Demands are the communicative currency of relationships with power differentials, or in which one [or more] of the parties involved thinks there is or ought to be a power differential. Demands are made by those with power of those without power, as when schedules are made for employees with the expectation that they will come in when scheduled. Demands are also made, in some instances, by those without power as they try to gain more power in their situation, as when unionized workers strike with the demand [implicit or explicit] for more/fewer hours, better wages/conditions, or something else. In many “traditionally” structured families [and by that I mean "in the Western patriarchial patrilineal heteronormative frequently-Abrhamicly-faithed tradition with which I am familiar"], The Husband/Father is permitted to make demands of The Wife/The Children. Again, sometimes The Wife or The Children will make demands in order to obtain a sense of increased control over their situation; frequently, this manifests in the establishment of a “pecking order” amongst those not at the top of the power pyramid [ie, The Wife makes demands of The Children, and The Older Children make demands of The Younger Children]. Many corporate structures rely on demand-based communication. I’d wager that almost all militaries in the world communicate overwhelmingly through demands ["orders"], with extremely limited time and scope given to non-demand communication.

Requests, however, seem different to me. And by “request” I mean a genuine request, not the sort of veiled demands that I’ve heard [and I'm sure you, Dear Reader, have heard] so often. Requests are the sorts of things that I ask for, but can live without, and I try to make it clear that my requests are not demands. I like making requests, because for me, requests feel more like egalitarian communication. I suppose it’s really more as though the requester is relinquishing some power to the requested, as the requested now has the option to decline- but the act of requesting something removes the assumption of compliance, and gives the requested agency in the interaction.

Even beyond bestowing agency on those I interact with [which is something I value in and of itself], making requests rather than demands of my friends, empowers me. When I get to a point of demanding something [usually at work], it’s generally as one of my last resorts. By the time I’m demanding, I’m apt to feel that compliance is on some level necessary, usually for my sanity/functionality. When I request something, it forces me to be able to deal with a declination of my request. What if ze doesn’t want to or can’t fulfill my request? What will I do? The answer invariably is deal with it [in some way]. Requesting allows me to retain agency over my responses and the outcome of the interaction, rather than setting me up to absolutely rely on [ie, demand] something.

But my aversion to making demands, especially of my friends, boils down to the fact that demands are not indicative of the sort of relationships that I want to foster with my friends.  [Totally beyond any sort of Kantian Imperative that I might be applying.]

I recently did a little bit of a purge of my closet, as I rearranged things around with the addition of a [handsomely finished- by me!] dresser to my room. I’m considering executing another, but am left pondering two new $64,000 questions.

1) How many articles of “women’s” clothing should I keep?

This one is not worth, for me, pondering in any theoretical way. Instead, I’ll probably run through my closet and get rid of things that I haven’t worn in a while or that I can’t imagine wearing again.

2) What does the changing composition of my closet signify, both outwardly and to myself?

I struggle frequently with the choice between wearing “women’s” clothing that emulates “men’s” styles and outright “men’s” clothing. Women’s clothing tends to fit me better- significantly so in trousers, and only marginally so in shirts. However, I associate wearing women’s clothing that emulates men’s styles with “soft butch” identities, and though I definitely would categorize myself on the ‘butch’ end of any ‘butch-femme’ spectrum, I would not necessarily claim a ‘soft butch’ identity for myself. [I also more and more associate 'soft butch' with the personification of one of my inner demons, about which/whom I will write at a later date. ]

On the other side of things, men’s clothing tends to fit me less-well. I am aware that it could appear that I’ve internalized social gender beauty/handsomeness/attractiveness standards, but there’s definitely a huge utilitarian component to my assessment. Though I like wearing belts, I frequently need to wear a belt with men’s trousers to keep them up. [Also, as my drive to appear as a 'normal' female is minimal, I doubt that I'm using 'normal' female beauty standards for myself.]

As far as personal significance goes, I still need to think about that. My comfort level with outwardly exhibiting what might be called a ‘female masculinity’ that I would more broadly categorize as ‘genderqueer’ is increasing [much to my poor mother's chagrin- she much prefers the 'soft butch' look on me, though she's adapting well]. I’m not sure how I feel about my feelings about presenting much more of what might be read as an FTM identity, when my personal identity lies much more in the genderqueer/trans* realm.

On the plus side, I’ve figured out a moderately safe route to bike to work, and once I familiarize myself with it, I’ll have my Cycle Commute Pondering Time available to me again!

But for the longest time, glitter was one of my biggest fears. As a tomboyish youth [to put it delicately], I wished to control anything that might overly feminize me. For my less-tomboyish cohort [and my mother, as well] there was some sick satisfaction brought by feminizing me beyond my comfort zone. Although my mother would not rely on something as gaudy as glitter to feminize me, my classmates found an inordinate amount of pleasure in executing run-by glitterings against me. I was, to put this nicely, not a fan of the glittering. Glitter obviously labeled me as unequivocally female, especially the pink glitter. However, every third grader knows that only girls wear glitter [no matter the color]. It left me feeling totally left out of the loop of my own gender presentation, which started a whole my-discomfort/their-giggling cycle that could spiral out of control.

However, recently [over the past 15 or so months], I have started having more and more positive experiences with glitter. By passing time with people who understand the nuances of gender identity, gender presentation, and how to use glitter properly, I have reached an unprecedented comfort level with shiny bits of metal and/or plastic. I do not cringe when I find errant bits of the stuff on myself, or friends, or dates, or the students I work with [how it got on them I have no idea, but whatever]. I will choose to apply glitter [or have glitter applied] fairly consistently when it is offered.

And that is because, in the circles that I run in, glitter is not necessarily conflated with femaleness. I can be completely decked out with glitter in my hair and on my cheekbones and on my lips, and still be very much Eli, very much not-female [if not still male]. And this is amazing.

[There is, of course, an element of postmodernist nonchalance concerning my gender presentation at this point, which probably helps a lot of things.]

Friend Food Pyramid: A loose term referring to one’s individual social circles and the specific compositions thereof. Can also be used to refer to the concept of Friend Food Pyramid in general.

Daily Staple: Someone that one interacts with frequently [for me, I think of folks that I see more than three or four times a week].

Sometimes Food: Someone that one interacts with less-frequently, often [though not exclusively] on a sporadic basis. [On the other hand, a less-frequent but more-planned interaction may be a weekly/monthly/yearly staple, I guess.]

Planned/Unplanned Consumption: Correlates to whether or not one planned on encountering [a] certain individual[s] at a given time.

Preferred/Less-preferred Food: Again, correlates to preference levels of the folks one encounters. Most preference levels, in my experience, are relative.

Using these classifications for my friends [which are, by the way, not permanent or singular- of course not, I'm a zarking pomo] helps me think of things in terms of what I need/want from my social interactions. Too many starches [work folks]? Throw in some fruits or nuts or whatever else to liven things up. Have a sandwich.

Beyond that, things get extra-silly [because the idea of thinking of my relationships in terms of a foody pyramid is not?] I like to characterize my friends as members of a food group or as specific plates. Good friends that I can see frequently, I usually think of in sandwich terms*. Friends that I see rarely I think of in terms of more exotic food items, like neeps or tortes or something.

I like to think of ridiculously specific dishes that my friends and acquaintances can be. For instance, the other day, my Bowie was a batch of fried okra, in that we got together on short notice for a fun yet calm evening that ended up being very comforting. About a week ago, I was at a party that I thought of as analogous to  a bag of Chex Mix. I of course had an inclination towards my preferred foods- the little rye chips, and the darker cereal, and the little squiggly things- but needed the other bits too. [Chex Mix would be way boring for me if it were only rye chips, dark cereal, and squiggly things and I consumed it in the quantities I consume traditional Chex Mix in. Small doses of only those three things, or even of only one of those things, might be kinda nice.] Some of my romantic relationships could be seen as me steadily gorging myself on a specialty dish that I would normally eat with much less frequency otherwise, which turns out poorly for everyone involved.

I’m sure that there are other ways to expand this metaphor; certain folks could be full of various compounds and ingredients that others need to consume in limited amounts or not at all. Some folks mesh particularly well together [like, say, migas and Mexican imported beer], and some not so much [like perhaps, chicken chocolate crunch ice cream]. Some folks are close enough analogues that they can be seen as almost-interchangeable [of course, they're not precisely interchangeable, but they've similar enough qualities that either one may suit one's particular social needs at a particular time]. [Oh wow I'm totally creating business model analogies through this food pyramid analogy and am such a dork. Perhaps another post sometime with those fully expanded?]

*At the Chex Mix party mentioned in this post, I expounded on my great love of both sandwiches and smoothies. Both of these are amazing items in their simplicity and versatility. Pretty much awesome. I could probably also make an entire post about how much I love sandwiches and smoothies. Truth.

I’ve been spending a lot of time feeling really drained. Work has settled into a sort of steady routine, at least, though the amount of energy sucked from me over the course of the workday varies, depending on how smoothly we execute our routines. I’ve found more and more solidarity and solace with the other teachers’ assistants, and we all bemoan our positions together and draw strength from each other and we all just seem to Get It. Things have also improved with the teacher that I work with. The other day, for some reason, it just felt like we had broken through some sort of wall, and now we’re getting along pretty well.

I moved into a new place with my roommie and his girlfriend. I’ve been here almost a month, I guess? Six weeks? But haven’t felt compelled to write about it yet. It’s nice. My rent dropped, the room I’m in is slightly bigger than the one I was in at the old place, and I’ve got a bit of space in the house to put my tabledesk and a coupla bookshelves. I still haven’t moved my books from my parents’ house to this one, yet. I got a dresser. I’m staining it- or really, I stained it yesterday, and am now waiting for nice enough weather to take it back outside and finish it with some polyurethane. I don’t know. It all feels very IKEA Nesting Syndrome to me, and that’s becoming alright.

I’m nearing The Big Troupe Vote on whether or not I’ll become a full member of Kings N Things, or if the past year of my provisional membership will be as close as I’ll get to joining the troupe. I suspect that they’ll vote me in; I’ve not caused any big interpersonal conflict, and have actually contributed to performances and troupe presence outside of performances.

Speaking of drag, I performed in the [All]iday show a coupla weeks ago; this time around, I was only in two pieces, so my comittment was manageable and I had a lovely time. The first piece up was with Tad Bitter, to The Bright Eyes’ “Lover I Don’t Have to Love” and it went over brilliantly. It went from plain sexy to quite kinky- the lights and music fade with his belt around my neck- and the audience loved it. [I'm pretty sure it was genuine love and not drunk love, since we were the first piece up after the opener.] The other piece was a great mime-ish quasi-vaudevillian number with Jaime [a potential new Baby King!] to The Dresden Dolls’ “Missed Me,” which the audience also really enjoyed. I liked playing in both those pieces, as they permitted me to exhibit characters beyond the wide-eyed booknerds I usually play.

I also got a chance to meet some of the folks from Houston, which was delightful. I’m hoping to be able to see them again, hopefully soon, perhaps through a tiny trip over to Houston during the break that I just started. However, this break is unpaid leave, and I did promise to do some work at my parents’ house to make some extra money, so we’ll see how all of that plays out.

Other than work and drag, I started and then stopped seeing someone over the past several weeks. I’m still working through my feelings around that, and am anticipating a postmortem [my roommie pointed out how tragic it is that I called it a postmortem, but whatever] will help me figure out precisely what happened and will probably help me solidify some of my feelings, and will hopefully help me get some answers.

In general, I am now working on accepting and embracing the fact that I really am the Sometimes Food of the Friend Food Pyramid. [I mean, I've been working on this one for a while, but for some reason it's hard for me.] I think I’m the transfats of the fats and sugars, in that experiences with me can be either really great or really awful, but they should occur quite infrequently? I don’t know if that’s accurate.  I love little metaphors, though my favorite ones are definitely the love/money metaphors.

I’m getting really excited about Christmas, not necessarily for Christmas’s sake. Once Christmas is done, it follows, so too will the Christmas shopping season be done. The chaos, the idiots, the wanton promotion of American corporate and consumer greed. Well, I mean, all of those things will still exist, indeed, but their frequency rate might drop a bit? Hopefully?

I normally go to Midnight Mass at the Church that I used to go to, when I still did that sort of thing. Due to scheduling, I won’t be able to go to Midnight Mass this year, so yesterday I went to Mass instead, at least to get the hour-or-so of my former Church that I usually get around this time. It was kind of miserable. I spent loads of the Mass thinking that I used to enjoy this business. The homily was about blessing and humbleness in being blessed, and had some really good ideas, but that Father [I can't remember his name] has a tendency to repeat repeat repeat for quite some time the same darn things, so the Homily was about ten minutes longer than it could’ve been.

Only one woman stopped to talk to me after Mass. I was afraid that lots more people would recognize me; I’m sure that lots of the choir group did, though none of them acknowledged that or talked to me. Other’n the choral folks and this one woman, I didn’t see anyone that I recognized. I may as well have been a visitor to the Church. It was strange, and kind of nice. It let me be a sort of fly on the wall.

Now, if only I could do that during extended-family gatherings [at least for part of them], I’d be golden.

I’m working on another blog, a much more frustrated one. It’s not done yet, and I figured that today would not be a good day to air it even if it were finished. I know that it’s been ages since I wrote here last. I don’t know what to say, other than when the spirit has moved me, I’ve been too exhausted to even type. Which is kind of pathetic. But now I’m on a forced holiday, since there aren’t any students at the school, and have regained a bit of my verve.

As the title implies, tattoo season has come. It’s finally consistently cold enough to ensure that I won’t be going diving. And since I’m not much one for hot-tubs, there’s little chance that any part of my body will be submerged in water for quite some time.  I’ve been thinking a lot about getting more tattooing done, since more than a year ago.

I thought about getting a tattoo in London, as a sort of permanent souvenir, or at least as permanent a souvenir as one can get. But prices were somewhat prohibitive and I was going through a period of rapid personal change, so I wasn’t sure that whatever I’d get would be something that I’d want further down the road. Since then, I’ve been thinking about tattoos a lot, and will hopefully get another one soon.

I may or may not update this thing when I figure out what I’ll get and where. We’ll see. Either way, that ramble, the grumpy one, will be up soon.

“Either you’ve gotten me very high without me knowing and I’ve forgotten where I parked, or my car’s been towed,” I said, a bit incredulous.

“Shit, son,” current said. Margaux, who lived in the apartment we were using to rehearse, asked me if I had parked in their parking lot. I confirmed, and she told me that sometimes they did tow. I had parked in the lot because I’d done so a few weeks back, for almost six hours, with no negative consequences.

Margaux and I went back out to the parking lot, and I retraced my steps; indeed, my car was no longer parked in front of the row of electric meters I’d used as a landmark. I called the towing company advertised on the placards around the lot.

“Yeah?” some guy answered.

I gave him my name and asked if they’d towed my car. I described the car. I told them the name of the apartment complex from which they might’ve towed. Then, the most mortifying thing happened: silence. Probably ninety seconds of it. At this point, my brain kicked into overdrive, and fears boosted my thoughts like nitrous. Oh no. What if they haven’t towed my car, and it’s been stolen? That’d suck. I wonder how one goes about filing the appropriate paperwork. This is going to be such a pain.

The sound of the man taking a dip brought me back to the conversation. “Yeah, yeah, we got that one just a little bit ago. You want an address?”

I thought he was asking for our address, so I asked Margaux, who was standing next to me in the space that my car had occupied a few minutes before. The man on the other end of the phone got impatient and reiterated that he would give me an address, “because if I give you directions, you’ll get lost.” [For the record, the directions merely needed to be: "we are between the blahblah and yadayada exits on the northbound side of suchnsuch highway," so I don't know what his issue was.] I got the address, and we went back upstairs.

We made a few phone calls to line up a ride to the tow yard; I called my roommie and my roommie’s girlfriend, but they were at a fancy dinner, and I didn’t want to take them away from it. current called our friend Jessie, who acquiesced.

We climbed into Jessie’s car and headed off, and I was all-too-aware of the $200 in borrowed cash sitting in my pocket. We gave our driver directions, and she told us amusing stories as we rode towards my ransomed car [named Luna], which made me feel less-stupid about what had happened. I made horrible bitter jokes, which I figured were better than getting aggressively angry.

We pulled up to the tow place, which was essentially a parking lot ringed in razorwire with a reinforced bunker on one corner. The dipping man sat in the bunker behind bulletproof glass and controlled the gates in and out of the towyard. I clambered out of the car, feeling just a bit sick at the financial ramifications of my screwup.

There was [what appeared to me to be] a straight, white, middle-aged couple already at the window. The man, who looked like a strange hybrid between a guy that I work with and my cousins’ grandfather [the one that I don't share with them], was decked out in his UT regalia, and it quickly became apparent that they’d been at the game.

“Two hundred fockin dollars!” the man said angrily. I wanted to bitterly correct him, tell him that it’s actually $193.50- $150.0o for filing and reporting, $20.00 for towing, $20.00 for impound, and $3.50 for taxes- but decided not to.

“This is fockin ridiculous!” He was slapping money down with the bitter resignation of someone who’d lost a bet they were sure they’d win. “Do you know how fockin many beers this would buy? I mean, we were in the stadium, so only like three there, but otherwise! Otherwise do you know?!” I felt like I was back at the QPR game, listening in on the fans in line to buy pints and chips and brats.

His wife smiled and asked him not to be rude to the man behind the bulletproof glass after her husband said that the man was “a fockin dirty filthy fockin vulture”. Her husband responded by getting even more aggressive, telling the man behind the glass that he’d hunt him down, or find him on the street, blah blah blah. I wondered how many times the man behind the bulletproof glass had heard that, and how many times he’d had to call in the police on assault charges with folks who got too aggressive. I wondered how many times the dipping man had been shot at. The man behind the glass looked completely nonplussed.

“It’s not his fault,” the man’s wife said. She looked vaguely like the matron of the first family I babysat regularly for, which was comforting to me.  She smiled at me, and I smiled back.

“I’m having this same conversation in my own head,” I said. She smiled an exasperated smile and told me that they’d debated parking without a permit or paying what seemed at the time an exorbitant rate to park in a lot.

The knight from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade popped into my head to inform me that we both had chosen poorly. As if I didn’t already know. Thanks.

The grumpy man slapped down the rest of his money and waited for the dipping man to fill out some paperwork; they played a game of passing little bits of paper and plastic back and forth throug hthe little slot under the bulletproof glass, a sort of cubby that dipped under so that anyone irate enough to take a shot at the dipping man wouldn’t have an opening like they would at a cinema ticket window. The dipping man buzzed the couple through the little gate to the towyard, and as they passed through, the grumpy man turned back and yelled a string of insults which ended with, “…fockin vulture faggot queer.”

Anyone who knows me knows that I can jam my foot pretty far into my mouth pretty quickly. I yelled after him; “Sir! Neither faggot nor queer are insults! Pick different ones!” I yelled largely because there was a grumbling towtruck right next to us, purring as it lined up its next kill for the evening. I repeated the gist of what I said again, though before I could finish, Jessie was right next to me, leaning over me [even though I had to stand on a raised platform to talk to the dipping man].

“Eli!” she hissed at me, “I could hear you from inside my car! Repeat after me: I will not get gay bashed at the tow yard. I will not get gay bashed at the tow yard.”

After that, I paid up, stumbled around the lot with Margaux looking for Luna, found Luna, and drove off into the night. I pulled out money to pay current back, and when I paid her back she backed out of the show due to feeling extra sick. We ended up getting to the show an hour late. I went on ten minutes after getting to the club [with my friend Artie Chokehearts, doing a number to "Bowie's in Space" by Flight of the Chonchords], with the most slapdash facial hair I’ve ever done [which still looked pretty alright].

I think I kept my cool relatively well, and didn’t really get all that upset about it. Also, this is pretty much the worst thing that’s happened to me for a while, and I’m totally alright with that being the case, because it was small beans.

Things are still stirring. They’re no longer in a really-overwhelming state of constant extreme turmoil/upheaval/explosion, but they’re definitely still shifting around. I’m still experiencing things that throw me ever-so-slightly off of my stride, that require me to make those little adjustments on-the-spot that will eventually become habit. I could totally both whine a whole lot about that and blow my wad prematurely regarding a potentially-really-neat stirring, but I’m sure that you’re sick of the former and I’m still holding out on the latter. Therefore, instead, it’s gender-rambling time! [Because somehow there's not enough of that on here. Or whatever.] [Also, salient/pertinent things kept happening as I delayed publishing this post, which explains the length.]

It’s hard being genderqueer. Blah blah blah, right? But I’m not talking about systemic oppression or day-to-day gender policing or getting duffed up by peers or whatever. I’m talking about being read explicitly as genderqueer, rather than as a butch dyke or a nelly fag. I’m talking about systemic invisibility in a negative-negative way. [This is opposed to the systemic invisibility of "white"ness, which I feel is a positive-negative invisibility in that it carries more immediate and sustained benefits for those carrying the invisible label, though the label does end up undercutting the labeled group in a lot of ways.]

So, instead of existing in only one iteration that is not successfully externally identified as explicitly genderqueer [as far as I can tell], I live a multigendered life. In certain spheres, different facets of my genderqueer identity [which, at its intermediate level of explanation is an amalgamation of myriad queer/gendered identities] are emphasized. Therefore, I interact with people who call me by both of my names, who use various pronouns, and that would probably, if asked, use various gendering labels to describe me. [Granted, I'm thinking of multiword genderings that go beyond female/male/woman/man/girl/boy. Things like "quasi-pretentious butchdyke nerdfag" and "almost-androgyne almost-hipster almost-awesome" and such.]

Let me just say, that this facet of my existence is AWESOME. My “ideal” is that of an explicitly genderqueer/thirdgender existence. Of course, this becomes more of a Weberian ideal in practice than [what I see as] a conventional ideal; I will probably never lead an existence in which I am consistently recognized as genderqueer. Instead of getting really cheesed off at my inability to pass as something that’s just beginning to exist [and therefore in its nascent definitions], I get what I see as the next-best-thing, which is to have the various facets of my genderqueerness recognized in various circles.

[Another awsome thing about this? In discussing my genderqueer identity with friends and acquaintences, I learn volumes about their conceptualizations of and feelings regarding gender, both their own and social constructs thereof.]

In a cute sort-of related tangent: my family is awesome. They came to see Drag Kings: the Musical the night after it opened. Not only were they really really cool about the impromptu intermission entertainment [as we had a very unfortunate sound system malfunction that was resolved in the most jank manner possible], but they were great about my gender performance. In the first piece I performed in, I walked out on stage with very low-hanging trousers. My mother, in the spirit of interactivity [which KNT is all about, as far as I can tell], yelled “Eli, pull up yer pants!” She used my kinging name; my friend reported to me [she sat next to my family] that my mother used it almost reflexively, that she didn’t think twice about what to call me. That same friend also told me that my family used my kinging name and male pronouns to refer to me even when quietly discussing my performances amongst themselves. Also, my mother got really flustered and had to think about what gendered spawn-related noun to use for me after the show. She settled on daughter, which I feel totally fine about. I feel even better about the fact that she thought about which noun to use.

[Also, my sister told me that the piece that I was most anxious about them seeing- a piece in which I wear very very short shorts and pack a huge freaking packer [Mr. Right by Vixen Creations] and engage in various really homoerotic shenanigans- was one of their favorites. Score.]

ETA: I came out to several of my coworkers today, at the Happiest Hour after work. I took an opportunity to label myself after the woman sitting next to me mentioned that she figured I was a “lesbian”. I tried not to cringe too much at the word [I dislike that word, for reasons I can't really put my finger on, though I know other folks feel the same way sometimes], and calmly informed her [and everyone else at the table] that I did not identify as “lesbian”, which led us down the long path of how-I-do-identify and how they identified [both themselves and me], especially with regards to gender. [This involved unconflating gender/sexuality and forging some different connections.] We had really constructive discussion surrounding transsexuality, transgender identities, and genderqueer identities. They were remarkably calm and relatively sensitive around the subject, which I appreciated. They all seemed to understand that I have no preference amongst names/pronouns, and that they could start calling me Eli and he,  if they’d prefer [though I doubt any of them would]. My co-workers are definitely queer and genderqueer allies, if not queer/genderqueer themselves, which I am eternally grateful for. I’m sure I’ll spend a CCPT [or several] thinking about the ramifications of this. If anything interesting arises, I’ll report back.

Drag Kings: the Musical 3 opened last night. We slayed. It was amazing. I definitely enjoyed the experience of performing in an explicitly selected transmasculine setting and being recognized for/by my performance of transmasculinity. I was mostly worried about technical aspects of the show; I am in about half of the show, and there are some quick changes that need to happen in there. However, everything was pulled off without much of a hitch last night, which means that we can do it again tonight and tomorrow night. Most of the troupe thinks that I’m insane for being in so many pieces [and I won't try to dissuade anyone from that notion], but there is definitely a comfort and familiarity in being so overloaded with things that I love, with scrambling hecticly backstage to make it into my next costume and apply facial hair and look like I know what I’m doing. I’ll admit that I’m a stress junkie, especially with jank-ass theatre. And although it’s nice to be so involved, it’s also really nice to know that this will all be done in thirty-six hours, that only ephemera will remain as evidence of this massive effort.

Parts of work are settling into unsettling routines. The student that needs the most behavioral support in my classroom has had a hard week, and we suspect that things might get worse before they get better. Most of my co-workers are awesome and amazing, though apparently some of my co-workers are not addressing issues that they have with me to me, and instead are addressing them to other co-workers and my supervisor. And because this is all being filtered through those other co-workers and my supervisor, the issue-holders’ identities [I'm assuming there's more than one, as has been implied to me] are still anonymous, which means I can’t address them directly to ask them to address me directly. [Still following? Good.]

I’ve spent a good amount of Cycle Commute Pondering Time, especially the rides home, thinking about office politics. I like to be genial with everyone and try to maintain good relationships with all of my co-workers, including the ones that I differ greatly with on ideology and goals. I’m hoping this will be possible. However, every time I devote energy to thinking about office politics [usually from work until my short stint on 2222], I conclude that office politics are much more interesting for me when I observe them, rather than when I participate in them. Because seriously, folks, is there anyone more awkward and less politically adept than myself?

On the other hand, parts of work are awesome. Like the number of Burners on-campus, who talk about Burner things [tents and art pieces and who's going up when and coming back when and did you see that one guy?]  during lunch period, while helping students stab little pieces of well-rounded nutritionally-balanced meals with their forks. Like the number of GL employees and GL-friendly employees. [I still haven't encountered any explicitly-identified B or T employees. Granted, I'm not seeing a big queer presence, but I might just be looking in the wrong places. Or, I might be appropriating folks' identities; I'm sure that everyone sees me as a lesbian/dyke, and I might be oversimplifying others' queer identities in the same way that mine is simplified.]

The relationship that I mentioned earlier as having changed forms/energies has changed yet again, has swung back towards what it was [though, of course, it won't be the same, what with the whole mono no aware business]. I’m waiting to see where equilibrium will be for this relationship, as I suspect that failing to pay attention to where equilibrium might be [among other things on my part] is what led to the previously-mentioned ending. We’ll see what happens.

So, for now, consider my bootstraps grabbed and my emotional state de-escalated or returned back to a space that is closer to the familiar and ordinary for me or whatever. Consider all that done quite some time ago- a week? A week and a half? Two weeks? Something like that. I told you I’d get it done.

But cycle-commuting has more than just positive physical externalities [ha] for me. Cycling to work gives me between twenty and thirty minutes of time for whatever thinking I’d like to engage in. No music, no phone, no others to talk to [except for quick "heys" said to other passing cyclists and walkers/joggers]. I used to have regular commutes that ranged between forty-five and seventy-five minutes that I took in my car. I can confidently say that I could not reliably think as much as I do now during those lengthier commutes, probably due to distractions [music, mobile phone, passengers].

The commute time is my own personal time, where I haven’t anyone else to focus on. I can think about whatever I’d like to during the rides, even if that whatever is actually nothing. I’ve thought about lots of innanities. I’ve thought about plenty of hefty things. [The $64,000 Questions don't stop coming, don't stop jockeying with each other to occupy my mind for stretches of time, stretches of road; from 49th to Nasco, all along Shoal Creek, between stopsigns, during those laps I take when the thoughts won't loose their visegrip hold.]

More about this later, as Cycle Commute Pondering Time makes more headway on my innanities and my $64,000 Questions.