|I think this is a decent enough representation of light.|
Lovely cardigan too though, which I can't help but comment on
because I am fickle and a bit obsessive.
And in my own life I struggle to see any light I may have. Every time I think I've found some, things happen that either shadow it or reveal it to be naught but a reflection in burnished bronze as the elements take hold and some distant light source is being shrouded from me, the wink of a setting sun in the glass on the table.
Which leads me to peer into the darkness, looking for answers and pondering the deep black. Sometimes the black looks back.
|Sometimes one puts on the blindfold oneself.|
And, tonight, I type these words rather than working because I am tired and the lights are going out again. No, not out, they are being shadowed and hidden by my own blackness. I know this.
|There would have been a gag if I'd have owned one.|
Also, I only had one pair of handcuffs.
Still, she looks happy here. Genuinely.
It's why I used this image.
|Yes, but in a pub. And with a fourth figure, a man in woman's|
clothing watching and smiling and keeping track but making
no unsolicited comments. Just... being.
In both cases I do not claim to have been any more feminine or womanly than I am now, sitting useless on the sofa with a beard that is unkempt and a near Hitler hair-style (sorry) and sweating all over the place. My feet stink, my pubic hair sheds, and I am feeling very lazy and fat in a very male way. One of the discoveries I have made is that I am not transgender in that way and I know too many wonderful people who are to claim to be part of that identity. No, in these cases I was a man dressed in women's clothes operating in an androgynous way. And, crucially, I was happy in both cases. Intensely happy. At peace. And there was no question in my mind about what each episode meant - I was living in the moment. I suspect that is why the feelings and sensations were so vivid and so unexpected.
This darkness is rich and roasted, careful and cool, like a fine stout at Christmas or during the dark night. Velvet and soft like a delicate choker, swirling and big like the ocean at night. It is a safe and powerful form of positive darkness.
And then I find myself smiling when watching clips of the Joker in Gotham on youtube. Genuine happy smiles, rueful ones and almost breaking into genuine laughter. Not at him but with him. It's like this portrayal of madness has struck a nerve - the thread of "oh now you've done it haven't you" that runs through it calls to my sense of that. It calls to the troubled little shit at school who throttled a girl for laughing at them, throttled and lifted from the ground by her neck against a wall, and never (still doesn't) felt remorse for that action. The one that took revenge on a bully and still feels no remorse for making that pustule like face bleed. Who threatened to beat another girl with a chair for poking fun. Who enjoyed the heat of the anger in Sixth Form when stabbing with a metal pen into a friend's hand and only felt ashamed that no one cared nor noticed. The one who got confused that they were being taken to task for having students who were fucking rude and lazy be 'scared' of him before the Christmas holidays. It's a different kind of darkness.
And, with that Radio 4 drama, I got to thinking: what does it feel like to be a murder victim? If killing and infliction of pain is wrong, if one cannot physically attack or use voice to berate or even defend from the smiling assassin's blade then what about letting the attacks happen? I was once beaten up by three ne'er-do-wells on the way home from school in another anecdote that I have probably related on here before. I let it happen. I had plenty of warning and, by the time I decided to run for it, it was already too late and I sort of knew that. When they started the attack I recall being passive, realising that I was going to let them. I made no move to defend myself, didn't even struggle against the choke hold nor seek to move away from the attempts to kick me repeatedly in the groin or elbow-drop my back. It was the same later when I was assaulted and my belt snapped by girls, and probably boys but I don't remember, trying to rip my trousers off on the school field in an attack I never even bothered reporting. The same when I let myself be attacked mercilessly and repeatedly at work by people who did not know nor care the effect they were having. Why? Because I deserve it. I know I do because of all the things in the previous paragraph. This is the darkness that shrouds the light of others.
And yet the fear is different. It is the fear of being found out.