Reykjavík to Barcelona

The number of churches I saw in Reykjavík in seven days: 1. 

The number of churches I saw in Barcelona in one afternoon: 2.

Spain feels familiar in soothing ways, even though the pollution irritates my respiratory system. The kindly gentlemen who display restraint with their drama, even as their features suggest incipient catharsis. I, too, am searching, but afraid to suggest the wrong kind of vulnerability or enthusiasm. Since friendship is based on willing to make yourself vulnerable, I stutter, look on jealously as the world continues to turn with my fears proving once more unsubstantiated. 

Barcelona edges closer to 

The word I mainline in my quest for identities

You’ll have me longing

For a very simple kind of salida

Don’t know what to do with you

Now that I’m in here

Stealthy correspondence, a cynical encapsulation

Of what would be the essence I could

Come closest to capturing

Catalan flags still up

Gorgeous touches erupt

Into my vision

Necessitating detours

Pursuing division

So I can represent myself as whole

What’s really to fear

In an Icelander’s love of Beyoncé?

What’s really to learn

When you can’t break through

Neither to yourself nor other

Just remaining locked 

On autopilot, go!

Bad habits may lead me elsewhere

If the price is right

We've all got problems

It's been pointed out to me recently that I've spent very little time playing the compromise games that characterise much employment. I have suffered in many ways, both heightened and of lesser significance, but I don't know what it means to have to conceal my sexuality from el jefe.

Every so often, someone will also urge me to enter the workforce despite my protestations. My "disability" being invisible, I often look a lot healthier than I am. People don't realise that I am constantly anxious. My practiced calm fools them all. I don't even mind admitting something akin to Generalised Anxiety Disorder on top of all my other mental health problems. Hey, how many people even read this blog? If you're reading, you're probably familiar enough with me to understand how I could be a ball of nerves underneath all that cool-as-cucumber. And I welcome your familiarity.

Questions of being medically incapable to join the modern labour force aside, I have two conflicting wishes: a) to subject myself to as few forms of domination as possible, and b) to give myself enough economic independence so as to relocate to a different part of the world.

I have intermittent commitment to writing a book. But I'm not quite there yet. I need -- not a room of my own but -- an apartment of my own. One where I have peace of mind through solitude, and the emotional space to set up shop. With my current arrangement, I am guaranteed to tear my hair out if I start a writing project longer than a blog post that I complete in one sitting.

Writerly Imagination

It used to be that I did too much writing and not enough reading; now I've turned the tables. I don't trust my literary voice. I concern myself with niggling self-doubt which pauses my progress effectively. What now?

When I first started blogging on the now defunct Orble, I wrote five times a week. Now I'm exceeding my own expectations if I write five times a month. 

Interesting things do happen - it's not that I have a shortage of material. Yesterday Mehreen Faruqi was sworn into the Senate, reminding me that there are a dearth of diverse women and queer people out there to draw inspiration from, as the news reel conducts its censoring out of the kind of people who really matter (to me). My catalogue of straight, wide, middle or high class, cis men grows, while the people forced to be smarter than the status quo compete amongst each other for the crumbs the media throws their way. 

This time last year I was three weeks away from travels, but 2018 leaves me uninspired. I've been on holiday before, and it's wonderful - up to the point when I come back with no funds, and my dream of relocating seems even further out of reach. 

I'm romantically inspired by a gorgeous genius, however I may be able to spend more time with them by saving further and spending a longer time period overseas when the time arrives. If I spend that time in one city, I could call it a temporary relocation and have it actually work to that effect. It may not be permanent, but it would teach me about independence and responsibility. 

*

Right now I'm reading The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, The Hate Race by Maxine Beneba Clarke, and What A Life Can Be by Carolyn Dobbias. I've noticed I've been able to reflect further on my thought processes, with the help of the books I follow up and down the screen. Perhaps continuing my current schedule of reading is fine, and adding the element of writing (plucking it out of all the spare time I allow for) is not so intimidating a priority. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'm struggling. 

Turning

Things haven't been alright for the longest time. Perhaps it's unrealistic to yearn for the kind of simple conviction in the integrity of the world I was only able to hold on to in my first decade and a half. I'm not clear on what I'm fighting, half the time. I've lost sight of a little, and upped the ante a lot. I've relaxed into my inbuilt resistance - the impulse to sabotage the very thing I aim towards.

I've lost my bearings today. I turned a corner in the hospital and warmed to old selves, new selves, old meets new. What the hell am I going to do?

Disturbed but still swinging

Perturbed with periods of relaxation

Investigating the core cause

Sizing up the inscrutability

Of my kaleidoscope of secrets

I find my fallibility lacking

And who are you? 

The unknown reader

A hazy image of you

Becomes my inspiration

They say to write for yourself, but I'm informed by every soul that has had my mind wandering in their direction

I'm unable to stall, diligently angling for the next question

So I reported to the police, and...

The process shook me up. I was asked about my history of being abused, my mental health diagnosis, what I was wearing (which I'm not sure how to interpret, because the officer was female, and she also asked what the perpetrator was wearing), the victim-blaming "Why does this keep happening to you?" and the dismissive "What do you expect us to do about it?"

When I came home I just wanted to curl into a ball and stay there for hours.

Here are some positive outcomes:

- They believed me
- They filed a report, which means they can, amongst other things, check to see if this woman's behaviour is a trend
- I assume the report will have consequences for official statistics on criminal activity
- I was offered a lift back home (I declined)

Lessons learned:

- If something like this happens again, go to the police immediately. They said they would have been able to collect evidence from my clothing.
- They don't have access to CCTV train footage from a month ago.
- Don't expect the police to share your feminist values, compassion for victims of sexual violence or keen sense of justice. But tell them anyway.

Towards binormativity

I have a saying about the small but virulent group of anti-GLBTIQ protesters who show up at the Sydney Mardi Gras Parade every year: "Those taking part in the parade are the happy queers, and those protesting are the unhappy queers." As homophobia fades in Western society, the unhappy queers become more self-accepting, and until such a point is reached that they're willing to come out to themselves (and others). One day, they will join the celebrations. While we wait for this cultural shift, we happy queers can enjoy our status as innovators of love.

The characters of the film I viewed today (Rabbit Without Ears) would not be protesting Pride parades. They're not that extreme. But they do constantly seek to differentiate themselves from gayness by making fun of people who represent this 'other'. In the final scene of this German film, the protagonist gets 'revenge' at a heartless taxi driver by making him look gay in front of his colleagues. The film then cuts to a shot of the happy heterosexual couple kissing triumphantly. But what is actually happening here? Gayness takes up so much space in the narrative, that it needs to be examined as inextricably complementary to the whole. For gay content to directly inform the 'fairytale ending', it must be associated with romance and sexuality.

We could say queerness is part of the shadow self in Rabbit Without Ears, as the male protagonist constantly accuses others of it (projection), but can never acknowledge the homoerotic undertones constantly present in his interactions with his close colleague, or even fleeting encounters based on antagonism.

As homophobia fades, we can expect to see gayness continue to take up ample space in public discourse, but in more and more favourable ways. The visibly out will only grow in number and influence, and I look forward to the disappearance of the currently ubiquitous 'gay jokes', and the conscious acknowledgement of desire.

Perhaps in fifty years time the West will have shifted enough so that very few identify as exclusively straight or gay. When there are so many options available out there, why limit yourself to any particular group? Binormativity (or pannormativity) would be a welcome change. 

So, it happened again (#MeToo)

You would think there would be a limitation on how many times your body can get violated. Wishful thinking.

I was on my way to my best friend's house, in relatively good spirits. A woman sat down next to me on the train. I wasn't paying a lot of attention to her, but noticed she carried herself around with a fatalistic self-stigma. It vaguely occurred to me she belonged to some kind of marginalised group when my gaze wandered over to my left. Instinctively I worked on looking anonymous, unremarkable, but when I couldn't see which station we had arrived at, I blurted out: "Excuse me, is this Town Hall?" She turned her head and her gaze landed on me. Her face had a haunted look, and I noticed she was trans. There was something else in her look, which my unconscious registered as entitled, but I had a script for trans women, and I wanted this interaction to be made happy with my apt response. I thanked her for her surly answer, and wondered why it came out a bit like "I'm sorry." 

A trans woman! Surely all trans women are loveable, deep down! That was what part of me was thinking. The other part recognised that I might not be entirely safe as I passed by her on the way out. I visualised myself shuffling past, facing her disconcerting presence, hands over my crotch. I dismissed this. I didn't want to seem like I was afraid. Besides, what were the chances that a woman would assault me in a carriage full of people, where there would be dozens of witnesses? It seemed like the situation called for a kind of self-assurance I hadn't had to exercise for a long time. I couldn't summon it. I didn't want to believe that I was in this situation. I wanted to think about happy things. 

As we arrived in Central I turned my back to her and turned into the aisle, and just when I thought everything was alright I felt my pad pressing up into my nether regions. It lasted maybe 5-10 seconds,  until I walked away, and I couldn't believe that a *woman* would molest me in plain view of all the people on that train, so I started imagining it was something unlikely: my pad had scrunched up uncomfortably while I was sitting, and had temporarily caused me discomfort. The other option was to look back, look at her, witness her extended limb, witness her face. What could I do? Stop in my tracks and yell at her, humiliating her in public? "How dare you violate me, you fucking asshole?" But I would miss my stop (which would further ruin my day). Should I head directly for the closest police station? I knew that I would not. Even though there was probably camera footage of the event. (Hmm.) At the time I thought the odds of her getting caught were very slim. I have already reported a rape to the police, and they weren't able to help me. More recently, I had written to a police department in the US, trying to give them enough information to do a raid on my pedophile ex-boyfriend's computer. It didn't work. I didn't want to have to think of my history of dealing with the police. I didn't want to have to think of my #MeToo history. I had the right to be safe from malicious practices, after all I've been through. My weight should be enough to deter those who prey on women (or people who can pass for them). But I wasn't, and it wasn't. So, here we are. 

So maybe I *will* go to the police. Next time I get up the nerve. 

*

Writing this out has helped me clarify some things. I deserve to fight for my right to access justice. If you're reading this and have your own #MeToo story, you deserve justice too. You deserve to live without anyone crossing your boundaries. So if they won't let you live in peace, give 'em hell. Speak up. You will encourage the rest of us to do speak up in turn. Together, we can overthrow the power imbalances that lead to sexual assault. Anything is possible in this world. We would do well to awaken the possibilities within. <3

Finally, just because my abuser was a trans woman, doesn't say anything about trans women in general. Most of the trans women I know are loveable. My generalisation (about their lovability) was the thing that kept me from processing the full weight of my perception of her as predatory. If there's something to be learnt from this, it's to refrain from generalisation. (Not that her behaviour is in any way my fault.) But anyway, I will continue to fight for trans rights, because one bad apple doesn't speak for the rest. Trans people are a disadvantaged group that are worthy of our empathy, inclusion and protection - just like anybody else in this world.