Alice.

Tuesday August 7, 2007

There are a lot of beautiful people down here. It's amazing. Luckily I received my camera and have been putting it to good use, as can be seen on the right. I had a lot more typed up about this subject, but the content eludes me at the moment.

Fina—who was so distant when I came down to Panama in November and was the same for the first few weeks this trip—and I have had a chance to sit down and talk, for something like two or three hours. Note that this happened a while ago, and I've simply forgotten to mention it. Now she actually says hi when she walks past. Truth be told, I've been pretty open with everyone down here when it comes to what I'm going through. The family I work with have had some good questions, too.

It's hard to tell how people are doing with the whole thing. Names and personal pronouns take a long time to rewire, and everyone catches themselves. People getting it right without hesitation is a silent joyful experience unto itself. All but the youngest of the children have worked it out. Megan is… strange, though. Very, very strange. She worries me as she is far too old of a soul for such a young child. Disturbs and unsettles me, even, and that's not an easy task. More on the whole name/pronoun thing a little later.

There will be no power tools near my…

Rachel, John—whom you'll never see a picture of—and David were talking amongst themselves one night, I felt my ears burning, and decided to see what was up. Turns out they were actually talking about me, and had some questions. Specifically about SRS. So after answering a few random questions—recovery time, sensation afterwards, etc.—I simply came out and described the entire surgery from beginning to end, in all of the gruesome scraping, shaping, stitching detail, and offered visual cues if they wanted them. I have complete videos of the procedure. Several points during my discourse John and David were either curling into the fetal position, holding themselves, wincing, groaning, laughing nervously, or all of the above in various combinations. Rachel giggled a lot, as did I. Disturbing fun was had by all.

John asked the million-dollar question; probably the best question I have ever heard in regards to such a serious matter. (Sarcastic emphasis on serious, as I was having far too much fun grossing out the adults.) Sadly, I have to paraphrase as it's been a week and my memory fails. “So, after sex, since the sperm has no final destination, do you, uhm, have to clean it out? Like with a bottle brush, or something?” He made the motion and the humming sound of a power tool. As everyone else was dying on the floor, laughing, John perfectly straight-manned it, “No, really, this is a serious question!” He gave several impressions of the shocked thoughts of the sperm. “Like, WTF?”

Rachel's response to the whole surgery thing, plus a few horror stories I threw in for good measure—thank you She's Not There and Jennifer Reitz!—was along the line of how courageous I am, or strong-willed, or something for choosing to go through such a process. I simply stated that it wasn't really a choice; it's a must. In the end, it's hard being me with a constant reminder dangling between my legs.

John was slightly inebriated a few days ago. By slightly, I refer to nearly-melting panda status. He was sloshed. Anyway, so I'm having a little fun prodding him into deep philosophical discussions while he's barely standing, and in response to one of his jibes I gave him the hand-on-the-hip-lean-back-stare-thingy. He broke. He broke so hard that I couldn't stop myself from laughing so hard my sides hurt. He leaned against support (stairs) and swore a few times. He then lectured me for a few minutes, as I tried to recover, about the merits of more feminine clothing before attempting such maneuvers again. It went more along the lines of, “Fuck! (My eyes!) Girl, you need to wear skirts or something… anything… something to give a hint!”

Anyway, enough of that! On to more depressing topics!

So my room-mates have been gone for two weeks and will be returning today. That is, Tuesday, of which I am writing at one in the morning while listening to my Depressing playlist. Leaving me alone in an apartment for such a long time is dangerous. Twenty stories in the air on the highest hill around gives quite the vantage point, and I've been spending more than a few nights sitting on the ledge outside the living-room windows, legs dangling, pondering my life.

Me.

Pondering my life.

While alone.

With nothing but air below me.

For three hours a night.

At three in the morning.

A dangerous combination. (Jumping would take long enough for me to enjoy the view, have my life flash before my eyes, then regret jumping.)

Especially as I'm coming around to my nearly biweekly breakdown.

Fuck.

I'm going to be going to PAX later this month—one way or the other. Goddess, I hate airlines. Obviously one of her great works. I'm having difficulty shoe-horning my return flight into a different time and final destination. I believe I'm going to have to just book a one-way from Panama to Seattle and skip out on the existing return. I look forward to PAX. I look forward to going shopping in Seattle and finally getting some goddamn clothes. I look forward to finally getting my hands on an iPhone. Or three. I plan on taking one apart, hacking the shit out of the second, and actually using the third. Thus prescribed are two 4GB and an 8GB.

As I sign off, skimming through some of Liz's entries, I have to agree. I feel isolated, too. In our differences, we are the same. I, of course, agree in the larger sense as well. Life is a solo adventure no matter what support we have. Hell, just go read her blog. It's updated more regularly than mine, too.

— Alice.