2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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<h1>Zk | Gender</h1>
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<article class="content">
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2020-04-24 08:30:08 +00:00
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">poetry</span> <span class="tag">gender</span></p>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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<div class="verse">Her hair is tied with a ribbon
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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Saying “This is not for you.”
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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She wears a pendant of stamped brass
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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Saying “Non sum qualis eram.”
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“I have been a hero since birth,”
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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She tells herself,
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As though that will somehow
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Explain her scars.
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She pierced her own ears,
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But did a shit job of it.
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Her tattoos tease around
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the edges of her identity.
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Her bones are ley-lines,
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She tells herself,
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Strung with symbols
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Heady with meaning.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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She has a certain “fuck you” inflected
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“Je ne sais quoi” about her.
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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Her clothes bespeak
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carefully constructed laziness.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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“I’ve got my own style,”
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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She tells herself,
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While doing all she can
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To not be seen.
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She studied order through science
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and found it chaotic.
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She studied chaos through music
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and found it inviable.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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“I’ll work with words.”
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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She tells herself
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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She’ll write a book,
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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Or publish stories.
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She wanted to be a bus driver
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when she grew up.
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Then a linguist, then a biologist,
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Then a composer, a conductor.
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She never wanted to be
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What she became;
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The irony of which
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Is not lost on her.</div>
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<hr />
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2020-04-24 08:25:07 +00:00
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">I bought my name fair and square;
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Bespoke, built from whole cloth.
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I wrote it again and again,
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Savoring every J,
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Skipping every fifth tittle,
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Until it felt right,
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Like sitting inside and watching the snow fall
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Through the window
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Or finding the perfect way that branches in two trees
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Line up with each other
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Or when the windshield wipers move
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In time with your music.
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I built myself fair and square
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With hands raw from coarse identity.
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I kneaded and pressed and squeezed,
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Savoring every curve,
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Skipping every tenth day,
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Until it all felt right,
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Like the sweet smell of pine bark
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Rubbed between fingers
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Or the whisper of maple leaves
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Under hurrying paws
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Or the perfect overlap of new buds
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Already sticky with sap.</div>
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<hr />
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<div class="verse">You get to explain gender to all of your friends —
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And all of your family —
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And maybe once more to be sure —
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And random strangers —
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And maybe, like, doctors and nurses who should probably know better;
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You get to explain to your partner that nothing has changed —
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And that you were always this way —
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And that really, honestly, nothing has changed —
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And that this has no effect on your love for them —
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And I promise;
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You will get to come out again —
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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And explain that it wasn’t that being gay wasn’t enough —
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2020-04-24 08:25:07 +00:00
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And explain that it has nothing to do with who you like —
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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And explain that that shouldn’t matter —
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2020-04-24 08:25:07 +00:00
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And — oh right, this means you might be straight after all;
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You get to go through that awkward period of growing your hair out —
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And learning how to ask for a more feminine haircut —
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And trying a curling iron for the first time —
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And figuring out how to eat noodles without also eating your hair —
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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And the worries that you’re just trying to be rebellious;
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2020-04-24 08:25:07 +00:00
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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You get to worry whether you’re maybe just trying to be rebellious —
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2020-04-24 08:25:07 +00:00
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And whether or not you might just be faking it —
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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And whether you’re really Trans Enough or not —
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And whether you’re maybe just appropriating femininity —
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2020-04-24 08:25:07 +00:00
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And whether or not passing really matters to you anyway;
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You get to dress up in your best clothes —
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And your best makeup —
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And worry that your shoes are too masculine —
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And have your hair game on point —
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And convince the doc that you deserve those patches and pills;
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You get to go through puberty again —
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And it will be weirder this time around —
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And your skin will grow soft —
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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And you’ll get more sensitive to temperature changes —
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And — YEOWCH! That’s a new sensation;
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2020-04-24 08:25:07 +00:00
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You will cry a lot —
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And bite your tongue often —
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And lower your gaze —
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And learn to take up less space —
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And talk softer;
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And your dogs will still love you.</div>
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<hr />
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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<h2 id="post-op-images">Post-op images</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q><q class="comment">In <em>ally</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Saturday is for mechanics.
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Sunday is for terror.
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Monday is for acceptance.
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Tuesday is for purging.
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Wednesday is for anxiety.
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Thursday is for sleep.
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-----
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When I am asleep
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The world changes around me.
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In spring, I am changed.
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-----
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I’m no good at images, only words,
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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and yet for days after surgery,
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as anesthesia and countless
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milligrams, milliliters, millions of
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drugs leave my system,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I’m lousy with visions,
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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each lousy with meaning.
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I lay in bed, unable to move,
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struggling to keep my eyes open;
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I know that if I close them,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I’ll be lost, I’ll be lost, I’ll be
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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mired in waking dreams,
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coherent visions with all the logic
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of that paler side of consciousness.
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Perhaps the veil here
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is still too thin and vague,
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the pool too clear, the monsters too scary
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too lean, too mean, too hungry, or
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perhaps I was too close to death
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to come away totally unscathed,
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too close to completely survive.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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It’s as though, laying here,
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stinking of hospital,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I’m seeing emotions play out,
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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Scene after scene, scene after scene,
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anxiety shown in heaps of discarded entrails,
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hope in the ceaseless ratcheting of gears,
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determination in the marching of feet.
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If I were an artist, perhaps
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I could hope to touch these images,
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but as it is, every word falls short,
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too vague, too inexact, too tight to
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hope to explain something so vast
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by the very act of attempting to reproduce;
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I can only hint from the margins.
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That poetry can accomplish what prose cannot
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in its economy of motion
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is attractive to me, here in recovery -
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so tired, so tired, so tired - so
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maybe I can hope to express the dire import
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of these visions dancing behind closed lids,
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or at least remind myself on rereading.
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Even now, a week out,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I’m starting to lose touch with the visions,
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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I can almost touch them if I squint,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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lie real still, don’t move now, but
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even then, a shadow of the substance…
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I’m starting to consign to memory
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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that which was probably memory to begin with.
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-----
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It is two hundred miles between what I expect and what I want.
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Two hundred long strides that seem impassible from one direction,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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and from the other a day’s short drive.
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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It is nine and a half hours between question and answer.
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A half hour of jazz, nine hours of sleep, a scant second of perspective,
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and I can only traverse in one direction
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It is eleven inches between who I was and who I am.
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Ten of those inches are pain, the eleventh is numb,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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There’s pleasure to be had in there, I’m promised.
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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It is twelve years between what I want and what I get:
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Ten years of remembering who I will become, two years running,
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Eight days dreaming.
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-----
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What have you changed?
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<em>My mind</em>
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What changed you?
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<em>Nothing</em>
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What became of it?
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<em>I am not who I was</em>
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What have you changed?
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<em>My name</em>
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What changed you?
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<em>The word</em>
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What became of it?
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<em>I am called who I am</em>
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What have you changed?
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<em>My looks</em>
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What changed you?
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<em>The light</em>
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What became of it?
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<em>I am seen as I am</em>
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What have you changed?
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<em>My chemistry</em>
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What changed you?
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<em>The substance</em>
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What became of it?
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<em>My form is my own</em>
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What have you changed?
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<em>My body</em>
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What changed you?
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<em>The knife</em>
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What became of it?
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<em>I am shaped how I am</em>
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What have you changed?
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<em>Nothing</em>
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What changed you?
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<em>I was accepted</em>
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What became of it?
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<em>I accepted myself</em>
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What have you changed?
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<em>Everything</em>
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What changed you?
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<em>Everything</em>
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What became of it?
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<em>I became who I am</em></div>
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>ally</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">It is surprisingly hard to think something real
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when every indication, every word, all you feel
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tells you that that must not be the case.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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There’s no easy way to make yourself face
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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that which your emotions continually deny,
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no matter how true you know it to be.
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                 But why
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must all these contradictions claim events
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that mean the most to us? What prevents
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them from taking the unimportant? The small?
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Is the import just to big? Can we not fit all
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of the thing in our heads? Are we too weak?
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Is the life-changing too vast to explore, to seek
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out every corner?
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<blockquote>Have you considered that your constant seeking
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may be the problem? That your anxieties leaking
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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all over may be what’s preventing you
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from recognizing what’s actually true:
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you can do things for yourself. It’s allowed.</blockquote>
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It also doesn’t help that there were so many delays.
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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The scheduler losing my application, and me counting days
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after those who consulted after me got their dates;
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The mishap of the letters, and me rushing past gates
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and their keepers; countless thoughts of countless regrets —
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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regrets which hadn’t yet happened — as mom frets
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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that maybe I will wind up hating my new body.
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And why not? Why not fret? Surgery! How gaudy.
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I fight with myself enough over how this surgery
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
is plastic, how I’m just doing something sugary
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
to somehow make myself somewhat more appealing.
|
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|
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|
How trite. How selfish. How lame. How revealing
|
|
|
|
|
of my bottomless shallowness.
|
|
|
|
|
<blockquote>Your saving grace being, as always, dysphoria:
|
|
|
|
|
more than any cough or cold, more than your chorea,
|
|
|
|
|
it provided you with a problem. Something fixable.
|
|
|
|
|
It gave you a tangible solution to something integral
|
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|
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|
that plagued you.</blockquote>
|
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That I had something I could concrete at which to point
|
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that would be fixed by this act, I could thus annoint
|
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it as somehow more worthy, something worth doing.
|
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If I could go through some process of ungluing,
|
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excise this thing from myself I might become whole
|
|
|
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in some way never before imagined.
|
|
|
|
|
                Ah, but the toll.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
There must always some arbitrary price to pay —
|
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|
Self-actualization must never be free — and hey,
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
Everything in society must come with a reason.
|
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To come up with letters, proof, for that season
|
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|
|
of change must serve some sort of divine end.
|
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|
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|
To wait eighteen long months, to refuse to bend
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
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|
to others’ whims…
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
<blockquote>You got your letters, you got your date, you did it.
|
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You did your labor, you did your time. They let you fidget
|
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and twist in the wind. Hell, they did it to you twice.
|
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Your letters only good for one year, you had to ask nice
|
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for a second set.</blockquote>
|
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Yes.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
   To preempt your ‘why’, I followed my own advice:
|
|
|
|
|
If I feel the same when I’m depressed as I do when I feel nice,
|
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|
It’s a thing worth doing. Eighteen months is time enough
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
to let at least two depressive cycles call my own bluff.
|
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When they did not, when I panicked at having to reapply
|
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|
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and still pulled through in time, well, no need to justify
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
my actions any further. That’s when it all became real.
|
|
|
|
|
That’s when I was in. That’s when I could tell just by feel
|
|
|
|
|
that I was ready for this change. I wasn’t <em>ready</em> ready,
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
but I was ready enough to come off as rock steady
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
when I called the surgeon’s office. I was visibly confident,
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
even at the pre-operative appointments, totally cognizant
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
that I didn’t deserve this.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
<blockquote>Whether or not you deserve this is not up for debate.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
Not because you do or don’t so much as because the hand fate
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
dealt you. You had the job, you had the insurance, the means.
|
|
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|
You made the call. You took the step. You passed the screens.
|
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|
<strong>You</strong> did this.</blockquote>
|
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|
There are so many words that could be said
|
|
|
|
|
about the preparation for surgery, all those steps that led
|
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|
|
to that six-thirty AM call. The days of purging.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
The anxiety. The drive. My husband’s gentle urging.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
That night in the Airbnb. That last shower with the Hibiclens.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
All that has faded. It’s distored at the edge of the lens
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
of my memory.
|
|
|
|
|
       No, what remains is the two hours before:
|
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|
|
the being so scared that I was reduced to the barest core.
|
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|
|
There was nothing left of me but fear, not even a name.
|
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|
|
I could still drive — the fear was quiet and tame —
|
|
|
|
|
I could get us to the ambulatory surgery waiting room.
|
|
|
|
|
But beyond that, I was a non-person. Or convict: my doom
|
|
|
|
|
was in their hands.
|
|
|
|
|
<blockquote>Non-person? Doom? Give yourself at least some credit.
|
|
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|
You still had agency. You still had a choice, could have not let it
|
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|
|
happen. You say of travel that getting you there is their job:
|
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|
|
you felt the same here. You crossed the doorway and let this mob
|
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|
|
of nurses do theirs.</blockquote>
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
And that’s exactly what happened. I crossed that threshold,
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
and then there I was: a patient before a team ready to handhold.
|
|
|
|
|
At that point, I was no longer bearing all that weight.
|
|
|
|
|
I was able to relax and let them guide me, a piece of freight
|
|
|
|
|
working through a system. I even had a barcode to scan.
|
|
|
|
|
Some gabapentin. My belongings in a bag. A rundown of the plan.
|
|
|
|
|
An IV, and a second after the first missed. Meet the surgeon,
|
|
|
|
|
then the anaesthesiologist.
|
|
|
|
|
            I felt myself then a virgin.
|
|
|
|
|
I was at this point being prepared for some strange sacrifice,
|
|
|
|
|
a process of pain and cutting, of rebirth. A cut, a slice,
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
and I would become something more…what? Mature? More complete?
|
|
|
|
|
Where I’d never put stock in virginity before — so obsolete —
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
it fits well, now.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
<blockquote>It’s the penetration. It’s the being opened up. The breach in tegument.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
There is change implied in the loss of virginity. Something elegant,
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
something beyond just the physical. Maybe it’s maturity,
|
|
|
|
|
maybe it’s a coming of age, or even some strange aspect of purity.
|
|
|
|
|
It’s a one-way change</blockquote>
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
That no-going-back-ness grew stronger and stronger,
|
|
|
|
|
and the minutes just seemed to go longer and longer,
|
|
|
|
|
as I got closer and closer to the fateful moment of change.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
I was laid on my back. I wwas wheeled to the OR. “How strange,”
|
|
|
|
|
I thought. “That I’ll never know where this room actually is.
|
|
|
|
|
I’m wheeled here on my back, the surgeon does his biz,
|
|
|
|
|
and I’ll wake up in post-op.” To this day, I have no idea.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
Did all of my friends go through this? Did Katt? Did Lutea?
|
|
|
|
|
Were we all whisked away to some dreamside room
|
|
|
|
|
where we would be changed? Some strange, perhaps-tomb?
|
|
|
|
|
After all, this surgery, this procedue, none of this was riskless.
|
|
|
|
|
Would this be where we died? Would we pass here, resistless,
|
|
|
|
|
in the depths of anaesthesia?
|
|
|
|
|
<blockquote>Was that really such a worry?
|
|
|
|
|
               I mean, I suppose it had to have been.
|
|
|
|
|
You spent all that time polishing your will. How could you begin
|
|
|
|
|
to deny the death-thoughts inherent in a nine-hour surgery?
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
That you didn’t still leaves you feeling like you’re living a forgery
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
of a life.</blockquote>
|
|
|
|
|
But then I was in. I was in that room with surprisingly green walls.
|
|
|
|
|
The nurses dropped me off, and from down those hidden halls
|
|
|
|
|
came surgeon, anaesthesiologist, what seemed like dozens of people.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
“Here, hold this over your face,” someone said as a needle
|
|
|
|
|
wandered into my IV’s injection port. “It’s just oxygen.”
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
My hand began to slip. Oxygen? Some sort of intoxicant?
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
They laughed, repeated, “No no, you have to hold it up.”
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
Perhaps it was O2, but whatever was injected began to interrupt
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
any train of thought. The jazz music they’d put on, at my request,
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
was overwhelmed by static. My vision followed. Silence: blessed.
|
|
|
|
|
Speed: surprising. Is this death? A rush of nothing. Is this death?
|
|
|
|
|
Nothing.
|
|
|
|
|
    Nothing. Nothing. Is this death?
|
|
|
|
|
                  Nothing. Is this death?
|
|
|
|
|
Silence, static.
|
|
|
|
|
<blockquote>    Was this death?
|
|
|
|
|
Nothing.        Nothing, death?     nothing
|
|
|
|
|
                    Nothing,
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
                             Nothing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
    Was this death?
|
|
|
|
|
Death?         Nothing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
                          Death? Nothing.
|
|
|
|
|
                 There was nothing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Silence.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
    Static.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
        Nothing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
                  Death.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
              Death.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
                       Silence.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
                           Death.
|
|
|
|
|
       Silence.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
    Static.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Static.         Static.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
                Death, static.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
                         Death.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
And then you woke up.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
</blockquote>
|
|
|
|
|
And then I woke up, and I was in the post-op recovery room.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
Disoriented, loopy, giggly, not yet in pain — a small boon.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
There was the nurse, and there was JD. How long had he been there?
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
After some indeterminate time, I was wheeled…somewhere.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
Yet more anonymous halls. Yet more competent nurses.
|
|
|
|
|
Language was not yet wholly available to me, no verses
|
|
|
|
|
yet to be had, despite the heady sensation of the opiate
|
|
|
|
|
coursing through me; only giggles, however inappropriate,
|
|
|
|
|
every time we went over a bump or up a ramp.
|
|
|
|
|
And then I was in my room.
|
|
|
|
|
            Me. A bed. My IV. A lamp.
|
|
|
|
|
Square. Spacious. A bathroom I could not yet walk to.
|
|
|
|
|
Hourly vitals. Friendly staff wandering through to talk to.
|
|
|
|
|
And a button in my hand.
|
|
|
|
|
<blockquote>That button, which you were instructed to press
|
|
|
|
|
every seven minutes. A morphine drip, or dilaudid, at a guess.
|
|
|
|
|
Every seven minutes, a bit of nightmare dripped into your veins.
|
|
|
|
|
Every seven minutes, more entrails, more gears, more chains
|
|
|
|
|
coursing through your mind.</blockquote>
|
|
|
|
|
There was pain, too, and the drip did indeed lessen that.
|
|
|
|
|
Still, the pain grew less, and soon I switched meds to combat
|
|
|
|
|
that ebbing tide. Tylenol. Hydrocodone. The button was removed.
|
|
|
|
|
Pills. Pills. Every four hours: pills. I complain, but improved
|
|
|
|
|
nonetheless. Antibiotics. Stool softeners. Painkillers.
|
|
|
|
|
The nurses wandering in and out became my tillers:
|
|
|
|
|
They steered my days, steered my pain, steered my diet.
|
|
|
|
|
We talked. We laughed. We shared private jokes in the quiet
|
|
|
|
|
of the night over BP cuffs. They helped with bedpan duty,
|
|
|
|
|
thankless though it was. Another patient would cry, flutey,
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
and they’d hurry off. I remember none of their names.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
Every now and then, when he made it down to Portland, James
|
|
|
|
|
would visit, perhaps spend the night.
|
|
|
|
|
<blockquote>Your laptop unweildy, you spent most of your time on your phone.
|
|
|
|
|
Even when no one was there, you were never quite alone.
|
|
|
|
|
Hours on Taps. Hours on Telegram. Five long days on your back,
|
|
|
|
|
and you, a side sleeper! Anything and everything to distract
|
|
|
|
|
from that fact.</blockquote>
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
It wasn’t all monotony. The surgeon came in to check on me.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
They removed my dressing, and then my packing, setting me free,
|
|
|
|
|
stepwise, from confinement. The last day was the biggest of all:
|
|
|
|
|
The packing, catheter, and drains were removed. I tried to crawl
|
|
|
|
|
from bed, found myself on the verge of collapse. I showered
|
|
|
|
|
and saw my body changed. They measured my urine. Nurses glowered
|
|
|
|
|
at how little. They threatened to put the catheter back.
|
|
|
|
|
Embarrassed, I defecated, then tried again. Now on track,
|
|
|
|
|
I was finally discharged. It was then that I finally saw,
|
|
|
|
|
from my wheelchair, the hitherto only hinted at hall
|
|
|
|
|
outside my door. It was somehow still unreal to me.
|
|
|
|
|
Or perhaps I was simply to eager to finally be free
|
|
|
|
|
from the room.
|
|
|
|
|
<blockquote>Undiluted sunlight while you waited on JD to get the car
|
|
|
|
|
hurt your eyes. You could still barely stand, afraid to jar
|
|
|
|
|
your new body in your dizziness. Almost more overwhelming
|
|
|
|
|
than the hours before the surgery was you helming
|
|
|
|
|
your dissociating self.</blockquote>
|
|
|
|
|
All the way to the B&B, crossing that street, getting settled,
|
|
|
|
|
I was nothing. I was not myself. I was soft, bepetaled.
|
|
|
|
|
I was new. I was raw. Cliché, sure, but I was a flower
|
|
|
|
|
newly sprouted. Under anaesthesia, I ceased to tower
|
|
|
|
|
over the earth and instead became one with it. Or my dream
|
|
|
|
|
finally became reality and I had become a tree, the theme
|
|
|
|
|
of growth omnipresent within me. It was too much, too much.
|
|
|
|
|
So I slept. I waited for Robin to join me, just to clutch
|
|
|
|
|
at things familiar. Something to anchor past me to the present.
|
|
|
|
|
I had become a tree, had grown, and sure, it was pleasant,
|
|
|
|
|
but all the same, I still needed something to keep me grounded.
|
|
|
|
|
I needed to not be completely unmoored, to not be unbounded.
|
|
|
|
|
But it was done.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
<blockquote>It was done. It was complete. You’d started taking action,
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
and kept on taking steps until you were there, beyond abstraction.
|
|
|
|
|
This was concrete. This was real. This was true. <strong>You</strong> were true.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
You weren’t false before, but all the same, now that you were new,
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
you were more true now</blockquote>
|
|
|
|
|
What can I say of healing? Of life after change?
|
|
|
|
|
I got used to it, bit by bit. I slowly learned my range,
|
|
|
|
|
the extent of my new body. Proprioception caught up immediately,
|
|
|
|
|
and there were no phantom sensations, and the immediacy
|
|
|
|
|
was startling at first, but I got used to it, to my new form.
|
|
|
|
|
Over the next weeks and months, I slowly learned my new norm.
|
|
|
|
|
I learned by regaining feeling. I learned with every muscular flex.
|
|
|
|
|
I learned by dilating. I learned by masturbating. I learned by sex.
|
|
|
|
|
While I refused to let my happiness hinge on such a thing,
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
a part of me hoped it’d make me more comfortable get in the swing
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
of sex, and while it helped, I still was still largely okay without.
|
|
|
|
|
My body was still my own. Whole and entire. My life played out,
|
|
|
|
|
and I became more myself.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
<blockquote>This isn’t going how you pictured it, this bit of writing.
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
You were going to talk more about healing, about fighting
|
|
|
|
|
for permission to change, about your $76,000 bill.
|
|
|
|
|
And here you talk of trees and growth. Did you not get your fill?
|
|
|
|
|
Do you still need this outlet?</blockquote>
|
|
|
|
|
Apparently.
|
|
|
|
|
      Apparently I still need to revel in the newness.
|
2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
|
|
|
Apparently, what I need out of this project isn’t the trueness
|
2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
|
|
|
of the concrete. We should really have expected nothing less.
|
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This is a project to dig for truth, a project to confess.
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It is not a project for describing stitches stabbing me in the clit.
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It is not for telling about each successive dilator testing the fit
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of my new depths. Could I have gone into that? Yes. Perhaps.
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Perhaps I still will. Later. For now, I still need to run laps,
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to circle around some dark core and discern its edges.
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Perhaps if I know that shape, if I peek over enough hedges,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I’ll somehow know myself better. I don’t know. It feels unlikely.
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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Maybe there is no knowing the self. Still, I have to try, rightly
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or not.
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<blockquote>Fair enough. Still, at some point, discuss the concrete.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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So many have asked you to, and perhaps you’d feel complete.
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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Perhaps that, too, would be of use to you. Not everything demands
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such thorough introspection. Not everything fits in the wetlands
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of your subconscious</blockquote>
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Of course not. I know this. <em>You</em> know I know this.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I’m not deflecting, just focusing on this part of the abyss.
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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The concrete aspects are for writing with clarity,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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not with verse. They’re for writing with the sincerity
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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borne of experience, so that perhaps others can benefit.
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Of this, only I need benefit. There is an etiquette
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to writing for others. Here, there is only an ally.
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This is for me and you. Your role is to hear my lie,
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to call it out, to force me to correct myself, my words.
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My role is to keep on writing, be it about surgery or birds,
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and to learn from our discussions. To learn? To suffer?
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Perhaps more the latter. To hurt, and grow tougher
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by hurting.
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<blockquote>You have been called on that, yes, writing to suffer.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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And it’s not wrong. You sit at your laptop and fill the buffer
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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with sentences and lines and paragraphs of memories and pain.
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Do you really grow tougher? Is it masochisim, or do you gain
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real insight from this?</blockquote>
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I think I do. It’s therapeutic to try and understand myself better.
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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is it not? With every paragraph and line and word and letter,
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I think I reduce the borders of that abyss. Or if not reduce,
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I spraypaint a red line five feet from them, so that I can deduce
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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my roughest edges. I’m often say that it’s easy to discern boundaries
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by crossing them. I’ve crossed them here, with you. Foundries
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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of thought and emotion are within me, ceaselessly toiling.
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I want to tour them all. I want to see them boiling.
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I feel them. I house them. I smell them and taste them.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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I just also want to understand them. There’s no chaste hem
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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to the subconscious, so I have to map it, map these crude sources.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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Then I can experience thisness — I hope — when buffeted by forces
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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internal.
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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<blockquote>If you say so, I suppose. Do you think it’ll work, though?
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Aren’t such works unknowable by definition? They grow,
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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they wane. You can sense them by their effects and emissions,
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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but isn’t seeing them, truly seeing, knowing their positions,
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2020-04-24 08:20:06 +00:00
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reserved for dreams?</blockquote></div>
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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</article>
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<footer>
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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<p>Page generated on 2020-06-24</p>
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2020-04-24 08:15:07 +00:00
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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