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In This Illness
By Throstle
Beautiful pebbles of shattered bottles' olive-green glass had been swept
into a small pile on a cheap wood coffee table three sides of which had
been gnawed on by the large and less than well-trained Labrador of the
couple with whom I lodged. The table's only non-gnawed edge faced the
couch on which I waited for the effects of my illness to fade.
With this illness came a month of insanely vivid dreams. In one, I'm
somewhere so charged with the spirit of promiscuity and sexual anarchy
the air itself seems illicit. Duct tape (used, I suppose, to prevent
splinters) had been folded over the whole circumference of the glory hole
I presently attend on bended knee, looking (the duct tape, I mean) like
rays of an inverted sun, with each strip spread in every direction, away
from the rim of the austere circle of emptiness--that promise of
exhilaration. Soon, I licked my lips, would come the consecrated cocks. I
was barefoot, wearing nothing but a royal blue one-piece women's
swimsuit. As I said, I knelt. I had been ordered to kneel, my knees
pressed together, as if in prayer, touching the base of the plywood wall,
my bent legs at my sides, my feet soles-up, beside and behind my lower
back, which was cradled between my heels.
In one dream, I am a delicate pixie. An intrepid elf warrior carries me
in the "v" between his cock and belly, to and through each fearless act
of heroism. My long and Barbie-like legs straddle the base of his immense
erection, and the lower half of my naked body is immersed in a nest of
sweat-wet pubic hair. I learn he's immortal, that he's the lead vocalist
of the dream pop band Nautical Mob, that he's a sensitive, attentive
lover who, because his penis is too big for my little pixie body, uses
the tip of his bright, cartoon-red tongue to bring me to peaks of mind-
boggling pleasure. In these dreams, my masochistic wishes (to be
defenselessly peeped at; to be seen in, and ultimately AS, a heap of
repellent refuse) could not be father from my mind as he takes me with
his playful tongue. All the spiritual power of the Song of God (Bhagavad
Gita), all the erotic passion of the Song of Songs, and all the bless?d
individualism of "Song of Myself" pour into my invigorated body through
his godlike cunnilingus.
Roberto, one of my oldest friends, came to visit me in my illness. She
had become, she told me, a neo-pagan. The desire for heaven, she said,
"is nothing but a Church-approved kind of concupiscence. Religion 'cures'
self-centeredness by approving of another version of self-centeredness,
condemning the Earth-centered versions that, at one time, needed to be
criticized, but that now, as neo-Paganism, is a robust critique the
rampant afterlife-obsessed (and this Earth-ignoring) religiosity that has
severed humanity's collective imagination from our planet."
I wasn't in the mood. Far from. In my illness it was impossible to
cherish Earth or This Life with anything like Roberto's enthusiasm. He
left rather quickly, let down by my lack of interest in all the things he
had to say about the wonders of Earth-worship.
In the throes of this illness, suspicion marked my psyche. I doubted so
many presumptions, but never the meaningfulness, to me, of my personal
practice of cross-dressing. Transvestitism has always been a kind of
performance art in which, in my case, I'm both performer and viewer,
fashion designer and runway audience; though all of this seems to stress
the visual, whereas, in my case, clothes' tactility has always been most
important. Hence my obsession with hosiery. I realized more and more
that, beneath the chic fashionableness--in some circles--of queer posturing
and philosophically hollow gender nonconformity, all of the internal
realities of lifelong cross-dressers like myself still surge and spill
and shoot like hot lava, as do the philosophically comprehensive and
reasonable principles of androgyny; which principles concern themselves
with the nature of personal and collective holism--ethical, in a sense, as
well as aesthetic.
One afternoon, I awake from a dream I remember as being vivid but do not,
perhaps ironically, remember a single detail of, to discover a note in my
handwriting on the coffee table that I didn't (still don't) remember
writing:
"What good gods probe this globe of woes for the sincere wishes of the
children? Are there any deities--anywhere--who care enough to hear and
grant the prayer requests of the innocent? I know of none. Let us waste
away in unwise longing no longer."
Beneath this was another note, the start of a story I planned to write
based on one of the dreams I had had (this one I remembered having
written):
"The dead who had been peppered with bits of rose (the 'carcasses marked
with p?tales de la fleur') were to be brought back into town to be given
proper funerals, Mistress said. The others had, of course, been enemies.
Who would come for them? I wondered. Would they even be collected? By the
time we arrived, the petals had dried and darkened, and the soldiers'
wrinkled limbs were hard--even wearing the thick gloves I was--to touch. I
realized without any pride that I was probably the most educated eunuch
there. It hit me that knowledge isn't everything. Isn't it, like so much
else, I asked myself, another invention mothered by necessity; a tool the
coward uses to protect oneself, reduce the riskiness of risks, make the
utterly unknown known somewhat? 'It's a miracle,' Mistress said, 'there
are as few maggots as there are.' (There seemed to be plenty to me.)"
The last dream I had in the midst of this illness was of the first man I
had ever had a crush on. Following the dream, I wrote this poem:
I would love to become his bed sheets,
I would spread myself thin upon him,
Not to warm myself, but to be warmth.
Initial neckbeard bristles--
Dark on his ivory skin,
Like the hatching plants of spring,
Like the first erratic growths in the snow--
Would tickle the edge of the sheet I'd be.
My life is an ambiguous space between
Frames of mind I can never quite fit into.
I do wish I was more like other people.
Why are other people still such a mystery to me?
Because I'm a cross-dresser?
I don't think that's why.
Because I'm bi?
I'm sure I puzzle them as well.
Even so, we transcend ourselves.
He dreams underneath me.
He loves me as I am.
Life can be wonderful.
I wrestled
a snowman
and lost, tossed
(a ragdoll)
into stars.
But I swam back
With a shriveled
Raisin of hope
In my hurt heart.
And he
Found me.
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