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writing/3/unknown-things/iyov/reverse/background.html

@@ -24,7 +24,11 @@
 <p>I, at one point, was overtaken by the need to tell my story through the frame of a conversation with an ally. I described them &mdash; or perhaps they described themselves; the boundary between framing device and reality blurs &mdash; as &ldquo;an ally, not a friend.&rdquo; Towards the end of the project, we had a &lsquo;conversation&rsquo; wherein I attempted to describe their inverse. Their response: &ldquo;Not your enemy, but your adversary.&rdquo; \parencite[25]{ally-making-of}</p>
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 <p>I know, for instance, that my conversations with my husband around transition were many and scattered. We would chat over dinner, or we would talk on that horrifyingly yellow couch that he&rsquo;d inherited about the fact that I was feeling strange about all these different aspects of identity. But you know what I remember? I remember sitting on that couch and talking in well-formed sentences, in paragraphs and essays, about why it was that I felt like the body I had and the body I \emph{had} overlapped incompletely, or I remember sitting on one of the dining table chairs turned to face the living room in a skirt I had made for myself, explaining to him that I felt like a part of me died when Margaras did.</p>
-<p>These were almost certainly conversations. They were full of filled pauses and the backtracking failures of speech that come with just plain chatting, but that&rsquo;s not what I remember. I remember discourses and speeches and prayers.</p>
+<p>These were almost certainly conversations. They were full of filled pauses and the backtracking failures of speech that come with just plain chatting, but that&rsquo;s not what I remember. I remember discourses and speeches and prayers. I remember the way we constructed well-reasoned dialogues back and forth, with none of the doublings back or filler words, none of those pregnant silences that come with his speech impediment or my preemptive justifications that leave me gasping for air &mdash; the need to be understood far outweighs the need for oxygen. </p>
+<p>When I was 17, I got in my first car accident. The roads in Boulder are beholden to its landscape, the shape of the hills upon which they were built defining the curves. The entirety of the town huddles up against the feet of the Rockies, crowding against the Flatirons. Broadway, the main drag through town, carves a gentle curve steadily closer to heading truly north from its initial gentle westward bent. At one point, a sort of surface-level slip road ducks off to merge with 28th, the street on which my friend lived.</p>
+<p>Driving him home after a February rehearsal, icy and disgusting, that gentle curve of slip road relinquished its grip on the truck and we seemed to float a few inches above the pavement. It was an almost gentle sensation as we bumped against the truck beside us.</p>
+<p>Beyond that, it was all boring. Get out, exchange information, go our separate ways. I don&rsquo;t remember much more than that, only that I had to call my dad once I got home and tell him what happened. I don&rsquo;t even remember what I said to him, only that he stopped me, laughing, and told me to stop talking like a lawyer, that he wasn&rsquo;t suing me. My justifications for every second of that accident had to be airtight. My need for air came second.</p>
+<p>I don&rsquo;t imagine the same was actually true of my conversations with JD about gender.</p>
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@@ -38,7 +42,7 @@ Perhaps strangest of all, though, it remembers them disjoint and out of order.</
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-                <p>Page generated on 2023-03-17</p>
+                <p>Page generated on 2023-03-25</p>
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