Dear You,

Tonight I brought up that picture, against my better judgement. I haven't looked at it in a long time, but it taunted me as I finished the audition tape and thought about next August. Edie Carey's "Lonely" played in the background and I was suddenly transported to that time, even though we never listened to that song together and the lyrics don't really apply to this situation.

It's funny because what I think about when I see this picture is you saying "we kiss so good." It's not funny, ha ha; but more funny, ironic or funny, weird... I remember your desperate attempts to make it work inside your mind, despite the fact that you knew from day one that it wasn't something you could do. I know that now, and just wish I knew it then...

I remember that day... the one in which my mom made a funny comment that made us both smile at this subtle acceptance and laugh at the knowledge that she was right.... about the kale and about the other stuff...

I remember you asking C to take pictures of me, and I remember gazing off at nowhere in particular in an attempt to look sexy in the pictures. I remember the refir truck and the connection, but I don't remember the kiss. I remember my mom telling you something about me that now feels like it was really fucked up, but I can't remember what that thing was or if you made it up in the first place....

I remember how afraid I was to have to you come visit, yet how much I needed that, but not why you never came. I remember knowing that you would hate my apartment... how cold it was and how my cats would have annoyed you, but not why you couldn't just love them because I loved them.

I remember how lonely I felt when I was with you, but I can't remember why I didn't leave earlier... and I remember why I did leave earlier, but not why it didn't stick.

It's all like a really amazing abstract painting to me now. I remember the general vibe, but none of the details, because that's the point-- you aren't supposed to remember the details.

But one thing I do remember, is how long it took to get over you, and how it felt that moment at Fest when I did get over you.

And the memory of that is all I need.

Love, Me.

Dear You,

I noticed you because I was trying so hard not to notice anybody... trying so hard not to make eye contact with anyone, that I was watching everyone's feet. I gazed from foot to foot, examining shoes in that objectifying practice that helps me to exist in this city full of constant human contact. I was trying to analyze the human attached to each pair of shoes-- figure out where they were going and what they were like.

Your feet were so tiny, but so adult that my gaze wandered upward where I was confronted with what I thought was a scowl. It was so harsh and so angry, I quickly looked away.

I tried to continue to examine the rest of the shoes for the next 20 minutes, but I could not resist turning my glance to your mouth over and over in split-second attempts to understand. I kept thinking you were mad at me... that you knew something I did not, and that your scowl had my name written underneath in a secret code...

But then I saw it-- you chewing on your lip. Your scowl suddenly transformed and I knew you more than my sister, or my mother, or my best friend. I knew you and your frustration. I knew exactly where you were, even though the details eluded me. I looked around and realized how many of us wore this mask on the Q train from Union Square to Brooklyn on a Friday Afternoon in October.... how many of us were consumed with thoughts of financial struggle, relationship problems, health concerns, or responsibility woes.

In that moment, I knew we were all one, yet all single entities, singularly gazing at each other's shoes alone on the Q train to Brooklyn.

Love, Me

Dear You,

I saw you on Saturday night on the Q train on my way home from Queer Memoir. The theme had been "Friends, lovers, and exes" so I thought it was aprapo that I would see you at that particular moment, because you were all of those things to me and so much more.

You were reading a book about vampires, had a shaved head, and no tattoos, but I knew it was you. You got off at my stop, and I wanted to say something so bad. I wanted to touch your arm-- so bare without its tattoos-- and remind you of how you used to be so embarassed by your one forearm that was bare. I wanted to laugh with you about how you used to stand with your arms crossed in all pictures, so as to hide it. I wanted to remind you of that one picture with Freewind and Sua'lape, and how you were so annoyed that you had forgotten to cover your tattoo-less arm. How strange it is that as a ghost, you returned to me with no tattoos... even your hands were bare, so I almost didn't notice you at all.

But how could I miss you with those round cheeks and that happy smile? You looked so happy reading about vampires and I wondered if you used to like vampires when you were alive, or if it was just in death that you embraced the undead with a giggly smile. I wondered what kind of subway rider you would have been. Would you have read, or listened to music, or just sat there staring out the window? I wondered about that and so much more as I tried to stare at you without being too obvious as the train made its way over the East River and into Brooklyn.

Most of all, I noticed that spot-- the one on your chest that fit my head perfectly. I noticed that it was still there, so I wanted to embrace you before we parted ways. I wanted to drown in one last hug, because I didn't know the last one was the last one when it happened. I wanted to have that moment to do over right there on the Q train at the Parkside stop.

Instead we parted ways silently and without contact, and I walked slowly home, wondering if I would see you again soon...

Love, me.

Dear You,

I have been meaning to write you a thank you note for a while now. I want to thank you for that day in Santa Rosa in 1998.

It was right before I started my first serious lesbian relationship, which involved some level of uhauling, despite the fact that I still refuse to admit that I have ever uhauled or would ever uhaul...

I remember taking the bus to see you in Cotati, right outside of Santa Rosa. I remember that bus ride, because it was on the bus that I learned that Magoo was interested in me. I had been so dense during my short time with the Lesbian Avengers that I hadn't even noticed. I also had not even considered the idea that I might be into butches. I was on the verge of everything on that bus ride.

I was 22, had just gotten clean and sober, and was getting out of the goth scene. You were 24, and had moved to Northern Cali after living in Esalen and then LA and San Diego. I took the bus to see you and the herd of sheep right up the street from you.

Your apartment was a small boxy thing, with a huge field in back of it. You spent your days fixing the fence, so Bear and the other dogs wouldn't escape. It was grey and cloudy constantly there, and you worked with a nonprofit that did something related to yoga.

I went up to visit you on the weekends, and we would do any number of random things, creating memories out of memories by having long conversations about the way things used to be. We talked about the sheep constantly and how cute they were, despite the fact that they never once came out when I was there.

Mom and dad had just gotten separated, and we were learning what it was like to be from a broken family, officially instead of just in our heads.

One day, you suggested that I go without makeup just for that day. I think the suggestion came from a conversation in which I had revealed that I had forgotten to put on my makeup one day before going to school at San Francisco State University. I had realized my mistake on the trolly, and was relieved to remember that I always had my makeup with me...

You said it could just be for the day and reminded me that I was in Santa Rosa, and that I would know no one.

We went to Santa Rosa, and though I can't remember what we did, I do remember seeing a group of men. I remember feeling like they were staring at me because I looked so weird without makeup. You said they were probably just looking at me because I was pretty.

I did not believe you.

I am not sure how to put that day into words that do it justice. I just know it changed me. I stopped wearing makeup a few years later, and then went back to it a few years after that.

Whenever I go out without makeup, I think of you. I think of you and thank you in my head for reminding me that I don't need a mask to face the world. I am still working on really knowing that, but I know that when I do really embrace that bodily, it will be because of you.

Thank you for that.

Love, Me

She said so nonchalantly, “that’s some seriously repressed anger” from across the car, and I thought “that’s some seriously narrow version of feminism,” but I said nothing instead.

He accused me of “feminist acting” in his grade challenge. Despite the fact that my chair defended me by telling him that “feminism is not against the rules,” I knew then as I have always known that it was a message. I better watch my back– take copious notes and be careful not to favor the womyn– lest I get fired for feministing… Yet, I said nothing, because I was on the job market and feared the consequences of rocking the boat…

She told me that she didn’t see me as “femme,” what with my harsh exterior. I questioned her definitions but said nothing.

She told me she was so surprised at how soft and tender I am, what with my feminist identity. I looked at her in silence and wondered if that was a compliment.

“I don’t like all of this womyn’s music crap,” she told me on our first date. She continued, “I prefer Eminem to feminism.” One year later, her so-called friend told me “I prefer some hardcore punk to this soft womyn’s music” while cruising me on the path from the Cuntry store to my tent. I almost laughed at the symmetry, but just nodded instead.

The words roll off my tongue so easily, so smoothly; yet, their meaning gets so jumbled and so confused on the way to so many people’s ears.

feministdoes not mean that I am without sensitivity or without softness. Instead it means that I value all of the complexity that goes with my womyninity. It means that I don’t think I deserve to get paid less because I am a womyn and it means that I value all womyn’s contributions to our world. It does not mean that I hate men or ignore issues of race or class in my thoughts and actions. Instead it means I try to speak up when others do and fight for the discussion of racism, classism, and homophobia, alongside and wrapped up in the discussion of sexism. It means that I don’t think that any “ism” can be separated from any discussion.

Feminist means that sometimes I am angry, and that sometimes that anger might appear “repressed” whereas other times it might be up in your face. It means that for years I have been told that I talk to much; to shut up and be quiet like a “good little girl” and sometimes that message still stops me from speaking up.

Feministmeans that I can identify as femme without being weak and helpless. It means that I both own and know how to use a cordless drill– that I built an apartment from studs to finish with that drill. It also means that I can ask for help, support, and protection without somehow being less than. Feminist means that I can play with my femme identity without having to worry that other womyn will somehow condescend to me and expect me to be a static, immutable statue of ideology that has been passed down from the patriarchy for thousands of years. Feminist means I can work for change despite my imperfections and the imperfections of others.

Feminist means all of these things and more, but most of all, feminist means that I can forgive myself when I do not speak up.

So, I was watching Nip/Tuck episodes last night on netflix… yes– it’s one of my dirty little secrets. It’s one of those shows that seems like it’s telling you that all this superficial crap is BS, but in reality, it’s not. It’s fully supporting the superficial crap… It’s also one of those shows in which the main characters are ubiquitous… They just happen to be everywhere for everything…

Including a kidney stealing ring. Seriously?

I’m always astounded by how wrong they get the whole operation– like they can’t do a tiny amount of research to learn how a kidney transplant works…

So, at some point in this show, the anestesiologist gets her kidney stolen… and then a few weeks/months later, she is sick and needs a transplant. Magically, not only one of the doctors but also a random patient are both matches, even though there’s only a 6.5% chance of any non-relative being a match…

So, they have a happy little transplant, where the plastic surgeons are present, of course– to eliminate scarring…

They don’t mention the possibility of rejection. They don’t mention the possibility that the recipient will get  an infection and die.

In reality, people die, and it’s not at all what you expect.

2 years ago, the nephrologists finally realized that pai Tama had a fungal infection. He was bleeding to death from the kidney… they tried to save it, but in order to have any chance to save him, they had to remove the perfectly healthy kidney.

No, they couldn’t put it back.

Pai Tama went into a coma starting 2 years ago today.

Hi mom called 2 days later and said “I need you to be strong for me,” as if donating a kidney to her son wasn’t strong enough… I collapsed on the floor of the detroit hotel room where I was on my way to Fest. And I cried harder than I have ever cried in my whole life…

They mention rejection, but they never mention this….

I miss you Kidney. I miss you Pai Tama.

I have been thinking about adding a new blog to my life in which I talk about everyday things… then, I decided to experiment with using this blog to talk about everyday things, and write performatively, and all things in between.

I have also decided to start allowing comments. If this gets out of control, I’ll stop it, but honestly, I don’t even think anyone reads this crazy thing.

Tonight I am going to the movie in Bryant park! I am looking forward to the new experience. I feel so silly and naive when I say this, but I love how much there is to do here in NY! I was scared to move here because I thought I was making the wrong choice. I thought I wouldn’t be able to make ends meet and that I would be overwhelmed. So many people, including someone I was dating here in NY, said that I probably shouldn’t move because of financial reasons. I did it anyway, and put my faith in the world.

I am definitely still struggling with faith, but I am so glad I moved here. I moved to be around and work on performance most of all, and it has been great! I am performing this weekend again, and I have been able to see so much amazing performance art for FREE! The only thing that is keeping me going right now, as my academic career sputters thru a serious stall, is queer performance.

AND- I have gotten a lot of adjunct work, which has made me able to make ends me. I somehow doubt I would have gotten this work in Philly, so I am very happy about it.

anyway- that’s it for today. More on my misadventures of moving to Brooklyn soon!

groping through the satin sheets, I feel something I think I once knew…. but when I grasp hold of it, I realize it isn’t what I thought… It’s just an amalgamation of cat hair, dust, air, delusion, and memories…

I am sure I have written about this before, but it always seems to have a new and different title….

some call it love; others, community… some don’t give it a word, because they are so afraid of it.

I have spent my whole life searching for and experiencing it. Sometimes I sit alone in my apartment and play with its constantly morphing existence in my hands… I let it seap through my fingers, like sand. Then I pick it up as clay and shape it into a bowl with a little water inside it. I immediately throw it at the TV and watch as it evaporates into steam the split second before smashing through the screen.

Sometimes it feels heavy in my heart in a way that makes people call it depression, down, and other words that begin with D. Other times it’s so light and fluttery, I feel like a dragonfly got caught in my lungs.

Right now, it’s all misshapen and confusing– like a Picasso painting and a multimedia performance art collage all in one. I don’t know how to hold it, but I put out my hand anyway, as if by instinct, I will somehow figure it out.

But, I’ll admit, I don’t think I will ever figure it out. I feel more and more alone in this quest as the years go by. I watch the others pair up and leave the journey, while I sit here alone, not sure of what to do or say; not sure of how to hold my body… I play the part of the strong independent type, but we all know how untrue that story is…

So for now, I just turn over, find my way out of the web of satin sheets past your still sleeping body, and make some coffee.

Dear World,

I think we need to have a little talk about all of this.

When I was a kid, I was told to work hard, get good grades, go to college, and I would get a good job. When I was still forming, I was told that if I were a good person, everything would work out. Be nice– right? Work hard– right?

As I grew up and faced the reality of you, even as it got more and more harsh, I was told “everything will work out.” As I approached college-age, I started to see that a college degree wasn’t worth all it used to be… yet, still I was told to work hard, be a good person, and all would work out just as it was supposed to.

In college, it was clear: college would not be enough. I would have to go to grad school. In grad school, it was clear: an MA was not enough. I would need a PhD.

But, like a good puritan, I worked harder and harder. I sacrificed time, money, and relationships for the “better good” which I thought I could see– just over the horizon. I looked at the you in which I existed, and thought “it’s all worth it” because eventually I would finish grad school, get a good job that I loved doing, and it would really be all good, just as everyone had always said.

See, that’s the thing– the only way people get through all this hard work is to promise themselves and others that it’s for some reason; that it will eventually pay off. The only way anyone finishes a PhD with an ounce of sanity is by thinking it will be ok; it will pay off… The only way anyone makes it through the struggle of growing up is by telling themselves that eventually everything will be as it should. We walk through life repeating that mantra as if we are sleep talking for 30, 40, and 50 years…

And I’m not talking about getting to a place where we can sit back and see– look, it’s all perfect… I’m talking about that moment, the tiny breath that means it’s ok. I got a job. I can pay my bills. 

When I turned 27, you decided to give me a test; a rough streak that would make me stronger in the end, or that’s what I thought. You took away my partner, and my best friend, and my mentor all in one year… But you weren’t done…

When I turned 30, I decided to donate my kidney, because surely the “gift of life” such as that would satisfy your unending need for more sacrifice and more hardship. But you took my kidney and its recipient too.

And that’s when my faith in you started to crack in a way I think might be irreparable. No matter what anyone says or does, I can’t possibly understand the reasoning for that. I can’t possibly see that the loss of Pai Tama after that level of sacrifice will ever be ok. I don’t know if there exists a level of strength that could balance out that break. Maybe what doesn’t kill us, just doesn’t kill us… I don’t think I am stronger now to the level I would have to be to make that ok.

Still, I have held onto the faith left inside the clay pot I carry on my back. There is a crack, but I have tried to hold onto the slowly leaking faith…

But now I am not sure.

I am a good person. I have worked hard. I have a good work ethic and am a good citizen, but it is not working out. I don’t have a job. I can barely make ends meet. I have been struggling for so long. I am exhausted and don’t know how much longer I can hold on to this slowly leaking puddle of faith in you, world.

I don’t need to be a super star or even rich. I just want to be able to teach and pay my bills.

And really, the last straw is something I realized just today.

Today, when the womyn in my life repeated that mantra, “it will be ok,” or the one about putting out good intentions into the world, and all the other things we tell each other to avoid accepting that it might not work out…. when each of the womyn said those things with the best of intentions, I started to think that you have to be pretty damn privileged to say that… but I stopped. Because, that’s not exactly right…

Yes, saying “it will all work out as it should” or “everything for a reason” to someone who can’t make ends meet is a statement of privilege, but more importantly, it’s a statement of passive acceptance….

We have been hypnotised into passively accepting this faith in you…

I am pissed. I am frustrated. I am angry. I feel totally scammed.

And with good reason.

I don’t want to passively accept this anymore. I will not be some quiet little grrl, you can walk all over. There is a time for faith, and there is a time for outrage….

and dear world, I think we both know that the time for outrage has been here for a while.

I hope that one day I can have faith in you again, but for now, I am going to be enraged…

and I am not going to be quiet about it.

Love, Cora

why the heck won’t my mind let my body shut the heck up?

why won’t people just be nice?

why won’t anyone show up with a pint of ice cream, a bad movie, and a bottle of wine?

just curious…