Eccentric Flower:199810/lovely and turbulent
From Eccentric Flower
«October 1998 «Eccentric Flower
 |
thirty october ninety eight eleven p m lovely and turbulent Tonight is beautiful. The shrill wind is blowing the last of the red-orange from the trees, the half-moon is choked into haze by clouds, and I was enjoying the wind in my hair and the look and feel of my new full-length coat and the taste of the hot coffee as I took a late-evening stroll. It was a pleasant evening. It didn't start out to be. I had been committed to go to a reading of "scary erotic stories." Now, first off, there are very few of those. (There are quite a few grotesque erotic stories, which is an easier trick.) Second, with the exception of Firesign Theatre recordings, I am not in the habit of just sitting and listening for any period of time. Third, although I have heard some truly sexy spoken pieces, my odd sexuality seems to dictate that pieces which are sexy when read are seldom as sexy when spoken - whereas most of the pieces I find sexy when spoken were never intended to be sexy pieces at all, and do not read as such. Go figure. But Eric had chosen a really unusual piece to read, not erotic but compelling, and since there were very few readers, my nightmares of having to sit through much droning didn't happen, and our dinner was lovely. Good thing, because on the way there, I was nursing the same case of vague inner unsettlement which has given me such a bad week. It's been a bad writing week, a bad gender week, and a bad sexuality week, and they're all tied into the damned story of Sir Robert, where my gender baggage tangled up the story so badly that no one knows it was originally meant to be softcore smut. I am also realizing that I can't write genre fiction, which is very depressing. Everything I write - mysteries, humor, sex - eventually spirals out of control and turns into a Columbine-style story. It's a wonderful style, and I do it well. But it is completely unsalable. To sell, I must be able to write genre. And all my attempts have failed. Adding to my general depression was the story of the young crossdresser, Alex McLendon, who was thrown out of her high school just because he preferred to dress, look, and act female. She was very convincing - many of his classmates didn't even realize she was a boy until told. Four separate people have sent me this story now, and I appreciate your sending it ... you were right to think I wanted to see it ... but stop sending it. It made me cry. But as I said, I'm cheery now. Honest. I'm describing why I was gloomy before. The weather and the dinner and the evening and all - they cheered me right up. I'm easy. I get unhappy quickly and recover quickly. My moods blow around like the branches of the trees outside. Venting also helps. While on my way to the reading tonight, in a fit of black humor, I composed this.
Recollecting the scope of my thirty-plus years I admit that the body is not my concern. I think reason's the reason I linger behind,
© columbine |
