Are We Vignette? (Almost)

 FRIENDS, COUNTRYMEN, & Some Sucky Trolls:

Lend me your Sears catalog spans of attention.

What can I say about this year? There was a lot of down time, then a lot of cabin fever, then a lot of time on the porch & in the yard. In our natural Florida habitat w/ all the clover & bumble bees & raccoons!

There could’ve been lots of arts & crafts & belles lettres going on. And there was some of that, but not nearly as much as I had planned. We did a couple episodes of the Buzbee & Whitman show but found our enthusiasm for the broadcasting arts had waned. But more on my failed arts projects later…

…what I’ve really enjoyed this year is YOUR arts projects & social studies adventures & technical advances. You’ve all come a long way. And I loved seeing how you filled your extended time slots so creatively.

Quiet Time

One realization I made this year was I am the master of my crafts. All of them. Up until now I have considered myself a foolish little dilettante playing at being an artist, or writer, or musician, or surgeon. But now I see that I am good at these things (not gifted, but finally arriving at my own latent pace). And you all are even better at your things than I am at mine.   

That’s okay. It’s not a competition. I always have been competitive though. I was an athlete before I was an artist. I grew up in a frat house full of brothers and was forced to compete at everything, even when I didn’t feel like it (most of the time.)

But I gave up being competitive this year. I’m just ready to plant flowers & vegetate. To read all the books on my to-read pile. To worry about growing old w/ depression & mental illness. To continue on the spiritual journey I started in 2017. 

Publicity Photo 2020

FIGHT CLUB

Speaking of the spirit journey, which I don’t speak of much because of y’alls’ maturity level on the subject— (Yeah, I got all your backward Zeppelin warm-fuxxies. And such. They made me cry & laugh at the same time. That’s what comedy is to me now — first the tears then the laughter. Must walk the path of darkness right into the whoopie cushion of light. [fun fact —didst thou know Led Zeppelin almost named theirself/theyselves “Whoopie Cushion”? Somehow I think their majesty would’ve been lost no matter how great the song writing, had they gone with that name]) —

Anyway, the spirit journey—which started with some shaky automatic writing in late ’17 and progressed to a vivid & violent encounter w/ the spirit world in March & April of 2019— is something I still don’t want to pour out here in this blog because it is an ongoing exegesis. 

One thing I did not want this spirit journey to be was me writing predictions for the future. That was not my intent with the auto-writing this time around. I’m nowhere near the psychic writer that D Foster Wallace was, but if you’re a quiet & astute reader you’ll find the virus, the search for a vaccine, the race riots of the summer, plus something about all game show hosts being sadists —(I’m looking at you ellen, and even you late alex!)— all made it into the mix.  

No, the thing I wished to address with my written meditations, the thing I wrapped up in white light as I scribbled away in the night, the thing I prayed rabidly for has been wiped out, at least temporarily, by this virus. And that’s a morbid twist I didn’t expect, but it has worked much faster than the legal system ever would!

Quantum Quintuplet Cartoon Doodle

ART

I told you how much I’ve enjoyed your creative efforts during our mutual quarantine, but let me say a little bit about these new scribbles you see before you — 

    first of all I know what you’re thinking “Vin, you are most definitely not the master of your craft”

But what if I told you I drew all these (most of them) w/ my eyes closed. I’m pretty much blind as a bat these days no matter how much light there is. I’m not even sure if DOTS are possible for me anymore. So there you have it…my new technique invented out of necessity. 

Art is something I wish I was better at, or went to school for, or could’ve handled going to school for; I did go to school for a few weeks, and then I flipped out (mostly about the cost of art school, but also my inferiority complex kicked into high gear around so much talent — see paragraph above about competitivity).

But I’m also glad that my artwork retains a child-like spirit, an unschooled sloppiness that no amount of framing & matting could disguise. I think it’s fitting for my quintuplet comediennes too!

4/5 Quints Ice Skate in Berlin

TRANSITION

I know I declared my transition COMPLETE on 4-25-19. I was feeling mighty masculine & toxically aggressive*, potent*, volatile* around that time. And I was looking pretty strong & fuzzy too. But I’m happy to say my transition was not complete.

I’ve changed & transformed some more since then. This really is an exercise in patience. I keep wanting to say, Yes I can see a dude in the mirror at all times. But there are stretches of time where I go back to looking quite feminine too.  And having to cover my fabulous soul patch w/ a mask has resulted in much misgendering during the pandemic. 

But someday I will be able to do one of those slideshows that starts with my first day on T and ends with Whitmanesque Whitman gazing through grey whiskers at an amazed audience.

[*These are not adjectives I want to embody as a male, and I don’t believe that these traits reflect masculinity on the whole; however I struggle with these bursts of self-dominion now, just as I went through bouts of sadness and low energy as an estrogen being. Hormones >: / Am I right?]

So….now let’s talk about my other transition. The one that took me from Baby Boomer to Gen Xer to Millennial Snowflake — all in the course of 50 years.

Pub Photo w/ initials

INCLUSIVITY

I began my life as a Baby Boomer only because I was born to Baby Boomers. I was expected to mirror their traits & values — hard work, self control, emotions way way on that back burner meant for melting butter…comparing yourself to everyone else & making sure you were just like them…but better. Not in any overt competitive way…but a sly comparison, a tallying of goods and accomplishments.

Only after moving away from home was I able to fully experience the traits & values of my poor little generation - Gen X. Oh what high ideals this generation possessed! Unfortunately we were pretty damaged by our lack of greatness to fulfill the promise of our ideals. But we also possessed enough of the hard work ethic of our parents to push through our slumps and create the world we wanted. We made progress, especially social progress, but also technological progress. And that’s what we were good for.

And only lately do I feel that I have been absorbed into the massive mosh pit of emotions that is The Millennial Generation. You who are the product of my gen’s loins do possess that high idealism, the urge for social progress and the verbal communication skills & digital intuition we passed down to you.

But you are Gen X on speed.  Our identity crisis became your mess to clean up. And while Gen Xers made progress in incorporating natural human emotions into the capitalist machinery that made up the bulk of our lives, Millennials required the capitalist machine to bend to their emotional will.

Wolf Howls to Warm Up in Iceland

Millenials are sensitive (as snowflakes apparently). This is just fine with me, as a bleeding heart libertarded artist dude, I like what the millennial & zillennial generations have allowed us to consider that we were never allowed to consider before. Mainly, that each one of us is a special stardust masterpiece—a unicorn that can’t be lumped into some Venn diagram of what a man or woman or Latino or black or Asian or disabled, etc…human is.

This, I learned, is called inclusivity and I was eager to participate in the new social order. As a Baby Boomer-Gen X prototype, designed to compete and compare at all costs, this seemed like a damn fine idea.  Even though it required some self-censorship, some uncomfortable realizations, some tears, some guilt…I felt like things were not going to go back to the old Boomer way anytime soon, so I might as well embrace something that I’d silently believed in all along.

When I was doing the ‘zine, I often made a point to specifically express that submissions were open to women, queer folks, people of color, etc… This did not mean I didn’t want subs from white guys, it just meant that I was already getting a lot of subs from white guys. I occasionally solicited work from poets I had friended online, and even then the men were more likely to submit stuff than the women. [Maybe because I have a masculine name now & they thought I was being predatory? Or why, I don’t know]

Anyway, I feel like this in itself offended some people, and I am still wondering why? I’m not a social justice warrior out to crucify those who aren’t on board with the identity politics of the day. But I’m also one who believes being a decent human doesn’t fatally wound anyone’s freedom of speech. So… I’m still in the dark as to why things are still so divided in these two camps.

If anyone wants to chime in, please do so.

Asleep in Austin

 I dragged the line into a space so new & vacant

                   My frenemies will never find it

             Maybe I do speak in the voice

                                                     of a Trumpet,

when the solo needs interrupting

                                          But remember

                               how Bush corrupted our vocab in the oughties

        & how like Obama (aka boring) we sounded

till 2016…

[piece of a poem I wrote in Oct ’19]

IN CONCLUSION

Thank you for reading this far, if you have. This is my progress report for 2020. And most of my progress is into blindness & old age. But I’m happy with what I’ve accumulated from these years on planet — I have a lot to take back to the mothership.

This is a terrible photo & I wanted to delete it but new Blogger doesn't have a delete photo option anymore. Sucky. Music lessons in Austin.

So…what about Shelter Cat & Trust Fund Baby? and The Octopus Review? and Singlewood? And regular old poetry submissions? and DOTS??? And Adventures in Reality? and all that stuff I used to just GIVE YOU FOR FREE?

There may be more…if I feel like it…remember…I’m only an 11% blogger & social media presence now.

May 6: The Year of the WriteDudes™ Metallic Neon Gel Pen

Fiendish Friends,

Happy Sesto de Mayo. I hope you’re all doing better than I am. Not that I’m doing poorly, but this year so far has been subpar. After a gorgeous year like 2016, I’m afraid all years are going to look a little inferior.

So far, 2016 was the most exciting year of my life (even counting those years before 1985 when my hyper-memory began). Childhood sucked. It was more like a miniature adulthood. But what can you say about the year you began transforming into the beautiful horny swan you were meant to be? Just good-bye Bowie, Prince, & Princess Leia, hello me.

This year has been full of worry, anxiety, injury, inertia, and lack of inspiration. And yet, I’m not complaining. My life is still very good—I’m just worried about the bigger picture because, ya’ll, it looks a little … forged, vandalized, just an empty quadrilateral on a dusty wall.  <<< [I’m trying to do an art heist metaphor here & it’s failing.]

Speaking of Art, I’ve already done 100% more art this year than last year, and it’s not because I’m inspired. It’s because art is my therapy & I didn’t need it last year.

****************

Friends, I was watching Ellen the other day as I often do in the afternoons and I didn’t realize it had been 20 years since her “coming out” episode.

I never saw the episode even though I did Identify as a queer woman back in the 90s. I was very, very busy in 1997: going to school, working two jobs, drinking full time & hiding the fact that I was trans. Oh, the things you can do in your 20s!!

But I was aware of the episode. I heard all about it from those people who did have time to watch TV. Wow, it was such a big deal! But what I really didn’t know about was the huge backlash Ellen’s coming out cost not only her, but all gay people.

I was too busy in the real world—and there wasn’t The Internet back then—to feel the surge of conservatism that followed. But Ellen reminded us all of it on her daytime talk show last week. 

Not only was her sitcom canceled, not only did she receive death threats and become the butt of the late night comics’ jokes, and have to go underground for her own safety…

…but all the other actors on the show were targeted as well. And they weren’t even gay. Oprah and Laura Dern (who had cameos on the episode) were deemed lesbians-by-association. Dern couldn’t get any film roles for 2 years after that. Oprah was allegedly having an impure love affair with her best friend Gayle and lost a lot of viewer support.

Violence against gay people escalated—the brutal slaying of Matthew Shepard happened the following year. Not to mention the less-publicized incidents that we remain oblivious to.

2 versions of Tiptree Art

After the episode aired, Oprah did have Ellen on her show to try to talk through some of the backlash that was happening—

and Ellen showed some of that footage on her current show—These angry god-fearing, big-haired Xtian ladies shouting “Go ahead and be gay in your own home, but why do you have to announce it on television??? I don’t want my CHILDREN to see that!!!!”

Oh the fucking CHILDREN.

It was hard to watch. It was hard for me to learn that while I raced around in my own hectic, self-medicated world, all that was going on in the queer community. Part of me is glad I was unaware, but another part of me is like—why wasn’t I out there fighting, protesting, standing up against the ignorance? I was getting my own taste of sexist/homophobic treatment in the workplace, but I thought that was just what I deserved for…being.

The scary thing is, that’s what I hear the conservatives saying about transgender people now—

“Go ahead & dress up in your queer little uniforms behind closed doors, but don’t you dare bring yourself out in the light of day where my CHILDREN can see you [and possibly identify with you].”

Keep yourselves on the down-low, you perverts.

Not Suitable For Children

There are people in my own family who don’t want me near their CHILDREN. And that’s okay—I made up my mind quite awhile ago that I am a *Not Suitable For Children* adult.

But that doesn’t mean all gay & trans people are not suitable for children. Or that even unsuitable people like myself shouldn’t be seen by children. There are ALL sorts of people in this world, and you can only force your precious children not to see them for 18 years, then you’re out of luck.

Your children do become gross adults one day. Maybe gross gay or trans adults, no matter how closely you monitor their lives or gate their communities while they’re young. Gay & trans people do exist within conservative families—HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO LEARN THAT LESSON??? How many gay/trans kids have to end their own lives before we get it?

(and I know some conservatives will say, hopefully all of them)

Not Suitable For Children

I know lots of gay & trans people who do embrace Xtianity. A disturbing number actually. And that may be its own sort of backlash—like, look at me, I may be gay/trans but I accept the Lord & I know the Lord loves me as I am, so na-na-na. I don’t think I’d understand religion no matter how I identified, so it’s hard for me to understand why any marginalized group would embrace the institutions that marginalize them.

ANYWAY…back to ELLEN. I have always loved & appreciated her for her humor and kindness. But now I really do know how brave she was in the face of hostile criticism, mockery, potential danger. How much she deserved the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

It’s hard to tell how much things have improved when they keep going forward then backward—how much our cultural awareness has expanded when it suddenly contracts once again.

But, when I look at the big (stolen, forged, vandalized) picture, I can see that we are, mostly, moving in a forward direction. 

**************************

All right. That’s enough of that—I got kind of EMOTIONAL watching Ellen’s 20 year anniversary show, and I know you all love emotions.

But I’m trying to embrace my emotional nature lately rather than suppressing it. I’ve tried to suppress my emotions all my life, for your benefit, and I’m not doing it anymore, because it does not benefit me.

Not Suitable For Children

What I will be doing, however, is Taking your poetry submissions!!!!

That’s right. I would like to share this Octopus Space with other poets. It will be a total Vanity Project, so I expect I will get ZERO submissions from anyone, but here are some

OCTOPUS DIARY SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

Send me your tired, your poor, your literary stepchildren rejected by all the other reputable journals.

I am open to a wide variety of topics and styles, but here’s what I don’t like:

▶︎Preachy stuff — the I-have-heard-the-voice-of-God-and-here-is-what-it-says type poems. 

If you use vague, general words like Universe, Fate, Chaos, God, Nature please get more specific—which aspect of nature? which of the many gods? Describe the chaos in great detail, don’t leave me hanging. I was a doomsday poet in my youth, but I at least managed to nail some of the details. Please give me details so I know what to expect from the current era’s day of doom.

 ▶︎Derivative stuff — I like Bukowski as much as the next guy, but what I want is YOU. I love the personal—can’t you tell? I don’t want copycat styles unless you want to try to copy e.e. cummings (that might be interesting). I know many publications frown on using the word ‘I’ too much, but I do not. I want your I’s. 

Just think, in this day & age, using capital letters and punctuation is rebellion at its finest. Use them rebelliously and I’ll love it.

▶︎Boring stuff about flowers or how pretty the sky is. Just don’t do that to me.

▶︎I don’t LOVE rhyming poetry, or formal styles (sonnets, ghazals) but if they’re good I DO love them. So it’s not an absolute ‘no’ on those, but please…make them interesting & personal in some way.

▶︎I like stuff ABOUT sexism, racism, homophobia, etc..just don’t BE racist, sexist, homophobic, capiche?

Give me your pain, your fears, your triumphs in a cruel world, your bizarre point of view and I’m sure I will enjoy it.

Send your darlings to me via Facebook messenger, or if we’re not friends on Facebook, friend me, then send them to me via Facebook messenger. That’s the only way I will be taking the first round of submissions. I would love to hear from my writer friends of course, but I would also like submissions from people who don’t usually submit poetry or even write it. I want you to dig deep and challenge yourself. 

It’s for the Octopusses. And the CHILDREN.

Valentine Tremens: The Octuple Life of Zin Hitman

Friends,

What was it like to be trapped in the gender binary in the 1930s? I don’t even want to think about it.

But I did think about it when I read the biography of sci-fi author James Tiptree, aka Alice Bradley Sheldon. As a young girl—the only child of two wealthy socialites—Alice accompanied her parents on adventures all around the world, but they spent most of their time deep in the heart of Africa, where few American children dreamed of going. They explored and hunted in regions barely accessible by foot; they spent time in a cannibal village in the Congo; they slept in hammocks in the mouths of volcanoes.

Mary & Alice in Africa

Alice was always guarded like a rare jewel in Africa. She had big Congolese bodyguards, and was often left in their care while her parents hunted big game and did research on the tribal cultures. It was a dangerous place for a 6-yr-old white girl whose survival skills were pared in Chicago’s elite social circles. It was a unique set of environments that left young Alice feeling like some kind of valuable object—just another of her parents’ collectibles.

Alice knew her father would’ve rather had a son (like every father in America!). But her parents did the best they could for her. She went to good schools. She had several exciting careers. She joined the Army in the 30s and worked at the Pentagon during The War. She had an almost creepy-close relationship with her mother, but had difficulty connecting w/ other people her age. She was especially confused about men, women and dating.

Her life was not that of a “typical girl.” Even among the privileged debutantes of Chicago, Alice’s life resume was packed with hijinx so uncommon for a young woman, it was hard for her to find a man she felt was her equal. (She was also super-intelligent, like CIA-intelligent, a brilliant artist & writer, and very ambitious career-wise). She felt stifled playing the role of “the pretty & helpless object” which was the only role for women within the bounds of 1930s heteronormativity. 

She had an attraction to other girls in high school and college, but if she had trouble finding a man who was her equal, she was surely bored to tears by the way girls’ thinking was limited to love, marriage, babies, home. She would always try to rouse the wildness she knew must exist inside these poor unenlightened girls, but they never took the bait. They were content to have boyfriends, marry, & make babies.

After Tiptree's short story "The Girl Who Was Plugged In"

Much of her adult life was spent in the male dominated military, where she was well-respected and received lots of male attention (oh yeah, she was also good looking. Imagine that.) But she always resented having to pretend to “be less” so that her dates wouldn’t be intimidated.

Even in her childhood in Africa, Alice lamented being a girl. She knew that if she’d been a boy she would’ve been given her own gun & taken out on the hunts. Later, she knew that she would have a much higher rank in the military if she were a man. By age 30, she was pretty ate up about how being a woman had cost her things that would’ve been within reach if she had been born in a different body.

She spent a lot of time thinking & writing about bodies. Women’s bodies and the sovereignty that eludes them. She was very much like me in that she hated being a woman but fought hard for women to obtain the basic status of “human being.”

There were many times while I was reading this book that I reached for my phone because I wanted to call this person I was reading about who was so much like me (minus the trips to Africa & the wealthiness). Who felt as much like I did that her body was a loathesome birth defect that kept her from living up to her full potential.

Alice struggled with dating & relationships, with being considered an inferior version of an Army officer. With the question of motherhood—could she? should she? why did she feel nothing for children?

She was 36 (ancient in those days) when she finally met a man who was at least her intellectual equal, and they actually carved out a nice life. They retired and bought a chicken farm in New England. Her husband, Ting, stayed on at the CIA and Alice stayed home with the chickens and started writing. At first she wrote articles for magazines, like her mother did, but Alice wasn’t as successful as her mother at writing about “lady things.”

Because of course, that’s what the magazines wanted from her. LADY STUFF!!! Gardening. marriage advice. Blah blah blah. After several years, Alice began writing short stories. Speculaltive fiction, aka sci-fi.

Again, not many magazines wanted to publish fantastic stories by a …lady.  So one day at the grocery store, after seeing the name “Tiptree” on a jar of jam, Alice came up with a pseudonym. James Tiptree Jr was born in aisle 3.

We got to be bunny-parents for 3 days in March

Writing under a pseudonym gave Alice all the confidence she had lacked in her writing before. She submitted some of her new stories and they were immediately published. And not only that—everyone loved them. All the budding sci fi authors of the 1950s & 60s really loved Tiptree. All the publishers loved “him.”

Alice, like many housewives in that day, took dexedrine to keep her peppy & productive around the house. Dexedrine was also a great drug for writing crazy speculative space-age shit. Lots of writiers used it too. Writing on dexedrine was jet fuel to their synapses.

By the time she harnessed her identity as James Tiptree and had a reputation as a force in the sci fi world, Alice was about 50 years old. But this close-knit community had no idea, and everyone thought “he” was some young, hip author who had just materialized out of nowhere. A savant of sorts.

This was fine with Alice. She was thrilled with living this double life where she could be who she wanted and no one could “see” her and diminish her importance as a wordsmith. She struck up elaborate friendships with all the other sci fi authors of the time—Ellison, Dick, LeGuin, Heinlein, et al—they all corresponded by mail like we do now on Snapchat.

After several years of publishing works under her pseudonym, people started to wonder about Tiptree’s identity. They all had met at writer’s conferences, sci fi conventions, Nebula award ceremonies. Of course, Tiptree was always invited to these events but he always declined. Year after year after year. Even the year “he” won the Nebula, he avoided the ceremony & they mailed it to him.

It got to the point where people were trying to find him. Stalking him. Trying to put a face to the name. He had become such a compelling & mysterious figure. Rumors started that he had some highly classified government job — that’s actually how Tiptree kept his followers at a distance, told them his career wouldn’t allow for much socializing. And at one point young Harlan Ellison got wind of Alice’s parents’ address in Chicago, from some careless comment Tiptree made in his correspondence. 

It was Ellison who did the detective work that led him to the home of Alice & Ting Sheldon one day, about 10 years in to Tiptree’s masquerade. Ellison and his friend rang the doorbell & Alice answered and when they asked for Tiptree she pretended she had no idea what they were talking about. But the word was out. The rumors were spreading that James Tiptree was a 50-year-old housewife on a New England chicken farm.

Bunny Farm w spider

Being found out was devastating to Alice. She loved her secret identity—the authority and relevance that never would’ve been been granted to an “Alice Sheldon.” She had a difficult “coming out” to all her sci fi pen pals, and though they all claimed it didn’t matter, that she would always be Tiptree to them—it did matter. The love & respect dwindled away slowly, the letters between them stopped, Alice could not be Alice with the people for whom she had been Tiptree.

And therefore she decided that she simply…couldn’t be. It wasn’t immediately after the Tiptree leak, but a few years later, depressed and robbed of all sense of belonging to the group that once held her in such high esteem, she proposed a murder/suicide pact to her husband. Ting was not in favor if the plan, but he was quite a bit older, losing his sight and becoming feeble. So—tragically—Alice carried out the plan without his consent. 

One night as he slept, she shot him in the head, then called a friend and told him to come right over, that he would find both of them dead, and she shot herself.  A terrible end to a brilliant mind, no matter how tormented by its own dysphoric perceptions.

******************

The story of Tiptree stuck with me for weeks, months after I read it. Shit, it’s still sticking to me. Another person who felt just as I felt, was damaged so hard by the gender binary that exists to box us in, to keep us separate & unequal, to define us as breeding machines, to label us “superior” & “inferior.”  

Most people don’t think about their gender anymore than they do about the color of the sky. Oh, it’s blue? Okay. That’s what it is. No need to question why the sky isn’t chartreuse. Most people don’t question the gender they’re “assigned” or the “role” that goes with it.

And that was always disappointing to me—I couldn’t relate to girls who were giggly & happy & cared so much about being pretty & having long hair & fingernails & which boy was cute. I was always like, let’s overthrow the regime!! And they were like, not now I’m playing with my little ponies!

I guess the 70s & 80s were not much better than the 30s & 40s. Anyway, I’ve always been terrible at communicating my issues with gender—

I’m too emotionally attached to the dilemma. I rant & spit upon myself like garbage. It scares people. But Alice at least came from a loving family who did everything to support her in her ambitions. And I think in those days, it was such a silent epidemic, absolutely nowhere to seek advice for gender dysphoria. Only destructive Freudian platitudes to turn to. It wasn’t as if she had any other way to communicate it except through sci fi, where all things are possible.

**************

“Women never seem to be zesty connoisseurs—Life not there for my savoring. But if women don’t sit around talking about wine, whiskey, cars or horses, What do they deal in? Are they alive?”  ~ Alice Sheldon (1972)

“Funny about that thrill; finally realized what it comes from: Subconsciously, a conviction that the really good writers aren’t human. That the works are messages in bottles from the writer’s world. You know? So when Sturgeon or Bunch or somebody turns out to be an actual Terran primate using—of all things—the U.S. mails, with zip number for god’s sake—I get about the same kick the Ozma people would if one of the pulsars began to rap out binary Yeats.”  

~ James Tiptree, to Phillip Dick after receiving complimentary correspondence from him (1969)

“The distasteful proof that my sexuality is bound up with masochistic fantasies of helplessness depressed me profoundly. I am not a man, I am not the do-er, the penetrator. And Tiptree was “magical” manhood, his pen my prick. I had through him all the power & prestige of masculinity. I was—though an aging intellectual—of those who own the world. How I loathe being a woman. Wanting to be done to…?

Tiptree’s “death” has made me face what I never really went into with Bob Harper—my self-hate as a woman. And my view of the world as structured by raw power… I want power. I want to be listened to. And I’ll never have it. I’m stuck with this perverse second-rate body; my life.”  ~ Alice’s journal entry in response to a report of child sexual abuse in the newspaper (1977)

*******************

Your old pals Cody & Hillary from Singlewood. We watched a show called '13 Reasons Why' this weekend. It was disturbing and PROBLEMATIC and I may write about it here…in the Octopus Diary

I hope you enjoy the Tiptree Art. It’s hard for me to be creative these days. I feel worried & anxious much of the time. But I am going to do something different—

I’m going to keep painting the same thing over & over. I will paint the African landscape & the girl who was plugged in many times over the year. And we’ll see what subtle variations (or not so subtle) arise…

ARISE!!!!!

Now Is Not The Time For Psychobabble

Oh, but it is!  And here’s why:

1) Everybody’s doing it. Get on board or be left behind.

2) For me, it’s just pre-sense. It may not mean anything right now, but it will next year, or next century. You just wait!

3) Instead of calling it psychobabble, let’s just call it poetry & see where it takes us…

FRIENSKIS,

How are you? I am doing better & better. I had a couple of rough months. Somehow I managed to be jolly & positive through Dec/Jan, but Feb/Mar were a little aftershocky.

Don’t worry. That is going to happen here. It’s okay to have feelings. Even BIG ones. Even irrational ones. Irrational feelings are often intuitive timebombs going off prematurely, kind of like psychobabble may just be memories from the future.

I’ve been googling Sen. Duckworth (D-IL) regularly, and I fact check everything that comes out of the great American blowhole. And as soon as I can walk again, I start my “chosen activity” on the frontlines…

…oh did I tell you I broke my foot about 3 weeks ago? I’m so bummed because I had my mile down to 8 minutes, and had wanted to do a 5K in Apr/May. I’m trying to enjoy this convalescence, but …I feel like now’s not the time to be side-lined.

But maybe it is. And here’s why:

1) I did all the hard work already

2) Now is the time to gather strength

3) I’m still in a “period of transition”

*************** A PERIOD OF TRANSITION**********

So, VT, how is your transition going? I hear everyone ask me all the time.

Not. 

No one asks. No one wants to know about it. But I’m going to tell you about it anyway, because that’s how generous I am w/ my experiences on this planet.

Toy Village 2003

The truth is—I haven’t changed much. If you had told me on 12/7/15, the day of my first shot, that I would still look pretty much the same 16 months later…

I would’ve been really disappointed. Once I made the decision to start T, and waited 5 months to get in to see the Endo, and imagined myself as a guy for the first time since I was 19 & almost died because i was really a girl in the world’s eyes…

I was so looking forward to this wonderful transformative journey (which I expected would take about a year). I was anticipating (& fearing) being unrecognizable in the mirror. I was anticipating (& fearing) the loss of my mezzo-soprano singing range. But the excitement was definitely greater than the fear.

Being an older trans guy (46 at time of 1st shot), I’m on a lower dose of T than the average 18 year-old would be. I was in that hormone range where i wasn’t making much estrogen anymore so I was okay w/ the lower dose. Plus I had to think of Moonchild’s comfort level too…

Even though he understood gender dysphoria from living w/ me for years, he was not looking forward to having a husband instead of a wife. I was okay with transitioning slowly if it would help him acclimatize.

Of course, I told you all that from the moment I made my appointment up until the start of this year the “Ma’am bombs” began—

the world called me ma’am so many times, just so I’d never forget : ))

Baby Eloise—she's sitting in the windowsill chattering at birds now 14 yrs old

But I do want to forget. And the world doesn’t call me ma’am so much anymore, but I don’t exactly pass as male either. I think since I had top surgery I’m read first as “teenage boy” but people figure out pretty quickly that I’m older & that means I must be female…

My moustache is trying so hard to be more than a soup shadow. But it just hasn’t progressed much. Even on my lower dose, the doctor thought I should have more facial hair by now.

My voice also hasn’t really changed all the way. Sometimes it is deeper, sometimes it’s just scratchy, and sometimes I feel like I sound just like my old lady-self…

I don’t think people even remember that I’m trans & some of my friends who were so good at trying to use my name and pronouns have just gone back to she-ing and I feel like I might have to come out all over again…

I had been waiting on the changes that would make it easier for my friends to switch pronouns. I know it feels delusional to call someone ‘he’ when they still look like ‘she.’

So...in Feb/Mar I was lamenting my slower paced changes (I’m used to being around younger guys who have goatees & Jim Morrison vocal ranges in like 6 months) and feeling left out, and wondering what should I do about this??

But now I’m feeling a lot better about my failure-to-trans. I feel so much better on T than I did my whole life as an estrogen monster. That alone makes the leg-stabbing worth it. Plus the changes that may not be so noticeable to a casual observer—muscle mass, “downstairs growth”—are enough to ease dysphoria to functional levels.

I have some of the changes I wanted, and none of the ones Moonchild didn’t want—so it’s a win-win! I just have to keep it in perspective, and stay on my own path. Any time I dare to compare myself to the younger guys I come away feeling quite hopeless.

I don't know what this is—2015

And yes, it’s true that I pee in a cup in the car. It’s actually a coffee thermos. I am not a fired-up trans activist, and I don’t want any bathroom drama.** So I practice avoidance. I know some people would say this makes me “not a trans ally.” 

But to me it just means I’m used to being self-protective over confrontational. I recognize that the world has trans compassion fatigue and I’m trying not to push any buttons.

Just reading the room as they say…

*******************READING ROOM: AS THEY SAY************

I read a book a few months ago that I want to delve into in one of my serious Octopus Diary entries. It was the biography of Sci Fi author James Tiptree (who was really a woman named Alice Sheldon). I had never heard of Tiptree before reading the book, but a friend thought I needed to read about him and sent the book to my mailbox.

This was way more than a story about a sci-fi author with a pseudonym. It was very misogynist-feminist/trans-masculine. Not to mention Alice Sheldon, the person, lived a jaw-droppingly privileged & introspective life***, in which she managed to do great things before ending it all in a murder-suicide. 

Unfortunately I finished the book right around the time of the election and it got shoved aside in the sideshowery that ensued. But I’ll write more about Tiptree when I have some art to go with it! Yes! I want to do some Tiptree-inspired watercolors to go with the article. 

Today, you’ll have to recycle this used art with your purple irises.

************   ** & *** ********************

**although I almost had car drama when we were up in Ybor City—I was peeing in my coffee cup & some guy banged on the window. He was the paid parking attendant and I don’t think he saw what I was doing but it was a close call.

***speaking of introspective lives, in response to my FB post about “utopian societies of the future” someone asked, VT, what do you think a utopian society IS? 

And I said, A society that’s more introverted. 

More on that serious topic

Later

In the Octopus Diary

I don't know what this is either but I made it during my nervous breakdown 2014