Spring is Here!!!!

already my nose feels snotty.

On monday I turned 36. sigh and sigh again. I wandered out into the sunshine with my dear finnish friend, Heli, and we sat in some asphalt courtyard surrounded by trailers selling weird fried shit. (mainly hamburger style concoctions on rye bread with plastic cheese and gerkins). However, despite it's gritty setting, in the moderate temperature of 8 degrees and lots of sunshine, the Tampelentori took on a kind of italian plaza feel. People sat in the sun and slowly peeled off layers of heavy coats and mittens. Heli's toddler slept and my feet started to sweat under my moon boots.

It wasn't quite Turku - which if I was drunk - I'm sure could be desribed as kind of Parisian. Set around a central river whihc runs out to the sea, it's full of old bourgeouise building, and in the orange afterglow of a spring time sunset it took on quite a festive air - as all the local kiddies - bedecked in goth wear and brightly dyed hair sat on the cobblestone river banks swilling salmiaki vodka. aaah finland, finland, finland... It's the place I want to be.....

turku nightlife had been a bit of a highlight generally. My friend took me on a tour of the best cafes and pubs (hmmm a sober pub crawl, in finland, only mayhem would do it), whihc included a cafe named after finland's greatest arhcitect, Alvar Aalto, and culminated in the local Dyke bar.... which was at the back of some plaza - filled with kirrputori selling Latch Key rugs.

We walked in to the dyke bar - which was almost empty except for a table of young raver style manga goth girls and another table of 40 something butches - who all stared at us. gulp. My friend - a high femme - ordered soda and cranberry for us both. We went and sat in on the blue velvet raised corner seating and admired the decor - which kind of reminded me of hawaii, and the UNITY BAR in Paris.

I forgot to post about my adventures in the dyke-zine launch in New york. Lets just say that alison Behcdel quite possibly is some sort of freaky master of the universe. Because I can now say that I've been in various dyke mileus, in various cities, for more than 15 years, and QUITE STRANGELY - the differences between Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Lyon, Paris, New york AND turku are astonishingly few and far between. Maybe there are only 50 lesbians in the entire world and the rest are all clones or a mirage or something.

I was meant to go out to the local Tampere gay bar for a women's dance last night - but I misread the programme (not hard given it was in finnish) and so came home instead. I did catch a performance art event by local megastar MonaRay, but not after walking into some scary bar full of men wathcing soccer.

i've even seen clones of ABEL. And frightening numbers of mini-me's.

I left NYC with a duller plum shade through my hair - so I now look like a standard middle aged bookish finn. Obviously i don't talk like one.The food - largely consisting of Pirrakas (rice or potato filled vulva shaped pastries) and porridge has
bulked up my weight again - and I can't wait to get to old blighty to find some fresh vegetables. (who'd have thought it).

anyway - at least we finally have sunshine - and the sun doesn't set until after 8pm. So I'm off for an evening stroll along the now melting lake to watch the sun set over water and ice.

this wekeend I'm heading off to england feeling a tad anxious because my accommodation is looking really shaky. I'm meant to arrive in central london at about 2am on sunday morning. (shudder). One accommodation offer is undergoing home renovations and is squatting in a corner of their kitchen. another one hasn't replied to my emails, and a third is weighed down with early parentitis. PLUS most of the inner city youf hostels have a strict under 35's policy - and are already booked out!

Strangely enough, acute anxiety seems easier to deal with than depression. I could just hang out in stanstead airport until something turns up...... they have coffee after all
anyway

Wintereisse - farewell to 35

Last night I felt as if my chest had broken open. The silent and continuous flow of tears of the past month came pouring out as large wailing sobs. Slightly muffled by my pillow but consumed more but the icy darkness around me. So much fucking sadness. Grief sitting on my chest like some evil demon, sinking it’s claws inside, sucking out my will for life and making me earnestly wishing I was dead.

After lying and sobbing silently for about an hour, I decided that my preferred mode of suicide would be to drop a hairdryer into the bath. Since I don’t own a hairdryer and currently have no access to a bathtub this seemed reasonably remote to indulge in as an anaesthetic fantasy of self obliteration. I’ve got a few ethical objections to suicide, mainly involving anticipating the pain of other’s around me. I don’t feel I have the right to cause anyone the terrible pain of grief. So, Hellish as it is, I acquiesce to continue living.

This heart, this broken aching heart is hell. I’m sick of tears stinging my eyes, and I can’t believe that I’m in this much pain. I’m curious about how emotional pain gets psychosomatically located in this strange lump in my chest. I wish I could freeze out this pain. Grow up, get over it and move on. Focus on my work, be a good serious, self contained proto-doctor, not this pathetic undershit, weeping over someone who simply isn’t worth it.

So today I happily acquiesced to Heli’s suggestion that we go and plunge ourselves into a hole cut into the ice of a frozen lake. It is less extreme than it sounds. The hole is right next to a sauna, and today the weather was well above zero (ok mainly only 5 or 6 degrees by 5pm, but she’s gone there in minus 20). I fantasized about the cold waters cauterising my heartbreak, providing some sort of shock to jolt me out of the miasma of grief. And I’d never say no to a sauna.

The first time I happily screamed and laughed aloud at the icy shock on my feet, my legs, my torso as I descended in, and quickly emerged (they have a stairwell into the hole). And, back in the sauna, I enjoyed the round of applause from the stoic elderly ladies, politely impressed at my feat of tourist bravado. The second time, I tried to allow myself to sense what it felt like. The terror as my feet and legs went numb, combined with the sheer thrill of the cold as I resisted the urge to leap off the stairwell and swim around in the hole. Then the strange rush of my blood thickening. Blood thickening – is something I’ve always associated with the cold rush of a dead sweaty panic. Icy emotional stabs from small instances of heartbreak, disappointment, shock. So often I’ve felt my blood runs cold when I sit and numbly grunt at some nasty little shock revelation of betrayal or hurt or absence, but it was nothing like this. I could feel my capillaries contract, felt a really funny internal rush that almost made me swoon. But I didn’t swoon, and remained upright, sensing the weirdness of the cold, the liquid on my skin. Then I raced up the stairs, and stood around – in a strange hysterical high. Such happy numbness, no, not numbness, something else.

My heart is no where near healed, but I’m less of a mess than last night. And my old emotional reflexes seem to be kicking in at last. I hate the consort. Maybe I should hate Abel too, but the consort is an easy target. Because I wanted out, but didn’t think I’d feel this way, because I thought it was desire and not love, because it was seven months and not seven years, because he confused me every step of the way, because he’s a man and I never thought a man would ever hurt me this much (again).

Maybe the latter is the more important point. I always associate heartbreak with women – which certainly sounds more romantic than weeping over a man, but there’s something deeper. When I think back over a lifetime’s habit of coldly describing injuries done to me by men; emotional abuse, betrayal, sexual abuse, coldness, coerced sex, general nastiness, drunken date rape and sexual rejection, I wonder why I haven’t been able to articulate this as a personal injury, but I’ve either theorised it or turned it into some tidy little narrative, where I seem to vanish. I think vanishing is part of the point, and probably explains why such incidences are so annihilating, and why all I want to do afterwards is annihilate myself. To vanish, disappear, feel nothing, say nothing, do nothing, to sink into a hole an never emerge. To be mired, silent in my own deathly misery.

Part of my loves the bullshit in break-ups. The eternal line “oh, yes, we’ll still be friends, of course we’ll be friends, I still love you and always will”. I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to know what a total crock of shit that is. Despite many attempts and experiments at this particular project, I am not good friends with any of my exes. We’re civil, and some of us can even socialise – but the end of a relationship is exactly that. It’s a defeat, a failure, a termination. The memories remain, but the future trajectory is over. And I don’t think it is really possible to remain good friends with someone who has caused or does cause you a lot of pain, unless you’re a masochist, which I’m more reluctant to be lately.

This trajectory of musings came from another silent little bout of tears tonight. I was musing on the feminine grace of the consort, which is what attracted me in the first place. He’s one of the faggiest men I’ve ever met, and a big part of me was convinced he was gay, but repressed – but given my own circumstances, I’m assuming there was a fair amount of self projection involved. But he was and is, incredibly, beautifully and exquisitely feminine, and yet strangely masculine as well. I know I was intensely attracted to the sheer queerness of someone so camp, prissy and girly being able to nail me to the floor with his phallus. But there was something deeper than the thrill of being fucked by a femme, because I’ve been fucked by dildo wielding femme dykes, and enjoyed the odd brief foray into flipping butches too. And I think it was the last deep gasp of my own masochism.

There’s nothing queer about heterosexuality – particularly when the roles within the relationship are so fixed. And between mayhem and consort, the roles were fixed. He, and older man, definitely wore the pants, sex only happened when he wanted it too, and it happened on his terms, where he was the active partner and me the passive. I hadn’t been that passive (not even with a man) since nineteen eighty something, and intensely enjoyed the experience. But for me, what was a fleeting intimate opening into softness, passivity and trust, was and is something entirely different within heteronormativity. I think all of the consort’s exes have been upwardly mobile, middle class, intelligent women. Professional socialised butches of the straight world to his own faffing femininity. But whatever the social roles, the sexual union maintains his own subjective position as a man, even reinforcing it. I had a strong sense that the consort gets off on ‘flipping’ dominant women, and this is one of the reasons why he isn’t gay. His femininity is a ruse, a disarming seduction, a play, and a delightfully queer one at that. Kind of.

What cannot be queer in such an encounter – is that he, socially, ostensibly is a heterosexual man, and the bearer of both subjectivities. Kristeva’s argument that men can bear the symbolic values of the feminine and the masculine, but women can only ever transvestise ourselves is a timely reminder of this paradox. Men are imbued with an internal subjectivity, that of masculinity, at their core. Women aren’t, at least not when we start messing with the phallus. My own exquisite delight at being fucked, being filled with a penis – was a delight at being filled with the phallus, at collapsing myself into a skin, a layer, a shallow carapace for this cultural figment. I wasn’t even ‘feminine’ in this, merely a part-object, an embellishment of another object. The play of seduction, he was feminine, insisting on pursuing and seducing me, and expressing disdain or aversion if I tried the same trick in return. This hurt a lot, but also contributed to my feelings of ‘victory’ when I could finally feel him inside me. For him – I guess the victory was in seducing a top, in having a profoundly articulate dyke begging for his cock, in taking my arm and walking down king street, remapping my very queer cruising grounds as a coupled heterosexist space. I’ve got no doubt about his investment in heterosexuality as a social institution. I have written and workshopped bisexuality for over a decade, but that doesn’t help my feelings of internal betrayal in allowing this to happen. Part of me was intrigued by this remapping, this strolling, this remarking of the territories crossed and recrossed by Abel and I, in the arms of another, entirely different body. Part of me delighted in the sheer queerness of it, and It felt very queer to me, but not in the right way. Becoming the human condom, was a delight, a vertiginous delight of descent, away from myself, from my own subjectivity, and my own confusion. But I feel hollow, hellish and bereft as a result.

I wish I was tougher. I wish I was immune to men, and wanting to be desired and loved by them. I wish I didn’t long for a rapprochement and healing of my own ancient wounds of love and betrayal and loss for the deadmen in my biofamily. I wish, that by cutting my hair and swaggering around grinning at girls and occasionally fucking them, that I could immunise myself against this hurt. This immense stupidity of my own vulnerability, as a woman, as something inscribed as ‘lacking’ in relation to men, that makes any meaningful relationship with them, literally impossible.

I feel weird writing this - and putting it up for the world - and the consort to read. for every paragraph of what seems like impossible bile here - i have 10 tear sodden ink pages scratched out ink bic biro at desperate hours of the night - or the day. sometimes living is total total hell, and I write because to not write means that I suffocate. Maybe one day I'll feel less hurt, less scared, less sad, less fucking bitter. At the moment my hatred, my fury, my frustration is the only thing getting me out of bed each day. that tiny little fire in my belly, stopping me from freezing completely.

It’s not all bad. Reading velvet park, I came across an article about the confusing challenges to health care provision in san fran – generated by the proliferation of transgenderism. Lots of FTM’s are fucking gayboys, or straight girls, or MTF’s, or queer girls, and vice versa. Reading this I imagined a utopia where gender binaries cannot exist – and have been queered out of existence. I image a utopia where gender doesn’t matter – and can be changed like a set of underwear or drag outfits, and where genitalia are freed from the constraints of gender, or sociality, of subjectivity and can salaciously stroll across open fields of lusty willing flesh. Then I regret sending my wonderwand home.

Winterreisse

wintereisse

It's meant to be the end of winter. today was to hot for thermals - and we had to move our clocks forward at midnight - so I think it's one am now?

It's certainly still winter.

I got delayed in the big apple by a nasty flue - which kept me bedbound for a week - and I spent last week wiht evil menstruation from HELL.

(Only a man could come up with the theory of intelligent design - coz anyone who'se experienced fucking lady biology would know - that the only intelligence that could come up with the bluddykunt form of gonad management would be that of some freaky mysoginist evil genius....)

today - was my last satterdy in the big apple - and I had a migraine from hell. It's just starting to grip my neck as I type so i'm typing faster to hopefully ward it off.

so this will probably be the last posting on this blog - unless I get reandomly inspired by fond reminiscences.

I had a plan of posting a daily inventory of nutty new york moments (which occur daily - god this place is great) - and then I thought it'd be good to write some observer participant account of all the skethc clubs i been going to - but given ehtics limitations and impending tome completion - I better hold off for a few months.

And I felt so down that I posted my misery bits on the bodies art and stuff blog.

I dunno whether to keep up with the amateur cultural anthropolgy stuff and save the acute emotional angst for bodies art and stuff - and keep art and mayhem as a long distance publicity board for stuff in sinney town....

wahtc this space...

i'm trifurcated.

As I left the L-train the other night - I felt like i'd entered some weird tweeny sci fi movie where all the adults get zapped off. I was walking through the subway corridor FULL of twenty something funky white kids. This off a train full of mixed aged, mixed race individuals was WEIRD.

the funky squad of Bedford Street have moved south and now lorimer street and surrounds is gradually getting 'hipper' and whiter and inevitably blander. L casa del ramon is still surrounded by spanish speakers but some nice honkeys just moved into the flat downstairs - and i haven't seen the crack dealers across the road lately.

My own comfort zone,; nice 'alternative', pale skinned, bespectacled, earnest reading thinking people - are always a slightly uncomfortable sort of zone - coz we're so precarious - always on the way somewhere else. - we seem to so rarely make communities but be at the forefront of the breaking of other ocmmunities.

but as I age into the late 30's I'm feeling less comfortable aournd the ghetto of cool around me. I DID make it out to the dyke mag launch last week - and found myself in a room of clones of girls I could have seen anywhere in the past 15 years: sydney, melbourne, brisbane, Lyon, Paris... fuck o bloody fuck - alison bechdel really is the dyke version of moses. the tribes dON'T CHANGE.... acutally they do - coz now with T and surgery - there are a lot more t-girls/bois/t-bois/FTM's - pick your word.

Meeting eyes with 'new men' - I feel kinda weird - coz in a dyke bar, I'm in a space where i don't usually look at men as sexual so I don't really know how to respond....

anyway - i danced for a tiny little bit - but now many people were dancing and I was feeling socially phobic (of wandering up and chatting to random strangers) and then I remembered how I felt when I was the same age as most of the crowd - needing 5 drinks before i'd dance, 10 before I'd make a pass at anyone - and I sighed, and decided that maybe 2 hours was enough time there and I'd rather be at home.
sigh

at least I didn't have a hangover

sorry this post is so boring! - check out my other blogs instead!

Feeling Down 2

Fancy That!

sometimes the universe is INCREDIBLE - in the way it just responds to your inner psyche.

the previous posting was a cut and paste job from some email that just arrived in my inbox: with "Feeling down" as the subject heading.

I love the NON-english of spam - it's the last pure form of automatic writing... and I think there's a message in there somewhere for me - past the buttons for cialis, viagra and xanax......

At the moment I need all three - I'm so flat I can't even get my dildo to stay erect.

I'm debating whether or not to venture out to the launch of "Velvet Park" - which is meant to be the alternative version of "Go" which is the big apple's version of Lobotomies On The Loose. the cute girl-on-t at Babeland said it wasn't really quite "on our backs" - but seeing as I missed the SLIT launch last week in Sydney I thought it might go some way towards alleviating my feelings of vaginita cobwebitis.

On the other hand the theme is "roller derby" - and I'm about as natural arround roller skates as the average pussy cat, and I find sporty dykes totally unsexy - sport, sweat, netball, uniforms, running shoes, EUGH.

AND the website has WAYYY too many references to the L-WORD - which I think is like STARBUCKS of sapphodom - ie non coffee drinkers think Starbucks must be a good idea - and I.... am proud to say that I've been in the USA for 3 months and not stepped foot in a single one!

and I was feeling too depressed even to brave Dr. Sketchies, (actually i've decided that I never want to draw another titty tassle as long as I live....) and so I'm still thinking that maybe I should take advantage of another late night in solitude wiht my skethcobook at the MET.

Yesterday i fought back tears and entertained myself for at least an hour underneath Carpeaux's version of "Ugolino and his son's" - looking up and imagining a mayhem version of Monty Python skit - done ocker style.....


"i'm sorry lads, but there's just too many of you, and we're all starving to death, so i'm afraid I'm going to have to chop one of you up and feed you to the others..."
"ohhh SHIT dad, that really sucks, can't it be Jason?"
"No, craig, Jason's too small, he'd barely feed a cat, I'm afraid we'll have to go with Brian"
"Fucking No Way!"
"Listen, son, I know you're the favourite, and i'll try and let that console me and the other's while we're savouring your barbecued, flesh; you're a big strapping lad, and maybe, just maybe with your help, we'll all pull through"


Actually Just add that to the pile of reasons not to go - I love art and the met is open till 9pm again tonight....

OK, reasons to go:
I should see some Lesbians for I leave New York
the magazine is the nearest thing NYC has, to SLIT
the launch is a 10 minute walk away from where I'm staying
I could check out some of the openings that are in the area
I could even score dutch courage at openings before hand
I'm wearing all black
I might get laid and this might improve my mood
I might get laid by some homocidal freak and this would eliminate my mood
My mood ain't good


Again more reasons not to go:
I'm trying not to drink. this limits my gregariousness
I feel about as sexual as an armadillo in the fucking 4 layers I have to wear everywhere so I don't freeze my tits off
I was feeling too withdrawn to cope with Dr. Sketchies then I don't know how I'll cope with A) willliamsburg art scene B) Williamsburg dyke Scene
I feel about as sexual as a wombat generally. I think this is a sign of depression.

I think i'm depressed

Reasons for depression are all noteworthy and logical

I'm probably premenstrual (no sign of the menopause yet)
I'm been bedbound nearly all week with a nasty headcold
I haven't been dancing, or exercising or having much fun at all
I haven't had sex for nearly 3 months, and that was with the consort
I'm a bit broken hearted about the consort
It's the anniversary of the end of the lesbian marriage

Inspired by ZOO - I signed onto the ANU MoodGym (where KPI's meet cognitive therapy)
so I went through and they reckon I'm not very depressed but I am very anxious. Of course I'm anxious! i've got a year to submit my PhD! And then i'm cast off into the cold world of unfunded doctoral purgatory......

"your thoughts determine your mood"

A wise proposition, but I reckon the ones from the SPAM email are far more interesting....

maybe I need to go and update the list they have, of shit things, OK things, good things that happpened this week, and my responses......

or maybe I just write them here:

1.I lost my flashdrive. totally Crapolla. thoughts were "fuck, fuck, oh fucking fuck, fucking hell. I'd better go buy another one and try to track down/back up info."
2. I had evil sinus headcold for 5 days. Thoughts were "ohhhhh, fuck, this sucks. Have I got enough codeine? I don't want to take sudafed, PLEASE don't get bronchitis, I'd better start taking my athsma medication again, I don't want to get out of bed. Have I got enough food? fuck this suuuuuckszzzzzz zzzzzz blow nose, cough, sleep etc.
3. consequently didn't present conference paper in finland, had to contact organisers and hosts, and hotels and change plane tickets. Feel a bit of a dill
4. felt like shit and couldn't do any more research and lost a week on my 4 week travelpass....
3. My mobile phone stopped working - and the phone company ate the $10USD credit remaining. It took me a few days to notice and a few more days to work out why. fucking nothing I can do. can't be fucked giving more money just to send 3 sms...

good things
1. We managed to work out some sort of a semi-reliable local wireless internet connection - this was good coz the landline has been down and I had to change/arrange a lot of crap
2. today was sunny and 55 degrees in the morning
3. I had some decent books and got to wallow in bourdieu's distinctions.... argh such a canny marxist he was! I love it when the world can look straightforward and clean and critical - and we can wipe all traces of identificatory enjoyment with dismissive sneers at the bourgeoisie.....
4. Blueberries were only $3.00 a punnet instead of $5.00

anyway - before crashing and collapsing I was trying to ward off impending feelings of doom by keeping myself busy - running between sketch clubs and the library and doing dinner wiht people - and getting out of the house and away from myself....

but then I crashed and collapsed - so now i'm a little scared of pushing myself into avoidance.

so here I am, debating what to do with myself.
did I write that my libido has VANISHED. (yes, a surprise) and a sign that I'm meant to keep myself under wraps - and that I haven't got a lot of energy for others, maybe.... or a sign that I'm completely shutting down and avoiding human contact and the world because right now i'm ACHING like hell, and don't know what the FUCK to do about it!!!

i'm not really a total emotional escapee - hell i'm wallowed on this blog all last year, and the year before, and i did A LOT OF CRYING last year. and I saw a therapist, and had regular shiatsu and did a lot of yoga and even had a full immersion rebound affair..... which has now, in it's inevitable and timely and sensible denoument left me feeling hollow and horrible and heartbroken and very hurt and alone and sad.

which are all just feelings. I didn't want the lover, didn't want the relationship, just wanted the sensation of being held and fucked, and cooed at.

but it was rather attaching, all the same.

as for the trouble and strife, well.

One year ago yesterday, or the day before (because time differences are rather odd). I was on a bus from Tampere to Helsinki with my dear friend heli, and for some reason, I couldn't stop crying. Tears streamed out of my eyes, and I had this horrible feeling that Abel didn't love me anymore. Now most people would assume that NO SMS's - infrequent emails and initiating sex with someone else while i was in the same room (and NOT with me btw) - could have been pretty clear warning signs that something was up, but intercontinental intuition in a snowy landscape sound so much more poetic.....

I thought I'd die. And I didn't. but every now and then unconscious oblivion doesn't seem like such a bad idea. It'd be NICE not to have what feels like a hole in my chest, inadequately compensated by a lump in my throat. In would be NICE not to be fighting back tears half the day. It'd be nice to stop whingeing. and to laugh.

I know things are bad inside when my sense of humour goes nutty - my inner clown trying to cheer up the rest of me. so I wandered through the Frick and nearly burst out laughing at Reynold's portraits of Lady so and so - coz they looked EXACTLY like the crazy trannies on Little Britain... or I start rescripting the gory tales behind 'neoclassical' sculptures (even thought I'd class Carpeaux as a stock romantic myself.... love the work....)

and reading another email from Abel full of earnest assurances of her sobriety "apart from one disastrous occasion" and remembering the past eight and half fucking years of the same fucking script- and involuntarily reciting details of "oh, apart from that time where I got a bit tiddly and fucked the dog and crashed the car, or crashed the dog and fucked the car, or maybe the dog fucked me in the car ... but err... No, I don't remember. No. I felt very bad the next day. No I don't remember it at all. I was just a bit tiddly. No I don't know why. I've been moderate apart from that."

there are a surprising number of homocidal maniacs who while not in the throes of an axe wielding frenzy have been regarded by many people as "moderate". this doesn't stop them from being homocidal maniacs.

this isn't meant to be an Abel bashing post - maybe it's just an easy fallback when i'm feeling scared, and sad and desperately insecure. Hell! The last time I walked into an unknown dyke bar, alone, in a foreign city was.... July 31st 1998... and then look what happened. If I was going to meet someone more fantastically amazing, brilliantly intelligent, creative,really wild and yet so tender so caring - it would be here in New York...... but I'd have to let go of her first, my stupid sad little dream that the ideal Abel would somehow emerge and we'd both rip each other's clothes off, that I wouldn't feel this level of sadness and terror around anyone and not around myself.... I'm letting this old scarred love form like a chrysalis around me, because it's secure, safe structure....

hang on, why am I saying this shit? I totally opened up to the consort, and just got crushed and confused as a result. I tried to console myself that he's way more confused than I am, but that was just delusional. I'm the one in hell here. today I went drawing and the model had the same facial structure as him. I thought I was hallucinating. I kept drawing the room around the model - everything to avoid looking into those eyes that looked so familiar and yet were so unfamiliar. Thank God the model gave me some back views so I could remember how to draw - again - and thank god his body was nothing like the consort's.... But it was freaky, in a way. another little push from the cosmos, telling myself to grit my teeth and get over it.

My latest epitaph to the consort: his phallus was like his library; magnificent yet woefully underused.

and I call myself a bookish lesbian

Feeling Down

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