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But still, if they ever catch on fire—which, with any luck, they might
I had a nice day when I was not expecting to. The MBTA had quasi-fallen down, as is honestly its norm these days (and I don't want it privatized, I want it properly funded by the state), but a frequently stressful appointment went well, I had a pleasant conversation with a total stranger over a bagel on my part and a package of muffins on his, and there was a brilliant low sunset flare behind the Citgo sign as I was coming back across the Longfellow Bridge, that winter-red sun that attracts mythological similes. I am reading Derek Jarman's Smiling in Slow Motion (2000).
I don't know what to do about the fact that my favorite overshirt is falling apart. Our sharp-clawed and snuggling cats have contributed a little, but the real problem is that I looked at the label ("M (15–15½) Fieldmaster Made in U.S.A. Perma-Prest 100% Cotton") and then I looked at the internet and this shirt may be older than I am. Fieldmaster is an extinct label of Sears. I find shirts of this style advertised as vintage on eBay. It is a dark slate blue and fits my shoulders perfectly. In really cold weather, I can wear it over a T-shirt and under a sweater and not overheat while walking at my normal pace outdoors. I understand that I am hard on clothes because when I find something I like, I wear it until it wears out, but I really feel I shouldn't be losing this one. The overall cloth and most of the major seams are sturdy. It's never lost any buttons and I can mend buttonholes. The issue is that the cuffs unraveled some time ago and the edge of the placket is going the same way and one of the pockets is tearing out at the corner, which makes no sense to me because I don't keep anything in the breast pockets of my shirts; the collar is also looking a little shabby. There are fraying hems. These are things I have no idea how to fix.
Reading Derek Jarman makes me think about the fact that I was not part of the queer culture of my youth, but the straight culture of my youth was incredibly alienating, and either way I couldn't tell if people were interested in me unless they said so. It's not my first mode of interaction with other people; it is never my first assumption of someone else's motivations with me. I miss a lot of cues. I taught myself to recognize a variety of courtship behaviors over the years, mostly because things went badly if I didn't, but almost all of them are yet another of the alien languages that I have had to learn in order to exist. I think of the way books could be handed like code; maybe that works better for people who don't recommend books all the time, because when the high school friend I thought was not interested in me gave me a copy of Mary Renault's The Persian Boy (1972), I missed the signal. There is no moral here except the one I have already drawn about talking to people. And that I never again agreed to date a person to whom I felt no physical attraction just because we were friends and I thought that was how it worked.
I have just learned courtesy of a friend who is not on Dreamwidth that Noël Coward's "The Stately Homes of England" is a parody. This makes me happier than is probably reasonable.
I don't know what to do about the fact that my favorite overshirt is falling apart. Our sharp-clawed and snuggling cats have contributed a little, but the real problem is that I looked at the label ("M (15–15½) Fieldmaster Made in U.S.A. Perma-Prest 100% Cotton") and then I looked at the internet and this shirt may be older than I am. Fieldmaster is an extinct label of Sears. I find shirts of this style advertised as vintage on eBay. It is a dark slate blue and fits my shoulders perfectly. In really cold weather, I can wear it over a T-shirt and under a sweater and not overheat while walking at my normal pace outdoors. I understand that I am hard on clothes because when I find something I like, I wear it until it wears out, but I really feel I shouldn't be losing this one. The overall cloth and most of the major seams are sturdy. It's never lost any buttons and I can mend buttonholes. The issue is that the cuffs unraveled some time ago and the edge of the placket is going the same way and one of the pockets is tearing out at the corner, which makes no sense to me because I don't keep anything in the breast pockets of my shirts; the collar is also looking a little shabby. There are fraying hems. These are things I have no idea how to fix.
Reading Derek Jarman makes me think about the fact that I was not part of the queer culture of my youth, but the straight culture of my youth was incredibly alienating, and either way I couldn't tell if people were interested in me unless they said so. It's not my first mode of interaction with other people; it is never my first assumption of someone else's motivations with me. I miss a lot of cues. I taught myself to recognize a variety of courtship behaviors over the years, mostly because things went badly if I didn't, but almost all of them are yet another of the alien languages that I have had to learn in order to exist. I think of the way books could be handed like code; maybe that works better for people who don't recommend books all the time, because when the high school friend I thought was not interested in me gave me a copy of Mary Renault's The Persian Boy (1972), I missed the signal. There is no moral here except the one I have already drawn about talking to people. And that I never again agreed to date a person to whom I felt no physical attraction just because we were friends and I thought that was how it worked.
I have just learned courtesy of a friend who is not on Dreamwidth that Noël Coward's "The Stately Homes of England" is a parody. This makes me happier than is probably reasonable.
no subject
Yeah, I sort of got trained out of the idea that anyone could ever be interested in me by constant loud repetitions of how ugly I was, how weird I was (mostly for reading), how anti-social, did they mention ugly (in grade school kids called me "Dog" for years), up through junior high. This resulted not only in me dropping out of high school early on but being absolutely unable to tell in college, surrounded by other bookish and weird people, if any of the other bookish and weird people thought I was at all in any way desirable. (Even then there was also the "you're so smart it's intimidating" thing, which LOL, and also seemed to be mostly guys taken aback by women who spoke audibly in class and felt free to challenge their arguments.) I got accused of flirting with guys my girlfriends were interested in a lot, and also was semi notorious for completely missing any cues that an outing might be a date-shaped activity rather than friends just hanging out.
But then I met my future (and still) husband in a university library where I was working the desk during Spring Break and bored out of my mind, and said re the books he was checking out, "Oh, you like Spinoza? I LOVE Spinoza!" Of course the books were for a class, but since he had never heard anyone else say they loved Spinoza ever, he stuck around to talk and so reading was not absolutely incompatible with desirability after all, apparently. (I still love Spinoza.)
I grew up in the eighties and so it was considered VERY weird I didn't like skirts (unfortunate incidents where male classmates kept flipping them up at recess, which would probably not be tolerated today), dresses, or makeup, which was partly 'what is this patriarchal culture bullshit' (height of the Second Wave), partly 'if you make it so I can't win I'm not going to play your fucking games,' and mostly deep-rooted conviction implanted by peers that nothing would help my repulsiveness, so it would just look silly if I even tried. I have the kind of body dysmorphia where you never know where your elbows/knees are and your face looks strange in the mirror, but maybe not gender dysmorphia per se (AFAIK, 'I am born in the wrong body') as much as being told repeatedly and loudly how much I FAILED at being female in elementary ways. (One reason my agoraphobia got bad was I was sick and tired of people, mostly men, feeling free to comment on my appearance, loudly and nastily, on the sidewalk, in parking lots, in the supermarket, wherever, and even when it didn't happen the voices got internalized so I was always expecting them, or thinking that was what everyone was thinking when they saw me.) That plus a host of mental and physical chronic illnesses from early childhood on up made embodiment seem like a bum rap, especially given the culture's focus on things I was no good at (sports, physical coordination, sociability, attractiveness, how one appears to other people, outward appearances).
tl;dr if there had been anything like a 'queer culture' I would have grabbed at it with both hands, but as it was people just thought I was Even Weirder for listening to VU and glam era David Bowie ("he's wearing MAKEUP?!") and Patti Smith ("does she ever comb her hair?")
no subject
I am glad you had that reinforcement. I firmly believe in the icon I have used for this reply.
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It certainly was at that point! It was as enjoyable as it was surprising. And the conversation has continued on for 25+ years.
no subject
It's not TMI. I wasn't sure how much response would feedback into the depression.
It was as enjoyable as it was surprising. And the conversation has continued on for 25+ years.
Awesome.