Eccentric Flower:199911/Scribbles and skirts

I didn't write here this weekend mostly because I was writing elsewhere. At about three a.m., somewhere between Saturday and Sunday, I finished the edits to Quarter Moon. Now I've started the tedious process of taking the printed manuscript, covered with Nonelvis' little pink pen markings and my heavy pencil slashes (I edit emphatically), and making all these changes in the electronic copy. Ugh. I hate this part, so it'll go slowly, but I imagine that within the week I should have something to show.

I realized during the edits that I love this manuscript. At this point I don't care if anyone ever buys it or not, because each time I do a major round of edits on it, I like it better. If nothing else, I've managed to please myself.

That's not as minor as it might sound. Very little of my work gives me a thrill upon rereading - I'm too harsh on my own words for that. (The "Memoranda" entry is one of the few cases where I read what I had posted and enjoyed it after the fact.) This round of edits was the first time I've actually opened the manuscript and read it front to back in over a year - enough time for my brain to reset - and I think I enjoy reading it more each time.

Of course, I am still dubious that anyone will buy this book, which has an unusual structure and tends to be more interested in the conversations than the plot, but since I no longer care (with this manuscript at least), it's rather liberating - the pressure, you might say, is off.

I updated the gender tracking chart this morning (yes, I'm still doing that; did you think I'd stopped just because I don't mention it?) and realized that, for the first time, I had a day I didn't know how to classify.

On Saturday I began by driving my car to the Toyota dealership to be repaired. Now, given a choice between an auto showroom and an auto service department, I'll take the mechanics over the shysters any day. Rough, dirty types can sometimes be nice people who just happen to do brawny, physical work, whereas there are no nice car salesmen - at least not in the long term - you have to have a certain corroded spot in your character to be successful at the job.

Of course, sometimes mechanics are genuine thugs, who are looking for an excuse to abuse anything that doesn't conform to their little view of the world. That's the risk you take. We covered this, I think, when discussing good ol' boys. Sometimes they'll protect you and sometimes they'll kill you. They're great when they're on your side.

Um, the point of all this is that Saturday morning was the first time in quite a while that I found myself deliberately "dressing down" in order to look as non-femme, as inconspicuous, as possible. This makes me ashamed of myself, which is why I don't do it more often.

But then, on Saturday night, I got the urge out of nowhere to clean myself up (I was only going to a movie with Nonelvis, it wasn't something I'd normally get fancy for) and - well - I wore a skirt to the movie. I suddenly wanted to try the experiment. Maybe my brain was compensating for the morning. This is the first time I've ever worn a skirt in public when it wasn't part of a costume of some sort.

So I don't know what kind of day Saturday was.

Oh, the movie was Three Kings, by the by, and if you can handle a certain moderate amount of war-related atrocities, you really should see it. It has some points to make and it does them with cleverness and style.

Now, about this skirt. This was a long, loose gypsy skirt, nothing fetishy, very normal. Above the waist I had on a t-shirt and one of my big cotton shirts with collars that I use as overshirts/jackets. The combination worked, but the point is, it didn't look particularly girly. It wasn't supposed to. I just wanted to dress the way I wanted, not present a particular gender. I left my hair tied back. I wore earrings. (You may assume I always wear earrings now. I even wore studs to the auto dealership.)

Wearing the skirt was - well, I felt like everything was intensified. I prefer wearing a skirt to pants, but I already knew that. It made the business of walking and sitting in the theatre and riding the subway much better - and probably gave me an adrenaline rush as well, I admit it.

Balancing that adrenaline rush was the fact that not one adult human didn't give me a double-take or at least an odd look as we passed by. Several people muttered comments to each other behind me as we were leaving the theatre. I don't know whether they intended me to overhear them. "Late Hallowe'en maybe?" I heard one man ask another.

Now, the three girls in the parking lot - they couldn't have been sixteen years old - who saw me and hollered things to each other like, "Oh my Gawd - look, look! - that man's wearing -" and began giggling maniacally and followed us inside and even said "hey, nice skirt!" in as loud a voice as they could get up the courage for - they didn't bother me. They amused me. I don't know what the difference is.

So it added something to my evening, but also made me notice people's reactions too closely - and, yes, probably made me a little paranoid. Like being under a microscope.

I will probably do it again, though, at some point. That may be a frightening concept. I'm not sure. I still worry about addiction.