I can’t see what you see. What’s with that? The whole world is populated by soubrettes and the real but I can’t tell them apart. Certainly not from the way you’ve described them.

At Port Authority yesterday (don’t tell my shrink) they were paging a Foster Scipio to meet his party. Slouched against the wall and wondering if NC sat in this same place the time she didn’t make it to Boston, I craned to see if some Roman general would swagger around the corner. With mandala, with “entourage.”

Bob Herbert (NYT) identified Nevada as the national capital for misogyny in the : the biggest problems for women, he thinks, are prostitution and rape in the military. (!!??!!). Who has been caricatured into a columnist for the sake of no one? I can’t tell. Is it misogyny itself?

At PS1 I tried not to walk on the S/M asphalt and admired Kathe Burkhart’s haiku in Dutch chocolate. We were three hours into a play about how to treat the woman your ex-boyfriend slept with once (1). I didn’t have a copy of the script– so tried to ad lib, slipping into some straight, empathetic character, and then when I couldn’t fake it I tried to be a good audience, then finally went quietly about my business as the show went on. A sample:

1: If I run into her should I completely

ignore her? That’s what I was going to do.

2: You should say hello, but in a

really cold way. 1: I guess so, Oh My God. There she is!

2: Wow, she’s not sexy. She’s actually really

ugly. 1: She has HPV, you know!

2. You should make him call her and tell him that she has HPV so you can know for sure.

Chorus: Yeah, Yeah, you have to know for sure!

Some other time, between dancing and dancing, the Internet, history, perpetration, and rumor caught up with me. I was recognized from only e-photographs and called from texting to my feet. She was wearing pants and a friend. This is Brooke, you have such a normal voice! she exclaimed, we hugged and she went to the bathroom. She wasn’t the same size, shape, consistency that I was promised! I stood still.

For my senior project I am either writing a memoir about my femme identification

or

doing a project about queerness, the internet, and representations of desire. In either case (or perhaps for the sole reason of) figuring out the answers to both of the questions at once. They aren’t extricable. I try to locate myself from my brand new Tantra class between the general, the columnist, the ladies and the girl who isn’t sexy, and Hairshirt.

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