Not Upset

I’m not upset that I feel giggly after a few rum & cokes.

I’m not upset that I am wearing very good face, all hot black eyeliner and sexy dark lips.

I’m not upset that I have on a new long dress, black cotton & spandex, long & tight, only $7 on clearance.

I’m not upset that I didn’t end up going to the Sunday night drag show at the gay bar, because it’s my experience over decades that there aren’t many fascinating people who show up (especially people fascinated with me), and that having to stay sober to drive home is less fun.

I’m actually happy that TBB may have someone special with whom to celebrate this Valentine’s day.

I actually don’t know how I feel about TBB assuming that someday I’ll be a nice out transsexual like her.  She says that once she couldn’t imagine laving thee box, but changing her body changed everything.  Such a kinesthetic, that one.

The only thing I’m not really happy about, the one thing, is that there is nobody here to make out with. 

Heck there isn’t even anyone here to tell me how great I look.  Domina Blue — Tina — used to be surprised that I would put on makeup before I took a shower rather than after I cleaned up.  She would put makeup on to go out; I would paint my face to see myself before I wash it off.

It is one thing to keep my center after an hour of affirmation, quite another to keep it just walking in the Wal-Mart.

But having a lost center, well, that’s just lost.

Say, are you sure you don’t wanna make out?

Freakin’ The Yokels

The gaggle of hyperactive boys swarmed the shoe display. Roundface growling dad was trying to find something for worn out pudgy mom, as the brothers romped and pulled and asked stupid questions.   It was amazing how much room the six of them could take up.

I stood back, looking at the selection, but dad eyed me with a squint.  I didn’t go away, and eventually he decided to cede the ground, anouncing he was tired, marching out with an ape kind of sway and denying mom shoes.

I passed them again in the department store.  One of the kids eyed me, and snarled out “look!  must be looking for a dress to go with them shoes.”

Dad growled.  Apparently I had been a subject of discussion.

As it happens, I was in boy clothes.  

Yeah. 

If I’m going to feed the fears of the yokels, well, then, maybe I should just wear what I want anyway.

Keeping Your Center :)

On Wenesday, after seeing Lezlie, I wrote this, titled Just Stand There :

So, I went to the mall before driving south. 

The other skirt was still at The Bon Ton, but last week it was $12 and today it was $9.

I’m almost to the checkstand when another woman beats me there.  The one girl starts to serve her, and it’s taking forever.  First they have to go check a price, and then apparently she applied for credit, and there were forms to fill out and it was long.

I stood there holding the skirt. 

As I am standing there, the woman says “Can you let this lady check out quickly?”  OK, lady, that’s good.

And while I am looking for another service center, I realize this is a lesson I am being offered.  Can I just stand there?

So I stood there.  And I stood there.  And stood there.

And when her transaction was done, the customer thanked me for my patience. 

The girl even gave me an extra 10% off my purchase.  OK, so that was the senior citizen discount, but she didn’t mention it, and I assumed it wasn’t because I looked that old, but because she was being nice.

I stood there and I didn’t run.  And it was OK. 

I stopped for my big mug of Coke on the way south.  I worried that they would see me as unfeminine.  The gal punched my collector card, and as I left, the woman manager said “It’s Tuesday!”

The girl said “No it’s not!”

“I know,” said the manager.  “I just wanted to give her an extra punch.”  I smiled, even without going back to get the second punch. 

Your question at the end of today is the absolute, dead on question: I’m dammned good at what I do, at who I am, but how do I create an audience in the world?

We will chat about that next week.

Got this back, with the title Keeping Your Center : )

Okay, so now I’m really impressed with your shopping prowess!

Just stood there — waited in your center, trusted in your center; alright, and practiced patience and perserverence. (The gift of patience being … patience.  hmmmm)

I find it fascinating how twice in a row the Universe chose to do something a little special for you, on the spot!  Puts a smile on my face. 

The subject is clearly the gift of a koan I need to hold: Keeping Your Center.

So powerful, so hard.

Julie Andrews: Living In The Shadows (Bricusse/Wildhorn, from Victor/Victoria on Broadway)

Making Peace With Death

The one companion I always have, through loneliness and joy, though hot and cold, though everything, is death.

Christine wondered why I didn’t take better care of my panda bear, the stuffed friend I have had since I was a baby.  Wasn’t that what comforted me at night? 

No.  I was comforted by a pink ribbon, off the edge of a blanket bought for my stillborn sister a few years before.  I kept a piece of that pink ribbon with me, tattered and frayed, until there was no more to hold, partly due to wear and partly due to my mother taking pieces away so I wouldn’t suck my bent index finger and hold onto that frilled satin.

And when that ribbon was gone, and I knew my fate was sealed, well, I got a new companion.  I made peace with death.  Death was what was required, and she was with me always, reminding me that my needs & desires weren’t important, that I had to learn to kill them down so I could survive in the world.

Death is my friend, the only one I could really trust.  However lonely I was, however much I hurt, however much I was too intense, too big for the room, as long as I could die, I could make it through.  Dissociation was my ally, denial my comfort, death my friend.

It still is today, of course.  Cold and lonely, I can’t look to others to warm me up, to see me and value me.  I can, though, look to death to numb the pain, freeze drying the intense feelings into dessicated words on a page, processing my emotions into ashes and my desires into dust.   

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, me to death, amen.

When I was 18, Chip told me that I was good at failure, and that unless I broke the cycle, all I had to look forward to was bigger and bigger failures.  He was right, of course.

Death is my consort, and she lives in me.

While the spark of renewal, the glimmer of rebirth may always be there, it is death that is my constant companion.

Death helps me and comforts me, and has from the first moments that I was aware of having to live in the world.

How can I ask anyone else to understand and embrace the death that lives in my heart?  How can they engage me, how can they love me, unless they have made peace with death?

Death is my life.  

Death is my death.