Heh-Heh

So I didn't edit the post below. I just wrote it.



To make it more understandable, I hope: the game of How do you feel, Mrs. Peel, at least to some part of my mind, is when you try to learn to feel as a woman by asking others (women) what they feel. The part after that is an attempt to state what I feel.



As far as "hard fragrance": seems to equal "hard lesson."

As far as "errors," that's my friends.

As far as wanting to the Goddess to be Bruce: I can't say much about that except that apparently that was and perhaps is true for me. And I'd have to say that it wasn't possible: so, given that fact, all the ground I have to stand on is the next line, "treat me like a bitch."

Sorry to end on such a crude note.

Perhaps I'll try to be a little more light and superficial. I think I actually have gone as deep as I can go.

Yours,

c*

Pater, Pater, Pumpkin Eater

I'm a gonna do with this post what I haven't been doing, and that is to edit it. I'm also going to edit the last few posts as neither the poetry nor the writing have been living up to what I expect, and I'm sure what the readers look forward to.

Parents
Pain-Prayer
Shame
Anti-Establishmentarianism
Fear and Change


Fear prevents honest communication among people. The pressure to know life as I prefer it (rather than as it is) derives from the knowledge that no one can provide happiness without asking for love in return. This quid pro quo, if you will, may seem an obvious fact of life, but to me, great difficulties have arisen in relation to asking for and giving love.

Fear that people have power to alter my destiny at their will and behest has led me to avoid allowing myself the time or the energy to accept and rejoice in the destiny I have chosen (living in this body).

There are many people who attempt, through whatever means they can find, to love and be loved, but fail because some part of them feels that they do not deserve to receive love.

Certainly this has been true for me.

The abuse of children by parents is inexcusable, particularly abuse that stems from emotional neediness on the part of the parent, attempting to recreate in the child the parent of the abuser, alternating blame or even violence with needy requests for love.

I know for myself that I have relied on my friends to provide for me parent figures to alternately depend on and blame for the condition of my life that I have feared to accept for what it is -- fear of love based on fear of a person who can only be happy by playing a big game. That game is, how do you feel, Mrs. Peel? I deny life because life is my way to sing. And I can only sing when I'm practical. Practicality needs a rose and a rose is love and beauty. Beauty needs friends, but that's the friendship of the Goddess. I want her to live. I need to know she's my angel. I'm afraid to get that hard fragrance: bravery and prayer are friendly to things that give hope -- those "errors that tried me", and I wanted her, the Goddess, to be Bruce.

Treat me like a bitch.

Be nice and be fabulous.

Yours, Julia Murray, a poison pen.

For Stonewall Saturday: The Philosophy of Science -- a lament

Are not these the goals of Science?

No devouring Mother (communal)?
No parental Sister (maternal)?
No fallopial Daughter (intellectual)?
No kind Father (prophetical)
No attractive Brother (practical)
No joyful Son (h'storical)
No assailable self (organical)

But

What genes inside you
Make love to free you
From isolation
and doubt?

Why can't an X or a Y
go back to eternity
And one cell'ed shun
all mouth(er)?

Can't solution be made
That makes it all paid
For all you to have
it out?

Alone to be someone
free from anyone
who scares you
about

What's INside:

Simply put,
the OTHER one's foot?!

***

Now pity is had
For some mothers and dad
to go around
and around;

May you find
through study and plan --
being alone:
no one can.

Now all are each other
So don't even bother
To take from you
Your self.

Can you see that
your sister's your brother
your mother's your son
and that's good for everyone?

Best wishes from me
(Emphatically)
c*

The Inside Mess

Sharing is so fruitful,
Blazing in the night;
Amazing to behold,
and craziness to fight.

The window for the Goddess
is opening to see
what hope there is for us
to soften calamity.

Perhaps you ask what else there is --
Inside you, look -- and know,
that love is there, as sure as life's aware.
SUFFICE THE CARE; YOU'VE PAID THE FARE.

Whence Hate? A DRAFT

Perhaps I worship God because He's Clear;
With Clairvoyance like a Bombardier.

So would my hate derive from certainty
That He can see eternity?

From which place I might suspect life,
in which Feelings and Desire are rife?

Does this High-Throned God want you and I
to bring about a murd'rous histor-y?

True that some who submit and pray to Him
may ask God kill, some kind of vermin:

Even those who wish to live peacefully,
Such people cannot abide lovingly.

But for that, I can accept that I
pray for SANITY.

More awful and worse is that MY will
blinds me to love and humanity:

I am bound to learn that change must come:
That inside me is the way to be at one:

Friendship means equality;
and Dreams are not for me alone,

But all who live on Earth, our home.

Freeplane Verses

Boring – the intrepid twist of shame
Crack changes Julia into Julia

A stain on her correction,
A stain on her presence.

Shaida might give a friend
Praise.

Seek praise , seek horror, seek the life of trust.


***

A fraction of pain
Treats ending for a her.

***

Jasmine B.
Anger at she

Less to more
And plea

Gangway,
I’m free!

***

Silly intruder,
You have fled
Training for parents.

You have uncovered
Mothers
For Peers.

You have stained
People
To change the home
That is bitch.

People are trying
To say that you
Need a learning whore.

Gassing randy was not
For you.

I am thanksful
I am greateful

I am surrendered to thought
And priests.

Devastation

I really need help from someone.

My mohter really threw a screwball at me and I think I'm going to move.

Any thoughts? Questioins? Advice?

Help?>>>?????

Goodbye to All That

A Mess


(At a Table
Goddess—Fable:
Anger – Able.)

Within a clan
There was a plan:
The god is man.

So mother frayed;
And brother played;
While I: charade.

Around the ghost
We still do toast
He who cut: roast.

Not knowing night
For bearing plight --
Love begets might.

(Pounding out this
Was not amiss
From seeking kiss.)



Slightly better

Pleasant is the stair
Going up somewhere.
Mattered little then,
Martyred, battered wen.

Patient for a dare,
Angry at a pray'r.
Stopping life so that,
I'm a void somewhat.

Passing lights do glare,
Some finale tear.
"Arrogance is bliss,"
Filling me, you hiss.

STAR, sorrow, sickness, stagnation, strength 1999-2009

The last decade (1999-2009) saw some of my best (though small) output in politics and poetry and prophecy.

I made my relationship with Sylvia Rivera, partially, a pretext for writing about her and her politics, abandoning Chelsea, with whom I had had a similar relationship, to the wolves. I learned a great deal from her and Kristianna Thomas'leah about what activism is, and how to write as an activist (more in three years than in all my life previoiusly). Sylvia reconstituted STAR, and I became the secretary and word-person who put her ideas on paper (though in a much more pompous and legalistic fashion than they came from her mouth).

After three years (2002), Sylvia passed away, and then my father three years later (2005). During this time I abandoned myself on and off to the Hospital, including ECT and a stint in the State Hospital, along with a suicide attempt; and to prostitution and drug use, from depression, guilt and politics, again, and also because that was the life I chose and the life that seemed to promise a building of personal strength.

Thanks to the encouragement of Ms. Jamie Hunter and others, I began to see my talents as worth pursuing in a slightly more regular fashion and learned to see the poetry in all the crazed jottings or weighty prose that mingled in my notebooks. I began to read other poets, including Ginsberg, Audre Lorde, WAlt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, Anne SExton, Nikki Giovanni, Alexander Pope, Robert Graves and others. I also began to search for the roots of anti-trans religious bigotry in a priestess' perspective through reading many books on religion and myth including Roman and Greek antecedents and parallels to today.

2007-2008 I found a need to reconstruct what still was black and white and mean/violent thinking, which Nathan Schiller and later Antonia Cambareri directed me towards.

In 2008 I had what I thought was a near-death experience that transformed my motivations for writing to more positive and happy, loving ones. I had focused on the Queen of the Universe as the Queen of Death for so long that I forgot that life must for any individual have happiness as its goal.

Then there are these Blogs.\

Next, a promised essay on ????

The boiling point: writing life 1988-1999

Okay, I got married (1988). She left (1991), I dropped acid, came out, met my community and CHELSEA, started estrogen, became part of an unintended orgiastic community (1992) transitioned to full-time, became unemployed transsexual, i.e., sex worker(1993). She came back (1994).

I abandoned grad school sublimation/ competition and coherence (repeated sterile attempts to formulate and reformulate Trotskyism) for spontaneity and the TRIPPIE (Transsexual Hippie). Rusty and Chelsea in addition to breaking me of the straight man revolutioinary thing, gave me a much more free understanding of human possibilities beyond the binary Man/Woman system.

I started writing what was going on inside me, combining automatic writing with self-awareness in a healing perspective. In other words Artaud combined with pagan devotion combined with the transgender culture combined with what my friends taught me about who I was. What's that mean? I started to write barely readable but uninhibited lines of poetry that invoked the Goddess I knew to be in me and evoked (I hoped) through raw unedited fonts of language Her Divine presence inside of each of us.

At the same time I felt driven to stay hooking through needing to write aboiut it and community. In other words, I became a political whore (big mistake).

I imitated the possibilities others showed me but I brought concerns and language that were my own. (at least that's what I'm saying here).

1995-1997

Even more hell broke loose. I was labeled and institutionalized psychiatrically (where I discovered a bunch of people with a lot more skill at fighting the imposed reality than I had) and where I filled notebooks with what I thought were deeply original records of my thoughts, e.g. poetry read graphically across the page. (It turns out Rimbaud? had done it a century before). I also wrote political slogans that us politicized queer people used at demonstrations to demand our rights, at least in the City of New York.

1998-1999

Did I write?

As the title of the post says, I began to write life.

Reading: Lesbian mysteries, WEll of Loneliness, Lesbian comics (see something common here?). Also gay classics. Lots and lots of history and culture imbued through the memories of my friends and the deaths of so many from the life we are forced to live. (Right, Julia, you were forced.) Gay classics as well; began to read such pagan perennials as Starhawk's work, Drawing Down the Moon, The Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets.

I decided at some point to rather make history than write about it.

Writing and Emotion, Ages 15-45, continued

From 1981 to 1988 (18-25) I was in the throes of private college and graduate education (on scholarship). I won't try to bore you with a complete account, but I will touch on some of the life-changing reading I did and some of the life-changes that were occurring along with that reading.

First, there was the enormous increase in demand for reading and writing. For the first time I was intimidated not only by other people but by the books I was made to absorb in as little time as possible. Secondly, there was drinking. I discovered that people liked me more, drunk. So I did not do well my first two years in college, averaging a 2.5 GPA. Thirdly, there was exposure to some of the great "pagan" philosophers who predated and influenced Christianity, a fact I had had no idea of. After reading Mark Twain on the violence and inconsistency of the Bible I became an 18 year old atheist. Fourthly, I found that on the one hand there were so-called smart people who knew and debated and debated the tiniest points of fine distinction among theories, and then there were the relatively laid-back, often well-off students who I eventually figured out were at Stanford to replicate their parents' lives. I was not one of either group. I spent much class time dozing off.

Emotionally speaking this was a time of more crisis. I blacked out during drinking, threatened suicide once or twice, impressed at least one woman enough with my "illness" that she recommended psychotherapy, which I rejected because the therapist put down my small-town origins. I could not say even hello to other people for months at a time. I was one of the two least responsive people in my freshman dorm, and by the time I was a sophomore, people would commonly ask me if I were drugged even though I was simply withdrawn into my own daydreams.

At the same time I was becoming a better writer. Freshman English was an important course for me since I learned so much about organizing my thoughts, making arguments and doing it with proper diction and grammar. I read Strunk and White. Other students also influenced me with their better high school educations. My writing became much more polished and also polarizing. My writing class was divided into two groups to read each other's essays. One of the groups said my writing was extremely poor, and the other said it was the best in the class. The instructor herself told me I was in the top ten percent. Now I achieved some of these affects by coming up with very strong theses and then defending them to the hilt in the strongest language. At the same time my skills were increasing, my thoughts were becoming more rigid, which would eventually lead to some extreme consequences in my life.

Sexually speaking, I met my first out gay people. In the early 80s at Stanford, gay people were mostly marginalized, and I was afraid of that. My Resident Assistant early in my freshman year was gay, and he tried to get me to think about myself differently, but I was too scared to begin. I was beginning to get occasional passes made at me from men and I received comments like, "you shouild be a dancer" in gym class. Instead of coming out, I began to masturbate everywhere, in class, in the library, just standing in public. I would surreptitiously shave my body and then take showers when no one else was awake so that no one would know about my terrible "transvestism." I was obviously in extreme stress, and totally isolated in this world where 86 percent of the students declared themselves happy, but I did nothing about it.

My second two years began my contact with Marxism and socialism. My grades went up. So did my mental grandiosity. These years really ran into the two years of graduate school in New York at the New School. So much happened, but the upshot was that on the one hand I had these increasingly grand and absolutist political and intellectual preoccupations, and on the other hand I had my hidden, repressed desires and "activities."

I began in my reading to learn about "methods" of reading that would obsess and confuse me, particularly Sartre's Problems with Method. I began to hear about the deconstructionists who were trying to criticize dualistic thinking in philosophy and literature, at least. I became less and less able to simply communicate my thoughts in a clear way, and more and more obsessed with perfection. I sublimated my anxieties and my sexual and gender ambiguities into my writing, justifying, I believe, to myself at any rate, my not coming to terms with myself.

Moving to New York, of course, would eventually tip the bucket over in many more ways than one. Next to wanting to learn whether "Marx was right," was my wanting to "dress up in public." I spent an interesting night in Times Square in heavy makeup and a miniskirt which I had paid for by stealing money from a trick the night before (my first time) hearing the comments from the crowd that I was "disgusting," that I was a "man," etc., etc. I had actually thought that no one wouild notice. I thought I must surely be psychotic because my idea of myself was so divergent from others'. The next day I went to my (closeted?) gay professor's class on history and historiography and tried to slip back into the woodwork.

(Just writing about this makes me angry.)

In the next post I will write about coming out, becoming political and the last few years of stasis and danger (doing drugs and selling my body for no apparent reason) and what kinds of writing I have done along with those times of change for me.

Writing and Emotion, ages 15-45

In the time just before the period I'm going to write about in this post, the early to mid-70s, when I was 10-14 years old was when firstly, I began to read more adult books such as Jaws and All Creatures Great and Small, and then to turn toward science fiction, as so many in that generation did, and fantasy. So I read The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I started reading Asimov, Clarke and Heinlein along with some slightly more contemporary authors. Asimov's Foundation Trilogy gave me the image of a society in which a hidden power could predict the future based on social facts. Clarke of course wrote 2001, A Space Odyssey and other books in which mysticism about the future of the human race combined with the technical achievements of space travel. Heinlein wrote the great Stranger in a Strange Land, which introduced me to alternative conceptions of religion and also of transsexuality, giving to me one of my first and most intense feelings of longing for change in my life and in my body. I was transported to another reality which was ecstatic and was my own.

I also began, through school to read Dickens and those scary books for me, Lord of the Flies and Planet of the Apes, tales of human endeavors gone awry from within and without, with apocalyptic consequences. I also began to read histories of the Vietnam War (just concluded), biographies of military leaders, as well as Westerns by Zane Grey, The books of Laura Ingalls Wilder, of Jules Verne and of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Tarzan).

I was saved at age 14, and tried to take literally the word of God, but for some reason it always put me to sleep.

My father, to his credit, would weekly bring me to one of the post libraries and wait as I picked out my next set of reading material.

What interests me in the above list is that it is an expression of idealism and apocalypse from the mid - 19th to the mid-20th centuries, with the anxieties of all of that being transmitted into the brain of a relatively young person. Also, there was a basic conservatism to much of the literature, certainly missing the incredible experimentations that were going on in the time in literature in breaking down writing, narrative and character to their elements and perhaps putting them to gether again, probably not. I was not reading Donald Barthelme. I was not reading Susan Sontag. NOr was I even reading Beatniks such as Jack Kerouac or Alan Ginsberg, much less anything political about the civil rights movement and struggles over the War in Vietnam that for adults was still the major subtext of American politics.

Sexuality, however, was beginning to slip in on the sly. I read, for instance, Shere Hite when I was around 14. I would avidly scan books for mentions of sexual intercourse, for tales of transsexuality and transvestism, etc. These inclinations would only intensify as I grew older.

Now at the period which I am concluding in middle age, but which began in mid-adolescence, I began to notice the great differences in development between me and my peers. I was socially turned inward, was competent at and interested in strictly academics, had virtually no rebellion to speak of. Between the age of 12 and 17 I went to exactly one party. But at the same time I had burgeoning emotional tides and cross currents that were ripping me apart inside. I began to dress in my mother's clothes (usually masturbating when I did, but that's another story, isn't it.) I made semi-public excursions into the night which usually ended with me being scared and exhilarated, and once in danger of being molested. I had exactly two friends that I informed of my "difference," and for both of them, one my counselor-suggested "girlfriend," and the other my buddy from playing war in the desert and getting high on pot and wanting to seduce him, it was an occasion for laughter.

My parents were, despite my academic success, unrelenting in telling me whta to do, where I coiuld go, who I coiuld see. At age sixteen my come-home time after church on Sundays was ten o'clock! I was becoming more and more angry, particularly with my father, who declared that our house was not a democracy adn that what he said went. But I didn't express any of it, except through slowness and confusion and an internal temperature that was reaching a boiling point. It was when I reached a place where I couild imagine ants crawling inside my head, torturing my brain that I finally turned to the only mode of expression with which I was comfortable, writing. I lay there on the living room floor as he watched TV, feeling the ants, and started to write angry angry words down, shaking the while, so that of course I drew his attention. I think he may have read what I wrote. But I had finally foiund a way to escape inner destruction by bringing out the feelings I had.

That same year in one of my English classes, I learned automatic writing for the first time. While others barely wrote anything, especially not anything interesting, I poured out thoiughts on sex, on feelings, on my life that shocked others in the class, since they knew at the age of 16 I had not even had my first kiss. Fortunately the English teacher had enough presence of mind to keep the other students from harassing me very much.

In the transition between late-adolescence to "early adulthood," if that's what to call the college years, I became ever more outwardly conservative while most nights praying to wake up as a woman. I read more and more about transsexuality when I was a high school intern at the University of Arizona. I became more and more hardened to my individual needs except when expressed at the feet of the girl I was obsessed with. I was competent enough academically to go to Stanford where the next shocks of emotion and writing, combined, sent me into near catatonia and the beginnings of self-destructiveness that only at this point am I learning to live with.

Enough for now. Continued in next post.

effective, organized and lucid: writing present [Incomplete draft]

This post will not appear in the usual unedited (or nearly so) format. Instead, I will write in an orderly fashion, first, about the art of writing as I have learned it; second, about a topic -- not chosen at this moment -- which will illustrate the first section; and third, perhaps a set of verses which will conclude and epitomize this post (hopefully in an entertaining way.)



My understanding of writing and reading go back to the mid-sixties of the 20th century when I was about three years old and began to read street signs and other material to my mother. It is perhaps interesting to note that I did not begin to talk until relatively late, but when I began (according to my mother) it was to speak in complete sentences. Some of my earliest memories include reading books to myself at the age of five or six. The titles of these books were, for example, "I can do anything, almost," "The Golden Book Dictionary," (Illustrated), and of course the tale of The Little Train who Could." Slightly later, around the age of six or seven I began to read science fiction, a broader array of children's, especially boy's books, but also the Beverly Cleary books about ? and her sister, Ramona. By the age of eight, I would check out ten books at a time from the library and read all of them (three at at time) in two weeks. I read Dr. Spock's Baby book two or three times by the age of eight -- so I knew what child raising techniques ought to be applied/were applied to me at the age they were applied. Also Time/Life publications and Reader's Digest were available and fascinated me, along with the World Almanac and of course the Guiness Book of World Records.



I say all this to demonstrate that I was an early and avid reader, of books with rather adult themes, and that my parents very much encouraged me in this, thus influencing heavily the course of my life, not to mention my thought process, my political views, and the course of rebellion and reformation that these led to.



All of this activity happened outside school. But in school, I was just as interested, able and active at least with respect to reading and writing. Now, the time I began school was the late sixties and early seventies, a time of great upheaval around the world. I, however, being on a military base in Southern Arizona, having a conservative NCO for a father and an overprotective mother, missed almost all of this, except in the unavoidable dribs and drabs on the news and such liberalism as popular culture allowed in children's television.



There was also much debate and change in learning to write and read. Phonetic learning was considered radical and dangerously tending to functional illiteracy. Bilingual education was an innovation which many considered threatening, since it tended to legitimize the populations of Mexican and other Spanish-speaking immigrants (and citizens) that were at that time widespread mainly in the Southwest.

The upshot of all this, reader(s), will be that the way I learned to write heavily influenced both my mode of self-expression and also my self-image such that, along with the confusion about reading and writing, there came confusion in my emotions and identity. Each reinforced the other (at some level, obviously.)
Continuation in Next Post

Love,

c*

A commentary on the last post

A lot of energy goes toward feeling like there's some kind of happiness beyond the immediate moment. I am beginning to learn that is not true.

As a matter of fact, I believe that with all the destructive impulses I personally have within this fucked-up world (I decided it was "fucked-up" last night), that I know that all this effort at communicating is only a way to avoid the facts that I am so loathe to recognize: God is nice because he believes that he can be the all in all, and he wants to know the boundaries that the goddess sets so that he can one day be the goddess herself.

I am not anymore the friend to myself that I was.

I am, instead, a relentless foe to the bitch that made me afraid, meaning the woman that I fled so that I could be happy. That bitch is a lover and a fair miss to the god.

I cannot be the fair miss of Her life (that bitch).

So I am tamed.

Enjoy the facts that you are alive and very funny for Her, and that's all.

Crack

A few choice morsels sent in the breeze

Bears flammbe on motorcycle seats
Sirocco in the springtime
Galadriel marry me

SExuality encompasses such a wide array of activities, thoughts, wishes, desires, dreams, hopes, feelings, and of course ecstasies, that there is no reason to think that I can or must write about it as a "whole."

Okay, Love under Will.

What exactly is that?

To me, there is a very large overlap between the two such that each is an aspect of another. Without one, there would not be the other. I know this is a commonplace statement for a pagan philosopher such as myself, but I've got to start somewhere.

Victory over another part of Creation has the quality of creating Victory over the Victor.
"She is coming"
I am glad you know that.

You know, those Indians killed settlers.

I have to believe that with every bone of my body, down to the deepest darkest marrow of them, that I am loving because there is no Goddess unless I make her.

Settle and live.

Be happy.

Yours,
"c*"

Chelsea Goodwin: Her Life and Work

Ms. Chelsea Goodwin is the hardest working transgender woman in town.

Her exact provenance is a question she attempts to leave in mystery, preferring to claim origins from across the U.S. and around the globe. I find this to be part of her appeal. That she may be from a Merovingian family or from the Lenappe Indians allows me to know and accept different aspects of humanity in myself -- usually opposite to the ones I am consciously attempting to portray.

Before you go, "hold on, Elsie, what do you mean by that?" let me assert that the great majority of us live in confusion and despair precisely because we are seemingly inescapably tied to no more than one half of who we are, thereby being enslaved to the other, denied or hidden "halves." I believe that Chelsea, by being a "variable" in so many respects, can and has helped free people to be all of themselves. At least that has been true for me.

I believe that Chelsea has been in places that are very rare for any human being to attain. I've been in a lot of places ("within") myself, and I recognize that Chelsea has taken on aspects of reality that give her energy to understand and influence others lovingly that can only be possible because she has been where that person is coming from themselves. So, with her, nothing human is alien to her, though she always fights one person trying to make others unfree or controlled or treat others unjustly.

Chelsea's shamanistic personality goes along with, in my view, a very difficult life in which she has faced rejection from some very intimate relations. I don't want to state who may have rejected her or what manner of rejection it was, because I don't know for certain. (And at times I have also rejected her.) But I do believe it was witnessing the destructiveness of human relations to herself and being happy anyway in the totality (good Sartrean/Marxian word) of what the Universe is, i.e., the Divine Feminine, that goes along with unconditional love.

This is all a line of shit that is taking me nowhere.

She loves me. She comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comfortable, and that's what life is all about. She wears some really cool duds.

She deserves love and recognition.

She taught me what it is to know that life is to claim as my own.

She led me to teach myself that honesty and sincerity are the beginnings of love. At least for such like me.

She also worked in the Strand, and she's a great reader, and she's got good taste in women.

If you're reading this and you know her, she is a bitch. I can think of no higher compliment.

Let me say just one more thing. She put into effect what others only talk about. Motherhood is part of that. In other words I have been a really poor her.

So, let's be nice.

Yours,
Julia (c*)

(Not the Actor)

Paring, Editing, Deletion, Censorship vs. Honesty and Compassion for Myself

To be brief:

I was going to edit my post from last night, since it is contradictory and presents me in a pathetic light, but also because there is one possibly offensive line that some people might use against me sooner or later.

I have decided to leave it in, since I believe that no one will take what I said in the most literal and physically grotesque way. I leave it up to you to interpret that, and I leave it up to me to work out the feelings behind the statement with myself and my therapist and those of you who prefer compassion over hate.

Thank you.

Love, c*

Clear as (a) (b)/(h)ell(e)(?)

Snarkety snark snark!



Welcome to today's commentary!



I've been meaning not to be too very forthcoming about the motivations and criteria/desiderata? behind the making of those plans that I seem endlessly to make. But reality is what it is and perhaps getting this out there will help me be more certain and better prepared than otherwise.



Please someone turn the volume down, I can't hear what's in my heart! Thank you!



Should I go to New York, there are two scenarios.



First, I throw myself right back into crack smoking without regard for my finances or my health/life, and return to the world of street/bar prostitution. My money runs out within a month or two, and I'm stranded, perhaps without a place to go.



Second, I use the time that I have to search for work/try to impress someone that my writing is good enough to hire me to at least proofread/copyedit some sort of material in their publication, or perhaps good enough to itself publish. Realistically in this economy and with my social skills/interview skills, I'd be lucky to find anything. So, along with this, I would have to declare myself solidly middle class, meaning that I eschew anything/position/person that interferes with my standing on an equal footing with possible employers/clients. Yes, I said clients, because part of this "middle-classness" includes being a whore. It's not going away. I may just have to hide behind something more or less legitimate. In this scenario, any crack smoking is just an occasional reward for a career moving more or less smoothly.



Now, realistically, what may be coming is a mixture of the two. For I lack the organizational/social skills needed to carry the second one off effectively and totally. At least I believe that I have finally found ways to be more assertive, to be less shackled by my past dependent relationship on my father.



This brings me to my current relationship with my mother, which is becoming more and more dependent for both of us. Though I often feel she is trying to push me out of this nest I've sometimes befouled, and I feel that our emotional lives together reflect a certain marginalization and uselessness for me even within my family (-- as one of my doctors asked me, "What are you doing here?"), I recognize that perhaps what I need to do first and foremost is learn to take care of her. This would seriously curtail/put on hold some of my hopes and dreams -- "negative" and positive. But I would be doing my job as her daughter. But would I fuck up? Would she give me the freedom and responsibility necessary to do what I woiuld need to do. And why is it that I am giving up my freedom to her to begin with? NONE of my mother's friend's adult daughters live with them, no matter how advanced in age or declining in health the mothers are. As usual it seems what people are asking from me and what they are hoping from me are two very different things, and to me, El Stupido c*, it is very confusing to sort out which is which.



I need to let my mother know that I will always be her daughter.

I need to embrace her every day.



I need her to know I feel strong and capable and worthy of success, i.e., happiness and safety, right now.



I need her to believe in me.



I need to remember that despite some pleasant moments we've shared that I've been very bad to her. Rude, disparaging, sharp. I have not treated her as I would myself, or rather I have treated myself, the part of myself that is her, as I have treated her: badly.



The fact is that I have been so afraid to be nice. I do know I love her. I have to love her enough not to be in any more danger, or at least not to be caught in any more danger: not do anything I can't prevail in. I need her to know that, due to a lack of faith in myself and the Goddess, I do not feel good about myself and perhaps never will, that this is as good as it gets, so I need to act on my freedom and be my own person.



I think she knows that I need her.



I think she knows that she is my hope. Perhaps I have to be hers also.



I need to speak to someone who can help me sort through all this, because I know she's going to find out what I am. I hope that she doesn't make me feel bad. I hope that she will believe that I love her. I might not.



I hope she knows that I am the woman I wanted to be.



I need to start making the home that she has made for me.



(Wherever and whenever I am.)



Maybe I want her to know I can be happy without her.



But that's not the fear that I have.



The fear is that I will never be her lover.

So now you know I'm either incredibly self-aware or very sick.

I need to be the thread that takes me to my destiny: a kleised pen.

I'm not going to say what is happening.


I am the only person that I can give love to, withoiut there being a her.

I cn give without people hruting me.

I am a friend but not the Goddess' daughter.

I feel like a biitch but not the way I wanted to.

I love the Goddess.

no more selfishness

no more.

i'll go where she wants me to go.

Poems to make up a Verse (pace Chelsea)

Led by me

Malevolent affection
Original for us

This time,
evolve.


O'Leary's blarney

Palatial accretion
of a misnomer dream

Change a direction
and believe the unseen.


***


Weather the Vain
Enchant the Rain


****

Terror

Gone to my home
Tom and my poem


***

Myth is
Oh, modern!


***


Western Molester
Patient and clean

May you achieve
Your final glean


***

Passion's a wish for
Kissing Sylvester


***


Walking a pleasure,
Fairies' measure.


***

(Same name:
A morning's warning)


William's young, riding
Tossing, then tiding.

****

Omen for Julia
Game is Steering

But seriously, yolks!

I've been writing this blog for over five months now and I've learned virtually nothing from it except that I can somewhat regularly arrange my thoughts into words, sentences and paragraphs that, although they are perhaps without intrinsic worth to justify them being so, are accessible to the whole world via the internet.

But I've rarely gone back through the writing to tell whether I've made any personal or artistic progress. My impression is that for me it has been an accessory to my emotional and thought process such that I can for the moment understand what is happening to/for me. However, it has been less than perfect at teaching or informing others about how to do the same for whatever ailments/advantages we may share in common. I don't think it reads as well to you as it does even to me.

At this moment, I may compare my life to walking down a path at night in a rural area like my mother grew up in eighty years ago. There are few signposts I can read with my lantern. There are few landmarks such as streams, bridges, barns and neighbors' houses that can guide me in my journey home or my flight to somewhere else. The model Ts, As, the horses are driven by people who may or may not feel the need to show kindness to a middle-aged woman (not to mention transgender woman) who appears to have lost her bearings. There are no phones to use along the road, and many houses do not have their own line. After hours of walking without knowing that I am any closer to my destination, the question becomes, where and how do I rest?
My home is unavailable to me whether from distance or familial choice; strangers are not apt to take me in; "charity" is far away and humiliating to accept. Further, where and how I rest will influence my plans for the future. I may have to spend days working off boarding fees; I may not reach safety and will have to defend myself without much ability to do so. The moon is bright, but it is beginning to rain and I am beginning to panic.

This was to give you a word picture of what is happening with me. Today I told my mother that it was clear to me that my presence in the house was too much for her. I called several (3) agencies in Tucson that the gay and lesbian community center there had recommended as having services for transgender people. Two of them had no housing services, the third I am waiting to hear from.

So far, so bad. I know no one in Tucson. Boardinghouses there are, I hear, rife with drug consumption. Violence is as bad as it used to be in NYC 10-15 years ago. But I would be close enough to my mother to be able to visit her in these years ahead.

I don't have Medicaid any more (I make 60 dollars too much a year) so I may not be eligible for any of these budget-cut programs anyway.

In New York I would have a personal introduction to my boardinghouse, and have at least the chance/breathing room to find another place to live. But one of the reasons I departed there was that my definition of love, which is the ethic of street living, was political and not from the heart. I came to know that I did not belong there and perhaps was in danger. I do not know whether I have changed enough to reverse that judgment.

On the plus side in New York, my mind is heavily affected by the New York state of mind such that even if I have enemies there, I know who they are and what they are saying to me.

I have some money saved, so were it not for the likelihood that I would find temptation, I could theoretically find a private apartment or roommate situation. But I am mentally ill. I do need care. I do need to face reality. Whatever choice I make will have serious drawbacks, call down a lot of family and friend pressure/criticism, and will leave me at best far from fulfilling those tantalizing goals called for instance, a writing/teaching/political career; or even a typing, secretarial/office career.

I need to be aware that I am on my own in a way that I have never been before. There's a lot to be said for that.

I need to go where I can give aid and comfort even as I am receiving it.

I need to relax and know that there will be an end to it and that I am a lover and a good person.

I believe that whoever reads this will in some sense know that i am not being very gentle with myself and that this may lead to danger.

Gently, gently, I can and will find succor, even if it only at the bosom of Nature. I am willing to go wherever the path leads me. I hope I have your thoughts and prayers.

I have been very spoiled, or at least sheltered.

I am going to be okay, because there is kindness and justice and beauty within me and they will always win over cynicism, doubt and judgment.

Love, c*

Top o'the Morning to ya.

I AM ALIVE!

c*mare is a bitch!

Places

Answers to questions unmade

William the Conquest

Salem the Pain

Galley of my ship
Staring at my strip

Chasing down a quicker
Known as A. Randy W????

Gosh, I'm cute (clueless)

Stanford University was the place where I found that
phoniness and cruelty made for success;
Oxford University was the place where I found that
transsexuality glimmers,
socialism simmers,
and God was my point.
(And lies were my lovers.)

I've been there
And that's good.

Sex interests me because
I love it.

Thanks so much for your wine

Be a friend

***************

To be NICE!

Clients say hell was a goddess
I know the feeling.

A lover says "Yes, I am here and I love you."

A hunger is c*

A flow is a pony

Shame is not dirt/dirt is not Shame

Players only love you when they're playing.

I'm going to do a few drawings and call it a day.

Heifer is good, so be it.


I love you and I like it!