<p>I really do. That’s the thing about enemies, you see. There is a certain amount of love that has to go into that struggle. There is a certain amount of need and desire, because if there is no one there to vanquish, then what are we who strive even to do?</p>
<p>I wish I could see your triumph. I wish I could look up at you, broken and shattered, bleeding in the dust of unknown plains, and know — truly, utterly know — that I have been defeated, that I have been crushed and destroyed.</p>
<p>I wish I could see your triumph. Is that self-sacrificing of me? I really don’t know. It’s not my place to know these things.</p>
<p>I wish I could see your triumph. It’s my goal to succeed, to prevail, to come out the other side, to make it through, to win. It’s my goal to come away with my own triumph, but always, always there is that niggling little doubt, that secret desire to lose, to be beaten in a fair fight and have it proven to my face that at least someone could bring me low and understand that <em>hey, at least she tried, right?</em></p>
<p>I wish I could see your triumph. I wish I could see elation in your eyes. I wish I could see you laugh. I wish I could see just how it looks for you to set aside that way you devote every erg of energy to struggle and give me one of those full on, deep-down belly laughs that I know we all hide somewhere in our bodies.</p>
<p>I wish I could see your triumph, and I wish that, should you see mine, you understand just how much love goes into our struggle, just how much need and desire I hold for you.</p>
<p>Do you laugh, sea foam? Do you smile, ice, and observe your triumph with an angel’s remove?</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Every now and then I catch a taste of Rilke, hidden around some corner of my mouth. Every now and then, I think, <em>every angel is terrifying</em>, and then I’ll go about my day, repeating that like a mantra: <em>every angel is terrifying every angel is terrifying every angel is terrifying every angel…</em></p>
<p>He saw someone do that, I think I remember the story went. He was walking and saw someone face the sea, throw their arms wide, cry out to sea foam or ice or some unseen rank of angels, and…well, I don’t remember if <em>he</em> heard them, necessarily, but that’s how it went, right? Who, though I cry, would hear me among the ranks of angels, and then hundreds of lines later, ten elegies.</p>
<p>So whenever I get that awkward-shaped piece of grit between my teeth —<em>every angel is terrifying</em>— I think of that scene. I think of the way we elevate the unknown to some higher place that ourselves. I think of the patterns we hunt for in the sea foam, in the waves that can take us under or bash us senseless against some barnacled rock. I think about the crush of worlds implied in the calving of an iceberg and how easily that could destroy. I think about that rank of angels who, holding me to their breast, could so easily annihilate.</p>
<p>I dream of it, that moment. I dream of falling to my knees, or being <strong>so badly broken that all I can do is lay there, unmoored, and look up to the way you rise above me.</strong></p>
<p>I strive against angels as I strove against men, against the world, against the <strong>cruel vagaries of my former self</strong> and all his countless failings. Some have left me reeling, some have left me on my knees, head bowed until it almost — almost! — touches the ground, and I’ve had to spend a day, a week, a year catching my breath.</p>
<p>I specifically ordered it from Mishu. I have almost never gotten anything from there that fits in any sort of ideal way. It’s all just a little too small or a little to short or <strong>meant for someone who’s not a fat trans woman.</strong></p>
<p>I totally lucked out with this one, though. It’s weird, because the sleeves are way too long on me, they go down past my hands. The zipper is way too short in that it comes down to a bit past my belly button, but that the hoodie still has non-zippered fabric beneath that keeps it from being some sort of weird crop-top-hoodie.</p>
<p>It was just kind of luck of the draw, given the other things I got in that order (two quarter-capes and a black dress) which all <em>almost</em> fit but not quite.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Describe in terms of how it looks/feels/smells/sounds. Imperfections? Tags?</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Mishu being what it is, the fashion aspect of the hoodie is that it’s made up from irregularly shaped panels of fabric that have been sewn together with some overlock stitch thingy (dunno if that’s right), but the seams are on the outside. The zipper and tag show you which way is in, but there are these thick, rope-like stitches that run across the arms, sides, and back that are quite visible, despite being made of the same fabric.</p>
<p>The fabric itself is a sort of fleece, I think, so it’s pretty soft. It’s reasonably warm, but not as much as a regular fleece would be, with no interfacing or anything.</p>
<p>In terms of sounds, it’s got that ideal swish and rustle that draws me to a lot of the clothes I have. I like long skirts and scarves for the same reason: that little rustle. When I walk, given the long and wide sleeves (no cuffs!), it rustles just a tiny amount and I like to picture myself as someone cozy.</p>
<p>It’s too big on me, too, which makes me feel smaller than I am, which is important to me for genderful reasons.</p>
<p>I’ve mentioned some of the imperfections above, but in terms of tags, it has a Mishu tag on the neck. It’s really subtle, thankfully, and I don’t feel like it’s a glaring sort of thing.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>A memory related to this piece of clothing.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Huldra is a fascinating person. She is unabashedly trans, frightfully smart, and wears all of her emotions on her sleeve. Her communication is plain to the point of being blunt.</p>
<p>For the hoodie, she immediately remarked that it was on inside out, and when I showed her out it worked, she laughed, sounding someone perturbed by this. I could tell that, at that point, she decided that she didn’t like the hoodie, and it made me want to hide it for a few days after, because I didn’t want to upset her.</p>
<p>I got over it, eventually, but it still sticks in my mind that, for someone as straightforward and plain-spoken as her, all of the features that I love about this garment were points against it, <strong>until all that was left was its utility</strong> and color.</p>
<p>If this piece of clothing could write a letter of advice…</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Maddy, wear me warmly. Wrap yourself up in me. Remember that time that Jeff told you that, in Saskatoon, they called hoodies “bunny hugs”? When you wear me, it is a hug, a gesture of love, a form of affection that I am giving you, one that you can give to yourself.</p>
<p>Maddy, It’s okay to be comfortable. It’s okay to be warm. It’s okay to take small joys where you can: let yourself feel small.</p>
<p>Maddy, <strong>it’s okay to take those imperfections and own them. All of your own ridges and inside-out seams are something that can bring you joy, even if they don’t bring joy to others. Revel in your imperfections. Roll around in them. Wear them on your body and let others think their own thoughts.</strong></p>
<p>I understand the need to have fun, and I understand, at least on an intellectual level, the fun behind pranks, but for some reason, this dumbass decides that I need a prank pulled on me nearly every day.</p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong, I love the man. I’m glad he succeeded at what he did, and I’m glad he got to ‘retire’ directly into something that he really loves. I even liked working with him: he was a great boss, and it was wonderful being able to commiserate over clients together.</p>
<p>But man, him putting that stupid fucking urinal cake in my cube wall was several steps too far. It drove everyone around me nuts. The PM stopped talking to me. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Nobody but him was happy.</p>
<p>And it took me three days to find. Three days! <strong>Three hot, summer days of a urinal cake baking in the wall of the cubicle, sitting delicately in the cableway, innocent of any crimes of its own. Just sitting there, smelling like a bathroom as it ought, making my workspace smell like a bathroom, precisely as it oughtn’t.</strong></p>
<p>Every time I pick up an interest related to taste or smell, I find myself imagining scents and tastes in fractal detail.</p>
<p>When I decided that I desperately needed to try cajeta, I tried to mash together the scents of goat milk and caramel in my head, then investigated that border between them, letting them mix ever so slowly and continuing to dive deeper and deeper into that delta (brackish?) zone where I could hope to learn a bit more without actually having it available to taste.</p>
<p>That I wound up loving the taste is an added bonus.</p>
<p>I did the same with mead, the same with beer, the same with distilling.</p>
<p>So, when I’m actually out and out surprised, completely stumped by a scent within a category I’m obsessing over, it can shock my whole system to some higher state. I got this tea, the No. 2 rougui, as part of a sample pack, and it punched me in the face with just how much it reminded me of cajeta. I’m no stranger to oolongs, but that one hit just the perfect balance of roast so that I was left swooning.</p>
