The male gaze and trans women

We are animals, and pay attention to others we do not know with our most basic drives- are they threat, prey or sex-object? Seeing the person as a sex-object, only interesting as a potential partner rather than a whole human being with gifts and qualities, is the basis of the objection to the “male gaze” at women, in films and television. Women are devalued and objectified.

If we are sex-object, that may be a threat, as trans panic defences are still argued. In Gwen Araujo’s first trial, the jury deadlocked: the murderers had had intimate relations with their victim, and claimed that when they found she had a penis they “flew into a rage” or “shock provoked them into a heat of passion” fitting manslaughter not murder. The defence is based on “dominant norms of hegemonic masculinity” and so harmful; but people still think that. A conviction is no compensation to the victim.

But we may also be seen as prey, as a matter of sexual competition. The hegemonic male sees the trans woman as an inadequate man, and proves his own manliness (to himself, at any rate) by humiliating her. That pointed scrutiny may indicate a man about to bully you.

In film and TV, however, trans women are not the victim of this as younger cis women are. Feminists complain that female actors are portrayed for the pleasure of the male viewer. Trans characters tend to be portrayed sympathetically. Lili Elbe in The Danish Girl is an interesting character in an interesting situation, not a sex object or a matter for derision: she is portrayed as embarrassed and frightened at being seen, and as a victim (when dressed male) of gay bashers.

This is a blog, not a news site. Often I think things through as I type here.

That scene. Yes, it happens, that people are read as gay and victimised. We might object to the story- we don’t want just to be seen as victims having a ghastly time, but as people making our way in the world. Watching the scene, I saw what was going on before Lili starts to flee. Is that because of the way the camera dwells on her? Or the muggers? Or the music- there are ways to portray such a thing. I feel the audience’s sympathy would be with Lili, and the film-makers’, as well-

I don’t feel anyone who would want to see the film would think “Good, the pervert got what was coming”. And- now I have the concept of the “gaze”, I wonder whether there is something objectionable.

What of Maxine Conway in Wentworth Prison? There are main characters which are more or less sympathetic, and Maxine is allied with the more sympathetic ones. She is large, with a male figure: the makers chose a character who was obviously trans. Well, many of us are, and how can I say that does not make me ridiculous while complaining at Maxine being ridiculed just for that?

I am not here making a clear distinction between gaze, the way the camera dwells on an actor, and the whole way we tell stories about trans people. I never watched Boy meets Girl, but it is comedy about a man and a trans woman being romantically involved, starring a trans woman. The Daily Mail hated it, as an instruction manual about what to say, think and feel about sex changes. The trans woman gets read, but those who don’t sympathise with trans women won’t like the show.

Can the viewer identify with a character? There are so many action films where we are invited to identify with a male action hero, Jason Bourne or John McClane. In The Danish Girl it seems easier to identify with Gerda Wegener, Lili’s wife.

I was asked about this one. I am not a film critic, but have an eye for composition. What do you think?

Kevin Williamson

Kevin Williamson is an angry transphobe. So what? He was recently appointed as a columnist for The Atlantic. Yes, a centrist magazine can have a few conservative writers: does it matter, that he is a transphobe? Content warning: I quote him.

Laverne Cox is not a woman, he wrote in 2014. Regardless of the question of whether he has had his genitals amputated, Cox is not a woman, but an effigy of a woman. That goes beyond opinion to personal attack and mockery. Speculating on whether she has had treatment is designed to ridicule. Yes, the article was only relevant because Laverne Cox was in the news, but that does not mean he should be cruel like that.

Williamson uses male pronouns throughout. He writes about the difference between objective fact and perception or desire. To him, sex is objective fact. Sexual orientation isn’t- our neat little categories of sexual orientation are yet another substitution of the conceptual for the actual, human sexual behavior being more complex and varied than the rhetoric of sexual orientation can accommodate. Some people are entirely gay, and bisexual people are still subject to prejudice even from gay people. If Williamson is right, the “neat little categories” arise from homophobia. Yet the neat little categories of sex which he upholds would not be elastic enough to include me as a woman, because Williamson himself is uncomfortable with that. Only his neat little categories are acceptable.

That first quote I got from Michelle Goldberg in the NYT. She calls it “demeaning”, and it is the most clearly demeaning sentence in the article. She calls it cruel, too: sometimes she enjoys cruelty, and then is “prompted to uncomfortable self-recognition”. It makes her mend her ways. I would say Williamson is irrelevant. “Cox is not a woman!” he shouts. Well, if your definition is so important to you- but that is not the question. The question is whether she should be treated as a woman, accepted as a woman, whether that makes our society more flexible and able to help all members flourish. If Cox is not a woman, so what? How should she behave, how should others behave? Times being what they are, we might even offer our indulgence. He might even treat her as a woman, but not yet- see those pronouns.

So I despise him. His offer of “indulgence” makes it worse, actually: if he were honestly outraged or disgusted, his vituperation might have some excuse, as we excuse a person overcome by emotion. But he keeps his cruelty in, even though he sees a better way. What would the “indulgence” mean? Not celebrating her talents, as that is what roused his ire. Bare toleration, perhaps. People have been tolerating trans women since forever, and he can go along with that- but he objects to her being celebrated as a talented individual who has achieved a lot against severe difficulties. He wants to look down on her, and for everyone else to, as well. The indulgence only lasts as long as she is kept down, fearful of those like Williamson. When her talents are celebrated he needs to pull her down, and calling her “he” is the obvious way. He reminds me of a small boy trying to explain the method of a magic trick a far more charismatic child used to entertain the adults.

Brett Stephens, also in the NYT, misstates the charge against Williamson. It is not that you believe sex is a biological reality and that gender should not be a choice. Well, no, it is that he is personal and abusive. Stephens calls that “guilt by pull-quote”- three sentences out of “hundreds of thousands of smart, stylish and often hilarious commentary”.

The New Republic points out Williamson is “gratuitously cruel” and dissects his comparison of a black boy to a “primate”. Mother Jones, from the left, says his guilt is not sufficient, from two pull-quotes: that word “primate” and Williamson’s suggestion that abortion should be treated as homicide. He tweeted that women should be hanged. Stop worrying about him per se, argue against what he writes. He is “provocative, engaging, stylish”, as well as “unpredictable” and “energetic”. Entertainment is what matters. “Give tolerance a chance” wrote the National Review.

We won’t get everyone who makes a jab at trans people silenced ever after. Which is a shame. We are a tempting target for bullies, being weak and unusual, so easily mocked. Bullying is not stylish, and sites which publish bullies are demeaned.

Self respect VI

Self-respect is toughness, moral nerve, character, a certain discipline to defer gratification, do the honourable thing, seek a goal with open eyes knowing its price, and the odds of success. It might manifest itself in English formal dress in the rain-forest

(hold on! what about all that fiction showing the Empire-builders’ civilisation mere window-dressing over weakness and hypocrisy!)

a symbol of values inculcated long before

(in some people, perhaps).

It is to have the courage of ones mistakes and sins- to commit adultery then accept the result

(I thought earlier it was about honour)

It is to know yourself, take your own measure, and make peace with that

(when honour is not possible. Becky Sharp had self respect.)

It never keeps you safe, but safe enough

(my summary, not in her words)

and does not proceed from certain charms such as clean hair and fingernails, the child’s passive virtue of good manners and a good IQ score. To believe that is all you need is a kind of innocence, before you realise those child’s virtues are not enough.

You cannot deceive yourself.

(Um. I feel I always did; I ferreted out the lies I told myself, beginning with the lie “I lie to myself because I want to see myself as a Good person”. Perhaps she saw herself more clearly, only needed  one “does not compute” moment before the scales fell from her eyes.)

Without self-respect, you see all your failings in turn, the hurtful words, the things done wrong, both real and imagined.

(I seek to let go of Perfect me, the me that does all that I expect of myself, without undue effort, showing up the physical Clare with all her failures. Perhaps this is a similar idea.)

The person without self-respect is bound to try to please all of the people, all of the time, to be unable to say no except by not turning up, or not answering the phone.

(This begins to worry me. I am withdrawn from society. It has always been my way.)

We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give.

(I may have a gift for empathy, but this is really frightening me now.)

That is alienation from self.

This is a summary of Joan Didion’s essay On Self-Respect, first published in 1961. I don’t agree with it all. Possibly I don’t understand it all. My feeling that I do could be the Dunning-Kruger effect, which one could never recognise in onesself so is the perfect source of paranoia- Omigod, I am an idiot, everyone’s laughing at me and I could never know- but again, I am sure enough. It talks of good things, seeking your own goals, living by your own sense of honour, which might be derived from the group, such as the colonial overlords, or purely idiosyncratic, knowing the cost and the odds.

And throughout it has wonderful sentences. It has weight and power:

character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life—is the source from which self-respect springs. That “is”! She exhibits such certainty that I am tempted to make her my guide and role-model.

It has a bracing acknowledgment of the darkness and difficulty:

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one’s head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

Joan! Explain to me, that I may understand! No, you feel this viscerally or do not get it at all:

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference.

I like how each of her two final sentences is in two balanced halves, like verses of the Psalms, a rhetorical trick I use myself, but they convey so much: rich promise, coupled with an image of terrifying insignificance, Heaven and Hell in two sentences.

To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

I share paintings by women, but here is Peder Krøyer’s picture of his wife, a completely different femininity from her self-portrait:

Why I write II

In cases of profound and permanent unhappiness, a strongly developed sense of shame arrests all lamentation. Every unhappy condition among men creates the silent zone alluded to, in which each is isolated as though on an island. Those who do escape from the island will not look back. -Simone Weil

A hard hitting essay in The Boston Review- too many people writing have nothing interesting to say and no interesting way in which to say it– and I wonder if it condemns me entirely. All my personal reflections here: are they too thinking about some stuff then thinking about some other stuff that kind of relates to the original stuff you were thinking about but not really, like that of Durga Chew-Bose, into whom the reviewer Merve Emre sticks the boot into so enthusiastically?

The tag at the top gives me a way out. “Feminism”. Aha, this is women resisting patriarchy and refusing “femininity”, first kicking the feminine essayist who reveals her feelings then praising the more muscular feminists who follow, and their insistence that we disentangle ethics from empathy…[which] We see in Weil’s “painful clarity”: her simple, yet brutal, prose style that stressed concrete detail over abstraction in her descriptions of factory work, and thus extended neither sympathy nor empathy to laborers but a far greater form of compassion: attention and intellectual honesty.

Mary Gaitskill: I think this is the reason every boob with a hangnail has been clogging the courts and haunting talk shows across the land for the last twenty years, telling his/her “story” and trying to get redress. Whatever the suffering is, it’s not to be endured, for God’s sake, not felt and never, ever accepted. It’s to be triumphed over. And because some things cannot be triumphed over unless they are first accepted and endured, because, indeed, some things cannot be triumphed over at all, the “story” must be told again and again in endless pursuit of a happy ending. To be human is finally to be a loser, for we are all fated to lose our carefully constructed sense of self, our physical strength, our health, our precious dignity, and finally our lives. A refusal to tolerate this reality is a refusal to tolerate life. Am I one of those boobs? I would love nothing more than getting on a talk show, my essays are in print celebrating my Feelings- often resentment, anger, fear and sadness, caused by circumstances which I lament as a toddler does, loudly demanding someone remove them.

There is one more problem humans, and writers, have: we live in a world of illusory shared experience, ready-made identities, manipulation, and masks so dense and omnipresent that in this world, an actual human face is ludicrous or “crazy.” Every human experience is pretense, and most attempts to write it down,or  to explain it to yourself or others, are continuations of that pretense. Not all: the best art illuminates the cracks in our inexhaustible social performances, lighting our way through “the maze of personality and persona” so that we may, if only for a brief and fragile moment, forget who or what we are playing at.

Unless I am Simone Weil or Virginia Woolf, there is no point in writing at all.

I appreciate the aims of these women, and they are not mine. I treasure a compliment from 2014: I also like this writing. There’s something Proustian about it. If you can get through the thirty pages on a goodnight kiss without throwing The Way by Swann’s across the room, you might suffer through the boredom of the narrator’s paranoid speculation about Albertine’s lesbian affairs. It is him, in his wrongness and humanity, his petulant childish idiocies stripped of all masks. This is me, attempting to understand, or self-justify, or formulate so I may communicate, or cover things up because I find them too frightening.

I am still tempted to read Merve Emre’s essay for rules on writing, so that I might obey them, and evade her criticism- though even if I obeyed them to her satisfaction, someone else would find my writing wanting. The only way forward is to do what I do, and keep doing it- or to do other stuff- in fact the way will be as it will, exploring and excavating, not necessarily a way forward at all. I write because I want to, and find it worthwhile.

Review.

Torture

Anyone who watches thrillers sees a lot of torture scenes, on film or TV. This is a good thing, enabling writers to examine characters under duress, and real confrontations in a fantasy setting. I don’t watch the kind of drama where it is merely for shock value. My first was in Genesis of the Daleks, when I was eight. It is played straight: the Doctor is interrogated, while his companions are strapped to a machine which induces pain. Shortly after I saw my first satirised torture scene, the Vogon poetry reading.

People confront each other in real life all the time. Sometimes, one desires to crush the other- sometimes they succeed. You can be in a position where backing off or running away is impossible. Instruments of torture make the cruelty and destructiveness explicit, and often there is a consoling ending: the character tortured recovers. The torture scene enables us to contemplate such encounters at a safe distance, before we meet them in real life.

In Casino Royale (2006), James Bond is whipped in the testicles. He responds by acting as if the pain is some benefit. This is a useful technique with pain, to see good coming of it, which makes epilation easier. And the Hero, as always, refuses to back down or give up, though his situation appears hopeless- I love such stories, of human beings overcoming all odds, they are reassuring. My radical feminist friend loathes men’s action movies, where the Hero is in a series of unlikely situations, achieving his goals by shooting or beating up a series of mooks, getting away when the chasers crash and burn, etc. Well, they can be samey, they have a small repertoire of scenes, but there can be humour and creativity in the execution, just as Burns did so much with Standard Habbie.

Maybe I do watch for shock value.

In The Transporter TV series, there is a woman who threatens to remove fingers with secateurs, smiling delightedly as if she loves the game of it. The amputations happen off screen, but the fantasy element of it- I giggle nervously, and say “Ooh! Gross!“- is a way of distancing the viewer from the situation, enabling us to approach destructive confrontation. It is like a lurid, brightly coloured cartoon, showing a real facial expression.

In Versailles, M. Marchal usually kills his victims. He is the quiet, imperturbable policeman, getting on with the job, doing what he needs to do to preserve his master’s rule. I loved defiance in some, and the abject terror of the Chevalier de Lorraine, who was not chastened after, at all. People, confronting an irresistible force, not backing down.

In Cardinal, there is some exploration as to why the torturer might want to torture another. Why does he induct his apprentice? He says, because once she has done this no-one will be able to oppress her. He enjoys the teacher’s role, getting her to stand in the middle of the road with her arms out and legs spread. Make yourself as big as possible. His teaching works- she graduates to cutting off a finger with secateurs. Cardinal is full of people whose jobs do not use their talents- the torturer is just one such. Some resent it and act up, in self-destructive ways; Cardinal himself, the detective, just gets on with the job.

I was sitting in the yard when a kite flew overhead, and I saw its action silhouetted against the sun. A haiku:

Red kite nibbles at
the morsel in its talons
adjusts tail, flies on

Guardians of the Galaxy, vol. II

This film has huge charm and light humour. Groot is now a mascot, a sweet, toddler-sized shrub with huge luminous eyes, constant cheerfulness and a quiet child’s voice repeating “I am Groot”. Our heroes overcome overwhelming threat- vast armadas of spacecraft, a God who has made his own planet (“only the size of your Earth’s moon,” he says modestly) and a skyscraper sized Being from Another Dimension, which like all Beings from Another Dimension has lots of tentacles and teeth, and oceans of gloopy slime.

Spoilers.

A ten year old boy will love lots in this, such as the penis jokes, indeed the many repetitions of the word “penis” in that segment. Characters played by adults, presenting as adults, flirt together like giggly ten year olds- “You’re disgusting! No, that’s good.” She does not understand, being alien, and he is horrible, then pretends to be nice then is horrible again. There’s a bomb that is going to destroy a planet, with a digital countdown mechanism whose countdown is used, straightforwardly, to increase tension.

The hero flirts in a more adult manner, but I feel this is aimed at a pre-pubescent audience who would not really understand. Eventually they decide the gang of Guardians are Family.

Yet there is a moment where a cubit-long missile flies round and back and around, going through the hearts of all the pirate crew in turn. Some we see as shadows with a bright red chemtrail passing through them in turn, but some we see with surprised looks on their faces, falling over, after the missile emerges from their chest. Even though I am used to mooks dying- they come round the corner guns blazing, the heroes shoot them- I was queasy after that. How would that ten year old see it? Would he cheer on the ally of the heroes, defeating his enemies? I did not enjoy all that death, and would not want him to, either.

At the start of it the missile came out of the 3D screen, pointing at the viewer. That was not the moment when the 3D made me flinch. I resent flinching. I know it is a film. I am too sophisticated to flinch.

They neither defer gratification, nor consider the down sides of their impulsive acts. Immediately after hearing the high priestess or queen or whatever of the gold-coloured people declare eternal enmity for someone who stole their “batteries”, one steals some batteries, just because he could. Sure enough, they are pursued with implacable hatred, which gives an excuse for the first space battle. Ships dart impossibly curvy courses with impossible near misses and bright coloured death rays. It is pretty as a firework display is pretty.

The bad guys are not difficult to identify, though one turns out to be a good guy who made some bad decisions, and the hero is misled and tempted by one for a while. I found the stardom of Chris Pratt more inexplicable than his presence in the otherwise hilarious Parks and Recreation.

I went with J to Hail Caesar, and when she came out she said “That was the weirdest film I’ve ever seen,” with her usual equanimity with a tincture of enthusiasm, which I took as positive. However, today she said it was dreadful, despite my praise of it. She is delighted by particular trailers, and GotG is not the most childish. Possibly The Mummy, whose trailer has a great deal of plot exposition, might suit us both, or possibly we should stop seeing films together.

The Abolition of Man

As spending too much time on social media, or worse, clicking back and forth between sites for an elusive dopamine hit- has anyone liked my comment in The Guardian?- makes presence, stillness or spiritual awareness less likely, yesterday I decided to put my computer away all afternoon, and almost succeeded. Hanging out my washing, I got chatting with the lad from upstairs. He has been at the Outdoor Centre for over six years. In the winter, they concentrate on personal development, and he went whitewater rafting in Scotland, but now the centre is getting busy, and the teenagers have a bit of fun on our river, which meanders through a broad valley of lakes and ponds. He has always analysed his options for pros and cons, he tells me. We talked of Heaven and Hell. He believes in both, and is strongly Evangelical: he has a literal belief in the Day of Judgment after Death. “We will all face judgment,” he said, earnestly. I find him quite non-judgmental of my trans status: though I was wigless, just to do housework, I did not feel judged, and so felt reassured and comfortable. We looked up at the red kites circling overhead.

I suggested he read “The Great Divorce”, CS Lewis’s account of people from Hell taking a day-trip to Heaven. Most of them prefer their illusions, and go back down. He thinks Divorce a strange word for Lewis to use, and I explain it is a reference to The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. I lend him my large single volume of several of Lewis’s works, which has sat unread on my bookshelves for years. He is not a great reader, he says, but his parents liked The Screwtape Letters. My spirituality has changed since I read a lot of Lewis. I decided to read The Abolition of Man, which I have in paperback, to re-evaluate him. I would read it to try and find something I valued in it.

It comes with strong recommendation. A quote on the back says if he were to suggest a book which everyone should read apart from the Bible, Walter Hooper would say The Abolition of Man. He writes, If any book is able to save us from future excesses of folly or evil, it is this book. I would read it to seek value in it.

I disagree with the first of three lectures, Men without Chests, in which Lewis criticises an English textbook. Coleridge heard two tourists at a waterfall, and endorsed the first’s judgment of it as “sublime” but rejected the second’s, “pretty”. The textbook says both are not a judgment about the waterfall, only the speaker’s feelings. I would agree. Everything is sublime, separate from me and the human world, simply and only of itself- a waterfall, a star, a pebble, Blake’s clod of clay. It is valuable to cultivate a sense of the sublime, though, and the most impressive things- such as the waterfall- are a good start. If something has the grandeur to remind me of sublimity, this concerns internal mental states, from cultural associations, my past experiences, my understanding and my emotional responses. And the waterfall is pretty: spray may create rainbows, or the water may glisten in the sun. It seems to me Lewis is attacking phenomenology, mocking what he does not understand; at least, he makes no attempt to explain it, merely attacking an attempt to explain some part of its insights to children.

Lewis quotes Aristotle: the aim of education is to make the youth like and dislike what he ought. Lewis’ example is Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, which in my own English class I learned to call that old lie. Lewis was writing 25 years after Owen’s poem. Sending men to die or kill is monstrous, especially in the first world war. He takes a conservative position that there might be some agreement on what men should value; I say that if we allow people to love what we love, society benefits. At least I agree that it is a good thing to see the waterfall as sublime, but Lewis and I praise and disparage different things, and I am tempted to say I know better than he, or at least that my concept of diverse systems of value better describes real life, and has more value, than his single, allegedly objective, system. Rather than a common understanding of what is good and valuable, I advocate a continuous ferment of discussion, learning better what to value. Lewis’ common understanding would justify colonialism, the White Man’s Burden of civilising lesser races.

So I was surprised that the book is still in print, and there is a book of essays about it, Contemporary Perspectives. I must not simply dismiss the book, but find value in it if I may- for then Lewis and I can communicate from our different positions, conservative or progressive. I claim to be the one who values understanding of other perspectives.

 

Ghost in the Shell

The city is beautiful, as the camera moves through it at night. Moving hologram faces advertise, lights flash, and people lead desperate or dismal lives of poverty amid the buzz and clatter. Street people and street dogs search for sustenance amid danger including law enforcement. I never expected to count the number killed, as mooks appear to be shot, elegantly, one bullet for each chest, or in a hail of bullets, but the irresistible force of each attack, by law enforcement, criminal gang, or billionaire’s private army shocked and repelled me. And the hero falling backwards slowly off a building, her cyborg body capable of such visual brilliance, is beautiful.

The Bad Billionaire, suborning the state for his own purposes, first by corruption then by violence, is introduced early. Will he get his comeuppance in the end? That would be a spoiler: so let us consider The Night Manager, by John Le Carré. In the book, the bad billionaire escapes, his fortune intact, but in the TV serial his tentacles of corruption cannot rescue him from law enforcement. In real life, I scarcely know. Billionaires trade in drugs where society has lost the power to reach them, and billionaires buy governments by paying for campaigns, or by manipulating the news people read. Much of this activity, suborning democracy, is legal, and when there are competition authorities policing monopolies, they fail to prevent the public being gulled. So a “happy ending” where the Billionaire gets his, either by death or prosecution, might simply seem unrealistic, reinforcing our powerlessness in real life as much as a more realistic ending, where he gets away with it, would.

The great corporation saved her life. It is a technological miracle, manipulated for the Billionaire’s own ends. Her understanding of herself, of right and wrong and duty, is broken and reformed, and she finds her old love. I can believe in the world not being as it seems, but less in the Good characters finding out the Bad, and by opposing ending them. I am too jaded for this optimism among the relentless death and destruction and the grinding misery.

The Spider Tank was prefigured in dialogue. “Is the Spider Tank in position?” I wondered what it could be. I hoped for, well, a tank filled with spidery things, either living or technological, like a swarm or sea to consume the victim. That would fit the fighting in virtual reality or a sort of digital consciousness where vision confuses and distracts, and threat lies behind everything familiar or hopeful-seeming. It made a change from going into a darkened bar at night, shooting the bad guys who shoot the pole-dancers by accident but not the good guys. As in a real fire fight you would not know what is going on and the camera shows discrete bits of information continually changing as you would look around; but it makes clear that I would be lying bloody on the ground, before I had a chance to imagine what was going on.

Integrating the self

I have not spoken to my counsellor for over a month, so have a lot of material to work with. I tell her of my dispute with Quakers, lunch with my friend, my holiday.

-I did a little light bullying.
-I don’t think anyone has ever said something like that to me. “How was your holiday?” “Oh, I did a little light bullying.”

I worked quite hard to make sure my friend had as good a holiday as possible, and when I could not find a way threw my weight around to make sure I got what I wanted from it. In particular I was not going to do boring things because conventionally they are supposed to be fun, especially as my companions had such limited ideas of what those were. And because he values my company so much, my friend has to take a certain amount of shit from me.

-You are very hard on yourself.

Yes. “Bullying” and “giving shit” are harsh words for me. I was kind. I was reasonably self-assertive. I was as creative as I could be. My judgment of myself is harsh, and I am allowing the judgment and trying to stop it preventing me doing what I want. Bullying is wrong. My inner critic calls my action bullying, yet I do it anyway. In unsatisfactory circumstances I am happy enough with my conduct.

At one point we reach a stop, and she says she has a question. Fire away.

-You said your internal policeman tasered you for not being sufficiently manly. Did he not get the memo?

We laugh. Apparently not. It is good to be conscious of him, though, rather than just being paralysed. I love the way I make her laugh. I am telling my stories as elegantly and quickly as I can, wanting to get the meaning over, but enjoying how I word them well.

Before lunch, H told me a coat would look good on me. I am playing control games. I like them. If that is her controlling me- what does that do for me? It is what I want. It gives me a sense of connection.

-Would you have bought the coat yourself?
-No. Never. But I love it.
-So she is appreciating a part of you which is usually silent, and giving it a voice.

I am addicted to attention. Or at least that is approaching the truth, one facet of it.
-You are being attractive, and valuing that.
-Crying in public could be that addiction. Yet it seems to me that when I cry my unconscious communicates to my conscious how strong my feeling is, and if I can fully accept my depth of feeling I need not show external symptoms. That can be useful.

She does not demur to that.

I have known I am screwed up and at war with myself all my adult life. I am closer to finding the cause of that than I have ever been, and to finding ways round it. My father was feminine, my mother liked that, they both knew it was utterly shameful and no-one must ever find out. I had one honest conversation with my father about it, three months before he died.

This is my work. It is intensely valuable, because I am valuable.

Being controlled, and passive. My best experience of sex so far was with a man who let me lie back, doing nothing, and with gentleness, empathy and generosity opened me up. I was curled up and self-protective, and he got me to open myself to him. He licked me out. “You taste Goood,” he said. I want to do none of the work, and be accepted.

Bullying. It is a harsh judgment. I am crying.

She says it is difficult to integrate the self when it is so repressed. At her request, I show her my yellow coat. It is very yellow.

We arrange another appointment, and then I watch Star Trek Deep Space Nine. I like it. It is decades-old SF entertainment for teenagers, and I still like it. It is beautifully done. I pause it to think.

Do I need it to be in some way objectively good, before I am allowed- can allow myself- to like it? Now I am weeping hard. NO! I like it! Yet this is an exceptionally good episode, ep 3/7, “Civil Defense”. I love the clever ways they come up with to reduce the threat, always making it worse until the end. I love the way the characters respond in ways like themselves: Quark and Odo flirt together beautifully, subtly showing their regard and care for each other as they bicker. It is funny. At the end, there is surely the tiredest cliché- the computer counts down the seconds to Self Destruct- and the tension of it grips me. I love their heroism: continually knocked back, everyone keeps buggering on. I loved the sense of the characters, and see it is the only DS9 writing credit of Mike Krohn- his only other credit is one TV movie, Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct: Lightning. I may watch that episode again, however ridiculous the whole world might find such a complete waste of time.

Childish entertainments

That perfect child is gone…

I have been reading The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It is a serious novel, which happens to have a child as the main character. It has mystery and threat, the sound of someone crying which can never be admitted, a child crushed and broken by Lovelessness and taken to a place of darkness and reclusive suffering, where good people show her care and attention and her own innate resilience and humanity, warmed into love and creativity, produce something beautiful.

From 1911, I note the way they talk of “blacks”. There is the rich person’s way- they were obsequious and servile…they made salaams and called their masters protectors of the poor and names of that sort- then there is the maid’s way- when you read about them in tracts they are always very religious. You always read as a black’s a man and a brother. It is humane.

In the Guardian, I read Why is Frozen so popular? I have just watched it off BBC1, and am a new fan. Lucinda Everett, a fan who loves it for herself not just her children, mentions hearty praise from critics, academics, parents, and equal rights campaigners but the heart is this: The complex, damaged older sister with icy powers that her abusive parents forced her to conceal, was originally the villain of the piece – blue of skin and spiky of hair. But when married songwriting duo Robert Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez composed Let it Go as an empowering ode to self-acceptance, the film was rewritten and Elsa-mania was born. The sister who turns Anna’s heart to ice is a good person! The attempts to control and hide her gifts and true nature-Be the good girl you always have to be; Conceal, don’t feel– only poison them, hurting her and everyone else; and the way to happiness is accepting and freeing them.

I love it. And there are mean spirited comments. Jeez, the film came out three years ago just Let It Go already. And, The old never bothered me anyway. Those had at least an attempt at wit, a play on words, but then I read, Because some parents are happy to feed their children shit. That is merely vile. Frozen is a complex and subtle work of art. It has humour, it is life-affirming with people coming together, and the opening, the fear-filled attempt to render Elsa safe and under control made me weep at the horror of it. It is funny. The ending is beautiful. Calling it “shit” is the sin against the Holy Spirit.

That mean spirit is everywhere in Guardian comments. The Guardian also spoke up for being Liberal: If liberal means holding true to the values of the Enlightenment, including a belief in facts and evidence and reason, then call me a liberal. And if liberal means cherishing the norms and institutions that protect and sustain democracy, from a free press to an independent judiciary, then call me a liberal. Then the second comment calls for cutting foreign aid, much – or most – of which does not reach or benefit those most in need. I think I hate “EliminatetheNegative” more for pretending to care about effectiveness.

Call me a liberal, too. Love and freedom is in those children’s entertainments, and the meanness of “Suck it up, you lost!” will not overwhelm it. Nigel Farage hates his own voters and party members, mocking them as “low grade people”. (I tried to check the original Telegraph interview for context, but it is behind a pay-wall.) There is something truthful and adult- for all people, for all time- in these children’s entertainments. I will become like a child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Let it go, let it go
And I’ll rise like the break of dawn
Let it go, let it go
That perfect girl is gone
Here I stand
In the light of day
Let the storm rage on
The cold never bothered me anyway!

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