BALLS! Get ’em while they’re good.

ed: This was originally a newsletter, but the news was too important to not continue sharing.


Baby’s first newsletter! I honestly don’t really care for these things—as evidenced by the fact I’ve until now never written one in my entire career—but the time has come as there is news to spread far and wide. Honestly, this will probably turn into a blog post at some point, but the newsletter feels more urgent!

The first bit of news I feel pressed to share with you all is that after two years of trying to do things the right way (never do this), I finally have a date for my orchiectomy or, in the common tongue, deballing. Don’t you wish it was you? The date that is, not the surgery, though you can get one of those, too, if you want. Actually, with the hurdles I had to jump like a poorly trained dog show contestant, maybe you can’t unless you want to go to the guy doing cash only on Saturday mornings at someone else’s practice with local anesthetic only. I didn’t, but different strokes, yanno?



Point being of all of that is two-fold. Firstly: stroke ’em while you got ’em boys (and gals and enbies and). If you would like to see me knowing I have testicles in my panties, you have until November 15th. From now through the end of September, I am touring New England. October and the first half of November are yet unwritten, but I’ll surely have time in Detroit and Madison, WI. I would guess I have some more travels in me, but it is very likely to be incumbent upon you to fly me out if my testicles are important to you and you need to say goodbye to them.



Secondly, I’m going to be taking some time off to recover, so I won’t be available after November 15th for a while. Normally, recovery would only take a few weeks putting me back to seeing friends in mid-December. That timeline, however, puts me right into holiday plans and my usual Winter time off. Add that all together and I will be taking off from November 16th until March. It will be so good to see you all on the other side buuuuuuut



There are few things I like less than Michigan winters, so when I do resurface, I am planning to do so in a city I’ve been considering moving to for several years: New Orleans. Life after March is pretty murky, but I suspect I’ll stay there until May sometime (birthday month!). After that who knows! I am looking at art programs across the country from Los Angeles to Rhode Island, so I could land almost anywhere. If you have a prime photography school to recommend, drop your girl a line.

So, if I may summarize (and I may; it’s my newsletter, after all): I am in New England until October after which I bounce around a little. From mid-November until March, I will be unbookable. At that point, I will be living in New Orleans, and life after that is unwritten. If you’re in Michigan and have been waiting to go on a date for whatever reason, I suggest you get on it yesterday. Lacking a time machine, today is good as well.



Much love my weeblies!
~Adelaide



P.S. I apologize for my new ADD-med-influenced writing style. Hopefully, you enjoy it though??

The Seasonal March

All-Natural GFE Transgender Escort

The Seasonal March

Originally published December 17th, 2016.

The weather has finally turned having brought sub-zero temperatures and biting westerly winds. With them, so, too, have the snows come. For the first time this year, I have rescued my collection of scarves from the confines of my garage, and, staring out of this train’s frosted windows, I realize again how beautiful the North’s alabaster blanket is – for now, anyway, as all things turn. Soon, I too will turn back and head home to my yard long covered in unraked leaves, as much a sign of wanderlust as anything. As the snow falls, obscuring my neglect, I am afforded the option to hibernate and to obscure myself as well, to pull the covers up to my eyelids and burrow my toes between quilted folds.


Everything seems to drift both as the coach car rolls along these fiercely linear tracks and as the metabolism of the world slows down. For the first time in years, no supplemental retail job consumes my schedule for the holidays. My harried travel schedule has concluded for the year and may not resume at all until January comes to a close. Even those who busy me at home have absconded as their schedules filled up with their own holiday commitments. The door-to-door salesmen and politicians have all disappeared, and a Fortress of Solitude seems to build itself up around me.


It is just me and my leaves. They have been easy enough to ignore, to put off for another day, and it will be tempting to let their obfuscation buy them more time still. The snows will melt, though, revealing the decay before yet more snows fall to blind the world to my detritus, and one wonders how long a person can let it go on like that.


So, I nestle in for the slow season with my hot chocolate, a heavy-papered journal, and a cashmere sweater that still smells of an old lover in order that I might figure out how best to manage my leaves when they are once more revealed. Under the warmth of the Summer sun, you can run, but come Winter, you must mull. For years, I have merely waited out the frigidity, but, eventually, I know I must do the hard work and clean up what Autumn has left behind. This heavy blanket of leaves will decay as all things do, but as time goes on, with guided ministrations, it will become a warm, fertile bed of mulch. No longer weighed down, I look forward to tending the flowers that will sprout freshly come Spring’s invariable rebirth.

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Trees Are Such Tired Metaphors

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Trees Are Such Tired Metaphors

(originally posted September 11, 2015)

It has been an incredibly long summer of touring for me, having left my house on June 15th and effectively returning to it on September 10th. To be fair, I had a few stays of a day or two as well as one stay of two weeks a little over half-way through, but that was really only long enough to take care of summer maintenance and book travel and lodging for my trek up and down the Mississippi. There are a million and one thoughts I have had along the way. I have fallen in love with so many places and people and things; I feel like I could write a dozen posts from this tour. I may; that is, in part, what this blog is for, after all.

Today, though, as I bring this summer exodus to a close, writing the underpinnings of this post from the Iowa 80 truck stop lest my thoughts flit away on my long drive home, I find that I want to talk about a tree more than anything. We’ll get to that, but give me a moment.

One of my favorite things about touring by bus is the long, slow expanses of land languidly sliding past. There’s a romance to it, to being entombed in this vessel gliding through a world that is ageless. Sometimes, it is nothing short of terrifying such as the night I spent the witching hours in a chill, inky darkness with no sound but the constant pelting of a furious rain and no light save the harrowingly frequent and disturbingly silent lightning strikes – until those moments a peal of thunder wracked my very soul. Other times, like the ride to New Orleans, it’s akin to a Lovecraftian intro: strange, foreign landscapes stretch into the distance, unknown trees reminiscent of foreign mangroves, and water one imagines as brackish as can be. It’s the sort of landscape that inspires wonder during the daytime and may just as well enliven horrors at night.

And then there are the landscapes in Iowa. I don’t remember east-central Iowa being so hilly, and in its way it reminds me of New Zealand but with cattle for sheep. It seems silly of course that, though I’ve never lived there, Iowa seems as home as anywhere else, in much the opposite way that for all the years I have lived about Detroit and no matter how appropriate, it always feels awkward to call it home. Of course, Iowa is not my home and Detroit, by default anyway, is. But there are roots in both of these places. No matter where I eventually find myself, I will have roots in Detroit; so to, due to all the years I spent traveling back to my parents’ homelands in Iowa, will I have roots here. For all my escapism, I will never escape these lands. I have driven east through the night and at sunrise found myself blinded by the rising sun, embattled in traffic, and worn with fatigue. Before that, though, the dawn glowed on mists hanging low in Michigan’s wooded glens, and I realized just how thoroughly the spirit of this place will haunt me.

Sometimes I wonder how I got here. To this place in my life. To this place on earth. There are few easy answers, but I can at least answer shortly that I was in Iowa on a fetch quest. My aunt had gone back to her grandfather’s birthplace and procured a bud from an apple tree that still stands outside where his home once stood. This spring, she grafted that bud onto some rootstock as a gift to me. My mother’s father’s father had brought that apple tree from who knows where, but his recent ancestors had brought his lineage from Norway. There’s a spiritual continuance in this as much as there is a genealogical one. My great grandfather, to his son, to my aunt, and, eventually, a fresh graft to me. Having little experience with trees and terrified of not giving this gift the life it deserved, I asked my aunt for some advice. Among her sagacious words was the imploration against fertilizing it. “If you do,” she warned, “the roots will be too comfortable. The won’t reach out of the soil they came with into the soil of your home. They will stay where they are and struggle to grow outside of that.”

My touring started some time ago as a coping mechanism, a running away from home as much as Detroit is and isn’t that. These recent tours, to be certain, have been much less running. In the past three months I have visited nineteen different cities that I can recall. Of those, fourteen have been new or practically so. No longer fleeing my past, I still find myself seemingly always scouting a place that can replace Detroit. By some strange circumstance, I seem to have found two such lands this summer. In both New Orleans and Montréal, I found myself instantly at home as I’ve felt nowhere but Detroit. As much as a city can have a soul, I knew the souls of those two. They led me down the right streets, to the right people, and unequivocally in the right directions. Maybe it’s the way the French settled their cities. Maybe it’s the way they’re gridded. Maybe it’s a deep, underlying psyche of an entire metropolis. I don’t know, but I know they were as at least as much home as anywhere has been in years.

New Orleans and Montréal were incredibly different experiences. New Orleans was experienced entirely on my own, a traveler exploring lands new to her. I fell in love with so many things there – oysters, a batture, the Marginy, every espresso shop, pervasive music – and I could exist inside of that love for ages. More than one local described NOLA to me in familiar terms before knowing my hailings, one going so far to say, “If not for the tourism, New Orleans would be Detroit.” As much as I can love a place I just met, I love that city.

Montréal on the other hand was a non-stop foray into the lives of instant friends. Dillan Wolfe took me into her arms in the way that only a prescient gardener can, knowing just where to guide my branches that I might find more of my kind. Among them was Lorence Vennes, who is akin to fresh sunlight, encouraging my growth and prodding me toward greater things. And, of course, my recent tour partner Delilah Sansregret whom I could swear was borne of the same ancestor grafted in another time and another place and thusly carrying everything I think of as home within her. As much as I can love people I just met, I love these women.

I wonder if my youth, my saplinghood as it were, found me spending entirely too many years confined to a tiny world much as my new tree is confined to its bucket, always peering out into the world but unable to interact with it. A patient of the late Oliver Sacks once said “This stupid body is a prison with windows but no doors,” and I find deep resonance between that statement and much of my life. Now, though, that I have sloughed that confinement, I wonder if for too many years I was given too fertile of soil. If I was made to feel too comfortable and became too unwilling to break out of all things that made up the places where I was. My hope and my feeling is now that I have found such exquisite comfort in these two new cities and with these enchanting people, that I might finally be able to stretch my branches the way my core has always necessitated.

I think, too, about the continuum we exist in, and I’m reminded of these threads running through everything. As I glide along I-94 back towards home, I simultaneously am preparing to officiate a wedding much as my father and his father did countless times before me. I bring a tree with me and with it my mother’s ancestry. There could be no more perfect moment for these things to culminate in my life, and I’m left to wonder where this thread goes next. How high will I grow? What sort of fruit will I bear? Who will be grafted from me?

What shadow will I cast?

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