Performing Monkey

The neighbour lady was laughing, happy to be seen and reflected as she sat outside with her husband.   I knew her pattern and was able to interview her in a way that brought it out, offering some wit and acknowledgement that made her feel good.

I only went out to get the mail from the end of the driveway, but they were there and wanted to check in.

Would they understand anything of what I have been going through for the past three years?   He might, but I knew from many moments, including the moment I rang their doorbell with a case of beer and asked them to share a toast the day before my father died, that she would not.

So I dug deep and pulled out my act, the old concierge shtick, and talked about her and her family instead.

She loved it, but when I closed the door, I drooped.  The cost for doing that is so high nowadays, such a big chunk of the little that I have left, I felt the price immediately after I dropped the smile.

The old performing monkey is exhausted now, too many years gone.  Mustering any kind of focus always comes at a very high cost, demanding recovery time that goes very, very slowly.

I have been emerging as a transperson since 1985, over thirty years now.  Every time I go to explain the struggle I find that I already explained the challenge long ago.

That doesn’t mean people have heard it, doesn’t mean people are ready to hear it, doesn’t mean people are able to hear it.  “Never easy in embodied desire?   What the hell does that mean?  All humans are driven by desire and ego!”

Too much translation with meaning lost, too much performing monkey.

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