A visit to the zoo, or A slice of possible internalised homophobia

So, what kind of lesbians do you want to go and look at anyway? ask my two friends and escorts. For a split second, Sarah’s lured me into believing that there actually is a choice and that it’s mine to make. I should know better. So as we make our way through foggy Soho, we carefully avoid the much despised Candy bar and head into its clone on Old Compton Street.
After I’ve regretfully kept my hands in my pockets as we make our way through a roomful of gayboy muscles in tight tshirts, we find the back cupboard devoted to womyn the broads what we’re there for.
We scan the crowd. It’s not just policemen that look young, you know, I mutter between two sips of bubblegum-flavoured alcopop. Everyone in here looks about 16 with similar hair, clothes, mannerisms. I bet they’ve all applied to go to fashion school after they’ve done their A-levels. I inwardly kick myself; I’m getting seriously, cynically annoying, and I don’t want to try the patience of my willing friends. Make an effort, Y. ‘Anyone you like?’ chirps Maria. No. Wait, what about her over there, she’s nice.. No. I mean, yes, she is, but she looks, somehow, like a younger A. Let’s not even go there. I toy with my bendable straw and practice my wise, mysterious but still approachable look. Oh no, a girl is attempting eye contact; I can’t look away, but mainly because she looks uncannily like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Can’t she see I have wrinkles ahem lines, for the sake of Pete? We retreat and spend the rest of the night in an old man’s pub, eating old man’s pub grub. Contentedly.

P

I’m playing a new game with myself. It’s called Shift the Perspective, and no it doesn’t involve any state-altering substances.

perspective : n 1: a way of regarding situations or topics etc.; "consider what follows from the positivist view" [syn: position, view] 2: the appearance of things relative to one another as determined by their distance from the viewer [syn: linear perspective]

Example #1: from bad to good
a) Primary state/perspective:
Sofa. Pyjamas. Chocolate. Some guy’s best-selling novel. Sugar. Sleeping cat. Sleepy body.
Slouch. Creaking back. Old socks. Sore neck. Grey skies. Low horizon.

b) Strategy:
Kick up the arse, then 90 minutes of yoga.

c) Altered state/perspective:
Awake, eager, optimistic, stretched. Hello, muscles, hello! body, hello, horizon(s). Good-bye, sugar.

Other possible Perspective-shifting strategies:
Dress like a man for a day.
Dress like a Chav for a day.
Dye my hair blonde. Just for a day.
Go shopping in Argos on a Saturday afternoon on New Oxford Street for ten minutes.
Win the lottery.

Off to ponder the possible repercussions of al those things.

As a last thought: If yoga is all about stretching, can it actually achieve anything that the good old-fashioned rack wouldn’t?
Feel free to ignore this purely rhetorical question, of course.

It’s a heavy legacy, you know

4 lessons I’ve (unfortunately) learnt from my mother
If you want to be happy in life, don’t be like me.
If you expect too much from your friends, you’ll end up not having any.
Original/quirky people end up alone.
Nothing you ever do is to be taken seriously.

4 lessons I’ve learnt from my stepfather (and tried to forget)
when in doubt, shout; works every time.
when wrong, say you’re right. Works every time.
When they still won’t listen, break furniture.
To make your family comply, push them into your car, drive in a straight line way beyond the speed limit and tell them you’re going to kill them. Works every time.

2 lessons I’ve learnt from my grandmother (and laughed off)
If you get up later than 9am you’ll have breakfast too late, and then you won’t be hungry for lunch.
Italians and Poles have lice, Eastern Europeans are thieves, Americans are megalomaniac, and English people will pretend they can’t understand you.

How could anyone expect me to be balanced after all that?

Finally:

5 lessons I’ve learnt from J
When it comes to dessert, it’s not quality, it’s quantity that counts.
Newly purchased underwear needs to spend at least two months on top of the piano before it can be worn, and then it has to be inside out.
Never underestimate the Power of the Cuddle.
Stupid jokes get funnier every time.
Easter eggs consumption needs plenty of practice: one before, one during, and plenty afterwards, when they’re on sale in Woolworth’s.
Never take an idiot with you on your travels, you can always pick one up when you get there.

1 lesson I’ve learnt from my cat:
if in doubt, nap.

Busy

People of blogland, I’ve been:
- cooking (I can)
- sewing (yes, really.)
- sleeping
- chatting up strangers on the innernet.

I’ll let you know how I get on.
In the meantime, I’ll be trying to convince those complete strangers that what I’m looking for is the right company because in the right company, I have the potential to be fucking brilliant. So the responsibility is on them, you know?

The aim is to get a date before mid-April, do you think I can do it?
Back to tap-tap-tapping.

Afterthought : when I feel that I miss A, I remind myself that love is merely an addiction.

What?

Today’s highlight: I made brownies. Moist on the inside, crunchy on the outside. Just like armadillos.

I also had a conversation with my mother, except it took place inside my head. I was blaming her for my inability to throw myself 100% into anything, (making art, dancing at gigs, being in love) for fear that she’d laugh. I can’t report it in any more detail, cos I’m still a little sore from her jibes. Inside my head.

I know. Not getting any better.

Hey big spender, spend a little time with me

1. On a sunny spring afternoon after school, I race around my neighbourhood on my brand new blue bike, trying the muscles in my 10-year-old body. It’s become one of my favourite pastimes, relatively safe; there aren’t too many cars in that part of my little town. Up the street, and down, at the highest speed I can muster; then leisurely, for there is a girl my age sitting on the pavement. Up and down the street, I eye her up. I could make a new friend! Up and down again, I have such a cool new bike. She’s noticed me! Casually I sit next to her on the hot tarmac and start chatting. Her name’s Gaelle, she’s new to the area, she doesn’t have a bike; what can we do? I don’t know her enough to invite her back to my house. We sneak into a garden and pick cherries til we’re sick of them. We try to break into an empty house nearby but soon give up; she fears there might be ghosts. We mosey on down to the shop around the corner; the old lady owner sells toys and sweets. I know what we can do, we can buy stuff! I’m back on my brand new blue bike, race home, break my piggy bank and return, triumphant. We walk out with bags of flavoured gums and water pistols. Score! I’ve made a new friend.

2. These days it’s harder to find girls sitting on pavements waiting for me to turn up and chat to them. What am I to do?

3. Perhaps the key to successful scoring lies in one or a combination of the following things:

bike
forbidden fruit
transgression
money

4. It got me a girl all those years ago, didn’t it?
Sort of.


Perhaps I should learn to ride a bike. One of those big 900 ones that come with a cool leather outfit.

Envy

1.Apparently, the writer Théophile Gaultier used to get all his ideas for his novels from his dreams. He used to keep a notebook by his bed and, as soon as he’d open his eyes, quickly scribble his dreams. Well, it worked for him.

2. I wonder what I could do with mine.
Dreams from the past few nights:
- I am doing the splits;
- I have really really long hair down to my waist and I’m feeling very satisfied.
- I am in a house full of people, it’s some party, I know and fear that A is going to turn up. She never turns up.

All those dreams recur at regular intervals.
But I really can’t see how I can weave them, let alone turn them into a novel.

3. Théophile clearly had much better quality dreams than I do. Probably something to do with absinthe, opium and prostitutes.
I’m being slightly envious.

Let's run through today together, shall we?

yay!
next Sunday BB1 will be showing part 1 of Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith.

Boo!
I've been a chocolate-eating slob all day. Then I had chips for dinner. Then cake. I'm in a fucking miserable mood, so miserable in fact that I can't be arsed to snap out of it by doing something constructive. Or fun.

yay!
Holidays coming up.

boo!
I'm going to see my mother.

Yay!
Val McDermid. All of her books. Especially the Tony Hill series.

boo!
Spring is over, it's gone stupidly cold again, I guess the cork-lined tights will have to come out for an encore.

That's it, people of blogland. Thank you for stopping by.

Fossilisation

8am
Hey Y, lookin’ good today! I chirp at the person in the mirror.
What are you going to be wearing on that arse, let’s seee.. yep, good choice.
The person in the mirror poses and prances and twirls.
I decide that if I met myself I might ask myself out.
I would wolf-whistle if I knew how to. Nothing like a bit of shameless self-congratulation to start the day.

10am
What’s that at the back of the drawer.. an old film? How long has it been there? What can possibly be on it? I can’t remember last time I used my old camera. Months.
Why is it that old rolls of films can stay forgotten for ages, then must, must! be processed at high speed, right now, right this minute, I’m marching to Boots, and yes I do want the one-hour service, please, for I cannot bear to wait.
I kill time in the sun, trying to remember. What’s on that damn film? Who’s on that damn film? Why didn’t I get it processed at the time? It has to be a remnant of A and me, a fossil; I ponder with some kind of masochistic delectation, will it hurt, how much will it hurt, will my heart sink at the sight of her, the familiar but now blurry features? What will I do with the pictures, throw them away, slip them into an envelope that I will send her, or forget? Will I care? Will there be shots of me as I was then, will I be able to read the self-doubt/unease/wish to please on my face? What if it’s a terrible mistake to have that film processed?
£4.99 later – it was only a forgotten barbeque.
Disappointment and relief.

8pm
I can feel a very grown-up frown forming on my face. I’m sorting out finances, papers, records. Then a wad of sheets; the print outs of old emails. I shouldn’t read them. I shouldn’t read them. I read them. What energy, what momentum, what hope and warmth we bounced each other.
Another fossil.
Nothing like a bit of self-admonishment to end the day.

Fresh air
In one symbolic gesture, I put away the pair of boots, the woolly scarf and the cork-lined tights, for it is Spring in Londontown.

Yeah
And Spring means one thing: it is time to go out, position myself in a propitious area, and stare at the lesbians. A bit like hunting season, only different.
My calendar says it’s time to go out and stare, gawk, gape and possibly leer. I’m not expecting that much leering, though.

But no
I have been putting off the inevitable time when I’d let myself be dragged out. I have been wary, people of blogland. For one thing, the dyke scene bears little excitement for me. Too many identical haircuts, similar low-slung brand name jeans held at half-mast by similar belts, compulsory trainers. I’m not a fashion fascist, I just don’t like clones. And it’s not only policemen who are starting to look young, you know… everyone in there must be about 18.

But yeah
It’s taken me over six months to slowly stop feeling like I’m unwanted/able, damaged goods, thrown overboard by an ex-lover. Wary and scarred, but not too bitter; I have things to offer.

But no
I don’t want a girlfriend. I’m not even sure I want a lover. Yet.

But yeah
Spring = hormones, you know. And a little flirting’s never hurt anybody, has it? Now what can I wear..

Paragraph titles courtesy of Vicky Pollard, of course.

Today I would like to report a short anecdote in order to illustrate the psychological comfort of First Aid kits.

1. 7am, I run for the bus, stumble and fall. Pain and humiliation, blah blah. Grazed palms, torn tights and bleeding knees take me back to kindergarten and the incivilities of the sandpit. Not literally, you understand.
2. I limp into work with the face of a 5 year old struggling to keep her composure and swallow her tears, but without the snot.
3. I’m rescued by a kind co-worker armed with a first aid kit in one of those little green bags. She’s not even laughing at me.
4. The tears (rage? Humiliation/frustration?) are finally swallowed as I disinfect and bandage.

There, there, love, it’s all better now.

What do you mean, how old am I?

Don’t be a sinner, be a winner*

I’ve just fought the urge to eat the last cheesecake from the fridge. It’s not legally mine, it’s got J’s name on it. That would be so wrong. I looked at it with lusty eyes, but in the end I shut the fridge, didn’t eat it. I win.
I’ve just fought the urge to tell a friend to fuck off with her little tantrums. I bit my lip so hard it’s swollen, but in the end I didn’t say it. I win.
I’ve just fought the urge to spend a hundred quid on amazon. I have a pile of books already waiting, and I’m broke. I added 14 items to my wish list, sighed, but in the end I didn’t buy them. I win. For now.
I’ve just fought the urge to write a letter to work to give my notice. Because I need money to buy cheesecake and books, I didn’t write it. I’m not sure I win anything.
I’ve just fought the urge to email A and suggest we make up.
I’ve just fought the urge to email A and offer friendship.
Am I winning?

* a quote by my favourite religious nut, the one on Oxford Circus with the microphone who proselytises to crowds of shoppers.

People of blogland, I feel the need for Spring and time away, far, far away from here.

At home with the Hunter-Smithers

1. Etiquette
Society, for its own protection, has built up a definite code of manners and customs which must be observed by any one desirous of being welcomed by well-bred people. Etiquette is the key that opens for us the portals of a broader life in which we can find greater social happiness.

The Book of Etiquette, Volume I, Lady Tourbridge, London, 1897.

2. the good resolutions
I’ll do my best to behave not only well, but exceedingly well. I won’t swear like a trooper. I won’t drool. I won’t eat with my mouth full or roll bread into little balls. I will say ‘shall’ and ‘shan’t’ and ‘delightful’ and exquisite’ and ‘regrettable’, not ‘cool’ and ‘shite’. I will pronounce all my consonants and produce crystal-clear diphthongs. I will remember to use the right cutlery. I will not slurp my soup, pick my teeth with my knife, burp at the dinner table. I will cross my legs at the ankles and make polite conversation about the three (safe, tried and tested) topics of Holidays past and future, Current Affairs as shown on the first page of The Times, Sports as shown on the last page of The Times. I won’t mention my dodgy past, my dissolute present lifestyle, or my unladylike aspirations. I will cover up my tattoos and smile a lot.
And a thousand other things.
Say it with me: fuck, double fuck, triple fuck! I must pack sedatives.

3. the setting
The epitome of all Edwardian country houses, complete with stables, high ceilings, two grand pianos, and a view over the Yorkshire dales.

4. The reason why
I can’t even start to go into that. Shame. Suffice to say I could not turn the invitation down.

5. supper time
When Elizabeth was four, I believe, we took the train to go and visit grandpapa, she says.
I smile politely, concentrating on not slurping my consommé.
In our carriage there was a young man in some kind of punk attire, with one of those hairdos, what are they called, an American name.’
Mohicans? I hazard, wondering if her question is purposely directed at me for any reason.
Yes, that’s right. Well, Elizabeth went straight to him and said ‘You know where you belong? In a zoo! In a cage!
Much (refined, pearly) laughter ensues. Elizabeth is beaming, mock-embarrassed.
I wonder if the point of the anecdote is for us to disapprove of Elizabeth’s self-righteous, childish indignation, or to celebrate the fact that she already had a mind of her own, the dear child.

Still, the food is amazingly good.
Exquisite.
But I can’t fucking ask for seconds, can I.

6. Although fine characters may to a certain extent be an inherited possession, it can be improved and developed by the right environment, and by some study of, and regard for, the social laws and conventions.

I wonder if I’m improved and developed.

I’m back.
I missed you too.

Now, if you’ll be kind enough to bear with me for a minute.

Arse fuck shit shit shit arse fuck fuck fuck fuck!

That felt really good, you know.
(no swearing for a whole week.)

I’m also severely sleep-deprived, so off I go to bed.
I have stories, though.

I'm going away. No internet connection, no phone even. It's going to be wild. I'll be back in a few days. Be well and keep warm.

So feeble
I can’t do it.
This is how it goes: I take a deep breath before I approach It. Then I look at It, and my resolve just melts.
Every time, I know it’ll be hard; and I know that every time will end up just like the time before, and the time before that one. I can’t seem to put an end to It. I just can’t.

It’s been five years, people of blogland, which means that I’ve been trying for five years, each passing year I’ve tried a little bit harder.
But It won’t let me. Every year I fail, miserably.
So now It’s smug, because It knows. It knows that I can’t just pick it up and dismiss it. It’s so smug It thinks It’s above me and my feeble resolutions.
It started innocently enough; a chance encounter in February 1999 in Lyon. I saw no malice in It. I didn’t know what was coming. Yet. It came back to London with me, and It’s been plaguing me ever since.
I only ever wore It twice!
Both times, people didn’t say anything, but merely averted their gaze. Tactfully. Mercifully. Then it went back into the closet, a defiant patch of swirly purple adrift in a sea of black.
I don’t understand the hold It seems to have on me.
It can’t be a sentimental attachment. No memorable event ever took place while I was wearing It. No button was ripped off It in the throes of a passionate, carnal encounter.
It can’t be a sensual attachment, either. Its label divulges ‘100% polyester’, and that, my friends, isn’t sensual. It’s not even nice.
It can’t be an aesthetic bond, either. Cheap material, mediocre cut. A part of me wants to believe that it’s so dowdy and tacky it’s cool. Most of me knows it’s just fugly. I know I’ll never wear It again. Yet I can’t give it away.

I just don’t understand.
What to do?
Hire a hit man? An Oxfam hit man?

Box set

So what do you want for Christmas?, J asks for the ten thousandth time since, well, Christmas. In this household, present giving doesn’t follow the rules.
I was thinking maybe the Queer as Folk box set?
Ah, the box set. How much is that?
I don’t know, about 30 quid I think.
Oh. He pauses. I think they’ve done a special edition boxset which comes in an old shoe box with re-writable CDs and AV files. Really cool and quirky, don’t you think?

Cheap bastard.

1. am·biv·a·lence .
Pronunciation: am-'biv-&-l&n(t)s
Function: noun
simultaneous and contradictory attitudes or feelings (as attraction and repulsion) toward an object, person, or action -a heightened ambivalence which is expressed in behaviour by alternating obedience and rebellion, followed by self-reproach —am·biv·a·lent /-l&nt/ adjective —am·biv·a·lent·ly adverb
Latin ambi-valentia

2. March 2005 :
It’s not a comfortable place to be, is it, he says with a knowing smile. It’s a bit like chemotherapy: you bombard the bad cells and in the process kill the good ones too. Doesn’t your ambivalence stop you from enjoying the good sides?

I think: I’m not sure I understand.

3. August 2004:
The problem I have with you is that you’re so.. inconsistent, and I don’t want to deal with it anymore, she nearly screams, trying to keep her voice down. She can’t take the risk to shout. I won’t listen to shouts. If she manages not to shout, she’ll be right.

I think: I have failed again.

4. Look at me.
I thought ambi-valence could actually be a good thing. Valuing both sides. Being able to weight pros and cons, making balanced decisions, understanding other people’s diverging opinions. I thought it could be a strength, an asset, and extra something that would lend me clarity of vision. I thought it would always guard me from believing in greener grass. I thought it was both sides of the coin, the reasoning to my dreaming, the sensible to my silliness, the ‘I love you with al my soul’ to my ‘there’s no such thing as forever.’

5. Why does this word have such negative connotation anyway? Again – to value both.

6. So, if being ambivalent is such a bad thing, where do I go from here? And do I really want both sides to reach symmetry? Will people like me better?

---

I’m tired, people of blogland. I’m also cold, so,,automatically, eating too much.
Last night I had a dream about A’s friends. I liked her friends and the way they obviously cared about her. Maybe it was in my job description to hear her complain about them and criticise them, but I rarely felt she gave them enough credit. I don’t know why I’m even writing this. That dream, strange day, stream of consciousness. I don’t know. Thank you for stopping by. Be well.

Harbour

At the end of a long wearying crushing claustrophobic day I drag myself home and collapse on the cat.
I can feel wrinkles forming around my eyes.
Then J. comes home bearing a gift: Green and Blacks’ cocoa-rich milk chocolate with butterscotch, and everything is ok again.

Fucking priceless.
And I don’t mean the chocolate.

Tonight, Matthew, I’ll be a tabloid

Have you heard – Charles plans to marry Camilla!
Just kidding.
I know you know. We all know. The whole world knows. Ask any Brazilian/Innuit/Luxemburger what he thinks of Camilla; he’ll know you’re not offering him herbal tea.
I know, there are more pressing matters going on in this world, more shocking and important, life or death matters. Like the utter contempt with which everyone talks about Camilla. I sum up: what admirable, noble thing to do for the prince, to marry the mistress, the tired old bag. Gah.
What about her, don’t you think she has to be properly brave to say I do to that geeky-looking chinless wonder, who doesn’t even have a proper job yet? And what about his family? The future in laws are as much fun as colonic irrigation; one of the sons turned up at a party in a nazi uniform. What will he wear to the wedding? Turn up as Henry VIII, the guy who had six wives, got two of them beheaded and provoked a schism when he divorced the first one?
In the meantime to British public is being bombarded with polls. What do you think of this royal wedding? Do you agree with it in principle? That’s surreal. If you ask anyone what they think about some old geezer marrying his long-standing girlfriend, chances are he’ll reply how the fuck am I supposed to know that? But as soon as it’s Charles we’re talking about, 100% of people have an opinion. Which means that there 98 times more people who have an opinion on that matter that on whether or not they are in favour of the European Constitution. In fact there is only one certainty: 100% of people wonder when they’ll manage to have an opinion on the proposed European Constitution except for Britons, who in their majority are instinctively against anything with the word ‘European’ in it.
And I am one of those opinionless people. I just do not know. As to Charlmilla, I hope no-one chokes on a piece of overpriced wedding cake. That’d be such a shame. Life and death.