cogumelos... and sexual politics
Awaking, still in last night's clothing, and hair that smells not of cigarette smoke, but the rustic nostalgia-evoking scent of a campfire, or just the woody smell of the salamandra in the Kloster's Vivero. I feel like I am 16 again, for a few seconds before reality slams me in the stomach, with a sweet smile and a "sorry mommy."
The strange mix of psychotropics canceling themselves out, to leave me hangover-free this morning. Granted, sleeping until 11 probably has more to do with feeling (sort of) ok, than anything else, but, then I can do that because it is Sunday and I am on "vacation"...
It is strange, isn't it? The way an evening unfolds, it seems the best moments in life are the ones that are not anxiously awaited, but rather offered as gifts, surprises, free from the weighty pull of expectation. I believe this, and yet, most of my life is built on expectation, a constantly shifting re-assessment of plans and possibilities, a calculating of the risk-reward ratio and the internal monologue that berates me for being so absurdly out of touch with reality. That was my downfall as an athlete, I mean, in all real terms. There was the outward me, encouraging others, directing, controlling, straining vocal chords and leading only as far as a scaffolding support can do, and then the inward me, plagued with self-doubt and the monologue telling myself that it was never, ever good enough. A block that sent the ball careening back into play an inexcusable failure, even if the end result wasn't a goal. The failure to execute plans with the beauty of perfection, the unattainable perfection, the unknowable perfection... the most personal and blameworhty of all.
And so, I really did go back in time, straining my vocal chords, not shouting directions but singing with no microphone, and smoking (blech!), and ultimately curled up in a ball by the fire with my head in a friend's lap, having my hair stroked, and my eyes closed in the feline pleasure. What a strange position to be one's favorite most relaxing and reassuring one. (For years, my nights of partying ended somehow, lost in the backseat of a car, with my face pressed innocently against the powerful thighs of my strange companions...) And it was ok. I mean, because he was gay. It is interesting the liberties that can be taken when there is no sexual "possibility" between two people (as if a gay man, like a Eunuch, could never have illicit contact with a woman). But it is true, a kiss on the mouth, a head in the lap, grinding on the dance floor. All perfectly acceptable behaviours between a gay man and a "taken" woman, and a free one too. Chicas y Maricas... we get to be together behind the veil of transgressive behaviour, no one ever complains if we dance, pressed up against one another, laughing, falling. Why?
The strange mix of psychotropics canceling themselves out, to leave me hangover-free this morning. Granted, sleeping until 11 probably has more to do with feeling (sort of) ok, than anything else, but, then I can do that because it is Sunday and I am on "vacation"...
It is strange, isn't it? The way an evening unfolds, it seems the best moments in life are the ones that are not anxiously awaited, but rather offered as gifts, surprises, free from the weighty pull of expectation. I believe this, and yet, most of my life is built on expectation, a constantly shifting re-assessment of plans and possibilities, a calculating of the risk-reward ratio and the internal monologue that berates me for being so absurdly out of touch with reality. That was my downfall as an athlete, I mean, in all real terms. There was the outward me, encouraging others, directing, controlling, straining vocal chords and leading only as far as a scaffolding support can do, and then the inward me, plagued with self-doubt and the monologue telling myself that it was never, ever good enough. A block that sent the ball careening back into play an inexcusable failure, even if the end result wasn't a goal. The failure to execute plans with the beauty of perfection, the unattainable perfection, the unknowable perfection... the most personal and blameworhty of all.
And so, I really did go back in time, straining my vocal chords, not shouting directions but singing with no microphone, and smoking (blech!), and ultimately curled up in a ball by the fire with my head in a friend's lap, having my hair stroked, and my eyes closed in the feline pleasure. What a strange position to be one's favorite most relaxing and reassuring one. (For years, my nights of partying ended somehow, lost in the backseat of a car, with my face pressed innocently against the powerful thighs of my strange companions...) And it was ok. I mean, because he was gay. It is interesting the liberties that can be taken when there is no sexual "possibility" between two people (as if a gay man, like a Eunuch, could never have illicit contact with a woman). But it is true, a kiss on the mouth, a head in the lap, grinding on the dance floor. All perfectly acceptable behaviours between a gay man and a "taken" woman, and a free one too. Chicas y Maricas... we get to be together behind the veil of transgressive behaviour, no one ever complains if we dance, pressed up against one another, laughing, falling. Why?
posted by ilana at 12:51 p.m.
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