Double, Trouble?

From smh, as usual:

'A baby boy born with two heads in southwestern Bangladesh has been placed under police protection because of the curiosity his birth has caused among locals, a doctor said on Wednesday. The boy, named Kiron, was born by Cesarean section on Monday weighing 5.5kg in Keshobpur, 135 kilometres from Dhaka, gynaecologist Mohamad Abdul Bari said. "He has one stomach and he is eating normally with his two mouths. He has one genital organ and a full set of limbs," he said. "He was born from one embryo but there was a developmental anomaly."'

I don't know how to respond to this?

PreCum Reminder

Breasts Blow-Out

My breasts are huge. This is not a brag, its a fact. They have gone up at least a cup size in the last few weeks, and they are getting more sore every day. I bled recently-- they didn't go down. When I went for my walk today, it was a struggle to keep going as every step hurt. Stairs are excruciating. Hugs must be negotiated with caution. I wake up sore in the morning. It is all quite distracting, and unpleasant.

Tomorrow I try to find a sympathetic doctor (trying FPA clinic) and then drag my aching chest into Myers or some such to get myself decked out with some sort of cleavage supporting contraption. Maybe they will go down eventually, but the pain is getting silly. What is causing this? Too much soy milk? My contraceptive implant? Am I about to start spontaneously lactating? No milk that I can find, never had this before and been hormonally contracepted for years, always had plenty of soy... hmm... its an all-over pain too, sore at skin-level then inside if given the slightest pressure...not lumpy that I can feel, just HUGE and OUCHY. This is beginning to freak me out.

Product Of My Environment

in a conversation with a mate just now i realised yet again just how good it is for me to be away from a lot of the bad freaks i have been associated with over the years. as i wrote:

'i have learned that i am a product of my environment and the more moody substance-abusing crackpots with no ambition, life, passion, derring-do or vigour i surround myself with the more of a tragic depressed sadarse i become'

and its true somewhat. i am MUCH better for having a stable household environment, without having to stay locked up in my room 'cos of stompy grouchy morning people, or deal with their comedowns, or have all my food eaten, or monitor and inhibit my own joy lest they find my happiness too confronting... chilled, cooking all the time, spontaneous dinners for friends, getting more work done, able to come and go as i please. and so much more creative and happy for it!

Getting My Hands Dirty

Too much time spent in my head, not enough time spent on manual tasks and challenges lately. Painted the back room yesterday, and damn was it good!

Strange Thought Occurred To Me In The Shower...

Realised that I will probably never know if I am fertile or not. Not planning to breed, and unlikely it will happen 'by accident', so... Its odd, but the idea of possibly being 'barren' and not ever knowing it has unsettled me somewhat. Even if you don't want to, there is an element of choice if you know you COULD. Hmm.

Malignant Mother

Here's a performance by Yiorgos Zafiorou that I participated in at ArtSpace sometime ago. See if you can find me in the image...

Yiorgos Zafiriou Malignant Mother

In 2004 surgical nipple grafts made the artist's nipples redundant pieces of flesh. They simply became decorations marked upon his chest by surgery. Malignant Mother celebrates the transition of Zafiriou's nipples from sites of pleasure to coloured skin patches that stare out from his torso.

Like the surgery, the performance is prepared as a ritualised process. A bell rings. A tattooist prepares her machinery. A figure in a lab coat suture a chain made from human fingernails to his navel.

In the course of the performance the artist's nipples are made black. Black is used to represent a symbolic death. Black makes visible what is invisible.

Acknowlegements:
Megan Oliver (Tattoist), Fiona McGregor of SenVoodoo (Suturing), Zoo (Non-maternally manipulated lactivational performer), Peter Conlon (Performance Assistant), Daniel Cater (Costumes)

Potted History

My high School Reunion is coming up soon. It is a Catholic girls' school. In the far and dodgy Western 'burbs of Sydney. I will not be there, but they emailed me today wanting an update on what I had been doing for the last 18 years or so. This is what I sent them:

Potted History of Insert Original Name Here*/Zoo.

Insert Original Name Here*left dear old St Blah**'s in 1990 or so, to pursue her long-held dream of deconstructing and interrogating almost everything she had ever learned in oppressive religious institutions. The next dozen years or so brought a long and fabulous engagement to a very sweet man, an exciting career trading rare and collectible records in Sydney and afar, a brief and unmemorable stint of corporate whoredom and a love affair with black liquid eyeliner and un-natural hair colourings. As Saturn returned Insert Original Name Here* found herself transformed into a Godless, feminist, leftie, wanton spinster and queer, pansexual, gender-irreverent academic. Somewhere along the way, Zoo emerged from hir armpit and took over some of Insert Original Name Here*'s responsibilities in regards to activism, performance art, body modification and general rabble rousing.

Insert Original Name Here*/Zoo is living in Perth with hir Significant Monster, writing up hir University of Sydney PhD on the cultural meanings of breast milk, engaging in freelance journalism, the occasional art installation and as much travelling as sie can hustle up time and funds for. Once hir doctorate is in completed sie intends to do more of the same. With abandon.

* Yes, I know a lot of you know it!
** Close enough

Wet Nurse

Hmm. Somebody asked the other day whether I would be prepared to wet nurse a child. At the time it totally wigged me out, but then I was thinking... wow, if I COULD, maybe it would be worth a go? Post-thesis of course. Imagine!

Eat Your Elkins, Its Good For You

Promise.

'The alchemist's interest in putrefactio is shared by contemporary artists, many of whom see something beautiful in natural decay. The rotting fruit, blooming at the back of the refrigerator, is also outlandishly beautiful with its crown of bluish hair spreading over a glowing orange skull. So is the throat ravaged with bronchitis, blossoming in smooth white flowers. And the bloated deer half-swamped in the lakeshore is also beautiful, with its gorgeous smooth hide stretched into a lucent bubble. There are hundreds of examples in fine art, each more nauseating and compelling than the last. The installation artist Anne Hamilton soaked a thousand pennies in honey, and then let them gather a film of dust; Andres Serrano made stagnant infusions of piss, semen and milk; Frances Whitehead works with fabrics soaked in water, muds, oils and resins.'

again from What Painting Is (70)

Food And Travel Writers Needed

CHERRIE magazine is looking for female travel writers and a food writer/s. If interested, please email the editor, Katrina Fox, on editorcherrie@e-p.com.au

Fermentation Is Yeasty Death

Fermentation is yeasty death. A body that burns becomes lifeless powder, but a body that ferments rots and and the room fills with unbearable stench. As it swells, there is a strange and fascinating rhyme between a belly that distends with swampy gasses and a belly swollen with a growing child. To the alchemists fermentation was full of digestion, pregnancy, and new life. A vessel called the uterus was considered best for fermentation, but alchemists also mimicked the womb by placing their sealed vessels in manure, and even by places vials in horses' vaginas. In general, vessels were sealed in imitation of the closed womb, and opened in imitation of Caesarean section...

- James Elkins
What Painting Is (143-144)

Summer Breeze

The air floating through my window still has that crisp winter edge to it, even in the middle of the day. But for a moment there I believe I could feel summer creeping in.

And now I crave ocean swims, bbqs, the smell of insect repellent and jasmine, lazy days in backyards drinking beer and recovering from all-night adventures, sticky sunscreen skin and waking up crusted in salt and stuck to the sheets... hoping to catch at least some of a Perth heatwave before we head off to wherever comes next...

Damn Fine PERV- *CALL FOR ENTRIES*

THE INAUGURAL PERV QUEEROTIC FILM FESTIVAL

THE RED RATTLER, 6 FAVERSHAM ST, MARRICKVILLE, SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
4TH – 7TH DECEMBER 2008

ABOUT THE FESTIVAL-- Perv is a new international film and video festival dedicated to queerotica. This year Perv will showcase some of the latest and greatest audio-visual material representing and catering to queer desires. The festival is committed to the representation of diverse sexual identities and practices. From the sensual to the lewd, the silly to the serious, the subtle to the shamelessly upfront, the Perv program explores the full spectrum of queer erotic imagery.

Encompassing a four-day program of screenings, installations, panels, parties and play that promise to stimulate, titillate and engage, Perv pushes the envelope and all the right buttons.

CALL FOR ENTRIES -- Perv is currently seeking entries for its inaugural festival. As well as actively seeking out brand new film and video work, we are putting a call out for less contemporary queer erotic moving imagery. All genres and categories are welcome: documentary, fiction, experimental, short and feature-length works, we want them all.

SHORT FILM COMPETITION-- As part of the festival, Perv is running an international shorts competition. To be eligible to enter the competition, films must have been produced within the last two years and must not run longer than 15 minutes. Finalists will be in competition for two separate prizes to be award by a judging panel and audience vote respectively.

HOW TO ENTER-- To obtain an entry form or to find out more about the festival and its entry requirements email pervfilmfestival@yahoo.com.au or visit the festival website www.myspace.com/perv_queer_filmfestival.

Deadline for entries is MONDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 2008. There is NO ENTRY FEE!

Academic Arty Type

Perth is turning out to be rather a good thing for me academically and artistically.

Yesterday afternoon I had coffee with the most amazing glass artist, B (whose work I have posted here earlier), and discussed all manner of things from our reluctance to breed to the work of Kiki Smith to holding a group show. She makes me very excited, and then she drove me to ECU and showed me the glass kiln etc and I met her studio mate, who just happens to be an ENORMOUS CUDDLY WELL-DRESSED BEAR WHO WORKS ON TRANS ART. Whimper. He is lovely too, and ever-so-devilish, and I think we must arrange to meet up for a beverage and a chat sometime soon. Then library time, the most exciting part being picking up a copy of James Elkin's 'What Painting Is'. This book was recommended to me by dear Mayhem, and... well... I'll just have to start posted snippets here so you can understand why I am SO IN LOVE WITH IT! Alchemy, art, body fluids... its just perfect!

Then I went to what can only be described as a 'feminist women's reading group.' Actually, it was two events in one. The first was a bunch of postgrads from various arty disciplines who needed to catch up on feminist body business, with the woman who teaches a sort of feminist narratives of the body course. So, I was thrust back into liberal, radical, socialist feminisms all over again, and discussing Descartes and... somehow I REALLY enjoyed it! Then the group shifted, more folk came in, the wine and cheese came out and it was time for the reading. As luck would have it, this week's was by the women who taught the course, and she read a paper about her mastectomy. Tits, embodiment, gender, discussed by performers, B, and other interesting types who generally get or at least are intrigued by this stuff. Wow. Big, big wow. I just felt like I had been punched in the chest after the paper, could barely articulate the impact in any way other than clutching at my breasts...

So, I will be back next week for all of that again. And then we go to theatre afterwards! Oh, I am quickly finding a most beautiful and generous and quirky community here!

Alice, Sometimes

ah, landing in Perth is like stepping through the looking glass... nothing is quite what it seems, its all topsy turvy, back to front, upside down, things get further away as you move towards them, sheep knit and eggs talk, and sequences run backwards...

now, i just have to remember how to be Alice, delight in the scented rushes and the grinning cat and appreciate all that is WONDERland.

Read My Lips

Have been meaning to post this quote for ages. From Irigaray's The Sex Which Is Not One:

...woman's autoeroticism is very different from man's. In order to touch himself, man needs an instrument: his hand, a woman's body, language... And this self-caressing requires at least a minimum of activity. As for woman, she touches herself in and of herself without any need for mediation, and before there is any way to distinguish activity from passivity. Woman "touches herself" all the time, and moreover no one can forbid her to do so, for her genitals are formed of two lips in continuous contact. Thus, within herself, she is already two-- but not divisible into one(s)-- that caress each other.

Wherever I Lay My Hat

When am I coming 'home' then? People keep asking and...

I have started thinking of WA as home somehow. As in, 'where do you live?'. 'Basso'. Umm.. what does this all mean then? I have no history here, haven't got one single family member or ex in town, or even an ex-shag. Haven't known any of my new mates longer than six months. Have only done one performance. Never got a degree here. Still get confused when I see the sun set on the 'wrong' side. Barely know any bears. Have never got tangled up in any drunken orgies or snogs. Never got a piercing or a tattoo. Everything I am and have comes from somewhere else, yet this feels like home.

This did freak the Monster out a wee bit but maybe, as cheesy as it sounds, home IS where the heart is?

Birdwatching In WA WA Land

Fun With Fungi- The Images

Monster Mug Shots

Send In The Clowns

Blood Works

Of course, maybe my tits have just expanded to gigantic proportions (though looking less PENDULOUS in last few days thank heavens) because I was about to bleed. Gross. Really. Uncalled for. Would explain some of the manic energy. Well, that and the lunar eclipse...

Artsy Lesbian Types Wanted *Call For Submissions*

Don't know about queer and 'same sex' attracted women/females/girls etc but you could ask them I suppose? Still, figured someone here might be interested...

---------

The Sal-On, a brand new, lesbian owned-and-run art space in Sydney's Inner
West, is putting out a call for submissions. Responses to the painting Gabrielle d'Estrees and one of her sisters in the bath (c. 1595) will form the core of an exhibition to be mounted at "The Sal-On" on 29 November. Open to lesbian artists working in all media, The Sal-On seeks works displaying a particular lesbian perspective on this painting.

Owner operators (and life-partners) Glennda Blyth and Sally Whitwell opened their multi-arts space in early August with an exhibition of works by Sydney photographer Angus Young entitled "Unplugged: what rocks and/or rolls". The performers were, in keeping with the theme of the event, completely 'unplugged'. Soprano Nadia Piave and cellist Rachel Scott with Sally on piano performed new arrangements of popular music as most have never heard it. The evening also included the world premiere of "She Walks in Beauty", a choral setting of the Byron poem that Sally composed as a gift for Glennda's birthday.

"The Sal-on", says Glennda, "is an art space specifically opened up with the intention of giving new artists the opportunity to show their work. As a lesbian artist myself, I am interested to see other lesbian perspectives. The repertoire of individual responses by different lesbians to the same stimuli is what we are keen to see and show. Why this painting, you ask? Simply because some years ago as a young twenty-something leafing through an art book in my lesbian London share house, this one caught my eye. I mean, what is that nipple tweak about?"

"But the Sal-On is much more than an art gallery," adds Sally. "Already we've had several musical ensembles use the space as a rehearsal venue, from highly trained professionals such as The Song Company and cellist Sally Maer (aka Cello Diva), to local queer chamber choir Door in the Wall and The Sydney Pop Choir, both of whom I direct. The music here is acoustic in the real sense, there's not a microphone or an amplifier in sight. In fact, I'd be quite happy with just candlelight!"

For information on how to submit work for consideration for this exhibition,
please email thesalon238@gmail.com or phone 0411 873 436.

Better The Label You Know

Did a show at Zoo last night. In a nutshell: Monster stapled labels to me, the audience ripped them off, then I pulled needles out of my head.

It was hot-- we all know I like my forehead pierced and well, that Monster would do that to me, in public and all... Whimper and swoon! Pix to come soon I hope, and perhaps even a more detailed description of the show when I have the headspace and time to write one up. Its a bullet-point, bare bones type of morning...

Brainiac

Started taking brahmi and gingko tablets, in an attempt to get my brain firing on all cylinders again. Think it is working already, just over a week later: now I can actually remember whether I have taken one of them in the morning. Distinct improvement!

Zoo On Tour

Melbourne from Friday 5th to Monday 8th September.
Sydney from Tuesday 9th to Sunday 14th September.

Looking for coffee dates, library dates, artistic adventures, bloodsports, photo shoots, dancing partners for Dirty on the 13th, info on interesting happenings, dinner dates, swimming at Coogee Women's Pool, and any other interesting sojourns and shenanigans.

Email me if you have any exciting to offer!

Hell Hath No Fire Like Goth Moth

Damn, seems the freaks in Sydney have well and taken over in my absence... Check out what tomorrow night's (ie Friday 18th) Hellfire brigs you HERE. Wow.

The Tits Are Getting Bigger

For some reason, my tits are HUGE at the moment. I'm not lactating, and I don't think I am about to bleed. So, what the hell is going on? They are SLIGHTLY ouchy, but mostly just disturbingly large and, I almost don't dare say this, PENDULOUS. Hmm, even if they don't get the total chop one day at this rate I'll be looking for a bit of a lift by the time I hit 40 lest they significantly impair my mobility, or just grow a bigger beer belly and give them something to rest upon *shrug*...

I think perhaps they are a) in revolt 'cos they know I am having a gender moment and want to reassert my 'feminine' anatomy or b) getting a bit too excited about my thesis writing. On that latter note, I have been a bit nauseous from time to time, and had cravings for chocolate and salt and grease, and been a tad more affected by smells-- I'm possibly expreiencing my 'creative body mimics pregnant body' phenomenon. Don't laugh. My body, and especially my bosom, has a rather dark sense of humour!

Dead Dreaming

New blog to keep an eye on- this Vampire is a Monster after my own heart! Preferably still warm and beating...

Cthulhu's Spawn.

Love Is...

taking risks for another. Thankyou Monster.

I Was Born Like This, I Had No Choice...

Years ago I had a partner who would look at my flapping about parties whilst he stood on his own and later say to me 'it isn't not fair, its easy for you, you are naturally a social butterfly!'. Not sure that he ever believed me when I told him that it had taken me a very long time to get to the point where I was comfortable in such situations. Natural, yeah, right.

As will be evident to most who have read even a page or two of this blog, I wasn't born a big slutty confident cocksure trollop completely assured in my gender-irreverence and queerness. Really, truly, its been a mighty hard slog. So please don't think that me bouncing about with a beer and a head full of metal, in some sort of andro-freak-monster drag with a hanky in the pocket of my leathers, and I'm laughing and cruising that this is just what I have always done. I've sweated blood for everything I have and I am, and I still do.

Trans Melbourne Gender Project

Here's a reminder about the Trans Melbourne Gender Project support meeting next Monday, August 11th.

This month's theme is medical and non-medical transition. Here are some of the things we might talk about:

How many ways are there to transition gender? Is 'transition' to a different gender an idea that applies to everyone who identifies as trans? If you don't want to take hormones or have surgery, does that mean you're not trans? What if you want to change pronouns but don't want to change your body? What if you want to change your body but don't want to change pronouns, or want to be in between genders? What other ways of changing our bodies re there, aside from medical ones? Is being trans always about becoming a man or a woman? How do people who aren't easily recognisable as either gender get around the rules that tell us we need to be either?

Date: Monday August 11th. Venue: Group Study Room, Frank Crean Wing in the City Library, 253 Flinders Lane, between Swanston & Elizabeth St.Time: 6pm

Who's welcome: anyone and everyone

Tranni, Panicked

Second crap incident for the week: Just found out that the same person who stood me up for a playdate the other week is seriously in lust with my monster. Of course. Not only am I completely mis-read in this town, but I am completely undesirable to even the kinky ones, as a kinky one. Geezus, how many ego blows am I supposed to withstand?

I hate this city sometimes. Yes, there is amazing art and cultural stuff. Yes, there are some nice folk. Yes, I am settling down to the pace. But I am SO tired of not having a queer community as such. Sure, there are a few isolated enlightened creature, but the rest of them seem to sort of stop dead at the GL in the GLBTQ.

Gay/lesbian. Boy/girl. Butch/femme. I feel like a freak, and a monster, and not in the same happy and exciting and lovable way I do in Sydney. Here I half-expect them to come chasing me down the street with torches for having the audacity to wear a man's suit AND girl lipstick, or dress like a faggot whilst possessing a twat, or wearing a tutu without identifying as female, or being breasted yet still wanting to dirty dance with stinky boys, for not being predictable and safe and living within the prescribed dichotomies. Heck, if I don't want to me a WOMAN, where's my T-shot? Why aren't I being a MAN then? What the hell do I think I am doing with this mixing and matching? MAKE UP YOUR BLOODY MIND? How can you be trans* but not 'transitioning'?

But instead of bearing torches, they bear the ultimate weapon- making it clear that you are not desirable. Not shaggable, not even someone to play with. I feel like some sort of exotic plant, to be examined and admired for its difference, but kept at a distance in case its toxic. Yes, thats me, imported from afar with my stories of debauchery, of orgies and play parties and blood fetishes, of hanging from hooks and bathing in body fluids. Sort of sexual attractive somehow, all visceral and damp and inviting-- but possibly carnivorous so best go with what you know how to manage. Don't take any risks, stick it in a glass case and see what you can learn about it without actually engaging with it. Maybe I should offer small specimens of myself for microscopic inspection? Have myself tested so that people know I am safe to eat? Change my packaging in order to lure in the unsuspecting?

Apparently it is not enough that I am a filthy pervert. It is not enough that my arse looks amazing in my Mephisto leathers. It is not enough that I have the best cock on the block, and that my red hanky topping skills are pretty hard to beat. It is not enough that I make interesting performance art, or write for a queer magazine, or was once catheterised on a pool table in a leather bar. It is not enough that I can take a good flogging, that I have a high pain threshold, that I know how to manage many things. It is not enough that I smell damn fine, or look amazing in a gas mask, or have a fetish for boot polish. My scars aren't sexy here. Everything I have worked for means nothing, and I would be better off having internalised the LOTL manifesto and learning my proper place and lines.

Damn, the hard yards can be SO hard sometimes. I forget how privileged I am in Sydney! That there are places with no Spunk, no Slit, no Kooky, no Gurlesque, no Man Jam, no Bad Dog, no Phoenix, no Tranni Panic.

I need to bleed, very very much. If only there was a piercing top in the whole state that would consider it!

Straight Girl From The 'Burbs, Or, Can't Sleep, Clown-Boy Will Eat Me

From time to time, 'issues' that I think I have 'dealt with' come back and torment me. From time to time, I realise that I am not quite as down and cool and funky and comfortable with everything that I am and do as I think I am. From time to time it is brought home to me, usually in some sort of panicked or drunken (or both) moment of clarity, that so much of what I live out is actually REALLY HARD. That it actually requires a lot of bloodymindedness and effort just to live the teensiest bit outside the square. It is not easy being queer, not even when you mostly hide out and hang out in the ghettos and stay within communities and circles of other queer and sympathetic folk. It is not easy being some gender other than female or male, not even when mixing with a gaggle of trannies and frequently venues with unisex toileting arrangements.

Was at an event on Saturday night, and someone (admittedly a very silly gayboy) said that he thought I was a lesbian and my monster was a dyke. We were both in suits and ties, though I was the only one with glitter eyeshadow and lipstick. I freaked out about this casual observation, a lot. My processing of this comment was not helped by the many, many beers I had consumed at this point, but still- IT WAS HORRIBLE. Like staring straight into the abyss, the whole world turned black, I was somehow shaken to the very core of my identity, I had a total breakdown about the way I am perceived and the realisation that probably a very large amount of people read me as the L-word. For all I self-identify as a bear and a faggot and whatever else, a big chunk of the world think of me as a femme in a suit, a lady-loving-lady, a GIRLY LEZZO who is probably submissive to HER butch dyke lover. Good f*&^king grief. Could this possibly be true? And why do I still care?

Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. I knew all of this of course, just found it hard to be confronted with it quite so blatantly. I don't know whether to be amazed at how much it hurt, or to be amazed that I am at all amazed at how much it hurt?

On the upside, there was a small child there who was apparently quite scared of me, aka The Clown-Boy. Out of the mouths of babes indeed...

Sex Files: Legal Recognition Of Sex

* Not had surgery but want to change your birth certificate?
* Have you had trouble amending your sex or gender on your documents?
* Feeling discriminated by bureaucracy and red tape over sex or gender?
* Had a bad experience filling in forms?
* Do your government records note an incorrect sex or gender?

The HREOC has launched a new blog to discuss the needs of gender diverse persons. Click here and have your say!

Looking For Spunks *Call For Submissions etc*

SPUNK still needs folk to submit to the first issue of the mag (deadline 31st Aug). And they are also looking for:
A logo
Performers, DJs, VJs and artists for their benefit night, PRECUM
Punters to attend PRECUM- Saturday, September 6, 2008,6:00pm - 11:30pm. Red Rattler Theatre, 6 Faversham Street Marrickville

More details at http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=26581491815

What Trans Erotic Gets Wrong

An interesting-looking review of a trans* erotica anthology can be found here. Haven't had a chance to read it all yet, but posting it while I remember to!

Feast On Brooke Zeligman

Came across the work of Brooke Zeligman when she gave a talk at the AWGSA conference last month. It was a total artgasm for me, from the second she showed the first photo... See why here

And for those Perthians amongst us, she be doing a show at Spectrum, 221 Beaufort St Northbridge from 12-28 September. Whimper.

Teardrop

Love, love is a verb
Love is a doing word
Feathers on my breath
Gentle impulsion
Shakes me, makes me lighter
Feathers on my breath

Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my breath

Night, night after day
Black flowers blossom
Feathers on my breath
Black flowers blossom
Feathers on my breath

Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my breath

Water is my eye
Most faithful mirror
Feathers on my breath
Teardrop on the fire of a confession
Feathers on my breath
Most faithful mirror
Feathers on my breath

Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my breath

You're stumbling a little
You're stumbling a little

- Massive Attack

To Be Who I Am

To Be Who I Am is a new report from New Zealand Human Rights Commission on trans* discrimination.

'In 2006 the New Zealand Human Rights Commission launched the first-ever inquiry by a national human rights institution into discrimination experienced by transgender people.The Inquiry looked at three key areas: personal experiences of discrimination; difficulties accessing health services; and the barriers transgender people face when trying to have their gender status legally recognised on documents like birth certificates and passports. Over the course of 18 months the Inquiry met with over 200 transgender people, from teenagers to people in their seventies. Four out of five submissions to the Inquiry described examples of serious discrimination, ranging from harassment at work to assault and sexual abuse.'

Everyone's A Critique

Sometimes when I watch dance shows on the telly, I zone out during the actual performances and listen attentively to the commentary afterwards.
Sometimes when I go to art galleries I am so intently reading the accompanying explanation and details that I almost forget to look at the actual work
Sometimes when I am at gigs I barely watch the band and spend most of the time watching how the audience reacts to the band.

Maybe I don't trust my own judgment. Maybe the artifact is more intriguing to me than the event. Maybe I should collect fossils.

Repro Ramble

*Bit of a ramble, processing, catharsis*

So much is made of the sacrifices involved in parenting, the financial burden and the physical toll, the psychological tally and the time spent. But what are the costs of NOT procreating, especially if this is voluntary? What is the price of a womb that does not bear fruit, of the years of blood and eggs and hormones flushed into drains and soaked up in cotton wool? How much are we paying NOT to participate? How much have we LOST?

Have been pondering my desire to lactate and to research and write about lactation, and the choice of other childless 'women' I know to work on topics that bear much relation to female reproduction- maternal sexuality, breastmilk banking, ART. Speaking to one such person, who makes a lot of uteruses, and she suggested that we are all dealing with GRIEF. I think she is right. But what are we grieving for???

I can only speak for myself of course, and even then much of it is supposition and hypothesis. I am childless partly by circumstance but largely by design. Having always pictured myself as a potential 'earth mother' type, it occasionally still surprises me that I have reached my mid-30s sans infant, with rapidly diminishing desire to have one 'of my own'. Then what is the grief about? My biological buck stops here, no genetic inheritance-- but am I a cul-de-sac or a dead end? Maybe I need to make compost, recycle the energy and the matter, maybe I need to harness the flows, divert them, make use of their power?

A friend was referring to a practice from another culture, though which he was not clear about, where women who have not had children sort of dedicate their wombs to some other cause, and their uteruses become places of creativity on other levels. Is this how I feel about my breasts? Do I need to make some other use of their power? Is this what I am trying to do? I want to tattoo my ducts onto my breasts' surface, declare their potential, articulate their wet dreams and desires.

And what is it that I have suppressed my menstruation for years and now have found myself calling that other (mostly) 'feminine fluid'? Have I just internalised the 'milk be life and pure and good and blood be death and dirt and bad' discourse? Am I just wanting flows on my own terms, when I can make them come and go as I please? Do I want to feed other people's babies but not produce my own? Do I not want to be reminded of my childlessness but somehow mimic maternity, where menstruation ceases and milk comes in? Oh dear. Perhaps that last suggestion is it. Perhaps.

I am thinking I need to look more at women saints and mystics who remained virgins/unmarried (and thus childless) as this is one of the few places where the always-and-ever-childless female body is not seen as barren, bereft, unfulfilled and unable to participate fully. Nuns too. And many witches, though their activities are not quite so widely sanctioned. St Zoo at your calling?

Now, back to thesis, to the academic version of my personal debates and debacles and desires...

Flesh and Bone

Rebecca Schneider: 'In the archive, flesh is given to be that which slips away. Flesh can house no memory of bone. Only bone speaks memory of flesh' (in Blocker, What the Body Cost, p 106)

Not That I Am THAT Kind Of Monster...

But it is kind of strange to wake up in the same bed, next to the same person, every morning. Travelling, tramping about, couch-surfing, visiting... It's been a long time since I have had that consistency, and haven't had to consciously think of what room/suburb/country I am in upon waking. I think I like it quite a lot, though we do get to take the MonsterLove on tour this weekend when we head out yonder for friends' commitment ceremony and have a night in a motel. Oooh, I am SUCH a gypsy!

Ugg!

At Connections (Perth's sort of Stonewall equivalent) the other week, there was a young lady in a small flappy black PVC skirt and some sort of top, WITH OLD-SKOOL BEIGE UGGIES on her feet. Wow. Uggs are everywhere here, mostly on scraggy looking things hanging around malls, but also on business-folk on their way home from work, and other 'normal-looking' folk going about their business. They're kind of like the Perth equivalent of sneakers.

That said, I have given in to the lure of sheepskin slippers since being here so...

When I Grow Up/ '2008 Synapse Art and Science Residencies' *Call For Submissions*

I will be participating in things like this:

2008 Synapse Art and Science Residencies
CALL FOR PROPOSALS
The Australian Network for Art & Technology (ANAT) is calling for proposals from media artists and science organisations to take part in the 2008 Synapse Residency program, supporting intensive partnerships between Australian media artists and science and research organisations in Australia and beyond. The residencies are available to Australian artists with experience in media arts practice and an interest in science. Artists from all technologically mediated disciplines are welcome to apply. In order to encourage early relationship-building and to ensure the best fit between artist and host organisation, a joint application must be submitted. It is the responsibility of either partner to establish contact with the other and to determine the best possible collaboration prior to application. Those with existing relationships are strongly encouraged to apply. Residencies of 12 or 16 weeks' duration (depending on whether the host organisation is based in Australia or elsewhere) will be supported. Participating artists will be paid a weekly fee, as well as accommodation and living away allowances and travel to the destination of the residency if required.
DEADLINE FOR APPLICATIONS IS 5PM, FRIDAY 12TH SEPTEMBER 2008
Guidelines for applicants can be downloaded from www.anat.org.au .For further information please contact:Vicki Sowry Program Manager, art research science Tel +61 8 8231 9037 Email ars@anat.org.au

Vote For KellyAnn Denton

This is why-- and NOT just because lots of the pix are of me! And you need to vote here.

Until You Squirt Them In The Eye

Marvellous Monster Weekend

Despite being a grotesquely mucous-y sinus-dripping creature, I did have a most marvellous weekend! Friday night leathered up and headed to the Court, introduced myself to some very friendly Bears, met up with a couple of mates, ate yummy pizza and olives and drank a couple of pints of Swan (yes, I know!), Monster joined us and we cuddled about for a bit and headed home 'cos it was bloody FREEZING and we were all tired. (Seems some silly minger had burned herself on one of the big gas heaters and so they don't have ANY source of warmth in the courtyard... not very useful in the middle of winter!)

Saturday Monster had a funeral o go to, which was not too bad by the sounds of it (ie they played Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life at the end), whilst I had a wander about Kings Park. Then Monster had to practice for her mates' commitment ceremony next weekend, and there was a bbq after so more quality park time. And then grocery shopping, which was enormous fun (not joking either- I LOVE supermarkets and greengrocers sometimes) and home to lay about and watch stuff we'd taped during the week and cook up a big pile of rice and tofu and vegies and chilli etc. Yummy! And soooo nice just to be all snuggly with the Monster on a Saturday night. Think I am finally starting to get in sync with the pace here, find myself slowing down and getting more homey... its a Perth thing, but its also a suburbs thing, and a shacking up thing, and a having a safe space to live in thing... find myself cooking meals that require more than one pan, and baking cakes from scratch.

Sunday early start for Fungi Walk in Mundaring. Up in the Perth Hills! It is a constant source of delight (and so you will have to constantly hear about it) that the Monster is made happy by so many of the same things that make me happy. Two of us with our fruit and water bottles, hand in hand traipsing through the bush looking under leaf litter, inside cracks in tree trunks, on banksia seedpods and other damp places for fungi, with a bunch of crazy 60+ women with walking sticks and magnifying glasses and a passion for horticulture. We were grinning like idiots, and Monster found the most amazing tiny little jelly mushrooms and, oh, there were so many different kinds in such a small area of bush! A big red one, and these large brown things that looked like liver ('beefsteaks') and something called 'strawberry slime mould' and little brown ones that looked like toffees! Curled up at the edges, shiny, gelatinous, mottled, barely visible or as large as a fist, so many mushies! And then we walked back to the arts centre, and there was a talk by a woman who worked at Symbiotica and did a MA growing 'living' garments, ie, clothes made from fabric with fungi growing through it. And there was a display of textile art using cloth and yarn dyed with fungi, and... well, it was all rather exciting for a young Zoo! Then we checked out the Truffle Festival market thingy, but decided we didn't need to fight the crowds for some overpriced bits of meat on a stick or a piece of CWA sponge and bad jazz, so went to MonsterSister place to eat chockie and drink coffee and look at the baby pix (she's preggers, and has ultrasounds of the little poppet). Then home, me lay on lounge sneezing, watching random docus and the Gilmore Girls while Monster did some work, and then I made a HUGE pile of mushroom risotto and then...

We went to the Zoo! I LOVE THE ZOO! As in the nightclub (though I do love myself too). And I love going to the Zoo with the Monster! We were both wearing blue (her shirt, me dress) and I was wearing a collar, and she had my blue leash hanging from her pants and at some point I became attached to it and remembered just how nice it can be when someone else has their cuff on the left. Melt into puddle of Zoo, occasionally reforming into something solid enough to pull against the restraint. And much champagne, and dancing, and blushing every time she looked at me, and random spanking of mutual friends, and then home to bed. My scalp is still tingling and I keep finding new tender spots on my flesh, and its hard to stay focused on much at all. Just waiting, waiting, waiting for her return. Monsterlove!

Media Slut, Moi?

Am already in latest edition of queer press over here, both a writeup promo for the shows I will soon be doing at Zoo, and a pic of me and the Monster at some dyke night.
Considering I have only been in town four weeks, and the paper only comes out monthly, that's not bad really!

This Will Sound Really Cocky, Or, First Among Equals

I have what I want. Not quite ever expecting to get it, it didn't occur to me that it would be quite unsure of how to cope with it if I did. But now I find myself in an odd situation, and although delighted am a bit bewildered and in need of a bit of an ego-shift. You see...

I am used to being the brightest spark in any relationship I have been in.
The one with all of the energy and passion.
The motivator, the instigator, the communicator.
The one who has been to the art galleries and outdoor sculpture exhibitions.
The one on all of the email lists, who picks up the programs and has all of the connections to be aware of anything going on.
The one who gets the invitations to openings and queer happenings.
The one who volunteers, who is involved in the community.
The one who introduces like-minded people, the networker, the facilitator, the social butterfly.
The one who works the crowd.
The one who is desired, and desires.
The one who is always curious, and hungry for new experiences.
The one who knows, and is known.
The one who has been there, done that, and is just about to do it all again.

I am NOT used to having a partner who independently tapes Gilbert and George documentaries, or even knows/remembers who G&G are/can get themselves together to tape TV program. Or who goes to lectures on indigenous spirituality, or has the guide to the independent film festival before I do, or used to volunteer at some queer kiddies' centre, or is lusted after by almost every man, woman and 'other' in any given place, who plays dress-ups as well as I do, who shapeshifts and dances,who revels in the absurd, who respects monstrosity, who actually actualises, who can quote Carroll and Lear, who makes endless wordplays and picks flowers and doesn't think I am odd for wanting to go walking amongst the fungi early on a Sunday morning. In short, I am not used to having a partner who is like my me or my mates. Its a very pleasant and liberating change.

It is a sad reflection on my pot-smoking, alcoholic, dysfunctional, socially retarded, uninspired and generally quite dull and dulled former partners and playthings that I find having such a Monster to be quite overwhelming.

It is also a very sad reflection on MYSELF. And the fact that unconsciously, though with an uneasy and increasing awareness of the fact, I have for a long time chosen partners and playthings who couldn't keep up the pace. Its an ego thing, its a power thing, its a control thing. Its the same reason I never went to a selective school and took so long to make it to Uni-- its that fear of being at the lower end of brilliant that keeps one hovering at the upper end of banal. This behaviour needs to stop NOW.

Come To Me New

Her eyes were full of tears. I had hurt her. I regretted telling her those stories about my girlfriends. I had wanted to make her laugh and she had laughed at the time. Now I had strewn our path with barbs. She didn't trust me. As a friend I had been amusing. As a lover I was lethal. I could see that. I wouldn't want to have much to do with me. I knelt on the floor and clasped her legs against my chest.

'Tell me what you want and I'll do it.'

She stroked my hair. 'I want you to come to me without a past. Those lines you've learned, forget them. Forget that you've been here before in other bedrooms in other places. Come to me new. Never say you love me until the day when you have proved it.'

-- Jeanette Winterson
Written on the Body

Clean City Streets

Further to my earlier post re not getting hit on in Perth-- I realised after posting this that I have rarely seen ANYONE get hit on in Perth. I mean, nobody cruises like I know cruising, or at least not in places where I have been. Its a clean city. Of course, there are a zillion drunks and junkies yelling abuse at each other in the streets and gaggles of straggly kids lurking about the train station after dark and random weirdos roaming the streets pulling faces and cackling wildly at you. But all in all, its CLEAN. Not in a shiny new way, in a sort of old-world, Presbyterian kind of way. Like its all been freshly white-washed.

There is no noticeable pulse-- I get the feeling it would be deemed disorderly to have too heavy a heartbeat. There are very few noticeable freaks, hardly a tattoo or a facial piercing or so much as a coloured dreadlock to be seen outside of stores that cater for such things (and then have only seen it on the staff). There was ONE boy with a mohawk somewhere I think? No DIY markets, no kids covered in anarchist patches, no screen-printed t-shirts. No Oxford St, or King St, no place to eat scrambled tofu and drink lattes whiles watching the promenade of curious persons. No curious persons.

And no hint of sex, please, we're Perthish. There is no smell of amyl and sweat and testosterone in the bars, no grit and grime and glances underneath peaked caps, no fur, no STUBBLE even, no cocksure cowboys in chaps, no jockstraps and uniforms. No girls with shaved heads. I have never seen a leather person per se, though hear rumour that there are two of them running a hairdressers somewhere. No boys with chains and spit-polished boots, no butch Daddies leaning up against the bar.

I'm sure this is what most of Sydney is like-- I just don't go there. I need to find the seedy underbelly, the ghettos, the gatherings of like-minded souls of this place, somehow. Pride Week/Month/Parade/Whatever it is is coming up in October. Fingers crossed.

Everyting Old Is New Again

New city, new players. Organise a scene with a medical top I have recently met, with a plan for me to be stapled (which I have never done) and sutured (which I have only done once). As it could turn out kind of interesting, have arranged for another mate who does such things to come and sit in and help out, and one to photograph it. Still a bit sickly and a bit stressed, but dose self up on codeine and drinks lots of water and get everything sorted out in back room-- lights, equipment, chairs, heater. Waiting, waiting, waiting, its almost an hour after start time and Monster and I wondering what be happening... Then the other two arrive, but not the person with whom the scene was arranged. 'Oh,'said mate who was coming to watch 'she can't make it tonight.' 'Well,'I reply, controlling breathing and trying to maintain an even voice level 'what are we doing here then???'

Seems that the top thought she could just send someone else with the same skills, ie my friend, and didn't understand why she needed to be there. SAY WHAT???? WHO THE HELL ARE THESE PEOPLE??? Its like organising to have beer with someone, then just sending someone else who can drink as well as you can, or not turning up to see a movie 'cos you're sure the person you are meeting will find someone else who can sit in the dark competently. Grr. And not so much as a text, or a call, to tell me. If I had known she wasn't coming I would have just cancelled the others, poured another vodka, cuddled up on the lounge with the Monster and watched Inspector Rex in a fuzz of painkillers and alcohol and warm snuggles. But she didn't.

Yes, I have ranted about manners and such ad infinitum in Sydney, but seems dinky old Perth, with its air of nice calm and old-fashioned values, has almost beaten it on this count. First pain I was going to get in this city, and get stood up by someone who apparently had no idea she was doing a bad thing 'cos, you know, well, there was someone else there who could do what needed to be done. No, no, no, no, NO.

This wouldn't have mattered so much (though it still would have really really really annoyed me), but I HAVEN'T HAD ANY PAIN FOR WEEKS. I have been semi-panicked for the last week and a half, holding it together through housebound-in-the-burbs and lack of queer ANYTHINGness and not having my own social circleness, and I was really looking forward to bleeding some and that snap back to my senses that a good dose of controlled pain can give. I was psyched for, I was hungry for it, I NEEDED it. And without any warning, it wasn't there. Cue large panic and restless night full of unpleasant dreams. Shouldn't be so reliant on other people, but you know, got to trust sometimes!