I hope you’ll come visit.
I am greeted by a question that I haven’t yet made sense of. It sounds like an observation, but it’s actually a memory. My right forearm is actually still waking up, the divots in my skin line up with a tattoo of a wave so that the texture looks permanent. The texture of lying down isn’t actually permanent, though one day it will be. This is actually the second instance of waking. During the first, I heard three sentences, not one, and none of them questions. I knew they were meant to end something. A short prose thing, perhaps. I consider the short prose thing to be, of course, the ocean: thing I trust immensely though our relationship occurs only at the edges. Thing I am forced to love through its surfaces alone. Thing I visit most often in memory. There’s nothing prose about it, actually.
I visit Virginia Woolf in memory. By the second instance of waking, I have forgotten everything about the first. I do not write a short prose thing injected with dream language. I do change my name, and the court order is signed by a man: John Wolf. I do not tell the HR department at work about all the changes occurring in my life. I do not dream anymore about the brick building in which my elementary school classes sometimes took place, the center of the floor dug up for unnamed construction purposes and the wolves they unearthed in the process, some night of the living dead but with animals, but with animals that did not look gross or changed and only appeared to be realistically ferocious yet ground-dwelling animals, chasing me to my untimely death, signified by a single color—red—and the dream’s sudden ending. I do dream about my job. My boss greets me like the edge of an ocean she has no reason to sail.
How other people’s plans interfere with your own. How other people’s plants interfere with your own. How mothers and people and plants go inside your own body. How other creative plans go inside the air around you. How new pants and shirts and clothes interfere with your hair. How new habits become old habits. How old habits die hard. How old habits cry regard. How old rabbits belie hearts. How other people’s hands interfere with winning the pot. How other people’s plants interfere with planting your own plants in the same pot. How space is taken up more quickly by more people. How space and mothers and land are all contested metaphors, but I’ll give it a shot. My house is where I grow my plans, they change along with the weather. How moods and grants and transportation shape your human life inside the planet. Despite the planet. In lieu of the planet. In situ: this plant. Right where I placed it a second ago, my hand. I am leasing my mother, one moth at a time. There’s a bug in my house. How other people’s lamps are swarmed with bodies telling me to be smaller. How mothers are people with or without mothers, too. How lovers go far with their own other blues. In situ: this planet. Right where I paid the planet to be. I’m through with manners. Right where I lay them at sea. There’s a shrug in my blouse. How land interferes with each plant planted right above the interfering blight. How man intertwines through blunt slants and fight clubs and inward dazzling fright. I’m through with people pleasing. Plant squeezing. Men trapeze-ing. How other people’s plants go inside the inside of me. But not the trapeze men, not anymore. How other people’s problems go outside the outside of me. How other people’s problems try to trapeze the woman right out of me. How mold describes my heart. How I put what I’m done with straight into the ground. Into the sound. Into the hound. How the outside of me goes straight into the inside of the planet. How the best things get cancelled at the last minute. How the best plans are planets made of plants within them.
October 31st: said “sorry” (there were no clean forks/spoons)
Said sorry for asking if the noise from hitting a man’s belt back and forth could please stop thank you sorry
Said sorry, sorry-sorry for bumping into a book as I was sitting back down. One beat “sorry” followed by the quick step of two more
Said sorry in response to someone being tired and done working and I’d been still trying to help them finish up
Said sorry for helping during a feedback session that spent the other person’s last remaining energies
Said I’m sorry (for being sad, basically)
Said sorry, on behalf of another person’s interfering presence
Said sorry for revving the engine a tiny bit accidentally too much to make it through the turn
Said sorry for accidentally running my own foot into the wheel of a shopping cart
Heard a woman say “sorry” for mispronouncing “dissertation”
I said I’m sorry I bumped into you when you leaned over into my space
I am sorry it got dark out
Sorry I hit your elbow with my stomach
Sorry to the following people in this order: men, men, men, men, men, men, men, men
Sorry for leaving so many clear tracks in the dirt
Sorry for the wind and how my legs start to shake,
I fall over and am blown away just thinking about it
I wrote my body, not my shadow, by writing to a friend with affection and openness. I wrote my body by eating toast naked in front of a mirror and watching myself chew and chew and knowing that I was nourishing my body and giving my body energy.
I wrote my body by facing it head on because our bodies are a kind of writing and living is a kind of writing and facing my body means acknowledging the agency in not being quiet about it. There are things I feel I can’t do with my body and then I do them anyway. That’s called, writing.
I wrote my body after putting only my shirt back on and sitting cross-legged on an afghan with the mirror to my left now, quick glances at my body to acknowledge my body. Writing is more than words on a page.
How is my body like writing? I asked myself earlier this week. What do I do in writing that I also wish I could do with my body? I wanted to know this, too.
Then I decided that accepting my body is a radical act, a feminist act, and that writing my thoughts down is also a feminist act, a radical act, and so to be more radical and more situated in my feminist stance I could keep writing about accepting my body, keep looking at my body more responsibly in the mirror.
It’s hard not to like and dislike one’s body within the systems already designed for us, the equations of value and appearances that we’re born into and in some ways can’t ever escape, not entirely, even as we rebuild our relationships to ourselves. You can’t unknow them or forget them. You can set them aside and learn other things and build other things and form other habits and remember old ones cautiously, informed by them in some way, the way that dismissal or refusal or running away is always informed by the dismissed, the refused, the away.
My body is a body that will eventually go away.
Good spaces are so fragile and fleeting. How can looking in the mirror, writing the body, writing about my body make me feel less fragile, more centered in a good space, self-commanded, asserted?
Is the goal to command one’s body?
I think it is okay to order goodness.
All the times in which I’ve let my hands hit the keyboard and my body synchronized a tiny bit further.
Sometimes I shower and sometimes I don’t—don’t wash my hair, don’t cut my nails, don’t wonder what I look like from every conceivable angle.
In most sentences you can replace “angle” with “anger” and the meaning holds.
Hold the anger, hold the quiet, hold the music, hold the words on the page until they stand on their own, in the meantime cradling their tender little necks.
That stupid dinosaur-crocodile hat is hanging right in front of me. “Hat” is a generous word. The hat is neon, and foamy, and cheap—much cheaper than the dollar I spent to be allowed to take it from the store. I pulled out my money and pictured the hat on my head, at work. I pictured any day suddenly like Halloween. I pictured calling it a crocodile when I need crocodile energy and calling it a dinosaur the rest of the time. I pictured the rest of me in dark colors. Instead, it hangs near my front door, with the summer scarves and the extra totes, and it has not been Halloween once since I purchased it. Since purchasing it I have written on the days when I “feel” like writing instead of the real good thing that is writing on a daily basis, through the feelings, through their lack. Writing despite x, y, & z. Writing because you don’t need to be composed in order to write. Like today, stuck indoors because of the fires and the heavy smoke and writing about the crocodile hat that fills me with rage because I know I would not grab it on my way out the door were I told to evacuate my home. I would grab other things, a few very clearly, fretting over many more. Rocks and seashells, some plastic trinkets I’ve had for 15 years, my sticker collection. I might accidentally forget my laptop, or one of the many bundles of instant photos we have lying about or tucked away. I’m stuck indoors because the state I live in is on fire and I’m trying to “write” without thinking “too much” of what I’m trying to write, trying to just “experience” the process and the act of writing without getting ahead of myself, and the crocodile hat upsets me because who knows what a dollar could do for a less selfish person, someone stuck outdoors and worried about getting ill or already ill and worried about growing sicker or maybe just done with being worried at all but really wishing they could buy a coke. A big fat cup of ice with sugar water to the rim. How cold and clear it might be in this difficult moment. There is so much pain in the world. In the store, I had pictured myself walking through long beige and blue hallways with my hat on, pretending to be none other than myself. As if it mattered. As if authenticity pursued head on could dismantle anything. I’m too busy thinking about myself to be myself, which was where my mind was when I purchased the hat.
I heard that the Almeda fire that burned northward from Ashland to Central Point, Oregon was started by a homeless gentleman. I heard that when the police arrested him, he said he was hot, and he was tired of being hot, and he thought if he started a fire maybe someone would take him somewhere with air-conditioning.
I slept much better last night, my mom said, though she’s still sleeping on the couch, which allows for a better view out her largest front window. I only woke up a few times looking for smoke.
Some people live whole sections of their lives awake at night, wishing there was a window between them and their worry.
Nobody’s sorrow is better or worse. Nobody’s fear. Nobody’s trauma.
Those statements above are true, but only if you look at them in the right direction. A sanctioned direction.
Look at my face through the window I sit behind and you’ll see it plain and true: worry. A girl’s affliction, no matter her privileges.
The chickens across the street don’t look worried. Not the squirrels or the cats, either. I worry about them all. I sit on a large purple chair, more expensive than any piece of furniture we’ve ever purchased and only inside our home because it is second-hand, and look outside as if hunting for concern on their little animal faces. I don’t find it. Which little animal faces am I most concerned about? I don’t find worry on the faces of the crows and I don’t find it either on the face of the woman with blue in her hair and earbuds in her ears, walking down the sidewalk, smoke billowing, everything dangerous, walking just like how I picture she walks on a normal day. The day is not normal and yet there she is. Nor do I see worry on the face of the man in the navy blue t-shirt smoking a cigarette and walking like his muscles told him not to stop no matter what. He looks upset. They always do, really. People like him and the woman don’t have their priorities straight, I think to myself in one of those pre-language thoughts, just learned instinct curdling in the areas of my chest not specifically occupied by a heart. Neither of them are wearing a mask. The man and then woman enter and then exit my view, and soon enough I am looking at the black and white cat across the street, a giant cookie made of fur, grooming himself on the front porch just like I’d picture him grooming himself on a normal day. Are you gonna be alright, cat? The feeling is like a light beaming out of my chest.
The window I look through gives my day the much needed semblance of a container and a routine. It makes me feel like I belong somewhere, and that somewhere is not out there.
All people have voices, and some people have the space in which to use them, the default public setting of being heard. Some people are empathizable. Easy to feel across the distance.
Which comes first: the chicken, or my worry about the chicken? The feeling of crossing a distance in order to empathize with you, or the sense that you’re already close enough for my empathy to make it over there?
The chicken is on the fence now, one of them. The other one has taken to sleeping precariously in a tree. More reasons to worry—I basically manufacture them in my spare time. I care about the chickens with no effort at all, a bursting feeling.
Some people sleep in their cars every night. Some of those people are the “lucky” ones.
If you are well, and you encounter a traumatic moment, the city might rally. Especially if you’re graced with social privilege. You might be greeted with opportunity and given access to resources. The community will likely “feel” your pain.
If you are not well, your life a string of traumatic moments, then it sounds like this is actually just your baseline and you will be difficult to empathize with. What did you do to end up here, anyway?
I get used to the repetitions—that’s what repetition does: primes me. Deludes me and the outer world right along with it. As if pattern diffuses a malicious thing. As if form trumps content. Normalized expectations sing, and I’m sad to confess I get used to the background music. I would like to expect a less patterned, more imaginary world, and trace it until it is a real shape. I want to be shocked by the shocking things that continue to greet the daily sun. I want to “do” “something” “good.”
The cat across the street is a very big cat. But the problems are bigger than the big cat.
The chickens are the only two chickens I know, so they constitute the place where my worry pools: on the fence, in the tree. “Ignorance is bliss,” except this is only true for the beholder. What about the chickens I don’t know? There must be more than just these two. How will I know which others to worry about?
The gray chicken has leapt into the tree now. Before tucking himself into the safety of an inner branch, he floats on the outer leaves and flowering parts. He looks like an apple. He looks like something to pluck. He is a guitar, and a whole barnyard, and the entire ocean in a single drop of chicken. He is gray, with the requisite yellow and red parts. The white one, always anxious being left behind, only gets as high as the mailbox and then stares at his ascended partner. There used to be three chickens, actually. These bird-dinosaurs are the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more plucking and leaping and breathing and walking and sleeping and wishing out there. I notice what I notice. And what I don’t notice? I don’t notice it. Which doesn’t mean it isn’t there, hovering, maybe camouflaged, scared or hot or looking for a window, maybe even something near a breeze.
Having good boundaries means you are going to feel people pushing bumping running bouncing pressing off of them, in other words: making contact. People are going to make contact with you. That’s the reason to have boundaries in the first place. It will not feel like outer space neutrality; it will not be as if no air has entered or exited the room. It will not turn “hard” into “easy.” It will not make difficulties disappear, caught in some chainlink fence while you stand yards away in the background, barely registering their presence from afar. You are the boundary. You are the fence. You are the thing, both caught and catching. You are the boundaries you hold. You will shift, because you will have found your footing, and then the world will continue to change around you, often approaching and sometimes at unbearable speeds. There is north, south, east, and west: how often are you facing one of them, after all? It is likely that no matter how restful you are even in this moment, there is a world somewhere approaching.
The world continues to change around you whether you have good boundaries or not, but the point is that good boundaries do not stop the world from changing, do not translate into an experience of not ever seeing or feeling or otherwise sensing the difficult approach of another. They do not stop others’ existing, they simply protect the fact of your own.
Others may not understand your boundaries, or may not take the time to notice them, or might not even be equipped in the first place to recognize a boundary not of their own making. Boundaries won’t prevent contact with those who would attempt to break them: instead, they prevent the wrong kind of non-contact: the kind that smushes you: so that it’s like you’re gone: the kind where you perpetually fall backwards because it feels like the only way to keep the other person from climbing aboard you and doing all the terrible things that people do while standing on top or inside of your bubble (they pressure, they force, they think poorly, etc.).
Some people will think poorly of you no matter how good you are, and their poor thinking does not mean a thing about your good goodness. This is called, “boundary.” How many times has a boundary gone extinct in response to the fear of poor thinking? It will feel a little uncomfortable because you are alive and good, which naturally makes one dream of perpetual openness. It is always a little uncomfortable when one living thing encounters another, even if they are both good and yet still different. Uncomfortable but riveting, like air coming and going. Like the moon in a different position every single night, shocking no matter how hard you try to understand the science behind its patterned movement. You don’t need to understand the moon or the difference between you and it and you don’t need to justify your boundaries and you don’t need to circle every single good feeling with a pen that outlines it entirely just to make it real. You don’t need to know about a good feeling to feel it. You mustn’t describe a good feeling just to fill up entirely with its contributions. You can brace yourself, choose to exist firmly, choose where your doors and windows are, let the feelings come and go and be a person occasionally associated with poor thoughts by those outside you. Who cares. Disappoint them! Boundaries won’t rid the interactions of all discomfort. They will turn the discomfort into fruit. They will make it so that even on your lowest feeling days, when the world seems constructed without your input, you might still find something sweet and earth-born waiting for your mouth.
I am learning to tell the difference between writing and wishing.
A biggest fear: someone other than me not feeling understood.
My default setting: persistently nod along.
It is one of the most tragic banalities of human existence that everything you are not can be a significant factor in everything that you are.
These little unrelated pebbles, dropped randomly on the ground or in the water, it doesn’t matter where: I jump to avoid them and am changed.
I understand anything in this world by pushing it away. I mean by writing it down.
The ‘too’ of a woman produces violent male reactions and, in addition, the enmity of other women, who every day are obliged to fight among themselves for the crumbs left by men. The ‘too’ of men produces general admiration and positions of power.”
I am my better, more thoughtful self in the writing, and for a long time I wore this fact like a medal.
Language can be good and still mean nothing.
But the very purpose of language is to convey, to express, to pass through so as to unite—in other words, to mean. Language means. Girls are mean. This is why artists separate from their bodies over time, why poets walk away, why philosophers who have built something of themselves through language are sometimes unable to stay raveled after being submerged in the medium for too long. Words let you misplace yourself onto them and before you know it you’ve turned away from yourself entirely, the very thing your body was supposed to be—self—replaced by a sense of failure: words. Ghosts. Language and meaning made total strangers to each other. Bodies and lives, buried under sheets.
There’s no such thing as separating the art from the artist, so shut up about it. It is a myth. It is the boogey man. It is a dream trying to interfere with your waking life, but only while you sleep. It is a bad movie made by an even worse director. It is a lie. It is popular nonetheless.
Think about the artists you love, the work you love through them.
Now think about the thin, thin fabric that distinguishes love from hate.
Think about the things your body comes into contact with. Think about the things you put your body near.
Now think about the things you consume throughout your daily life without knowing where they came from. Stop consuming those things or change your relationship to their production immediately. Leave the country if you must.
Too much writing may separate me from myself, but that has no bearing on my public reception, nor the poorest of bad choices I choose to make. Words over here, mistakes over there, but somewhere, deep in the middle, they do touch. Everything touches, so be prepared.
I write in order to prove to myself that I have been a person, at least once.
I want writing that accounts for lives unlived. But there is a wide chasm of difference between “unspoken” and “unlived.” I forget that. Words make me feel as if I can skip the process entirely and go straight to the product, that I could write my way into perfectly crafted living and then pop my head up and join the world from there.
I write because writing is the best way I know of to consistently achieve the dizzying state of changed perspective: how to see new places (in your head), new shapes in which knowledge can be housed (in your head), new ways of looking at the same old thing (your head). Fiona Apple: “he said it’s all in your head / and I said so is everything / but he didn’t get it.” That thing you’ve spent countless hours staring at as if through; thing you’ve gently placed on shelves or in boxes or in new rooms in new apartments, stuff that’s accompanied your every move, legal documents, muscle & bone, everything fundamental to your social existence but which does not ask to be seen on a regular basis: your brain. And then you see it, lit with recognition, your strong writer’s body discovering a new way of looking at itself as a metaphor, because writing is always a metaphor, is always a translation, the words and sentences constituting most of what’s being seen, most of what you’re so worked up about, just language on a page that used to be not there. Writing makes much of little, makes little of too much.
What I mean to say is that I write in order to see my brain, and what I see instead are words. Then the process repeats. I am a girl trying to write her way into life, when words should instead be a natural extension of what’s already happening, what can truly be said to exist.
Writing can never truly exist, it can only be said to exist.
Girls exist like the act of writing: we move along the surface of things, always paying such close attention to the deeper feelings and needs and comforts, stuff we gesture toward but do not always contain (why should we have to contain everything?). Straddling, stuck in the middle. Not as valued as the original, nor the final product. A girl is a process that is never finished, only abandoned. Girls are expected to look left and then right and then left again, to shift and to backspace. How do we know when it’s safe to cross? It is never safe to cross when you are a girl walking down the street, owner of girl parts and dreams and compassion, everything soft. When can my insides be more than just my outsides beckoning?
Ferrante again: “Living is a permanent disruption for writing, but without it, writing is a frivolous squiggle on water.”
What you perfect in privacy will never translate into the public sphere until you first spend some time messing up there, out in the open, in front of others. My writer’s instinct created a life of mostly waiting to bypass embarrassment (a girl’s instinct?), bypass too-much-ness, and my ideas and my imagination fed that delusion, again and again. Figure things out, then turn toward the world, she said. A girl’s extinction?
Language gets in the way of talking.
Language is a mark of education. Is a commotion. Is a thing that you can talk about with some people and not others. Some people will understand where you’re coming from. And others won’t. Language is the least and the most of what’s in the way, at all times.
Everything I write feels like the last thing I will write. Exhausted, hard-fought, entirely distorted.
Shania Twain was born in 1946 to a small immigrant family. Shania Twain was burned at the stake for dressing as a man, among other travesties. Shania Twain graced the TV right as I began to calculate my own intrusions, my interests, the shape of my being a female-daughter-person. My dad stared at the screen in awe while my mother joked about Shania’s dancing, the denim costume, her wild hair, the way she moved, her symmetrical face. My dad practically left the room when women like that came on TV and my mother and I could still manage to laugh even if we were alone in the room with him, too, like artifacts.
I spent so long feeling stuck in the middle of things, school and divorce and weight and influence. Too-much-ness, and the way your own invisibility can be too much, too. I longed for adulthood so that I could begin skipping some of the bad experiences. Skip the process and go straight to the product. I was a child accidentally defining her own death. I was a monster spoiled by her own thirst for blood.
Whatever’s in front of me at any given moment: that’s what I assume I am supposed to be. A newspaper, an impulse, a costume, a music video.
Shania Twain, you’re part of the reason I’ve come to feel the way I do. You even show up in the writing.
There’s no center, just circle after circle after circle of mimicry. A lot like dancing.
I know what’s best for me, the writer says. So she writes. Cropped hair, less jewelry, a body unusually at rest. In my head, the medicine swerves and tunnels through each synapse, makes thought seem tangible. If I can touch it with my hand, with my headhand, who’s to tell me I’m wrong? So I smash any two ideas right up next to each other, as if ideas were as malleable as words, and wait for them to merge. Done. I make something new, I pretend it’s me. Write and write and write and write. Make assumptions about the few people I come in contact with. Always assume the worst. Pretend nothing has anything to do with me. And so, it doesn’t.
There is meat on my bones. I leave it there, for once.
I am delirious with hunger until I suddenly remember the tide, as if memory constitutes reality. Standing still, the ocean waves at me like I mean something to it, the shells and seagulls bob in and out of frame. Everything is a frame; everything is held by everything else. I pretend to know where things start and where they end. I punch a hole in the fabric of living and call what falls out an essay.
The monstrosity of a woman expressing her wants, her hopes, having any expectations at all.
Surely I can’t be the monster. Not a small embarrassing girl like me, pretending to write.
Writing allows you to pretend almost anything.
I want to be so many things but I end up a body folded into a paragraph. I won’t even open my mouth. What if something falls out?
I’m not good at pretending things don’t matter. Everything matters, which leads to good writing and poor friendships.
When did I learn that it was best to hide my problems, to protect my struggling as if it were the most intimate version of me?
Appearances. I don’t take myself seriously but I expect everyone else to, and that is the worst type of writer to be.
You want the life to be big and the writing to be condensed from it, so that all the details are important and true without needing to be quite thorough, which words will never be. If the living is small, even a small amount of words becomes an amount too large for the life, incomparable, so that your body is down here and the words are up there, expanding outward, like padding. Life shouldn’t be padded. Words shouldn’t be the place where your life gets bigger. Life should be a large one and then, in the small occasional moments, you write. There should be too much to fit on the page.
This girl thinks she can think her way through anything if she’s not careful. Unless she’s too careful. This girl will end up in a ditch, or behind an invisible screen, or turned into a frog, depending on the amount of care she produces.
If the screen is invisible, wouldn’t you see right through to her?
You’d think so.
Writing is the space between birth and death. Sometimes it’s awful.
Anything can be a surface if there’s more beneath it.
Language is always a surface. On good days, I press my hands down flat on it and try to hold still, tell Shania I forgive her.
an elderly woman called out to me, what she thought was me, and indeed it was except I was no sir. Could you help me with something heavy? I said yes and brought my boyfriend out instead, as if supplying her with the more accurate version of her request, the sir she wanted. Are greetings just floating signifiers, or made of actual content? I suppose it depends on the context of interpretation: artist or viewer. If the woman’s intention was to produce invitation through contact, then it worked: I understood her request immediately, didn’t look over my shoulder for the others, would not have benefitted from clarification. Who, me? A few sentences ago, I almost wrote something about, “polite contact.” Is it ever polite to misunderstand someone? To brand them with your personal expectations of how the world works? The question assumes a superficiality antithetical to community, forcing “inclusion” to revolve around sight, the status quo of all human senses. Understanding demands space for difference and curiosity, which flower with appearances, sure, but only by firmly hidden roots, all the grounded stuff you can’t expect to see. To understand someone is to know that there will be truths both contradictory and unwitnessable. The only way out into the broad arena of true recognition is therefore through questioning and apprehending, and the elderly woman did both. She suggested a world in which my gender presentation and my biological sex may not reinforce each other, and she was polite to me regardless of the potential affront that stalks such incongruities. But by now, I am mistaking the viewer’s reception with the artist’s intent, imbuing her words with stance and premeditation. She simply thought I was a boy.
I brought my boyfriend out instead, without asking for his availability, having translated question into obligation. This woman needs your help. In the face of misunderstanding—was I embarrassed? feeling defensive?—I brought a man to solve what was then reinforced as a man’s problem. Why didn’t I just help her? Because I am no sir, and my drive in that moment to establish the few attributes I lack overpowered the possibility of the many I could contain—strength, fluidity, playfulness, understanding (the woman was, after all, quite old), or just being a good neighbor. I picked up all the implications of her greeting and found a way to carry both much more and much less than the situation asked of me.
Men have always turned “weight” into opportunity: muscles tasked with function, they rectify absences, fill holes, provide height when gravity bullies and receive praise through their lifted objects without having to become them. Weight, a woman’s problem that demands modification and restraint, becomes, in the context of dudes, a thing to absorb or pick up. I am engulfed by manly distinctions, a flame too close to my back. If words sometimes stick to the wrong body, which is modified by which? Why did I say wrong body instead of wrong words? Perhaps I could only prove I was not a sir through comparison and contrast, by taking the woman’s question seriously enough to insist I could only supply, but not become, the answer. When born of insecurity, need sometimes does nothing but highlight its own relativity: if I must find a man in order to establish my own lack of manhood, what does it mean to be a woman? I am not a sir, but perhaps not inherently a she, either.
Even landscapes can be made of habit and instruction. Land goes here, sky there, keep the horizontal median plush and predictable. But gender is pure context. Things weird or new look out of place against the backdrop of all that’s already been established as what is. Trace a line far back enough and you eventually find an initial point of contact between pencil and paper, context of the origin. Is it ever polite to misunderstand someone’s gender? If things are made up, and the social world is constructed, and humans are capable of change and growth, then the question is nonsense. Only when misunderstanding morphs into insistence does confusion become dangerous. But in the context of an elderly woman wearing thick glasses, crossing the street near our lilac bush and discovering my young, accessible body: it is simple reflex gone mildly rogue.
When people ask me questions, I sometimes wish to know their long-term expectation before answering. As if truth requires context or carries a faltering sense of responsibility. By truth I mean gender. Full of holes, defining itself against others and itself and the new day.