Last night we went to see Cowboy Mouth at The Magic Bag in Ferndale. It inspired a lot of thoughts in my head.
Cowboy Mouth is about letting anxiety go and just having fun. That’s not really how my brain works, but it’s a solid message. I know I cling too much to things. That’s my brain, but it hurts me. Jenny says: Let it go. If only it were that easy.
Chapter 1 (the end)
During the finale, which was “Jenny Says”, Fred brought three kids up on the stage to bang the drum and cymbals. One of them had definite Autistic vibes, although of course I don’t know for sure. They reminded me of me, except I’m not sure I would have been able to go up on the stage, no matter how much cajoling I’d been given.
Once the child finally got on stage (after a period of encouragement), Fred gave him a somewhat friendly lecture about not waiting for invitations, about taking every opportunity and grabbing the world by the balls.
At the child’s age, that lecture would have scared me to death. Now, I think it’s what I need. I can say it’s something I needed decades ago, but it’s time to stop talking about things I used to need and instead turn the page and start fresh. Learn from the past, but work on the future.
The child’s job was to hit the cymbal; the two other kids were to hit the drum. Their first strike on the cymbal was tentative, but once they got going, they didn’t seem to want to stop, banging the cymbal with a cyclic rhythm, staring at it instead of the crowd, instead of at Fred, a stoic look of determination on their face.
That definitely would have been me, if I’d gotten on the stage at all.
Chapter 2 (the middle)
I’ve been drawn to butterflies lately. I’ve been holding myself down lately, thinking about detransitioning. Not because I want to, but because I wonder if it’s worth the bother to be myself.
It’s worth the bother.
I got this image idea during the concert. I don’t know if it’s a tattoo or a print, maybe both, but it’s my inner soul right now.
As an art piece, it’s a gothic-style (in the vein of Anne Stokes) fairy with great big butterfly wings. She’s all in purple, and as a tattoo she’s in a flowing dress. At her feet is the cocoon shell of a man.
I call myself nonbinary because I don’t want to be accused of being a pervert for wanting to go into certain women’s spaces. Trans spaces are welcoming; mainstream spaces aren’t.
Last year, when my brother John was in town, we went to a sweat lodge. The lodge allowed nonbinary people to go with whichever gender they chose, so I went with the women. There was no judgment, no feeling of “get out of here, you’re intruding”, and it felt right and proper.
That’s not how I feel most of the time, though.
Chapter 3 (the beginning)
Somewhere along the line, this line popped into my head, based on my visit to my mother at the end of December: “The woman that used to be the mother to the son I used to be is now a shell filled with bile and regret.”
That developed, over the next hour, into the butterfly image. I have a shell to leave behind; on the other side is who I want to be. My mother has left her own shell behind, but it still breathes and pretends to be human.
“Got no reasons for the things I fear.”
I have reasons, I have fear, and that’s okay.
After the concert, I saw the child that may have been Autistic (or maybe not), and they were smiling a truly joyful smile. Such a contrast from the look of stoic determination they’d had on the stage.
I need to bang that cymbal, that symbol, until all there is is that and me, and everything else is gone.
If I loose my grip, I’ll take flight.