Transinsania

Repeat after me…

It’s only a movie, it’s only a movie…

But one with no coherent plotline, scrawled out of some laudanum drenched fever dream, itchy and confused with synthetic hormones and poor diet, skin waxy from slack jawed hours hunched over the keyboard in morbid self regard and desperate mutual confirmation…

Repeat after me – transwomen are women.

Which is to say, men are women. This is where we are these days. We’re breaking language up and selling it piecemeal like tarnished family silver. Neutered, defanged, stripped of meaning. You can be whatever you want to be. If you want to be something you’re not, you can just kill the word, eviscerate it, climb into its wet, warm corpse and caper in the dying light of reason – it’s all about you, it’s all about you, y’all. Like a social cancer, elbowing aside the cells that birthed you, crush them to the fringes. Be what you want – don’t let anyone tell you no. Change the words to make you happy, cut the meanings to keep you smiling. Men are women. Women are men. And the tired old men who still hold the power will be drawing up their plans in dark panelled rooms to send you all off to die in a war by the millions. You think they’re going to entrust you with the future, watch you take it all from their enfeebled fingers? They will sacrifice you to reality.

Repeat after me…

Time to dust off the shiny seated puns and the gasping, laboured metaphors. It lives again. Or if it doesn’t quite live, it almost kind of moves, at least. But where to go with it, where to drive it. Nothing much to say, but a wearying compulsion to say it. These are interesting times, so it shouldn’t be too hard to make a few interesting observations on what I can see through the windows as we rattle along through the last few dimly lit stations – the strangest things in the shadows…