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Thursday, 10 August 2000 (deathly) 5:03am It didn't work quite as well as I'd hoped; I was alone with my thoughts for too long.
No matter. I'm awake now, which I guess is good.
I couldn't help noticing that The Fidget Queen has finally been moved out of his cubicle. To where, I don't know and don't care to find out. Figures it would happen after I've moved. The company is supposed to move into another building entirely next year. I can see it now: back in a cubicle under flourescents, with him within spitting distance. Just like in the beginning.
Yesterday there was a department meeting in one of the smaller conference rooms; the door was shut,
and once or twice he did his disgusting nose-on-the-palm-of-his-hand thing. I was tempted to say,
"See? See what I had to put up with for over a year and a half?" Naaaah.
I wised up last night and bought a new set of rechargable batteries. My current pair have been dying on me entirely too often; when I suddenly found myself on the bus yesterday evening with nothing to distract me from the sound of the yappy child in front of me and the horribly banal conversation behind me ("I think I'll rent Bridge on the River Kwai because it has Alec Guinness, who just died"), it was one of those little moments of hell. I was reminded of the Night Gallery with John Astin as a hippie who goes to hell and finds himself locked in a room with an old codger in a rocking chair and a married couple showing vacation slides. These are not images conducive to a healthy self-image.
I got AA and AAA, to accomodate both my discman and my work-issued Palm. It's one of the
older models—I say that not to be snobbish, but in obersving that the stuff I'm working
on is actually for a more recent model—but I need to get
used to them. Hard not to feel like a line has been crossed, though. I'm young, I work in a city,
I'm a professional (although an argument could be made the prevalence of webmonkeys has
lowered it into the McJob range), and now I carry a PDA. No cellphone, though, and no fucking
SUV. No fucking SUV ever, thank you very much. With the possible exception of my evil ex-neighbor,
the alpha who all but pulled a Pacific Heights to get us out of "his" apartment, I
only know one person who drives and SUV: Leigh. However, she has a family and frequently goes on trips
into the mountains. Imagine that.
...tick tick tick... 3:41pm Ooooh. Meteor shower this weekend. Those are always fun. 5:44pm What I need to remember is that I don't look like this. Not really. I've been looking at varying stages of this damaged face for the last month and a half, and I wonder if I haven't begun to believe that it's true. Sometimes there's nothing more dangerous for a tranny than believing what you see in the mirror. This body, though. I wonder about this body. It was one way for such a long time, I wonder if it can really ever be different. Not to contradict what I was saying the other day about the "wrong body" concept; this is still my "right" body, but it was very large and misshapen for years, and it may not be able to be anything else. Not without outside intervention.
again? that, again? Jonco called, and we talked for a while. It's nice to know I still have it in me.
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Wednesday, 9 August 2000 (indulgence not compulsion) 9:08am The gym on Ocean was quite busy last night, much more so than on Sunday afternoon. Probably because there's more to do elsewhere on a Sunday afternoon than at half past nine on Tuesday night. If I'd been apprehensive before about changing in the men's locker room, I now know for sure that I don't wanna. I only went in there to use the restroom, but it made me profoundly uncomfortable. I'm the first to admit that my sense of how others perceive me is skewed at best, but I couldn't help thinking that I was getting some very unpleasant looks. Beefcake to the extreme, and it isn't exactly in the most progressive part of town, either. It's a place where men wear their masculinity on their sleeve. Necessary disclaimer: I do not begrudge men their right to be men. It is entirely too common for m2f transsexuals who prefer women to be ardent, self-righteous man-haters. I do not fall into that category. (Nor do I think having a beard automatically makes a man a sexist asshole, as I have been accused of implying. Granted, I do believe that if professional sports disappeared—let's start with football and go from there—American society would improve immeasurably, but that's different.) Testosterone is no more or less a valid substance than estrogen. If it makes me uncomfortable, then it's my responsibility to take care to avoid such situations—in other words, if I don't like a show, I don't try to have it taken off the air. I simply change the channel, or more likely, don't turn the set on in the first place. But I try not to suggest that other people don't have a right to enjoy it, because I wouldn't take kindly to a similar attempt to dictate what my tasts should be. Like, on an internal anything-goes mailing list at work, some people started discussing the previous night's Survivor. Naturally, the cultural guardians leapt into it, screaming that the show sucks and that anyone who watches it should get a life, etc. I kept out of it entirely, though as always I'm amused by how much energy some people devote into trying to change the entertainment habits of other people. As a Star Trek fan from before it was fashionable, I'm intimately familiar with that sort of thing. I've had to defend my tastes/interests/lifestyle on more than occasion from the repeated questions which always boil down to, "Why are you like that?" Anyway, a 24-Hour semi-recently opened in the Castro; though a little farther away, that one may provide a more comfortable environment. Perhaps no less beefcake, but I'd rather be around beefcake which is also potentially cruising for trade. Better to get hit on than get beaten up because someone thinks that you might want to hit on them. (Yes, I realize that the majority of gay men go to gyms to exercise, not to get laid.) In spite of the late hour, there were a lot of children last night. School's out, so I guess that's not a concern, but it was still odd. At least one kid was clearly bored and had to kill at least an hour while his parents went about their business. He got on a treadmill for a minute, moved on to a bike, walked around a bit, etc. His attention span just wasn't up for it, and I don't blame him. I have a hard enough time myself. Tonight, or not? Probably, yes. There's a lot to be said for pacing, maybe going every other night...and an equal, if not stronger argument can be made for going as often as possible, whenever the opportunity presents itself. To keep the focus. As tempting as it is to just to stay at home and sit on the couch, I've done a whole hell of a lot of that lately. In addition to working out regularly, I've been taking the muni a lot more. See? I'm trying to behave myself, I really am. I suppose it helps that I'm completely sick of driving in San Francisco, at for now I'd rather deal with public transportation. Takes longer, but requires less concentration. Sort of. Sometimes keeping to yourself can require a fair amount of it, as I discovered on the way home last night. I decided to experiment and sit in the very back of the bus, on the far left. I reckoned I would be undisturbed there, and the odds of me being asked to relinquish my seat were very slim. Dark glasses and Princess Leia headphones on, book in hand. Very much in Do Not Disturb mode. So what happens? A guy sits down next to me and asks what I'm reading. He has to ask a second time for me to realize that he's talking to me, and a third time after I make a point of lifting the headphone away from my ear so I can hear him, hoping he'll get the hint. I show him the cover (Permanent Midnight by Jerry Stahl, which I'd figured would be less of a conversation-starter than the other book I'm reading right now, Anton LaVey's The Satanic Bible), replace the headphone and resume my reading. He gets the hint, finally. Shortly after he leaves the bus he's replaced by a few very loud teenagers, the sort who validate their own existence by getting reactions our of people. Surprisingly, I don't seem to be on their radar at all. I guess they're like the roaming missionaries: they know easy prey when they see it, and I'm already otherwise distracted. It's the people who are just sitting there, looking straight ahead with nothing occupying their attention—those are usually the ones they go for. As I said, the easy prey.
After they left (I was riding the route), my next neighbors were a young couple whose hands where
very busy on each other's thighs. Unfortunately, this was smack dab in my peripheral vision. I
managed to casually twist my vision away so I wasn't forced to watch. Ugh. At least I learned my
lesson: no more back of the bus.
Okay, that's not entirely true. Acid and 'shrooms have always given me that necessary degree of escape, or at least the ability to focus on something else. Early on in my relationship with The Ex, she went on a pre-arranged trip which happened to include her ex-boyfriend. (It was as kosher as anything else was at the time.) He'd made it very clear that he had designs on her, and by her own admission she was still somewhat attached to him. But there wasn't much I could do about it except trust her. As I often would in those days, I spent the weekend at Jonco's, hanging out with him and Tom. We dropped acid that Saturday night and went to a party. I enjoyed myself thoroughly and didn't dwell too much on what may or may not have been going on elsewhere; I accepted it and focused on the moment at hand. It's a degree of peace which, at this moment, seems very far away. I felt it to a large extent a couple times last year, too: when I did the 'shrooms Cami (are you still out there?) gave me for my birthday, and again at Lee's that August. Can it only be achieved through ingestion of hallucinogens? No, probably not. But I miss it and want it back (however briefly) and I don't know any other way. Tangentially, I once again need to remember to call Lee, find out if his mother's party's happening this year—well, I'm sure it is, but more importantly, if he'll be there. If he won't be there, I won't. Regardless, I know it won't be the same as before, I know. Nothing is. The sight back in April of his emptied room was jarring, like a unnecessary reminder to me that everything is in flux—the world I knew before last year is not only gone, but the new one I'd entered has also shattered, collapsed under its own gravity, replaced by something far less hospitable. Most of the time I'm able to convince myself that I wasn't to some extent responsible for its destruction. The blinders get harder and harder to maintain, though.
you feel like you're drifting, without a country, without a home besides the sets of dark four walls between which you shuffle delay. whose fault is that? and what good is wallowing about it? So, a few hits are in order. As many as it takes. For medicinal puposes, you understand. And as with all medicines, take only as directed. Guess whether or not I'm going to the gym tonight.
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Tuesday, 8 August 2000 (watching me fall) 6:09am And then sometimes I wonder if my undoing, my greatest folly, won't prove to be my apparent belief that I'm actually getting away with it all. That I won't be held accountable. 8:30am Speaking of accountability, Phil mentioned at one point last night that he considers getting music off the internet to be "stealing." I don't recall why it came up, but there's no predicting his tangents. Anyway, I didn't have the heart to tell him that the CDs I'd been playing were, in fact, Communist. 9:22am Ah, shit! There's a game at the Evil Pac Bell Park tonight. What the fuck? They had a game last night! Shouldn't there be some kind of zoning thing against games two nights in a row? Christ!
Oh well. Could be worse. At least it isn't football.
Ah. So the little wheel on the side controls contrast, but to
turn on the backlighting you have to press the green button and
hold it down. I get it now, I think. And I don't care what
Brian says, I still say the Palm III more closely resembles
the communicators from the first Star Trek pilot. Yes,
functionally it's like a tricorder, but I'm talking design.
Electro used to make working out difficult, it's true. When I was getting cleared for the first time, a period of roughy 50 hours spread out over a few months, I found that my face was entirely too sensitive. It was a much gorier process then; not because the technology's any different, but because I had a full (if still some straggly in places) beard which had never been challenged by anything more than a simple razor. Unless you count those years when I only shaved once or twice a month, loathing the facial hair but also keeping my fingers crossed that the old wives' tale—what's a young wives' tale? that cell phones cause cancer?—that shaving causes the beard to grow in faster, ergo not shaving made it thinner. Counter-intuitive as hell, perhaps, and even though I was a long way from coming out (only The Ex knew something was up, but not the full extent), I knew there would come a time when I want to be as clean-shaven as possible.
Anyway, I don't have that excuse anymore. None of the others will work, either.
Even that fucked-up lighting over the crosstrainers.
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Monday, 7 August 2000 (feed of man) 6:22am Scribbled into my notebook on the bus ride home on Friday evening:
...and so on. I had some other ideas running through my head that night which I'll probably develop further. Some bitching about Maggie, probably, and a certain incident a few years back for which I apparently have yet to forgive her. Or not. 8:55am While taking the train home on Saturday night—we'd gone to a Robert Altman double feature at the Castro, Nashville and MASH—I spotted someone who reminded me a great deal of The Other. It wasn't, and he looked very much as The Other looked back in '95, different from how she looks now. (Not that I've seen her in person in years, but online I know where to look. I'm possessed of the most morbid sort of curiousity, it seems.) It was very disqueting. Same body type, hair, even that prominent nose. For a moment I found myself wondering if maybe she'd changed her mind and decided to reverse her transition, inasmuch as such a thing is possible. It wasn't her, though, confirmed by (among other things) the fact that they were speaking German. 1:30pm From Maggie's reply to my abortive attempt to re-establish a friendship with her last year.
Ah, yes. "Honorary girl." My, but she was proud of that one. It had been in '96 or early '97, long before I came out, and she just wanted me to know that she thought I was a good person in spite of being a boy. She was very surprised and apprehensive when I did finally come out, so it can't be rationalized as simply her being perceptive about me. At the time I found it rather amusing, but as time goes by I find it all the more insulting. A pre-op transsexual had no business "bestowing the title of honorary girl" on anyone. It's the worst kind of arrogance, the kind of thing which it seems to easy for us to slip into. She does consider herself to be a Lesbian above all else, so I'd imagine it had something to do with not giving the wrong idea. Since, being a boy, I was of course likely to interpret the slightest sign of friendship from her as a signal that she wanted to get at my dick. Like a number of transsexual lesbians (though hardly all), she lived in the constant belief that every man was lusting after her. For as useless as what-if'ing is, I still find myself wondering on occasion what would have happened had I never met her or The Other. I wonder if I might be a little less screwed up than I am, if I wasn't so overly concerned with not being like them. I don't believe it's in my essential nature, and maybe that's what's so scary. People change. I know I've changed/am changing. What if it's ultimately not for the better? I never did finish my reply to her, and she never wrote again. Perhaps I just didn't want to have to explain to her why I would prefer her to call me "Sherilyn." I was kind enough to call her by her chosen name right off the bat, but it would have been too much to expect the same courtesy from her.
Another chalk mark. I seem to have accumulated a lot of them.
Two more appointments scheduled, and then a break for a while. For my sanity. (You never know, it might work.)
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Sunday, 6 August 2000 (secret of the sea) 6:31pm The lighting sucks. Over the second back row of crosstrainers at the 24-Hour Fitness on Ocean Avenue, that is. Madeline and I worked out there for a couple hours this afternoon, in anticipation of going on a regular basis three or four nights a week. It's astonishing how much the place has changed; as near as I can tell, they gutted the old location, tore down the wall to the adjoning empty building and practically started from scractch. Except for the unused elevator to the parking garage, it bears no resemblence to how it looked when I used to be a regular. And it's still closed from 2am to 6am. I asked why, and after taking a few moments to understand my question (some things never change), the employee said that "the neighborhood" wouldn't let it actually be open twenty-four hours. Maybe it's a zoning thing, I don't know. Anyway, the lighting over the second row of crosstrainers results in one's shadow being cast in front, meaning that it's difficult to read. A little thing, perhaps, but reading and listening to music are two of things that get me/keep me motivated to exercise. (Whatever works.) Alas. Inertia's a bitch to overcome, but it can be done...
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Saturday, 5 August 2000 (blood of the lamb) 9:47pm Another failed attempt to go to the gym this morning. Exactly why it failed is still a matter of some mystery, and I suppose the truth may never be entirely known. The therapist has suggested that I should in fact start going at night, as I have been strongly considering. My paradigm in these matters is not unlike a pendulum. While at the library today (I have no shortage of reading material, but those places are like free porn to me) I picked up Meditation for Dummies. Ports and storms.
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Friday, 4 August 2000 (among the multitude) 7:53am I knew I was forgetting something, and now I know what it was. The key. The key to my office. I never got it. It hadn't been an issue until now; I've been leaving the door open at night, mostly for circulation. I also have two fans running for that same reason. As for security, I have nothing more of value than I did when I was in a cubicle. Anyway, someone closed and locked my door after I left last night, so I'm friggin' locked out. I've left a note with the office manager, who probably won't be here for at least another half hour. In the meantime, I'm hiding in Brian's office, as he makes a point of leaving his door wide open overnight. Mine was only half open, and which might have been the problem. Perhaps someone on the janitorial staff thought they were doing me a favor. I genuinely don't care who or why; I just want back in.
Given the level of organization around here, I would not be at
all surprised if the former occupant of my office never bothered
to turn his key in before he left (the guy was so onry, he made
me look like a team player). I may very well be
screwed. Oh well. If nothing else, I haven't composed a
journal entry through telnet in a while—it's nice to keep
the command-line skills alive, such as mine are—and I
started Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions on the
bus this morning, which should keep me occupied for a while.
And so it goes.
The truly annoying part is, at noon I have to go to a mandatory "brainstorming" session involving both my department and Marketing. I'd been hoping to use the time before that (four and a half hours, it would have been) to actually get some genuine work done. Actual productivity, fancy that. But, no. I hit "Accept" to the Outlook request, so that's that. TDM has been very adamant about scheduling meetings on Outlook, since that is what engenders productivity. Keeping tabs on her flock. I wonder what would happen if I hit "Decline," and as a reason offered, "I don't wanna." It would be true, at least. I'm halfway through Breakfast of Champions. If I don't finish it before I get back into my office, then I surely will on the bus ride home tonight. I talked myself out of driving this morning, and I'm glad, both because I would have had to wait that much longer to get into my office, and there's a game at the Evil Pac Bell Park tonight. Traffic is going to suck, and even though I arguably might get home faster by driving myself, huddling into a muni seat with a book and headphones and sunglasses sounds far less stressful. The ability to be alone in a crowd is a valuable skill.
One of the local wags (the same one who once commented
that my stripeys reminded him of Mork) just walked by,
saw me typing away at Brian's desk, and said, "Hi,
Brian!" Very witty.
In any event, in spite of the assorted setbacks today, I'm finally done. I'd thought that developing for a Palm would have necessitated actually having one for real, but apparently I was mistaken. Most importantly, I finally have a key for my office. It's the little details.
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Last night I got my clothes packed and various accoutrements ready in anticipation of getting up early and going to the gym. Didn't happen, as things went downhill and we didn't get to sleep until late enough to be considered early. I got out of the apartment late, not quite wanting to go to work but not really wanting to stay home, either. Not sure, as usual, just what I did want. On the bus, I saw a March of Dimes ad, regarding abuse of pregnant women: "'I Didn't Hit You That Hard.' Sound Familiar?" I found myself sobbing, but only just a little. I stopped at the store and fumbled my way through. Walking to the office I encounted Whitman, who works nearby. He and Tania had just gotten back into town the night before from a scouting mission down south. They had successfully found an apartment. It wasn't where they ultimately wanted to be, he said, but it's better than here. They'll be gone at the end of the month. At work, Brian and I talked more about the Palm developing we'll be doing. He's quite enthusiastic about it, both because it's kinda cool and because it'll make us more valuable and more autonomous. The Den Mother is keeping an eye on us, but we're talking about someone who calls form fields "dialogue boxes" and once suggested that an email problem might have been caused by javascript. Leaving her far behind is not outside the realm of possibility. It's going to involve getting into some heavy programming, C+ and the like, stuff that's always made my head hurt. But I knew this was coming eventually, that it would be necessary for me to remain useful in this business. Just so long as I don't have to move. I'm getting more and more comfortable in this room. I put up the first of the black sheets last night (Brian was duly impressed), and have managed to get the blacklights and the single white light to behave and provide exactly the amount of ambient light I require. Nothing direct, just enough to illuminate my work area without a glare on my screen or, god forbid, the light source being in my eyes. One of the blacklights is pointing directly towards my computer, unlike at my old cubicle where they all faced the walls. I've always found something comforting in a blacklight bulb. I don't know why. Maybe it's how you can never quite focus on the purple filament and the blue corona at the same time; they're always a little out of sync.
It's a fascination which goes back a long way. I remember coming
home from The Ex's one morning in the summer of '91 after we'd been frying (got back after
my mom had left for work) and just sitting in my room with Passion playing and
observing the single blacklight bulb. It was very peaceful, and all seemed right
with the world. I've always tried to recapture that sense of peace, with results
ranging from dismal to really, really bad.
Tania sounds enthusiastic about their new place down south. I think they're going to be happy. They deserve it. I'm going to miss them. After my next two zapping sessions, I'm going to cool it for a while. I have to. The possibility that I've been doing too much too quickly has been on my mind. Electrolysis scarring is one of the more immediately obvious signs, and I'm going to have a hard enough time passing as it is. Then again, I may never. I will or I won't. When all is said and done, it really isn't up to me. Intense, crippling depression is not uncommon amongst trannies. Certainly I saw it up close and personal with The Other. I don't believe I've ever seriously dealt with it personally, though. I wonder if I'm due. Sometimes the unfairness of it can get overwhelming. This is not something anyone in their right mind would want, nor would I wish it on my worst enemy. Oh, I realize I'm looking at it from a relatively priviliged viewpoint, and my struggles have been minor compared to many others. Being a transsexual at the turn of the century has only been as much of an impediment as I've allowed it to be. With a very few exceptions, the friends I've lost because of it are the ones I haven't expended the energy to keep. (If I try to get in touch with Conk and he doesn't respond, I'll have nobody to blame buy myself.) Certainly it hasn't negatively impacted my career; on that score, my lack of ambition is responsible. Still, it's something that all of us with the crossed gender wires ask from time to time, and some will find no peace until this supremely rhetorical question is answered: why? What have I done to deserve this? As William Munny pointed out, deserve's got nothin' to do with it.
I find myself wondering once again if I shouldn't actually try to get in touch with other trannies
in the area. I do know some F2M's, but nobody with whom I can get particularly close. It's best that
I keep my distance from The Other, and it's safe to say the same holds true for Maggie. But I can probably
make that argument for anyone. I have more than enough drama in my life without injecting someone else's.
Whether that's selfishness or self-defense, I don't know. Maybe walls are a good thing.
Apparently, I simply had to know.
At least my monthly expenses are about to go down; there's no way my endocrinologist
is going to prescribe Meridia now. Indeed, if the last eighteen months are any indication,
all I need to do is simply not remind her, since she's never once remembered it on her
own, and it's always the same goddamn routine over and over. (A imminently skeptical look,
followed by: "How can you be on Meridia? You are gaining weight!" Even if it's a two-pound
gain over three months according to two different scales.) So I'll be on my own pretty soon.
Probably won't feel any different.
they know. they know of your darkness. you've failed.
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Wednesday, 2 August 2000 (dive) 8:23am I can easily sleep for only three hours. The problem is, I don't get to choose which three hours. 12:05pm Belief is a finicky thing. This morning, I didn't want to believe that I'd lost my wallet. I refused to even seriously entertain the thought, and as such didn't imagine the scenarios in which i could have lost it. (The most likely one falling into the "where I saw it last" category, in this case at El Gran Taco on Broadway. Much to my surprise it was a beautiful day yesterday, overcast with a steady breeze. No direct sunlight to interact with my sensitive skin. The kind of day which the tourists dread.) I decided that to contemplate such things was to ensure they'd be true. No, in all likelihood I'd just left it on my desk at work. So I didn't mention anything to Maddy nor write about it in my journal, my two primary impulses. I'd go to work (driving so to take Maddy to an appointment, fortunately I keep my license in my jacket breast pocket seperate from my wallet), and it would be on my desk right where I didn't remember leaving it. Rationally, do I believe that it would've made a difference? If I'd gone to work saying over and over "I hope it dropped out of my jacket and is funding someone's crack habit for the next six months," would that have made it so? Regardless of what you're asking for, do I genuinely think that praying and wishing works?
No, I don't. And yet I'm still wary of jinxing myself. I don't believe
in the existance of the interactive supernatural (if there is something beyond what
we consider to be part of nature, then we're most likely also beyond each other's
perceptions), but apparently I do believe in fate and try not to tempt it.
My wallet was not on my desk when I came in this morning, so I began to accept
that it was lost and considered what a pain in the neck that was going to be.
Then I saw it on the ground in front of my desk, picked it up, put in my
backpack, and tried to not give the matter any more thought. Unsuccessfully.
oh my peer, your veneer 4:58pm Maybe it's just that I've never really had anything to believe in, and sometimes I wish I did. I couldn't become an xtian at this point if I wanted to. Religion as isn't necessarily the answer. The reservoir of faith in myself which allowed me to survive the last year and half is beginning to run dry. There's too much anger, too much resentment, too much negativity. I remember once reading the line, "The only thing I can trust is my own self-indulgence." Not exactly something I can apply to my life, but it's a nice sentiment all the same. Tomorrow, right? Right. That's when it begins. Or am I not scraping yet?
it was much clearer then. now it's all so abstract. what are you trying to say? do you know anymore? would you have the courage if you did?
My mom just asked for a recent picture of me to put on her mantle. That's
something new to think about.
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Tuesday, 1 August 2000 (no god only religion) 11:23am The Webster street tunnel leading in and out of Alameda is closed weeknights for the next few years, so the transbay bus is detoured, requiring a transfer and layover. I was nodding my way through Hannibal last night at the transfer point, waiting for the bus to arrive. (For as tired as I was, napping on the bench wasn't exactly an option, although at least one young man was nodding in the classic sense, and I don't think it was from vicodin. Besides, I'm determined to finish the book.) A transit employee was there, doing his best to make sure the buses were running on time and keeping everyone informed. Some people were still getting upset at him, but he kept his cool. I was impressed and somewhat touched. Must have been the drugs.
Today, however, I'm feeling particularly xenophobic, probably because my face is in heat-receptor mode.
I don't want to go outside, and I don't want to see other people. I just want to hide in my cave
where the bad people can't find me.
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