Log in

2013, 2012, 2008, 2010...

My friends are all frozen in time. Their final entries glistening with emotion like wet ink, raw truth. A smattering of knee jerk irony, but real. More real. Real-er still than everything around us today. It's history, it's poetry, it's alive in a time of tindr one linrs, dotcomromcoms, flash anger flooding, clickbait, stalk, wait, say a prayer it's not too late- oh well, you missed it but here's what's coming up today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I step down from my soapbox, preaching truth and connection, feminism and vulnerability, take off my digital mask and weep. My 20 foot avatar towers above me, glitchy, a lone neon sign blinking against an inky deserted vista. Why haven't I left? Though I suppose I have- privatised, anonymised, traded blanks for private eyes. Maybe they have done the same

Mar. 14th, 2016

That last entry was GOLD.

So what's up? This Labour Day weekend I have:

+ comforted a friend through a horrific break up
+ chopped an absurd amount of vegetables
+ listened to copious amounts of "It Runs in the Family"
+ then joined Patreon because I felt guilty.
+ felt on the verge of an artistic break through. A something breakthrough.
+ But mostly kept quiet and studiously organised my WIRE homework in 'clear data envelopes'.
+ And then purchased a messenger bag, reflective bike pants and some Star Wars pyjamas like the Melbourne hipster I am. Also female representation via Capt. Phasma if not Rey >.> *cue anger*
+ listened to Frank's song.
+ thought a bit about the possibilities of words vs images. I haven't learnt to paint with images just yet. But I don't necessarily think it's harder. I wish there was a lesson about the point of it all. But no, they just teach you shitty techniques.
+ cried and sulked a bunch of times
+ flitted between tasks, emotions, perspectives, sanities, etc.
+ planned a kick-ass Book Club about masculinity
+ needed Hannah more than before.- folks, mood swings, depression, etc. God she's so stable
+ argued over space segregation in our one bedroom apartment.
+ fought for noise contamination
+ thought about my parents and sent a sad 7 word email basically.
+ brainstormed a Jesse letter.
+ had some serious acid reflux.
+ decided to go back to counselling.
+ And tattooing.
+ And the dentist.

I don't have a snappy ending for this. But it ain't too bad. One day soon I might blog about WIRE and feminism and Family Violence and this path I'm on and all I've learnt, and that'll be good too. But for now, I'll keep plugging away until I get somewhere.


This isn't a high. Nor a low. It is a deprivation for sure. Also perspective. And yet...blank. So many things I'm running from, or standing still.

Gender. The patriarchy. Sexuality. Jealousy. It's all so simple when you lay them out on the baking concrete.

She said something the other day. A spiritual connection. No lace of derision or self-consciousness.

How simple.

Post-Degree Goals

FUN things:

+ re-learn Japanese
+ Arabic
+ UWA extension (get a women studies major?) (GET ANOTHER DEGREE LOL) (not really.) (Just a postgraduate research qualification in writing about drag kings) (Yunno. Things that will get you a job.)
+ draw comics. About things you like. Cheese even.
+ life drawing classes? Or is it too cold for that right now?
+ Buy weights. Get guns. Stop being feeble and getting everyone else to lift things at work >.>

NOT-SO-FUN things:

+ that silly magazine I run
+ Contact Honey Lounge for Drag King night OMFG i totally forgot!
+ passport
+ apply for graduation (actually that'll be pretty fun. If expensive.)

Grown Up Blues

"Some small masculine women are constantly read through their masculinity as "boys", and in order to take on more adult selves they have to choose between female adulthood, male adulthood or a kind of perpetual masculine adolescence. Few masculine women will simply choose some version of adult womanhood. Testosterone also precipitates in the transgender person a late adolescence- the voice breaks, the skin breaks out, hormones rage. At the end of the period of high volatility, it is quite possible that the boyish woman will emerge as a mannish person."

-- The Drag King Book, p128.

You know when you read a passage and suddenly your entire life jumps out at you from the pages and does a screaming, naked jig? Yeah, it's like that.

For years now I've been unconsciously, playfully, worriedly wondering about my physical and visual transition to adulthood. The when and how and what on earth will it look like? When my youth fades and I can no longer pass as a pre-teen male with a predilection for tight collared cowboy tops and bowties, will I have to quit the disco gear and become a weary soccer mum so that my clothing matches my now feminine features? Why can't I keep the fun going and continue the age journey in a more masculine direction? Also are adult male and female REALLY my only two options in terms of the way the world sees me? Do I have to ingest testosterone to present the way I would like to?

I don't necessarily want to take T. Or rather, I don't want to have to worry about my biology, or moods, or my body changing in ways I didn't bargain for. I am happy with my body as it is. But that being said, it is mightily tempting sometimes to just hook me up to some natural man juice and let nature change me into something that I flirt with a lot anyway. "You want to be a man so much, why don't you do it right?", it whispers to me. Gender binaries can be so seductive. So... easy.

And some days I believe it. I believe that this tomboy needs to grow into a tom-man (a tomman!) because someday I'm going to want people to look at me and see an adult. Hell, these days *I* look at me and wonder if I'll ever grow up. And it's fucked because there are other ways of being masculine that I enjoy that don't REQUIRE a male body or male hormones, but I don't know if any of them necessarily will get me read as a grown up. In some ways, it feels like the easy way out you know? (NOT THAT PEOPLE WHO TAKE T ARE taking the easy way out, blah blah each to their own colourful gender journey, read the disclaimer below)

Anyway, blah. Angst. etc. Maybe I'll just look like Ellen does. But with a bound chest and, like, hotter and ethnic and shit.

Post word-vomit disclaimer: Clearly I'm not trans* and this is not in any way what I believe trans* or otherwise-identified people feel, or think about T. This are my own thoughts about my own body. Peace.

In other news, I'm a kitchenhand/cook/chef now. You'd think there'd be more distinction between those terms... But there isn't. Not at Cimba's anyway. It's great! Today I got my first bacon burn. Oh life!

Also I'm still married and things (woo!), I'll be a GRADUAND in 3 weeks time (Bachelor of Arts, here I come), and I'm probably heading to the 14th International Drag King Extravaganza in Columbus later this year, as well as Seoul, Singapore, Morocco and a fuck tonne of Europe. Just 'cause I can :) Man Comsource, I'm so glad I left you!

Mar. 18th, 2012

I actually need to punch something.

Things were said last night that didn't need to be, and no on will give me straight answers for anything I want to do with my life, and my schedule is too full for me to cope with and Jango is belittling me with calming French electronic music, and I would really like to own a hedgehog and become a hermit.

But that's illegal or something.
The faint charming clinks of an infrequent xylophone fill the corridor near my room. Near our end of the house. Our respite. The rest of the house is theirs, unknowingly, unasked for. The light that spills from their ever open door touches the lounge, the kitchen, the unassuming dining hall. The large berth given to them seems unfair, unreasonable. I wonder if they even notice. I wonder when they’ll finally look at me and ask why everybody’s leaving. I silently goad them with purposeful looks and unfilled ice trays, but I am unsure of what I would do if they ever met my challenge.

The xylophone halts. “Do you want to go to the beach?”, asks one of us, quiet enough so they don’t hear.

The offer of escape is weighed up in greedy silence by all of us.

“I’ve got my period.” I sigh.

The others nod slowly. The chore wheel in corner hangs limp, three pegs out of four stagnating in blu tack. Their owners have abandoned them in a troubled medley of defeat and defiance.

The xylophone starts again. Music and words and all things artful are our blunted rubber weapons. They confer tiny sores, mild bufferings. They are the silences we crave that are so often filled. So we reclaim them, fill them with things *they* don’t understand. I wonder if they wonder why we are so silent and our songs so loud.

I wonder when they’ll notice we’ve already left.
- - - - - - - - -

In other news, I went out clubbing last night with my ex and amost everyone she'd ever slept with. It was very lol. There was excellent abysmal dancing and bad tequila and now I have to do a lot of uni work :/

1st World Wankology

It's hard to describe the depth of the ideologies and the passion that my friend (let's call her B.) and I share about activism, the Middle East, gays, public space, autonomous community decision making and the world (I should know, I just spent about 20 minutes trying to write you guys an introduction). It is even harder to be certain of what I feel now when she's been kept up at night by the sounds of violence between revolutionaries, the military and their hired thugs in Tahrir Square, chatting to despondent and angry Palestinians in Tel Aviv, having to navigate gender and race politics and the harassment that comes with being a white woman alone in the streets of Cairo.

I get emails, text messages, facebook messages detailing random acts of en-masse violence, harassment, mind-fuckery, spliced with tales of really great food encounters, late night secret queer parties, incredible ancient culture... And I have nothing to say in response.

There is nothing to say. What on earth could I contribute to this conversation?

"Like wow. That is so awesome. And so fucked. And I would give anything to be there to experience this world with you. Which is really fucked. What have I been up to? Oh you know lying in bed til 11, watching YouTubes varying on the theme of "Shit Indians Say"... Looking for bar work at our various new pop up bars that try to emulate that effortless Melbourne vibe of expensive fortified wines sipped on tables made of crates, that thrown-together urban-cool paradox of poverty for fashion's sake... Luxuriating in the privilege and boredom and comfort that affords my everyday Western middle-class existence. Yanno. Stuff."

It is utterly bizarre to think that these two worlds can coexist on the same rock at the same time. It is incredible to think that her and I can wake up on opposite sides of the globe and have such different experiences and emotions.

What could I say that wouldn't make me sound like an absolute prat?

I don't have a clue.

The Seamstress

It's been awhile since I've done a public entry, so I thought I'd sketch you a scene of the life of lemouse in the current day...

It is the 20th of November, Stardate 2011, Captain's Log something-or-other. My desk is a horrible mess of oats bowls, Islam and World politics notes, cat hair, bits of drag makeup and things that have fallen off my wall due to stingy blu-tack application. My last exam for the semester is tomorrow morning and I am contemplating looking through some books or something. Maybe.

There is a reason though: it was fucking PRIDE last night. Why Pride is big deal rantCollapse )

tl;dr It's not a scene thing and that's why its awesome. It also fills me with squishy, joyous rainbows >.>

Around Fairday we started up a drag king troupe (DKAP: Drag King Association of Perth), cause well, no one else did. And also cause I've been kinging around for the better part of 3 years and it's about time I realised that it wasn't a weekend hobby anymore and hadn't been for a long time. After doing a few unpaid (always unpaid >.>) gigs here and there, they asked us to perform at the Women's Parade After Party which was on last night. And we did. And it changed everything.

Why you ask? Because we had 200 screaming women who none of us knew wanting to run their faces through our fake mustaches and squeeze our arses all night. Now I'm a married woman so this isn't particularly as appealing as it might've been 2 years ago, but it means we've made it somewhere that isn't our group of friends and fellow queer students. We have strangers whispering our stage names and asking for contact details. We're planning DKAP fundraisers for our future drag costume library, ABNs, memberships, pride floats, custom party gigs. I'm spouting phrases like "untapped market", "cost-benefit analysis" and "bowtie couture". This thing is happening and it's a little terrifying but on the whole, amazing.

And mostly it has changed me. I've gone from being someone who was busy pretending to know what the fuck was going on, to someone who's making it all happen. And this happened a long time ago, but I only realised last night as I stopped for one whirlwind second under the blazing lights of Harry's Bar, that I didn't recognise this confident creature who walked like they knew where they were going, talked like they had all the right answers, was a semester away from finishing their degree (fucking finally) and had all the plans and all the time in the world to see them through.

So after this accursed exam (hmm should get on that..) I will be making ties. Custom ties, silk ties, houndstooth ties, hawaiian shirt patterned ties, you name it. Cause I fucking love ties. And after that we're making cowboy shirts. and military jackets and waistcoats that work. Because it's so damned frustrating to go into a shop that has everything you have ever wanted to wear but nothing that will fit your body type. So i'm becoming a seamstress for now, and it's looking pretty awesome :)

PS: If anyone has any good patterns for men's clothes, hook me up y'all. I'll pay you in donuts or your choice of confectionery.

Mar. 25th, 2011

I hate the media. The media can go die in a hole. Ironic since I was the media for a while.

Things I

am reading: 'The Prophet' by Kahlil Gibran

am writing: day overdue Linguistics theory assignment that must be done so I can go play Harry Potter and distract myself from this horrid month.

am memorising: Arabic phrases. Tafadl (Welcome), Ya salaam (Oh Dear!)

am avoiding: myself.

dislike: journalists, racist co-workers, shots of Tony Abbott with protestors' signs that scream "JULIAR: Bob Brown's BITCH".

like: soft toy mice, Music tech students, shark attack kisses, concocting grandiose Theories of Everything in two page Linguistic mini-assignments. That'll learn 'em for giving me free reign!