i have so much to say but so little time to say it in america of today so there’ll be not much editing from here on out/none. this is desperate raw and afraid and alone while trying to stay in my world focus on my world and magic magic anew in spite of where the world is going… i aim to picnic during the kali yuga because i have already and am still mourning… i’m not so worried about the big things like the extinction of species including ourselves or impending homelessness and destitution which seems inevitable in america now for all but a few parasites left to suck us dry and snack on our hopeless children… but i’m worried more about how fucking lonely scared afraid and anxious and drugged up and unnatural isolated and sociopathically cruel humanity has become in the now. / i’ve been reading up on how we got here–it’s my hobby, you could say–and i have come to believe in almost all of my bones that writing and art is fucking pointless meaningless and has become a subset of godless fuck you and everything capitalism the way that feminism and every -ism now totally has.

who’s bending over and thinking of Jersey now?

me. This Jersey Girl.

i had high hair. always have. on my own. but this is something else entirely.

when i died as i was i stopped cutting my hair so yeah i guess it’s true when you die your hair keeps on growing but it is my antennae / i can tell by anyone’s response to my halo my wavy lines like the virgin of motherfuckin’ guadalupe on my own in real life real time … and i can instantly tell whether you’re gonna be friend or foe and if as a foe i can flip you.

i love being a bottom but i can top. / that’s why i love men’s assholes. just sitting there passively waiting to have their little vulnerable asshole minds blown.

so it’s no disconnection that i have chosen to become my own ACLU… Asshole Civil Liberties Union in how i try to defend men and those pesky fucking sex drives and power games that suddenly don’t work anymore.

i went off on a couple of lesbian dames DJing at KPOO because i suddenly realized they were or had come up in life fucking each other and that no one no one ANYWHERE could ever possibly distract them from the solo project of Twins Becoming One Being.  and i realized they were running EXTRA powerful secret crazy Female Game on the station managers and folks and because i felt it was so fucking far from FAIR, i went crazy off deep demon space like i haven’t gone in …weeks. / yeah… it’s been a mad crazy decade.

i fell in love with one of those producers starlets fuck for a way in. indie guy. indie guys got a lot of pussy in the ’90s because they made things interesting… but now that things are boring…

anyhow so i fell for this producer i had mad respect for / did one of my favorite movies favorite til recently when i realized their was no santa claus and that the actress was… acting… / i am desperate mad desperate for life feeling and WOW… i miss wow..

i’m not on magic phones. but i saw what email did to me and the laptop and powerbook. i wanted in. i did. …. i wanted to be among the first adopters of everything…

then i died as i was because i broke like an egg.

i suppose if i write anything more it HAS to be raw and naked and…showing a whole lotta pink to be making it worth my time worth any of your time.

as for the numbers. / i can’t care.

this writings will be a meditation a plan a new imagination struggling to find its new feet… but i’ve been here before and before… isn’t this what we artists have been training for all this time. /  for how to court the unknown first go first scream first and if you make it back out show others to the other side…

this is also love letters to the suicidal because this hatred of men of man is hatred of ourselves. our pussies our own desires our own femininity. i know/ because now that i’m (almost) 53 i love love being a woman and the periods are getting odd and i’m mourning this girlhood thing and how i hated all things pussy for so long including my ass…

i still struggle.

but i love being me but the new me loves mad naked and raw and i have to scare people to keep the dangerous ones away.

because i’m the little girl again the runaway but this time i’m more wise just a little… because i don’t know what the fuck is going on out there and why my sisters have lost they cotton picking MINDS…

but everyone has. colored folks everyone.

i am borderlands incarnate even though i once stood up in front of many Puerto Ricans in Puerto Rico and said i felt like a white man / only tiny applause because someone got it. that i am generic and find freedom in that. identity politics is a trap and dead end shitty fucking diverse cul de sac of the same fucking bullshit.

i want new flowers and edibles or civet coffee growing out of the bullshit or something over this.

so fuck the world changing. the world don’t wanna change.

it’s obvious.

white girls… new boss same as the old boss.

i found holiness in the bullshit of flirting with a producer over a negotiation and i got bit because he had two boys the age of my sister and me when we were alone with mom. and i had to love  him in ways that would love and care for his BOYS. i wanted to love how i wanted to be loved…

and it made me see the connections or the lack of connections to be more accurate.

but love… fuck the world. / it’s hard to write because enough writing talk and ego shit. am i writing this for my own me me me leo writer ego???

maybe. it’s okay. it’s fun this body this persona this TIME. i don’t know if i’ve been here before or if i’ll be back but doesn’t matter.. this is NOW. either way i wanna live the same truth. don’t sit the shit out.

all my regrets and my hottest fantasies while jerking off to my own real life sexual experiences as i try to wean all the way off internet porn, all my regrets were the scariest times i said NO because i was worried about my repufuckingtation.

bad reps follow girls like me around like toilet paper on my shoe. so i embraced them and let people pass it around because myth also keeps people away from you. the right people know you’re a pussy and find you or fuck with you.

i’ve had plenty of that. and that’s GOOD.

that’s why i defend men now loud and proud. because so many of the things that make them assholes make them beautiful daring and amazing crazy adventurers fathers mystics priests brothers lovers husbands…

i get this because i see how amerikkka imprisons the black the colored the poor who aim to fight back. it’s a trap.

why write? why write?

i don’t know. because they fucking kill jesus everytime over love just love…

and that’s all i care about now. i can’t do anything about the world. it’s ridiculous to try.

but ultimately i’m going to have to write love letters to MEN to all of humanity and the best love letters show a whole lotta pink… and since no one is defending men, i must i must i must increase this lust…

because the world is not sexy anymore. it is gay men who take it up the ass who’re the only ones admitting that shit is mad sacred amazing and spiritual.

what has become of us women? i get it but have never heard women talk like that ever about fucking men.

i’m confused. i’m struggling.

but i am my father’s daughter. Rafael Alfonso Lopez. and he was there. my pops is afraid of no one. he’ll step up to anyone and tell them what he thinks. he’s already died.

i have no children because i could  barely take care of myself out there and i had feministy ideas and ideals about self me me me actualization and i got mine then i’ll give you some later to feel good about all i did to get MINE and i only saw rich feminists getting bilked by younger men and women and they knew. like rich men they’d been instrumental in the demise of their own romance.

so i fell for a so called bad boy producer but that’s why i fell for him. because for once someone was scarier than ME and didn’t flinch from ME. i’m used to amazing long mystical kisses that will end on their sides on ice the day after. /

i was a runaway from a young age and once i ran off to the apartment of a mother and daughter in the sex WORLD of their own making. yes i’m sure their was still trade but (shrug)… it’s the world… however at age ten just 2 weeks with them and i knew what i wanted to do for a living: make love.

be someone who had sex and got to be intimate and see the best most vulnerable of people for a living.

a hooker.

like the happy hooker, an early idol of mine i used to read as a child, i was fascinated by the power of sex.


i didn’t get or understand that people hate themselves and their sexual selves so much, they hate the women to whom they run to be express or share themselves.


the whole world is that way. / how can hatred of woman be anything but hatred of man?


i thought from then on the only thing that would ever matter was loving so hard i turned inside out and went insane. / ah! but quite the opposite happens when you love like when you do a contour life drawing and never take your eyes from the body before you… their contours are a prayer as they are the only one ever to have such contours and you are stopping and seeing like a lover… the tickle of paying such close attention as you trace what you see without ever looking at the conte crayon to your paper.. it’s a mess! … like misspelled love letters mis-used homynyms misspelled i know! …all of it but there’s no embarrassment no rush to cover the sofa legs because you’re frolicking romping splashing around in the motherfuckin wet spot…

until James i did not know just how much love had to be involved for sex to be truly any good at all.

anything else is meaningless theatrics and wiping your ass as far as i’m concerned now. i only want amazing deep eye to eye contact pow fucking. that’s holding hands. that’s holding back waiting twisting yourself around writhing in blue ball agony..

that’s perfection and drama neck crunching perfection / how can anyone ask for anything less? this shit is real y’all. put down the shit. all of it. you wouldn’t be bears with rings in your noses…

i digress

and after years of trying to lurch into being free and slutty like feministy white girls, i realized it wasn’t only dangerous for me, but it wasn’t me. i couldn’t be casual about anyone even touching my tits for ever since i was a young teenager, unlike mr clinton and most men, i call any touching of my tits or below “fucking.” /

all these things and more are squirming and squealing in my brain to be understood or at least… spread out on the motel bedspread and made some sort of remedial sense of.

but i have to write for men. love letters to all that i have loved and been grateful for in how such men have helped me become the odd insane woman i have become.

this isn’t an either or proposition. men good women bad. or vice versa.

this is about my dying as i was and realizing just how fucking wrong we got it all. what is “right” i know not. this is about my realization that the more i surrender the more i admit my awe and my service to you… the more free i feel.

and yet i don’t get it.

it isn’t about my being at my man’s feet so he can wipe his ass on my hair and come in my face.

it’s about WHY that? it’s about why can’t we go around that desire and impulse and see what’s in that and why?

social media is making Heathers of everyone. bitchy trolling cunts. women crave to be part of the tribe because to be outside is rape death being eaten alive. and more!

i’m just writing adding to the cacophany of bullshit. / but i have to write also for James. he doesn’t believe in anything much anymore. nor do i.

but there’s freedom in not waiting for others to be the person you wish someone else would be, as you would do it but (shrug)…

are their any freaks left out there? or am i just step n’ fetchit entertainment anymore?

my love of men is going to make itself known in my final decision to fully learn the art of casual tailoring for some men. / i say “some” because i cannot touch and work on someone i’m not “feeling” with this newer more sensitive me that i’ve become since i died as i was.  / so my goals are mad small.

that said… i’m using Tom Mix as inspiration as i try to design the most comfortable completely custom riding style pants for active men that don’t have elastic anywhere or look like leggings.

i’m writing because this is a perfect white girl takeover: men cannot defend themselves. they will implode and cease to be the moment they start trying to truly fight women. unless they’re pete buttegieg the way he laid into kobuchar just short of calling her fish… i was like “yep, that’s pretty fucking GAY.”

but most cats, gay included, don’t usually punch white girls back.

so if you liked what i last wrote because it was clean and well-shorn, this is me after camping ten years with a full bush and unshaven legs.  i was gonna only say four days as if to save any shards of femininity i have left but i’ve already died and this is my living suicide it never ends because as i’ve said before: the moment i start to live as if i care what anyone thinks of me, i’m toast.

the link below, this is what i wrote about BLACK men and my prior pledge and apologia to them, but like Alex Osborne –the man i call “X” because he’s the second coming of __________ ….i’m gonna leave it blank because i think this woman’s job is to make up for lost time and love hard mad hard and make up for lost time, make up for all that ambitious waste of time that was always about the faux love in the first place.

anyhow, X said that he realized he had to love Black People more… then he realized that meant he had to love EVERYONE more and i laughed because i got it.

so these are notes on that adventure as i try to love not just men but also the women who come into my orbit during the day.

so i’m like a hooker after all, only for no money. and i’m not fucking everyone. i can’t. / but i’ve learned to love deep and fast in public like what i used to save only for private.

it’s this. how i write. raw mean. bloody. eviscerated. showing a whole lotta pink. because that’s all i can really write about here anyhow. how i’m trying to find the magic in us again and fan the flames of something new already waiting to burst forth from the deep soil…

artists really are shaman thinkers teachers… calling all crazy people. the only ones left who cease caring what anyone alive or dead thinks of them because they’ve died already and are truly alive…

men are mystical scary exciting and even the seeming creepiest ones are just over excited and need channeling.

i am sad that the arts have been taken over by ambitious vindictive women who were supposed to be teaching us about being BEING actually strong. not just pretending on TV.

i’m sad that politics and everything about america is a fucking lie. i’m sorry the economy is a fucking sham. i’m sorry that the world is full of uncle toms.

i’m writing this because i’m my father’s daughter and James has loved me back to myself and beyond. he still is. i’m brand new. i feel like i just got here.

but i’m writing this also precisely because i don’t want to. and squirming away from something is a sign i must pay attention to whatever’s in the squirm. that’s where i’ll slay my dragons.

this is what men have taught me. and my mother. she is a second wave feminist and i thank her and my father for every fucking thing. even though none of us talk, we cannot. they raised me like a warrior and i know my mother and father are both proud of me as i am, even as they don’t quite understand me.

i am mixed. i am of both of them. and i must honor them by fighting for the true borderlands and secret places in between because then i will be truly honoring them and not wasting all the pain.

Deborah Jane Reese and Rafael Lopez Sanchez. and my baby sister Elena Maria Lopez and her son, the first man dare be born in our coven… Alexander Xavier.

none of it was a waste. i’m a freak and all this was for a reason. pain transcending into beauty strength real true power. and feminine. the daughter of a second wave feminist who lived for and donated her entire life to the cause of empowering women even as these individual women, once empowered and put into positions of power, turned on her because… well that sisterhood thing is actually bullshit and empowerment for anyone else is bullshit, too… feminism is white women colonizing everyone else’s victimhood status as a power move.. it’s BRILLIANT… but yeah, girls know how to smile, socialize, act like best friends or the love of your life within ten minutes and keep things together, so…we’re admittedly complicated and often we’re convenient two-faced whores…

but now that i am dead as i was and have nothing truly to fear except my hurting of James as he cares for me and breathed life back into me, i must write as if i have no parents no family, no one to embarrass…

it’s lonely. and it’s been MEN who’ve taken care of me, tried to fuck me, fight me, jump me, love me, inspire me…

we’re complicated, right?

and i’m glad for being tested regarding character.

i fell in love with a producer when i was just doing that scary flirting thing, because the truth is ladies… you never have to actually SLEEP with them. they miss and want the GAME. you break a man’s heart when you sell out.

men really do want us to be goddesses and all we can be. i think the hatred of us comes when we want to be like THEM and they’re like, “we’re fucking assholes, transcend us both…”

i know this because this is what i heard what i learned when i went insane with James for 24 hours and it was a full of fucking all LIFE experience. put me onto the fact that there’s something to that tantra thing. white girls turned tantra into a breathing thing you sell.

but all the best secrets blossom when they’re free. the moment you use a magic to cheat someone or get something crooked, you put crazy shit into motion.

and as an old girl who’s gotten her ass beat recently for white women, this dick hunt isn’t relegated to just natural born men with their testes intact. anyone who scares white women or makes them uncomfortable will get their ass beat.

ask Bernie. apparently according to “the news,” the coveted rich white women demographic would prefer to fuck Biden over him because they ain’t giving up the Stuff….  and as Vonnegut wrote, “…and so it goes.”

i’ve got a lot to say and it’s gonna be ugly. so scratch what i said before: this isn’t gonna be like i’ve been camping for years with a scary hairy pussy with teeth… it’s like i’m Josephine and i’m coming home so i ain’t planning on washing and you’re gonna be kissing me deep here.

we’re gonna get into all the unedited Mystery of Woman.

and then i’m gonna delete it.

because in my new website idea and in my future on the internet, i’m not writing. i still see no point. it’s about REAL LIFE for me now. how i treat the baby girls and baby boys who need to remember how to stop being twitchy and look into eyes and create fucking mystery.

i’m gonna try to inspire them to write love letters to their loves as i’m gonna try to write love letters to men all through my life past present and future here and like any truly good nasty love letter i’m gonna misspell not re read because that’s where i get embarrassed no! write write write and let go and if i have a stomach ache of embarrassment then (shrug)….

so what? … as we used to say: you’re not paying my rent.

and i’ll write it out here for a bit as i collect my own thoughts on how i’m going to love men in my art and my new work. because paying true attention to someone’s body and getting them perfectly fitted is an act of love care and vulnerability and trust.

even in learning the art of tailoring i am learning the secret life of men.


look at Tom Mix’s pants. those are wovens. they are tailoring works of ART. they are not Chanel knits or leggings.

Tailors are the men behind the men behind the curtain. / fuck..tailors MADE the curtain.

and men are different than women. no matter how much you cut yourselves or think you can just colonize another gender, you cannot. your lack of humility and awe for The Other is how we all keep getting into these fuck you/no fuck you messes in the first place.

men are different. as in: when you go to hotel rooms or grind them, they think you like them in grown up ways.

i want us women not to game the system and fuck with men’s heads because were we really ever as powerless as we played?

i’m afraid not. that’s why it’s not fair to have a few white girls suddenly rise up from being on their backs like aliens in War of the Worlds and putting men into jail for having vagina-looking hard ons.

call me a cunt. in fact, i’ll call myself one first, but after how those women said he had a vaginal looking penis situation below, i actually had more respect for Weinstein’s audacity.

i wish i really COULD go years without washing and say “eat me motherfucka'” but i’m too shy, demure. i am. really.

we’re both and all, aren’t we?

yeah…. we’re going there. what else is there?

we’re going deep existential and nasty. just like proper love letters should.

i told y’all things were gonna get scary and not to kill the ones who can get you past and through this.

nah. america’s a nation of pussies now and i guess forever.

the scariest thing is to be vulnerable with one other person alone and not a million.

that’s why i need not do this thing for very long. what’s the point? you’re just reading me in your fucking meaningless cubicle when you should be upending shit and getting the fuck out and doing something anything else because shit is mad boring out there.

someone dare to show me something new that blows anyone’s minds.

no one’s got the attention span.

but look at these pants… these blow my mind. / these were made in the 1920s. they are such amazing works of imagination and engineering, i’m reading tailoring and pattern books from the 1800s to get into the mind and training of a tailor who could even conceive of such close fitting form, function, beauty and elegance in durable wovens… because i think BIAS was used like Madame Vionnet had discovered. / and it was as if his tailor had traced his form in fabric…


a day later:

i almost trashed this as i have a half dozen other beginnings. why am i writing? for who? whom? why? ego? there’s enough out there there… all this talking no DOING… writers just write ideas they themselves cannot even pull off, and now everyone thinks he or she is a writer. i’m the few people who figures i’m not a real writer. i faked the whole thing. drew pictures to distract you from my years of missed junior high and high school.

but as someone told me: the more you are yourself the more we only see ourselves.

so here’s to growing up to live a life of love falling in love and shamelessly adoring the few people i can stand in this new era. i have defied the dehumanizing required of me and done to me. i will fight to be nasty raw meat here. so that you may see yourselves the complicated interesting daring defiant selves.

i will leak my slimy sticky way into your rigid minds and pry your binary attitudes apart and show you the rose bud between.

then delete all this like nothing ever happened.

thus begins the real mystery between  man and woman indeed; you showed me yours now i will show you mine.

i want to know what it is to be natural woman. i want to love and take care nurture all the things they said were bad and girly and low.

i dare you to tell me i’m weak to my face. i come from another era another time another place. i used to be quiet about it.

welcome to the real borderlands. where people scream and don’t whimper politely.

more later. / and if you signed up for updates to my site, this all this doesn’t count. this is like catching me fucking myself with my black teflon curling iron on the first floor in the bronx. behind my venetian blind in full light night oughtside…with crack in venetian blind. hey, i was only 11 if i didn’t see you you didn’t exist. / i’m the same now. i play chicken with curtains when white folks are on the opposite side. / they’ll always cave and curtain up so’s i don’t have to.

same now.

only now i’m trying to use my casual exhibitionism for some kind of (shrug)…good?
because after years of shame about all i’d been caught doing in my life, i either am proud about it now, or i laugh, or better yet, i can jerk off to the memories of it. that’s the real way i cut my addiction to porn.

be more more interesting than anything you’ve ever seen on any screen or read in any book.

and that’s why i can’t read much of anything anymore. old stuff from people who lived lives? fuck yeah. but modern writing, thinking, myths stories are threadbare to boring. this is the same reason i never rifled through anyone’s drawers when i was babysitting at their homes; what i’ve got under my own mattress and in my mind is more wild beautiful and interesting than anything crusty and plastic i’ve turned on from anyone else’s bedside table.


i’m a cunt AND an asshole. borderlands indeed… the t’aint.

we’re all complicated.

at least we used to be. / i’m not so sure hypocrisy gets to stand in for dichotomy or complexity.