I've felt powerless for a while now, directionless. I had gone out to the midwest in order to conquer it, and after spending two weeks assessing the middle-sized city I was in, promptly set about doing nothing for nearly eight months. As if I needed it, I have evidence that capitalism is not to blame for my lack of progress; I am my own worst enemy. Among other critical activities I spent almost two weeks crocheting a black-and-white striped scarf, because I couldn't find one that was 'goth' enough. I ended up with something stupid and unwearable, as I suspected I would before I began. When I moved back west I was tempted to toss it, but I decided to keep it as a reminder of the time I threw away.

Tearing through the Los Angeles basin after dark at 75 to 80 miles per hour in a tiny rented car with 'Antichrist Superstar' thundering out of an overpowered sound system is a decent cure for feelings of insignificance. I remembered that Manson lives in this town. A kind of madness gripped me, from the speed, the volume-- I grinned, I occasionally laughed for no reason, my voice going into unmasculine registers as I sang with the music. The car bounced, slid easily between lanes. I remembered first arriving in Grand Rapids, seeing it at night, too, claiming it aloud as my city. I had that thought about Los Angeles. Then I laughed. "My city? My planet." I laughed some more and drove faster.

When I got home a friend told me that Paul had been adding a lot of entries to his journal, and I went to read it. I discovered that the evening before he'd been hassled in the street by a couple of kids. Paul wasn't even dressed; they were messing with him because he was androgynous. They called him a faggot and talked about him like he was a strange and disgusting insect. He didn't mention it when I was visiting him today.

I find myself wondering how long it will be before he's actually attacked. It's not an idle worry. The homicide rate among transsexuals is extraordinarily high, for reasons which should be obvious.

If somebody hurt him I fear I would do something monstrous, but I have a greater fear, which is that I would do nothing. I had all the usual revenge fantasies, but will I really do these things, even if I know they must be done? I tried to console myself with the knowledge that everybody's going to burn later anyway, but I doubt I'll be able to find these particular kids when that time comes. Ah well.

I wonder why I'm getting upset about it. Paul's gotten over it. Do I care about him, or is it that someone had the temerity to accost somebody who is important to me? Is he just a possession of mine that they have dirtied? I'm unsure I really understand friendship, and I'm not sure I've ever really been anyone's friend.

Eventually I will have to face, in practical terms, the question. What do I do when somebody assails me because of my unclassifiable gender? Part of me wants to be understanding; they're kids, they can't help how they were raised, they can't help the society they're in. And the other part of me says, 'They're bugs. Wipe them out.' Which is strange, because I will go to great lengths to capture a moth or a spider and eject it from my home without harming it.

And I have been shown quite clearly what is respected by humans. Brute force. That's all that is guaranteed to work. If you show weakness they will assume they can do what they wish; if you beat one of them dead the others will run like the monkeys they are.

Another thing I did during my eight months in the midwest was to formally renounce my membership in the human race. I will try to coexist with it, but it's never worked before, so I don't see why it would now. Of course you are welcome to join me on the outside....