins–so you commit them twice. Once in the doing. Once in the telling. The church knows this. They count on the fact that the telling is often better. When you suppress something and feel shame about it, it’s bound to pick up more energy. Confession becomes an addiction.”
As she spoke, Frida’s lips moved closer to Tina’s.
Tina inhaled Frida’s hot, sweet breath.
“Hmm, what you are saying makes perfect sense,” murmured Tina. “I always used to exaggerate my sins when I went to confession–to make them more interesting. I always thought the priests must be bored in those small boxes, just sitting in there and listening. Once I heard a priest snoring. I decided that I would give him a reason to stay awake. When I was a girl of twelve in Italy, before we moved to San Francisco, I made up a story for the priest about how I had to masturbate to go to sleep.”
“Did the priest tell you to drink a glass of hot milk instead?” asked Frida as she snuggled closer.
“No,” replied Tina. “He didn’t say a word. I thought he had fallen asleep on me again. I kept talking. I gave him a detailed description of how I rolled over and put the pillow between my legs and ground circles on it until I was lost in ecstasy. I think the priest liked hearing that from a young girl. But the funny thing was that I hadn’t done any of that. I had just heard my older sister moving around in her bed.”
Frida laughed and shifted closer. Tina’s denim clad thigh lodged between Frida’s legs.
Frida pulled her dress up and moaned.
“I’m getting wet,” she said. “But not from the canal.”
“But I am not done my story,” insisted Tina. “You will have to wait.”
She lifted her leg back so there was a small space between them. She thrust her hand into that small space and felt the wetness coming from the cotton crotch of Frida’s panties. She ran her hand up the front, feeling the outline of Frida. When she came to the elastic waist band, she slid her fingers underneath.
Frida moaned.
“I’m ready,” she gasped.
“Wait a minute,” Tina murmured. “I didn’t finish my story. I heard the priest breathing heavily. When he started breathing normally again, he told me that I wasn’t doing anything that other young girls didn’t do. But he said I mustn’t do it again. Then he told me to do twelve Hail Marys. I waited that night until just before I went to bed. I knelt beside the bed. I remember it like it was yesterday. A full moon illuminated the thick windowpanes and transformed the dark shapes in our bedroom. I did my penance–twelve Hail Mary prayers–in my nightshirt. Then I climbed into bed and did exactly what I had told the priest. I ran my fingers over my sex. I pulled the pillow between my legs. Then I rolled over onto my stomach and made circles on the pillow. I must have been correct in my thinking about the mechanics of bringing myself to ecstasy. The priest already gave me penance, so I did not feel ashamed as I made circle after circle with my hips.”
Tina petted Frida’s lush pubic hair. Frida was silky and wild. She writhed under Tina’s hand. Tina dropped her fingers down and put her middle finger into the wetness that was waiting for her.
“One more thing,” said Tina. She withdrew her finger.
“Please,” gasped Frida. “I want you inside of me.”
“Not so fast,” replied Tina. “I want to ask you one more question.”
“Anything,” moaned Frida.
“Anything?” asked Tina. “Let me think. Ah, I remember. If we don’t confess to anyone, then will it be our secret? When we look at each other, will we feel a current run down our bodies because only the two of us know this secret–only we know the pleasure that we bring to each other?”
“That’s right,” said Frida. “It will be our secret. Knowing that we share that secret makes it that much more pleasurable. The secret will always be there–when we speak to each other, when we look at each other, even when we are with our other lovers–maybe especially when we are with our other lovers.”
“Hmmm,” murmured Tina. “Especially then?”
“Yes,” whispered Frida. “That is part of why you want to kiss me. You are so beautiful that you are always surrounded by men. I was watching you with them and realized that you must get bored with men. You can have your pick of them, any day of the week, so what is the big deal?”
“Hmmm…,” replied Tina, “so smart, so strong, so right.”
Her face shifted, just slightly. Her lips found Frida’s lips. Their lips parted. Tina started to put her tongue in Frida’s mouth. Frida was faster. Tina sucked on Frida’s tongue. Then she put her tongue in Frida’s mouth. Their tongues intertwined. Frida’s legs parted. Tina inserted two more fingers. Frida pushed her deep inside. Tina felt the lushness of Frida’s pubic hair on the palm of her hand. She slid her fingers back out. Then she felt Frida’s engorged clitoris and massaged it in circles. She felt the wetness that was Frida rain down. She plunged her fingers back in. The inside of Frida felt slippery and spongy. The vegetation pressed in on them. The wetness came not from the canal, but from their bodies, from the mystery of desire. Their faces parted.
Tina felt guitar strings vibrating under her nimble fingers as they moved to an ancient rhythm. Drums beat in the blood that rushed through her veins. Tina and Frida writhed. They panted. Their bodies moved as one. They danced a primal tango.
Frida threw back her head, opened her mouth and moaned with an intensity that felt like the world cracking open.
This morning I participated in a service on Martin Luther King Jr. Day at the Unitarian Universalists of Mt. Airy in Philadelphia. The YouTube video of my part of the service is above and the text is below.
I first was hesitant to take part in today’s service because as a writer – as someone who sits in a room and writes down the voices in my head – I don’t consider myself a political person.
Then I thought about it. We live in a very political age, to say the least. I was shaped by the events happening in the world when I was a child. I realized that I am a political person in that I am an agent of change in the world as much as I have been changed by the world.
We are all political animals – whether we want to be or not. Even choosing inaction is an action.
I was nine years old when Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. But with the wisdom of childhood, I knew that he was a great man and that he had been murdered for standing up for what he believed in.
These days, I define myself as intersectional. When I look back, I see that I was always intersectional but now there is a word for it. Intersectional means that everything is connected and that we can be more than one thing at once. It also means that we can more easily be allies to each other.
One of the leaders I look to now is Laverne Cox. As an actress and as an out black, trans, woman, she is a groundbreaking LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer) activist. My partner Barbara and I first became aware of her through the series in which she played a part called Orange Is the New Black. In 2014, she was the first out trans person to appear on the cover of Time magazine. She is continuing Dr. King’s legacy by helping society open to include all of us – including Black transgender people. She is leading the way in helping society become a more comfortable and inclusive place for all of us.
In doing so, Laverne is furthering the first principle of Unitarian Universalism “the inherent worth and dignity of every person.”
Another leader furthering Dr. King’s legacy that I have often looked to is Congresswoman Maxine Waters. Waters is an older African American woman who has been a fearless advocate for women, children, people of color and the poor for more than forty years.
She was elected in 2018 to her fifteenth term in the U.S. House of Representatives. Congresswoman Waters represents a large part of South Los Angeles.
I have long been aware of her as an older outspoken Black woman who is not afraid to speak her mind. I once looked her up online and was dismayed at the number of racist attacks directed at her. I was also surprised but maybe I shouldn’t have been.
In her statement last year for Martin Luther King, Jr., Day, she wrote: “There is no denying that Dr. King believed fiercely in the power of hope, optimism, and activism, but his journey was not easy. He and many others who were determined to achieve fairness and equality for all people endured harassment and beatings, were jailed for their efforts, and lived under the constant threat of being killed. Dr. King knew that his work did not come without danger, and still he kept on in an effort to make this country work for all of us.”
Maxine Waters and her lifetime of work brings to mind the Second Principle of Unitarian Universalism, “Justice, equity and compassion in human relations.”
Another leader that I look to who continues Dr. King’s legacy is Senator Cory Booker from New Jersey. You may remember him from his 2020 Presidential bid. I had long been aware of his work as an African American man fighting for human rights. My partner and I were thrilled to learn that he is also an outspoken vegan (as well as a Rhode’s Scholar), a proponent for LGBTQ rights and is, in some people’s opinions, insufferably cheerful and optimistic.
In many ways, he is the embodiment of the Seventh Unitarian Universalist Principle: “Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.”
He is guided by the words of an older African American woman who was comforting him when he was young and in the lobby of his apartment and had just heard about the death of another African American teenage boy in Booker’s neighborhood.
The older woman, of whom Booker later said he could tell she had been through a lot, kept telling him to, “stay faithful.”
And he has – through all these years. As he has said, “we cannot allow our inability to do everything to undermine our determination to do something.”
I’ll say that again: “we cannot allow our inability to do everything to undermine our determination to do something.”
He emphasized that “We are not powerless.”
We can join him in his sentiment of knowing that we are “All in this together.”
–Namaste–
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
Below is my review of “the Heart: Frida Kahlo in Paris” written by Marc Petitjean and published by Other Press. You can view the video on BookTube or read the review below.
Every now and then I hear of a book at exactly the right time. This was the case with “the Heart: Frida Kahlo in Paris” written by Marc Petitjean and published by Other Press.
The author investigates his father’s affair with Frida Kahlo which occurred in Paris in 1939 – before the author was born. He writes about this affair to shed light on this period of Frida Kahlo’s life, her one year spent in Paris before the second World War. He also wrote this book to learn more about his father – who, he writes, he knew but he really didn’t know.
My own father died four and a half years ago, and I’m still processing the loss. And I’ve long been fascinated with the work and life of Frida Kahlo so I read this book with interest.
I should say at the outset that this is not an LGBTQ book — at least I did not read it that way. Although the author does describe Frida as bisexual. He also mentions that Frida Kahlo was rediscovered by feminists in the United States and Europe in the 1980s.
He writes about the connection between Frida Kahlo and the Bretons in Paris. Andre, the husband, an essayist and poet who was known as the head of the surrealists, was fascinated with Frida and her artwork. Frida had an affair with Breton’s wife Jacqueline.
As the author writes, “It is said that Andre Breton delighted in watching them.”
That some of the men in Kahlo’s circles eroticized her bisexuality is, perhaps, predictable as well as disappointing, but it is not the author’s fault.
Frida went to Paris by way of Manhattan in 1939, in many ways, at a low point in her life. She had just found out that her husband had been having an affair with her sister – probably for the previous two years.
However, for the first time in Frida’s life she was financially independent from her husband and was known as herself and not the wife of a well-known artist. Before that she was known as Mrs. Rivera.
Can you imagine?
The book does grab the imagination and took this reader into the surrealist world of Paris in 1939 where the author describes his father, Michel Petitjean, as a “seducer” who moved in surrealist circles where sexuality was free.
As the publisher points out, the book covers “an oft-ignored but crucial period of Frida Kahlo’s life: her lone year spent in Paris, right before the outbreak of World War II.”
Apparently, the author’s father and (most likely) Frida had other lovers but the two had a strong bond corroborated with letters. Frida gave Michel a copy of her painting titled “The Heart” which is reproduced in the book.
In reading “the Heart: Frida Kahlo in Paris” by Marc Petitjean published by Other Press, I learned new information about Frida Kahlo. Just as importantly, the book allowed my imagination to enter an important part of her world through the lens of a man intent on sharing what he knew about his father.
This is Janet Mason reviewing for BookTube and Spotify.
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
Gloria the cow has been rescued from a dairy farm and sent to live for the remainder of her natural life at The Cow Sanctuary. Dairy cows are routinely sent to slaughter after they are done being milked.
I am honored to be associated with a group of women who are working on behalf of the cows.
Each time a dairy cow is released, there is a palpable sense of freedom in the air.
Since so few people have contact with “farm” animals, I wanted to let you know about Gloria’s journey. The following details her journey in photographs.
Since Gloria was reunited with her cow friend Sacred who came from the same dairy farm and since the two of them have been hanging out, it has led me to wonder if the cows really do talk each other.
They do in my imagination.
To read an excerpt (set in The Cow Sanctuary) of my novel Cinnamon: a dairy cow’s (and her farmer’s) path to freedom, click here.
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
Janet Mason, author 