8/3/25
Janet moved to China at 21 and stayed 21 years until her husband who came from a cave dwelling family left her and the kids for his 21 y/o lover - I fibbed some of those numbers, by the way. A thought I just had, standing outside the car, finishing off a smoke. “I love being trans and smoking cigarettes” - for context, at the show, Zeke’s shirts were “$20 if you’re trans, $25 if you’re cishet” so I gave them $23. Seems my identity’s worth a $2 discount, I’m thinking it might be $5 sooner or later. Hanging out in the kitchen at the rat’s den watching Chaser Bait’s set all these freaks and weirdos making the whole rest of the world seem “queer” - I notice that I am where I’ve always wanted to be, here, we long-haired conspirators holding this quiet candle flame secret, Janet said the resistance is forming itself and maybe she’s right, though I hesitate to entertain grand thoughts of revolution and systematic upturnings maybe this candle flame will become a bonfire and burn this old world down and maybe we really will be holding hands though the nightmare + come out pure and in love and without borders between our bodies and our earth. See, being trans is socio-political revolution - I learned this only when I started using they/them pronouns and wearing a skirt and singing like a school girl, and not before. Of course, you hide the war plans from the adversary, and talk in codes and share secrets, giggling burning secrets, not simple desire-play but all-encompassing and childlike. Everything’s really in everything, no really, it is! Bodies and identity and the earth and struggle and solidarity - radical change, earth-shattering rebellion, yes, a total complete upturning like Ella said, I have two names.
2 names: one, an old given name. Home-base body identification, how it ought to be, the devil says, gravity, the great glue sustaining creation, habitual illusion, upheld by dignity and history and pride and our parents and their parent’s suffering. This material firmament is not the natural state of things. This is how God divided the water from the sky so we may stand on solid earth and glance around and spend our lifetimes proving our given names like good children.
2 names: one, an old given name, a material name, with material rewards for your material compliance. The second is much more interesting. It is not given, it is your own only when claimed - you must seek it though it cannot be found within the firmament. You must despair for it though it is hidden to all emotion. You must make it your life’s work, though it has nothing to do with your life. Poetry is lost to describe it, but come on you gotta try. It’s like we’re all wearing space suits with our unique name tags proudly displayed and when we take off the helmets we’d lose oxygen and die but recognize each other in that final moment. Dying is okay! If I may recognize you for just a moment, I’d die daily. Putting on a skirt is taking off the helmet, I’ve killed the old name and breathe my home planet’s air for the first time. Dead-name, dead-name James, dead-poet James, dead-anything James, 2 names: one, an old given name, slain by my yearning! And a new name, eternally revivified by my care and self criticisms, mine, my own, untainted by earthly habits or narratives or star-formations, material bondage is forever slain, I cut all chains with the sword of discriminative will power.
I love being trans and smoking cigarettes. See what I mean?