Thursday, April 14, 2005

no rest for the wicked

when spring
time comes;
and the buds begin their sky reach
and my leatherjacketarmor gets shelved,
with only a white tee-shirt over
two twin tank top undershirts to protect
my breasts from the rest of the world;
it transforms my buyingacupofcoffee transactions.


some, who are used to my wintery skins,
adjust their glasses from across the countertop
to try to understand my form;
eyes fliting back and forth, as they are can'tconcentrateon pouring,
inspecting from my haired chin to my sideburns to my chest
and forth and back
again, their confusion betrayed by
the spilling of my hot drink.


and trying to give my change,

;careful of the change;

working not to brush their hand against mine,
unsure if they want to touch the
unsure springtimeme they are just
sure just bloomed before their eyes.


but i always tip them anyway,
regardless and more for me than them;
because i know that
i have made change
in that brief moment --
that's what i repeat to myself, hypnotically and emphatically, as i sit down --
i have survived the rough and seasoned edges
of the commonplace interactions
that swirl and twirl,
tornado-like,
in my daily gender revolutions.

Monday, April 11, 2005

writing desire

i don't even know where to begin with this machine anymore. i havent typed something in what feels like months and probably is. and blogness is new. and writing where people can see is newer still. but ive been thinking lately, if i write and no one sees it am i really writing? just a variation of the "if a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it ..." theme. but my fingers could get used to this typing again, i can feel it. they are starting to remember where the keys are a bit with out me looking. and it is faster than the ol' pen on paper method. but i dont know that i would get used to not having the smell of pen and paper, or the feel of my palm bushing across the writing surface when i make my frantic blocklettered thoughts.

but i miss not making sounds with my words, miss not making waves with my words, and the taptaptap of the keyboard is reminding me of all the other sensory possibilities of words. and the shit is flowing and my hands are shaking from borrowing writing time, always feeling like i am borrowing writing time from other parts of my life. like it is a luxury that i cannot afford. like i have to hurry up before someone catches me indulging in my words. like it can all be taken away at a moments notice. why is pleasure like that -- something that we experience as that which can be taken away? maybe its that lose myself in writing, there is a literal loss of self. this is ecstasy, this is desire; pleasure to the point of losing myself. Tantalizing and terrifying.

if i am writing about writing am i writing? what is being desired when i am writing about desire? and why are all of my words curlycues today, swating at and chasing each others tales? maybe its about growing my beard for the first time, not as a 13 year old bioboy as you might expect, but as a 28 year old transgenderedbutch. because the beard puts me in that same place of pleasure and desire, standing in the middle of terrifying ecstasy. so when i go to the college where i used to teach to pick up my w-2 form, and the person at the counter says, "can i help you, ... Ma'am(?!?)," its a good thing that the sun is shining and i am well rested and i've had a cup of coffee, because that combination makes me feel those ellipsis make me a genderwarrior, like my body is startin' a revolution. like that the persons searching for words, in-between space, is somewhere i live, and i have to, and i must, like it is a gift to be woman-identified and have a beard. a privlege to make peple pause at a glance. like this is no inbetween space at all, but a home, and a home that has a shifting genderscape. like iam not in between binary genders, trying to quick and scurry to one team or the other, but i constantly in a state of becominggender. the counterpersons ellipsis become the space within which i exist to the outside non-queer world. i become a pause. my body (my beard + my walki + my hips + my voice + my baseball cap + ...) makes the world have to pause, pause for me, because i am taking up space, because that which should be read-ily and without thought intelligable becomes something that has to be meditated on, deliberated on. and a choice is forced. i force choices. i dont even care about that so much as a care about forcing deliberation on gender. i have a fantasy that when i left that office today, that they had to think about me. maybe they even talked about me.

"was that a boy or a girl?"
"it was a girl..."
"but it had facial hair"
("but i have facial hair and i am a girl. mine just isnt so dark..." she thinks to herself as she strokes her downy blonde chinwhiskers)
"well, whatever, i say her ID and it said female, so there you go."

and so they might come to some safe conclusion about gender. and maybe they just went back to their computers and went on with their underpaidandoverworked lives. but they were forced to deliberate. deliberation. and so thats what i am going to do here; deliberate on desire and pleasure and gender and medieval knights and how i like to fuck and be fucked and how i like to have deleriously delighfully tender sex and how i like my beard and fear it and how words are intractable from all of that. you know, all that inbetween stuff that we desire but never let ourselves sit with, meditate on or monkout about because we just might lose ourselves in the pleasure of it all.