Category Archives: me

butch, identity & a little catchup-ketchup

So far the festive season is festering away … I’ve moved house, changed my psych meds … what a brilliant time of year to do it all eh? I’ve also landed a v cool editing contract. What I haven’t done, is hang out online and I ain’t here for long today.

First things first, I need to reblog the following:

Symposium #1: What is Butch? on Butch Lab:

… and I also need to mention that in the process, I stumbled upon Jolie’s very excellent turn of phrase, “identity geeks.” Not only is it uber-cool, it also applies to me like a comfortable pair of ripped and faded jeans. (The ones I wore to East London Pride this year).

So Google has banned ads for the book Queers in History, because of the ooooh-verboten word “queer.” That falls under the ‘sexual content’ no no, although the book is entirely about queer figures in history and in no way about sex. This brings me on to another of my favourite rants i.e. how very, very, incredibly fed up I am of my identity instantly being associated with sex. Sexuality is a far broader matter than the sex act, thankyouverymuch world.

Back to butch … OK, here I need to add the disclaimer, again, that I am in no way trying to diss anyone’s interpretation of it, simply define my own. You google butch, you find a lot of bdsm, masculinity (radical or otherwise) and … butch cock. I hate typing that phrase.

I am not a man, I don’t want to be a man. I don’t even want to be a woman the way most of society defines us, but I am a feminist and so “woman” is what I (re)claim. I’ve said a lot on this subject, so I shall move on …

BDSM. No. I see a whole bunch of bloggers who identify both as butch and as Buddhist also way into bdsm, on a very conscious and analysed level. I would simply like (as little as I like discussing my sex life publicly) to state that I am indeed butch and a (bad) buddhist, but I am not into bdsm – not one bit. And I (we!) have extraordinarily fabulous sex.

That is all.

Beyond butch. I read a cute FAQ which stated, amongst many other things, that the mental health of queers is far better if they are out and open about their identity. It struck me that this is in fact true for all of humankind. If you know who/what/where/why/how you are and stand with a measure of surefootedness on this planet of ours – you’re a pretty well-adjusted specimen. Perhaps, we just don’t know when to be satisfied and content, perhaps many of us (*points to self*) just keep on and on questioning until we’re convinced we can never be happy. But that is a whole other discussion and I am digressing fearsomely.

Being an identity geek, let me claim the following:

Human [it’s not under threat, so not too militant about it]













PTSD person

Speculative fiction fan

Alt.indie music fan

That list could go on forever.

Ima stfu now *grin*

crunchy words

i wanted to get lost down unmarked streets me, my camera and all the other freaks well i dunno a better way to spend a day anonymity is such a subtle shade of grey i got big city vision, small town blues i remember empty places in the language i use my eyes have packed their luggage, time isn’t on my side cheap philosophers keep telling me i shouldn’t run and hide from conflict or the past with all its blunders my lens rapes and my pen likes to plunder all the dreams that i dreamed with a stolen head all the screams that you screamed when you noticed you were dead all the lies that we told so glibly to ourselves all the wallpaper we chose for our own private hells i feel far too far away today trapped in some remote fishtank haze singing dirges about donuts to their sugary wives while they wallow in the dregs of their sugary lives and you, you haunt me with a shipwrecked smile some toast and the ghost of your fatal child i bought a vegas mask from a junkie on the run with no time to tell the world whatever he had done he just coughed – listen brother, your song makes no sense and your ass is badly scarred by that barbed wire fence your lines have slowly slithered from the sane to the deranged your hairstyle’s fairly normal, but your eyes are rather strange i ignored him and snorted three vanilla pods and checked my rearview mirror for the shape of angry gods the scarab beetle hiding in the pocket of my jeans doesn’t give a damn what any of it means.

me vs sarcasm

alright i’m english by birth and sarcastic by nature, but believe it or not, i actually try hard to transcend both. not that there is inherently a major issue with being english, i just prefer being south african. and sarcasm … well, it really is the lowest form of wit, [oscar wilde] isn’t it? and it’s largely indulged in by those of us with that uniquely irritating combination of self-deprecation and arrogance. if you find it funny, you’re probably one of those people, or sucking up to one of them.

i really wish i’d stop doing it. i wonder if there’s a pill?

along with sarcasm in its purest form, comes criticism veiled in words. growing up around it is like being raised by wolves. you wind up tough, sure, but not overly saturated with affection. i am no stranger to the wolfsnark and have many of its traits.

It comes from the ancient Greek σαρκάζω (sarkazo) meaning ‘to tear flesh’ but the ancient Greek word for the rhetorical concept of taunting was instead χλευασμός (chleyasmόs) Sarcasm appears several times in the Old Testament,; for example it seems to underlie the rhetorical questions of Achish, king of Gath::

Lo, you see the man is mad; why then have you brought him to me? Do I lack madmen, that you have brought this fellow to play the madman in my presence?
—I Sam 21:10-15[6]
[wiki-wiki-wikipedia, of course]
sarkazo … i doesn’t like it!
i’m going to keep trying to stop doing it, but i seem to have become thin-skinned and defenceless against those “witty” little barbed words that tear at my flesh …
the score? saracasm: 98746 me: 0

way outa my customary paradigm yo

so i went to gym.

if you don’t know me well, you won’t realise that what i just said is akin to my having declared i’d just been to jupiter.

i went to gym with my girlfriend on sunday morning, after much consultation and some window shopping and borrowing and reassurance, because i had to effing well wear shiny lycra tights man! or whatever you call ’em. anyhoo, reluctantly clad in shinytights and stuff borrowed from my v patient girlfriend, off we went. i lasted a whole 10mins i think, on the treadmill (walking lol) and about 8mins on the bike. my gf did loads more and i perched there watching her – frankly, i felt aroused.

never woulda thought i’d end up in a gym – joining up was my first ever foray into that world of mirrors and steel and sweat.

only she coulda got that right ;)

(but someone needs to point me at some butch gymwear).

dearheart write to me soon or i’ll rip your entrails out

mmf. interesting, delightful and slightly disturbing to get blasts from le past hey? that was a postcard i sent to a v dear friend while she was on a dig in jordan and i was living/working in stellenbosch in the western cape. we caught up again recently – we’ve known each other for 23 years and it’s thoroughly awesome to roar with laughter at emails.

it can’t have been v long after sept ’93 that i moved to kleinmond. at some stage, i lit a bonfire on the sand and burned all my personal stuff – letters, journals etc.