Sometimes, I wake up in the morning and anticipate an ordinary day where nothing much happens and it's all about getting through to the good stuff at the end.
But then today happened.
I have an audition. Another one. For a low-budget film made by important people. It's a small role. One scene. With the lead actor. Someone who would make a whole lot of you plotz. Not a fandom I'm in though. That's as much as I can say. I'm suddenly scoring a lot of very good auditions. Now if I could just score some work. But somehow, it seems, I am moving up in the world: me = tiny pseudo-celebrity fish in a giant sea of celebrity sharks. Insert megalodon joke here. Okay, maybe "insert" was the wrong word. Come on, you know you love me. Anyway....
Aaaaaaaaaaaargh abstract. I finally got it together enough for it to be cogent, but it's going to take a lot of beating with sticks, clearly. I hate that. Hate it. And, since I'm not actually an academic, it pings all my insecurities. But fucking hell, I am presenting this thing in Bristol. I am. I'm just going to discuss it internally like it's a fact. At least I got started early for a change. I hope to get the thing mailed out by the end of the weekend.
The big office secret is no longer a secret, since it just culminated in a wedding. Yay.
On the subway, the following -- no doubt obvious and at some point a focus of scholarship for someone -- occurred to me: Gossip is an act of claiming. What's exciting about this? The Nick Cave thing -- I'm re-writing it, to include (super discretely, because the names don't matter) the context in which I tend to tell it. And it's going to be amazing. And then I just have to find someone to buy it.
Cunard cruise cancellation achieved. Now I just have to make calls and book the other one, which will be early January. I feel better.
Check fucktacularness resolved.
I really need to mail that check to Seyta re: the tux.
There is a line, I always think of, about New York, that was included in a theater review of a thing that was like a scavenger hunt all over the city involving people cast as angels: It looked, I thought, like a holy city. This is what I live with, living in New York. Every day. This notion that we will one day, instead of forgotten, but legend.
Tonight Patty and I are having dinner with an old friend of mine and her not so new man I haven't met yet (since they don't live in town). We'll be going to Olives, which I haven't been to since it opened.
I'm not, in truth, doing so great. I think it's more than con let-down, but the whole abrupt cessation of my con season, which doesn't start up again until the new year. Cons aren't just fun for me -- they're business, and also a chance to exercise my brain and articulateness and impulses towards teaching. They're places where my humor is appreciated and it's never inappropriate that I'm both performing and thinking all at once. Without them, I can feel a bit nothing, a bit ordinary. None of us, cons aside and regardless of what we do, ever get over this feeling, do we? Pothos, and also none of us got enough love in our childhoods. Believe you me, no performs, no one creates because they are entirely well, but because they are trying to be.
While I have often been aware of the desire to silence voices like mine (queer, female, marginalized, confident, working outside the lines), it's not something that's ever really been effective against me. I speak. Like sharks (back with the sharks!) need to keep moving to breathe, I need to speak. This is not an act of anything political on my part, but really just the legacy of speech therapy and the way I was assumed to be slow because I was not the right type of pretty (more on that in a moment). But someone happened recently that has rattled my nerves, because I'm not used to being challenged inappropriately in my right to speak. It's not a big deal. It's not real, it's not about actual power or authority, but I'm shocked at my impulse not just to bow to it, but to silence myself even further, protectively. It's terrible. How do people survive this? Oh, that's right, for so many, they really do just stop speaking. God, people, be kinder.
Yesterday, it was revealed that athlete Caster Semenya has both male and female sex characteristics, including internal testes that are producing large amounts of testosterone. The sports world doesn't know what to do, and as someone who is an athlete in a sport where men and women compete against each other and therefore these sort of issues don't matter as victory and awards are not gender-based, I don't have a lot to say about what should and shouldn't happen here.
What I do have a lot to say about (and thankfully others do too) is is the coverage and discourse about Semanya, starting with the Sydney Morning Herald article linked above which includes the phrase "The presence of both male and female characteristics will come as a devastating blow to Semenya." Really? Can the journalist read minds? Even if this may seem an obvious conclusion to some (it is documented Semenya has dealt with aspersions related to her perceived masculinity throughout her life), I think it's reporting both sloppy and offensive.
Semenya also recently posed for a magazine after receiving a makeover, which if she enjoyed doing it, or felt it was some sort of necessary public relations move she was comfortable with -- more power to her. But the discourse (and man, you should see the shit on Twitter) that a woman proves her gender by her appeal (her use) to others is extremely uncomfortable to me. As is the idea that masculine is an insult to women and feminine is an insult to me (and often, to a lot of women, as well -- even girls don't want to "throw like girls").
I don't know how Semenya self-identifies, and I've not got a vested interest in it. But until and unless she chooses to tell us otherwise, she's a she, and she's fucking fast on the track and I fucking wish the media and everyone else would stop telling us what she thinks, what she feels, and who she is. Only Semenya can do that. But then again, we've never been very good at letting women speak for themselves, have we?