Here are five things I’m still thinking about, five days after the People’s Climate March:


AIR IT OUT banner at the People's Climate March

AIR IT OUT banner at the People’s Climate March

One of the things I keep coming back to, as I spend more time off the grid in places like Vermont, is the concept of TIME. The pace of the city vs. the pace of the earth. The time it takes to grab a dollar slice of pizza vs. making dough, letting it rise, and baking it yourself. The time it takes to actually heal from traumatic experiences vs. the expectations of demanding schedules. How quickly technology allows us to communicate with each other. The speed of travel from one place to another.

Humans have sped up, but has the planet? It seems the gulf between the pace of our lives and what it takes to sustain that level of consumption vs. the natural speed of the earth and her regeneration are rapidly widening. Alternatives are out there – but things just can’t continue the way that they are.

American habits might feel inevitable and unchangeable – how much oil we burn running errands, how much grain-fed meat we eat, the length of our showers – but the way we live now is not how it’s always been. And the people who feel the effects of our collective behaviors might not be us, but our grandchildren. Literally. Not metaphoric “grandchildren” but the babies of the babies being born in 2014. People in frontline communities are already feeling it NOW.

We have to remember that our snappy lives are just a blip in a larger continuum of time. The industrial revolution happened in the last 250 years and our increased reliance on fossil fuels – and the devastation its mass usage is wreaking – in the last 100 years. There are island nations that might cease to exist in our lifetimes; Miami might be under water by 2060. In the history of the earth and the continuum of her future, this very moment we are in is a pivotal one.


working on the FIRE banner at the Queer Planet build

working on the FIRE banner at the Queer Planet build

How does collective work on climate issues fit with more urgent work addressing systemic inequities now?

How do we think collectively, intersectionally and movement-wide about organizing to dismantle prisons and transphobia and economic injustice and borders and homelessness, alongside longer-term work to dismantle capitalism and misogyny and the patriarchy and deal with their impact on climate change? (there is a LOT to do!!)

Can it all happen simultaneously? How does self-interest play into this? How do we support each other long-term and work together as a coordinated movement?

I am one person with fire in my belly. What can I do?

I am sitting with these questions – there are no easy answers. But it *was* interesting to set aside two weeks of my activist life to focus directly on the earth. Usually I balance my community/cultural organizing with emergency work with transient queer young people, with thinking broadly about movement-building on the Third Wave Fund board, with imagining pop cultural change through the movie I’m directing. Stepping back from all of this to work on an issue that underscores ALL of these other things was a paradigm shift for me, and I’m still working out how it all fits together.


water puppet – all of the feelings

So many feelings. The destruction of the earth is a terrifying, sad event. We are part of the problem. I am part of the problem. The loss of entire species and countries is devastating. We are partially responsible. I am partially responsible. I am held down by fuck-up systems that are held firmly in place in this society, though I do have the ability to resist those things. Yet sometimes it’s easier to go with the status quo. I am angry at the ways I am not in control of my own consumption. I am inspired by the sheer force and power I experienced at the march.

So many feelings.  So many more.  All of them true.



"feed each other" on the fridge at Sylvia's Place

“feed each other” on the fridge at Sylvia’s Place

Every Thursday night at Sylvia’s Place, the emergency queer youth shelter established as the legendary Sylvia Rivera’s dying wish at the Metropolitan Community Church in Manhattan, a group of volunteers, staff and former clients make dinner and eat together at the shelter with the current residents there. Cooking skills and recipes are shared across generations and cultures, young people and former clients and queers of all stripes have space to be together, and we all eat REALLY well. It’s kind of a beautiful phenomenon on a lot of different levels.

Earlier this year, when we were just getting this program rolling, I drew a meditation that said FEED EACH OTHER and taped it up on the fridge there. Maybe six months later, a bit tattered, it is still there. I meditate on it still. When it came time to make the banner for Earth during the Queer Planet build, it was an intuitive choice for a defining slogan.

In the 1970’s there was book published called Diet for a Small Planet by Frances Moore Lappé that unraveled the concept of hunger and scarcity, and how much grain we were feeding to livestock and how that related to the burning of fossil fuel, among other things. Last week Penny gave me a book called Hope’s Edge, written by the same author with her daughter 25 years later, that re-examined these questions and highlighted working solutions. In it she makes a case for how food, and how we feed ourselves and each other, as the central issue of how our world fits together :

“If we look at food, really look, our world can shift. We might just not only grasp for the first time the biggest ideas limiting our lives, but also discover for the first time whole new ways of seeing the world that release us from our march toward planetary destruction.”

There’s a lot more to it than that, but – I am pondering this still. And how food, one of the most basic human needs, relates to issues of climate justice and how through food, we might carry this need to DO SOMETHING into our daily, personal lives.


This video. Just this. Taken out of context, it’s kind of a hubristic statement.  How weird that in the moment of shouting it on the streets last weekend, it actually felt humble.

Something about queer power, something about dreaming big, something about wising up.  Something about purpose.  Right now it’s still just the chant, replacing T-Swift as the music in the back of my head.  I’m letting it guide my steps this week.

* * *

So those are the five things still rattling around. I’m sure I’ll have more to say soon, as we think through the WHAT COMES NEXT part.  Curious to hear what YOU are left with… interesting times we are living through, no?

me pushing the mobile reuse center in the People's Climate March

me pushing the mobile reuse center/glitter emergency cart in the People’s Climate March

my brilliant and talented co-conspirator Bizzy Barefoot marching with the puppets at the People's Climate March

my brilliant and talented co-conspirator Bizzy Barefoot marching with the puppets at the People’s Climate March


look how cute it turned out as a banner!

video by Earl Dax, who helped produce the Queer Planet art workshop

Queer Planet pauses on 6th Avenue during the People’s Climate March for a photo opp.  Not visible are two of the banners : FIRE IN OUR BELLIES and ALL OF THE FEELINGS.  Still, it’s a pretty good sense of what we looked and sounded like — amazing!!!  I’m somewhere in the center with a mini pink shopping cart / mobile reuse center, waving a turquoise water flag.

What an incredibly powerful day.

gave an interview with Materials for the Arts, who supplied us with the vast majority of materials (primarily industrial waste) for making the puppets, banners, and props for Queen Planet!

“Problems as large as “climate change” are difficult to break down into smaller person-or-family-sized chunks of work or change.  But the truth is, if we all apply our best selves to a common challenge, then — it’s the sum of all of those parts that makes bigger things happen.  The Queer Planet build has been a demonstration of that concept.”

people's climate march




Attention, Darlings!

It is time to get ready for the

at a
somewhat witchy
totally queer
open to everyone

( ( (( ((( QUEER PLANET ))) )) ) )
with Bizzy Barefoot & Quito Ziegler
& a mötley collection of artists & activists
hopefully including YOU!!!

Monday thru Saturday
September 15-20
Noon – 9pm daily
(the march is on Sunday the 21st at 11:30am)

Abrons Arts Center – 466 Grand Street, Lower East Side

free – but bring supplies!

all works will be on display
Saturday the 20th, all night long
during THIS phenomenal happening:
(hosted by the inimitable Earl Dax)

and then Sunday morning
we’ll have a big pancake breakfast at Abrons
(cooked up by Penny Vanessa Rae)
work out our final drag
then head over together
to the People’s Climate March

to partake in
a massive ambulatory queer art installation
in the form of
surrounded by
teams of marchers in drag (or not)
with related snappy signage

start thinking about what YOU might make!
related to these themes:

AIR QUEEN : fresh ideas
FIRE QUEEN : what makes us angry
WATER QUEEN : all of the feelings
MAMA EARTH : what feeds us


in less than 2 weeks, our fair/unfair city
will be taken over by


to address the global climate crisis
which is pretty urgent, last I checked
(more info here :

and — not to be too irreverent about a major global crisis which we all need to consider very seriously, but in an attempt to bring a sense of light-hearted play to a generations-long struggle to save our very own planet earth –

On Transience



The Green Pony died three weeks ago.

My forest green mini-van, green VT plates; my faerie punk portal on wheels. Her insides were tan and torn, the dashboard made sacred with shaggy debris. Her right axle creaked, the side door stuck, one window clunked under layers of gaffer’s tape. Warning lights flicked on and off with no apparent correlation to actual problems. Really, there is no logical reason why I should be mourning so deep for this piece-of-shit van, and yet… it’s very specific, this ache. It sunk in when her engine finally quit and I can’t seem to shake it.

Let me try to explain. It’s sort of a long story.

In the winter of 2011, during a time of great personal upheaval, I was forced to move out of my beloved but literally crumbling home in Clinton Hill, on Ryerson Street. I was 34 years old and had just come out to myself as transgender, and was going through the fire of what-will-stay and what-will-go with this new understanding of myself. I was also on medical leave from my fancy foundation job, dealing with a nasty case of PTSD and some pretty intense family drama.

Taking a break from permanent housing seemed both liberating and economical. I had a couple months of paid time off and a lot of escaping to do. Some friends had a queer art space in Mpls and we decided to do a show together. Great excuse to get out of town for a bit.

Heavily swayed by a 1974 book of drawings made in the back of an Econoline van named Sugaree – which also inspired my first tattoo that season – and reaching a break in my therapy (otherwise known as losing my health insurance), I decided to buy a van and live on the road for a while. I gave away most of my things, including all my femme work drag and the bras I had sworn off forever, and bought a plane ticket to the midwest.

That was when the first Pony came into my life.

We called her the Trojan Pony because she was just so stealth. She was a former Red Cross rescue van who had saved a lot of lives in Minnesota. Unmarked white on the outside, green shag on the inside, sparkling drag exploding from plastic milk crates, piles of piles of pillows and afghan blankets. One comfy bench seat and a boot that fit a double futon and still had room for a bunch of craft supplies. We filled in the cracks in her paneling with useful things like string and lube and pointed her nose toward the setting sun.

It was a thrilling adventure, for a time, as the Pony and I fell into a culture of transience. At first it felt like liberation. I could be myself, just me, for a while. I didn’t need to be beholden to anyone, or any place. Who hasn’t yearned for an empty house on the beach, a tiny cabin in the woods? Someplace cozy and quiet and totally stocked, where none of your issues have any impact on anyone else. I wanted to be ME for a while, and figure out who that was again.

For a while it felt good, road-tripping to all the magical hideaways where a queer could be QUEER without question, thank goodness. Everyone’s names and genders were constantly changing and it felt GOOD. I got dirty to a degree I had not yet experienced and fell in love with a beautiful bird-girl named Quinoa. They drove a red Pony named Boomer who ran on recycled vegetable oil; parked side-by-side outside Noa’s collective house in Seattle, it looked like our vans were in love too.

There was something about being transient that mirrored the process of my transition. It took a while to understand and accept myself as a person between genders – a shift that required a great deal of intuition and trust – but it wasn’t just gender I questioned. It was a deep reconsideration of how I wanted to live my life, the homes I wanted to create, the people I valued having around me, the work I wanted to do in the world. Staying in motion meant I didn’t need to make any permanent decisions, which was good, because there was just so much I hadn’t decided yet.

Transience also meant giving up the structure of my formerly ordered life : job, home, platonic domestic partner, health insurance – in addition to what was shaken by the ravages of trauma and PTSD : my sexuality, my libido, my memory, my family. There was room for new ideas about all of these things. I just kept moving, searching for clarity, landing wherever it felt safe enough to.

From April 2011 to October 2013 there were 17 rooms I called home. At least. I passed through four Brooklyn sublets, five queer land projects, six self-declared artist residencies and one that was legit, at the MacDowell Colony in New Hampshire. I picked up jobs when they presented themselves and lived like a broke punk in between. I crashed in the bedrooms of some truly kind sweethearts – once for six weeks straight – and for a spell with a lover in Berlin, before moving to a converted artists squat across the Spree for a couple of months. For a month I slept in the Forest of the Future, an art installation in Greenpoint made of industrial waste. That might have been where I hit bottom, in the hollow of an ancestor tree coated with portraits of Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera.

I am aware that I entered into this predicament by choice, and acknowledge the layers of privilege that run through this story. Most people arrive at transience, or homelessness, through circumstances far less voluntary/far more systemic than mine. I spend a lot of time these days with queers without homes due to other problems in their lives : terrible family situations, for starters. Lack of employment opportunities, lack of savings, discrimination against trans job applicants, outright racism. Higher levels of depression and mental health troubles without the resources or culture to support getting help. Relationships that don’t work out. Evictions.

Many of these reasons are systemic or cultural challenges that require the work of a movement to address. Some of them are simple bad luck. But to speak of transience without connecting it to related issues that get to the roots of the problem is missing the point, and to frame my experiences as a total nightmare would be false.

It gets worse. I’m aware of that.

Doesn’t mean that it didn’t get hard for me, too. My own liberation soon turned to an aching, exhausting circumstance that I couldn’t quite pull myself out of. My finances were up and down and I ran out of money a lot. Relationships shifted or ended or changed.  I was usually housed but never quite long enough to feel stable. Something would happen, a house would split up, an adventure would end, and it was the same numb exercise in sorting once again – current drag in my cutest vintage suitcase, art supplies updated and packed neatly into cases. Everything else into crates and laundry bags, stashed in whatever space came free.

The Pony was really my only constant. Between cheap shitty mattresses and back-fucking couches and foam mats on floors there were days or weeks at a stretch where sleeping in the back was by far my best option. On the road I’d sneak into an off-season campground or more likely an off-highway truck stop, boxed in by 18-wheelers who’d be gone before daybreak. In Brooklyn I’d drive to the Rockaways, finding the quiet blocks where I could park closest to the ocean, butt toward the beach. Early mornings I could throw open the back doors and listen to the ocean in bed.

There were times when it was lovely but on the whole it was stressful. The way you never feel quite secure, even when the van is locked. Not knowing where the next set of money would come from, and what kind of long-term work might grant me the freedom I was growing vitally accustomed to. I missed my house on Ryerson Street like crazy. I couldn’t remember what I had lost and what I had kept and which closet, in which state, of the half-dozen closets and basements my shit was squirreled in, held particular objects I wanted to touch.

And transition was confusing, gender was confusing, “they” pronouns took some internal getting-used-to, explaining it to people when I was still sorting through it was hard. Thank goodness for queer community, and spaces where gender wasn’t assumed or didn’t matter. Thank goodness for the sprawling web of friends and faeries and chosen family who caught me, listened to my intense vented stories, fed me when I was broke, set out clean sheets for their couches, loaned me the keys. People are confusing, people are kind, there was so much generosity around me and all I could do was be grateful for it, and turn it back out when I could.

Owning a huge friendly cargo van in a community of broke punks is sort of like winning the txt msg lottery. Five straight people or 17 queers (who tended to be more lenient about things like seat belts) could pack into her back – and many of them DID, on beach trips and road trips and beyond. When it came to other people’s Pony missions I couldn’t say no to anyone – so many people were supporting me that I wanted to do what I could in return. Moonlight beach parties helped with a fraction of the expenses, but repairs were cleaning me out. And two years of emergency moves or picking up bookshelves from curbs, trips to the Rockaways with a dozen riders home at 3am, art projects and film projects and band gigs and storage runs had worn me out. My friend Sam was letting go of his mom’s old mini-van and, in a 3-way trade involving the Trojan Pony and some cash, the Green Pony’s long slim key fell into my tranimal paw.

I named her the Green Pony by default, because “Pony” had come to mean “vehicle” in my weird peculiar lexicon and – well – this one was green. She never quite had the charm of the original Pony, but I was a reverse size queen by that point and smaller meant snug which meant YES. A personal Pony, too busted to borrow. She was made the year after I graduated from high school, which felt weirdly appropriate to my transition-fueled queer adolescence. I listened to mix tapes I had made in the 90’s and wondered what would’ve happened if I’d gotten into Bikini Kill instead of Pearl Jam.

The Green Pony held me through six more months of transience, many of them spent waffling between Vermont and Brooklyn, weighing the better place to land. Ultimately, it was love that pulled me home to these potholed city streets, a dried-up bouquet I picked for my sweetheart dusting the dashboard under seashells and pine cones from later adventures together.

I moved into Penny’s house this fall, and slowly began collecting my treasures from all of their hiding spots. The Green Pony got used to alternate sides parking. And we all started hanging out at Sylvia’s Place, an emergency shelter for queer youth who are surviving their own stories of transience, without the benefit of broad social networks, advanced degrees, white skin and 20 years of independent living.

I started this story the day after the Green Pony died, and it’s taken a while to get through it. A lot of these memories are painful to revisit, even from the quiet safety of a bed I have slept in for almost a year. Arranging them into a narrative has meant grieving again for all that I lost, and sorting through what I still have. For three weeks I tore the house apart looking for her title amidst the paper rubble, feeling like a crazy person til I finally thought to call Sam, who it turns out had kept it for safe-keeping. I brought the title to her final mechanic, paid my last respects before sending her off to the scrap heap. And then we transferred her green plates to my new Pony – a perfect cross between the two prior vans with the added cool bonus of a TV/VCR.

Losing the Green Pony was like losing my safety net. Without her I felt unmoored, adrift, transient once more. When Penny and I are low on funds, we imagine ourselves living on love in a van by the river, cooking up beans and singing Bon Jovi lullabies. It’s a comforting image – though it’s strange to get used to being a team. Survival has long been a solitary effort. The Pony gave me a hard motorized shell and wheels to run away fast. Staying still is a different sort of challenge.

To be without a home is a terrible thing. In its truest sense the word “home” implies ongoing warmth, the security of a physical structure. When I was sleeping in the ancestor tree I had none of those things, and yet – being queer is ultimately what gave me comfort.  This process of questioning, of spiritual transience, might well  be the home I’ve been searching for.

Queer is a home that I carry in my heart, a badge that I wear beneath my skin. No matter where I travel, I take my queerness with me.

Even without the Green Pony, I carry it with me still.

farewell, green pony. you were a good little van.

I’ll miss our road trips and drives to the beach,

our hotboxes and kiki lounges,

penny’s favorite nap spot,

my portable living room on wheels.

with you I knew I would never be homeless,

or without a sharpie

or lighter

or granola bar

or hideaway.

maybe my next van-love will have better brakes

and an engine that won’t quit,

but you held on for so long

like the tough survivor

we both are.

bon voyage darling.

onwards and upwards

to future adventures

in the junkyard in the sky.

If you’d like to donate to the Green Pony Fund it would be most appreciated. All donations go directly towards the cost of a new Pony, a sudden expense I was not quite prepared for. Getting a new Pony felt essential. The $2500 it has taken to get her off the ground ($1800 for the van, $200 for repairs, $500 for insurance), in my working artist world, is a significant expense.

Anything raised that goes over her start-up expenses will be put towards groceries for Family Dinners at Sylvia’s Place.

donations can be sent to :

:::::: ::::::

:::::::::::: send $ to :::::::: ::::::::::::

On July 3, I’ll be hosting another Moonlight Beach Party to benefit the Green Pony Fund.  RSVP here.

Kristen and I made a video tonight, in the bathroom at Sylvia’s Place while everyone else was cooking dinner like we do every week on Thursday nights.  (well, Kristen works there all the time — I come in every Thursday with a bunch of the sweetest volunteers you’ll ever meet and we turn out these massive bang-up feasts with the young people there.)  It’s for a show about Queer Prophecies my friend Coral is helping organizing.  Here’s what we said about the future.  I’ll probably have more to say about it when I’m not so tired… we start shooting the movie tomorrow!!!



I made a new zine last week : What Transfeminism Means To Me. I feel like there is a LOT missing from it still/I want to keep editing forever, but — it’s a start.

In 2001 Emi Koyama wrote the Transfeminism Manifesto which talked about:
“a movement by and for trans women who view their liberation to be intrinsically linked to the liberation of all women and beyond. It is also open to other queers, intersex people, trans men, non-trans women, non-trans men and others who are sympathetic towards needs of transwomen and consider their alliance with trans women to be essential for their own liberation.”

A lot has evolved since then, and Koyama later added a postscript explicitly about working for gender liberation in tandem with work to address other forms of oppression like racism and classism. (aka “intersectionality”)

However, the basic definition – while representing a specific moment in time – still works.

Here is what I think about it now.  Includes thoughts on call-in culture and being a good accomplice/ally, and some awesome drawings by Emmerson L Lunarbow.




Misogyny – the hatred of femmes – runs deep in our culture. I’m not shocking anyone by stating the obvious here : for hundreds if not thousands of years, women have been bashed, judged, objectified, underpaid, under-recognized, discriminated against, raped, assaulted, and served all sorts of daily micro-aggressions. Trans women and effeminate men, as “traitors” to their assigned gender, get it even worse sometimes.

Queers can do better. Everyone can.

Maybe a year and a half ago I was called out on my own casual use of the word “tranny.” I resisted the criticism at first – the word was a source of love and pride for my own transgender identity, and a commonly-used term of affection amongst the gender-non-conforming gays in my life. I thought “tr**ny” was cute, and useful shorthand. I did not want to change, and felt like being asked to was totally unfair and kinda PC and came out of an academic-sort-of-queerness that I resisted. (I got called out for these attitudes as well.)

And yet, it is an irrefutable fact that for many women of trans experience, particularly women of color, “tr**ny” is a word that comes with a lot of complicated, often negative, and quite often traumatizing associations – many of them rooted in misogyny. It’s a slur spit at them during bashings and beatings. It is word entrenched in objectifying Jerry Springer and online sex contexts. It’s a headline associated with brutal videos like the one shot just last week, from an Atlanta train where two trans women of color were attacked, beaten and stripped nude – and kept fighting back.

Many of the women who live with that kind of culture on the daily do not choose to use this word in optional/community contexts, because it’s associated with so much pain and misogynist behavior. As a survivor of sexual assault I am totally sympathetic towards the personal choices you make in the process of recovery. I understand and accept that an entire culture cannot bend to the needs of the few.

And yet : queer culture is supposed to be a haven from that kind of bullshit. In the queer circles I run in, many of us work hard to make our spaces accessible to those with different abilities and sensitivities and dietary needs and economic situations.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that even though I could totally justify my use of this word, I didn’t want my own personal mouth to be contributing to someone else’s pain.

Think about it.

Do you want your own personal mouth to contribute to someone else’s pain?

And – even if you are not always sharing space with trans women when “tr**ny” comes out of your mouth – isn’t it better to just reform your habits so that, when your friends-who-might-feel-disheartened-or-triggered are present, you don’t have to change just for their benefit?

Do you value having trans women in your life? Do you want to risk making them feel unsafe or unwelcome?

And particularly if you are a public figure – don’t you want your influence to contribute to a less misogynist world for ALL queer and trans people?

There are a million empowering and historical and cultural reasons not to bend to pressure to lose “tr**ny” from queer language.  I hear them and respect (some of) them but ultimately they are not my personal choice.  As a fierce transfeminist accomplice to the trans women in my life, I no longer choose to use my mouth to trigger their pain.  To me, it feels disrespectful and unnecessary. And language is cool – there are lots of other words to communicate kinship and love. (sister and brista and tranimal all work great… I bet you’ve got some too.)

The project of undoing misogyny is a day-to-day endeavour. It begins with examining the ways in which women-hating agendas have wormed their way into our lives and our consciousness. As with all privileges – we are often not aware of them unless we are oppressed by them, or called out by someone who is. I would ask people who are not oppressed by the word “tr**ny” to take a moment to consider the perspective of the many women and queers who are.

I know it’s hard, we are puzzling through a lot of feelings right now in queer culture – but, I see all these “language wars” as a necessary step in the process of creating a more cohesive and powerful movement. And I believe it is the long-term work of our movement to systemically undo violence and misogyny, working towards racial and economic justice on personal, interpersonal, community, institutional, structural, global and environmental levels. We need to use our queer ingenuity to keep imagining and improving systems of behavior, including the language we use to address each other.

Working out “tr**ny” is up there right now, along with working towards acceptance of gender-neutral pronouns like they+them. Liberating our language from the oppression written into its very structure is not just a PC, academic queer project – it is deep cultural work that we ALL need to take part it. And by “all” I mean, not just queers but all human beings, for real. As a real-life androgynous person who doesn’t fit into any commonly-accepted notion of gender, there is a serious amount of structural change that I’m committed to working towards in my lifetime – bathrooms, passports, the list goes on. I prefer to do this work alongside others in a movement towards racial and economic justice in all of its forms, with concern for the health of the planet with live on.

Change at a structural level does not come without work, and sometimes the most important work needs to happen inside our own heads. Modifying our daily habits – including when it comes to language – and refusing to resist change, practicing our politics on the daily, actually signifies a massive leap forward in creating the world we would rather live in, rather than the crap we were born into.

Just think about it.


5th Anniversary Pussy Faggot coming up on May 18!  I am using this as a giant excuse to finish sorting through my scrambled notes/make a zine on trans feminism, & release it on the roof during a Transfeminist Tea Party.  Please come say hello, Penny will be baking glitter sweet petit fours.

Inline image 1

ARt in the AGe of AQuARIus 

at the whitney + on the beach
friday march 21
7-9 pm at the whitney museum of american art
late night at a *new secret beach*

* * *

oh my gosh WINTER
I am SO OVER IT already
aren’t you???

i am TIRED of dreaming of the beach
i just want to BE THERE already

guess what friends

march was just born
and as soon as she turns 20
we SHOULD start feeling the shift
(12:57 on thursday march 20, to be precise)

it’s the vernal equinox!
in the age of aquarius!
let’s get it together!!!!!!!

friday night :: march 21
6-9 at the whitney (free!)
+ later, at a secret beach

please join me in welcoming :

.. : : : . . . . – * L A D Y   S P R I N G * – . . … . . : : : . .

let her know you’ve been looking out for her!

dust off yr motorbikes!
borrow a car!
the SPRINGTIME is coming!
it’s really not far!

psychics and visionaries
pirates and punks
violets and skunks

it’s not every friday
yr invited to play
srsly! HEY!

and it’s not every night
that the whitney is FREE
so you better get ready
to hang out with
also, you HAVE to meet my friend
we hung out last winter on a residency

dude! she is drawing a LABYRINTH on the bottom of the whitney!
you HAVE to come by and walk it!

will all be in a secret room, reading tarot

come in yr best AGE OF AQUARIUS drag!!!
go see the biennial for free!!!
drink green juice shots and whiskey!!!
it’ll be fun!

and then
if the weather doesn’t

we will head on down to a *new secret beach*
to say goodbye to winter + welcome lady spring
as interconnected communities in the age of aquarius

{                                                         }
{                                                         }
{  ON FRIDAY the 21st                         }
{                                                          }

show up
bring the party with you
(i promise to get there by midnight with some firewood)

if intimacy is about
being caught up on each others stories
then let’s catch up, community

it’s been a long one
but a GOOD one
and i’ve got some stories to tell around a bonfire…….

don’t you?


pirate maps available at the whitney from 6-9
or by signing up for the RSVP list here :

ARt in the AGe of AQuARIus
is an official program of the
Whitney Biennial
in conjunction with Lisa Anne Auerbach‘s awesome work there