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October 29th, Two Thousand Three (#2): ... in which I interrupt your regular programming with a terribly
loud primal scream. And yes, it's more porn issues.
One of the interviews I had last week was a two-hour phone affair
discussing female porn consumers. All through the interview, the
interviewer was clearly operating under a bunch of false assumptions
(to his credit, assumptions a lot of people outside the industry
make) which I kept correcting. Such as, that save the smallest
handful of sites imaginable, and despite how the media wants to
present it, 'net porn is NOT a business of megabucks, and that
people creating and selling original material are generally making
the same modest income no matter the gender of their audience.
Such as, that when we're talking about female porn consumers,
we're generally not talking about sales and spending money, and
when we are, we're usually talking about the purchase of tangibles
like sex toys, not content (and that why women spend less money
has a whole lot to do with the oft-selectively-forgotten fact
that women STILL make less net income than their male counterparts,
by a long shot). Such as, when we're talking about women, no,
we should not assume that all women are heterosexual, vanilla
or married (or daily waiting with baited breath for same) because
we all very much are not. Because the selfsame person they are
bloody talking to is not, for crying out loud.
It's that last bit that just drives me fucking freaky apeshit,
because for over five years now, I have had to keep saying that
and saying that until I'm blue in the face: the word "woman" does
not mean heterosexual, vanilla, married-or-pining-to-be-married
person with a cunt. Saying it to the media, saying it to people
wanting to start sites, saying it to people who run "for women"
sites and want to network or talk turkey. I am so, so tired of
saying it, I can't tell you. I stopped networking with most women
who do sites aimed at women for exactly that reason years ago:
I got very tired of trying to do things for women with others
purportedly aiming to do same, in which the material for women
was, reduced down to its lowest common denominator, still about
men.
And then I get the condensed draft of my bit in this article (VERY
condensed) and everything I've said has been made to apply to
a straight, male-centric-sexuality plastic reprise of "women."
I take serious issue, and did even when I was still dating men
as well as women, with the phrase "men and women" always meaning
not only straight (and of course, biological) men and women, but
always inferring or stating directly that men and women's only
real or valuable interactions must be sexual or romantic. And
hell if at this point I want my own words to be placed in such
a way that I'm fostering my own damn invisibility.
The sad thing is that in cases like this, at best, the reporter
just doesn't understand the importance of that or why I give a
fuck. And often, when they don't understand, they have zero interest
in even taking the time to understand because they care neither
personally nor in terms of their clip. They're perfectly visible
and represented so who gives a fiddler's fart? (Really, I just
find things to make me angry so I can say "fiddler's fart.") I've
even had straight women working in this genre who have basically
said to me, "Yeah, we don't represent you, but you can do that
yourself, and we aren't queer/weird/interested in much more than
celebrity gossip and dick size, so suck it up, kid." Without of
course, acknowledging that we include and help represent them
all the damn time. Or better still, the ones who could care less
because dating women (or women and men) must be so much easier
and less complicated than dating men. Pardon me while I go choke
on some clamshells.
Anyway, I sent back a load of corrections, butcha know, when this
sort of thing happens, I may just have to eat my time and ask
to be removed entire from this sort of piece. I don't even know
if I have any power in that regard. In the past, I've just sucked
it up and gone on, disappointed and as jaded as ever. I'm tired
of doing that. I am also just about to give up on mainstream media
altogether when it comes to even pretending to give a rat's ass
about representing women or sexuality with any modicum of accuracy,
sincerity or insight. Perhaps I need to open every phone interview
with a rousing reprise of "I Was Gonna Be An Engineer" or LeTigre's "TGIF." Whoever doesn't hang up in the middle, call legal, or better
yet, sings along, gets to do their interview. I'd suggest "I Am Woman," but even I'd hang up in the middle of that one.
(Note: There has been a major influx of new readers over the past few
days, who are apparently looking for this, so I thought I'd make that easier. Those who have no idea who
the heck I am and what exactly I do may find this and this helpful to them.) |
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October 29th, Two Thousand Three
• I don't know if I've mentioned this before, and I'm loathe to
now for fear of making it even worse, but one of the top google
searches that bring people to my site is..... "Pippi Longstocking nude." I wish I were kidding. That's due to the wonderful comment Chris
Bridges once made about me which I quote here. And perhaps because really, I kind of am a grownup (and oft
naked) Pippi. I like to think I'm a grownup Pippi, anyway, she
was a role model growing up (and one which my mother abhorred,
feeling that sort of encouragement, I didn't need). But people
looking for little Pippi naked really yucks me out, and I've no
doubt anyone who arrives here looking for such is seriously disappointed.
In any event, I have decided to stop fighting my obvious destiny.
Becca and I are going to a Halloween party Friday night. And I've
taken out the mismatched stockings. I can promise at least a costumed
(for as much costume as I even need) pic or two (and I'm wondering
if the chandelier in here will bear my weight to get authentic
about it), but probably not the pics some folks appear to be looking
for.
Pity the party is at a bar. Sofia would make a great Herr Nilsson. Though I really wanted her to
be Yoda this year.
• In terms of press, when it rains, it pours. I'm not sure what
the deal is, but I'll go a good solid year without a single press
piece on any of my work, or even a call to give an opinion on
something related, and then BLAMMO! I'll have a whole week or two, sometimes even a month, where
I have cauliflower ear from being on the phone in interviews all
day and achy hands from answering a gazillion questions in email,
prepping headshots, the works. It's not such a bad thing, mind,
but it always makes me nervous. You never know what someone is
going to do with your words, what context they're going to put
them in, who they'll anger. It's always a bit scary. In addition,
it's always a bit of an exercise in right speech: a lot of journalists
always seem to want you to bash someone else, to give them something
juicy and scandalous, and even when you aren't initiating that
and are resisting it, there are insistent pushes to do so.
Most of this stuff should be okay. My On Our Backs spread is coming up in the next issue, for instance, and I know
that's fine. And one of the lengthier interviews I've been doing
is very oddly with a woman who went to public high school with
me before I transferred to the arts school, and who I talked to
for the first time in nearly 20 years yesterday. I need to wrap
as much of this stuff up as possible today, though. I'm sick of
talking about myself and I have a load of actual work to be doing.
I also may have a faux Iron Chef cookoff with some highly cute
girlfriends this evening.
• Because I'm both a moron and a freelancer, I did not know daylight
savings time had happened until yesterday morning, when I woke
up, looked at my clock and saw that it said twenty past nine.
On the morning when my trainer and I work alone together at nine.
So, I am totally freaking out, running around the house trying
to find his number to call and ask him to wait; I turn on the
computer to see if it's on a desktop sticky, and THAT clock says
8:30.
I need to know what year and month it is routinely. I often need
to know what day it is. I don't often need to know what time it
is, even on training days, since training time generally happens
after I wake up, have some coffee and feel ready to go out. I'm
starting to realize how strange that is.
In any event, I still ended up being a few minutes late to our
session, despite running all the way there at a fast clip. Even
though Dante says our Tuesdays are so both of us can get a good
workout, I kind of don't believe him: I think mainly he's just
doing it out of the goodness of his heart. I felt a little bad
about it until I found the following voice mail left at 9:05 yesterday
morning. It's important it be read with a thick Dominican accent:
"Hello aHeather. I am calling to see if you are coming to train
with me today on this amorning and.... you are walking down the
street now, you are asmiling and awaving at me with your boxing
gloves and awe are going to work! Good! Goodbye."
How cute is he? What a peach.
• Today's daily dharma was a really good affirmation for me: "Our
minds are used to thinking, but when we want to become calm and
peaceful that is exactly what we have to stop doing. It is easier
said than done, because the mind will continue to do what it is
used to doing. There is another reason why it finds it difficult
to refrain from its habits: thinking is the only ego support we
have while we are meditating, and particularly when we keep noble
silence. "I think, therefore I am." Western philosophy accepts
that as an absolute. Actually it is a relative truth, which all
of us experience.
When we are thinking, we know that we are here; when there is
no chattering in the mind, we believe we lose control... Our first
difficulty is that although we would like to become peaceful and
calm and have no thoughts, our mind does not want to obey... So
instead of trying over and over again to become calm we can use
whatever arises to gain some insight. A little bit of insight
brings a little bit of calm, and a little bit of calm brings a
little bit of insight." - Ayya Khema
I've been thinking lately that next month, I'd like to, for the
whole of that month, log in nothing but photographs and perhaps
poetry, and disable comments for that time (which is also why
I haven't been responding to them lately, sorry), as exactly that
sort of meditation.
I don't think my chatter isn't valuable, by any means, and that
it doesn't have things to contribute both to me and to readers.
But I do think my constant talking (and in this case, writing)
is also a sort of self-protection (and ironically one in a venue
which is exhibitionist), a sort of constant and insistent validation
that I am here. So, I'd like to change my own channel for a little bit, retune
my airwaves, and mix up my media, with the volume turned down,
as a -- needed, I think -- creative meditation. |
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October 27th, Two Thousand Three: It's a nonsequitur jamboree!
• The Ballad of Lucy Jordan has to be one of the most poignant and quietly sad songs ever
written (and by my all-time childhood hero, no less). And it's
great to improv on piano. So is Kid by the Pretenders, which is just gorgeous with glissandos.
• I know a few people have weighed in on this, but I wanted to say a few things myself before I read what was
said elsewhere.
It's funny, a few years back, a piece like this would have made
me way more mad. But as I become more and more familiar with my
own work, more sure of my footing and direction, I realize my
photographic and written work straddles so many genres, there's
just no reason for me to take something like this personally.
As well, the more and more I stand outside heterosexual culture
and issues, the less... well, I give a shit. I know that sounds
shitty, but it's the truth. Just the other day, I did an extended
interview with someone asking about female porn consumers, and
while I'm very well-versed in that market, perhaps more than anyone
else around, some of the questions just kind of left me hangin'.
Like how heterosexual relationships are affected by smut, and
my personal experience with that. I needed to explain more than
once that even when I was involved with men, I was always bisexual,
so really, I'd have no idea on a personal level (and was a little
annoyed by the seeming assumption that we really needed to get
concerned now that it was women looking). But I digress.
Ultimately, this piece just struck me as embarrassing for Ms.
Wolf (and I confess I'm irritated, because I think Wolf has had
some valuable things to contribute over the years, and this sort
of grandstanding undermines them). I'm not sure Andrea Dworkin
can do herself any more damage or lose any more credibility at
this point, though I feel for her a bit, as it looks as if she's
snowballed herself into a serious corner and can't get out even
a little without losing a lot of face.
"For most of human history, erotic images have been reflections
of, or celebrations of, or substitutes for, real naked women.
For the first time in human history, the images’ power and allure
have supplanted that of real naked women. Today, real naked women
are just bad porn."
To read Wolf prattle on about "real" women and "porn" women just
seemed illustrative to me of her lack of awareness as to women
in a gazillion kinds of porn, the history of pornography and her
awareness of her own image. Now, like I said, I'd guess she'd
not be talking about someone like me, but who knows, maybe she
would (or perhaps myself, the models I use, and other women like
me are just "bad porn"). After all, I get naked in photographs,
many people purchase the work for the purpose of arousal, so that
right there makes me a "porn" lady. Yet. I can maybe think of
a handful of shoots in which I was wearing as much makeup as Wolf
is often photographed wearing, and little to none in which I was
as prepped and coiffed as she usually is. I'm willing to bet the
girl gets upkeep I don't to various parts. No, neither of us (well,
I don't anyway), has been siliconed or botoxed, and I have this
funny feeling our pubic hairstyling, as it were, ain't all that
different.
(And while I'm on that, can I just ask what the hell is with our
cultural fixation on pubic hair? Can I tell you, from teens AND
adults, how many questions we get from people positively fixated
on it daily? Wolf isn't alone. But it's ludicrous. Who bloody
cares what someone does with their body hair? Years back, shaving
legs and armpits or wearing makeup put you in questionable standing
in the feminist ranks. Now it seems all of that is okay, but waxing
your pubes gets you shown the door. It's junior-high-school mentality
stuff, not the stuff of serious academics or feminists. I just
want to cover my face in shame when I hear feminist icons discussing
pubic hair with the weight of a discussion of civil rights in
Guatemala. It's embarrassing, and all the more so, because none
seem to hear themselves and realize how juvenile it sounds.)
So, neither myself or Wolf is Jenna Jameson, though I think she
and Wolf sometimes need the same size trowel to scrape the warpaint
off at night. Jenna is getting paid a helluva lot more for it,
though. Just sayin.'
Now, I won't lie and say I don't find the fake nails, fake tits,
fake hair shit icky, because I do. If I woke up and found Jenna
in my bed making eyes at me, I'd scream, not pounce. It just might
well turn me straight. I don't really get the sexual appeal of
that on an aesthetic level, but I think I do on a psych level,
yet that's commentary for another day (but in short, I'd posit
that fantasy is fantasy, and for those looking for such, a fantastical
person or object serves that best at times). And it's still a
"reflection" of women in the age of mass consumerism -- and not
at all limited to porn, as Wolf herself documented with figures
spent by "regular" women on plastic surgery in The Beauty Myth -- if not more than a reflection.
"Here is what young women tell me on college campuses when the
subject comes up: They can't compete, and they know it. For how
can a real woman – with pores and her own breasts and even sexual
needs of her own (let alone with speech that goes beyond “More,
more, you big stud!”) – possibly compete with a cybervision of
perfection, downloadable and extinguishable at will, who comes,
so to speak, utterly submissive and tailored to the consumer’s
least specification?"
One steps right the hell over a not-so-very-fine-line in calling
women with such, or implying they are, "not real." They are real
people. They are still women. I see women that look like some
porn stars at the mall, for crying out loud. (I avoid Los Angeles
for this reason.) I'm always aghast when I hear feminists talk
that garbage out loud, though I'll fess up that I caught myself
in it more than once privately some time back. Maybe it's easier
to think that or let ourselves think that, but it's misogynist
and a pile of shit. While I can't speak for everyone on the plastic
surgery train, in my experience and opinion, it seems evident
most women who fall prey to that sell (and studies showing how
few women stick to one surgery support this) are dealing with
negative body image and general insecurity in terms of accepting
the female and human body as-is (and in the case of porn, it's
an industry-standard issue more about marketing people and less
about consumers). Which ultimately makes them about the most normal
women in the word, in the true meaning of normal. And since Wolf
has a whole book based on calling out that kind of image insecurity,
she knows this.
Has Wolf watched or seen a lot of porn? Because models in advertising
or Vogue get a LOT more retouching than porn models do, and that's
a simple matter of business. Mainstream porn photography on the
net is about quantity. In other words, a magazine spread on a
celebrity or a jeans ad on the bus tends to be one or two photos,
so both the money and the time are available to perfect those
images to unreal-looking scariness. 'Net porn, on the other hand,
usually involves monstrously large galleries, or film done en
masse and in a hurry, where that can't often be the case. And
porn really, truly, honest-to-gawd varies a helluva lot, even
in the most mainstream stuff. There are loads of female dominants
in porn. Just barely outside the mainstream, there is every flavor
of person imaginable out there making erotic material. And lest
we forget, straight men are not the only consumers of pornography.
Women (of various orientations), gay men and couples make up a
highly substantial consumer base when it comes to written and
visual pornography. How many men can "compete" with the characters
in romance novels which mainstream women have eaten up for eons
(and who the hell said anyone had to pit reality and fantasy in
competition, anyway?)? How many guys are really like Heathcliff?
More irony here: isn't feminism supposed to be, in part, about
making and keeping women visible? So what's with the invisibility
cloak here?
Why isn't Wolf really educating the young women coming to her
with these issues about all this stuff to give them a real context
for it, rather than giving them permission or encouragement to
claim victim status over something worth so little of their time
and energy? I don't buy that she hasn't figured all these things
out, she's nothing close to stupid. Personally, I say you want
to mentor young women well, you not only teach them to choose
their battles like smart people, you teach them to grow some ovaries.
If their boyfriends are actually giving the negative feedback about their bodies (and
it does happen now and then, but from what I see of that age group,
which is a lot more than in the occasional lecture, it's not that
common), you teach them to say "Hey bud, snap out of lalaland,
this is what a real girl looks like. Don't like it? You can go
back up to your room and whack off to your crusty magazine instead."
If we can't teach young women to assert themselves with something
like this, how the hell are we going to teach them to assert themselves
with safer sex practices or job promotions, where way more is
at stake? Why isn't she telling the young men talking to her that
it is totally okay for them to communicate and ask questions of
their partners, that no one is buying their bravado that they're
sexually savvy and jaded and not scared to death of being found
out to be the babes in the woods they really are?
"The young women who talk to me on campuses about the effect of
pornography on their intimate lives speak of feeling that they
can never measure up, that they can never ask for what they want;
and that if they do not offer what porn offers, they cannot expect
to hold a guy. The young men talk about what it is like to grow
up learning about sex from porn, and how it is not helpful to
them in trying to figure out how to be with a real woman. Mostly,
when I ask about loneliness, a deep, sad silence descends on audiences
of young men and young women alike. They know they are lonely
together, even when conjoined, and that this imagery is a big
part of that loneliness. What they don’t know is how to get out,
how to find each other again erotically, face-to-face."
Putting that on porn is pretty lame. Or just on young people.
That last sentence describes the most common erotic dilemma of
people in every walk of life, in any time in history, of numerous
genders and orientations and ages. As someone working in sex advice
and education, that last sentence sums up the gist of about 90%
of the questions I've been asked, by 15-year-olds and by 50-year-olds.
Human beings have trouble communicating with one another, especially
about sex in a culture of shame and mixed messages of all types
(including from feminism). That's no news flash, and that dilemma
existed well before 'net pornography and smut on DVD. Shit, read
some Shakespeare, lady.
(Why is Wolf so fixated on the idea that it's porn that makes
men or women crave something other than missionary-position intercourse?
I mean, if that's all fine and well and good for her, okay then,
but... well, I'm not buying it. If she thinks none of the young
women out there want or need more than that, she isn't really
talking to them, they aren't really talking to her about their
sex lives, or she's just not listening -- maybe while sticking
fingers in that orifice known as her ears. Since the biggest female
sexual problem and conflict I still see in hearing from women
of all ages about their sex lives in the field is that many still
aren't reaching orgasm, especially with partners -- and especially
with partners who just want standard intercourse or are told that
should cut it -- let's be sure and shackle their sexual experiences
to the marital bed and penis-in-vagina intercourse. Way to help
out the sisters, girlfriend. I'd add a reminder to Wolf that all
men or women aren't straight because she is, and the bizarre sentiment
in that piece that young women would feel compelled to kiss one
another only because Britney and Madonna did it borders on some
serious homophobia.)
At Scarleteen, we're privy to tens to hundreds of conversations of high school and college kids about sex daily, and I have been
for years now. And often, the girls fretting about unrealistic
ideas of women by young men about porn end up getting replies
in those threads from young men letting them know that isn't so
for them and the girls are projecting. We see questions from young
men wanting to know about women, not because porn taught them
the "wrong" things, but because they're too shy to ask the women
themselves, or don't want to appear inexperienced or stupid. In
other words, we see the dilemmas one sees in teens overall: men
and women not wanting to lose face by showing insecurity or a
lack of information. That's new?
"It is, rather, because these cultures understand male sexuality
and what it takes to keep men and women turned on to one another
over time–to help men, in particular, to, as the Old Testament
puts it, “rejoice with the wife of thy youth; let her breasts
satisfy thee at all times.” These cultures urge men not to look
at porn because they know that a powerful erotic bond between
parents is a key element of a strong family."
Ah, the Old Testament. That age-old bastion of female empowerment.
I know it's certainly replaced my copy of Sisterhood Is Powerful. You fucking yutz, Naomi. Some mensch you are. The same feminist
tome which also "understands" male sexuality so well as to laud
stoning for women who take other lovers, unsatisfied with the
reality of their sexual lives, and hails prostituting your daughters
as virtuous if you do so for the angels (can I remind Naomi yet
again that not all men and women are heterosexual? Nor married
or partnered? Jaysis). And how exactly is it that that particular
passage isn't, as you say porn is, "utterly submissive and tailored to the consumer’s least specification?"
I think Wolf herself perhaps wants this kind of puffed-up entitlement
of a security blanket: "Well, I am 40, and mine is the last female generation to experience
that sense of sexual confidence and security in what we had to
offer." Honestly, no babe, you're not, but nice try (and boy, those women
in the victorian era or the fifties sure seemed to feel secure
and confident in their sexuality, didn't they?). Younger women
than we get to have it too, and plenty do and will if you'll kindly
step out of their damn way. That ain't just yours, sugar, even
if it makes you feel better to think that it is. A comment like
that is a clearer destructive and disempowering statement to young
women -- coming right from your mouth, Miz Feminist Nouveau --
than any silly looking boob job or faked film orgasm could ever
be.
Pass the damn torch, girl. Especially if you're just going to
start using it for lighting yourself nicely.
• So, I read that piece yesterday while editing the latest set
of photos, which was a pretty interesting juxtaposition. Here
I am, reading about all these things I'm supposed to be finding
in porn, and none of them are in the work that I'm doing, despite
it being erotic work. I'm not retouching anyone's waistline or
smile lines or grey hairs or armpit hair, and I've got the warm
fuzzies all day from looking at this beautiful, natural couple
who are gaga in love having very genuine and hot intimacy. I'm
in love myself just looking at them. (And I wish I could publicly
show a huge pile of them, because I'm truly proud of the work
-- picking samples this time was tough, which is why there are
five right now.)
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Over the years, I've had to deal with some uncomfortable interactions
(or absolute avoidance) with folks who do work which either very
much is, or fits better within, the mainstream porn lexicon. The
assumption about work like mine is that I must think it's superior
to more mainstream work. I don't. I just think it's different.
I have different aims and intentions, different motivations, and
I want more from it than to entertain. Artistically, yes, I think
it's better. But that's irrelevant, because most mainstream porn
is about entertainment, not artistry, and people aren't intending
to create art with it. Intellectually, I do find it more interesting.
But it's my own work, so that's not only a given, it's the least
objective judgment in the world. I do think we need more work
out and about like mine to round things out, and I'm personally
more interested in the work of say, Charles Gatewood or Nan Goldin
or Claude Cahun than the work of the Vivid production studio or
the Suicide Girls.
I don't think my work is "better" as a value judgment, or in any
moralistic way. Just different. |
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Photography: 10.26
members (53 photos, guest models) • (1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5) |
But after reading a piece like the above, after talking porn consumers
and marketing in that interview, and after spending a day going
through photos like this last set, I am left with a really happy
feeling inside about the work that I'm doing. I like doing it
a lot, and I feel very good about doing it, both when I'm looking
at it and when I'm creating it. I feel really honored when men,
women or couples let me into their intimate lives in that way
and give me free reign, when we laugh or smile together when we're
working, when we look over what we've done collaboratively and
choose favorites or find surprises and just take in the beauty
and intensity and the whole of the thing.
I hit against my own mixed feelings a lot about my work, often
because it doesn't really have a lot of mainstream viability,
and I don't make a hearty living from it. I know if I changed
the way I do work, changed how I do it, and how I market it (and
to whom), I could do a lot better commercially. Heck, if I called
it "alternaporn" alone I'd do better, but I find that as trite
and artificial as the "alternative" music tag -- there are so
many options in the world, everything is an alternative to something
else, for crying out loud.
In high school, because it was a performing arts school, I did
have to take a couple "marketing for artists" seminars, and my
teachers would always tell me that I was no good at it, because
I clearly didn't want to be. Really, they were right. I know there
are ways to market artwork that don't much upset the integrity
of it, but that's a tough line for me to walk and work within.
And to a large degree, I'm not willing to cross the hard lines
I've drawn, even though I know they handicap me in some regard.
Butcha know what? Here I am, making a living from my creative
work without having to do that. It's a meager living, but it is
a living, as an artist, solely directed by me, and I'm not waiting
tables or filming toothpaste ads, like most of my former classmates
are doing (which is not to say those things aren't okay -- they
just aren't fully making your living as a working artist). It's
self-congratulatory, sure, but every now and then it's really
cool to be reminded that I'm really doing this, on my terms, not
for the man, and for the most part, all by myself (just like I
wanted to do everything when I was 6, so my inner child is also
happy).
And I revel in defying genre, in me or my work not easily being
flopped in a tiny box. I revel in the fact that someone like Wolf
would have a really hard time assigning me or my subjects and
collaborators and colleagues to an easy camp. While I'm fine with
some, if all, of my work being called "porn," I'm tickled pink
when I see arguments in the comments or in other forums about
whether or not that's what my work is and there is never any real
agreement or consensus. It's groovy to be an enigma, and it's
artistically and personally challenging and compelling. And it's
about the only chance I get to be mysterious. It makes me feel
very Garbo. It lets me know I'm doing something right. Thank gawd
for that big blessing, because I need to know it in some area
lately.
• Believe it or not (actually, if anyone doubts my usual verbosity
at this point, they're being unduly kind), there was more. I have
a list of instructions on how to prep for a night out as a badass,
for instance. I have a small vent on how when shopping Friday
night, it became clear that somewhere between the juniors and
misses section, the needed "aging hipsters" section appears to
be missing. I have some plans to share and more stories to tell,
but I'm saving the rest for another day. When in Austin, I was
talking to MP's girlfriend, bemoaning the fact that dating has
been so tough for me in one regard, but in another, when something
happens for me, I get it all, big time, in a concentrated dose,
be it a crazy girlpile or an incredibly fine woman who stokes
all my embers and gives me what I want, but only for a teeny time.
That sort of pattern has also occurred in other areas of my life.
And she said this to me: "You just keep blowing your wad."
Girl's got a point. |
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October 23rd, Two Thousand Three: ... in which I recap my trip to Austin with extended snippets
written over a handful of days, and conclude with a good lot of
unexpected sadness and whinging once home.
(written Monday, October 20th) The Road to Journalcon: I can't complain about the airports or air travel this time (so
far). I didn't have to cab it to the 'port, because my firechasing
pal came by early for coffee and drove me over. The flights were
not only uneventful, each leg I got an empty seat next to me AND
discovered in the St. Louis layover that their airport not only
has a smoking lounge, it was right between the gate I got off
of and the gate I was switching to. Yes, I really am an addict,
but moreover, flying through security twice when you don't have
to sucks, and being unable to partake of what you do when you're
nervous to calm yourself when all your collective phobias are
getting airplay at once is just no fun at all.
Lauren and Lee found me easily when I arrived (since we've all met several times
over the years and seen each other naked during most visits) and
we drove out to their place and mixed some drinks and kicked back.
Mintpink showed up shortly thereafter, we went and got settled at her
place, got ready for dinner, and headed out, where we met her
girlfriend and my friend Cilla for sushi and cocktails before
I had to do my reading. Dinner rocked (though I was admittedly
a bad vegan and finished my veggie makis with a serving of unagi,
because I just couldn't hold myself back), and it was great to
finally meet Cilla and Jenn both.
We found our way to the Omni, and soon enough to Columbine, who I think I hugged about 372 times. I haven't seen him in
a couple of years, and his partner in even more, so it was just
so great to see them. Also finally met Ryan, and Jen, who has
got to have the coolest voice of all time. It's a voice meant
for some backwoods truck stop at 3 in the morning: deep, smooth
and forceful. Always nice to meet another true broad in every
sense of the word. The reading went really well, IMO, despite
my being a little keyed up and hyperactive. I know when I read
I was knocking my legs around where they dangled off the table
(I really, really have to sit during readings, as I explained
to the group, otherwise, unfortunate song-and-dance numbers can
spontaneously occur, and I assure you, no one wants that from
me, especially me). I especially know I did knock my legs about
because a man who read a couple people after me remarked publicly
that he didn't want to sit up there with his legs dangling off
and "look like he was in Kindergarten." (The unspoken end of sentence
being, "like you did, dork.") Thanks, guy.
But everyone was funny and saucy and candid and it was great,
followed by some back-steps cocktails and chatter. (Though I have
determined I either need to register youresolittle.com, or make
a t-shirt that says "Yes, I am little," at some point, because everytime I do any kind of event,
"Whoah, you're so little!" is a standard greeting, and I really
am aware I'm a shrimp. No, really, been one my whole life. I know
all about it. And one who gets caught making silly faces sometimes, to boot.) I was pretty zonked when we got home, having been
up since before 6, and done an assload of flying. But didn't get
enough sleep to get rid of the jetlag, so Saturday, the shit was
still a monkey on my back.
I honestly don't even remember what we did Saturday morning, or
why I woke up early. Got to the other panel I was doing in the
afternoon, which also went really well. Unfortunately, a quarter
of the way in, I had a total low blood sugar attack, and was mortified
thinking I might pass out or have to walk out to grab a juice
in the middle of the thing. Given how sick I was through most
of college, and the fact that my low blood sugar has been the
root of more than one embarrassing fainting spell in my life,
I never want that to happen again. I breathed through it, though,
and don't think anyone heard my heart pounding or saw me stabilizing
myself under the table. I'm not sure I need to worry overmuch
about the fact that I always forget most people don't talk pussy
in mixed company on panels. But it should, perhaps, be noted.
I need to get out around more not-sex-workers, I tell you.
(Have I mentioned the bugs here are driving me kind of bonkers?
This entry is taking twice as long over the days because I'm on
the porch and every other word is punctuated with a swat or a
fit of scratching.)
I tend to compartmentalize work and play at gatherings like this.
For me, they're work: I go to what I've agreed to do, do a little
casual mingling and enjoy that, but for whatever reason, doing
group social things there or big group conference things just
doesn't appeal. It makes me uncomfy, and I don't really know why.
I think I'm just not a joiner or a con-type-person by nature,
and that's just my ish. So instead, I had a date. But a big shout
out and hugs to fellow panelists and folks in general: Rob, Ryan, Jen, Jessica, Allison, Gwen, Sparkler, Evan, Lisa, Jette and the lot of y'all, especially my readers Friday night, just
for being cool and great to meet and/or work with. Also got out
to coffee with Dru and Evan during these days, but I honestly don't recall which
days.
Saturday night: As I mentioned before I left, I had two dates in queue for me
when I got here (How much do I love Austin right now? A fuck of
a lot.). One was pretty much totally blind -- MP purportedly has
zero idea what she said to this girl to swap numbers in terms
of a date with me, because she was blitzed out of her gourd. The
other, Saturday nights', was with an LA transplant (I always seem
to hook up with other transplants in my life in cities I live
in or am visiting -- we must all have some sort of radar for one
another) she'd dated a couple times and was friends with.
It may be possible that all that needs be said to give you the
vibe and gist of my Saturday evening can be said in but two words:
queer two-stepping.
No, I'm not kidding. And yes, for those who know me well, I did
react as usual to both infectious joy and surreality as I usually
do, a bit like Margaret Mead on X. I could NOT stop grinning like
an idiot and giggling. I am now convinced that one just hasn't
lived until you've seen petite asian fags decked out in cowboy
duds twirling around hardcore butches while they both croon country
western at one another. I swear I am NOT taking any poetic liberties
here, no shit. |
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Photography: 10.16
members (35 photos, self-portraits)
10.16: members (8 photos, truck fire) • more photo updates |
My date for the evening was fun as hell, and a glorious host,
taking me out to a swell thai dinner, then to a handful of bars
before we finally landed at the Rainbow Cattle Company (apparently
called the Cattle Prod by the locals) to watch the above entertainment,
and from where I could not be pried away to save my life. She
also is a fine kisser, I must say. I think I can say honestly
that we had limited chemistry, because she seemed as okay with
that as I did, yet we still had a really great time together,
and it was good seeing her again a couple nights later to boot,
where she was equally lovely to me.
Sunday... was a fine brunch with Columbine and Debby, followed by a
loaner of their hotel card so MP, her son and I could partake
of the luxury of their rooftop pool and hottub at the Omni. Not
bad at all. Not at ALL. Few comical moments in there: I brought
in my smaller portfolio so C. and Debby could pick prints as a
gift. MP's 9-year-old got a glimpse of some nudity in there and
reacted like the 9-year-old he is, with some distaste, a little
disdain, and a healthy dose of "Ewww!" His response to what was apparently my brazenness at showing
friends of mine photographs of me was that "My mom ONLY shows photos of HERSELF on the Internet." Seems he saw a photo of her once on her computer, and to him,
everything on a computer is online. So, while he wasn't informed
that his Mom does do exactly that, seems he's figured it out.
And that I'm a brazen hussy in comparison.
In that vein, after hot-tubbing it, MP wanted to change out of
her suit bottom so as not to sit with a wet ass all afternoon,
so ducked behind the hot tub for a bit of privacy from the few
folks up at the pool.... that'd be behind the hot tub, but with
her bare ass facing a large glass wall which looked down on the
entire city. Sadly, it was her child who realized this disparity
before either of us. He said it was idiotic, but we've determined
he must have meant ironic.
Later that evening, MP and I shot with Lee. We were supposed to
be shooting with a bigger group, but things didn't jell, so given
it was just the two of us and a backyard, we opted for a trailer
trash frenzy that suited both of us disturbingly well, and resulted
in some very campy and ridiculous bad dyke porn. The photo set
is forthcoming soon, as are other photos I have from the whole
trip.
(written Wednesday, October 21st) The Scarleteen Benefit: ...was the benefit with benefits. Big time.
MP and her coconspirators who planned it picked a fantastic venue,
everyone's collective efforts had it filled to the gills (with,
perhaps, the most strangely mixed crowd of all time), and we made
more than $1500. The kings and the burlesque did a bang-up job,
the emcee was great (Hi, Justin!), Elise worked her safer sex
demo beautifully (and her rubber dress, I gotta add), and despite
my being inexplicably exhausted all day and night, and being emotionally
overwhelmed, I held up just fine. I am aware, however, that when
I got called up on stage I kinda stood like a strange little elf
and waved, then escaped stage left the very minute I thought I
could get away with it. One of these days, I'll learn to be a
bit better about that. The kissing booth kind of didn't happen
either, mainly because it was so crazy and crowded, and because
I kept noticing unsuspecting people standing behind it, so I sadistically
wanted to see what might happen with that. I did however, get
caught at the end by two scary businessmen and a silicone-boobied
trophy wife, who despite giving me $50 for the three kisses...
let's just say it wasn't pleasant and I felt I more than earned
it as I walked away shuddering. But I made up for good kisses
missed, as I'll detail shortly.
After the shows, we were all less than thrilled with the DJ at
the venue, and MP's gal and I went sticking our ears into the
other queer bars down the street listening for one with a better
mix, and dragged everyone over to the one we found. Where the
most adorable and smoking butch in Austin (IMO, but I have backup
on that) followed as well.
I shortly made up for all the kisses no one else was getting from
me by giving them all -- and some action no one at the booth would
have gotten for their $5 -- to A., the aforementioned total hottie
and total blind date. In fact, I think she got my entire last
month's stockpile of makeout. I was informed that what we were
doing were "muggin' down" at/on/under the bar. The things I learn
on my travels.
So much so, in fact, that apparently a fag walked by, eyes glued
to our action, and blurted out, "That's just fantastic," to which MP felt the need to reply with "I set them up!" deservedly taking credit for a very -- very -- good call on her
part. As I understand it, we had the whole bar on voyeuristic
fire.
I think I can talk a little trash right now. Yippee-kay-ai-yay.
Did I mention this girl was h-o-t? I don't think I did her justice
yet. Really. Jaysis. Louisiana-bred (with a fucking suave lazy
drawl to match), my size (okay, so she has two inches on me),
nicely fitted (really nicely fitted) striped polo, low-riding
jeans, cute spiky cut dark hair, easy to blush but happy to match
my directness when it came to the makeout, fantastic high energy,
perky as hell and sweet as sugar... mefuckingow. I do think I
may have ten years on her. Haven't determined that yet, but wasn't
caring overmuch, especially with the way she was gazing at me
between sessions. Bloody hell.
Anyway, being really fucking adorable, sweet, attentive and really
smoking hot at the same time is about as good as it gets in my
book. And we had it going on, absolute whiz-bang chemistry. She
even got points in the "let's guess who Heather looks like game"
for the Rebecca deMornay answer, a rare one, but the one or two
times someone has plugged on, I know I've got a good'un on my
hands. Or in them, in this case. I like that answer way better
than the standard Tori Amos answer. (At this time, we can all
feel a collective moment of pity for the poor guy years back who
decided to play that game and landed on Barbra Streisand. Guess
who went home alone that night?)
I'd asked if she was committed to going home that night somewhere
between extended makeout and grope sessions on the bar (and I
do mean ON the bar) and some tight dancing (not two-stepping),
and it turned out she was stuck dogsitting (and took that job
seriously, scoring megapoints with the dog-lover), so Tuesday
it was. Very unfortunately, she woke up with a hella intestinal
virus in the morning, and went down fighting at day's end. Virus: 1, A: 0. She called, apologetic and disappointed, when it was clear it
was a losing battle, and it was a seriously sweet phone call.
It may just be that this girl takes another Austin trip sometime
sooner than expected to pick up where she left off. I'm seriously
resisting the temptation to go grab her and just stuff her in
my bag and take her home with me.
But Monday, I got to go to bed all purry and growly and I-had-my-lips-and-hands-all-over-this-really-fine-fun-girl
last night, and get to carry that around with me today in my travels.
It was a total Dancing Queen night for me. Monday afternoon, spent park-time with Dru and
her darling brood. Tuesday morning, I took a short walk to Lee
and Lauren's to have a little more time with them, and then a
bath to soak my bugbites and daydream about good dates and Louisiana
drawls and thick black hair and great hips tight in my hands.
Yum, yum, yummy. Sigh.
(Okay, this morning there aren't bugs out yet, so instead, I have
been provided a total Tippi Hedren moment. There are WAY too many
birds all flapping around the yard and trees cawing loudly, and
it's both scaring the bejeezus out of me and making me want to
dye my hair blonde and find a phone booth to squeal in.)
Last night, I photographed MP and her girlfriend after a fantastic
macrobiotic dinner, which went really well, despite there being
very little light to work with, and I liked a lot of what I got.
It was all punctuated by a lot of laughing and smiling (it's always
a bit weird having a photographer in your bedroom), as well as
by my being sent out to smoke after the shoot so they could have
some -- ahem -- private time. Mocha Jean, one of their kings and
a friend of Jenn's, came by afterwards to hang out, and she was
lovely (and awfully nice to look at) as well. We talked Minneapolis
(she'd lived there and had been up at IDKE all weekend) and drag
and the lot, and I admired her corduroys and twinkly eyes. I have
to tell you, there are some fine, fine women down here. It's been
a really endless parade of eye candy during my visit, for which
my overactive imagination is infinitely grateful. When everyone
was in yawn-mode, MP and I drove home, goo-ing over my very cute
phone call from A., and stayed up late talking the politics of
butch-femme ratios and courting, about accepting in queer life
that it's entirely possible in certain locales you may just never
have a viable, long-lasting relationship and what it takes to
be okay with that, if you can be at all, and about tofu sandwiches
and various flavors of nonsequitur.
So, it's Wednesday morning at this point, and I'm out on the porch
with a soy mint mocha, a smoke, and this log of my travels, having
just sent Mint off to work.
It's been a really nice trip. Almost too nice. Mocha asked last
night if I'd done other benefits like the one here, and truthfully,
I hadn't because no one has ever arranged such a thing. I felt
all weepy and lump-hijacking-my-throat half the night, because
here was this party, not even just for me, but just for my work.
There were even balloons. Someone got me balloons, man. Balloons.
And a troupe of drag kings giving sermons about how great my work
was. It was just so nice and it made me feel so totally special.
I known that sounds cheesy as shit, but honestly, thinking of
me enough to do this was just enormously cool, and no one's ever
really done anything like that for me before. People kept asking
if I was tired, saying I seemed tired, and I just didn't know
how to express what I was feeling without crying, so.
So, I heart Austin. And especially Mintpink, who is like a sister
to me. And peace out to Jenn, Lee, Lauren, Odelia, A., Justin,
Sara, Hugh, Jim, Dru, the wee ones of Dru, Evan, Elise, Shanti...
and all the fine, fine women of Austin, Texas. Not to play favorites
or nuthin', but especially to one of whom I'll be looking forward
to talking to soon again just so I can hear her say "Heathah"
some more (and who owns no computer, so she may never see this,
but did mention last night she's going to have a friend set her
up with email at her place, so). Not really looking forward to
the flights home, since I still hate flying, but I am looking
forward to seeing Sofi, the cats, and my own bed.
Who knows. Maybe I can keep my lone star state of mind.
(written Wednesday evening - Thursday afternoon) So, the very second I got dropped off at the airport, my heart
dropped out full-stop.
I felt the exact same way I felt years back when B. went to leave
after a Chicago visit and I decided to ask him to marry me. I
know that doesn't sound all that auspicious, since not only am
I no longer married and did my marriage end terribly, I lost my
best friend in the process, and I don't even date men anymore,
let alone marry them.
But it was the same feeling. The same bigass knocked-on-the-head-with-a-clue-stick-unsuspecting,
one whose message could be a handful of different things, in this
case.
And I don't know which. Between three airports by myself, and
two flights, I tried to make some personal space (mainly in bathroom
stalls) so I could cry in private and try and figure out what
the fuck my damage was. I also needed to make sure that feeling
wasn't my gut trying to tell me not to get on a plane which may
crash, but I determined that that feeling would likely be less
crying and more hyperventilating. Bizarrely, Becca told me when
I first arrived she'd had a dream I didn't come back as planned,
which was surreal, given how I was feeling.
I've narrowed down the possibilities of what this is/was, but
I've come to no real conclusions. It may be any or all of the
above, or none of the above for all I know.
1. I didn't expect to like Austin. I don't know why not. In fact,
the first day, save the joy of seeing people I adore, and the
lovely hot weather, I thought the place was kinda icky, which
may be because I was in convention mode. But by day three, I was
in love with it to my surprise. With the way people just seem
to drop in to see other people and chill out. With the beautiful
weirdness of the place. With the close proximity and nearby-feel
of Mexico, my favorite place in the world. Did I say with the
weirdness of the place already? Thing is, I felt normal there,
but not in the way I feel normal in San Fran, where it's more
like a competition to be the weirdest. In a totally laid-back
and comfortable just-be-me way. Which leads me to what I suspect
may be the major cause...
2. It's no secret that one of the downsides of Minnesota is that
a lot of locals tend to be very closed on some level, and just
hard to get an open door to. I tend to defend that a lot, and
I've no clue why, save my silly loyalism. But I don't think I
realized until today how hard I have been working since I moved
here to prove myself, incessantly -- with work, socially, with
dates -- and how much I tend to feel like I have to all but beg
people to let me in or accept me as I am the littlest bit. How
tired and sad and self-doubting it's made me. That's been so much
the case, that at the benefit Monday night, listening to this
whole room of people talk -- either right to my face or amongst
themselves or with mikes to a room -- about how special what I
do is and I am for doing it was almost too much. As mentioned,
I had to step myself aside once or twice because I was just so
overwhelmed. Because of the total amazing goodness of it all,
but also with how angry I haven't realized I am about feeling
so shunned here in that regard and unacknowledged, save one or
two small pieces or speaking engagements I've had in the whole
almost five years I've lived here. Even with those things, I usually
had to do WAY more work than I should have for them.
About how angry I am, for instance, that a year or so back, an
organization interviewed me for a job I was way more than qualified
for, knew the work I did with Scarleteen and could not stop telling
me how great it was and I am, but who did not hire me. Worse still,
they instead asked me to help them develop their website. For
free. I confess I didn't deal with it well and just blew it off
rather than telling them how insulted and offended I was by it
all.
About how totally goddamn tired I am to have to work so hard to
get people to be nice to me or okay with me or just fucking talk
to me at all. Worse still about how I've somehow convinced myself
-- I don't even know when I did it -- that that was okay, that
I was lesser or too-this or too-that and they had the right to
make me have to earn what I already deserve outright just like
they do, and like I give them with no real criteria. How I've
convinced myself that I need to work to make myself worthy of
things I'm already worthy of, and how many people I've let do
that to me and I've gone right along with it.
That whole business, I know is at least part of my emotional mess
today, if not all of it. I'm going to need some time to rectify
that and figure out what it means emotionally and practically.
Because it's clearly not so simple as "I just need to move to
Austin," or wherever else. It's bigger than that, and even if
parts of this place are toxic to me, in my experience making your
life work is rarely so simple as just finding the right city where
everything comes together all fairy-tale like. But if it's so
super-big here specifically that I am too easy to do that, and
constantly encouraged TO engage in behaviours which are toxic
for me, I may have to earnestly consider living somewhere where
I can't fall into that and be supported in it so easily. Especially
when I do find places, as was the case in Austin, where I don't
seem to have to do any of that, where even people I run into who
don't know me are as friendly and open and bombastic and eclectic
as I am. Where I blend without having to try at all or change
myself in any way.
(And I so hope that isn't the case, because sweet jesus, I was
just finally feeling settled and like I was starting to get a
toehold into the communities here. I love my apartment, and I
like being caretaker, and I have a couple good friends here now.
And I hate moving, especially when it means a total uproot across
the country.)
3. I met a girl, as I mentioned above (okay, I met a few, actually,
all of whom rocked, but one who really just had it all going on).
Who really rocked. Now, I'm going to add the obligatory realism
reminders here: it was a single date and a phone conversation
the next day (and as this is written today, another nice phone
chat today). I was already very high from the benefit energy.
And fuck if I haven't been lonely as hell here lately and really
bummed out with my dating life. And there's always that vacation-date/romance
dazzly-lovesick stuff to account for.
But she really was great. And I really like her. And we had this
totally outrageous whiz-bang thing going on. And she says my name
"Heathah," which makes my knees weak (and yes, I know I've mentioned
ths twice). And I'm terribly disappointed and irritated that I
can't really pursue something that could maybe be... really something,
unless I'm just on crack.
It isn't just about the girl, I don't think, if that is part of
this feeling, but about things feeling so ripe with possibility
there on all my dates and meetups. Which they very much do not
feel here. In fact, of late I've been trying to get myself to
a point where I can accept that there may not be anything truly
viable for me here as far as relationships are concerned, or even
very casual play with the kind of people I want to be with (and
I'm really not a nitpicker, I swear). To the point that my bravado
about it all, about accepting less than I really want and not
even getting that little, is becoming truly humiliating and really
fucking obvious.
I feel like such a fucking dork and a whiner and a baby for having
this great trip and coming home and being such a mess, sitting
here sobbing on my bloody keyboard like an idiot.
Which is why I'm going to bed now with cheesy movies that will
undoubtedly only make me feel worse.
I talked to Jane some last night, which helped so very much. I
think all this may be a conglomeration of the two trips, really,
not just the one, though the Austin trip really drove it all home
(and suddenly finding my DSL here is down for the gazillioth time
and knowing it means a full day on hold tomorrow isn't helping
any).
But I need to make time to work it all out. Given my childhood
and upbringing, so much of it spent trying to earn my parents
love, to be "good enough" to try and waylay the abuse all the
time by trying to be anyone but me (and leaving earlier than any
kid should have to leave home when it became clear that wasn't
helping), then so many years spent convinced I had to earn everyone's
care, it really is mucho important that I be sure I'm not in a
place -- locationally or emotionally -- where I'm in that again,
and certainly not where I'm in it unaware and accepting that it's
okay when it very much is not.
There's a lotta stuff we all have to deal with in our lives, but
there are some things we know are just toxic to us in terms of
our own personal journeys, or which stand counter to our path.
And in my case, one thing that's vital is that I remain in places
where I don't doubt that I'm okay as-is, where that's a given
and needs no proving, especially proving far beyond the call of
what anyone else has to do for me. And discovering I've let myself
get cornered back there again may be a matter of being in a city/place
that isn't right for me, and some difficult things going on here
lately, or it may be (or may also be) a matter of simply relearning
not to take that shit, not to knock myself out unreasonably for
other people or things inequitably.
I need to be somewhere where all the great things I work my ass
off to do are acknowledged, and what I do or have done that is
worthy of admiration and respect gleans some without my having
to hold out a tin cup on a street corner with a placard reading
"Will work for two seconds of your time and attention" to get it. I need to be somewhere where my openness and directness
and high energy and personality in toto is okay, or better still,
really appreciated and cherished, rather than scary or off-putting.
And finding myself unexpectedly in a place that seems to be that
in terms of location and community quite instantly has just truly
tweaked my brain.
Funny when you expect a vacation and you end up getting a journey.
It's a better deal, really, but it sure doesn't feel like one. |
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