proteanme

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I had so much social activity this weekend I got over stimulated. I think the last time I saw this many people in so few days was the wedding, and it’s different with old friends, when you can just lay down on the floor and bullshit and watch folks fall asleep. Not that I’m complaining; it was good. I’m glad for the chances to connect. And it reminds me I’ve always navigated lots of different groups of people and I like that. I like that about myself and I like knowing a lot of people who wouldn’t necessarily know each other.

I just read David Foster Wallace’s essay on the Illinois State Fair, “getting away from already pretty much being away from it all“. I laughed out loud and I recommend it especially if you’re of the mind that he’s poking fun out of a reluctant love for the midwest. No, I’m not in a rush to go out and breeze through Infinite Jest, but I do have new affection for DFW, who before I could never get into.

Don’t ask me to explain in any detail cause this isn’t an intellectual endeavor, it’s more experiential, but I suppose it does say something about the kinda guy I am. First, there’s Al Green. And then of course there’s some Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley and James Brown. Oh and the longing of Chet Baker. And as one would expect there are songs by the the Who, the Kinks, the Pixies, the Beatles, Velvet Uuderground and even the Beach Boys (apologies go out to a certain girl that I’m not including the Doors or Stones here) plus a whole smattering of stuff from 70’s AM radio.  But man oh man, I was surprised, way surprised, to hear Glen Campbell last night and have a moment of getting my guy on. Tapped right into something prehistoric, prehistoric in relation to my own personal history.

I’m still trying to figure out how to explain to you all what it means to be butch. Well maybe not to all of you since there is at least this one girl who gets it. But that’s what happens when the thing you desire is so rare; you hone your skills to detect the subtleties of it all – the things that make a butch be butch. And she’s got a sharp and practiced eye. So a femme, like this girl, reading those things in me, it kinda changes everything. For one thing, I’m not living in exile when I’m talking to her. And neither is she. The world is ours for a second or two. Ok, maybe an hour. Alright, alright, there was this one day. And for another thing, it can be hot. She knows what she’s looking for and she’s looking for those things in me. And she knows I’m looking back.

But mostly being read as butch is a stealth endeavor. Not being read as a big dyke mind you; cause that’s easy. I could do that in my sleep. You’d see me and say there’s a a big sleeping dyke. The obvious point being that I’m obvious. I stick out. If you’ve never met a dyke before, you’re pretty sure that have after meeting me. Believe me, I’ve seen the look in plenty of parents’ faces to know how it works.

I recently heard that this guy I like referred to me as a bull dagger, which I took as a compliment, even if it was a little outdated. But it said to me that maybe he was reading me as butch. And mostly it’s more of an unspoken exchange between me and and the larger world, including many of you. Although, I’ve considered that maybe many of you, being the polite midwesterners you are, would just never call me butch to my face. But now you know you can, cause that’s what I am.

And really you’ve been validating that all along. Maybe just not bringing it to consciousness, like all the guys at every airport I’ve been to this year who’ve called me sir. But remember when we all played racquetball and you didn’t let up one bit. I swear to god, Jim nearly broke my rib going for a ball once, not that he meant to. He just wanted to beat me. Or maybe we’ve cruised girls together or more likely we’ve flirted (among other things) with same ones. There’s additional things too, but they are more nuanced, more like head nods, jokes, raised eyebrows and such. And then there are perfect moments when one of you straight girls has asked me to move something for you or put something together or got me to comment on your cleavage.

I fear I’m lapsing into cliche again. I dunnno, you all can tell me if you care to. Maybe I can’t describe it; maybe it’s all so experiential. Hmm. Or maybe I’m just trying too hard to explain that being butch is just being a different kinda guy. Either way, the challenge of it is making me think of the crazy gymnastics queer girls go through to get read as femme.

Twice I’ve gone out to the farm in the last 3 or 4 months and something in being there tugs at me. I dunno if it’s how it reminds me of home or camp or maybe I’ve got some kind of farming fetish. I was thinking last night that there’s something about the character of nature on small farms. There’s some about the generosity of working land. And sitting there yesterday, sitting in the little farm office over looking the fields was as beautiful as any view of Mt Hood.

I started thinning things out last night, tackled my book shelves first. I’m hoping to sell some of these tomes at Powells, but I imagine a fair number will go to Goodwill, like my torn up copies of Lord of the Rings trilogy. Sorry guys, they just didn’t make the cut for me. I’m finally parting with Sisterhood is Powerful, The Women’s Room and Lesbian Woman. I don’t know why I’ve held onto such titles all these years. Maybe it’s because reading them felt like a rite of passage. But I doubt I’ve cracked one of the covers since sometime back in the early 80’s. To think I even moved them across the country.

I recently discovered Wendell Berry and was quite moved by his writing. This from a Harper’s article that could be described as commentary oh human greed: We are, in short, coming under pressure to understand ourselves as limited creatures in a limited world.

And this from Daniel Mendelsohn, who last year became one of my new favorite writers: I know a man, a handsome young man with an agile mind and a brilliant professional career, who has sex with a different stranger every night, if at all possible.

Seems to me that being alive is about loving the impossibility of all or maybe the stupid improbability of it all. I’m nostalgic for the hope and heartbreak of looking for a magic answer. Those were the good ole days, man.

But I just might get my one week of summer out here.  It’s something like 95 degrees outside.  And that’s something.  That summer decided to come round just before fall creeps up on us.  Not that I’ve figured out when exactly fall happens.  Good lord, I really am an alien in this stunningly beautiful landscape.

God damn, I’m feeling heart broken these last couple days.  My therapist pointed out that I’ve been saying for a while that I wanna feel heart break — if heartbreak is what’s gonna come out of certain situations.  I just didn’t dwell a lot on how that might actually feel.  Working with my fears around flying has taught me a lot about not getting too caught up in anticipatory junk.  It’s funny, funny not being the right word at all, how your can feel so certain in your heart about some things, like loving Indiana, and how that love can’t move the mountains that make it impossible to do more than love it from a distance.  ANd me I’m not ready for loving those immovable mountains.

I’m confused and not feeling very sure about this process I am in. It is unlikely that ‘this process’ is really some finite thing with an ending marked by an event, like moving or embarking on a new career or getting married, etc. I’m worried that I’m fooling myself by talking about places and people being better fits when maybe really I’m just looking for some kind of answer, when an answer really doesn’t exist. I dunno that I am making any sense except to myself and maybe this is all a bunch of self indulgent clap trap and I should just find work that is aimed at alleviating other people’s suffering.