Wednesday, 4 December 2013

Six Months Ago

Words written this morning while sitting in a cafe this morning.  Just written down, no editing, no corrections, no deep thought or goal in the writing.  I promise that not everything I write will be about this transgender life.  Six months on, so much has happened.  I have moved far more quickly than I'd dreamed was possible and not stopped to write things down.  So there may be quite a lot more written in the next six months.  I'll try to write other things too.  And in a month I should have a a decent camera - there is a lot to look at and enjoy nearby and I plan to explore and write thoroughly when time allows.

Six Months Ago

I didn't know where this would lead.
Had I known, would I have allowed the experiments?  The new honesty?
Would I have played with my thoughts?  Permitted possibilities of change?
Would old beliefs of horror have risen, turning my back on what I almost knew was coming?
Would I have stood before the dam, watching the cracks grow, trickles of truth flowing, threatening torrents, unstoppable floods?

Or would I have secured the walls, erased the clues, again seeking the ignorance of lies?
I'd killed truth so often, conscientiously, deliberately, systematically.
Truth.  Pressed down, shaken.  Crushed.

Or was I ready?  I knew what was coming.  I knew, in moments of bareness.  I'd dreamed my new name.  I'd dreamed my future.
And in that revelation I did not run, I kept embracing.
Little sprinted steps, searching, fearfully enjoying, almost hammering at the cracks, pleading for what is to be revealed, what is to be.

Was it really only six months ago?

Only six months since I stood, for the first time, honestly, without guilt, ready to accept the deep everythings?
Only six months since I dressed, for the first time, honestly, as me, as she, without torment, ready to behold and be held in deep wonder?
Only six months since I spoke, for the first time, honestly, to me, to she, 'Hello.  I welcome you and I must die'?
Only six months since I wept, for the first time, honestly, Clare, in new life, in infinite potentials, infinite release?
Only six months since I saw, heard, sniffed the air, honestly, as me, as she, no more the dread dark stagnation of oubliette?

Yes, yes.  Only six months.  The wild ride of a rodeo bull.

Would he have allowed this to happen?  Would he, if he saw me here, now, Clare, in all important ways woman, would he have stood firm or let go?  If he had known he would have to die, would he have begun to play at all?  I do not know.

But if he had foreseen my joy, my healing, the meaning of his life as protector become prison guard, if he saw all that he would, in recent times, gladly let me live.  And so he did.  Six months ago.  He said to me "Hello Clare.  If this is really real, truthful truth, then I set you free and I will pass, fade, and rest in new peace."

I am Clare, grown woman, six months old.
I am Clare, the screaming prisoner, now released.
I am Clare, condemned for the crime of existing, now pardoned.
I am Clare, alone inside, for he was true, happily self-sacrificing.
I am Clare, the future, and it will be wonder.
I am Clare, discovering myself, excited at the education.

Six months.
Just six months.
I am Clare.

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