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belthorneBecause the person in question is definitely not on DreamWidth. Uh, sad self-important gayness under the cut.
It's been - pretty much a decade? Since I began a certain, and still consuming, tumultuous love affair; a franchise special interest. Handy, portable, steady; I'd just been dumped by my high school sweetheart after a period of time when we, and our fledgling love (puppy love or not; perhaps to grow gently out of limerence is a fate for people with better timing) had been mauled the entire time by transmisogyny, making us both comrades in arms as well as girlfriends and idiot teens. (I recently saw a picture of us, I think I was fifteen at the time the picture was taken, god, how could *I* have contained my entire world at the time, much less gained the conviction that to love is to see a world in another person, neither of us looked it to the outside eye).
Treading black water in a vicious depression, I'd immersed myself in the new fandom, and there were the words, burning on the back of my eyelids ever since, "Ten years, a hundred years from now, someone like you will love someone like me, and there will be no [fascists] to tear them apart."
It's been ten years, in real time, more or less. A fascist got elected president. Someone I'm as-close-to being in love with as I've been able to sustain for some time now (UHauling with my career, keeping my body and my options safe, having learned as an idiot child to love the revolution instead of something that I could meaningfully fail or be failed by in return) spent tonight talking with me, in her (her, now, with the fascist ascendance, they/them left behind perhaps out of self-protection) usual state of tactically drunken vulnerability, apologizing for withdrawing, pursuing her own fortress, the fascist threat against her Blackness, the sapphic side of her, the risks neither of us are quite willing to take in this world, the obligations we could have chosen to have to each other, between us.
Ten years gone. Ninety more to go?
But it's reminded me of the lessons that child ten years ago learned. The last few days, I've been depressed and depraved and enraged and enervated and all of the things that one might expect me to be. But mostly, I've felt betrayed. The popular vote went to the fascist. You fucking people made your beds. I *had* the democratic mandate in my unpopular radical politics, and now I don't. Fuck Jack and get mine.
But I was never, really, ever doing this for The People. Not more than a handful, anyway, ten years out or a hundred years, if that's what it takes, people like me and [her, lost to me to poverty and transmisogyny; and him, and her, and them], when they love each other and there are no more fascists to tear them apart.
We can carry the revolution in our bodies if we need to. Ten years gone. Ninety-fucking-more to go.
It's been - pretty much a decade? Since I began a certain, and still consuming, tumultuous love affair; a franchise special interest. Handy, portable, steady; I'd just been dumped by my high school sweetheart after a period of time when we, and our fledgling love (puppy love or not; perhaps to grow gently out of limerence is a fate for people with better timing) had been mauled the entire time by transmisogyny, making us both comrades in arms as well as girlfriends and idiot teens. (I recently saw a picture of us, I think I was fifteen at the time the picture was taken, god, how could *I* have contained my entire world at the time, much less gained the conviction that to love is to see a world in another person, neither of us looked it to the outside eye).
Treading black water in a vicious depression, I'd immersed myself in the new fandom, and there were the words, burning on the back of my eyelids ever since, "Ten years, a hundred years from now, someone like you will love someone like me, and there will be no [fascists] to tear them apart."
It's been ten years, in real time, more or less. A fascist got elected president. Someone I'm as-close-to being in love with as I've been able to sustain for some time now (UHauling with my career, keeping my body and my options safe, having learned as an idiot child to love the revolution instead of something that I could meaningfully fail or be failed by in return) spent tonight talking with me, in her (her, now, with the fascist ascendance, they/them left behind perhaps out of self-protection) usual state of tactically drunken vulnerability, apologizing for withdrawing, pursuing her own fortress, the fascist threat against her Blackness, the sapphic side of her, the risks neither of us are quite willing to take in this world, the obligations we could have chosen to have to each other, between us.
Ten years gone. Ninety more to go?
But it's reminded me of the lessons that child ten years ago learned. The last few days, I've been depressed and depraved and enraged and enervated and all of the things that one might expect me to be. But mostly, I've felt betrayed. The popular vote went to the fascist. You fucking people made your beds. I *had* the democratic mandate in my unpopular radical politics, and now I don't. Fuck Jack and get mine.
But I was never, really, ever doing this for The People. Not more than a handful, anyway, ten years out or a hundred years, if that's what it takes, people like me and [her, lost to me to poverty and transmisogyny; and him, and her, and them], when they love each other and there are no more fascists to tear them apart.
We can carry the revolution in our bodies if we need to. Ten years gone. Ninety-fucking-more to go.
