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Monday, 31 July 2000 (pure and easy) 8:59am This morning's "I can't go the gym" excuse is thus: over the weekend, a new table was put into my office. Not just mine, but most all of them. They were supposed to have been installed during the big move last week, but considering that it had been in the planning stages for months it's no surprise that it didn't happen. Anyway, now that the table is here I can finally hook up Shulgin and Omega as well as finally unpacking in earnest, setting up the lights, etc. So, of course, I had to get here as soon as possible. Besides, I'm getting zapped tonight so I'm leaving early, hence getting here early is a good thing. Not that it really makes a damn bit of difference, either to Brian or simply to reality, but it makes me feel a less the slacker. Certainly I feel guilty enough as it is, having missed so much work last week—for a very good reason and I don't regret having done so, but still—and then leaving early to get my hair done. Brian wasn't upset at all (and from the looks of things it wouldn't have mattered if I'd stuck around), more likely he was amused, but I still find my enslavement to my vanity somewhat embarrassing.
That said, as I was washing my hair this morning, the water ran purplish-black. I haven't seen that in a
long time, certainly since the last time Dana colored my hair, not to mention Louise. It offered a peculiar
sort of comfort.
inevitably, it should seem, the question is raised: why am i not of you? or is it you that is not of me? if one does not pertain, must it be me? 4:12pm The machine just keeps on turning. As I'm settling in, deciding on how to best make this office a place where I can comfortably lose my mind (an important detail regarding any space I occupy), Brian tells me that switching departments entirely is still a possibility. It would be too much to ask that we can do so without me having to move again, so I don't suppose I'll ask. One intriguing aspect is that it would involve developing for PDAs. I've never used a PDA before. I'm one of the few people I know who doesn't have one, let alone being completely ignorant of their operation. I've just never quite trusted them for some reason. Maybe because they're such obvious status symbols for some people (TFQ comes to mind, natch). Or maybe I just can't wrap my head around the idea of a computer without a keyboard, which makes me a luddite at the very least. Brian says I'll get a Palm III to play with, which should be cool.
For now, off to get zapped.
i've done all i can do sometime after midnight Three and a half hours, and it went by faster than I was expecting. Got off to a rough start, as it was very warm (it's apparently never occured to Phil to buy a fan), he was in a grumbly mood and the meds took a while to kick in. Anticipating this, I started with disc 2 of Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Vol. II to ease me in, and then proceeded on to Aimee Mann's Magnolia soundtrack, disc 1 of Spiritualized®'s Live at Albert Hall, and eels' Daisies of the Galaxy. And, of course, copious amounts of vicodin and Nyquil. (After seeing me drink the green death, Phil asked if I had a cold. I assured him I was healthy. He realized what it was for and laughed. Apparently I'm the first of his clients to do that.) It was half past nine before I knew it. I have appointments scheduled for the next three weeks. And then... It just occured to me that July is finally over. It's about time.
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Sunday, 30 July 2000 (passenger) 9:51am So we tried chartreuse last night. It was a bottle Madeline bought in New Orleans last year, unaware at the time that her grandfather's liquor store in Kansas also carried it. (Goth irony.) She'd been intrigued by the beverage after the rather vivd descriptions of it in Poppy Z. Brite's Lost Souls. I was curious for the same reasons, which is why I actually decided to try some, the first serious alcohol I've had in years. Dry run for the anticipated margaritas in Vegas, perhaps. No hangover, but then again I didn't drink much, either. I simply don't trust alcohol, and it has almost a repellent effect on me: it was difficult to even raise the glass to my lips. But it's been so long since I've done much of anything, aside from smoking grass and the occasional old 'shrooms. At least the stuff has the potential for hallucinogenic properties, if in greater quantities than I could allow myself. So I guess in that respect there wasn't much point, but I'm glad I did it, and at least I know my hormone-emattered liver survived the experience.
It's
actually a great excuse, really: I don't drink because my liver is under enough stress from
the combined pressure of the native testosterone and the immigrant estrogen. When I was
a kid I observed that adults drank alcohol on a regular basis. I realized that the same
would be expected of me and worried about how I'd get out of it. Children and teenagers
drank soda and the like, and adults drank beer and wine and cocktails, and that was how
it is. Now, of course, I know
that it isn't the case. Nobody really gives a damn if I drink booze on a regular basis or not
(indeed, my perpetual "designated driver" status is considered a good thing), and what's
more, my initial research was flawed. I was observing my father, after all.
In her tribulation, in the gnawing sameness of her days, Clarice began to look at the shapes of things. She began to credit her own visceral reactions to things, without quantifying them or restricting them to words. At about this time she noticed a change in her reading habits. Before, she would have read a caption before she looked at a picture. Not now. Sometimes she did not read captions at all. I finally tried on the Gallery Serpentine corset. Maddy's neck problems prevented her from lacing it up particularly tight, but Dana's suggestion of tying the laces to doorknob and walking away actually worked quite well. It was peculiar a sensation: the more I moved, the more it held me in place. I must admit, I liked it. Still, it wasn't quite enough, so we'll probably be going to Dana's later this week for further assistance. Certainly, it isn't quite as form-fitting around the breasts as it should be. I'd hate to think the measurments were off; they were the ones Paige made and seemed to work for the dress in the fashion show. Maybe I'll just have to hope I develop before Halloween.
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Saturday, 29 July 2000 (in a silent way) 5:50am Anodyne observed last night that her hair and mine are extremely similar in terms of thickness, amount of curl, and so on. Standing behind the chair after she was done, as we looked in the mirror she said it felt strange, as though she was seeing herself twice. I assured her that went towards the top of the list of the better compliments I've received.
One of her coworkers referred to me as "he." We didn't correct her; there wouldn't have
been any point. It made me realize, once again—this being something I've realized
many times—that certain things will never change.
I still maintain that Keith Moon was the greatest rock drummer ever, though, not Neil Peart.
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Friday, 28 July 2000 (the suck for your solution) 8:40am Sometimes it's good to be a geek. It took about an hour to switch offices by myself. Facilities would probably be very unhappy with me, but the deed is done. I rolled the heavy stuff on my chair ('cuz I don't want to hurt my back any more than they want me to hurt my back), and got my computer up and running on the network in roughly five minutes. Considering there are people at this company whose response to the question "Are you on a PC or a Mac?" is a blank stare, that's something of an accomplishment. It helped that nobody scavenged the office after the former occupant left, so the network hub was still live. The only outside assistance was from the office manager to get the phone operational, and voila. There's still a bit of disarray and more furniture is being moved in next week, but otherwise, I'm in. It feels kinda like squatting, but that's okay. Office-squatting is a long and proud tradition. The overhead lights are off, and staying that way. The primary illumination is from a desk lamp with a white light pointing towards the wall, a trick I got from fellow cave-dweller Brian. I haven't done anything in the way of decorating yet, of course, and I'm still unsure about just what I'm going to do. I have bedsheets (two black and one gray) which most likely end up on the wall, but the urge has yet to strike. Usually I have to spend a little time in a new space before I get a sense of what works. Between the ages of ten and twenty-two, I moved about a dozen times, mostly with my mother within Fresno. The last move inside Fresno was with The Ex into the Tower District, and from there I came to San Francisco. I lived in two residence apartments for as many semesters (the worst nine months of my life, and I wasn't even pregnant), and from there I moved into the apartment which I now share with Maddy. Five years I've been there, a longer stay than anywhere else since 1983. For every place I've lived, I remember that first time walking in, usually to a blank floor and walls. Not always; for a few months in 1986, my mother and I lived with her boyfriend out in what qualified as the outskirts of Fresno. (Like most other areas that were undeveloped when I was growing up, it's a probably a tangle of strip malls and apartment complexes now.) I didn't actually stay in the main house, but rather a room attached to the garage. Somewhat similar to my current living quarters, except there was no kitchen, just a bathroom. At thirteen, though, that was the perfect amount of autonomy. Anyway, the place was hardly empty when I moved in. Its first incarnation was as my mom's boyfriend's study—he was a struggling writer with an ever-growing stack of rejection letters, and after they broke up my mom told me that the chip on his shoulder grew along with it—and more recently Tom had lived there. Indeed, Tom's presence was strongest in the form of his records and books, most of which I inherited by default. This was shortly before his descent into cocaine, so someone had to take responsibility for his original copy of Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book, among other things. (Minus the free dope, natch. Damn, that would be a collector's item.) I didn't mind. It was exactly the kind of revelation I was needing, especially his record collection. I had recently grown disillusioned with Top 40, and the current strain of country music wasn't doing it for me either. (Full disclosure: I like country.) I'd started listening to the local "classic rock" station, but that wasn't quite enough. Now I was finally able to really listen to a lot of the stuff I'd heard while growing up. I recognized most of Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited by the time I was five, but after Tom and barefoot moved out I didn't have access to it anymore. Until now. Tom encouraged this, and even sat me down and made me listen to Layla. Probably he could tell just by looking at me that I was going to have my heart broken more than once in my lifetime and would need the album. Indeed, I was still reeling from having lost Holly to Ricky, so the timing was perfect. Tom was nothing if not considerate. The other revelation, if I may risk devaluing the word, was in the form of the Frederick's of Hollywood catalogs. Whether they'd belonged to Tom or my mother's boyfriend, I was never sure. I had only masturbated for the first time a few months earlier, and it was all still very new. Having nobody to talk to about these things—and for that I'm grateful—I was free to react to the imagery in whatever way felt most natural. Then as now a lot of their stuff is overly femmey and frilly, pink with hearts and surely designed to fulfill the middle-American expectation of "sexy," and when you consider that we're talking 1986 the taste level drops another level—but some of the stuff was black and simple, and the models weren't blushing, chesty blondes...even then, my aesthetics were pretty much in place. It was a catalog of extreme if distant possibilities. ooooh...i want that to be me...it could be, someday...
That was my natural reaction, and I followed it.
Indeed, it wasn't until
many years later that I realized other boys (well, straight boys) were fantasizing about
having sex with the women, that the clothing was intended to arouse men. Oh! Oh.
Okay. Yeah, sure, I guess. Whatever. If you're into that sort of thing.
Part of me is hoping that he's upset about
me having been moved while he's still in the middle of cubicle-land,
that's he been moaning and hand-stapling like he does about most
everything. It's a very mean, vindictive part of me of which I'm not
at all proud. For as much as I'm enjoying having some privacy, I would
have settled for just being away from him. That's all I've wanted for
the last year and a half, and had it been me remaining in the cubicles
and him being moved into an office, I would have been fine with that.
I didn't ask for this any more than I asked for him to stay where he is.
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Thursday, 27 July 2000 (geek the girl) 5:19am I know better than to idolize, to mythologize, to revere.
Then again, Tom knew better than to pick up a crack pipe. And yet.
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Wednesday, 26 July 2000 (undertow) 9:36am Well, the routine sorta resumes. The new office wasn't laid out remotely as we'd requested, so I suppose it's just as well that my computer was still in pieces. Leigh and I moved my desk so I at least wouldn't have my back facing the door, which at this point is really all I ask. There's still the glare from the window to contend with, but one thing at a time.
Leigh suggested her possibly moving somewhere else entirely, not too far from
where we were sitting before. The same place, ironically enough, that TDM
had attempted to move her a couple months back during the same power play
that resulted in Pike being moved closer to her. On the one hand it's a very
good thing for her and I to be close to one another; on the other, I like
the idea of having the office to myself. Either way, this is several steps up from
when I started at Organic, in the busiest intersection of the office with the
sunlight from an warehouse window bearing down on me. Clearly, more black
bedsheets are required.
I may not be much better before long. Ergonomically, this desk sucks. It's shorter than my old one, and I can't even cross my legs. Not good. Not that my legs are very happy with me; I've been doing some very rudimentary stretching, in anticipation of more sustained exercise, and they've been protesting. I suppose it's only going to get worse from here. Specially with a spiffy new office in which to hide.
Oh, and I haven't heard him once. I've seen him walking around, but otherwise the
contact has been greatly minimized. Ergo (though not ergonomically), all's well.
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Tuesday, 25 July 2000 (leave) 4:19pm Although he hasn't seen the x-rays yet, Maddy's chiropractor now suggests that she not go to work until at least next Monday. My routine resumes tomorrow.
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Monday, 24 July 2000 (a dream that can last) 9:45am So close, and yet not. Both Madeline and I were up at 5am, except that she was in no shape to go to the gym. She's been seeing a chiropractor for the last few weeks, hoping to avoid what's happening right now: intense pain in her neck and shoulders, and she can barely turn her head. Fortunately, she already has an appointment scheduled for today. Unfortunately, it's not until 7pm. She called and tried to get in earlier, but the chiropractor is all booked up during the day. I'm sticking with her just in case there's a cancellation so I can drive her, not to mention I just don't feel right leaving her. I have a zapping appointment which I'll still be keeping, but that's not until later tonight.
Guess the beeg changes will have to wait a few days. I'm
dying to see my new office, though.
It's now officially been a month since I've shaved. I don't miss it at all. Phil cleared me off pretty well tonight, though I went ahead and made appointments for the next three weeks. That seems a proper cutoff time, as it'll give me a few weeks to heal up before Vegas, not to mention Lee's mother's annual August party should be right around then. I hope he's actually going, since I'm rather looking forward to it. Won't be the same as last year, of course. Last year it was damn near perfect. But it can still be good. Especially for having Maddy with me. Presently, Maddy's chiropractor has instructed her not to go to work until at least Thursday—sitting at a desk in front of a computer, partricularly one as ergonomically unsound as hers—is the last thing she needs. Topping the list of things she needs, however, is an x-ray of her neck and shoulders. We're not sure if she'll be getting that done at her chiropractor's or through her Kaiser insurance, but either way, I'll be there with her. The gothnic was this last weekend. Needless to say, I didn't go. Hardly anyone I'm in contact with did go, in fact. Usually the reaction was along the lines of, "Oh, that's this weekend. Shit. Can't make it." I ran into Violet on the bus last week, and that was her take on the matter. I must admit, I was flattered that she recognized me and sat down next to me. i feel sometimes like I'm so disconnected from the scene that nobody even remembers that I exist. Shallow and immature of me, perhaps, but there it is. Violet's been even more out of the loop lately than I have, and yet she remembered my name. It occurs to me that neither her nor Tania made it to the gothnic, ergo the traditional Violet/Tania kiss didn't happen. It hurts to see valued traditions fading away. Summer suggested a friend of hers looking for an apartment in my part of town should ask me if I've heard about anything. I told her I hadn't, but that I'd let her know if anything came up. Then she remembered that we've met before, and described me thusly: "black hair, bangs, perennially porcelain skin, stripey tights." perennially porcelain skin. I guess there was a time when that might have been the case, but it's been a while. It's nice to think, though, that if I'm remembered at all, I'm remembered for what qualifies as my best. (Particularly since my hair is currently more brown than black, my bangs are atrocious and my skin is like porcelain with salsa splattered all over it.) This is how empty and meaningless I can get. At 27, I'm pining for my glory days of 26. I'm just about finished with the novel of The Silence of the Lambs (to be followed immediately by Hannibal, natch), and last Friday we saw Come Back to the Five & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean at the Castro. I wonder if those might account for the anxiety I've been feeling lately, since neither are the most flattering portraits of transsexuality. In all fairness the villain in Silence isn't actually a tranny, and the novel goes to great lengths to make the distinction. (I haven't seen the movie since it came out, but I recall it being a bit more ambiguous.) Sometimes it can be unpleasant to be reminded that by many standards, I'm little more than a cultural punchline. This wasn't my idea, honest...
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Sunday, 23 July 2000 (blue eden) 10:19am The airplane tickets are in hand and hotel reservations have been made. The Liberace Museum beckons.
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Saturday, 22 July 2000 (change your mind) 9:38am When you awaken from a dream, it's like you've passed through a membrame between the subconscious and conscious mind, and while you (usually) make it intact, the dream itself only comes through in fragments, if at all. And there's always a delay. I awoke this morning, breathing heavily and feeling very disoriented, only knowing that I had just been in a particularly unpleasant dream and hopeful that I wouldn't remember any of it—yet, at the same time, struggling to remember. I didn't want to know, but I had to. And indeed it came to me after a few seconds. Oh, let see here. Fears including but not limited to being driven off a cliff, being harrassed on the street with strong rape overtones, an inability to get home (an old favorite in my dreams), and the safey of said home being compromised. Aren't you supposed to wake up when you're about to die in a dream? Not me. So I'm driving towards what my mind is interpreting as the Golden Gate Bridge, with a car full of people. This being the Bay Area, the person driving behind me was going very fast and was quite upset that I wasn't keeping their desired pace. It was a winding road not dislike the one between here and Bolinas, and every so often I can see in the distance that the bridge is heavily backed up. No matter, because I lose control of the car and it goes flying off the side. Oh, I think to myself, I'm about to die and I'm going to take these people with me. I hope we at least die on impact. Instead of waking up, the car just sorta keeps going, over a myriad of bridges more resemblent of those ones in Florida, and finally lands with a deafening but nonlethal crash. Was it lucidity? Did I realize I could take control of the situation, that it was a dream, that I could do whatever I wanted? No, not really. I knew on some level that it was a dream, but it continued downhill from there. As always, the motivating idea behind my dreams seems to be, what's the worst thing that could happen next...?
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Friday, 21 July 2000 (5:11am (the moment of clarity)) 6:03am I am officially sick of driving in San Francisco. It sucks. If I never do it again, it'll be too soon.
But I'm sure it'll be even sooner than that.
So I'll be sitting in a new place on Monday, and I'll be coming to work after going to the
gym for the first time in several moons. Maddy and I are leaping in headfirst and planning
on getting there at 6am. The beauty part is, at 6 we can still park in the Batcave and not
have to worry about moving the car or feeding the meter all day long, and the traffic getting
out there will be much more benign than it would be later in the morning. As such, our plan
is to go on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. (The street cleaning hours for the Batcave
are from 4am-6am on those mornings, making 6am on those days the only time parking is
guaranteed.) Maddy's office is a short
walk from the gym, which gives us plenty of time; mine's a little farther away, but I can also
show up later. Gonna be a long day, though, since after work I'll be getting zapped.
Still, we knew this was going to happen eventually. I don't want to wait until rock bottom
this time around, and with both Dana's and my mother's weddings approaching...
I'm not much of a drinker or a gambler, but I love the place. I've only been once—with my mom, jonco and barefoot on my 21st birthday—but I've always wanted to go back. The Ex and I went to Reno a few years back with her parents, but it just wasn't the same. I love the spectacle of Vegas, of people spending vast amounts of money to indulge their baser desires, and the even vaster amounts of money spent to get people to spend the aforementioned vast amounts. The circle of life, the kind of thing that makes places like The Power Exchange worth the occasional visit.
It is, of course, going to be very sunny and hot there. I can handle it. (No, really.)
Unless something goes wrong, that is.
I've realized something unpleasant (gee, what a shock): the door to my new office is directly across from the printer, where The Fidget Queen spends a lot of his time. He also works a bit with Leigh, in all likelihood on projects which Brian knows better than to assign to me, since he's aware of my feelings about TFQ. But...still...I won't be in earshot. Quite as much. I can at least keep the door partially closed, which will help. Nothing is perfect.
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