I watched Milk last night and I am going to watch it again – what a powerful, powerful film. But it made me think a lot about anonymity and community — the importance not of gross and self indulgent disclosure (where ever that line is) but about the importance of sharing our queer lives and selves. I have never had any desire to be “normal” but sharing who we are does normalize us and reveal our common humanity.
I don’t want to blog with a password, it would feel like a secret knock on the windowless door…perhaps the only thing I love about the new girl bar in town is that is has windows, lots of them and I find that incredibly liberating. Go ahead and watch, my life is NOT something to be ashamed of in anyway.
Let me assuage any fears that any of you have for my well being – you all have been so supportive both publicly and privately – I am not at all worried for my physical safety.
I have a family full of law enforcement personnel and a client list that contains lawyers and judges — so as far as that goes “bring it” and I will and can bring you down. Fast like in two minutes making one phone call…your little IP addresses will be associated with a real person, at a real address, in a real town.
The internet is not that anonymous.
What troubles me is that an individual can and will send comments that are clearly highly personal, contain details never (I repeat yet again NEVER) shared here — if you have taken that much time, made that much investigation and inquiry into my life get your lily white ass out of the rosebushes and tell me who in the hell you are. If you are already in my life (and I am almost beginning to suspect you might be – well there is a mighty ouch – tap me on the shoulder and talk to me like a friend would).
Because frankly until you do – you are a coward and I don’t associate with cowards. I do not associate with people whose language is cruel to me, to my friends or family and who will not identify themselves. Grow up – the only thing I need protection from is you.
So no one is taking anything away from me –not my joy, not my identity or who I am, not my freedom to write, to write about my life and my experiences. I’m a writer and it doesn’t matter if I have been published (and I have been published a little) writers will write. Writers will draw on their life experiences.
But I have had and will continue to do some editing as my privacy has been violated – and I suspect there is a queer/lesbian girl somewhere with very poor boundaries. (yeah how shocking right?!)
Let me share this yet again — it’s from one of my favorite, favorite non-fiction writers Terry Tempest Williams…
I write to make peace with the things I cannot control. I write to create red in a world that often appears black and white. I write to discover. I write to uncover. I write to meet my ghosts. I write to begin a dialogue. I write to imagine things differently and in imagining things differently perhaps the world will change. I write to honor beauty. I write to correspond with my friends. I write as a daily act of improvisation. I write because it creates my composure. I write against power and for democracy. I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams. I write in solitude born out of community. I write to the questions that shatter my sleep. I write to the answers that keep me complacent. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to the music that opens my heart. I write to quell the pain. I write to migrating birds with the hubris of language. I write as a form of translation. I write with the patience of melancholy in winter. I write because it allows me to confront that which I do not know. I write as an act of faith. I write as an act of slowness. I write to record what I love in the face of loss. I write because it makes me less fearful of death. I write as an exercise in pure joy. I write as one who walks on the surface of a frozen river beginning to melt. I write out of anger and into my passion. I write from stillness of night anticipating- always anticipating. I write to listen. I write out of silence. I write to soothe the voices shouting inside me, outside me, all around. I write because of the humor of our condition as humans. I write because I believe in words. I write because I do not believe in words. I write because it is a dance with paradox. I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in the sand. I write because it belongs to the force of the moon: high tide, low tide. I write because it the way I talk long walks. I write to bow to the wilderness. I write because it can create a path in darkness. I write because as a child I spoke a different language. I write with a knife carving each word through the generosity of trees, I write as ritual. I write because I am not employable. I write out of inconsistencies. I write because then I do not have to speak. I write with the colors of memory. I write as a witness to what I have seen. I write as a witness to what I imagine. I write by grace and grit. I write out of indigestion. I write when I am starving. I write when I am full. I write to the dead. I write out of the body. I write to put food on the table. I write on the other side of procrastination. I write for children we never had. I write for a love of ideas. I write for the surprise of a beautiful sentence. I write with the belief of alchemists. I write knowing I will always fail. I write knowing words will always fall short. I write knowing I can be killed by my own words, stabbed by syntax, crucified by both understanding and misunderstanding. I write out of ignorance. I write by accident. I write past the embarrassment of exposure. I keep writing and suddenly, I am overcome by sheer indulgence, the madness, the meaninglessness, the ridiculousness of this list. I trust nothing, especially myself, and slide headfirst into the familiar abyss of doubt and humiliation and threaten to push the delete button on my way down, or madly erase each line, pick up the paper and rip it to shreds -and then I realize, it doesn’t matter, words are always a gamble, words are splinters of cut glass. I write because it is dangerous, a bloody risk, like love, to form the words, to say the words, to touch the source, to be touched, to reveal how vulnerable we are, how transient we are. I write as though I am whispering in the ear of the one I love.