What do I mean? Well, I went to a co-ed school. I read books and had people about me who thought that finding out stuff about sex was to be expected and encouraged. So theoretically speaking I’d come across the possibility of same-sex relationships by the time I was, maybe, 12ish. (Okay, that’s cause I used to sneak into the adults section of the library.) It took me till 15ish to realize people around me, grown up or otherwise thought same-sex sex was a hideous awful thing and people so inclined were sick, genetically or otherwise.
Most days nothing much happens. When something does, it seems to involve clusters of ‘intellectuals’ engaged in…intellectualling? And sometimes they go on these spiralling loops where the same things keep coming back again and again, as if it were a rehearsal (for me not for them, cause they are new people each time) in which the same old argument reaches the same old conclusion.
I watched Sister My Sister last night, in bits and pieces, on the net—we all know where—my eyes sore with staring at a pixelated image on the screen. It was well worth it. The constant class tension underlying the sexual tension and then the change in the interaction between Christine and Lea as the level of intimacy progresses—I think it was excellently done.
Sometimes there’s nothing as relaxing as a good old piece of trashy straight romping in the hay. Literarily speaking, of course, the lack of straightness and above all the lack of hay making it rather difficult an art to practise. But it does happen sometimes, when you’ve reached the limits of work that well-meaning friends realize you’re about to explode and they provide the best cure there is—books. And so it came that I was handed over, as partial cure to job woes, Soulless.
It was learning the language of freedom in multiple ways, a language she could play with and write in without words throwing their ghosts upon the page. Feminism, which marked the actual redoubling; a continuous questioning of everything started then, in those classes, and as she made her way through everything she could get her hands on, from Kate Millett to Helene Cixous, from bell hooks to Mary Daly, falling in love with every single one of them, she developed the courage to take thoughts to their logical conclusions, though sometimes those conclusions were not easy to live with and sometimes voicing those thoughts in other classes was tricky, to say the least.
We sit down and stare at each other. I wonder what you think. Walking through the maze of this relationship has made walls spring out of arid nothing and curl …
It is not surprising that the moment one is faced with the prospect of talking about one’s sexuality, the first instinct is to take refuge in fiction. The subjective experience, recorded in the first person—in acknowledgment of the conventions of the autobiographical—rings false; one is suspicious of interpretations of one’s past, however well-intentioned, however temporary.
There are layers and layers of missing.
The first ones you tiptoe around by sinking your teeth hard into chunks of work, allowing yourself no space to breathe. For the …
We’d gathered in this tiny AC-ed room, my queer and otherwise friends, engaged in the taxing art of small talk. ‘Can’t do it,’ one of us points out emphatically, ‘my flatmates are,’ significant gap, knowing looks, and then one notch lower, ‘lesbians. And they hate men.’