A many-splintered thing

Could this internet connection be any slower? Quite possibly, yes. All I'm asking for is pictures of my latest, newest, maybe one of my weirdest celebrity crushes: Jim Schembri. Have you seen what he looks like? He's cute! Not that I agree with his film reviews, but I do find his column piss-funny. So, time to initiate Operation Stalk Schembri.

Unrelated to OSS, I feel a quote is in order:

'To write or speak is almost inevitably to lie a little. It is an attempt to clothe an intangible in a tangible form; to compress an immeasurable into a mold. And in the act of compression, how Truth is mangles and torn!'
—Anne Morrow Lindberg, American writer.

Not that I believe in the concept of one truth, let alone truth with a capital 'T'. I'm far too postmodern, too much a creative arts student for that. But I feel it's relevant to my last post and nix's reaction to it – a reaction which I was quite hurt by. Part of it was that s/he made me feel like I'd inflicted some great amount of pain and damage, however unintentionally; that I was a bad friend, stupid, blundering, thoughtless. Another part of it made me feel like I was not trusted, not given the benefit of the doubt, that I was being misread in the worst possible way. That I was only writing the post because finally I had *seen*; that – to quote nix – '‘belief’ becomes tangible, visible, ‘real’ [and thus] comment-upon-able'. Rather than the real reason, which was that I thought you'd all like a change from Toby stories. (cue canned laughter).

Maybe nix just gave me a theoretical going-over, which I should have very well expected (damn post-graduate students!). In my defence, I would like to say that I wrote it as I saw it and as I had heard it and as nix had told it to me. Not even that: but as I saw it – on that one day. I was not saying this is all there is to the issue or to nix. I was not positing some Truth, or even truth, small 't'. Identity is a many-splintered thing. And doesn't being trans and all the inherent problems with language (most particularly pronouns), with how you come across to other people versus how you see yourself, etc; doesn't all this just make evident what are fissures in the very nature of identity itself? That most of us put a label on ourselves – at the most basic level: 'he' or 'she' or even just our names – and this label comes to stand for something/someone as though that thing is a unified whole, one single, easily definable thing, an inner truth. Oh whoa, flashbacks to writing essay on 'Orlando'!

Anyway, nix has apologised and I have apologised, so maybe I shouldn't even be posting this. I guess I just want to say what's on my mind, even though now I'm more wary of this whole blog thing and, well, of writing about nix, which makes me sad. Next time: less angst, less theoretical ramblings and more stories about cheese and Toby. Or reader interaction: vote as to whether I should: a.) take OSS to a whole new level, b.) shut down this blog and/or c.) become a hermit and only communicate via carrier pigeon...
“Dear Mr. Schembri, Meet Speckles, my feathery messenger friend who is kind enough to convey my highest regards to your good self...”

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Paid rent today. Feel poor. But not 'poo' as I just mistyped. Feel like having a cup of tea. Earl Grey or English Breakfast? Have you heard the news: I seem to be becoming an English Breakfast drinker. After years of just Earl Grey. Weird or weird?

But it seems to be the year of changes: E & J breaking up. R & D buying an apartment. R discovering she's transgendered. RB changing her hair from the standard black bob - no, hold on, that was last year. Me moving here, swapping jobs, getting Toby and drinking English Breakfast. All major life changing things.

I don't think I've ever talked here about nix/rachel/jonathan and her realising some months back that she is transgendered, that is, that she identifies as neither female nor male. I guess it's a kinda big thing - I wanted to do it and her justice. And yes, it is big, but at the same time, when she told me, I was not exactly surprised - it makes sense with her. And since discovering this, she seems to be more at peace within herself; so I am happy. Though at the same time it does open up a whole new kettle of fish: which toilets/pronoun/name to use, etc, not to mention 'coming out'. And in an effort to be less-gender-specific on the outside, so as to reflect who she identifies with internally, she is becoming more 'manly' in appearance, mannerism, laugh, etc. (Yes, 'manly'. As in, 'Men men men men, MANLY men, men meeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnn!' - the classic theme song for that clARSEy sitcom 'Three and a half Men'. Yes, she is now more Charlie Sheen!) Her man-laugh is a good, joyless, deep, slow 'ho ho ho'. Very convincing. Her man-dance makes up both giggle like 12 year old girls. It's all in the pelvic thrust. But her latest man-hair is what I like the most. A bit hippy, a bit hare-Krishna: shaved (nothing new there) but shaved real short except for a tuft (that is, man-tuft) sticking up on the crown of her head. And seeing her with this hairdo, in her new man-clothes: shirt, vest, jeans, runners - all in sober man-colours (gone are the days of orange), I can now really *see* it. I mean, her. The her I think she wants us to see. Not that I didn't 'believe' it before, I did; I believed it and I knew she meant it. But now I can *see* it. Her and Dan looked like a couple of blokes, and that made me the only girl/lass/woman/chick/sheila of our little group as we went into the cinema, as we are wont to do on a Monday. And so forgive me using all these female pronouns. We refer to her as Rachel and/or Jonathan now, but still seem to use the female pronouns more than male - she says she doesn't mind and it would be nice to occasionally use male pronouns, but it's not like 'Rachel' is gone and entirely replaced by Jonathan. She is still the same person; man-laugh, man-dance, man-clothes, man-hair and all. And terrible movie suggestions: because of her, we saw The Da Vinci Code!

So click on the Bowie lyrics (entry title) to go to her excellent blog which deals with the subject. Of being trans, not of making terrible movie suggestions. That's an entirely different blog. Or at least, it should be.

Being messenger

On the weekend I had some sad news which I then had to impart onto some of our friends. Ah, the blessed joys of being messenger. I think we all gave the same response of 'oh my god'. The news was that two of our friends have broken up after 5 something years together. It is very sad and makes me want to just curl up in a chair watching season 4 of Buffy (the ones where Willow and Tara get together) with a cat in my lap. Or that could be my head cold talking. They are very far away at the moment, which makes it all the more difficult to digest. But if you are reading, guys, then know you are in my heart and thoughts, and I miss you both.

Now, where's my chocolate?

Toby & his rock'n'roll lifestyle: fights, bites, other cats & drugs

Bit of drama here at Ronemeda on Monday: Toby got himself into what I imagine was a one-sided fight with another cat, a big meanie-poo who picks on little 4 month old moggies. So I come home from the cinema and discover the previously playful kitty in a fit of what could almost be teenage angst, but was probably just miserable pain. When I patted him along the back he yelped like I'd poked him with a red-hot poker and then ran and hid under the bed. So I called on my kind-of-local cat courier service (also, strangely enough, my mother - it's a small world) and gots us to the vet. Who fixed him up good and proper - shaved a bit of fur off his side, where there was a puncture wound from that nasty cat's tooth. Gave him a shot of something in his leg. Fixed us up with some green pills. He also ran his hands repeatedly over the poor cat's sore back to try and find if there was another puncture wound that would need shaving and closer investigation. This Toby did not like one bit, and me neither - he was crying something terrible and I felt so guilty, having been at the cinema enjoying a life of leisure while my baby was getting mugged and molested by some bully-cat equivalent of Phillip Ruddock. Just because Toby is a delicate flower/future-librarian/David-Bowie-loving-nerd! But he's fighting the good fight against the armies of corks which are invading our house - slightly less scary than orcs but still after the one true feathered mouse to rule them all. (Ok, so maybe I need to get out of the house a little more...)

But don't fret, he's back in form now and proved it by purring lots and also pouncing on my face while I tried to sleep. At least it was not as bad as Martin's diagnosis: that he'd been bitten by a zombie duck from down the creek/drain and was going to turn into undead poultry and you know, 28-Days-Later us all to death. Because he did keep making these quaking-type noises when we tried to touch him on the back. But the vet said we'd all be dead by now if that had been the case. Dead or undead. And can the undead write blogs? This be proof to the contrary or incriminating evidence.

Today's crisis is how I can make the less than 1cm of milk left in the carton last for the day's worth of cups of tea. Because of course I can't just go out and buy more. That would involve leaving the house.

Me, productive?

Somehow not having to get up at 5am (as I do 3 days a week in order to get to the Market for work by 6:30) means that I instead sleep uptil 9:45am or until Toby bites my hand/s off (like Face/Off: Nick Cage style) and I have to get up and feed him with my bloody stumps. Don't worry, they grow back by 11 or so. Then I eat my brekkie of yummyyummyyumyum blueberry bagels that make me think of Marnie stocking up on them in London before going back to the edible-food-free-zone that was Finland (Hi, Marnie, are you ever here?). Then I have a bath and read my book. So good. Damn Ali Smith. She's gone and written it. What am I meant to write now? (Said book is Hotel World, btw. Thanks Erin&Jules for the rec! I loved it!) Meanwhile, Toby fell in the bath while trying to catch one of those ever elusive corks, which at that point was floating in the water, however did it get there? It was bound to happen sooner or later - poor little soaking wet cat. But has he learnt? Probably not. Cheese for brains.

I did decipher a Tom Waits lyric which had always passed me by: "The large print giveth, the small print taketh away."

Then I did some painting, which SUCKED. Well, most of it. I don't think any of it will make it out of the studio, but I guess making it out of the paint tubes is a step up in the world for the paint itself. Maybe I should stick to little bits of ripped paper stuck together in a pretty fashion? Also international travel tickets. Hmm...

THEN lunch happened and with lunch, some all-important Buffy viewing. Which included an episode with some palpable chemistry between Oz and Xander. I love Oz - but not Xander so much. So therefore know that I AM NOT projecting. If I were projecting, I would project chemistry onto Oz and Spike, would I not?! But anyway, in said ep (from Season 4), Buffy knocks Oz and Xander unconscious and they end up lying in each other's arms! So sweet. Then later, Xander's hand is protectively on Oz's shoulder. Well, who wouldn't want to fondle cute little Seth Green?! Etc. And more. Off-screen stuff. You know how these boys are. *ahem*

So, all in all, a well used day off. At this rate I will ... ah ... achieve something ... create something ... you know?