Late-December last year, I got paid in one hit for a bunch of work on a couple of projects, that contemporary dance thing in Europe of getting cash after the work was done. One of those was the solo which got canned a few days before première (thanks poor response in Germland and EU to global pandemic) which we’d been working on since January.
So, I had mad cash and, for possibly the first time in my life, no pressing obligations. Also not mad enough cash that I could do bougie middle-age things like get a mortgage. Cash enough I’ve been working my way down a list that’s a decade old in places of stuff I need to buy. Like new underwear and socks.
And then there’s the big items. Big for me and pretty much everyone I know. The kind of things which cost up to a couple of thousand and actually cause me cold sweats when I think of doing the spend. ’Cos what if, tomorrow, I’m fully povo again and a couple of hundred is the difference between eating, making rent and all? Except this year I already have work till August and money-wise — ’cos I’m good at living on fuck all — I’m kinda sorta maybe doing ok.
I’d been struggling with training over winter. My back blew out in November, I was feeling well too soft to be doing 90-minute rides in below zero weather, and my base training felt majorly on a plateau. I’d been thinking of buying an indoor trainer for years, very attached to the idea of getting rollers rather than one of those remove the back wheel direct trainers, but somehow over the last few years (thanks bogan mountain bikers on a YouTube channel I watch far too frequently), I went for the latter. Went for multiple times and nah nah nah I’ll come back in the morning, need to sleep on this massive decision, only to find them sold out for more weeks, repeating this until a month ago when there it was in the morning, still available.
It arrived within days and sat there, unboxed for three weeks. Because I needed a 10-speed cassette for it, and decided to get an isolation mat and cadence sensor and new heart rate monitor and … and … absolutely spraying money around. And I knew I’d need a calm few hours to do the setup, get it all working, get a feeling for it. On Monday, I did that.
And joined Zwift.
Total fucking bougie middle-aged cunt on a bike.
Yeah but I’m also a semi- / ex- / occasional- athlete-ish dancer-ish professional who knows very well how much I fall apart if I don’t train and it’s work and an actual work expense and a serious commitment and investment.
For the moment I set up in my kitchen. My balcony has some weird, complex slopes I need to make a trip to the Baumarkt to get some levelling blocks to sort out. I put myself through the intro 5-day training plan, 30 minutes each ride and fuuuuck me I have to face the shame I might have never pushed myself as hard — or maybe as structured and intense within that structure, even though I like suffering. It’s very different having actual numbers on a screen to correlate to feeling, and to have to stay at certain numbers for more seconds or minutes than I’d do when doing laps at Tempelhofer Feld and doing it on feel. Mostly it feels like what I get in 30 minutes on the trainer is about what I’d get from an hour at the airport. And if I did my casual longer warmup and cooldown, 15 minutes either side, it’d maybe be comparable. Still though, I haven’t ridden since November, and very not in endurance and high-intensity shape, and I might be in love with how good a fit an indoor smart trainer is for me. Especially because I can set it up at 9pm and do a session in the dark.
Yeah but the bougie, white, racist, cisgender, heteronormative, ableist, masc-centric, middle-class and all miasma is what cycling soaks in, road cycling especially, and online smart training environments even more so. There’s almost not a day that goes by where there isn’t another story about legislation to ban trans kids or athletes — almost always girls, femmes, and women — from sport, competition, changing rooms, swimming pools, and all. I barely ever see a rider who isn’t white — and yes, this is why riders like Ceylin del Carmen Alvarado and Teniel Campbell and Ayesha McGowan are important but aren’t in themselves or as ‘representation’ enough alone. I’m acutely aware of who I am when I’m in lycra on a bike in that environment. I’m acutely aware also, when I’m in queer and trans spaces, that my decades-long relationship with and love of physicality, training and the discipline that is part of professional dance which I carry into riding, climbing, and everything else, all this has a very uneasy, fraught and painful relationship of its own with and in those spaces. How my trans-ness, femme-ness, queer-ness bangs up against cis AFAB queer spaces has a history of exclusion that has an eerie familiarity with sport.
Shit’s mad over-complicated. I just wanna ride and thrash shit.
I can tell my mood by how often I blog. Honestly, there’s not a heap to blog about these days, and hasn’t been for the last year.
I’m doing ok. I’m surviving.
I’m trying to ignore how appallingly bad the pandemic has been handled by Germany and Europe and much of the rest of the world. I’m trying to ignore the plans I had and the desires I have. I’ve done good work in the last year. I’ve lost my shit a couple of times and truly, no fucks given. I like the person I am when I need to be harsh.
I’m deeply sad at how the pandemic has been handled has disproportionately hit trans and queer people, and Indigenous, Black, Brown, and migrant people. And how selective access to the vaccine is exacerbating this. And how all we hear about is how tough it is for ‘families.’ Dog-whistling so loud I can smell it. It’s on-going grief and I survive because I survived before.
I got the novel — which I gave myself to during post-surgery recovery back in late-2019, finally having time for art again and it flooding out — to a 4th draft and people are reading it. And that’s a madness ’cos I never believed in myself on that.
I’ve really lost it on training though, especially since blowing my delightfully petty back to shit in early-November. I think it’s that ‘surviving’ for me is mental and emotional discipline and training has always been that as well and I don’t have much in the tank at the moment for pushing myself.
I’m really missing physical contact, seeing the same three people for a year, sometimes only once every couple of weeks. It’s austere as fuck. It’s what it takes. It reminds me my neurofuckery, which tends towards a lot of time on my own while still loving being around people, has not aided me in having a lot of close friends in Berlin. Or maybe that’s on Berlin.
I wanna say, “It’s all good,” ’cos I can do this for as long as it takes. It’s not though, but whatever, suck it up till it’s done kinda thing.
Anyway, this was supposed to be a couple of lines reminder to myself, and now it’s a long, unformatted few hundred words. Fucking weirdarse twelve months which mainly dialled up the contrast on how shitty our current era of late-, high-, necro-, 500 years of- capitalism is, how like an authoritarian dictatorship democracy looks these days, nah it was always that.
It was Strada Bianche yesterday, one of my fave bike races. Weird as watching the women thrash it out. Doing anything we love in a pandemic feels weird. It’s also rhubarb and asparagus season (green thanks, not the white stuff they love up north-west Europe). I dunno. Yeah, doing ok. Ok is good enough.
(I added in some paragraphs ’cos my neurofuckery hates walls of text and won’t even on that shit 🤷🏻♀️)
Sent to me by Vass. Made me laugh.
“Yaah but pork is not halal, eh?”
“Habibi, this is special only for the Beast.”
“You are making cannibals of them!”
Cops in uniform marching at Sydney Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras are still cops. All cops are killers and we don’t fuck with them.
4th layout in 2 1/2 years. Bed is now by doors to balcony, which means more cold air for me ’cos I still sleep all winter with them open, and hopefully a slightly better auditory space, ’cos the corner where the books are now and where bed was is mad noisy with upstairs neighbours doing the Altbau shoes inside stomp and a bit of a dead spot for air circulation. Bed also rolls up during the day giving me space to train and lie on the floor or whatever. Walls look kinda bare now which reminds me of my neurofuckery being very blasé about things sometimes. A large piece of eyebleed hectic technicolour art would be nice, and doing something with the space under the window (besides ripping out one of the wall heaters ’cos it’s truly shiteful.)
Eleven years ago, I got up early to watch Curiosity land on Mars. Yesterday, it was evening and just as terrifying. If I was up for utterly scaring myself, landing the way Perseverance and Curiosity did would be my choice.
It was that same surreal experience knowing Perseverance had already landed or not as the signal arrived eleven minutes behind. And then over so quick. Especially the last part from heat shield separation to free fall and powered descent and Sky Crane and touchdown. Suddenly it was there, in its lime green square with no cables running up to the descent module, just sitting there calm as can be.
And everyone going mental. Except Dr. Swati Mohan who was in the EDL Commentary chair with purple hair and silver stars, who’s been on the project since it began eight years ago, and was calm and focussed on the job all the way.
And then the images came in. And there’s a drone! And there’s microphones!
Okay, 4th draft on top of whatever I was calling assembling it before it was drafts, and 18 months to get it to this. But done in the sense it goes start to finish and got heaps of pages (which is what makes it a novel yah?) and when I finished this read-through which I’ve been on since late last week, it felt … something sparked in my guts, like this, yeah, I wrote a novel. Brought some big offering into the universe. Alhamdulillah.
All that talk with Vass about Veneno reminded me I had a photo or two from way back then.
Young teen transsexual meet old auntie trans femme. Thirty-ish years between these two photos. Sometimes I need reminding.
That me back then … she survived.
I ugly cried watching Veneno. Ug. Ly. Cried. Also laughed my guts out. Hissed — hisssssed!!! at Cristina’s mother and family and all the other cis cunts who fucked with her and straight up I would cut without a second thought.
When Pose came out, that was the first time since Paris is Burning I’d seen myself in some recognisable way, and known it was us in front and behind the camera. It was America though and similar worlds, yeah, but very different ones too.
Veneno though … this was real. Truth. Painful, angry, joyful, hilarious, terrifying, spiteful, sad, beautiful truth. I love seeing us on screen. Old us who did it hard, survived, loud and foul-mouthed and cackling. Young us who have so many more possibilities for lives without harshness and exile, yet still know those all the same. If we are trans, if we are trans femmes, trans women — transsexuals, transvestites, the old words you don’t use anymore and we grew up with — this is our life. This is our world.
Oh fuck, Vass. Crunchy peanut butter halva?