Unmedicated Gargoyle

Writing or not writing, I am all that I am. And yet there’s this, too: that I’m the best thing that ever happened to me, though not to you, sorry.

All contact is harmful. Dennis says so, quoting me. I don’t remember ever saying that. I think I said all contact hurts. But that’s the trouble with quotes. You are bound to be misquoted even by yourself.

***

Brain injury. When I think that I am thousands of brain cells less after that idiot of a guy knocked me down I panic. Then I hurry to pen and paper to put things down at once lest I will lose it, lest tomorrow I will be thousands of brain cells less more if I bang against another damn stupid wall, less sharp and less lethal than when I was last seen.

Oh to be able to inflict harm. Will I come out of it alive?

If we can inflict enough damage, if we can leave enough clue that those who will come after us may pick after us, that should be contribution enough. Oh the future that yearns to be itself. What I wouldn’t give to birth you.

***

You.
And why must I love you. I don’t care about you. I long accepted, first painfully, then bitterly, and finally blissfully, that the two of us can never love the other without making either less than what we each are.

***

Repeat after me: I’m beautiful I’m beautiful damnit
Not quite orginal damnit, Bette Middler said those, not I.
What I want to confess without shame is that
I am so amazed with myself.
I never cease to amaze me.
Even now.
Don’t you think such praise really sounds sincere for once?


***

My darling says I am only my own light. I may be brilliant I may be black, but she wasn’t there when I was trawling my dark, I just made it all up in my head. And neither was I ever there in her jungle of a heart. Love? she asks, askance, putting out her own headlights. What kind of talk is that. I just want a good fuck. How right she is, the friggin dyke.

***

Sometimes it feels like I will not die without seeing the sun. Sometimes it feels like the mid-day sun!

***

If I didn’t wait for my sisters on my way to liberation, they would have tied me. Oh yeah? If they caught up with me I would have not lived.

***

These endless peace conferences. The staunchest of advocates turning their heads away before you could finish like my god oh my god this fuck of a dyke so tiresome will she never finish with her feminism feminism feminism the world has turned several times over and she’s still there in her feminism feminism feminism. ya. the world has turned on its head over and over and now it has its dirty butt up.

***

Dennis is dead. Why is that? Oh to be serviceable. You grow silicon tits. So that you can bake a cake and be praised for it. It doesn’t connect. You cannot be another being for dressing the part: you are just a dress. Putting on new boobs you cannot be less than a pair of boobs, but neither can you go far more than your pair of boobs. I on the other hand want my breasts removed. That’s not mutilation. That’s doing away with unnecessary parts. How nice to be thin like a sliver of light. Tumescence: loss of will to fly and defy. Gravity.

Removing one’s breasts: that will not make me less. Boobs makes me less; a penis lesser so and an ugly freak too. With boobs removed I will be beautiful boy with clits. How perfect. Is that how transsexuals feel after going under the knife? Loren Cameron felt perfect after she removed her breasts, happy as she always was with elongated clits. How about transsexual women who had breast implants, how do they fare? Padded with dead plastic and rubber chips on all the sad watery places. How do lovers make love with silicon breasts? I wish they would tell. But never mind. They probably know I cannot sympathize. I only care about my life.

***

Dear Menses, thank you for visiting me, I had been trying to forget you these last couple of months and just when I thought I had discharged you for good, you suddenly pay me a visit. Please don’t be mysterious: I have no time to play games like that. We are not getting any younger.

They say there are only two sexes: male and female. Then the more you know, the less you know about sexes. Some say it is bio-chemical; some say it’s just genital: you either have gonads or clits. Then others say it’s chromosomal, you are either XY or XXY. And then there’s hormonal: it’s about the amount of estrogens or progesterones in your system that you either have the temper of a man or a woman. I once thought it’s political, and so I liked to tell people my sex is lesbian, dyke, and that’s not female okay? And then these days when my menses just left me or at least took a leave of absence without a by-your-leave by me, I started growing to grow a mustache.

You guys out there, tell me: Is it a triumph of science or of politics?

***

On being fired: What did you hire me for, if you only wanted me to write old platitudes and safe lies?

***

I am not being ironic: I do love the Philippines, country that fucked me crazy. Can you say that of your US of A? the love, I mean; not the fuck.

Footnote to Notre Dame: My foot. They can only pray for themselves and their lives and their future, my life is beyond recall, beyond rewinding and re-recording. It is made without my making it; It just happened by itself!


Oh to be quoted rather than just to quote and quote. And thank you Moira for the quote about the quote.