|This was in 1996, apparently. If I had|
known... I would have done bugger all.
Claire as 'Mother of all battles'.
I realise that I am a poor transvestite. I never dressed in anything feminine until the first year of university, which I did in private and in scrupulous secrecy, and I never actually came out as one (though I suspect pretty much everyone knew and probably better than I did). I have had but one romantic experience with cross-dressing involved that was with a mad person and had no future. I have never created nor maintained an actual wardrobe and I have been out and dressed (hardly) once in my entire life, in October 2011, with my platform heel shoes and, briefly, a skirt. The rest has been indoors and in private. Okay, there was the time I went in a mini-dress to a club with Toby but that doesn't count much as it was entirely shit. Okay, and the school-girl occasion on Toby's birthday, that was positive and never repeated and dressing up.
I am a poor human being. Today we were discussing what people wanted to do in school, I think my brother was being harangued (again) by my father over his 'non-job' (my father's words) of Christian youth work started in his gap-year. My brother never made it to University and his gap-year became his life work. I worked out that I had never had a really defined aim. A family, go to University and that was it. I have achieved these aims. I've tricked a woman into bed long enough to have two children and fooled academia long enough to dispense it as a career. I get paid for what I do. In the last week I even got a review from my immediate boss that reads like a fucking love letter. I'm not complaining.
None of it is me.
|Do I spy Juana Galan in this image? I think I do, there to the far|
left. I find it interesting that there are men in it - the story has
it that only the women were involved.
mad-ex' if you're interested), and then ordered my own stuff for Christmas that year - sharing it with Toby when she came to visit in January. That was the dam that broke.
|Oxford. I bought roses. Derivative. Doomed.|
I still love the colour yellow and would like to try a
half-tester again. It is laughably unlikely I ever shall.
Sexually I was disappointed. My naivete led me to believe that most people went beyond missionary, that most people were playful and experimental, ish. I always assumed that I would be the brake due to my own very set ideas and resolved to be open to anything once. It didn't help that going out with Toby was my only real experience of women who were sexual and she was mad.
|Spring Harvest Big Top Praise.|
This is from 2012. I haven't attended since 2005 I think.
Last time as a worker, rather than a punter, (and this is better
methinks) was in 2004.
Waiting has destroyed my writing urges. I have scrubbed and gone cold-turkey and I have succeeded, it is dead and gone. I no longer harbour dreams of publication, I assassinated that part of me. There is some pride in that. My last unrealistic goal purged so that I shan't feel bitter and sad when others see success in this regard. I can no longer be insulted and hurt when people do not like what I have written because I no longer write anything. I never get as far as opening the documents any more, I have stopped jotting down dreams and ideas, the still-births no longer haunt me. People like Perry, like my friends, my wife: true creatives - they create. They have the resilience and the ability. I do not create, I copy and twist. I have never had an original thought or idea and, frankly, I don't think I want one, it seems like a lot of work and emotional investment. As an emotional illiterate I believe myself incapable of the latter and as a lazy cunt I dislike the sound of the former. I do not sally forth to seek asymmetric battle with terror, I withdraw and hide in the hinterlands. There is no Alan Measles, only Ruff - the forgotten hero abandoned before I was 12 because soft-toys were for children - and his long forgotten and abandoned conflict. I have withdrawn because I am a coward. But I am alive and cannot be killed. Better a live coward than a hero disabled. I have skull-fucked my dreams and they have stopped, slick in their own blood and mouldering on the abattoir floor.
But I can't manage to stop the cross-dressing.
My children will have dreams. It is my wish and my desire that they do not self-regulate to my excess. But I am slightly autistic and, though spectrum-y, neither of my children yet display any of my hallmarks regarding self-control and active waiting. With Tilly as a mother perhaps they never will, and I shall be glad.
Stopping now, being remarkably self-indulgent.