Looking for a Grip

I’m writing through a little writer’s blockade right now. I’ll probably sit here and look at this page, too.

Lately I’ve felt myself losing a handle on what it is I need to be getting done. Of course my paper is on my mind all the time. I woke up this morning considering the image of Hedwig as a wall and wondering how I would articulate the significance of that fact in words.

My poor attempts leave me thinking it’s all too fluffy, if you will. The sentences are barely connected by linear thoughts with only periods separating one weak one from the next. Substance is what I seem to be lacking this morning as I try to complete the first section of chapter one. I’m on page seven. Page two for today.

I have the proseminar tomorrow night, which is usually a good source of inspiration. There are 10 others most likely experiencing similar feelings of uncertainty from one day to the next. One of the papers we’re discussing tomorrow is on the Romas’ (more popularly, negatively, known as gypsies) lack of representation in rememberances of the Holocaust. I’m learning something from it and it’s really interesting.

I want to actually teach some folks some things, too, but I’m not sure that’s my purpose. Maybe I just want to affect some people. Part of me thinks this topic is so hardwired into me that everyone else feels it, too, and they are, therefore, yawning as they read what I give them.

A Guy Named Vince

I was at work on Friday and ran into my friend Andrew who is also one of the editors of Canon. He asked me if I had heard about my essay. I hadn’t.

He then told me that I got second place in the essay contest! Nice! There is money involved. Nicer!

It should be out in two weeks. I asked him who got first. Vince. “Vince C.?” I asked. Vince C.

When I first got to New School, we had to endure a week of registration activities/meetings. One of them was the Liberal Studies lunch. This was where I met the other people in my cohort and got to meet Jim Miller, the chair of the department. He discussed theses. He discussed Vince.

Jim holds Vince in high regard and said that he wrote one of the best theses he had ever seen. I finally met him last semester and he’s a really nice guy. He’s in his forties and went through my program. He’s now pursuing a Ph.D. in Sociology at New School. And he’s intelligent as hell.

And I finished behind him in the contest. That’s about a guy named Vince. I’m happy. I’m happy with the outcome of the essay and I’m glad that this topic of mine will finally see the light of day. I made some decisions this past week concerning writing and “this topic” as a result of the essay being published.

I need to move on. It will always be a part of me, of course. But I can’t keep re-hashing the same shit. So I will move on. My thesis on Hedwig and the Angry Inch will be the last of these issues. My identity issues. I want to start incorporating them into a new form of writing. I’m not sure of the form yet.

But I refuse to put pressure on myself to find it until after the semester. Maybe fiction. Or playwriting. I do want to write a book. About my life so far. And this will all be a part of it. But it’s got to be fresh. I don’t want to use the same tired words. What I’ve written during the past five or so years has been the same.

And it’s lacked emotion. I actually think that the essay that got second place lacks emotion. So I will try harder. To feel what I write and then put those feelings into words. This is something I’m not very good at yet. And I want to be. But that’s for later.

I just spent the last five hours cleaning up the northwest corner of my room. I had two file cabinets that contained old files and dusty piles. The result of my winter cleaning is four bags of trash and four bags of shredded paper. Hopefully the order I achieved tonight will keep itself for a while. At least until I move. Which I really hope won’t be this May.

My lease ends at the end of April. It’s not that I love this place that much to want to stay. I just don’t want to have to deal with finding a place before the end of the semester. Even this summer. I want to relax. Or something. I haven’t made any significant progress on my thesis in a couple of days. I’ve been thinking about it some, but haven’t been staring at the screen. I met with Helen today at the Tea Lounge and we talked a little bit about our respective projects.

She spoke with Jim after class the other night and he said she just needs to write. That editing is the fun part. I have a problem in that I can’t leave a sentence I’m not happy with. I can’t put a period on crap.

So I sit there and look at it and try to think of ways to make it better. And then I think about the paragraph it’s killing and wonder if it’s in the right place. “Should this be in chapter two,” I ask myself (in my head).

In my head is where the words bounce off each other as my fingers rest dormant on the home keys. And I stare. And think. And get up. I can see this thing, this paper I’m writing. And I want to get to the next page. But if I can’t get this sentence to work then I’m stuck.

And the pressure builds up to a point where my thoughts can no longer move. “Maybe I should watch the scene again,” I say to myself (in my head). And I do. And then more thoughts come. And I can see this thing. But I can’t write it into fruition. But I must. And I will. I needed to clean this corner in my room. And I will take Jim’s advice. And just write.

A Hair Story

It’s not so much about hair as it is about the experience I had today getting mine cut. I rolled out of bed around noon — I love this week off I’ve given myself. Of course, this was after the third (I’m gonna try to keep track of them) dream I’ve had about my PhD applications. This one had to do with the fact that the deadline for the Rutgers app is Jan. 2nd. I already submitted my application online, but they require supplemental materials to be sent by mail. Annoying.

Not wanting to deal with post-office crowds, I decided to go today. Yesterday. The 26th. It’s late. Early. Anyway, in the dream, I was in desperate need of one of those handy little FedEx things and I couldn’t find one with labels. Despite the fact that I had plenty of time, I was way stressed out for no reason and then I woke up. There is absolutely no reason for such dreams, but I keep having them. Three and counting.

So I went to the post office. That was fine, although I don’t understand why people don’t move when you say excuse me. I had to shove a bit. This guy had his arms around his girlfriend and he was standing in the middle of the aisle. Then he thought he’d look at me. I think the look on my face deterred his staring. After leaving the post office, I went into Manhattan to see if I could get an appointment for my haircut later in the day. It turned out that the woman was ready then. But first we had to listen to a cute little story from a guy who used to live in L.A. about a bad haircut he got at the Beverly Center.

I told him I was raised in the Valley. He didn’t seem to care. Where’s the love? I immediately regretted the interest with which I listened to him. He left finally and I went to put my bag down.

I was unsure at this point who was going to cut my hair, so I didn’t know where to go. Then she started talking to me and I heard the word “shampoo.” I didn’t respond and then she said “papito.” I think. I shook my head. “How did you know what I said?” she asked. “I didn’t,” I responded, “but you said ‘head,’ didn’t you?” She laughed and shook her head. “What did you say?” I asked. “I asked if you wanted a shampoo.” “Oh, no, I don’t need one.”

I went and took my seat and proceeded to tell her what I wanted. As she was clipping, she took the time to admire my earrings. “Your mother let you do that?” For the next second or two, I was confused. “Why would I need permission,” I thought to myself. Then I realized she thought I was young. “I’m 30.”

She stopped what she was doing, placed her hands on my shoulders, leaned in with amazement in her eyes and said, “nooo. You look like a baby. How do you keep your skin looking like that? So young?”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t do anything special to it. I don’t even eat vegetables.”

“You don’t eat vegetables?”

“Well, I shoved some in my mouth last night.” “I can’t believable. (That’s not a typo.) You’re not 30.”

“I can show you my ID.” As she was getting over her shock and awe, she resumed clipping.

Not two minutes later:

“You look Spanish.”

“I get that a lot,” I said. I was in a good mood and within two minutes, I discovered that this was going to be a fun haircut.

“Where are you from,” she asked.

“Los Angeles,” I responded with a huge smile on my face, knowing she was looking for something a little more informative. But she seemed satisfied and continued her line of questioning.

“Does anybody else in your family look like you? “Nope. I’m the black sheep of the family. They’re all white.”

“What is your father?”

“Well, there’s a story behind that.” She stopped as if to prepare for storytime. I continued. “There’s shock value in it. Wanna hear it?” “Yeah.” She was practically drooling in the clippers. I told her the dealio, she stopped for a split second, and had the same look of amazement at hearing my age.

“And your mother kept you?”

“Well….yeah. She dug me. You would have too if you’d have seen me. I was cute.”

She smiled and continued clipping. At this rate, I was beginning to wonder if I’d get the haircut I went in for. It usually only takes about 10 minutes. Believe it or not, the conversation didn’t end there.

“You were like the son she loved.”

Oh lord.

“Son? No. Daughter. I’m a chick.”

“Noooo. You look like a man.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m not.”

“But you look so much like a man. You’re a woman?”

“Yeah. I can show you my ID.”

This then led to a discussion of sexuality, which then led to a discussion of butch/femme relationships and the fact that there are women who dig butches. Thank god.

Anyway, we also discussed that special type of lesbian that doesn’t understand why a woman “would want to be with a woman who looks like a man.”

Why don’t they just be with men, is the standard follow-up question. The nice woman from the Dominican Republic then let me know that there were a lot of religious people who didn’t agree with gays. Who believe that we choose to be gay. “I’m not like that, though. I have lots of gay friends. And they tell me they would love to have the marriages and the babies.” I didn’t want to get into this arena with her, but I did tell her I had just watched “A Wedding Story” on TLC and I’m definitely hoping to one day meet a woman I can have a “wedding” with.

She was cool. And funny. And blunt. But that’s real. I can respect that. She ended the haircut by reminding me that I am at least in the right place to be who I am. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the evil stares I get from people, but at least I am not in Laramie. I know that. And am grateful for those open-minded people. Or maybe it’s just that all of them really do think I’m a guy when they walk past me on the street. Whatever.

It’s all good till someone gets killed in the end, I guess. So that’s my hair story.

Cornelia and I watched A Mighty Wind and Best in Show. During the first film, I began officially freaking out about my thesis. I want to get to it, but I have a couple of other things on my plate I need to take care of. I mentioned it to her and we started talking about Derrida, Lacan, Foucault, and Butler.

I will probably be using only the latter two, as the first two are totally difficult and I’m only on page 23 of Lacan’s Four Fundamentals of Psychoanalyis. And it’s difficult. I did decide from our conversation, though, that I’m going to look at the film Orlando rather than the novel. But yeah, I’m really starting to freak out. Holy shit, I have to write a thesis.

What the hell am I doing here?

Almost There

I got a check from school today. I’m still missing $1,400 but I hope to clear that up next week. And I was browsing the New York Times classifieds this morning to try and ward off some insomnia and found some editing jobs that I’m qualified for.

So in the stress I anticipate feeling during the next year about my financial future, I know I can always turn there.

So I read some more of Uncle Tom. And I watched a little too much television. I rented Bringing Down the House, too. I tried to take a nap and all I could think of was the camp aesthetic, something commonly associated with homosexuality, and whether it can be applied to other sub-categories of identity, such as race.

And I thought of this Queen Latifah/Steve Martin vehicle, which appears to look negatively upon blacks. As I was trying to sleep, I pondered a thesis wherein I compare the use of camp in Hedwig and the Angry Inch and the movie I rented today. I would be able to address both race and gender. In both films, stereotypical behavior of gays/transsexuals and blacks, respectively, are presented to other, more identity-stable characters who are forced to contend with the differences in their lives. So I don’t know.

Before I watched the film today, I thought about the scene where Latifah kicks Steve Martin’s character in the crotch and then knocks him out. Also, Eugene Levy’s character lusts after her — the hyper-sexualized black woman. So I considered the fact that a lot of stereotypes applied to blacks seemed to be rolled into this one character; it was as if she was a minstrel character. I think I could compare this film to another film from the early 20th century where blacks are presented in such a light for my pop culture paper. And then roll what I came up with into my thesis somehow. I have to talk to the profs about it. I’ll think more on it and spin it for them in a week or so. Needless to say, I never did nap. I should sleep well tonight, although alone. By the way, I laughed my ass off at parts. I want to see it again. Also this morning during my sleeplessness, I perused the American Studies Ph.D. program at NYU. It’s a great program. Will I apply? Don’t ask. I feel as though I’m at the top of a long drop on a roller coaster and I’ll reach the bottom in May. Caught up in this feeling is my uncertainty about applying to doctorate programs. So I’ll just choose not to think about it quite yet. I’m off to do some more reading. Cornelia is going out so I’ll have the place to myself for a bit. R.I.P. John Ritter. Shocking.

Mired

I told myself, and you all I believe, that I would write more often. That’s not what I’ve been doing. Two of the days weren’t my fault, however, because the Internet at my place was down. It’s really scary how dependent I am on it. So it’s a good thing it’s back up.

Last week was full of all kinds of interesting goings-on and I just knew I would remember everything. I’m certain I have forgotten some of the gems, but I will try to recall what I can. The farthest back I can think of is Tuesday when I turned in my gender paper for the much-anticipated feedback from my favorite teacher in whole wide world. Her comments came back to me within a day and I wasn’t that pleased but I did manage to fix most of it I think and it’s now two pages longer than it was, bringing the total to 18.

But I’ve already gotten ahead of myself. That day, we discussed Adrienne Rich’s “Compulsory Heterosexuality.”