Scimitar and Thread

I just had a dream. It seemed completely meaningless. Then I started picking up patterns. What seemed like a random regurgitation of workplace anxiety was actually… Let me narrate the bits of dream first to help me think.

It was an office. So much organizing, cleaning, voices calling out for deadlines, decisions, office chatter… someone’s personal life things, secretaries complaining, a mess on the lowly executives’ lounge or meeting room… raucous. And I was running around fixing things, getting things done. But there was someone else. Someone actually calling the shots. Telling me what to fix and what to do. And I did it all. Diligently. That’s why when I woke up it felt like a random dream about fragments of the past with no meaning. That is how I function in office jobs. And office jobs can pop up anywhere. Even not in offices. I’ll unpack this in a minute. Let me go to the part of the dream that when I remembered, made me realize it was way more than that.

At one point she was carrying a whole rack of brooms to go clean something up and I was helping her balance the brooms. They started falling anyway, so I went to pick them up. I asked her, awkwardly: balance them yourself a minute because I have to puck up the ones that fell. I crawled under a table. The fallen brooms had become coloring pencils. That’s when, in the dream, I realized I was not calling the shots. Until that point in the dream, I was thinking that because everything around me was a mess and I was cleaning up that I was the hard worker and the one trying to keep things in control. But at that moment, I realized all of the fixing was something I believed in deeply and engaged in with a passion, but the idea never came from me. It always came from that other woman holding the brooms. It always came from someone else.

Very quickly… Another dream, mini dreams from tonight that I’m remembering while writing this. Going around in a tai cab with maybe my parents, maybe friends, maybe a mix. Looking for the event. THe event, as my brain gradually told me, was that at 8pm aliens were gonna make contact. We rode past the building where the contact was gonna take place. We drove on looking for a projection screen. We were now in a bus. STOP!! Someone else yelled when I said we should come down here. I saw the bus stop first. Just a block behind the screen. We got down. It was a bus again.

THen another dream. Just scenes of leaving. Packing for the airport. Weird little things going wrong. Talk of times and when to go. Cats. Logistics. I was going, but I wasn’t. It was this weird go and bounce back feel to it. It wasn’t a goodbye dream, even though I was definitely going.

Then back to the main dream because I remembered something else about it. Next scene, ice was spilled. By a kid maybe. How to pick it up? I wonder if the ice was also something the fallen brooms had turned into. I had an idea. Use the big lid of the blue pot. It was so big. the lid and the pot exit. They’re from somewhere in my life. Maybe they’re in my house right now. I don/t remember. But it was much larger than in real life. I turned the lid upside down to put the ice in it. Arm-fulls. The ice underneath was dirty. Some pop tune playing. Brazilian. The kid dancing. Her dad was there. Encouraging the dance.

That Ladino song is echoing in my head right now. Morenika…. Beautiful. Haunting. Safe.

Time to unpack. But it’s so fun just to tell!! But that’s why I’m here.

First I was afraid to write. I had promised a bit of quiet. Doesn’t this count as making noise? I checked who follows the blog. She doesn’t. At least… oh… maybe google emails don’t show… I don’t know. Fuck it. The decision was that I was gonna write anyway. I promised not to brandish my scimitar let’s hack some tangles. But I didn’t promis silence. I promised giving space, not giving myself up. I was gonna word it as not giving up, but then I self-censored.

Before unpacking. Another thing. The urge to read Byron. I… I like the fun Byron. ALways have. But the romantic crap? I always thought it was atrocious cliche. I mean, Don Juan rocks! Manfred is soo cool! But She Walks in Beauty? Huevon, go fuck yourself. But it’s there. So we’ll Go No More A Rovin started it. THe song version. SO beautiful. FOr the sword outwears the sheath. For the breath outwears the chest. He wrote it about feeling old. I’m craving it for feeling powerless. Here we go. Unpacking time.

Powerless. In the office dream. In the Byron craving. Patience. Follow. THat’s the thing. THe idea to blog this out is to understand how I’m so good at it when it’s work and so absolutely terrible at it when it’s people and feelings. I’m soo willing to serve in my professional persona. ANything you need. Need help? Here. Need me to suspend all of my best interest to help you meet a deadline? DOne. Need me my blood and sweat to execute your project? If I respect you, that’s a done deal. I use dto skip lunch to work on my first office job. Sign of weakness to stop working. A missiong given was a mission accomplished, to quote that.. I think it’s a popular aying, actually. That’s the sense. If I trusted the mission to be worthy, even if it was pragmatically office crap, I’d give every last drop. FOllow a vision. Make it happen.

From that behavior came my academic persona. DO it, do it, do it, do it later into the night than everyone. DO it harder.DO it longer. DO it better. Because the vision took over. I became the bitch of my vision.

ANd now I’m asked to wait. TO have no power to come in swinging and rescue the maiden. I’m supposed to know she and the dragon are sitting face to face and turn my back. SHe doesn’t want to kill the dragon, she wants to untangle it. THe dragon is huge. SHe’s overwhelmed. The Images we come up with. Untangling, weaving, rope making. Her hands must be exhausted. Not must. Are. That’s why I can’t bother her. SHe needs all her enery.

Why is this mission so hard to accept? I trust it. I trust her. WHy don’t I… Because it’s not about I. That’s why. THere’s nothng I can do. My thing with giving myself to the point of death is not selflessness, it’s self-centered. Not in the terrible meaning the word has come to have. But as in, it comes from having a self to give. I know I can, so I do. Here, I have to tke the I out of the equation and watch. Watch as this horrible dragon is slowly unwoven by her. And sh can barely move anymore. But I have to trust that that’s her process.

And she’s so good at telling people no, I won’t help you. Like that day when person texted asking for help and I wanted to jump in and she was like tell him to figure it out.

So we both want a solution that is self-centered. SHe has an easier time tellng me to keep out. I was like that too. Until I needed her help. I’m no longer the person to tell her to keep out. We did that to me.

Oh my. Here’d my dragon to unweave, untangle.

**THis was an utterly unsatisfying post. Left having no idea.**

After thinking of notes, bodies, Pythagoras, the other thought came back

So I’ll have to be a body while I make the vibrations of things that existed before. And bodies have to be a thing. But I don’t alter the things that came before. No sense changing the past in retrospect so it makes sense with what the body is that is making those sounds. I’ll change the body whichever way it needs to be done. But let things be dissonant with the past. Let them be the internal vibration.

Body, guitar, grief, nothing, things, waves, Pythagoras, notes everyone sings

We all have the same notes. If you’re anywhere in the post-Greek world, you’re under the Pythagorean measures for what notes and intervals are. No one actually sings those notes in those exact intervals unless they train for years, of course. But his standards are the closest to any way of talking about the different notes everyone sings. It’s nice to think of everyone going “hmmmmmm” the way I hear it in my head right now is humming somewhere around a C. Not exactly in the wavelengths required for it to be a precise C unless you are a singer trained in the Western traditions of singing. But close. Totally made up. C doesn’t exist, of course. But the actual notes people hit were not the big deal in the pythagorean scale. IT’s the intervals. That’s where it is. In the spaces between the vibrations we make with our bodies. How much to walk up and down and from where. Music is like a geography of the body. From here to here because that’s where you wanna go. The path is what you’re going.

The guitar–the same guitar–has been in my life for almost 20 years now (17-18). She’s like my own body. Not in a romanticized way. I mean like bodies actually feel: we hate them, we feel uncomfortable in them, they make us ache, they ware down, but they are you. The vibration, the physical vocabulary with which you make the vibrations to the outside world. That’s what a body does. My vocabulary with my guitar is enormous. I can play other instruments, make the notes, learn the intervals… but none of them is like my body like the guitar is. Even the drums are an expression of things I learned with the guitar.

I just changed the saddle bone and the nut in my guitar. They were the originals. They were from when I was 9. I got it because my grandpa had died. My mom talked to the music teacher. He’d said before that I was too little and I couldn’t handle the guitar, so he’d made me do keyboard instead. I remember walking out of the first guitar class. It was it. I understood why the keyboard had felt fake even though it was fun: it didn’t vibrate like wood and strings did. It wasn’t real. The guitar I could hold on my lap. I was so little I couldn’t wrap my arm around it. I played it laying it across my lap like a spaghetti western. I remember one day realizing I wanted to play like a grown up, so I straightened it.

I nearly destroyed it as a teenager. Just like my body. It came back to me like magic after I had abandoned it. Just like my body.

Longest relationship I’ve ever had.

I’ve been dreaming, two nights in a row: first that my mom had died, then my uncle. I’m afraid tonight it’s gonna be my dad. Even if I don’t dream it, I get the message. Things from my past are losing their bodies. Grandpa, grandma, somewhere in the next decade, very conceivably during my Ph.D., my parents. Who knows where my brother is going. My nationality, my religion (always ephemeral)… Whenever I do music, that’s the only chance for these things to exist again… in the vibrations that I make. Because vibrations are made by bodies, but they carry things that are not in bodies anymore.

I will need to be a thing other people are too if I want to be with someone. A religion. A country. But until then, while my body is making these vibrations that carry the disembodied things from before and the things from later, I can have the same notes we all make and vibrate things with them. Just like that song, AIde Jano. I think it says something like “let’s sell it all, let’s go dancing.” I can’t dance. But I’d play the song for people to dance to. I’m the provider of vibrations. A lone body amidst the movement of disembodied things. Things that I love.

The things to do that I thought of doing since ever

What did I want to be when I was little?  just read someone talking about her memories of that in such an interesting way that I thought I’d try it myself. Thanks Julie Dash and roller derby and a preface I left for reading last.

I remember, very hazily, like through fog, fish-eye camera, and muffled sound, a person asking me. Blond hair, long, curly, short shorts, white shirt “What do you wanna be when you grow up?” She was lowering herself to my height. She was just doing her job. She was trying to see if I could understand the question. “Pre-school. Are they sentient? Does my job make any sense?” Those were probably her thoughts. I was looking down at my paper. Only seeing her out of my peripheral, or maybe I saw her with full eye contact, then I looked down. There were coloring pictures, I think. “Like my mom,” I said. So she asked, maybe, what does she do… It wasn’t right… “Like my dad”… It wasn’t right. Dummy pre-school teacher. What other grown up could I possibly be aware of at that time?

Then I started having more to work with. So the first real “I wanna be this…” thought came up. I think I was at the kitchen table. Maybe. It might be a compound memory. “A knight.” I wanted to be a knight.

Then a superhero. My own. Martin was her name. She wore green. She had no superpowers. Shirtz was her villain. Played by my grandpa. Once my grandpa asked me if I had made up Martin myself. I said no. I had seen her on TV. I lied. She was too real to be made up. Or made up wasn’t a concept. I don’t know. But I know I knew I lied. I kinda wanna puke when I think about it. Shirtz had a soundtrack. On the keyboard. C-D-C,D-C-D-E(legato)-D-C. To the tempo of grandpa walking. Oh. It was a play. We walked from behind the curtains. “Rrrrespeitavel publico. Hoje nos vamos apresentar As Aventuras da Martin.”

From superhero to hero to rebel to soldier to martyr… Slowly fading as other ideas of what to be as a grownup crossfaded louder and louder.

.

Veterinarian, coroner, biologist, park ranger, veterinarian,…

(Musician. Still in the background. Never not been. Not gonna fade ever, I think. Just a constant hum)

Corpse. Memory.

Philosopher, professor, writer activist, cultural professor archivist protester activist job-having with Ph.D. in comp.lit..

Mother. Person with person to have physical contact.

A religion.

A dog. The oldest cat in the world and another with a graying muzzle.

Hmm. Dead with a good life. Where to be buried? Life after death? I’ll bury my parents. My uncle. Maybe even my brother. Maybe a wife.  In-laws.

There’s more open space than ever.

Boredom–Or things that are not boredom but feel like boredom? I don’t know. Writing title before post. Because I’m bored.

It’s not that I can’t think of things to do. It’s not that I am lazy about doing them. It’s more like I can’t let myself get into anything right now because I’m supposed to be resting. Kind of like a snow day where the snow is my own mind telling me to stay in. It’s not illogical. I’m going to start a Ph.D. program in the Fall. I wan to be rested. I am exhausted.  I feel like I need to be doing things but I feel that out of an obligation to feel like I need to do things.

For the past 5-6 years, I’ve been working non-stop. 16 hour days, 7 work days a week, very little social life, no sex, friends only in academia (and they were always dumped when they got in the way of my work)… so every thought I had was about getting from the screw up years of my early twenties to a Ph.D. program.

Now I made it. What am I supposed to do? Even my MA is done. Thesis preliminarily approved, committee happy. I’m ready for the defense, I do very little teaching very early in the day, have one class once a week, and the rest of the time is… the problem.

Logically I know there is “everything else” that is not academia. But the thing is I learned to ignore and see no relevance at all in other things. A roach problem? Ignore the roaches. Ph.D. Live in a tropical paradise? Ignore tropical paradise. Ph.D. I’m even having trouble thinking of the things themselves right now because I’m so conditioned to ignoring them. I used to have music, but then I decided to get music tangled with the Ph.D. project, and now music is not a “something else.” There is no something else that I care about. I have pets. I like them a whole lot. But they’re not everything else either. They’re there.

I have moments when I think “Ooh. Happy.” As in just being.Like the “everything else” is back. But that just lasts a few seconds.

I’m in a valley between two wonderful things. Everyone around me is in the thick of their journey, so I can’t invite them down to the valley. Not depressing. But valley.

I haven’t been drinking, I try to binge watch netflix, but I can’t focus, I don’t leave the house cuz where would I go? I don’t want to do creative things because that would be starting something. Almost like I’m scared that touching something that turns out way too special in the “everything else” might mess my narrative.

I always thought downtime would be about reading books I haven’t had time to read, or painting my house, or going to the beach everyday, or… anything else. I feel more like it’s a long flight. With no entertainment.

So what does it boil down to? Have I solved anything? I’m beginning to romanticize this, so it might be time to stop. I almost think “Virginia Woolf.” Bored white woman. Bored makes me white and makes me woman. Hmm.

This was pleasant. Back to nothing.

Strings to Reeds

I actually have things to do, but I wanna squeeze this entry in. I want to write it down while it’s fresh. I was reading Trouillot’s Silencing the Past and I went back to his preface. He says something along the lines of if he was naive he’d say his intellectual heritage was the cross of spaces between his father and his uncle’s takes on performances of history. Something like that. And I realized I too sometimes think “If I were so naive as to think…” and then go ahead and think it anyway.

In the middle of that thought, I remembered (I was listening to Morphine) this day when I was in the park watching a symphony. I remember saying to my mom “I hope they don’t have a brass session because brass spoils everything.” In the language I was speaking, “brass session” is called “metal.” So I said “I hope they don’t have metal,” and my mom understood “I hope they don’t play heavy metal songs.” She was confused. But that’s just the anecdote. Her confused face was funny and said a lot of things that I could write about, But I want to write about the feeling I had that brass would spoil the feeling symphonies were supposed to make me feel.

When I was that age–probably 13 or 14, anything that didn’t sound like strings or drums was a mood killer. There is something about the way all strings in an orchestra blend together to form a solid body that seems to correspond with my general feeling of adolescence: the idea of wanting to be something and that thing being everything that you are. It’s beyond the age of cliches. It’s the idea of being without a doubt in one direction.

I think–naively or not…screw you, smarty pants Trouillot… that the reason adolescence calls for that is because we’re finding out places in the dinner table, metaphorically and literally. Imagine little Trouillot trying to interject in those discussions between his dad and his uncle. He’d have to lounge head first, solid-bodied, unison, string session into an opinion. Any thing out of tune would have to be out of tune within the solid wall of sound. Any dissonance would be accidental and hopefully it would collapse into the unity of the string session.

Same for me. Of course. When crazy gun uncle was monologuing at the top of his lungs at the dinner table, my reaction had to be string session. It was awkward, of course. But I think it’s a better alternative than the silent mime maestro option: the idea of critiquing and gesticulating in your mind trying to coordinate what crazy gun uncle said so that it would fit as part of some internal arrangement composed of other people’s performances inside my head. I was playing and that was something.

So now I’m a grown up. I realize crazy gun uncle was a brass session. Nowadays I think I’m even more than that. I’m reed.

Reed is the adjective of independence. Reediness is this strange assertion of soloing. Even when you’re in a pit. Screw these metaphors. I’m talking about the actual sound. When I started growing up, strings remained cool, but I need the metal now.

Also, Morphine is a heck of a band.

The Origin, the Soundscape, and the Broken Crybox

Since I started blogging, I’ve been repeating something to myself in a corner of my brain: don’t write about the Holocaust yet. From day 1 I wanted to write about the broken swastika in front of the D.C. museum…how I felt when I saw it….the strange sense of loving the artistic impact and being repulsed by it (because it worked so well, I suppose)… also about how much the tour guide’s explanation “it represents how the children’s lives were broken by the Holocaust” seemed so dissonant with what the piece was doing.

But now that I want to sit down and write about the Holocaust, I want to talk about something else. This morning, scrolling through facebook on my phone trying to wake up, my eyes stopped at some random post about the 70th year commemoration of the liberation (of Auschwitz). I say random because it was one of those cheap click-bait stories and not an actual piece of substance. For some reason, in my half-asleep brain, I started flashing back to this day about 3 years ago when I watched Ballet Austin’s Light/ The Holocaust performance. And that’s what I want to write about.

So there I was… PR intern, sitting on a dress rehearsal for the ballet next to my boss, the VP of PR. Every other seat on the concert hall was empty (about 2500 red velvet seats, balconies, etc) except for the first row where the production crew was (about 10 people). We were seating about halfway between the back of the house and the stage. A few rows ahead of me was the sound/ light control area: lots of computers, soundboards, a couple of technicians with headsets and mics (like the airplane pilots kind of headset with mic). The sound/ light area was dimly illuminated for the technicians to work, but everything else was pitch black.

The stage was a wash of gray light that somehow managed to be kind of warm. The only physical object on the stage was a tree (no leaves, just branches, trunks, roots sticking out) that stretched by cable all the way up to the ceiling. It was brown or black and it looked like a million things at the same time. But whatever. I’m not here to talk about the tree. The tree is cool. That’s all there is to it.

Before I talk about what I want to talk about, I want you to know the soundtrack was Philip Glass, air raid sirens extended into a single continuous sound harmonizing with more air raid sirens, Steven Reich (those I could identify), and by those I had to look up: Evelyn Glennie and Arvo Part. If you wanna knwo what the main theme sounded like:  And that’s not even the air raid sirens bit.

Alright. We’re ready. I want to talk about how I reacted. In retrospect, I’ve dubbed the incident “the day I broke my cry box.” But that’s lazy naming. Something really fucked up fucked me up that day. Here we go:

About 5 minutes into the performance I wanted to cry, of course. But because I considered myself to be on the clock and I was sitting next to my boss, I kept telling myself: don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. My body started tensing to keep a hold of itself. My fists were squeezing harder, my shoulders shrinking, my feet pushing against the ground, my eyes were probably bugged out starting, almost not blinking, while the dancers danced on, and the goddamn modern music and the goddamn air raid sirens, and the goddamn tree did their fucking thing. Some gradual metamorphosis must have happened, but the actual conscious thought hit me in one single flash of extreme present tense awareness: I can’t cry. I don’t deserve it. For them, I must keep my eyes dry. They are suffering. I don’t deserve to cry.

Bam.

When we left the concert hall, the VP of PR asked me what I had thought of my first dress rehearsal. Then the Marketing person (forgot her title) crossed the street from the office building carrying a box full of glittery things. Actually, I don’t think she actually was carrying that box. I think my brain just put it there as I typed this…probably to match the way I remember her general person, or the tone of the greeting, or something. So I started talking about my work with exile studies, and how my professor was a child of survivors, and how I was writing about the Holocaust, and how… Suddenly they were hit too. I don’t think I broke their cry boxes, but something happened. The air changed. It was me, of course. I wasn’t me anymore. I was an origin or a disturbance in time and space… just enough to get the soundwave traveling. You know the soundwave. The soundwave that carries the memories. Like when the past breaks the present’s back, or its thin membrane. The ripples, cabron.

So really, I didn’t break my crybox (btw, I say that because it took me almost a whole year, or maybe it was more, to cry again after that year, and to this day, i don’t cry the same). What happened is that I became the dumb dull origin. It was me and the memory, baby. Right in the same spot. When you’re suspended like that, you don’t cry.

Textures of Home

Home was red-brown, clumpy, smooth earth. There is a taste to the air that blends with the way the walls look on the house fronts. Since I was rarely on foot, the smell-sight memory texture also has a layer of vibration: the car going up and down soft slopes over cobble-stone past street-crossings. Since it was always hot and always almost about to rain even though the sky was clear, there is a sensation to the memory: a soft sting to my flesh inside the car. And that’s just what the smell felt like.

Then there is thick black and smooth. No smell. Wavy, uniform, and perfect. A certain movement to the head it belonged to… a certain snapping of the neck. Downward. Sideways. Very quick. With a smirk to her face. ..ready to start something…her whole body ready to do something…following her head. Maybe a clap of the hands. Striding. Onward. The hall from the living room to the kitchen… completely detached from point a and point b. That’s my grandmother.Her face is everywhere in my face because that’s where I keep her. She is the deepest recesses of home. Her bathroom: mint tooth paste, that brown transparent soap, the white light , cuckoo clock behind me, hair growth oil: grandpa. Shaving: uncle.Grandpa and uncle went in there for hours. She called it their apartment.

That’s my most intimate: a collection of other people. No revolution. A matted glory bundle of matriarchs. What about the men? The men are my currency.

The gay thing, patriarchy, womanhood, relating to humans… Sigh

Second post… and not by design, it’s the second post on gender stuff.

For a very long time now, I’ve simply not thought about gender in my life. I’ve been busy thinking about other things: picking a profession, becoming independent, getting stronger as a human being, etc. So I’ve been a human more than I’ve been a woman, a dyke, a fag, or whatever else.

Recently, however, and I’m talking about maybe for about a year now, I started noticing some changes in my social interactions. The first thing I noticed was that men weren’t checking me out anymore. I was so damn happy! When I first noticed the change, I attributed it to getting older. I figured, hey, I’m 25, I’m not a nymph anymore. Good. I’m freeee! Seriously, overnight. The second thing I noticed was that I started getting “sirred” more often. I’ve never minded it, and most of the time it’s no big deal. And then I noticed the third thing: I was now socially picked out as a dyke pretty much wherever I went.

It’s a funny thing to think about how the heck do I know that I was being picked out as a dyke. I think it’s because from an early age I’ve been aware of people looking at dykes as dykes, and when it started happening to me, I recognized the gaze (that’s my best guess for now). How we recognize gazes as particular gazes is an interesting conversation in and of itself but it’ not what I wanna talk about right now. It all starts with the gaze, so I want to talk about the ways in which I’ve benefited from being the dyke and ways I’ve become a target for being the dyke because of that darn gaze.

First things first. The gaze is about embodiment. It’s about being the physical manifestation of a social type. So yes. When my matrona and my babushka genes started kicking in, that started the whole shtick. It’s one thing to be in oxfords, pants, and collar shirt as a 95 pound blonde girl. It’s another thing to be in oxfords, pants, and collar shirt as a 140 pound broad shouldered, stern-faced woman. Then I cut my hair and voila, dyke. Oh, also a brunette now. Not sure what that does.

The physical changes pasted on top of social stereotypes made me realize, very acutely, something that is counter-intuitive to my Irigaray doused brain.  The fact is that regardless of identity, logic, etc, dyke is socially not the same as woman (NOT a dyke vs a woman, but dyke vs woman–categories, not people). Woman is socially straight. I’m not talking about sexual orientation either. I’m talking about the way one is looked at as opposed to the other.

With that comes the good and the ugly. I am never, and I’lll repeat, never, catcalled. I never feel like I might be raped if I walk around at night unaccompanied. I never feel the social pressure of giggling, being delicate, biting my tongue, etc. As a dyke, in that sense, I have more social freedom than a woman. Now there’s also the ugly  thing I tend to forget since my life is so cushy: Dyke is still a fag homo target scum of the earth in a lot of situations.

Without even going to the extreme of death threats and total exclusion from employment or other civic participation (not that that extreme doesn’t exist), I can see ways in which being a dyke puts me in a social pickle. To unpack that pickle, I think I’ll start with the limitations of the stereotype of dyke. It’s really not broad enough to call to mind different social expectations for different social expectations. Woman can be so many things. Dyke can only be one. So even when I find social comfort, which I do, quite often, that comfort is non-transferable to other social situations. I haven’t the slightest clue how to take the dyke at work, dyke at the drinking table with friends, dyke with cats, and transport her into a private interaction with another human being. Stone butch? No thanks.

That’s where I think patriarchy comes to play. The social comfort of dyke is patriarchal. Dyke is almost guy. It’s an old argument and a cliche, but I see no way around it. It’s true. It takes me back to my previous post: dyke in a dress equals total stripping of that social comfort. And that patriarchy makes dyke a monochrome, the way I see it. When I try to take dyke into the chambers of intimacy (emotional, physical), I find that it has no reach there. Dyke in those quarters is woman. And woman with woman in patriarchy equals abuse. The relationship is everywhere in literature: the trope of women hating each other in big family epics, the witches in the Disney movies, etc.

So to be comfortable in private with another woman I have to find a way around that? In the words of Peggy’s mom from Mad Men: “Are you lonely? Get a cat. 12 years later that cat dies. You get another cat. Do that one more time, and then you’re done.”

But, but!!! Ai ai. Fica pra outro dia.