Thursday, 28 September 2017

"I Never Said That I Was Brave" pt1

I never said I was a "real woman" nor did I adhere to your distinctions - the broken knotted world of your categories and gibbets - your essential primacy. Nor did I frivolously saunter here without being drenched in steaming tar - in alienations, agonies and abuses.

Nor did I attempt to rupture your spaces. Nor did I shepherd my body and thoughts into a singular character.

Nor did I assume the dialectic and character of your history. Oh, essential subject.

Nor did I claim the keys to the apparatus of an entirely dismantled ideology.

Nor did I sleep through the night, nor said I was fully awake - those were your claims - you inhabited them and threw them at my body, assumed my history. I did not say that I was brave but I did say that I was beaten in the Men's Room, in the road, but I also said that I was afraid and I also dragged my feet and I also screamed for the deracination of established sex.

We were stockaded, doubled up and gagged then made to speak.

I was lucky and neither was I lucky. I did not ask to be taken into a medical examination, to be a pathologised subject, a piece of transferable data some kind of stabilised example.

Yes, perhaps there were moments of asking to drop out of the universe. There were pleas against the force of stabilised gender norms, but then there were still more pathologists and shitheads and explanations forced into our mouths and our eyes and people throwing around words like "toxic" and "drag" in the indistinct daylight there were mouths crying out against our ideologised bodies so we lurked in the toilets like the filth we were.

And yes, sometimes I do hide there waiting for silence before I can show my face and yes it is a weaponised generality that speaks inside it.

I never asked to join the U.S. Marine Corps. I was party to the mutiny by proxy of thought, there was a derangement of conflicted motions and love was taken out of us.

I did not give my consent to the idea of an opposite, to a world of stupefied duality: That under the Gender Recognition Act 2004 individuals may change their legal sex but require approval from the medical profession, a diagnosis of gender dysphoria and to live as a member of the opposite sex for two years, of who was to conduct this analysis - which upstanding professional with preordained certainty, and what great liberties might be achieved after the tests and cures, the prescriptions and siphons.

Ahead of you is a perfect sequence of rational and professionally state sanctioned grills, routers and sieves. Behind you is a repressed derangement of habitation. Inside you, a screaming barb of lyric, passion, expression and defiance. Now sit tight for the probe. "I never said that I was brave."

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

THE LENGTH OF A CONFESSION


Two or maybe three summers  ago
we left our house and walked
to the other side of the square
into another house. Into a party. Thousands
felt like it had gone into the colourful
projections which seemed to say nothing
but “I am here” - a wall of jostling voids,
the music an extension wherein my thoughts
gathered to die. I was afraid. We tried to find
our place, being introduced as “those ones”,
elevated into their society by merit of what
they said that we had done and what it was
it was assumed we now went through. Oh
but how toughly the concepts of individuals
clog up the pipe. These were exactly
the kind of souls my prejudices had shored
me up against:
                          Maybe the worst but also
the most honest was a man who sat in the garden
sprawling his legs wide over two chairs
his bleached hair framing an embarrassing bandana;
he spoke incessantly about money
and his virtuosic guitar playing, he could
hit the body whilst also nailing down
a tune in complex time. His disposition
towards music and tortured wood
perished back in his sportsmanlike boasts.
He had fifteen bikes, on and off road
and whatever else there was to be said
by any single mouth he had jumped
into it first. You could say there's very little
wrong with this. Judgement is afterall the problem.
In that sense it seems true I have settled
in the wrong city. How it holds my stupid head up.
Hard to be completely unscrupulous are incorrect
refer to the help section.
                Then there’s another man
of a similar yet entirely unique masonry. He’s got
a coat we felt some love for like destitution. It was covered
like the night above the roaring projectors was: In stars.
Stars and moons in an ocean of blue fabric oh what a mouth.
From this side of the room the drawl ran in,
the Dandelion dancing near the French window kicked
some records down onto the floor but if they were anything
like those swaying in our ears I hoped his clipped steel toes
would grind them into the 40% introductory discount. Or
anyway his voice and all the things he said or (Jersey) Law
1991 and investment and general insurance mediation, that’s
not it. These were all the kind of Bohemians we knew
from the worst stories; all in their expensive robes playing out
pretences of excess. Another, who showed a dot of kindness
omnidirectional or slit right down from the bottom of my throat
to the top in his long coat the artery began to heave out or
facing the cheque for the sum of £365.20 is attached below
his coats, for there seemed to be a few, were like dressing gowns
and he took us under the stars with a proud pair of binoculars
which he just had to explain first, then gifting our eyes to the sea
of tranquility.
         I felt like a joke. The moon was burning
my eyes because silver water etc. The cold air was hot
the acrid smell replaced with beautiful perfumes
even the way they stood and as I think now of the silent discos
or the early morning yuppie raves I’d railed against
where sobriety and appropriation
are the cherished excesses are you likely to move on or
the remains of wasps in a tin or the shredded
tarpaulin. Used to be a hotel. And again
spreading bad energy comes to eat my legs as I’m sitting
alone on a train with a false ticket enjoying the silence
when those same yuppies, reader, they come and sit
all around me and as I listen it transpires that one of them
is an organiser of such an event. A 6am rave
for London’s anti-workshy-development-ombudsmen
to go along sometimes before work
and kickstart the week. He talked about their USP;
spiritual shit like Reiki. He said it was a load of bollocks
but people loved it. A little like his life. Bohemia
is a country without land or borders. Wanderers!
Adventurers! Vagabonds! How the muscular
nature of their pursuits has haunted me,
coming to think that the placement is wrong.
His name, the man in the starry coat, I think it was Indy.
I met him a couple of times in places
I like to go.
                   One of these times or the first time
he patiently enlightened me of his philosophy:
“The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return.”
I’d never seen that film and assumed he was just
some kind of dick, but that in him here
was at least what maybe seemed like an original
thought. But later when you told me where it came from
and we laughed I saw back into his eyes
the desperation for a signifier bigger than us both
and pissed all over myself in the realisation
of our sameness: Shame! Just identical to how Aaron
told me that “we keep our confessions long
and when we pray we keep it short”, circulated back
into this slippery diet of how fucking undelightful
actually is it or James paints a colourful yet gritty
picture of seaside life. Pick, pick, pick.
In fact there is something specifically disgusting
in this place called Bohemia. The constant
battles for approval and the isistance
on caricature - those are two miniatures. Overlapping
that is the pretence that anyone's there
beyond a libidinal desire to remain
in spite of everyone. A banker has a keen sense
of honesty in comparison. Executioners
covered in real blood. Of course hatred
for them as well.
                            No absolute wonder the estrangement
seems to gas up. Bitterness in rapture at its arrangement parallels.
Sugar. Oh, how I wish to forgive you, matterless
bandana and chains circling the moon. O gather
now in wonder. It for the sake of it or it even
when it stands there dead in the street. Next
to it a dormant shovel. It is not good for the world
to simply do things. We all somehow knew that.