They make the world more unlivable every day, and then they ask us to live in it. A security guard for Amazon mentions he used to work in law enforcement.
Some of the indignity is that there's no way to speak back. There's no word to throw against them and their world.
They can shout at us every day from the streets and on the internet. But when I'm at my job sharing physical space with a cop-techie hybrid there's nothing I can say. I tried to glare my meanest glare, let him know he wasn't welcome. The techie-cop wouldn't even raise his eyes to meet my gaze from behind his laptop screen.
Friday, March 1, 2019
Saturday, February 9, 2019
1
To write toward the book I want to write:
This is a book about my life as a transgender anarchist in his late twenties living in Seattle. This is a book about someone trying to move toward accountability. This is a book grounded in my relationships, my thinking, and my values. A book about starting from my body, in my body, and with my body.
This is also an attempt to think about my body, the way that white supremacy, sexual violence, and constant misgendering weigh it down. What it feels like when I can't cry and have no one to hold. What it feels like when my body never relaxes or finds a way to move through the pain I'm in.
Right now I'm sitting in bed, with a stomach ache. My right arm is sore from shoveling. My throat is dry and feels scratchy. My head hurts and most of my body is tired. None of my muscles feel right. It feels like everything is clenched and holding on against so much that I can't let go of.
I don't know if I want to write about writing or if I have anything to say about it. I don't know if I can force my words into a space where they can be seen and heard. Sometimes it feels like everything is cracking, falling apart.
Is writing a product of my head and my constant thinking or a product of my body, the body that is wondering, listless, moves through space and time? Can writing bring me closer to the things I'm looking for?
I'm trying to hold on and to let go. It feels scary right now to try to write something for people to read. Have I become afraid of speaking? I probably should eat something and drink some water. Try to calm down. Those are ways I can take care of my body in this moment and try to feel more relaxed.
I guess I'll stop writing here for now and try to find some words again another time.
This is a book about my life as a transgender anarchist in his late twenties living in Seattle. This is a book about someone trying to move toward accountability. This is a book grounded in my relationships, my thinking, and my values. A book about starting from my body, in my body, and with my body.
This is also an attempt to think about my body, the way that white supremacy, sexual violence, and constant misgendering weigh it down. What it feels like when I can't cry and have no one to hold. What it feels like when my body never relaxes or finds a way to move through the pain I'm in.
Right now I'm sitting in bed, with a stomach ache. My right arm is sore from shoveling. My throat is dry and feels scratchy. My head hurts and most of my body is tired. None of my muscles feel right. It feels like everything is clenched and holding on against so much that I can't let go of.
I don't know if I want to write about writing or if I have anything to say about it. I don't know if I can force my words into a space where they can be seen and heard. Sometimes it feels like everything is cracking, falling apart.
Is writing a product of my head and my constant thinking or a product of my body, the body that is wondering, listless, moves through space and time? Can writing bring me closer to the things I'm looking for?
I'm trying to hold on and to let go. It feels scary right now to try to write something for people to read. Have I become afraid of speaking? I probably should eat something and drink some water. Try to calm down. Those are ways I can take care of my body in this moment and try to feel more relaxed.
I guess I'll stop writing here for now and try to find some words again another time.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)