pike place pillow play

this is how i spent (five minutes of) my afternoon:



you can get some good shots of me around minute 3.

these are not my beautiful feet...

i glanced down as i strolled through the drizzle blanketing downtown seattle and it took me a moment to recognize my own feet. my father just bought me $125 timberland boots and $114 lucky jeans. i just snuck into my house, shamefully hiding the nordstrom bag behind me.

i feel guilty and happy and wary and comfortable in this soft-as-butter leather and stretchy durable denim.

aside from some hiking gear, i haven't had a new pair of shoes or pants in years. all of my clothes come from thrift stores, friends, free-boxes or (sometimes) more nefarious means. most of my shoes are old enough to fold in half; most of my pants have multiple holes or patches in the crotch. the reasons for this are complicated and various. i don't feel comfortable saying "i can't afford new clothes," because i know that definitions of "can't" and "afford" are so fucking contextual. that's where class comes in.

choices. yeah i have the privilege to make the choice...i guess. the choice to pay my $350/month student loan bill or buy new clothes. but it's also about values. i like my thrift store/free box clothes. it's not just some hipster/radical aesthetic - i like soft, worn clothes that smell like my friends. i like sweaters with stories and pants with layers of patches. but i do have to come clean with that fact that at some level, this is a choice. if i really wanted to, i could buy brand new clothes. i could get a well-paying job with my fancy degree. i could do a lot of things that i don't want to do.

it gets more complicated. and i want to talk about this without disavowing my own complicity and role in all of this.

see, two days ago, my dad only had $42 dollars in his checking account. the day he arrived here to visit me, he was on the phone with his bank to make sure that the check for the house he just closed on (he's a realtor) went through. and all of a sudden he's magically rich again, for who knows how long. one second, well four years actually, he can't give me a dime for my college education, and the next he says, "what do you want?" this access is so fleeting that i know i have to take advantage of it before it disappears again. we're at the mall downtown (his girlfriend is shopping and i feel like i'm on an alien planet...well an alien planet where i spent my formative years and haven't since returned), and he asks if i need anything. "um..." i mumble, mind racing strategically. thinking about my little list of things i'll buy for myself when i save up enough money. things i plan on buying as ethically as possible, researching labor practices and local manufacturing. maybe i'll even pay more for something custom that a friend of mine can make, happy that i'm supporting my community. but here we are in fucking westlake mall, surrounded by nike and kitschy shops and department stores.

we wander into nordstrom, as i'm still pondering my answer to his question. see it's all about the now. not later maybe we can go to this local store or even REI to get good biking shoes, let alone maybe later we can donate your money to a good cause. but now, at nordstrom's, "what do you want?"

something about this store brings out the fag in me and i start to think, well i could use some nice dress boots since i tend to bike in all of my shoes and scrape them up on my toe clips. i tell my dad that shoes might be nice and he starts to walk toward the women's shoe department. "no," i calmly correct him, "men's shoes." he turns, seemingly unfazed, and we walk to the men's department.

the smells and textures of this world intrigue, excite and terrify me. i follow him toward the pristinely dressed clerk who addressed us with, "how can i help you gentlemen?" my heart leaps at this momentary passing with these same conflicting emotions and i smirk a bit. i think my dad ignores it, too confused about how to "correct" him, or maybe he just pretends that he doesn't hear it, and asks about boots. he tries to explain what i want and then awkwardly defers the clerk to me, who quickly hides his surprise as he addresses me personally. "business, casual or athletic?"

"um..." i respond, still trying to orient myself in this simultaneously familiar and distant world of high-end retail.

luckily, we're in seattle and the clerk is wonderful and either queer and cool with going with the flow of this genderqueer/trannyboy/whateverthefuckiam asking for men's shoes or he has experience with other folks like myself. he kindly shows me over to the boots where i immediately find the simple black slip on timberlands that i've seen before and have wanted for a long time.

while we are waiting for the suave and sweet clerk to find the size 7 i'm hoping will fit, my dad starts drooling over a table of beautiful italian shoes. i join him and we take turns "oooing" and "aahhing" at the intricate designs and textures. did i mention what a fag my father is? no, he's not quite out yet, but i think he's getting there. we have always bonded in an ostensibly father/daughter way but i can't quite admit how good it feels to connect over an appreciation for overpriced fabulous designer boots.

this...this is different. somewhere i hope that he knows (that i'm not a girl) and somewhere i think that he knows that i know (that he's not straight).

then the clerk returns with my size 7 that i make fit with an insole and, barely glancing at the price, my dad buys them.

then he asks if there's anything else i want. well...the pants i'm wearing are falling off my ass - the back belt loop is broken so my belt rides on my hips while the pants sag below. i shyly admit that i do need new pants. "but, but...," i think, "i could buy 10 pair of pants at a thrift store for the price you are willing to pay for one pair of pants here." but that's not how this game is played. now or never is the sentiment and i not-so-begrudgingly acquiesce to his offer. again, he wanders toward the women's department and again i correct him.

i can't quite put language to the feelings that come up in the men's clothing department. longing is definitely one of them. earlier i admitted to dad that someday i would really like a nice tailored suit, after he jokingly asked when the last time i wore a dress was. (in a teasing, how-silly-our-old-ways-were kind of way)

see, i want to be one of them and i never will be. i think that simple sentence is the best way to express my gender identity at the moment. no, i don't think i was born in the wrong body or that i really am a boy deep inside...for me, those narratives mean that there is some truth about gender outside of all of our experiences of it. like there's such a thing as a real boy or a real girl. no, instead it feels like a club. especially here in the nordstrom's men's department in seattle - a wealthy gay men's club that i simultaneously despise and yearn to be a part of. but again, thank god we're in seattle, or at least, thank god for the sales-savy clerks who treat me with respect as they search for jeans with a 30 inch inseam.

i find the perfect pair that hugs my ass and bulges a bit at the crotch and handsomely contains my biker thighs. (<--------not my ass)

i'm kind of scared to feel hot like this. but, god, do i feel hot in these...

one of my foundational, earth-shattering (sounds like an oxymoron, but it's not) conversations around gender was when i was talking with a friend about my fear of "dressing up." see, i have this idea that the more dressed "up" you are (at least in my experience of white middle-class american culture), the more polarized the standards of gender become. and the more lost i feel. i cannot feel hot in a dress. (well maybe with a wig and excessive makeup and heels, but that's another story) i don't know if i ever have. and i've been scared to explore the other side fully. in large part because going out and buying a bunch of new clothes, especially clothes that i can't wear everyday, can't bike in, is not a luxury i can afford. so through this conversation i figured out that i might feel hot in a suit or men's dress clothes. but i never really tried it until now.

this feels silly because i'm really just talking about jeans and black boots, not a three-piece-suit, but still. they are fucking expensive and made of really nice materials and feel so fucking good against my skin. not to mention the lingering smell of cologne and leather that permeates the air in this department. it's also being surrounded by men in this forbidden world. and feeling like i'm connecting with my father in a whole new way...a way that neither of us is quite willing to admit - to each other or ourselves.

this raw love

holding it all. all the love and hurt and rage. swirling past lives through these melodies. twisted smiles and sad eyes. forgotten faces and memories of joy. i want to hit and kick and break and scream and hold and squeeze and love and remember and forget.

if these songs could talk..could they tell of the rooms they've filled, the hearts they've opened...and broken? sometimes they sound so true, sometimes they are all lies. the soundtrack stays the same while the movie changes. but no, the songs change too - we becomes you, us becomes them. they tell the stories we are afraid to admit, confess the love and fear and confusion and change.

contentment. sitting with all of this. observing...

how the pain changes. sharp, raw, dull ache, pulsing through tense muscles, lingering with remembered memories, mingling with a warm, holding love. on one side, a sparkling grin and wink from a cute new friend; on the other, a reassuring hand on my back. behind me, her laugh goes through me, pressing against the fading bruises. my eyes lite up at the opening chord while my body braces for this rush of pasts.

i don't long for the way things were. i'm actually very happy with the way things are now. i just wish that change didn't mean loss.

ed. note: this post was written immediately following a musical show i attended. some of y'all know exactly what i'm talking about and some have no idear.

me too! me too!

so recently some pals of mine told me about a meditation technique called Vipassana. in a nutshell, it is the practice of self-observation while refraining from communication (verbal or otherwise) with the outside world while minimizing distraction. this is called "noble silence" — "silence of body, speech and mind." it is usually practiced at retreat centers, for a period of ten days.

i've been taking an intro to Ashtanga Yoga series at Samarya and i love it. if feels amazing and balancing and i am learning a lot about myself. i also have all sorts of complicated feelings about it at the same time. like what spirituality means to me now, particularly in light of my evangelical christian upbringing. and how appropriation of the tradition and beliefs of a culture that is not my own plays into my practice. but that's not what this post is about.

i'm super interested in the Vipassana retreat. it sounds amazing: really intense yet calming, terrifying yet safe. right up my alley. and i'm totally down with the 4am to 9pm schedule. the vegetarian food. the utter silence. there's just one problem: not only are the sleeping quarters divided by gender, but "complete segregation of men and women is to be maintained," including even meals.

now, though on a purely theoretical level i disagree with gender segregated sleeping quarters, i understand and respect the reasons why many folks feel like this is important. namely the instances of sexual violence that most women have experienced. and the importance of feeling safe, particularly in an environment like this.

but segregated eating?! and meditation?! i am filled with rage.

******

mind you, part of this is a very logical and rational rage. those rules are predicated upon two false premises: 1>that there are only two genders 2> that the distinction between these two genders is clear and universal.

the debater in me wants to go off. whip out my Anne Fausto-Sterling and talk about the regulation of bodies. the mutilation of intersexed babies. the multitude of ways we define sexual difference and their inconsistency. the emphasis on difference as a self-fulfilling prophecy - not just in a hippydippy humanities kinda way: Fausto-Sterling is a biologist and she explains how gender socialization, even before birth, physically changes our brains. how there are soooo many more differences among men and among women than there are between them.

oh yeah, i said i wouldn't go off. not because the above claims can't be fleshed out into a convincing argument. but because they are based on truth claims, which folks, particularly those that benefit from this polarization of gender, will always find ways to refute. and because talking about truths about bodies is kinda an oxymoron. the dichotomies between nature and nurture, sex and gender are false ones and i don't want to play into reinforcing them. you have to be able to separate these things (like culture from bodies) in order to pit them against each other and i don't think that that is possible, or healthy for that matter.

******

so usually, when i get to this point in my head, i feel panicked. my body freezes up, my jaw locks, i withdraw from folks who disagree with me, often without telling them why, i make myself sick with tension. because there are a shit ton of really intense feelings beneath these ideas. feelings that aren't up for debate and can't be rationalized away or logically justified. and when i engage on a purely "rational" level (which in itself is always a farce) the rage becomes a distorted blob inside of me.

******

before i get to those feelings though, humor a few more arguments.

let's pretend that there only two sexes and that their difference is clear and distinct. er, i mean, even if there are two sexes and their difference is clear and distinct, why would the folks that do Vipassana meditation feel the need to separate men and women? i did my best cursory internet research and haven't been able to find any reasoning for this tenant of the practice. (please let me know if you know something i don't) so the best i can do is guess.

maybe it has to do with the history and culture connected to this tradition - namely Buddhism. i didn't find much about gender and Buddhism (also didn't have time to do an exhaustive search), though this article was interesting. but in some ways i think that the tradition of Buddhism is beside the point. namely because,

People from many religions and no religion have found the meditation course helpful and beneficial. Vipassana is an art of living, a way of life. While it is the essence of what the Buddha taught, it is not a religion; rather, it is the cultivation of human values leading to a life which is good for oneself and good for others.

there's all sortsa stuff i could go into here about the complexities of cultural appropriation, cultural imperialism, change that comes from within a culture or tradition, etc. but again, that's a much bigger topic. i want to acknowledge that but am not getting into it at the moment.
so where do i, this white american, raised in a conservative christian tradition that taught me that meditation was evil because clearing your mind would literally open it up to the devil, where do i get off criticizing this tradition that is not my own? i think mainly because it's purportedly for all folks to participate in, yet i feel intensely, though not intentionally, excluded.

but i want to go back to my speculated reasons for this division for a moment.

some might argue that separating men and women is to prevent distraction. like i said earlier, this is one of the most essential factors of the practice: "All students must observe Noble Silence from the beginning of the course until the morning of the last full day. Noble Silence means silence of body, speech, and mind. Any form of communication with fellow student, whether by gestures, sign language, written notes, etc., is prohibited." they don't allow: any other techniques, rites, forms of worship; physical contact; yoga and physical exercise; religious Objects, rosaries, crystals, talismans, etc.; intoxicants and drugs; tobacco; outside food; revealing clothing; outside contacts; or music, reading and writing.

obviously distraction from internal reflection is to be avoided.

but assuming that somehow men will distract women more than other women and vice versa is hella heterosexist. founding this rule on the assumption that everyone participating is straight is not okay.

******

and it's transphobic.

this is hard to talk about because i'm tempted to immediately connect this claim to the initial arguments i make in this post. about the fluidity of gender and how this principle excludes trans folks.

them. not me.

but really, this is where i feel most excluded. of course the transphobia is all bound up in the heterosexism (they need each other to exist). but this is the gut level that left me sobbing myself to sleep last night.

i feel left out. i don't want to click "female" or "male" on their application form. i don't want to be surrounded by self-identified women and have them assume that i am one of them. i don't want to be surrounded by self-identified men and either have them hate me/give me weird looks because i'm not one of them or wear a binder for ten days (which sure as hell wouldn't facilitate meditative breathing) and attempt to pass, terrified of being found out.

i just want to have this experience...as a human.

______

all of the quotes about Vipassana are from this website.

ed. note: this post is mostly written to an imagined foe, who is a conglomeration of folks i've argued with in the past and to my internal dude who delegitimates intense feelings like this when they come up.

warms my heart (click it)

ehtaerb

so i said i'd write.

kinda like i say i'll call. i don't do well when i can't see your eyes.

(think i'm talking about you? i prolly am..in fact i'm currently envisioning about eleven specific eyeballs at the moment)

doesn't work too well...all this stuff in my head, changes in my life. reconnecting with old friends, falling away from others. today the little pre-yoga-class inspirational message was about letting go of what needs to go and holding on to what needs to stay. but which is which? i think the point is to pay attention to the energy you are putting into the grasping. hmm.

sometimes the contradictory space in my head feels so good, so spacious and clear in its confusion. like a room full of fluffy multi-colored pillows, where you sink in and notice the table on the ceiling and the waves on the wall and you breathe and think, it's okay.

and sometimes the light changes and everything shifts and nothing makes sense and that's not okay. the either/or monster sneaks in the back door and every facet of life becomes an imminent decision. now or never. hated or loved. smothered or lonely. successful or a failure. hypersensitive or oblivious. hott or hideous. weak or tough. boy or girl.

the trick is to remember that the light will shift again. and the memory of the upsidedown teacup will get me through the sticky times.

fried participation

7:05 PM
becky: needle
scoop
orange
envelope
elephant
seaweed
thyme
balloons
potatoes
roots
heels
7:06 PM
train car
frills
me: uh-uh
7:07 PM
mouse
green light
wrapper
red
tummy
squeeze
juice
click
around
stretch
bud
o'clock
so there
7:08 PM
becky: model
pants
apple
penis
joke
writer
feet
octopus
arugula
calcium
7:09 PM
goat
rug
metal
bunkbed
7:11 PM
me: only if
rack
chasing
child's POV
gurgle
beard
eyes
phone
vertebrae
push
crack
chocolate
eagles
7:12 PM
becky: oyster
crumb
arm bone
drill
cardamom
sheets
velvet
ribbon
7:13 PM
chain
pump
grapefruit
yeast
depression
vacation
7:14 PM
me: drunken-centaurs
roller
coaster
becky: tail
me: tea
face
becky: lemonade
7:15 PM
broken
me: h20
becky: birthday
me: breathe
secret
fix
fur
fluff
7:16 PM
defy
burgle
becky: choke
fire
string
bag
me: time
drop
soar
button
becky: jupiter
me: climb
compost
glue
slouch
7:17 PM
becky: firefly
scotch tape
automatic
me: dead
air
border
balance
bloom
becky: ring
stone
blank
grave
7:18 PM
flower
confusion
story
polka
ceramic
fried
participation
7:19 PM
me: tongue
gulp
twirl
plastic
crinkle
bake
cord
alas
vast
step
7:20 PM
leave
becky: chop
bus
splash
creature
7:22 PM
me: home
house
space
gas
gallop
7:23 PM
hide
gaze
rest
tangelo
becky: finances
me: stick
becky: key
wardrobe
tiger
eebwak
fuzzy
7:24 PM
curls
summersault
dig
me: support
dilemma
deny
spectrum
sliver
heart
7:25 PM
becky: ipod
noodle
stretch
forget
comply
run
7:28 PM
me: if
pop
bulb
heave
7:29 PM
here
magic
real
becky: barf
monkey
me: fart
poodle
7:30 PM
becky: embroider
knot
show
lake
snow
sky
cut
quick
mercury
dinner
7:31 PM
u left the kitchen messy
7:32 PM
me: uh-huh ::shame::