Living Under The Wisdom Of Guru. All Praise To Guru.

This is the third of four pieces written in writers' groups this week.  Most weeks during school terms the Writers' Cafe meets on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.  If you're in Newcastle Upon Tyne look it up and come write with us.  All are welcome.

The prompt given for this related to the origin stories of different types of tea.  But we were allowed to write about our favourite drink if we weren't so keen on tea.  We were also allowed to be very liberal with the truth - origin stories being, after all is said and done, just stories.

What follows is what I wrote.  Free written.  With only one word crossed out on my page.  I haven't changed a thing when typing it up except to alter the spelling of the drink.  Adding an "h" somehow made it seem more spiritually appropriate.

The drink in this picture was real.  An actual product.  Sold as seen.  And blessed by a priest.  It's not the drink in the story.  I was thinking of quite a few spiritual leaders, scams, and odd beliefs while writing including some products and people that friends of mine believe in and continue with undented belief even when contrary and sometimes conclusive evidence is given that the products don't work or the people are liars.  The story uses the word "manifested."  As I wrote that the image of Sai Baba came to mind.  He's faked a lot of miracles through basic conjuring skills.  That's been proved - and the evidence for his paedophilia is pretty damning too.  But people still believe.  Just as in this story.  I thought of Millerites and Jehovah's Witnesses and other groups whose followers continue to follow even when the prophecies and "clear word of Scripture" goes wrong.  I thought of spurious health claims and how we need to be a lot more careful with who and what we grant the assent of faith to.  I did a lot of thinking in that ten, possibly fifteen minute writing period.

Guru was wise.  Guru was just.

Guru could read your soul and work miracles.

Guru manifested gold dust and once caused the tigers to roar and retreat.

Guru convinced me in his smile, in the way he opened Scriptures.  Or left them closed.  His words were as much life as anything from Vedas or Christ.

So I moved to guru's commune, gave up my life of chasing the world.  I lived alongside Guru.  Or at least in the same town.  I was hardly worthy to walk in his divine light footsteps.

Guru's blessing was sold to the world.  We all knew the story.  How as as child he had discovered his holy well, deep in the tunnel beneath his bed.  Guru was guided by Lord Krishna himself to dig through his floor and the spirit of Lao Tzu lit his way; showed direction through the antediluvian passages to the spring.

Guru was enlightened in the drinking.  God granted him a special gift.  Later, Gautama led him in his earthly mission.  To bring not only the word of spirit but the liquid nectar of spirit to all who would hear.

And so, three years before I followed him into the communal seclusion, Guru revealed Kalamah to the world.  Drink each day and it would help purify you.  Body.  Mind.  Soul.  Spirit.  It would detox you.  And who knows?  Perhaps, were it in the beneficent timing of God, you too would be enlightened.  Just like Guru.

But Kalamah flowed from a single spring.  It was scarce.  It was costly.

In the commune we drank for free.  One sip a day.  And we praised Guru.  Bowed to him.  Our hope.

What remained was bottled.  Sold.  For a price befitting a product of such eternal value.

After five years in Guru's commune I advanced and was accepted into the inner sanctum.  Into Guru's confidence.  It was there I learned the secret of Kalamah.  At last, Guru led me to the spring, the source of Kalamah.

I learned this:  There was no spring.  All there was were cartons of pear juice, bright red food colouring, and tinctures of liquorice and rosemary.

Initially I was disappointed.  Until Guru showed me how God led him to sell Kalamah for the greater spiritual good.  Guru showed me how precious his blessing was.

He was Guru.  He was enlightened.  How could I not believe?

All praise the wisdom of Guru.  All drink from the spring.  Find enlightenment.

Guru's blessing is the Light of the World.

The Remains of the Life. Mister Cohen's Attic

This is the second of four short pieces written quickly in writers' groups this week.  This one finished in a completely different place than I thought it would.  It was all going so well.  Until that sudden change of direction that took it into a place I didn't particularly want to be.  You will see what I mean.

The line structure is as it is for one reason only:  I was writing on the right-hand third of a sheet of paper having filled the left-hand two thirds with the poem I posted yesterday.

Tomorrow I'll post the first of two pieces from the writers' group the following day.  The prompt given for that related to the origin stories of different types of tea.  I didn't stay within that box.  At the Writers' Cafe we're very good at leaving boxes behind and just seeing where the words carry us.  Every time there's something produced that leaves me in awe.

After the auction of the house
Of the late Mister Cohen
I found his forgotten family waste
In the loft of my new home.

Three torn cookery books.
A broken framed, scratched photo
Portrait of an unknown soldier.
Worthless antiques.
A pair of porcelain potties.
Souvenirs of holidays in Taunton.
Silver plate spoons.  Half a set.
Tarnished beyond hope.
Moth-eaten wedding dress,
Once white, once born of love.

He left me newspapers:
Bundled.  1960s Daily Mails.
A Victorian taxidermy display
Of birds.  Decayed, under broken glass.

And in the locked chest
I had to break, forced by chisel
I found my prize.

Coins.  Stamps.
And a collection of Herr Cohen's love letters.
Each one from the Fuhrer himself.
Each one sealed with his kiss.

The Came From Darkness - Creatures In The Attic

I've enjoyed being with creative people in different groups this week.  On both Tuesday and Wednesday morning I was able to attend The Writers' Cafe.  Both occasions were a joy.  It's great to meet with the people there; to chat and to write.  It's great to be among people who are enthusiastic for the process of writing and who encourage each other in that process.  It's great to get feedback.  And it's great to hear the wide range of work we come up with, quickly written, from the various writing prompts.

Each session is themed and during our time together we will write from one or two prompts.  This week has given me four short pieces of writing.  Today I'm going to post the first of these.  Our topic was attics.  This remained the theme for the second piece.  I have homework to write about a cellar and a discovered place.  My confession is that I haven't done my homework yet even though the idea for what I will writer was already there in my head on Tuesday in the group.

Today I've spent the day with my little autistic theatre group.  Those people are great.  The radio play I've written there is complete with the exception of sorting out the files for sound effects and background music.  I've found it all but haven't been disciplined enough to download and convert it all.  Some more homework.

Here then is the first little piece from The Writers' Cafe this week.  In many ways it's the weakest of the four.  It needs more detail and perhaps one day it'll get it.  For now though here are the words, as free written in the session.  They're in 5-7-5 syllable structure, like haiku but not true traditional haiku themes or image structure.

Image from here.

They came from darkness.

Grinning yellow teeth; grey eyes.

Whispered sour nothings.

They came from darkness.

Slow descent of attic stairs,

Torn clothes, dead scarred chests.

They came from darkness.

Fingers: Beckoning.  "Join us.

Cursed, But not alone."

They came from darkness.

With one flick of loft light switch

They vanished from sight.

Glaring, naked bulb

Shone through my fierce fear haunting

Revealed only dust.

Later, I upstairs

Explored the memory space.

Boxes of other lives.

In the light, safety.

I smiled.  Relieved.  Began to laugh.

Then, they laughed with me.

The light dimmed to black.

Hands.  Breath.  My body held.  Squeezed.

They came from darkness.

How Solfeggio Frequencies Are Leading Me Into The Deepest Of Rabbit Holes

Thoughts about a rabbit hole I've found myself exploring:

Friends of mine are very into solfeggio frequencies / Fibonacci frequencies. You know, the kind of thing that says 528Hz sorts your heart and heals your DNA. Sounds far-fetched, yes?  But they're my friends and I love them.  They say the frequencies add something good to their lives.  I'm happy for them.  What harm can it possibly do to them, to me, or to anyone else?

 

639Hz - It'll Sort Any Relationship Problems You May Have

I was very involved with new age people and learned a lot in courses 30 years ago (before rejecting it all for fundamentalist Christianity for too many years!) but nobody ever mentioned such frequencies. Not even the sound and colour healing practitioners I knew. Somehow in the intervening years they've become very popular. And I have to admit that some (some) of the music I've heard based on it is quite relaxing and good to fall asleep to.  I wanted to know why the idea was so prominent and how this development had occurred.

So I thought, "Why don't I look into this. See if there's ANY evidence outside of New Age sources and sites like Natural News. Some actual science. And find out the history of the idea. Let's not reject the whole thing out of hand but apply some very basic critical thinking to the theories and history."

That seemed a sensible thought.

And that's when an idea that sounds far-fetched became more crazy. And then I fell down a rabbit hole and crazy became bad-shit crazy. It just gets more and more bonkers.

I've learned interesting things about the history of musical notation and the reasons why the frequency of that A is mostly set at 440Hz. That's really very fascinating.

But my wandering in the rabbit hole has gone through selling snake oil remedies (to heal cancer and undo vaccine damage), vaccines causing autism, the US government inventing AIDS, Nazi conspiracies to move music frequencies and so muck us all up psychologically, the Illuminati, Tesla, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, mad codes derived from the Bible, symatics, Kenneth Copeland (honestly!), young earth creationism, secret laser guns and so many other things related by the guy who promoted the theory of the frequencies. His name is Leonard Horowitz. Research him at your own risk!  His official biography page claims he's a Levitical priest and co-creator of "The World's Most Powerful CD."

On a hunch I googled "Leonard Horowitz Andrew Wakefield."  Wakefield is the disgraced doctor behind the totally debunked study that claimed to have found a link between the MMR vaccine and autism.  There's no link.  And Wakefield wasn't just wrong.  He was fraudulent too.  People believed him thought and the take-up for the MMR vaccine fell with the unfortunate result that we've seen an increase in measles outbreaks leading to deaths and life-long health consequences for children in Europe and the USA.  I place at least part of the blame for that directly on the shoulders of Wakefield.

I wasn't surprised by the results of my google search.  Horowitz and Wakefield are pals.  Look up the ConspiraSea Cruise if you dare.  It's a whole deeper level of rabbit hole than the one I've been exploring.  Enjoy yourself there.  Here's one person's experience of the 2016 cruise.  Here's another person, relating their experiences of the 2015 cruise.  Both pages are very entertaining - at least for someone with my special interests.  Horowitz's relationship with Wakefield's Vaxxed movie is also of interest.

 

One of his books. I want a copy.

I'm very happy in my rabbit hole. It's a wonderful surprise. The only sadness is that I haven't found any aliens in the hole. Yet.  They might be coming.  Horowitz's four hour talk is on YouTube posted by UFO TV: The Disclosure Network.  So there may yet be aliens.  If you're as obsessive as I am about crazy spiritual things, mainstream and fringe, take a look at his talk.  Or as much of it as you can bear.  I'm only 70 minutes into the talk and have taken long breaks from it.

 

Horowitz is currently discussing how the frequencies were discovered encoded into the book of Numbers in the Old Testament - because offerings were made by representatives of the twelve tribes of Israel on twelve successive days and each day's offering is described in much the same way in six verses.  (In a verse structure that didn't exist until thousands of years later but Horowitz doesn't seem worried about that).  The conclusions raised by this six verse interval are far further than far fetched.  My own conclusions when I used to read through the Bible regularly and got to that chapter were that I was quite bored with it and that I looked forward to getting ahead a few chapters to Balaam and his talking ass.

I just wish my friends weren't into any aspect of this total junk, some of which isn't just daft it's dangerous. I wish there was something I could say that would convince them it was junk. Because all those friends are very lovely people. And some of this is very dangerous and damaging.

 

That's all I wish.  People can believe whatever helps them.  As long as they don't look down on those who disagree or claim that their belief is an essential for some kind of salvation.  But when that belief becomes dangerous and when it arises from and is connected when the kinds of things solfeggio frequency theories are linked to then that becomes a matter of great concern.

Believe a wafer is the body and blood, soul and divinity of Jesus.  Fine.  I believed that.
Believe your gurus inhabit a particular place in a temple because a book is there.  Fine.

Be helped by making an offering to Krishna, ancestors, God, guru, Buddha, or whoever else.  Fine.

But when belief becomes a danger I will be worried for you and equally worried for anyone you may influence through your dangerous beliefs.

If it wasn't for the dangers I'd say to my friends to believe whatever they wanted about the power inherent in these frequencies (which are only 440Hz or 528Hz or some other number of Hertz because we relate them to an arbitrary time period that in English is called a second.  639Hz in the picture at the top wouldn't be 639Hz if Hertz wasn't based on that particular time period so making anything about it being multiples of three - as Horowitz does - is without common sense.)

But with the dangers?  I'd love them to stop.  I'd love them to walk away from such nonsense.

You may say I'm over-thinking all this - rather than my friends under-thinking it.  You may be right of course.  Just in case, I'd better close by watching this video and listening to the sounds through my headphones.  That'll solve my problem.  One of the comments tells me to heal the world by listening to this while holding my crystals.  Yeah, that might work.  It's quite relaxing.  I admitted that right at the start.  I still freely admit it.

Consequential Loss - Notes On A Radio Play And Autistic Theatre

I recently took the plunge and joined up with a theatre group for autistic people.  It's a pretty new group and the people there are varied.  There autism is as varied as they are.  What everyone shares is enthusiasm.

The core group meet currently for one day a week, being joined for the morning by a group from a local college of ESPA (Education and Services for People with Autism).  We have fun and are supported in what we do by two paid staff members who work more or less full time for the Twisting Ducks Theatre Company which is run for people with learning difficulties and (now) autism.

I feel very fortunate to be able to go and have fun with the people of Spectrum Theatre - the autistic child of the Twisting Ducks.  It is hoped that in the future some extra funding can be obtained which would mean that the work of Spectrum could develop a lot further.  Also in the near future there's going to be an eight week creative writing course - which we're really meant to call creative storytelling in recognition that there may be people on that course who have amazing imaginations but who can't write or can't write well enough to set down their fantastic stories on paper.

I'm also very fortunate in that the current funding obtained for Spectrum means that the day that's laid on for we autistic people is free of charge.

I've met some great people in Spectrum, all autistic and all experiencing joys and trials that accompany our condition.  And it's just one more way for me to open up to my own creative possibilities and the possibilities of others.  For now it is a place I will stay.  I make no predictions for the future.

Almost the first thing the core group were asked to do was to write a radio play.  Each of us would write, with the idea being that we will record the plays and put them out on a local community radio station.

I've written quite a lot in the past year, though not as much I would have liked.  But I've never attempted a play either from scratch or from adapting one of my crazy stories.

I have now written a play.  And then it had to be edited - the censor's pen had to be used.   The broadcasts would be daytime and I accidentally wrote something with adult content and language including rather more swearing than families would appreciate.  I'd written a late night show or something to adapt into a theatre piece with a 15+ age warning.

I've been my own censor though.  The fruity language has been removed or toned down and I wonder in places whether I've lost realism.  I've adjusted quite a few lines.  Watered down sex references and some imagery that the BBC controller would have banned.  I'm glad the actual plot is unchanged.  There's still the darkness and light, the despair, the betrayals, the hope.  I'm glad I haven't been asked to make the plot insipid

There's also the matter of religion.  One of the characters is a religious homophobic bigot.  I can write religious bigots.  I know the subject first hand!  The character is quite extreme but I've known people who are equally extreme and equally nasty about it too.  I thankful I didn't get quite that bad myself in my own years of religious homophobia.  I think that the character worked as I wrote her.  She's still there too.  She's surviving the censor.  But her language and bile is a little mellowed.  I also considered the intended audience and wondered whether they would be up in arms about my attack on the Christian faith.  It's not really that of course, just an attack on a particular manifestation of the faith, the version that names people like me as abominations.  For a late night broadcast or a theatre I'd let it stand.  But not for this intended broadcast.  So I've taken pains to point out that not all Christians are like that.

Since the broadcast will be in Newcastle I've pointed to a few of the churches here in which being queer won't result in the preacher abusing you or consigning you to hell for your sexuality and gender.  Who knows?  Perhaps someone will hear it who is a Christian and is queer too but hiding the truth and fighting against themselves through guilt.  Just as I did.  Perhaps someone like that will hear and something will be planted in them that helps them seek out a place where they can live their faith in more freedom.  I can live in the hope that a radio play might do some good.

I've deliberately kept the scenes simple.  Deliberately linked them with narration from the main character.  I think, as a first attempt at writing a play, it has worked out well.  Unfortunately I now want to re-edit it to put some of the fruitier language and imagery back in and have two versions of it to play with.

Each of us in that core group has written a play.  They are as varied as we are.  I've ended up being the only one of us to include nothing from the realms of science fiction and fantasy.  Much as I love those genres - and need to get back to working on my post-apocalyptic dystopian novel - I've ended up firmly rooted in the real world.  The other plays are each filled with their own surprises and it's a good thing that they are such contrasts from each other.

My first scene was initially written at a Spectrum session.  We were all told to write a scene.  One simple idea popped into my head and it just flowed with hardly another conscious thought.  Two friends meet in a cafe.  One confesses to the other that she is having an affair.  She was having it with a man named Graham.  But as I wrote his name my pen paused, almost the only break it gave to my writing hand.  My pen considered its options.  Crossed out the word Graham.  And wrote the word Erica.

Since that day I haven't made any enormous changes to the scene - just a few, arising from details the characters gave me about themselves as they wrote the rest of the play for me.  It's always nice when people can hardly believe that I've just written something from scratch in a writing session.  That happens sometimes.  Other times I can hardly write anything at all and any words that get miserably scrawled should really only be filed in the embarrassing section.

I hope that writing the play has taught me something about the process.  Something I can put to good use later.  I hope too that it will give me a little more confidence in writing conversations.  I never used to include much in the way of conversation because I didn't think I understood the rules of conversation well enough to write one.  I hope that this play is a step on the path to being able to write realistic and engaging talk.  I don't think I'm there yet.

Sometime soon I'll probably post the whole play here.  Unless I go crazy, edit it more and try and get someone more professional to record it.  That's always a possibility.

So, onwards with Spectrum.  See where it leads.  I'm guessing it may throw me in a few surprising directions.  And I'm happy with that idea.

The Lament of Asherah, Creation Goddess, Bride of Yahweh

A lament from Asherah, bride of Yahweh.  Free-written in a writing group in a Newcastle cafe on June 13th.  Do any of you wish to follow her call?

Image saved from https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/381046818447394805/

I am the forgotten one.
I am the one who walks in the fields;
Leaving behind her the trails of trees,
Creating the life-springs, homes for my birds,
The smile sanctuaries of squirrels and sloths.
I am the springer of springs,
The overflow of life in a thousand rivers
And a billion glasses of iconic crystal clarity.

I am the forgotten one.
I am the obscurity who once was worshipped.
Where people sheltered under my shade protection
They now strike me down in rain-forest deaths.
I am still here: Earth protector, restorer,
The pattern for the turning of worlds.

I am the forgotten one.
I am your Asherah, the rejected goddess,
The impulse of compassion lingering in the
Religions of men.  Monotonal without my feminine.
I'm Diana, Luna, I ride the fire as Hecate,
Waltz as Demeter, and I sprinkle wisdom dew
Each morning, longing to hear again the name
Of Astarte or Isis on the lips of the bold.

I am the forgotten one.
I am the one whose altars were destroyed in hate
By those who replaced my free spirit
With a god they could only present as jealous.
The religious slaughtered me through time and space
Breaking themselves apart in the killing
I wept for the sons of men but they beheld
Only a manly touch in the spreading of rainbows.


I am the forgotten one.
I wait for you, my child, my lover
To embrace my joy, cherish your footprints
And rest again under the holy greenwood tree.

A Letter To The Telegraph About Autism and Special Interests

A letter to The Daily Telegraph.  I'll explain it afterwards.

Image taken from the page mentioned below

Dear Sirs,

I read with interest your article of June 12th regarding the difficulties of being autistic.  I note that the article was written by someone who is not themselves autistic and am dismayed to see that his portrayal of the autistic experience was overwhelmingly negative.  I am writing to you as a happy autistic woman in order to correct this portrayal by focusing on a positive aspect of being autistic.

Being autistic is a trial.  No doubt about it.  You wouldn't ever look at us and say, "Wow!  I wish I was autistic too."  Not with everything we go through.  Your article was right.  The autistic experience can be excruciatingly difficult.

But it can be a great joy too.  People talk of autistic ecstasy and that's a thing.  It's real.  For me at least, and I choose to focus on the joy.  When I can.  Sometimes that overwhelming overloading collapse of everything within takes over.

I'm not going to list the joys and the total fun I have.  I just want to tell you about one aspect of it.  You see, we autistic people tend to focus in on things.  When we find that particular thing our brains scream out, "Wow! Wow! This is for me!" and then we don't ever let go of it and seek to find an everlasting corridor filled with more and more and more of it.  It's not an obsession.  Oh no.  Not quite.  We call these things our special interests.

We all have them and we discuss them too.  Join an autism group and inevitably the subject will arise many times because we like our special interests and there's always this part of us wondering why everyone doesn't share them with us and why they switch off when we infodump at them.

So.  Imagine the online conversation.  Me?  I don't have to imaging.  It's already happened.

New member:  Just out of interest, what are everyone's special interests?

Old members:  Trains.  Helicopters.  Tapestry.  My Little Pony.  Or, and these are all common, Nazis.  Serial Killers.  Murder.  And darkest of all, weather forecasting.

They read about these things.  They know everything.  Collect ponies.  Become meteorologists.  They don't actually become serial killers of course.

Then it's my turn.  They ask me, "What are your special interests?"

Me:  Fraud, bigamy, and highway robbery.

You read that right.  I should explain though, clarify a little.  Because while fraud and bigamy are true and perfect special interests, robbery is just a hobby.  It makes me happy.  After a hard day, when autism has given me problems and my brain feels like it's going to implode and explode at the same time, after those days there's nothing better than popping out for a bit of highway robbery.

Being outside helps me.  Under the bare black night sky when the rushing clouds call to me or the stars send messages that it's all going to be okay.  I'd be out there anyway, even without the robbery.

And I say all this in the groups.  Explain how I get a thrill from all the logical steps you need to successfully get away with fraud.

I talk too about how you need to be very careful when indulging in a spot of bigamy.  Or biandry.  Polyandry really because right now I have four husbands on the go.  James is alright.  But the other three are complete shits.  I'm looking forward to divorcing them but it's a complicated business and I have to follow all the logical plan perfectly.  I love logical plans.  They make me tingle inside.  It's hard to get a worthwhile divorce settlement from your rich shit of a husband when you're not legally hitched in the first place.

Sometimes the things I say produce less than positive reactions, even in an autism group.  I don't know why.  I mean, trains and My Little Pony?  How dull can you get?  But I don't moan when people are into weird things.  Some of those people don't grant me the same respect when I'm sharing my happy things.

Fraud, bigamy and highway robbery.

Talk about autistic ecstasy!

Pointing a pistol at a tourist and demanding their cash and valuables.  Now that's ecstasy.  You wouldn't understand it.  Unless you're autistic too.  I would ask therefore that all future articles you publish about autism would be more positive than the one I read this week in order to reflect the deep wonder we can find in this world.

Yours Faithfully.

Ann Meders



On June 13th I attended a writers' group.  The subject of the morning was female highwaymen, or highwaywomen depending on your preference.

During the course of the session an article was read about several of these women.  If you care to read it you can find it here.  One of the sentences reads, "Alongside highway robbery, Ann Meders born in 1643, made fraud and bigamy her special interests."

That was enough for me.  Out of all these women, the bored and the desperate, out of all their deeds, I couldn't leave that sentence behind.  Hence the above letter.  It was actually free written in the cafe as a monologue.  I've altered it a little to make it a letter, but only as far as necessary.  Ann Meders was hung at the age of thirty.  I think my fictional autistic Ann would get into trouble too after sending that letter.

I will stress that while I have my special interests, and while special interests do get discussed sometimes in groups, I do not share the interests of Ann Meders and I haven't seen Ann's interests raised.  I've seen all the others she mentions in her letters.  They're real.  But I haven't seen anyone plotting how to defraud their illegal husbands.  I also have no good reason to claim Ann as an autistic woman or to place a seventeenth century highway robber in the position of being able to join online autism groups. 

This Transgender Woman Says, "I Am A Woman. Don't You Ever Tell Me I'm Not."

I feel sorry for my friends sometimes.  Because when my head really focuses on something it REALLY focuses.  Conversely when it doesn't focus it REALLY doesn't focus.

 

A case in point today.  I was out walking today and as I sat and had lunch I got to thinking.  Maybe being misgendered again by an old friend affected me more than a null amount.  Maybe I'd taken in more about some transphobic abuse recently than I thought.  And maybe reading this morning about the suicide of another abused transgender person made me more sad than I'd realised.

 

But I got to thinking.  This thought.

___________________________

 

Thoughts that sprang up as I sat by a field today. They're quite long. Sorry about that.

There are phrases I refuse to use and really hate to hear used about me:

Clare identifies as female.

Clare identifies as a woman.

Why this refusal, when these things are of course a part of my identity?

Simple. It's because a cisgender woman would never be told they "identify" as a woman. They would just be seen as a woman. Full stop.

So no, I don't just "identify" as female, as a woman.

I AM female.

I AM a woman.

Full stop.

A woman, just like any other woman. I just happen to be a woman with a penis. But my genitals don't define me.

To insist on saying I "identify" is to place my womanhood in a different category to that of a cisgender woman. It's a belittling of my womanhood. Almost a denial. It leaves room for doubt a place for saying "Well it's all very well her identifying that way but ..." Or worse - him. Yeah, I got misgendered on Facebook only yesterday. Which stinks but in this particular case I forgive the offender.

I AM a woman. I AM female. Full stop.

Accept it. Because anything less than your acceptance of this truth is unacceptable to me.

I know most of you are fine with this. For most of you there's not a doubt in your head that I'm just as much a woman as your own mother is or was. I am safe with most of you and know that, even if we have arguments and massive disagreements, you will treat me as the woman I am.

If you don't accept this truth - that I am she, woman, female - then feel free to unfriend me because I really haven't got time or energy to waste on people who can't or won't accept such basics about me.
And if there happens to be anyone reading this who would ever dream of deliberately calling me "he" then just go. Please go. My life will be richer without you.

_______________________

 

I posted my thought on Facebook.  Responses happened.  They included this one:

 

Like most people, your spirit is female, your mind is male and your body... well, you can't really argue with that can you? Well you can... You can argue until you're blue in the face, but it doesn't really change the world or stop poverty and homelessness now does it? I quite often feel like a man trapped in a woman's body, but I expect most normal women feel that way depending on their mood and men the same. It is NORMAL!!!! Going on and on about gender just feeds and breeds sexism and gender stereotypes. Sexism causes arguments and repression so give it a rest eh? Right, time to do the washing up.

 

And that's where I start to feel sorry for my friends.  Because I couldn't let it go.  Not at all.  My little autistic brain collided with my transgender nature.  Pow.  Pow.  Explosions.  Fire.

 

And this happened.  The tone police may be in contact with me very soon: 

________________________________________

 

What evidence do you have that most people's minds are male and spirits female? My mind feels pretty female to me thanks. And my body is mine. Since I'm a woman it must be a woman's body. QED. It's quite simple really. It's mine so it's a woman's. Just one that happens to have a penis attached. Which has made for a much harder life. Much, much harder.

Try to understand just how much harder it is to be transgender. And then you'll undoubtedly decide you're not in a position to tell us how it is. You'll be happy to not kick us from your social position above us.

I don't go on about gender much. I mean, you're the one who went on last weekend about how you were telling your child that I used to be a man and then quizzed me about what my name used to be (which is none of anyone's business whatsoever unless I voluntarily share that information). I didn't bring up my gender. I didn't think about sharing with your child that I'm transgender. You did. Not me.

And why the hell did you want to know my old name anyway? Why did you think that was your business? What does it matter to you?

I don't go on about it much. But it gets thrown at me:

Every time I'm treated as not a proper woman. Every time I get called he or stared and glared at or called shocking or an abomination. Every time some shit comedian makes a joke in which trans people are the joke. Every time someone wants my old name. Every time I'm misgendered to my face. Which hasn't happened to me since, oh when was it? Ah yes, it was yesterday.

Every time the person doing it tries to justify why it's okay to do it. Every time someone asks about whether I've had "the op" YET. Every time I get some dumb ass - often from the US military - sending me messages on Facebook because ooh they fancy "trannies". That time I was told I was shocking or that time a guy threatened to set me on their child because I was such a monster. Every time I'm told I'm not welcome in a space because it's for women. Every time I'm told I'm not as much of a woman as one with a vagina but the man who sexually assaulted me didn't seem to care about that did he?

Through all the days and years of fighting just to be me. Fighting to get my own gender on my own passport. And I needed a psychiatrist's letter for that. Have you ever needed psychiatrist's letters in order to convince organisations that you're a woman? I have.

And every time I hear about another abused and bullied trans person committing suicide. Which I haven't heard about since, oh when was it. Ah yes, it was today.

All we want is acceptance (never just toleration) as who and what we are. That's all. Acceptance. Full acceptance.

And we're not ever going to bow down to anyone who tells us to shut up about it and give it a rest. Not until we have that full acceptance. Not until people aren't disowned by their families for being trans. Not until people aren't bullied and abused in the street by strangers.

Not until people stop telling trans women they've got men's bodies and trans men that they've got women's bodies.

Not until we have a legal system in which we can define our own gender without it needing cash, boards of psychiatrists and supporting evidence from medical professionals.

And fuck it. And I don't in any way apologise for my language. I know that trans people being accepted isn't going to solve world homelessness. So bloody what? What the sodding hell does that have to do with it? I'll tell you. Nothing. At all. But what it will solve is the agony and pain and everything else that trans people suffer. And that's got to be worth it.

And guess what. There are plenty of people who have been chucked out of their homes for being transgender. Plenty more who have been chucked out for being gay, bi, lesbian. In fact about a quarter of young homeless people are homeless because they've been rejected.

So yeah, actually, talking about this and fighting for acceptance will solve some of the problem of homelessness. Because one day we hope to see a country in which no young person is chucked onto the streets because of sexuality and gender. Let's keep talking. Let's contribute to solving this thing.

And fuck it again. Do you really think we would have got as far as we have on this road to acceptance if people hadn't talked about it? Lots. We wouldn't. We'd still be back where we were decades ago when being trans was seen as a mental illness and when people tried their best to cure so many of us - just as they did to gay people.

We talk about it because talk changes things. It creates the better future that we want to live in.

And damn it again you. What do you mean "most normal women?" Are you in that category? Am I? Damn you if you think I'm not a "normal woman" when I'm a woman. You know what? If you believe that then feel free to unfriend me. Don't just feel free. Just do it. Please.

Because I am in no way a "woman trapped in a man's body."

I can't help what you feel. But me, I'm just a woman.

Thanks for listening.

________________________

 

Yes.  I feel sorry for my friends sometimes.

 

 

The Jehovah's Witnesses Ask "Is The Bible Really From God?"

Warning:  This post is a self-indugent trip into one of my special interests.

 

Yesterday I accepted the Jehovah's Witness offer of a publication.  "Awake!"  It asks the question, "Is the Bible Really From God?"

 

If you happen to want to read it you can find it here.  I link to it because otherwise commenting about it as I have below would not be fair.  The magazine contents do not reflect my own opinions.

I believe the article to be almost hilarious in the points it makes.  They are points that really ought not to be made in any serious study of any ancient text, religious or secular.

The article begins by claiming the Bible (which incidentally says the sun was created after life on Earth) is scientifically accurate and therefore should be believed. As if it's meant to be science.  The writer asks the reader to "Consider examples from the fields of meteorology and genetics."  Okay, I'm game.  I'll consider them.  I'm absolutely shattered this afternoon and my head's not up to much more than playing with its continuing obsession with all things God!

Meteorology - Formation of Rain

 

The writer of the article claims that the writer of Job shows a creator who "does understand the rain cycle and saw to it that a human writer would include the facts accurately in the Bible."

 

It makes the claim based on Job 36:27-28.  My English Standard Version renders this as

 

For he draws up the drops of water;

    they distill his mist in rain,

which the skies pour down

     and drop on mankind abundantly.

 

The writer of the publication claims this shows a perfect picture of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation such as we all learn in school.  That could be an impressive thing to find in an ancient text although by the time Job was written, probably in the sixth century BCE, scholars were speculating and often understanding that rain originates from the water below being drawn up.  How could this information be included in the Bible?  It doesn't need to be some kind of prescience of science.  It can just be an idea that the writer had already encountered.

It becomes even less impressive when we realise that the words commonly translated "draws up" don't mean that at all.  Not at all.  They actually mean "draw away".  The picture here probably isn't of a properly understood water cycle at all.  In reality it probably mirrors an idea that the clouds and the rain are drawn away from a great mass of water above.

 

So it's probably not scientifically accurate.  And even if is broadly accurate it could just be reflecting a known idea.

 

It might also be fun to respond to the Witness that the words in the Bible were put into the mouth of Elihu, one of Job's friends.  God's response to his words begins, "Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?"  Or that God's response in chapter 38 mentions "the springs of the sea" - echoing that idea commonly held then and for many centuries afterwards that the water on earth was also replenished by percolation.

And yet it doesn't matter.  The whole conversation is poetry not science.  As poetry it's very beautiful and the imagery is stupendous.  As science it stinks.  It's okay that it stinks.  Poetry books tend to stink as science and science books make for awful poetry.

I'd recommend reading Job.  Considering the story and playing with the concepts.  Delving into the images and ideas and being amazed at this ancient work of literature.  I say that as someone who no longer believes in the personal God the writer inspires us to follow and trust.

Genetics - Development of the Human Embryo

It quotes a verse which my Bible reads as "Your eyes saw my unformed substance," translates it as "embryo" and tries to prove from that single verse that the psalmist was well schooled in genetics! Accurate science.  The article writer admits it's poetic language but then tries to say King David, to whom the psalm is traditionally attributed, was being accurate about the human genetic code.

I think that's crazy but the Jehovah's Witness who talked to me about it yesterday until I had to rush for my bus took it totally seriously.  I used to take similar things just as serious.  When you're stuck in a dogmatic religion and believe it is the only way to truth and salvation then it's almost impossible to see through things like this.  People can gaze on open mouthed and apply reason and you won't be able to see it.  I look back at some things I used to believe and wonder how on earth I - with an IQ above 150 - ever managed to believe such unreasonable things wholeheartedly and call them reasonable.

For some reason the article writer doesn't quote the previous verse: "When I was being ... intricately woven in the depths of the earth."  I'm not sure they could claim that one as being scientifically accurate.  No geneticist says that we humans are woven in the depths of the earth.

 

It's not scientifically accurate.  Of course it isn't.  Again, it doesn't matter.  Not one bit.  Because it's poetry.  And poetry written by someone living thousands of years ago with a very different view of the world and the universe than the one we have now.

 

Part of that poetry was very important to me when I came out as transgender.  It's a part that's been important to many LGBT christians.  Verse 14 is a wonderful thing to hold onto when you've been hurt by churches for being who you are.

 

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works;

      My soul knows it very well.

 

It was very reassuring to me at the time.  I'm transgender.  God made me this way.  And that's just as wonderful as if he/she/they had made me cisgender.   I held that verse close to my heart and mind and wrote about it too.

Less important to me though were later verses in the psalm:

Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God!

   O men of blood depart from me!

They speak against you with malicious intent:

   your enemies take your name in vain.

Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?

   And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?

I hate them with complete hatred;

   I count them as my enemies.

Those verses are rarely quoted.  They're not in hymns.  When the psalm was read in my old church (Metropolitan Community Church) we missed those verses out.  They are persona non grata.  We don't follow those ones.  It's just as well we don't or we might set out to be like King David and conquer and kill all the neighbouring nations who don't follow our God.  It was a different time.  If we raised up those verses we'd quickly become a Christian version of ISIS - who raise up such verses from the Qu'ran.

Those hate verses are followed by a final verse.  We read that one.  Everyone does.  It's in hymns and choruses.  We like it.

Search me, O God, and know my heart!

   Try me and know my thoughts!

And see if there be any grievous way in me,

   And lead me in the way everlasting.

 

Nowadays of course we'd say "Yes, there's a grievous way in you David.  You hate people with a different religion to you."  But let's ignore that for today.   Let's also ignore that the Hebrew word and idea could sometimes mean something very different to the word in English translation and usage - and that Jesus didn't really tell us to hate our parents even though our English Bibles tell us he did.

The poetry of the Psalms can be amazing.  With or without faith it's an amazing body of literature.  Yes, it's got those hate verses but every single ancient work has things that we would now refuse to make a part of our life.  Ancient writers, the wisest of their day, say cultural things we would now reject.  That's okay.  They are from another culture and age and there's no need to rip up the books.

The mistake made in this Jehovah's Witness publication - as in many conservative Christian or Bible-based publications - is to attempt to turn an ancient book of faith into something that it was never meant to be:  Science.

In doing so they've turned something that's often stunningly beautiful into something that deserves only to be laughed at, ridiculed and rejected.  Yes, they turn their God into a laughing stock.

I'm going to stop at that point.  I'm not going to examine the article's claim that the Bible accurately predicts the future.  I'm not going to examine the claim that the Bible answers life's big questions.  It does.  That's a given.  The scriptures of all religions answer life's big questions.  They just disagree in places on what the answer is.

I'm also not going to answer the question that's been on your lips for your entire life.  "The Sea Otter's Fur:  Was It Designed?"  The magazine doesn't answer the question either.  Disappointing!

 

You've probably been very bored reading what I've just written.  I had fun with it.  That's the nature of my obsession, my special interest.

My sadness is that some people will encounter the ludicrous scientific claims about meteorology and genetics, be amazed by them, and be one step along the way to becoming a Jehovah's Witness.  A group that wouldn't agree with what I said about LGBT Christians.  Not in the slightest.  A group that is monolithic, dogmatic and exclusivist.  Much as they smile at me in the street as they hold out their publications I would not be safe in their midst.  Not for long.  A 2014 survey showed that the Jehovah's Witnesses are the most homophobic of all major religious groups in the USA.  The best article I've found about it online is this one, simply because it quotes so many primary sources.  They've told me in the street that I'm fine, that I'd be welcome, that God loves me, that I'd be safe there.  It's a lie.  Their own writings demonstrate it to be so.

My gladness is that the Jehovah's Witnesses were not the only people offering something on the street of central Newcastle yesterday.  I took the plunge and joined a group with an offering that condemned nobody, welcomed everyone, and truly spread some love totally free from dogma and judgement.

We offered hugs.  Free hugs.  And for those who didn't want a hug a smile or a kind word.

Someone tried to offer me money.  Because they found it hard to believe people would just stand there offering something and expecting nothing, preaching nothing, embracing everyone.

That's what we did and it was an excellent time.  I say that as someone, autistic, who happens to have problems hugging people.  I'm usually a non-hugger.  But I went out hugging and it brought smiles to people and reassurance to people too the day after another terrorist attack.

I still have hug issues.  But I'd join those people and give out free hugs again in an instant.  It was like a perfect expression of love.  A piece of Biblical excellence because "perfect love casts out all fear."  Others gave a perfect expression later in the day.  I rushed for my bus to get to a community festival.  500 people attended and received something beautiful in the west end of Newcastle.  This time I was on the receiving end.

It was a fabulous day.  I saw lots of saints.  They might have a religious faith.  They might not.  It doesn't matter.  To me they are saints.

Remembering The Day My Pastor Called Me An Abomination

This weekend it is four years since I first addressed myself without guilt as Clare. It's my re-birthday tomorrow.

Just been thinking of my experiences in a church that meets in a city centre location in Newcastle.**

They were decidedly unpleasant and the things said to me in a three hour private talk with the pastor were nothing short of disgusting - that I'm an abomination, that there's no way at all I could possibly have been a Christian unless I at least want to repent of being transgender. He said lots more too.

I remembered this because of a discussion elsewhere in which Jewish tradition was mentioned positively. I referred to Jewish tradition and teaching in my talk with that pastor. He said "Well the Jews will say anything won't they" and told me not to refer to Jewish tradition or teaching because, after all, they rejected Jesus.

I was shocked by so much of what was said. I guess I was a bit stupid to be shocked because these attitudes aren't uncommon in conservative Christian circles.

I was wounded too. So wounded that I went home and wrote a poem about it. It became one of my first blog posts.  Here it is.  Under this link.

I was also saddened.  The church that planted the one in the city centre location** states on their website that God does not discriminate over matters of sexuality or gender.  It turned out that their version of God very much does discriminate.

Had things been different I might have acted too.  If I'd known how.

Should I have alerted the people who run the city centre location** that I had been treated so appallingly by an organisation they hire their premises to?

Perhaps.  Perhaps I should have made waves - just as, had I known how and had the mental health for it, I should have made a police complaint against the city centre gym that told me I wouldn't be allowed to change in the changing room and would have to use a toilet cubicle.

Perhaps I should complain more.  Not for my sake.  But for the sake of other transgender people.  Another transgender person might be crushed by that church.  And we all know that transphobic abuse leads in some cases to suicide.

Three and a half years have passed since that day.  I haven't been back to the church.  I've seen that man again.  Been in the same room as him.  But I haven't spoken to him.

Maybe I should.  The next time I see him.  Tell him I forgive him.  He's a bigot.  He doesn't know it but he is.  An interpretation of a religious text does not exempt anyone from bigotry - it didn't exempt me either when I followed similar interpretations of the same book.  He's a transphobic man who treats people like me like shit.  I worry for any transgender person who ever comes into contact with the church he runs or, heaven forbid, is forced to grow up there full of enforced self hatred.

And yet ... he would tell me he was only speaking to me out of love for me.  That's almost more sad than the words he spoke to me.

The church still meets in that room.

Unless things have changed, a blatantly transphobic organisation - with a touch of anti-semitism - still meets in that city centre location**.

Perhaps even now, after all this time, I should mention it to them.

Perhaps.

**I originally stated where the city centre location was.  I've removed this information.  I realise that, since I don't have proof of what was said to me, it's possible that I'd be sued at some time in the future.  I don't want to leave myself open to that possibility.