Wild cows with wings

I've recently joined what I now recognize as a legion. Thousands of us (I do daresay) who are majorly crushed-out on Ivan Coyote, author of a half-dozen books published by Canada's Arsenal Pulp Press. But yeah not just crushed-out! -- also deeply appreciative of their sterling, generous, and funny AF approach to life and advocacy (for self and all others and othereds).

Anyway, I'm watching You Are Here from 2009 and Ivan is storytelling about 2 Mile Hill in Whitehorse and the marsh they cherish but speak about it in the kind of hushed tones that aren't precious and make you cringe but still make you sit up and listen good and prompt, with reverence. Few words delivered and you know how beautiful this place is and how intrinsic to a body's health and hale nature it is. They saw a lynx. They saw a lynx. It's a wild cat. A lynx. Can you imagine. The marsh is a nexus and a gateway and a cradle and a reservoir.

And then it's backfilled to make way for a WalMart and a Starbucks and I had to stop watching and write this because I've not told anyone except the cashier at Kiva what happened early this summer when I was an innocent.

I headed out that absurdly sunny morning with my usual gear. Sturdy pair of sneakers, denim shorts, tank top, backpack with provisions for an urban day or so out and about. I decided I'd hike up the near butte and then see what. So after the butte, I circled back into town from the northeast, crossing the railroad tracks by my least favorite clothing resell joint (Buffalo Exchange) (bunch of twats), very much looking forward to one of my favorite little avenues to stroll down on my way to the library.

This half-block long oasis runs the length of a set of buildings that includes a day care. It's a brick building with character and dimension and there was a stationery store there for decades too. I like hearing the kids outside when I pass by; the yard is enclosed by a slatted fence so that I can't really see inside. It's all natural wood and I think a real sandbox though and the whole atmosphere is so amiable and I think I would have loved being there as a kid. In the seasons when the trees are all fletched out in green, the tall trees provide shade and presence; the lower shrubby trees add their own character. I like walking there because it's a cut-through and off the city street with cars; I just realized that it reminds me somehow of the canyons I loved roaming around in when I was 6 and 7 and 8 years old in San Diego.

It takes all of three minutes to walk the length of this avenue.

I approached it from my usual direction and as I turned the corner, what had been hidden from view erupted into the space before me. The trees had been cut down and the lot adjacent ravaged. It was ugly. It was so abrupt. There was no more avenue. I had just been there a few days ago. All was well. I didn't even think that the new hotel going up on the next block had a foothold here. I hadn't read the local newspaper. I didn't think.

I lost my shit. Completely and utterly. I crumpled right on the spot. I folded onto the ground, crouching and rocking. I must have looked unhinged. I was unhinged. I think a man passing by turned to look at me. I wasn't quiet. I moved my shellshocked self further down the wrecked lane, tucking myself into an alcove just past the daycare, and pulled out my hanky. I keep one of those with me in the summer for mopping up sweat.

I couldn't stop crying, for a long time. Still squatting, feeling five years old in a fifty year old body, wailing in that way of very young children with snot streaming. I've personally never heard anyone cry like I do at my age, but fuck it, no one came around and I was so glad to be left alone with my grief but also really wanting to hold and be held by someone.

Atrocities like this happen. All over the globe. I didn't see this one coming, and it's small-scale but immediately I started bawling my inner eye was like Google maps zooming out and seeing the ecological warfare traversing oceans and continents.

It was quite some time before I could put myself together, and then I shouted a string of foul-mouthed curses because it was a way for me to feel less impotent. Grab that rage and pull it up from the pit of my gut and out my lungs and mouth.

It'll never be the same, that avenue. It's gone forever.

They saw a lynx. They saw a lynx. It's a wild cat. A lynx. Can you imagine.

Today I saw a muttering of cows with wings crouched sentinel high up in a dead tree. I only saw them because I approached the bike path from a tributary I hadn't before, stopping for a pull off my HydroFlask and heard the low-throated lowing of I don't even know what they are! Like tiny shoe-bills or forsaken boobies. They're not buzzards or heron or seagulls or crows how can I not recognize these riparian fowl? 

I did see a heron earlier though; and some crows; and a seagull, at least one; and I heard multitudes of other winged creatures, and the wind defrocking trees.

Thank you, my dear

I'm loathe to admit this but I'm going to anyway: even as few as eighteen months ago...maybe even twelve...I wouldn't have thought much of some dude asking me for the time. But it went like this yesterday, and I have been thinking about it, and I'm gonna say something about it. Right now.

I pulled in to Paul's Bicycle near the butte for some air. I like that they've fixed the public access compressed air hose and I can just wheel up and not even go inside. I'm bent over my tire (ass-end away from the door and traffic), squatting really, and a fragrant black man exits with his biking onesie and wheeling his wheels out.

"You got the time?" he wafts over to me, in a straightforward way.

"No. I don't even know what time I left the house," I say in a straightforward way, without smiling too much.

He peels his cuff back from  his wrist, "Oh I'm wearing a watch. Just didn't feel like looking."

Inwardly I'm scrunching my face at him. I keep fussing with the hose and Presta valve. He intones, "The time is now...12:10! Have a nice day!"

"You too, thanks," I reply. With a not-high and smiling voice. Just, you know, regular. Not feminine. I'm making sure of that. Not because he's black. Not because I feel menaced. Because I'm regulating my smiley vibes and not actually feeling smiley and hyper-aware of how much of my life I've spent doing a smiley thing especially around men. I offer, because it's true, and we are both obviously into our bicycles and riding them, and we are all a fellowship of bicyclists, "Beautiful day for a ride. Enjoy."

"Thank you, my dear," and he coasts down the ramp.

The thing is, interactions like this, with a particular sort of vibe, and intonation, and body talk, and perfumery, announce to me that this is about a peacock strutting. It's not particularly about me, or making a connection with another human being, with people who display like this. And I didn't feel particularly incensed (which surprised me).

I was so glad that I wasn't effusive with my wishes for a good ride, that I wasn't indulgent. I did recognize that when he asked me for the time, part of my brain was thinking about where my flip phone was and I could haul it out of my inner bag and tell him the time - in tandem, my brain was thinking, "I'm sure there is a clock right on the other side of this wall as you leave the establishment," and then he simply pulled the wristcuff of his sleeve up.

I mean, why would he ask me for the time? You tell me. I know what I think.

And why did he ask me (he seemed straight, maybe he wasn't? maybe he thought I was straight? the vibe was there but maybe it's like reverse gaydar and mine was broken that day but what about my gut feeeeeelings)?? It must be the scarf. Or the leggings. Because otherwise I present as butch. Ish. I think. Or not femmy. I certainly did not turn my head to look at him when he came out of the shop.

Sure! It could be that he just wanted to make a small polite conversation with someone. It could be. And that was probably part of it. But it's so weird to me. SO weird. The more I give guys less attention, the more it seems like they seek to make sure I have a reason to acknowledge them.

On a related note:

I was hanging out with some new friends a few weeks ago. Two sweet fun hilarious trans guys, married to each other (oh my god I love these guys) and a friend of theirs who had just finished up a really long bicycle tour. She had just spent four days on a train to arrive in Eugene. Talk of impending Autumn, and K sure didn't want to wear 'long sleeves' on her legs. She's a plaid-and-cargo-shorts kinda person. I agreed, as I love wearing 'short sleeves' but, I was looking forward to wearing leggings, so comfy.

When I said 'leggings' I swear the room went still*. Something passed through that room. I know I felt weird! It looked to me like they felt weird. These are new friends we're getting along so swimmingly and I want so badly to be liked and loved, my little me voice inside said...what did I say...wrong. Am I not queer enough? Too straight? Too cis? Too something or not enough something? Am I butch? A dyke? A femme? All three? None? Other?

Later when I thought about it I laughed, and I laughed harder thinking of what I wished I had done in that moment (if I wasn't so fixated on playing it cool and ignoring my weird feeling and not crumpling in an unbecoming way because the little me feels like I never fit anywhere, no matter what):

I wished I had looked at each of them in turn with a smile and loud-whispered,

"Leggings...leggings...leggings!"

And then, "Just checking to see if any of us were going to evaporate or self-immolate or something; that word seems to carry some weight?" and been genuinely curious and humorous about it.

Then somehow - how did this happen?? - K talked about boxer shorts. Previously B and S had told me of an incident where a lady neighbor had mistaken their apartment for hers and walked in on them both as they were lounging around in their boxers. I think that was a test of some sort, to see if I could be trusted with this bit of info. Fuck yeah, wear boxers, wear whatever makes you feel good! Of course! But then this day when K dropped in a line about buying boxers and they all nodded about something (a good deal? a good brand? I don't know, I was hyper-aware of body language, subtext, and a frisson of other stuff that I was dealing with internally)...I felt like such a white cis straight female, like I was so straight and vanilla and ugh, ugh. I just let them say whatever they were saying and wished for a plus one or a club cufflink or something.

But I don't like boxers on my body, underneath jeans. I fucking hate the way they bunch up, and feel like even more flesh when I don't want more flesh or wrinkles or bulk. It's like trying to wear long johns underneath jeans. NO. No. Nooooo. I would wear briefs but they're very bulky as well, and binding around the legs. So I wear things that are smooth and do not bind or ruck up.

Looking back on it, if I had been feeling more secure and jocular, I would have chimed in - "I don't know what you're on about, g-strings are the most comfortable by far. I love my thongs!"

I cut my hair so so short this year. I don't think there's any going back. I use a pair of cheap scissors and trimming it is an activity that fulfills my OCDs because with short hair you cut at home without benefit of clippers you just have to trim it continually. I guess I still look and act like a straight female to most guys though. I was approached by a young man at least half my age when I sat down at a bench on the bike path to read (You guys. I turned 50 in February). He crossed over made a beeline for me. I am not even kidding. WHY?!

"How are you?"

"I"m awesome," and I went back to reading my book.

He sat down next to me. "Mind if I sit here?" I said to him, "There are plenty of other benches." And he goes, "Yeah but I want to talk to you." I slapped my book shut, dropped it in my pannier, swung a leg over and said, "Well. I don't feel like talking to anyone."

"Oh. Well stay pretty!"

???

!!!

What? Maybe I should feel comforted by the fact that my chin-wag bits and puckery lined lips (they are not smooth any more not by a long shot) and puffy eyes and crow's feet were, what, surpassed by my stellar cowlick (I actually love my cowlick) and red hair and....euw but gross, dude, you are...you could be my grandson.

On the upside, I was identified twice this year as a 'Sir', by men, who then quickly apologized.

I like leggings*. I like scoop neck shirts. I like button-downs, with all the buttons undone and a tanktop underneath. I like scarves. I love jeans. I have no use for my boobs, but there they are, and I'm not binding them or undergoing top surgery. I could lose 25 pounds and be very boyish looking and in fact I would prefer that, I would UBER prefer that, but I'm not going to diet again, ever (see previous post). I have some short jersey skirts (shout-whispered), I might wear them with my leggings (also shout-whispered) again this year. I love wearing skate shoes with my jeans and scarves. I wish I was rail-thin and had no boobs. I wish I was narrow-hipped. I'm not. I don't like wearing suits or ties. So I guess I'm still making this up as I go along and dressing each day as I feel most comfortable and I'm not a girl or a boy or a woman or a man, so.




* edit, Saturday October 19th. I just stumbled on this article, Fat-Booty Butch Wears Leggings - Confuses World, Confronts Self. Yasssss.