on being gwyneth

Do you ever have those days when you feel that maybe the internet just wasn’t all that good an idea?

Sometimes one snaps. More often, one just slips to one’s knees, kisses the snow and forgets to get up.

We are prisms, mirrors and jewels, not masks and closets. There is no “inside/outside” being, but many personas, minds and even bodies.

I want a media channel – a radio station, perhaps, or a streaming website – devoted to strong, intelligent drama infused with black humor and the clear-eyed knowledge of human-scale tragedy. I want to wake up to modern poetry of the common man.

I want Mamet in the Morning.

Yesterday was one of those brief moments that makes it worth it.

For the past several weeks we’ve been overhauling the apartment: throwing stuff out, getting things into and out of storage, moving components and shelving, cleaning everywhere, and most importantly, rebuilding the studio area… and this time, according to Alison’s direct needs rather than my idiosyncratic feng shui.

We finally got it to a point where she can sit comfortably, access her tools with a minimum of technological interference, and practice at will. It’s not a great solution by any means – not yet a room of her own where she can compose, think, and even just not be around me all the time – but it functions for now and we’re committed to not being static.

I was sitting at my desk – at a right angle to hers and facing outward, so we have full access to the whole arc of equipment and screens – deep in some engineering task or other, when I realized that the music I was listening to was her. I turned around and saw that she was practicing guitar to a recording of Toto’s “Girl Goodbye,” a very intricate and precise piece of power rock.

It was astonishing. She was so in the groove, so completely with the feel of the thing. I was watching a professional musician at work, not just an amateur guitarist flexing her chops.

These moments are yet few and short. She has a lot of work to do, to rebuild her stamina and focus. But when she’s on, she’s amazing, and I want nothing more than to get her that room so I can hear that sound.

And when I die
Set my ship afire
Raise a stone for all to see
Runes carved to my memory

We have a purpose. We serve Vaal.

We are the Feeders of Vaal.

Meet Vaal:

A few years ago – back when things mattered, back when anger had a purpose – I fragmented. A once-friend called me crazy and I took it as license, took the energy and lent the last of my voice to an ongoing war against fraud and insanity, partly by embracing it myself.

Fight fire with fire, eh?

I called her the Gorgon Queen and her name was Val. And a little over a year ago she went silent, as I became quieter, more guarded… and finally, perhaps, better integrated.

So I own her words now, as I knew I must do. The Gorgon Queen is asleep for good, and this is what is left.

Goodnight, Val. I hope that one day I can live up to you.

—

Addendum: In retrospect I now realize that it was Val, not I, who was sane… that she was the keeper of my conscience while I processed a particular struggle. Understanding that, I think I’ll miss her even more, as I feel that in many ways that process was unsuccessful and that she takes with her a great part of my courage and focus.

I think I’m done.

For those who occasionally come to this blog to see what’s on my mind or in my life, and who have probably been as frustrated as I am with the continued yawping on insular trans politics, my apologies. When I relaunched the blog I made the mistake of trying to reconnect a little with the online trans ‘sphere, and had forgotten just how quickly and thoroughly it all just pisses me off.

It feeds my anger addiction, which I am working to clear myself of.

So enough. I’m still queer, still politically minded, but I will both refocus and expand. There’s more to life than this.

Cheers.

Addendum: a recent comment prompts me to point out that I’m not shutting down the blog, just redirecting my thought.

“You’re interfering with my fabulosity and specialness, you poser.”

Sorry. You don’t own genderfucking, nor “breaking the binary,” nor even the identity. Read up on some anthropology, if not recent queer history.

“You’re not genderqueer, so you’ve got no right to speak.”

Oh? And just how would you know, little Miss Thing?