the Christian, the question, and the queer

Standard

it happened. today. in a seemingly innocuous moment of asking a colleague what their weekend had in store for them, they let me know they were attending a debate about marriage equality to be held in their church. and then we had a conversation.

let me preface this by saying that while I have been passionate about marriage equality and will be voting yes for the sake of my community, my future and generations of LGBTI people to come, I have not been emotionally attached or taken the “respectful debate” to heart. Aquarians.

But here I was, faced with the opportunity many people have talked about the importance of – to reach an influential, undecided individual. not a drop of mud was slung, nor any personal attack entered into. what was said went something like this:

he told me he was afraid that the freedoms of his community would be restricted should marriage equality be granted – that it would open a door to people of faith being further criticised and denigrated in wider society. I expressed to him my compassion, as I too was afraid that the personal, security freedoms of my community would be restricted in turn should the result be “no”. I genuinely don’t think he realised that – that we both feared the same things for those we loved – that something we believed to be so inherent to who we are – me my love of men, him his love of God – would be used as a tool to oppress us.

he told me he was scared to be judged as a Christian, that to tell people you believed in Jesus these days could attract a lot of hate and dismissal. I told him I could empathise, as telling someone I was gay has the same effect; it is a gamble. For instance, when I told a pastor attached to mission my church supported, she openly told me that for me to want to help others was selfish because God couldn’t act through me, as I was an abomination. I promptly lost my love of God, many of my friends, and a foundation of faith on which, at that time, a lot more of my life than I had thought was built. I told him not to worry, to be judged hurts, especially the first time. That you get used to it. That it gets better.

I’m sure by now you’re realising the parallels in our two perspectives as we face this issue in Australia. The irony of what I was telling him was not lost on either of us. I think if I had made the point with any derision or sarcasm, as I know is tempting to do for many people, it would have been closed to him.

So then he reveals he has suffered some incredibly isolating issues from which he knows his spiritual journey rescued him. I once again shared my empathy because I felt the same way when in amongst all my pain and confusion, the realisation I was gay allowed my mind to make sense to me, when I realised there was still love I could have, it made a peace inside me that turned my life from a sorrowful pilgrimage to a productive salvation all its own.

He said he didn’t know where he stood on the issues concerning children. I asked him if his thoughts would be the same about me having a child with a woman, which I can do, though I won’t love that woman like I would another man, though I would love my child as much. There is no law stopping me from having children, and marriage will not change my ability to procreate. On top of which, waving a marriage certificate in the school principal’s face will not play any role in whether that principal decides to deliver messages of equality, conciliation and understanding, nor what curriculum or programs that principal decides to implement or not. Being a parent is now, and has for many years been, acceptably mutually exclusive from being married.

It all came down to the same thing. They’re feeling something, potentially for the first time in the context of their social and spiritual identities: shame. Nothing awakens our defensive mechanisms like being ashamed – of our country, of our society, of our families, of our friends, of ourselves. Whatever causes us to question ourselves is often treated with contempt and rejection, because we don’t want to feel wrong; we barely want to feel unsure.

I don’t know if people opposed to marriage equality are homophobic; I feel like that’s a by-product of the real issue: fear of change. I too hope the spiritual mores of hospitality, kindness, love abundant and unconditional for one another will in this moment reign supreme over intolerance and wrath. What some call ignorance I still think of in some way as innocence. Though I am determined to move forward, to love freely as any other, to call out and disperse prejudice. Change will come, there is no stopping that. And communities under pressure of discrimination and persecution will forge what they need to for survival.

$122M could have saved lives. It could have improved health, education, environmental action or climate change. I reminded him it could be improving his pension. Instead, it’s being used to conduct a manual opinion poll, using methods that inherently discriminate against homeless people, regional communities, expats and holidaymakers.

I’m voting yes because I understand that swimming against the current is the surest way to drown, and that using these moments in our history to divide and deviate is a tragedy. I’m voting yes because I believe it’s the vote that will save more lives, bring more people together, and create more joy in this country. And now, he might too.

Keep an eye out for your ballot. Tick the box. Vote. If you are someone who believes this issue should be resolved and life progress beyond this prejudiced issues and focus on more important things, then please vote. Make the effort, on the behalf of those being slandered and belitted and abused and beaten up for who they are – and often just who they appear to be. Christians may be taking heat now, but it will die down after marriage equality is won in a way LGBT people can only dream of. Winning this will cost us, but it will be worth it, because the whole country knew we earned it.

Big love,
B.

artwork by Rachel DelaGardelle.

Further reading
https://marriagesurvey.abs.gov.au/

http://www.sbs.com.au/news/article/2017/08/10/same-sex-marriage-how-vote-postal-plebiscite
http://www.smh.com.au/business/samesex-marriage-postal-plebiscite-doesnt-pass-the-pub-test-20170817-gxyhdj.html
http://www.huffingtonpost.com.au/2017/08/15/marriage-equality-postal-plebiscite-what-you-need-to-know_a_23077619/

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

make something with it.

Standard

you know what it is.
because you carry it everywhere.
and every time something happens that causes you stress or angst, you look over your shoulder dead into its frank eyes and say “yeah, I know”.
you may think of it as “just who I am” or “I’m a bit like that”.
people may talk about it like “you’ll be alright” or “hang in there”.
you eat it to excess.
you lash it over your back.
you use it for sex.
you might sharpen it up to cut with.
you’ve painted a picture of it on all your mirrors.
you let it excuse you from life.
you hate it.
you need it.

some readers will be aware of the book that saved my life. I must have ordered and given away to friends about ten copies by now. If you’ve got pain, and you don’t know how to look at it differently, or do anything with it, but you don’t want it in its current form anymore then read this book. It’s called This is How by Augusten Burroughs.

I read the book, recommended by an old mentor, back in February 2016 when I went to check my hope balance in my app and discovered I was bankrupt. Hoperupt. Whatever.

That same year I went into massive hope debt, and not that I made much song and dance on the internet about how bad things got, but the experience of romance-failure-long-distance-friendships-familial-collapse-professional-overwork-creative-impotence-financial-hardship-haven’t-eaten-three-meals-in-a-day-in-possibly-three-weeks created a serious collapse that I feel very vulnerable, but not ashamed, to share. In the midst of a doctor-ordered week off I made some choices. One of which was to take all the hell and fashion it into the one thing I could still count on to pull me together: theatre.

so I wrote a thing. and then I let other people read it. some of the bleakest and most fraught thoughts I’ve ever had about life, and myself. things that could compromise the way people know me, the way they relate to me. and they gave me advice. and I listened. and I had patience. and I rewrote. again. again. and again. I invited other minds into my madness and their creative flows were like balm. unimaginable change to pain I once thought insurmountable, suddenly was pink and clean and pliable. someone I look up to shared a message to just book the venue and make it happen. so I did. so here we are.

Blog_pic

Burlesque by Force is on in Feast Festival in my hometown of Adelaide this coming November. It’s a one-man show, self-penned and autobiographical, crafted with the support of director Marissa Bennett and designer Stephen Moylan, under whose transformative powers I truly believe this will be something fantastic to share. I’m unashamedly nervous and excited.

The show was based on the idea that when it comes to storytelling, imbuing sexuality becomes treacherous ground for those who’ve experienced sexual trauma, whose consent has been exposed to them for its fragility. This work is a subversion of that burlesque idea, where it’s not about the tease, it’s about the time it takes to step onto a stage and reveal yourself; and not to allure, but to connect.

There is more to say. But for now all I can ask is that you save the date, buy a ticket now if you’re keen, and spread the word.

Big love.
B.

NB. If you’re a Melburnite wanting to see the show, tickets are also on sale for the Melbourne season next February at Butterfly Club.

EVE ST JOHN

Standard

if you’re reading this, then it must be Friday, and the Melbourne Fringe program has been announced, wherein you may or may not have spotted an event that is a touch of poetry, a touch of ritual, and a touch of…well touching actually! (pg 70)

Cut to earlier this year, I was drawn into watching Catfish with my wonderful lady lifeperson. This episode caught a young man masquerading as a woman who bullied him in high school and using her image as a front to flirt with men. One such duped man, after initially being horrified and embarrassed by the discovery, returned to the remorseful keyboard con and encouraged him to find God amidst revelations drugs, prison and self-harm had accompanied his catfishing. I understood perfectly: because when nothing in life can heal an infected wound, we look beyond life. We seek a place in ourselves willing to support a fantastic idea of salvation and forgiveness that cannot connect to the cruel darkness of life as we experience, so must be constructed in an imaginary oasis. Many find religion repelling, toxic with extremism and prejudice. But there is still something in ritual, in faith, that matters.

Cut to seeing Black Birds at Testing Grounds around the same time, having fallen in love with their poetry work woven into physical performance regarding race, womanhood and connections within self. After the show I was inspired to write about my own experiences with racism, and shared these with the women to thank them. They suggested I do as they had done, and share my work, even at Testing Grounds. Hmm.

Cut to attending a spoken word poetry evening the previous year. I’ve never quite gelled with these open mic events. A poet gets up, pours their heart out and all the while you can’t really focus on them because you know another is only a few minutes away. Judging work in this way felt like going to the cinema while your phone vibrates in your pocket, the distraction of something else keeping you from immersing in the hard work of the artist.

Cut to today. Tickets are now on sale for EVE ST JOHN, an immersive, interactive, individual poetry audio experience. I’ve collected a series of works written over a ten-year period and co-aligned with some spiritual and metaphysical cues I’ve taken from life as I’ve experienced it. Those who buy a ticket are welcomed into an eleven-minute experience of some of these works and a zine of the whole catalogue. During the experience, you will hear the works while I gently wash your hands, face and feet.

IMG_5487

EVE ST JOHN is a collision of mythologies, informed by a tonne of metaphysical memes like the zodiac, the tarot, the Bible, the Oracle of Delphi, Bardic tradition and Hawaiian psychological affirmation practices. The purpose is to give people a chance to experience poetry in a different way: free from distraction, heightened senses, hearing a variety of works by one poet and getting to engage with that poet directly. It’ll be intimate, quite the experiment that I’m very grateful to Testing Grounds for believing in and hosting.

Only thirty-six people will have the opportunity to see the work over three nights. That’s twelve people each night I will interact with, and each of these people will hear poetry no other ticketholder that night will hear. Each of the twelve experiences feature different works, offering you a unique experience to discuss and keep memory of.

So if it’s something you’re into, snaffle one of the thirty-six tickets.
If it’s something you’re not sure if you’re into or not, check the facebook out where I’ll be posting content and teasers, see if you can be tantalised.
If it’s something you’re not into, hopefully it’s something you’re into sharing. Support independent art, support experimental art, support Australian work.

B.

it’s a whole new me.

Standard

It’s about 1.55am, and I realise that I’m pursuing what I think my body needs, rather than what my body is telling me, bellowing, it needs. Not sleep, but serenity. And this is what came out next.

Anxiety has been drying out and excavating a canyon in my lungs and lower back for about five hours now; an attack, the likes of which I may have felt before but I’m sure my brain has put behind a wall. It’s physically painful. But more than that, it’s disappointing. I fly to Japan in about five hours’ time, and I realise that unless I can feel this out now, it’s going to be much less than it could be, an exercise in overthought and not one of adventure, like the universe had-in keeping me busier than I can recall being-prepared for me. I chose to spend my last night at home, in bed with my human-for-life and our two dalmatian daughters, and it doesn’t take long for me to realise that for all their snoring, sulking and space-hogging, that they have blissfully brought to life my single greatest fear:

That I have got everything I wanted.

I will watch their sleeping forms until I wake up, because I can’t go to sleep now, because this moment is one I want to tattoo into my psyche: only one of them has the sense that I had given it all up – happiness, and contentment. It blows my mind that they love me. Even when I spoil it, say the wrong thing, however selfish or sour I can be, they love me. When I am generous, when I am patient, when I am firm, when I am open, they love me. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I test, they love me. And for all I am so deeply anxious and afraid to have so much to lose, I know I earned it. We did. We sacrificed, and we gambled, but we got here. And I’m so glad we made it.

When it comes to the love of a man, I’m a bit of a Hero. Not like with superpowers and a tingling sensation for innocents needing help (although…), but like the Hero of the Greek myth. Hero lives on one side of a strait, and Leander, her lover, on the other. Nightly she leaves a light on to guide him, and he swims the channel to be with her. One night, a storm rages and gusts blow out Hero’s lamp, and in the churning waves, Leander drowns. When I first heard this story, it ached with recognition in my loneliness. Because I am hard to reach; and though I will give my all, and show my depth, on my island I have been content to wait for love to prove itself after many years of seeing it fail. I meet men who mean it, and in my pendulum soul that swings between desperate desire and incomparable independence, I can appear too much. But I can feel something different today – an itching in my palms, ready to build a bridge, or a boat, or a boardwalk and no longer wait for him to wash in, but courier myself to him halfway and in hands calloused with care and courage, caress his weary but welcome shape.

This time last year, I wrote a blog about stepping back from the purposeless promulgation of my opinion through social media, about changing my strategy for life: not to write what I know, but what I do. And therefore, make my life worth writing about, worth reading. In the space of the past twelve months, I have:

  • quit my job
  • started two new jobs
  • dated
  • felt love
  • put creative projects into practice
  • moved state
  • moved house
  • mended bad relationships
  • made peace with lost relationships
  • had no money
  • started a Master’s degree
  • seen a therapist more than three times
  • felt relentless guilt
  • been so anxious I vomited and came within a hair of soiling myself
  • saved a life
  • planned my life, and future little lives

By the time this year is out, I’ll have performed again across the country, and put plans in place to do so across the planet. I’ll have visited the country I have been wanting to visit for nearly twenty years, seven of which I spent studying the language. Plus I’ll see a new place I never thought I’d visit. I’ll be travelling on my own, but I have a foundation of family so firm beneath me, I look forward to being home. I’ll have made it halfway through further study. I’ll have another new job, and my new dream will be hardening it’s lines and colouring itself in. And my person will be along her journey too.

What I’m saying is: the time it takes between deciding to stop dreaming and start doing, and those dreams becoming real things, is swifter than it may read on paper. The life lived where nothing you’re doing serves your deepest, darkest, most delirious, perhaps even most shameful, ambitions, is tortuously slow.

So I just kinda did the things I knew I had to. I met with a financial adviser and made a plan (because although my debt is a multiple-tens-of-thousands obstacle, it’s not an excuse) so I could quit my job and find a new one in the industry I wanted to take a second shot at. I asked for the job that I wanted. I got a psychologist in Adelaide, because she was the best, and made Skype sessions work. I accepted help from friends, and when it all went pear-shaped, I didn’t stop accepting. I got up early. I went to bed late. I fell back into old unhealthy habits, and asked for help again. I made room for imperfection and fault. I took blame where it was warranted, and I took pride in what I create. I budgeted. I over-committed, so sometimes I cancelled. I pretended to be the person I was beneath the pain. I phoned things in. I missed deadlines. I renegotiated payment plans. I did whatever it took to be able to make the dream of seeing one idea I had be something I could put in a program come true. And if you look closely at the above image, you’ll see I’m doing just that.

The way we share our lives now is a vortex: sucking content from us for the wealth of people we will never meet, but in our sociopolitical setting, always resent. Take a second to think about what you’re printing in permanent ink on the internet, and spend that second aligning the post to the point: do you want to connect? do you want to vent? do you want to increase your self? do you want to “build your brand”?

This past year has taught me that “now” is all we’ve got. Not literally, but in terms of our mindset for what path we set our lives on, and what gear we’re in. There will never be a “right time”, you will never have “enough money”, you will never achieve “once I’ve done this, then that”, you will never feel “like you’re ready”. I’m not saying force it. I’m saying, don’t wait for every green light on the whole strip to light up before you rev your engine. If you know where you’re going? Then go. Chip away at it, one step at a time, little by little, peaks and troughs, plateau then push. Book the flight, book the venue, book the fertility specialist, book the course, book the headhunter, book the dinner date, book the book-reading-quiet-time.

I did.

brother and sister, together we’ll make it through

Standard

accustomed though I am to how many friends and family avoid my writing for its melodrama-bordering verbosity, I grant myself enough virtue to believe that if you’re reading this one, that you read the last one. so before I move on too far from the reflections on skirt-wearing, I’d like to make these final remarks:
1. To wear a skirt in public was not an “experiment”, nor an on-purpose action conducted to provoke people. It was literally the decision I made over overalls or jeans that I believed I should (indeed we all should) be free to make. It was not a “demonstration” but living as an example of the values I espouse regarding freedom to be oneself.
2. I am not trans. I do not wish to be a woman, though I admire women very deeply, their journey is their own. I feel affinity with women, and femininity, but in my head I understand that I am definitely male, gladly so.
3. Wearing a skirt for one day did not make me understand how it feels to be a woman. I would never suggest that by wearing clothes designated for women, that I would somehow be more empathetic to the female sex. I also loathe the rhetoric that positions the idea men will understand women better if they wear stilettos for charity, or nail polish, or dresses. That is SO NOT how it works. What wearing the skirt did make me understand more about is how judgemental and ensnared in masculinity men can often be.
4. I appreciate that to subvert the usual is to attract questions. And I am ready and willing to engage in debate or opinion. But know the difference between advice, and telling someone what to do; between discussion and demands; between caring and sewing fear.
5. My experience was just that: an experience. As my opinion is just that: an opinion. I do what I believe to be right for my balance of mind and spirit. I know we all often think we’re doing the right thing when we commit some horrendous actions. Maybe one day I’ll come to regret that one time I wore a skirt. But today, I think I did the right thing.

capisce

Ok. Moving on. I don’t know about you guys, but of late it has felt like ground is being gained by those who would reduce LGBTIQ people to their former victimhoods and alienation. It has been agony to watch as men who could have been me, vanish at the hands of their own parents by the direction of their own leaders in Chechnya. The tragic death of Peter “Bon” de Waal has rocked the community who fought alongside him and his partner for marriage equality in Australia, a nation dragging their feet behind much of the world, certainly nearing last among the developed democratic world. In Indonesia, two gay men were lashed 83 times each before an estimated 2500 people by three men whose identities were protected, humiliating both and their families, and likely silencing a new generation the world over. It hurt to watch. But I did it. Because I know my family saw it and thought about me, and I know their hearts clenched in fear for what might happen to me someday, what might’ve happened if things were only slightly different.

I had the pleasure to see a revival of Only Heaven Knows, the musical written by Alex Harding about gay men in the 1940s and 1950s Kings Cross facing everything from police persecution, social scorn, compromised sexual health, electro-shock therapy, prison, eviction and, maybe most painful, life without love or the ability to express it. Go see it, it’s beautiful and tender, and true to the experience as much now as when it was first performed in 1995 as I image it was in the time it reflected. Whilst in Sydney where I saw the show, I went on an impromptu coffee date after which we shared a simple kiss on the street. He exclaimed about the brazenness of our actions. In 2017. Where to hold hands might still be a gamble. Where to travel, you might still need to feign being sisters, or cousins to share a hotel room. Where to walk around in a skirt begs the question from friends and family “are you OK? Did anything happen to you?”. After I saw the show, I stream-spoke some poetry on the walk home the same streets those characters, those men and women trod in a high-razor-wire between fear and liberation.

This poem was at the end of a day spent volunteering at Sydney Writers Festival, a community I considered to be enlightened where I had seen an awesome human who is Indigenous be accosted by white politic, a man reach out and manhandle a woman’s clothing to determine her name, heard about horrendous upbringings, and another man accused feminists of inventing climate change. To top it all off, feeling incredibly vulnerable (and exhausted), I felt myself being judged by a member of my own community at that theatre. For my appearance perhaps, my single-seat status, my youth, my state of dress (muted and masculine by my standards FYI). But at a time when our community is being thrown off rooftops in Iraq, in our own country a man whose husband died can’t be recognised as married, and in Hong Kong suffers further turmoil when the remains are confiscated. I wish it wasn’t in human nature to cut into each other this way.

you’ve no need to feel powerless. you can march. you can raise the topic. you can defend yourself and others in conversation you feel safe in. you can use your vote. you can call your political representatives. you can search for the rainbow flag on businesses. you can ask the question if you genuinely think it’s the time and place. you can buy ONE by William Elm for $1 which goes straight Russian LGBT Network evacuating men fleeing persecution in Chechnya. you can contact Amnesty and the UN and the respective governments by tweeting, tagging them in posts, emailing to declare your concerns about international tragedies. you can.

I figure those of you reading this are the choir when it comes to preaching compassion, patience and openness, not only to diversity and difference, but to asking the question AND hearing the answer. but on the off chance you’re still wrapping your head around these things, please continue to do so with all the love and time from this corner of the human consciousness. it’s not about what you can’t ask, it’s about the intent of understanding and liberating. it’s about the fight for which we can all be on the right side: that of safety, tolerance and social progress.

B.

crossing what dressing me? and whom? and how?

Standard

like with many things, it happened little by little. not to begin with though. to begin with I could be found in my local Coles wandering around in my childhood friends’ leotards, dancing in the aisles while their mothers looked on, admiring but alert. without them, I wonder where I’d be. as it stands, it is without their admonishment that I am where I am now: happy, homosexual I concede, but as I step out for coffee in my skirt and my oversized denim jacket and that one bit of toast I can never avoid keeping out of my beard in my beard, I’m me, and fulfilled for that. And that fulfilment has rippled from me into many other people who feel happier, freer, stronger. like mirrors that align to refract light into enclosed spaces, so those of us willing to fetter conventions and flaunt ourselves as expressed by our deepest enjoyment of our personalities and liberties.

but of course, the gold dress at the childcare was put away because it made parents uncomfortable to see me in it. LBDs were kept to the costume box. and every clothes shopping trip steered me firmly into the “boys section” of the store.

tenor

I did for a time to think I wasn’t meant to be a boy and for a brief time bound myself up, such was my confusion about how comfortable and better about myself I felt in clothing designated for girls and women. Drag queens became a bitter reminder that the only way I might live my self-expression was to “costume” or caricature. I was asked to play an intersex person in a play and would only do so if I got to dress myself as fierce as I envisioned I would were I to ever have the courage of that role.

when I first bought a midriff top from the ladies half of the Cotton On I worked at, I thought they wouldn’t sell it to me, so ingrained and indoctrinated was I to this ridiculous notion that clothes and gender were co-correspondent. slowly I bought tees that fit my small waist, jeans long enough for my legs, scarves and shoes that actually had colour. and then it happened: my Mama bought me a pair of Bordello heels. life had changed. skip ahead six years and I’m a happy sneaker-wedge, high-waisted skirt, midriff tee, and tights wearing human who feels more like a man in that outfit than you could pay me to feel in a pair of Doc Martens. I feel as self-possessed, confident, tough and bold as toxic masculinity tells me to be in that American Apparel cream bodycon and thigh-high tube socks.

and sure a few people find me comical. my wife usually beats them up with one look and they put their camera phones away. most men compliment me, the ones who can see the bravery in authenticity. some of them gamble being ribbed by their friends for doing so.

it strikes me as a bit odd that men would be so averse to wearing an item of clothing that gives their crotch some (much-needed) airflow, not to mention gives the most misogynistic of them easier access to scratch themselves. trick is dealing with NARBs, but like you care too much about that anyhow. part of me wonders if the reason men aren’t into skirts is because they’d feel subliminally or subconsciously as vulnerable as they enjoy women being in them.

never mind the fact that the INSTANT they get a shot at a themed-dress party, out come the hula skirt, the thong and the coconuts (no matter the theme).

tumblr_ms3uldhsc11rwfrzjo1_500

pertinent is that many women have fallen for it too: shaming men who wear clothing the retail market might consider androgynous. but I for one love a set of thick thighs in a romphim. I hate that we have to call it a romphim to keep the patriarchy intact, but we’re working on it. the difference between footy shorts and booty shorts is branding, the difference between running skins and leggings is fear, the difference between tall tees and a pullover dress is capitalism, and the difference between how I wear what I do and how you wear what you do is NIL.

For Jaden Smith to be in an ad campaign in a skirt does not take balls. It’s as simple as selecting one item over another. What do I want to wear today? Online shopping should show style options for ALL gender expressions. Brands should lead the way in diversity and cracking open the binary of the market that might do a great deal for segmentation, but frankly contributes more to screaming from the windows of cars and failed intimidation of this gorgeous creature as he walks home as safely as he deserves to, has the right to than it does to you making budget in your basics collection.

like age, like time, like economy, gender is a code we’ve made up to help us organise ourselves and exploit opportunities to be productive. it’s a meaning we’ve made on a basis of a majority of genital presentations. but what it means, for those of you who have the freedom to try, is yours to decide. and when we start showing that freedom, and standing strong in ourselves, that sort of shit makes a difference to people who think “maybe I could…I’ve always wanted to…what’s stopping me? If he can do it…”

Carry yourself with the courage of your conviction and as casually as the concept of your soul being clear to see in the what you put on your pure person.

 

B.

 

my funny Valentine

Standard

It’s like something out of a movie. Boy and girl meet in primary school, cue the meet-cute music, and become best friends. She defends him from bullies, he invites her over for dance parties. They share secrets and feel like finally they have a friend who understands them. Then suddenly, without a word, he’s gone. Vanished back to his hometown and they lose each other. With the arrival of social media they try to find one another, but both use aliases! Until facebook. There’s an email and a teary reunion, nine years since they’ve seen each other as children, and they still have so much in common and he’s happening to be visiting in ten days for the first time in four years. Cue the meeter-cuter music. They spend the day together, it’s perfect. And then the story really begins.

jackiegif

I think both of us have spent far too many moments pondering the eternal question ‘no seriously how is this my life?!‘ but in the past ten years since we reconnected, and nearly twenty since we first met, it really has played out like a dream come true. And it never ceases to humour and astound us how much discursive trouble our relationship gets us into.

Valentine’s Day is traditionally an occasion for romantic couples, which we are not, but here’s the big deal: I don’t care what capitalist codswallop flogging the inadequacies of my independence have to remark, nor how many other people are vying for the delight and privilege of being your Valentine. You, Phoenix, are my Valentine. So this one’s for you…and for those of you playing along at home, still cluing in as to how a committed relationship between two platonic parties could possibly be a thing.

murder

It’s always such a thrill to hear people bandy about words like love and trust about people they’ve known for all of three orgasms. But deep unyielding trust builds over time, and is strengthened, not shrunk, after being fractured. I can’t say we’ve fought, but we’ve thrived through drama and disappointment by being open beyond our own pride and getting to the root of what we need from each other to move forward, and delivering that to the best of our ability. She often tells me she’s not scared of my darkness, and I know I’ve shed some light on hers.

tumblr_nl22fupzec1u27r3ro1_500

Compatibility often comes down to having the right things in common, and the right things in contrast. We’ve both been through very similar things in our lives, but have grown from those in different ways. It’s that typical ’rounding out’ where we can rely on each other to provide the perspective we need honestly, knowing that the time will come around we’ll need to hear it back to us. One of the best parts of our relationship is the freedom to challenge each other and ask for what we want from each other, and expect participation to make that happen.

laugh-gif

Then of course, it helps to have a healthy serving of laughter. Seriously lady you make me laugh like a loon on loon tablets. You have split so many of my sides, and we take almost psychotropic delight when we do pressure down. I think this really is the key, is that ability to not only drop down into the deepest discussions and despairing equations, but also find each other far funnier I fear than we may actually be. Oh well.

treats

Then there’s of course the thing that takes a relationship from stable, from fruitful, to pure sparkle: encouragement. As much as we challenge each other, we know how to encourage and celebrate each other. Goodness knows that has transcended to the odd bit of financial support as well. I once told you that the only way I was ever going to meet someone is if they took a look and went “yeah, what a weirdo, that’ll work!” and your response was that the right person doesn’t actually find you weird at all, they just love you right off the bat. Couldn’t have put it better myself.

pizza
While we’re on the topic of meeting people, I appreciate that it’s complicated to make sense of why two people who love, support, co-habit and plan a future together can not be having sex, but here’s the secret: WHEN IT IS BEDTIME, WE DON’T DO IT. We are more than willing, in fact we’re hoping, to accommodate a person in each other’s lives who brings that romance, intimacy along with love and support. But how people can expect that once you hook up with one of us, that the other goes off duty, or that our years and years of trust and trauma will conveniently scatter to the wind will always confound me. The happiness we craved and cried for, we have found with each other, and there’s no chance in hell we’re giving it up; we’ll transform it to involve other people and share the love and happiness, but to love us means to love the parts of us the other has helped to build. So be grateful and lets get to kissing!

28xuc

Most people who know me understand that I struggle with the whole ‘together’ thing and due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, I’ve historically not been involved in too many relationships. I’m still coming to terms with what it means for us to be in each other’s lives, because I fall into the same traps of not seeing us for what we are, soulmates. The reality is that if we were same-sex partners, everyone would be on board. But we’re not, and that permits us to find other means to create value in our relationship. Who knows what the future holds for us, but here’s all that needs to be known:

Phoenix, you make me happier than far too many people wanted me to believe I could be. You make me excited for the future, and your presence gives me the strength to tackle so many things. Your honesty has helped my friends be bolder with me, your caring has helped my family relax about my choices, and I just think you’re all about it. I love you Brow Bae. Crack Pussy. Vvife. P. Phi. You’re it.

giphy
PS thank you to every reader who has reached out. I know these latest ones have seemed a little self-served, but I need to do that at the moment. Establish myself, evacuate those things about me I want to share. It’s part of a bigger picture I promise. I also promised I wouldn’t do announcement things, so just enjoy and please be one of those people who feels encouraged to be you and fight for whatever makes you happy and contributes to the happiness of the collective. We need that. Happy Valentine’s Day.

B.

PS. Babe 11 years is jewellery. Or if you count the lost years, 28 is orchid!

fave