The act of the trans trade, and its ritualization, came readily to hand for me, but it’s a distant possibility for so many of us.
We will adapt. We will find new nesting places. But there will be no return to “before.” Not for the flock.
In our constrained culture where public, raw grief is not socially acceptable, I fear that grief stories are being asked to do too much.
What’s terrifying about Spears’s situation, for a certain kind of disabled person, is that we are a razor’s edge away from joining her.
Beds transmute into a form of policing while simultaneously being promoted as an alternative to policing.
In listings for old pottery that was not intended to be crazed, sellers will disclose what they see as damage: ‘Some crazing.’ Sometimes that’s how I feel. Some crazing.
There are entire lines of therapy that basically boil down to “learn self-control so you never upset the sane.”