Author: b0vin3st4r

The Alchemist’s Anger
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The Alchemist’s Anger

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The Rebis

Alchemical perfection — An Alchemist’s Magnum Opus

After one has gone through the stages of putrefaction and purification, separating opposing qualities, those qualities are united once more in what is sometimes described as the divine hermaphrodite, a reconciliation of spirit and matter, a being of both male and female qualities as indicated by the male and female head within a single body. The sun and moon correspond to the male and female halves, just as the Red King and White Queen are similarly associated.

Upon reading Susan Stryker’s “My Words to Victor Frankenstein” I reached enlightenment. She blessed me with an epiphany that had evaded the capability of language.

She starts by breaking down the monstrosity of the transsexual in extremely profound ways. “The transsexual body is an unnatural body,” she says, “…It is flesh torn apart and sewn together again in a shape other than which it was born.” I have been hyper-fixated on this concept since discovering my own transsexuality and I could not agree more. But much like transgender is to transsexual, why not push the boundary further? Why be unnatural when you can be supernatural? Preternatural? Extraordinary? To augment oneself to perfection. To reach a level of divinity only capable through self-made creation. This is where my love for the alchemist began. 

As transsexuals do we not toe the line between scientists and sorcerers, ever in pursuit of physical perfection? To transform one substance into another? Matter cannot be created nor destroyed but it can be transmuted. We become monsters, or in Stryker’s explanation, heralds of our own extraordinary creation.

While carving, sewing, and transforming your body is perhaps the closest to divinity I can imagine, there is always the scrutinizing eye of the world upon you. In embodying what lies beyond the realm of normalcy comes the onlookers probing for answers. To be transsexual is to be spectacle – for better or for worse. You walk through the world always on display, always looked at but never seen; this is visibility versus legibility. In the space between the two, I find my transgender rage. Always listened to, but never heard. Always known, but never understood. In this violence, I find my transsexual body an abject one constrained by the world’s subjectivity and “…limited by its signification.”

I could spend forever talking about what enrages me about my own transsexual embodiment, but I’d like to end on a positive note. I am a monster in all aspects and retellings of the word. But I am a monster of my own creation. In some strange way, I am both Frankenstein and his monster. Creator and created. Alchemist and Rebis. And I will continue to create. 

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I been fat.

(Content Warning: Fatness and ED mention)

I’m fat. I’ve been fat. I will be fat. Fatness is just another item on the laundry list of my descriptors, and yet it is always at the forefront of my mind. I find myself reflecting on a meal debating my total carb versus fiber versus protein intake despite having stopped macro counting years ago. I quite literally cannot or it sends me into an episode of hypomania. And yet I still find myself falling into my old unhealthy habits and I can’t seem to stop wondering why. I have an incredible community, some fat some not, who operate and speak in ways that have nothing to do with weight. My opinion on my body tends to lean positive. And I’m sure you could bring up the fact that social media, especially TikTok, is slowly transforming into ED tumblr 2.0 – every other post being a scary WIED or thinly veiled body checks under the guise of an outfit video. But I think there’s something more there. I think fatness, moreover, a fear of fatness is so deeply ingrained in our culture that there’s nothing I can do to escape it. I find myself stifling my labored breaths after trekking up 5 flights of stairs, tugging at the corners of the clothes, sucking it in, all in an attempt to “feel better” about myself. I live in constant fear of people “finding out” that I’m fat. Newsflawsh, buddy I am fat. Anyone who can see me knows this and in that reminder I find myself more free than I ever have been.

Ft. A poetry video I used to love in 2014 (a little cringe now but powerful nonetheless — same content warnings)

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The World is a stage, my body a puppet

There’s something so dystopian about having a body in this world. As much as we claim to have autonomy we’ll never be free of the eternal shuck and jive. We all know Butler’s claim of gender performativity, but is every action we take not a performance? We’re all forced to act a certain way, stifle our truths, and perform. Take your pick of which puppet master is pulling the strings for the day (hint: it’s all of them). Whether it’s religion, white supremacy, the patriarchy, or capitalism we’re all told what to do, what to say, how to perform. Today my gripe is with capitalism (when is it not). 

There’s a blatant disregard for what these meat puppets can do. The body isn’t meant to work two jobs, go to school, and maintain an internship – sorry. Sorry, there are days when the thought of getting out of bed to work is too daunting to fathom. Sorry, I have a chronic illness. Sorry, my chronic illness flares up in times of stress. Sorry, I’m stressed all the time. Sorry for having a body. 

There’s so much more I want to say, but this puppet has worked all week and it’s tired.

(Ft. the movie that terrified me as a child about a puppet all strung up)

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The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

**This post contains the usage of the f-slur as it’s a term I’ve found encompasses me to a certain capacity. If this offends you, please feel free to keep scrolling**

I think there’s a point when people give up on you. And that sounds more melodramatic than I intend, but there’s truth to it. So often we talk about trans people from a place of unlearning and relearning gendered roles in society, but what about those that were never taught at all? An argument can be made that most gendered thoughts and behaviors come from the unconscious – what is reproduced in the world around us – and I don’t discredit that. But how does the world teach gender to a child whose gender is unintelligible, a lost cause? A father can only teach his “son” so much. The most formal gender schooling I received was years of sports, before he realized I was a lost cause. An incredibly awkward sex talk, before he realized I was a lost cause. Scoldings for playing my mother’s heels, before he realized I was a lost cause. Treated like a fag and lived as a closeted transsexual: the gift of visibility is one I would not force on anyone. 

 Some people have the capability to be straight-passing, cis-passing, white-passing, but in truth I’ve never tasted that luxury. I wasn’t always an outcast, though there were times when it certainly felt like I was, but I was always visible. Like a lighthouse on the shore directing all eyes on me the moment I walked into a room. I do not have the luxury of blending into the shadows or disappearing into a crowd, so I learned to lean into it.

 Visibility is a blessing and a curse. It drives away those who would cast malice behind my back but encourages those who would to my face. But the pressures of constantly being seen take a toll. Eyes glued to you no matter where you go, the way you talk, the way you walk, the way you carry yourself cut open and dissected for the world to see. In my case, to be seen is to be known. You’re turned inside out with your most delicate vulnerabilities on display. But in that comes community. Whether it’s an innocuous smile across the room from someone just like you, or unknowingly giving a stranger the confidence to start living, to be seen is to exist outside of yourself. To be seen is to contain multitudes. To be seen is heavy, but it is never a burden one must shoulder alone.