Trigger Trigger Trigger Trigger

Last night I was so tired that I couldn’t do any writing at all, but Halberstam did have a new blog post up, about his old blog post:

GOOD: He linked to several other blog posts that other people had written in response, so that means that at least it actually WAS worth writing about

BAD: All the other blog posts were just…well, they were light-years ahead of mine. They were so much better. Everything about them was better. They were written better. They were more succinct. They actually seemed a little bolder. They were more detailed. More critical. Just so much better.

GOOD: But several of them at least highlighted the same little bits and quotes that I did, so at least I was “finding” the important parts. Like, everybody felt that the dead parrot was really important. So did I!

BAD: Even though I did not then actually do anything good with those important parts.

BAD: I was way too tired to give any of the related blogs a good detailed reading. I mean I was so, so, so tired.

BAD: “I give up,” I thought, falling heavily asleep, “this is stupid. Blogging is stupid. I should just write fiction.”

GOOD: But when I woke up, I was like “Well…of course I wouldn’t be good at this kind of blogging right away. I’m good at the type of blogging I do, which is that narrative-style blogging. But I’ve never even written a regular blog before. I should just read all the other blogs, and get better at it.”

BAD: After the whole day though, work 6 a.m.-8 p.m., I was once again unable to read all the blogs carefully and thoroughly. I was actually unable to even click on them.

GOOD: But I did re-read the “Triggering Me, Triggering You” article again, and there were a lot of interesting bits that I’d missed the first time around, so hopefully maybe over the weekend I get some time to really sit through them. “Unpacking” is a creative writing term where you take a phrase, word, paragraph or passage, and really examine each individual bit. Halberstam’s Point #3: “Generational conflict is an important topic” is something that I’ve always wanted to look into. Halberstam says what if these conflicts are organized along Oedipal structures. Hopefully they can be more queery and entertwiney, that might be a better model, he said. That’s interesting especially because “generational conflict” in the queer world can be, seriously, like four or five years. (“You have a gay-straight alliance at Amador High School?” I’d jokingly said to the younger sister of one of my high school peers, just a couple of years after I’d graduated, “Are there even any gay students there? ha, ha!” “EXCUSE ME?” she’d said, bristling. She was really pissed, but what on earth had I said wrong? She was MAYBE seven years younger than me.) The generation gaps are tiny and fast-and-faster. This maybe is a situation that Halberstam should actually look into. With all the, you know. The Gaga Feminism and The Wild. I could probably look into it as well, with my experiences living at that house in Northeast Portland that was collaboratively owned by some of the wimmin from We’Moon, and even some of the old blogs that I had from way back then, like especially the one where one of them had the ankle injury, and how distressed I became about how she chose to treat it. All the old blog entries where I was dramatically showing off all my Advanced Knowledge of Foucault, and then making fun of their responses to it. Where I named my horse “Kosofsky Jasmine” after Eve Sedgewick and then basically used that as a pickup line; if you were not immediately impressed by K-Jas’ name, then I would not sleep with you. “KOSOFSKY,” I’d say, bitchily, to my roommates, “ummmmm the queer theorist? ummmmmm she’s only like the QUEEN OF QUEER THEORY. Oh. You don’t know? Well, you should read her some time.” I was in my early 20’s at that time, and my former teacher Liz was probably in her early 30’s, and my wimmin roommates were in their early 40’s. And I remember writing Liz a thousand letters about them, and her responses — even at that time, I remember reading them and thinking how conflicted and careful they seemed. Yes, she sees my point. And she sees their point. Understanding on both ends. “Poor Liz,” I remember thinking, and this was like 2002 or something, “she’s just plain stuck in the middle. Too old for the post-everything, exhilarating free-fall that I get to do. Too young for the intense old politics and bonding that THEY got to do. All she can do is sit around at a minor college in southern Oregon and try to connect the two and hope that her students don’t turn out too crazy.” But, none of us were actually in different generations. We were all adult women. We were all actually the SAME generation. The time when they had all their friends over, sitting around a bonfire and doing important, feministy things? I totally remember that. “This is stupid,” I’d thought, “they don’t really need to burn up all those things written on pieces of paper. They could just move on.” But when I went to bed, there were totally dancing lights against the walls in my bedroom and I totally watched them until I fell asleep.

 

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