fluidity

So, I'm just gonna start off by asking... how many sexes are there? How many genders are there?
Is it just male/female and man/womyn? Then, what makes a male a male, a female a female, and a man a man, and a womyn a womyn?
First of all, when I say male/female I am talking about the sexes which are biological. When I say man/womyn I am talking about genders which are mostly socio-political.
I understand I could write an entire fucking encyclopedia on sex/gender issues. But I mean let's keep it basic. First just think about the sexes. Biologically, the three main things on the checklist of sex is 1) physical (i.e. vagina/penis), 2) chromosomal (XX/XY), and 3) hormonal (estrogen/testosterone). Now here we have the dichotomies of mankind, night versus day, black versus white, sitting in front of the television with a brewsky versus slaving over the oven. Yeah.
Okay quick side tangent. Last year I took WS 400, a seminar about women's rights and activist movements. One of my fellow students, Sally (not her real name) was a dedicated member of the Southern Baptist Church and reminded the class on several occasions that the "reason [she] takes [these kinds of classes] is to stay open-minded." I respected her for this, I suppose, but later on in the semester she passed a comment during discussion that will always stay with me: "If you are born a male, you are a man. If you are born a female, you are a woman. The human race is heterosexual. That is just the way it is. Anything else is unnatural and not right. You are not supposed to be attracted to the same sex. And for transgendered and the transexual, that is completely wrong." Sally sat to my left during discussion that day and I can still feel the vibrations of her voice trembling against the skin on my forearms. Hairs raised.
So, when I talk about this stuff these days it is usually in spite of her as though she is standing in the room somewhere glaring at me, throwing holy water at me or something.
Sally please. The majority of humans are not born into your two nasueating little categories. It is way more complicated than that girlfriend. And this is important to realize, to talk about, and to be comfortable with. Cuz it is natural.
Don't some males grow breasts? Yeah, it is an actual medical condition known as gynecomastia. Supposedly, at least 50% of males experience gynecomastia at some time in their lives and it is more often than not linked to heriditary causes. Okay, so, manboobs, not such a big deal, but still. There's ovotestes, a condition found in some humans who have gonads with both testicular and ovarian aspects. And what about a man with an extra X chromosome?
According to biology.about.com, in sex chromosomes, nondisjunction results in a number of abnormalities. Klinefelter syndrome is a disorder in which males have an extra X chromosome. The genotype for males with this disorder is XXY. People with Klinefelter syndrome may also have more than one extra chromosome resulting in genotypes which include XXYY, XXXY, and XXXXY. Other mutations result in males that have an extra Y chromosome and a genotype of XYY. These males were once thought to be taller than average males and overly aggressive based on prison studies. Additional studies however have found XYY males to be normal. Tuner syndrome is a condition that affects females. Individuals with this syndrome, also called monosomy X, have a genotype of only one X chromosome (XO). Trisomy X females have an additional X chromosome and are also referred to as metafemales (XXX).

...continue later... sorry.

birra

bottle tops poppin off just within ear shot, my long neck gotz hops. so now you got me thinkin, well now you got me thinking.
what if i sang this or rang this or just untangled this. could you mix it in. just try to fit me in.
the bottle is chilled but it's already startin to warm against my palm and the condensation drips off the side of my hand so i just wipe it on my shorts. cuz you know that's just the kinda female i seem to be.
so please just play those piano keys. you know the 12-pack was on sale. so you got me thinking. but now i need you to get me feeling. i haven't been doing much feeling. just too much thinking and a little bit of doing. but what's the point of the thinking and the doing without the feeling? nothing, really. just nothing.
so here i am thinking about how i can get myself to start feeling again... and i just cant quite map it out right. maybe i should just start talking about all the stuff that i have been thinking about, but you know, that's my pride on the line right there. that's my most personal self on the line right there. and who can i talk to about it without being judged? without being told all the same fucking bullshit over and over? where in the hell is the peace and the feeling in that? just more cold ones. waiting for me in the refrigerator. and i nod my head.
so its like i think and i know what i love so i continue to do that, to do the loving to what i know and think that i love but i am doing it and not feeling it so it is rather frustrating. i love to write and i wanna write and i feel like i got all this shit inside of me, ya know, swirling around at the tips of my fingers, waiting to punch the key board or guide the pen. and i even bought myself a brand new fucking journal and i just stared at the page... and... nothing... came out.
yeah, nothing came out.
weird.
so i mean i waited and i tried and i guess i "wrote" some stuff but i mean i didnt really write it. i didnt really FEEL it. i just DID it. do the writing. didnt feel the writing. so i mean that's not actually writing, then. mostly. it's mostly not writing then.
i guess i should just wait it out, or something.
the ring of condensation on my night stand is so close to a little folded up sheet of paper that i threw there a few days ago. i wonder what is inside that little sheet of paper. and i wonder if i should move it away from the ring of condensation just incase they connect. but i mean, it will dry.

nice to meet you

I’m doused in red wine (it’s chilled, I know that might be kinda weird, but, I like it. So what… it’s cabernet from Cali) and now of course I am inclined to write… perhaps the twenty-millionth-trillionth beginning to my first novel and/or first actual finished work. I mean, this is just how it goes, right? Re-write, re-write, re-write (revise, edit—edit—edit). Without anyone ever reading it, except maybe your best friend or significant other. And they’re like, Brooke, I support you, You gotta write more! …The italicized words in no way indicate mockery or an allusive condescending tone. I mean, I believe in myself and my voice. Ya know. I’m just skeptical of the public… (it’s more complicated than that, really).

Weren’t (aren’t) all great writers drunks?

Not saying that I am a drunk, of course (or a great writer). Or that all writers are alcoholics (am I contradicting myself?). No no (I’m not a drunk). I just got back from Europe (aren’t I high-brow? …but I backpack-ed it, no wheeley suitcase or hotels for me… which makes me a traveler not a tourist, in some ways) and I pretty much drank everyday while I was there. No school, no job, just pure adventure and traveling and everything that goes with it (explosive and unexpected and nauseating diarrhea, malfunctioning metros, claustrophobic night-train sleep-cars sans AC, and a juicy case of bed-bug-bites from the hostels—fucking disgusting and repulsive). Aside from this, clearly beer and wine were mandated… I mean, it’s Europe for Christ’s sake. Jesus. The alcohol was a part of the whole cultural experience; and was fucking flowing like the Danube, like the Vltava, like the Seine, like the Tiber…into the Adriatic, into the Mediterranean. Just ripples and wakes of alcoholic goodness. Ya know, Soproni beer and (homemade) Pálinka liquor and Villányi wine (straight from the barrels in the cellar) in Hungary, Ursus beer in Romania, Pan Pivo beer and (deadly) Rakija liquor in Croatia, Wyborowa vodka in Poland, Staropramen beer in the Czech Republic (I drank red wine in Slovakia and I don’t remember what it was… just the cheapest glass, really), Ottakringer beer in Austria, Peroni and Moretti birra in ITALIA (and some Chianti in the north… or whatever the vino di cassa was), 1664 bière in France (plus some authentic Champagne which my beloved Parisian friend provided), and of course SANGRIA in Bar-theh-low-nuh.

Don’t worry, I saw the Sistine Chapel, and stuff like that.

But the beer was awesome.

And the café espresso (black with one sleeve of sugar).

Okay side note: my significant other is also slightly doused in red wine (he got his own bottle of merlot, absolutely not chilled) and just assembled his (our) new camping tent in the middle of his studio for my viewing pleasure (Ta-dah!). We’re backpackin’ Havasupai Indian Reservation (the Grand Canyon) this coming Monday (therefore he’s super excited about all his new outdoors-ey gizmos n’ gadgets: he just prepared tonight’s dinner in the Jetboil personal stove system). Boys and their toys, yuh.

Well the supposed three-person tent is quite comfortable and spacious for two people (and two kitties). I assume it would be quite the opposite for the supposed three people.

And the Ramen was good.

Trust me, I’m not getting paid or anything to drop all these brand-names. It ain’t like that. (A little extra cha-ching would be nice, though… seeing as I am fucking broke with credit card debt and, in addition, embarrassingly enough fucking broke with my parents and the loans they lent me… in the thousands). Quite frankly, the Euro is kicking the Dollar’s ASS, among other things. But, Eastern Europe is not on the Euro, yet. Hungary is planning to switch their Forint (165 HUF to 1 USD) in 2010 to the Euro, but, the way their economy and extreme political pessimism is lookin’… yeah, not so much.

Sigh.

I need to go back to Budapest. Egesegedre. Jó szerencse.

Okay, I can hardly hardly speak any Hungarian (after living there for four months), nonetheless talk about their current political slash economic situation (keeping in mind communism fell there just less than twenty years ago… after I was born…) – fucking crazy, crazy shit.

But Budapest is so beautiful.

Alright, I am losing my “train of thought” here. Maybe I should refill my wine glass (purchased at the Dollar Tree… not the wine, the actual glass)? Or maybe I should just slap myself in the face and be like, ‘What kinda writer are you, biatch? Stay on the goddamned topic!’

Okay.

I’m trying to refrain from the self-abuse (no face-slapping).

Back to the point? Yuh.

Well why don't you just ...call me Ishmael.