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Wednesday, 30 April 2008 (denial of service) 10:35am Getting to Ilene's was tricky last night. I know where she lives and all, but it also happens to be in what may well be one of the windiest parts of town. I was unable to safely get out of my car at first, since the wind was so strong—it wanted to blow off my clothes, and I could barely close the door again. After waiting about five minutes for it to die down, I decided to sacrifice my otherwise cherry spot and drive around a bit more. I got lucky, finding another space a couple blocks away which didn't have streetcleaning that night, nor was it in a wind tunnel. Hooray. Ilene and I walked into the Mission (to which all of my roads lead) for a burrito, and then back to her place where I mostly dozed through two episodes of Carnivale. Her bed was just so comfy, and my energy levels have been off lately. It didn't help that I hadn't had a mocha that day, but I realize the actual problem is that I'm getting increasingly out of shape. My eating habits aren't that bad, all things considered, but I'm just not exercising enough, and my metabolism is unforgiving at best. I still have the gym membership (and Ilene even half-joked that the walk to the Mission and back was to make up for me not going to the gym), and I still want to use it, but as usual, the spirit is weak. I obviously haven't hit rock bottom yet, but damn, it's gotta be close. I still haven't worked up the courage to go in the morning when there'll be other people there and I'd need to use the shower. I realize that what I really need is a partner, what Rimma in a different context would call a wingman, someone to go with me and have my back. Cindy and I had planned on doing that when we both had Crunch memberships, and we even went together on one Saturday, but it didn't pan out. When Vash got her gym membership there'd been talk of me joining as well, but the logisitics were all wrong (especially since I didn't trust the Neon to make the voyage). Then there was xmas eve, when she said she'd be happy to help me get into shape, starting with a walk the next morning. Then that next morning she said she needed to be alone, and left. So that didn't pan out, either. My beloved, fits-better-than-just-about-anything-else soma fm shirt isn't fitting so well anymore, feeling especially tight around the stomach area. For the love of the gods, if that isn't rock bottom, I don't know what is. Time now, for real, to start writing my piece for Coming Out...Again. I've been brainstorming and notetaking on it for some time now, but have been afraid to actually start, because I'm afraid of where it's going to end. This one's gonna hurt, I think. But, hey, tickets go on sale tomorrow, so it's time to get to work. | ||
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Tuesday, 29 April 2008 (point and shoot) 3:32pm Continuing on with our mission to eat at as many new-to-us places as possible (and not be scared off by extreme trendiness, which Ennui isn't scared off by in the first place), Ennui and I went to Spork on Valencia last night. Pretty good, considering the price, which also accounts for why we probably won't be back anytime soon. From there we went to 12 Galaxies for the Ask Dr. Hal. From last week's social notes: Jewel-like Janay Growden, modest Mable Syrup, torrid [Ennui] with squeeze Sherilyn Connelly, and comely Carinna, who lately took the waters with us at Delight’s Hot Springs on a recent Chicken John Bus Trip to the Mojave Desert were all on hand for our penultimate p’formance.I like that I got called Ennui's squeeze this time rather than the other way around. I don't expect there'll be a dispatch put out about last night's show, since it's the last until at least this Fall. It was a show to go out on, and though there was no Fernet for Ennui or I, Chicken used one of my questions, a comparatively lame one which I lifted from The Straight Dope ("Who has the power to impeach the President, and how I can get that job?"), as the final question of the night. Go figure. We stayed the night at her place. My bedroom (dark and moodily lit and aurally isoated from the outside world by both location and the Buddha Machine) is about as a different a a sleeping environment as you can get from hers (white walls and large windows with gauzy white curtains and vibrant streetlife down below), but I'm always happy to sleep in hers, not and not only because she's there. But that's a lot of it. Tonight, Ilene and I continue with Carnivale. | ||
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Monday, 28 April 2008 (a few obstacles) 2:24pm I left work at two on Friday to go to my ophthalmologist at Stonestown for a vision field test. I'd been under the impression it was only going to be that, and while I did have to gaze into that horrible negative abyss, there was plenty of other poking and prodding and eyedropping as well. The vision field test sucked the worst, though. Did I wear an eyepatch last time I did it? Yeah, probably. It doesn't really cover the eye entirely, so I tried to keep my eye closed, which is extremely uncomfortable and probably results in many strange-looking faces. It would get a little better when I blinked my open eye, but then I always thought I could see the white dot in the afterimage from blinking, and worse, my vision would start to cloud up again, probably because my eye was drying up. Ugh. I told the ophthalmologist the details I'd recently learned about my father's glaucoma, that it was discovered when he was thirty-five (hey! I'm about to turn thirty-five!) and that he had operations on both eyes to create flaps to relieve the pressure. The operation on his left eye was when he was forty-nine, and on the right eye when he was sixty-four. Plus he had cataract surgery in his right eye at some point, and a subsequent infection has made it iffy, so a cornea replacement is seeming likely. Whee. Thus far I don't have glaucoma, but based on my father's history I'm going to be returning to the ophthalmologist every six months for a checkup. Every six months until I don't have health insurance anymore, that is, at which point I'll just learn braille and get it over with. It was about four when he pointed out that since I'm relatively new patient, they haven't dilated my eyes yet. Doing so would mean I couldn't drive for a few hours, but I really didn't have any pressing plans that evening, so I decided to get it over with. It was fascinating to sit in the waiting room as my eyes began to change. I had to hold the book I was reading (Beth Lisick's Everybody Into the Pool) farther and farther away to read the text at all, and the diffuse, late-afternoon sunlight coming in through the west-facing window was feeling increasingly apocalyptic, especially with my sunglasses on so it didn't hurt that much. Once the pupils were all good 'n dilatey the actual examination took all over three minutes, and then I was free to go. I knew I couldn't drive, but I sat in Phoebe for a couple minutes anyway, then made my way over to the Stonestown Borders. I hadn't eaten all day and briefly considered having dinner, but I couldn't read the menus posted in the windows, which would mean that reading at the table would be out of the question, and what's the point of dining alone if you aren't going to read? I managed to find a nice big comfy chair at the Borders and a large book with enough pretty pictures and largish text to keep me occupied, J.W. Rinzler's The Making of Star Wars. As my vision restored itself and the words became more legible closer to my face, a grizzled straight guy sat down next to me and said: i like your boots. I thanked him, and he added: i like mine better, though. Naturally. My vision was back to normal a little after seven, so I went home. Not only were They playing music especially loud, but sitting in the dryer were the same clothes as the night before. I called my landlord to ask them to please take their stuff out of the dryer, and not leave clothes sitting in the machines for days on end. He said he'd tell them, and a half hour later there was a knock on my door. I'd figured there would be. I had earplugs in and my headphones on while watching The Simpsons, and I chose to ignore the knocking. I made it through another episode before going to check the machinges, and found this note taped outside my door: You obviously have issues, but we are not kids, neither do you. [their grammar, not mine.] you don't have to call mike for stupid things like that. if you have problems with communicating with people you can just leave a note. it's not that difficult. be happy :)Uh-huh. I do obviously have issues. Sharp anaylsis, Sigmund. (Funny how those notes I used to leave asking them to please keep the noise down before seven in the morning didn't work.) Since I'm perfectly comfortable being a narc when it comes to them (it's one of my issues), I transcribed the note to my landlord in an email and added: Needless to say, I will continue to use you as an intermediary. (Though, really, if they simply kept the noise down and/or didn't leave their clothes in the machine for days at a time, there wouldn't be a problem.)To which he replied: Continue to do what is easy for you. This way worked out fine you letting me know, and me passing on the message.And so I will. I was done with my laundry and in bed by eleven. Ilene tried to talk me into going out clubbing with her, and very nearly succeeded, but the appointment that afternoon pretty much destroyed any desire I might have had to deal with the rest of the world. Besides, going to be bed early and not having to be up especially early the next day was a luxury I didn't want to pass up. 3:31pm Tonight, Ennui and I are going to the final Ask Dr. Hal of the season. We're going to try to keep doing stuff together on Mondays, though, since they've been pretty much been our night this year. 5:23pm I'm at Ennui's office, a large if otherwise nondescript house in the Mission, which I almost got to see but didn't on Easter. She actually works in a separate building off the main house, what she refers to as "the carriage house," since in previous times it was a home to horses, observing: there was once horseshit where we're standing now. Pretty profound. She also gave me a tour of the main house, notorious in some circles because a popular movie star stayed there when it was a bed-and-breakfast. (Bringing to mind my favorite line from Heathers: "Some damn tribe of withered old bitches doesn't want us to terminate that fleabag hotel, all because Glenn Miller and his band once took a shit there.") The room he slept in was locked, but Ennui made sure to point out that in the bathroom next to it hangs the piece of Vash's art which Ennui's coworker bought at SomArts last year. It makes me proud of her to see her work out in the world, and I'd like to think Vash would like the placement, given her appreciation for all things urinary. So I was sitting at Mission Creek on Sunday afternoon writing, waiting to hear from Sadie, and minding my own business (all concurrently) when a tranny came up to me and said: you remember me, don't you? Never a promising start, though not all that out of the ordinary—many more people know who I am than I know who they are. I told her that no, I didn't remember her. She said: here's a hint: bush and sutter. The hell? That's sorta kind near Divas if you squint and use your imagination, but that's it. I replied: sorry, no. still not ringing a bell. Starting to sound frustrated, she said: really? but you told me about this place. recommended it to me. Huh. I am very fond of Mission Creek, no question, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered talking to her about it. I said: that sounds like something i would do, but i don't recall meeting you or talking to you about it. how about this: jack and ariel. My immediate thought was Ennui's boyfriend (whom only I call Jack) and Ariel from Shakespeare's The Tempest, and, yeah, not so much. I said: sorry, but i don't know anybody with those names. Clearly getting agitated at my refusal to admit that I know her, she said: if you'll send me your email address, i'll send you something that will jog your memory. She handed me her business card. The name looked vaguely familiar in that way where you're not sure if you've actually seen the name before, if it's just because there are only twenty-six letters in the alphabet and a relative finite number of ways to combine them into what are considered common names in America. I replied: or you could just tell me. oh, no. it's not something i could talk about in public. Now my curiosity was really piqued. This was clearly a case of mistaken identity, but I wanted to know: don't worry. there's nothing you could possibly say that would embarrass me. Which, to the best of my knowledge, was true. no, i can't say it out loud. By this point she'd gotten the table next to mine, and was setting up her laptop so she was facing me. Terrific. This was not going to make it any easier to get work done. Her business card had her website URL, so I looked it up. It looked vaguely familiar in that mid-to-late-nineties HTML kinda way. I've seen zillions of sites like it over the past decade and change, and it always makes me stupidly nostalgic for that period. Indeed, the fact that the design of this page has not changed signficantly since 1999 is no accident. I was writing in my notebook at the time, and she asked: what are you writing? Curtly, I said: personal things. sorry. A little while later, she went to the counter and returned from the counter with a salad. She said: you recommended the green salad to me. remember? you said you'd eat it by the pound if you could. Oh, for pete's sake. I replied: i do like their salads here, but that doesn't sound like something i'd say at all. first off, i wouldn't say "eat it by the pound." never have said it, never will. besides, if i was going to recommend it, i wouldn't say "green salad," which is a phrase i don't care for. i'd almost certainly refer to in terms of the extra item i'd order. like, "i'm very fond of the salad with blank." you're definitely thinking of someone else. Looking thoroughly annoyed, she grumbled: yeah, maybe. Then a few minutes later: would it have been olives and mushrooms? Attempting to sound more chipper than I was feeling, I replied: oh, come on. now you're just guessing. it wasn't me, honest. okay. fine. Not sounding fine with it at all. anyway, i do have work to do. okay. fine. Still not sounding fine with it at all. A few minutes later Sadie appeared online. I asked her to please call me on my cell phone, which she did, so I was able to make a plausible show of getting a phone call from a friend and subsequently leaving. The other tranny was making a point of not paying attention to me, even when I said goodbye as I left. Hey, it's more than my archnemesis and I give each other. I walked straight to Sadie's, walked in and announced that maybe it's time for me to leave San Francisco. Which it actually isn't, not at all, but damn, sometimes this City gets weirdly tiny. Sadie said she knew exactly how I felt. We did some erranding for a couple hours, going to Flora Grubb Gardens (I really like it there) among other places before picking Ennui. After dropping Sadie back off at her place, Ennui and I had dinner at Weird Fish,one of the new hipster eateries, then went to the Artists Television Access for Ghosts in the Reel Change, which was fantastic. Afterward, as I suspected might happen, we swung by The Dark Room to make a brief Bad Movie Night cameo. The feature (Meet the Fockers) was almost over, and one of the hosts hadn't showed up, so I ended up on mic for last five minutes of the movie. It was enough to make me glad I hadn't seen everything leading up to it. We slept at the Black Light District last night. We don't do it very often, but it's always nice to have her over, especially because she's clearly so comfortable in my bed. Yay for the flannel upgrade. | ||
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Sunday, 27 April 2008 (drawing in and pushing away) 3:06pm I did make it to the Power Exchange last night. I mentioned Cur's lawsuit threat to Artwhore, and he told me she's threatened to sue them as well. Feh! And here I thought I was all special. Going to hang out with Sadie for a bit, and this evening I'm going to a show called Ghosts in the Reel Change at the Artists Television Access with Ennui. It's one of those rare Sundays when I've made a point of not scheduling myself to do Bad Movie Night, though I suspect we may swing by for a few minutes after the ATA show. | ||
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Saturday, 26 April 2008 (in the lime tree arbour) sometime after midnight Someone just asked me to tell them about myself, and I evidently interpreted it as tell me about your day in excruciating detail: After an all-too-rare night of eight hours' sleep (I usually average five), my first stop this morning when I left the house was the library to pick up Dry by Augusten Burroughs, a memoirist I adore. (I'm also a memoirist, the lowest kind of writer and the worst kind of thief, but I haven't had any books published yet—just a few pieces in anthologies.) From there it was to Best Buy to pick up blank DVD-Rs, then to my office (NakedSword, a gay pr0n website for which I'm a webmonkey) to start downloading the most recent Battlestar Galactica. I then managed to find non-metered street parking near Japantown, thus saving myself at least fifteen bucks in their garage, since I saw two movies back-to-back at the Kabuki as part of the San Francisco International Film Festival. The first was called Walt & El Grupo, and it was about Walt Disney's government-funded trip to South America in 1941. Film history documentaries (and books) are usually like porn to me, but this one didn't quite work. In the half hour between features I got a highly yummy mocha (my primary caffeine addiction, usually reserved for when I'm writing) from the Peet's in the upper lobby, then settled in for the second movie, The Toe Tactic. I absolutely adored it, and it reminded me of why I love movies in the first place. It has been implied that I don't like movies because I curate a weekly series called Bad Movie Night, which is pretty much MST3K live. From the Kabuki I swung back by my office, where the episode had finished downloading. I transferred it onto my laptop and headed back out.And now, I go to The Power Exchange. Probably. | ||
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Friday, 25 April 2008 (we're never going to make the light) 1:12pm Ennui texted me around six last Saturday to tell me the teenage birthday party was done and that the grownups—Jack, Ennui, Ennui's friend Leila and her boyfriend—had congregated down the street from Peet's at Havana, a trendy new Cuban/tapas joint. (At least, I was informed that it was new. I haven't been in Alameda on a regular basis since I stopped getting zapped five years ago.) I put my ears back on before I joined them, and of course the tail never came off at all. Nobody could see it anyway. They were just starting on a big pitcher of Mojitos when I arrived. It was pretty good, like Crystal Light mixed with booze, but I only drank half a glass. I still had plenty of driving to do, and I wanted to pace my indulgences for the evening. Leila didn't seem at all miffed that I'd skipped the teenager-infested party. It was probably obvious that I just wouldn't have been comfortable. After dinner, we returned to Leila's house and sat around the kitchen table drinking tea (I drink tea now, what a trip) while her two sons played video games in the living room. After they went to bed we descended upon the living room and played Wii. Though I know my parents had friends over while the kids played video games more than once—and the difference in ages between Leila's sons was the same as between Jonco and I, coincidentally—I'd wager they never took over the Atari 2600 after we went to bed. But we're the first generation of grownups raised on video games, so we still have it in us. I'm also guessing none of my parents or their friends wore the contemporary equivalent of the Harry and the Potters shirt Ennui was sporting that evening. Never mind that I'd been wearing kitty ears and the tail long before we made it to the party (and am still wearing the tail now several days later as I write this, having transferred it to the long black velvet skirt I usually wear). This is what it means to be a grownup in 2008. The four of us played Wii Bowling, and then Ennui and I played Lego Star Wars, since I'd gotten all excited about getting to play the Imperial Walker scene from The Empire Strikes Back, which has always been my favorite Star Wars scene. Indeed, when we first got there Leila's kids were playing the speedbike scene in Return of the Jedi. I asked: does this have the battle of hoth? and they knew exactly what I was referring to. So weird how much this sort of thing is staying alive across generations. He may suck as a writer of dialog and characters, but George Lucas is no fool when it comes to marketing. Anyway, the game didn't allow us to leap directly to the good stuff, and after banging our head against the opening scene of The Phantom Menace (blech), we finally admitted defeat. Too many buttons and controls and bells and whistles. I commented that perhaps my first tattoo should be the instructions from Pong, Avoid Missing Ball For High Score, because that's pretty much where my video game loyalties and skillsets lie. We stayed probably longer than we should have, and when we finally got to Edie's neighborhood, parking was beyond scarce. Granted, it's the kind of high-density area which is probably packed regardless of the day or time. When I did finally find a spot, I didn't make quite as much of a mental note of the location as I should have. I knew it was around a few corners, but that was pretty much it. Oh well. I'd be leaving with Jack and ennui, and they knew their way around, so what could possibly go wrong? There was already a good turnout when we arrived, and though it was a costume/theme party—hence the ears and tail, see—very few people were overtly in costume or even in an identifiable theme. If anyone asked, and I simply couldn't figure out why someone would bother to ask what something so self-evident as the ears and tail meant, I would tell them that I was "a cat who'd been excommunicated from The Dog and Pony Show." Which is melodramatic at best, but as melodrama so often will, it nailed how I was feeling. I knew very much what was going on across the Bay at the Citadel, and while it was a free country and I technically had as much right to be there as anyone else, I felt very much unwelcome, like it would have been a very bad place for me to go. Ennui went straight into Edie's bedroom and closed the door behind her. Feeling momentarily confused and lost (where did she go? she was right here, and now she's gone and the door's in my way, what happened?) I did the only thing I could think of: I scratched at the door. I had a feeling that it wasn't going to be the last time I slipped into Ezri mode that evening, that I was going to be especially needy, that like Aline Kominsky Crumb I was going to NEED MORE LOVE (Aline's memoir which I hadn't yet read, but whose plaintive title Sadie and I are mildly obsessed with because it sums up our own emotional desperation) to make it through the night, please. I wandered off, and Ennui re-emerged to much clamor a few minutes later in full Harry Potter regalia, shirt and tie underneath long dark robes with the Gryffindor logo, and large round glasses with tape in the middle. (There was much debate over the course of the evening about the exact spell used in the books to repair Harry's glasses.) (occulus reparo, according to the internet.) It took me a while to realize that she hadn't put on a wig—her own shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair did the job nicely, reminiscent of if a bit longer than Daniel Radcliffe's hair in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Completing the ensemble was her original Nimbus 2000 toy broom, which was legendarily recalled when consumers realized that it's essentially a large vibrator. Funny how some things don't become obvious until after they've hit the market. Ennui was covered from head to shoulders, with only her neck, head and hands exposed . This was not a problem in and of itself—she looks damned good in clothes, and the dress she wore to both my company's holiday party and the pattern party similarly left everything to the imagination. But that material was nice and pleasing to the touch and not especially thick. The Harry Potter costume was many layers of one-hunnerd-percent polyester, the miracle fabric. I wondered how it would feel if/when I did Ecstasy later. I could still feel the warmth of her body through all the polyethylene terephthalate, and the shirt had a sort of interesting texture which vaguely resembled corduroy, but (to borrow a phrase) there was no tactile sensuality. Nor was there meant to be. That wasn't why she was wearing it. I wasn't sure yet if I was going to partake anyway. Ennui definitely wasn't, and she told me a few days earlier that she was going to make more of an effort to be mingle and be social at the party. I had promised her that I wouldn't cling. Like most promises, I immediately broke it. Ennui poured us each a sake, I nursed that for the first few hours, feeling afraid of getting drunk. Admittedly, not being afraid of drunkenness is a recent development for me, even verging on being able to enjoy it and recognize what it's good for. Right now, though, the thought was making me nervous. But I also knew that time was passing, and if there were going to be indulgences now was the time to start. But I also didn't want a good high/buzz/trip to be wasted, either. Something was more likely to happen if I was chemically loosened up, but what if I did so and still nothing happened? Ennui, who reads me much better than I realize (and it helps that I'm transparent) asked what I wanted out of the evening. I told her the truth: what I really wanted was to take Ecstasy and roll around on the floor with a girl. I wanted her to be that girl, she was at the top of the list, to be close and snuggly and warm like I was with her at the pattern party and to a lesser extent on New Year's Eve. But I also knew that she wasn't really in that place at the moment, whether or not drugs were involved (and they weren't going to be for her), and that I had her full blessing and encouragement to find someone to do that with. I also confessed that I was feeling even sadder than I'd expected to about The Dog and Pony Show was going on at that moment at the Citadel, that Vash was surely there in pony mode with Dietrich as her human. This was ultimately supposition on my part—I didn't ask Vash or anyone else who might be in that particular loop—but the odds were damned good, good enough that I didn't want to push it by seeking confirmation. I could just imagine the pain that would shoot through my heart if I knew for sure, and it was bad enough as a phantom potential, that familiar dull ache in my chest. So it was tricky anniversary of a happy night, the false dawn of our relationship, an ending of iron pyrite which looks like the real thing from the right perspective (as in the final chapter of Exchange and Descent), but now just a reminder, and something from which I desperately needed to be distracted. I was starved for affection, I was in a state of NEED MORE LOVE and I had the freedom to pursue it, but I didn't, not for a long while, choosing instead to hang onto her though I knew I shouldn't. It wasn't feeling quite right emotionally or physically, but I was hanging on to how I wanted things to be and not opening myself up to other possibilities. I was extremely sad at times, feeling my eyes moisten, but I tried to keep a smile on my face in spite of how hollow I knew it looked. Maybe my poker face would work this time? The next day, Ennui told me that my unhappiness had been palpable, both from the look on my face and my body language. I would tense up when a boy came around, sometimes hissing if they got too close, but relax and be chatty if it was a girl. I was rather mortified to hear about my antisociablity, to the extent someone complained to her about the way I was behaving: i think your girlfriend hates me. Good lord, she couldn't take me anywhere. Presently, I was becoming certain that I was crimping Ennui's style, that my kung-fu grip on her arm was preventing her planned mingling. She said that if I did want to get affectionate then we should go into one of the less occupied rooms or just go home—it was pushing one in the morning, and she was starting to fade—but that didn't feel right, either. I couldn't leave. This night would go unredeemed if I left, and if Ennui wasn't in the mood to be affectionate (as I sense, perhaps incorrectly, that she wasn't), it wouldn't be the worth the effort to try. I excused myself to go the bathroom. The line for was a doozy and when I finally got out I saw that she Ennui was talking to people and mingling and doing the party thing, so I kept my distance. I polished off the sake then started in on the first of many glasses of water to compensate the alcohol. Party animal, I am. As I wandered out of the kitchen, a short, slightly butchy girl by the name of Morgana focused on me—literally, taking several pictures with a large, professional-looking camera. I asked her what the DPI was, since I'm in dire need of a new press photo. Morgana admitted she had no idea, since it wasn't hers and she didn't know much about cameras. She knew enough to show me the pictures she'd just taken, saying: you're really handsome. Perhaps noticing me tense up (my body language was using its outside voice), she added: or, um, do you prefer "beautiful?" I replied: yes, i prefer the word beautiful. i identify as a female, not male, so, "beautiful," "she," "her," "girl," all that, please. It's not obvious to most people. Ten years into my transition, it's still not immediately clear that I think I'm a girl. Not even when though cat costumes are generally considered to be female, as are the blonde-and-pink dreads in pigtails behind the ears, plus the little black dress I was wearing (I was not the only biological male wearing a black dress at the party, but the other person had a shaved head and obviously didn't identify as female like I did, right?), and the makeup, and...it's frustrating and hurty, but is it a dealbreaker when there's obvious flirtation going on? No, of course it isn't. What's important is that they're into me, and at even if they don't get that I identify as female, at least it's a safe bet that they aren't being attracted to my masculinity, which I'm loathe to believe exists at all. Call me a boy if you absolutely must, if you can't get past my voice or my size and find it impossible to make the leap of faith into accepting me as a girl because it's so glaringly obvious that I was born with a dick and everybody knows that genitals equal gender—but please, please don't call me masculine or boyish. That's much, much worse, in a way that I suspect only another tranny could really understand. Morgana showed me a small container of white powder and asked if I wanted to do E with her. I said I wasn't sure, since it was getting late. She replied: ok. wanna hang out anyway? I said yes. It didn't take too long for me to decide that, yes, I wanted to do the E with her. I knew that Ennui liked having me around and even loved me, but was not always demonstrative about it (who is? and would it necessarily be a good thing?), and I needed at that moment to feel actively wanted and desired, like it mattered to someone that I was around. And that was what Morgana was doing. It was just shy of two in the morning when Morgana started dividing the Ecstasy into lines. For want of a mirror she used a coffee table book, and for want of a razor she used my health insurance card. (I was very proud of myself for remembering to put it back in my wallet when she was done.) There were four of us in line—myself, Morgana, Nina and Alison—all girls, yay. That was a ratio I liked. Ennui was crashed out in one of the other rooms, and I considered telling her what I was going to do, but decided against it. If there were consequences, I'd deal with them later. I was her ride, but here were a few girls who were interested in getting high and rolling around with me, and that was pretty much exactly what I needed, (not to mention I was beginning to worry that I was overwhelming Ennui with my psychotic clinginess the way Ripley sometimes overwhelmed with me—is it inevitable that you become what you fear, that you eventually hurt others the way you've been hurt?) (and though a born-and-bred Minnesotan, Ennui was laid back to a nearly Lebowskian degree, whereas I was a native Californian who was exhibiting neuroses on a level that I associate with other Midwesterners I've known) and I was feeling really sad and depressed and though no fault of her own Ennui was not offering the comfort and/or distraction I needed, so I went with it where I could find it—to take the rare opportunity when it was presented, just like I had with Ryder two years ago. Granted, that pretty much blew up in my face and soon thereafter began the inevitable downward arc of my relationship with Vash and a great deal of emotional pain, but did that mean I shouldn't have done it? I honestly didn't know, but I knew that I needed to take this leap, to be selfish, to take the drugs and see where they lead, to let go of my unrealistic expectations of how things should be, to stop trying to repeat the past and instead open myself up to what the univese was offering. Having finally divided up the Ecstasy into roughly equivalent lines, or at least deciding that she'd futzed with them enough, Morgana offered me the first hit. Earlier in the day, Ennui mentioned an article she'd read recently about new studies showing that both cocaine and Ecstasy can cause brain damage, and now here I was about take Ecstasy in a manner associated with coke. Bottoms up! It was my first time doing it like I'd seen in countless movies: straw in nose, head down, inhale through nose while running along the length of the powder, sparkly fire up the nostril. For whatever reason, when I yawn or sneeze I tend to babble nonsensically, a phenomenon which Rhiannon calls pelturquoise. (It's a bastardization of "Pale turquoise," but beyond that I'm vague on the etymology.) I pelturquoised like mad in that first post-snort exhale as the white powder made it through my system, eventually settling in the back of my throat. Well, that was pretty much that. I was on the track. It came on rather quickly, as well it ought when snorted, that sort of expansive needy aura like my whole body is an itch which can only be scratched by holding and touching someone else—a very catlike impulse, really, like how Perdita is when I come home, yowling at me until I pick her up and hold her and let her nuzzle my face to re-mark her territory, and heaven knows I made a better cat than pony. Might have made a good pony with the proper attention, but if I've learned anything from my life is that I can never rely on anyone else to help me because ninety-nine times out of a ninety-eight I'll remain alone, and I have to focus on the talents I can develop by myself. (Whatever skills I have as a writer—and at the moment I consider myself merely adequate, with potential—comes from hard work and self-motivation and little else.) In any event, that stable has been closed and the darn cat has been put out, on her own like she always was. Though it was Morgana who'd been doing the heaviest flirting with me and provided the drugs, and the four of us were quite egalitarian with the cuddling in the way that people who take E in groups do (or should do, anyway), I found myself pairing up with Nina. We found space on the couch in the living room, having to navigate the other people on the mattress which Edie had so thoughtfully laid out on the floor. We made out, shared nitrous kisses (since I wasn't destroying enough gray matter with the Ecstasy), gnawed and pulled. Sometimes there would be rotation, Morgana or Alison taking her place. We all remained clothed and weren't doing much beyond heavy petting, but it was still downright Dionysian by my standards. I also knew there was something missing. My body was surely starting to build up a resistance to the Ecstasy, having taken it in various doses a few times over the past four months, but it was lacking an emotional component. It just wasn't the same as being with Ennui, even though Nina and Mogana and Alison were on the same chemcial plane and were reciprocating like mad (and Nina had a certain dental irregularity which I found inexplicably hot), there was no capital-L Love in the mix, the direct interpersonal connection. It didn't feel as revelatory as New Year's Eve or the pattern party, or especially the high-water mark, with Vash in 2005: We did Ecstasy the night before, a much stronger dose than I had done with Ali at the EndUp. It was an amazing experience, especially doing it with someone for whom I was developing such strong feelings. The desire on ecstasy to get all kinds of touchyfeely and emotionally expressive is strong. Under the blacklights and with Music from the Hearts of Space surrounding us, we talked and felt the weight of each other.But nothing is perfect, everything goes away, and in the moment this was what I had, and I reveled in it. A lot of the pain and separation anxiety from losing Vash had been threatening to return in a big way, the emotional abandonment, the fear of feeling as unloved and extraneous as I did for so much of the year, especially that night, up until that moment between Ezri and Pepper on the table— I needed to not feel that way again, I wanted to be wanted, and the affection which was being offered was honest tenderness and sensuality, not simply pain—a little biting and scratching (I made sure to ask Nina what her visible marks policy was)—but not in lieu of more classic affection, which can be the most difficult thing to find. I'd been on the couch with Nina for probably ten minutes when Ennui came over to tell me she was getting a ride back to San Francisco with someone else. She didn't seem cranky or upset, just ehausted. That, and a little surprised when I made a point of getting up from the couch to hug her goodbye. This felt considerably different from when I met Devi at Chez Badunkadunk. That was part of Ennui's birthday celebration, for starters, and though she may have been okay with me staying and continuing what I'd started—hell, as we stood downstairs on Folsom trying to flag down a cab, Ennui said that her energy levels were super-low, and that it was okay if I just wanted to go home by myself—even I knew it was very wrong. This time it was a different dynamic, and beyond the fact that I wasn't in any condition to drive, I really didn't want to leave, to prematurely end this moment with Nina. Besides, that night with Devi had felt like it would continue onwards, that we'd see each other again soon and figure out if there really was a spark or not, so I hasn't minded leaving. (Turns out I had been wrong about the "seeing each other again" part, soon or otherwise, but still, that's how it felt at the time. If Devi does re-emerge I certainly won't refuse her, but I'm not holding my breath.) This was different. Though I'd surely run into these people again at other parties (barring an unforeseen breakup with Ennui leading to expulsion from yet another circle), it's not like we were going to start dating or anything. As Trent had put it, this isn't meant to last. this is for right now. In any event, when we talked on Sunday, Ennui took great pains to assure me that she was not bothered by me hooking up with Nina or the fact that she (Ennui) had to find another way home. As far as she's concerned, that's just part of the deal. Ennui's departure was part of a mass exodus at three in the morning. Jack left with her, but before he disappeared I asked him for directions back to Phoebe. And it's a good thing, because my best guess of her direction was wrong, and the spot I'd found was in a construction zone which started towing at 7am, so just crashing on Edie's couch and doing the Walk of Shame (Special "Where The Hell's My Car?" Edition) in the morning wasn't an option. Whatever else happened, I had to be back at Phoebe in four hours, period. Unsuccessfully attempting to be part of the exodus was Nastassja, a girl having a spectacularly bad weekend. She'd survived an armed robbery at her store the previous evening, and had been more than a little manic during the party, talking non-stop about the experience, obviously still rushing from the adrenaline surge of terror and relief at not getting a bullet in the head. And now, she announced to the rapidly dwindling party population, she couldn't find her keys. Just locking yourself out of your car or home when you know the keys are otherwise safe is bad enough (as I well know), but losing track of them altogether is much worse. Add in having a loaded gun waved in your face within the past thirty-six hours, and it was little wonder that Nastassja was freaking out as badly as she was. She said as much through the growing tears, standing stock-still in the middle of the living room: i'm freaking out. i don't feel safe. i really, really don't feel safe, and i'm freaking out. And with that she was on the floor, crying. The exodus continued, and soon nobody was left (and awake) except for me, Nina, Nastassja and a boy named Scott. (I wasn't sure when Morgana left, though I was a little sad that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye and thank her for the kindness she'd shown me. Alas. this isn't meant to last. ) I helped with key search, to no avail. They simply weren't in Edie's house. Nastassja herself remained on the floor, curled up in a feal position, wracked with sobs. I suspected this was really the trauma of the night before, like the shock had finally worn off and now the grief and catharsis were in full effect. She kept repeating that she felt very scared and unsafe. I've never had a gun pointed at me, thank goodness, but my heart went out to her. I know how it feels like to be curled into a fetal position, crying my eyes out, feeling unsafe and like the world's disappeared from beneath me. And I know what it's like to be that way and to feel alone, even with someone else in the room, someone who says they love me but does nothing to help. Nastassja was barely an acquaintance, and I had no love for her beyond basic human compassion and a strong sense of empathy, but that was enough. As Scott called around to various people who'd been at the party and followed some possible leads, Nina and I comforted Nastassja as best we could, stroking her and speaking softly and acknowledging her as she sobbed. Occasionally I got up to get her tissues, but most I just tried to help her feel connected and not alone. The Ecstasy was still in my system, and this harshed our mellow considerably, but it was okay. I couldn't help but be amused at the irony that Nina and I were still doing something physical together, just not to each other, and with no sexual component. Nastassja's somewhat tweedy jacket was no more pleasing to the touch than Ennui's Gryffindor robes, and that was probably just as well. She was facing toward Nina, not me, so I wasn't certain she even knew exactly who I was. I felt like one of the angels from Wings of Desire, unseen and unrecognized, and occasionally said under my breath: als das kind, kind war... (Ennui had never heard of the movie, and when I told her about the next day, she said it sounded really boring I assured her that a lot of people who've seen the movie share that opinion.) Louder, I told Nastassja that she was going to be all right, that she was being pretty damned strong considering the circumstances, and most important, that it was okay that she was crying so hard right now. More than okay, really. Downright necessary. i feel so scared and unsafe. i wish i hadn't come out tonight. i wish i hadn't come out tonight. i wish i hadn't come out tonight. Though I had no regrets about where I chose to be that particular evening, I knew exactly how she felt. I knew how it was to be wracked with regret, to rail against an unchangeable past, to wish you'd just stayed home on a particular night. It hurt, bad. It was after four when Scott managed to track down Nastassja's keys—seems someone else had accidentally taken them. I was a little fuzzy on the details, but what mattered was that the keys were found. Nastassja had doged another bullet, I felt like maybe I'd managed to do a little good (anonymously, as I don't think Nastassja was ever really conscious of who I was even when Nina gave me a lift back to Phoebe while driving Nastassja home), I'd gotten some affection when I desperately needed it, and most importantly, this night was over. | ||
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Thursday, 24 April 2008 (unborn and unblessed) 6:29pm I did get a fair amount written at Java Beach last night, and again this afternoon at the Panera near my office, and I'm now at The Sea Biscuit for what feels like the first time in forever, but in fact is a little over a month, since the incident with my eye . The girl behind the counter says I need to start coming in again regularly, especially since she couldn't remember what I don't like on my tuna sammich (the onion, to be precise). Seems like as good a reason as any. I suspect this is where I may be tomorrow night. Today is The Ex's thirty-fourth birthday. This means I'm turning thirty-five soon. | ||
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Wednesday, 23 April 2008 (articulate silences) 3:32pm Perdita was being especially needy last night as I was reading in bed. (Finally figured out the physics of sitting up in bed to read, yay.) Deciding she looked sad, I projected onto her like an IMAX screen and said: i know, kitten. i miss vash too. Then I kinda lost it. 5:42pm I am, as the kids like to say, kicking it old-school: I'm at Java Beach. Got a table with an outlet, I've had dinner, and I'm settled in for the evening. May even get some work done. | ||
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Tuesday, 22 April 2008 (requiem string melody) 6:38pm At The Dark Room. Jim and I just watched last Friday's episode of Battlestar Galactica (which felt not unlike a punch to the throat, if a punch to throat would have me in tears at the end, and I imagine it just might), and now I'm going to try to get some writing done. No Fernet for either Ennui or I at Ask Dr. Hal last night, though I did get to once again handle the banana peel (as it were) in the third and final week of sketches involving banana peels. | ||
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Monday, 21 April 2008 (what i wanted you to feel) 10:53am Excellent, if stupidly controversial, Bad Movie Night last night. The feature was Ronin, which got some people up in arms because it's a good movie, evidently. That'll happen, I guess. It was also The Orange Box Man's final time before he leaves California. It's always sad to lose a regular. Well, most regulars, anyway. There's some who just can't leave fast enough. Earlier in the afternoon, and after our processing mini-session in Phoebe, Ennui and I saw the final Twilight Zone performance. Since I'm a freeloader who gets in free (as us freeloaders are wont to do) I don't usually sit in the audience, preferring instead to leave those seats for actual non-freeloading people. Rhiannon suggested we sit in actual seats, though, so Ennui and I ended up in the front row. When Erin was introducing the show, she announced the fact that I was in the audience like I was a VIP or something. Considering how low I'd been feeling twenty minutes earlier (my mantra to Ennui had been i'm damaged, you know), it was nice. It's nice to feel loved and appreciated. In contrast to how I often feel here are the office, which is mostly ignored. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but my archnemesis' aggressive non-acknolwedgment of me get kind old. (Which is what makes them my archnemesis, I suppose.) For that matter, a person I'd never really talked much to before came up to me at the holiday party last year and drunkenly informed me told me I was his favorite coworker. It seemed to be because of the Hole poster I have up in my workspace, and to a lesser extent the Manson posters. We bonded over that and Courtney Love. Since then, I've tried a couple times to talk to him, and he doesn't say a word, not even returning my hello, just walking on by. Alas. Loved in some places, not loved so much other places. Balance is good. | ||
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