Who Doesn’t Want to Feel Special?

Headshot of Creature Karin Webb. Pierced septum and medusa, glasses on top of forehead. Medium length light brown hair, light chin hairs, faint sparse mustache, blue eyes.

I don’t think it’s controversial to say that many (the majority, all?) people feel something lacking in their lives. The rules of passing (by definition) demand that we assemble versions of ourselves to present to the public which look like others’. In high school unpopular kids turned their noses up at peers who were able to find a place within groups made up of characters who were “different like everyone else”. Today it seems there’s still a desire to be seen as “different like my own self”, and perhaps the group of people desiring these things are from a larger circle than one might expect. The condition of never feeing “enough” has stopped many people from coming out in their lives, or even entertaining an acknowledgement within themselves about subjects which seem taboo.

I can’t tell you how regularly and from how many differently presenting people I hear about the desire to be understood as “special”, “different from the pack”, “individually recognized for their personal values, against type”… Ironically, I feel as though being seen in the world for who I am—queer, genderfluid, “sexual” rather than type-X-oriented—incites the opposite desire. I’d prefer people to see me (and those traits) as normal. After all, sex and gender variations are normal, as is sensual desire across a spectrum of types. These things are evident throughout all of nature, they’re well documented and acknowledged within our contemporary society, and they’ve been present across cultures and nations historically.

Desire for pleasure to be felt in the body—any place on the body—stimulated by a person who can be connected with safely and amorously: is normal.

The desire to be seen as a valuable individual, not simply generalized as part of a larger group’s legacy: is normal.

To want to be viewed as separate from whichever archetypes you represent or appear to align with: is normal.

To want your story to count is human: and normal.

People who’ve spent their lives unable to profit off the patriarchy because they don’t pass social standards, have spent time wrestling with their defined differences from the norm. Within wrestling most of us come to love ourselves in spite of, and even for the very things we feel rejected about or harassed for. I wonder, in this ever polarizing world where community member is pitted against community member for survival, if it’s just simply time for a tide named “different” to sweep the land? May we all be better nourished if that is so.

Acceptance of self requires a growing acceptance of others. From an early age we learn to identify “against” rather than “with”. This type of divide perpetuates an “us against them” mentality which serves to keep all of us down. I hope we’re starting to value the need for individual acceptance over herd mentality. I’m all for it, but not at the expense of othering people as collateral damage on the path to perceived freedom. In an ideal vision of growth we’re able to share our hard won identities with pride, without posing over those we’ve climbed over in order to get there, or painting others into a corner in order that we might stand out as “more enough than they are”.

We cannot use the master’s tools to destroy the master’s house.

We’re born alone, we die alone, and we have gifts to offer the universe which are simply our gifts to give.

Capitalism, our prevailing paradigm, incites fear, belief in baseline instability, and promotes unkind behavior in reaction to the idea that anything valuable exists within a starvation economy. These ideas extend to concepts which are bottomless by nature—love, compassion, empathy, and admiration, for example. The games we’ve learned to play in order to survive have taught us that if we aren’t “on top”, there will be too little to live off of. Those beliefs (lies) steal from us the very human traits which link us to one another meaningfully and contribute to communal success. Our society was built off the concept of: hierarchical placement = value of personhood. If we truly believe one human is more valuable than another, we’re also doomed to acknowledge our own specialness as important only when it offers power over others. This measure of a person’s individual gifts to community is against the concept of community.

Today is National Coming Out Day. Just a couple days ago the Supreme Court heard arguments about, and is currently ruminating on, whether LGBT people deserve equal rights and protection in the workplace. Can you even wrap your head around that? I have a hard time doing it. We live in a country that defines itself as the “land of the free”, and has as its founding principle a separation of church and state. Still though, our State feels the need to consider whether or not some people are more free than others when it comes to physical presentation, sexual attraction, and opportunity to identify oneself honestly.

But Capitalism, am I right?!…

Follow the money.
Look to the power
Your cup of cool-aid is on the table.

It’s not hard to understand the intersection where people get stuck: wanting to be actualized through creativity, inspiration, and congress with positive, pleasurable energies we feel comfort around; while being bound to an environment which denies safe access of basic needs to those who don’t effectively pass while playing the game.

The game is bigoted. We all know this.

Trauma from trying to survive in society is real. Not a single one of us and no single group of us owns that hurt. To create meaningful change it will take many of us calling to the powers that be, the ones who have “won” the game, and holding them accountable concerning how the system hurts us all. That, or a violent uprising, but miles may vary on those…

We run into problems when we turn people into symbols. Conflating an individual with a symbol, archetype, social role, defining them by their job, other identity affiliations, belief system, pleasure activities, or any other single corner of a their experience, is a way to cut down and control them. We endeavor to control others in order to keep ourselves safe and profitable. Knowing one’s place in the pecking order (thereby buying in to the pecking order in the first place) offers us opportunity to harm others in our stead. Those with none below them, and those who decline superiority, suffer in this system. More of us must suffer for the system to collapse, and eventually the masses of those who suffer must teach their suffering to those who remain less touched.

In the quest for specialness (which is really a quest for acknowledgement that we are enough) perhaps the most important thing to remember is that we all deserve things which make us happy, especially things which do no harm to others. I don’t think it’s possible to be meaningfully “special” without celebrating the specialness of others and striving toward egalitarianism. I hope that idea helps heal current divides. Divides serve to rob people of a sense of self which is expansive and complex. Working within a limited sense of self, what specialness exists that a person can be proud of in the first place?

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

This writing takes time, research, and consideration. It is my art.
Please help me pay rent: join Patreon, offer Support or email me directly. Thank you

Honoring the Scales

“What do you want to see in the world? …Be it.”

From “NO SHAME”. Photo by Jennifer Bennett

These words are easy. The struggle to their reality is complicated and difficult. The road forward is often infused with self-delusion, and checkpoints can be missed. Repairs must be made at regular intervals or because of accidents. Parts and service can be expensive. What tools do you have to stay securely on the road to your end destination? What have you been born with? What’s been given you by friends and family, or offered because you seem amiable to those who have the resources to share? Which tools can you afford to buy or how have you built up enough credit to purchase in advance?

We are not equal. That’s simply the truth of the structure we’re tangled within.

We aren’t born with and we’re not taught the same emotional skills or lessons in our lifetimes. Similar coping strategies are not available to each of us—nor even desired to be learned by some. We do not have the same information in our minds, capacity for struggle in our hearts, or strength of muscle and bone. We do not fight the same fights, nor choose the fray equally.

It’s paramount that we work with one another. That we share our resources—be they monetary, emotional, intelligence, perspective, charisma, spiritual, physical, shelter, mechanical, words, healing, teaching, space holding:

Access to food.

We live on a planet with abundance, enough for each of us to thrive. Working within the structures of human divisiveness, we learn to take from one mouth to feed another with lesser need. Gold is positioned on high, exalted, danced around in mass-observed ceremony. We dress our poor in rags and stench to serve as warning to us all: you’ll be this thing too, should you refuse to participate. We build walls. Hide the backstage messiness that reveals the antics of banking and loans when observed more closely—serving to pretty-up the faces of our charismatic caste until they’re able to cash in on their connections. Upward mobility is a fairy tale read each night to the masses, though it’s meant to come true for a very select few. Our dreams push millstones miles along… energy stolen.

When I tell you to pay me for my time and attention it is not a request. It is a fairness. That you appreciate my words, my world, my intelligence, and that I capacity to listen intently, offer advice, perspective, and care is the result of investments I’ve made over my entire lifetime.

He feels his sexuality should be served without giving back.

He’s not looking for love. He’s looking to get off. To use my mind, my skills, my body for endorphins and dopamine. This is not a problem for me (within the boundaries of my offerings) for a professional fee.

He feels his emotional and sensual needs should be listened to and resolved without giving back.

This is not food filling my stomach. Food offering me power to instruct, to carry out the desired sound beating, to give of my time and heart, to afford particular dress, to organize our fantasy negotiated, to gather toys with which to invade and sensitize the flesh, to learn proper technique and to carry forth safely. This is my overhead. The theatrics, showtime, and marketing efforts too, are my work.

I understand the need to save. Each dollar is a percentage of one’s lifetime, a moment struggled more than one wants. It’s part of our constructed fallacy, the divisive divide which keeps us apart. In a perfect universe we’re each serviced as we wish, everyone given opportunity to measured time with loved ones and the Deities, every delight we desire.

Negotiations are not [same = same] though, they do not wish to be. Feeding one’s any-gendered-erection is not what I was born to do, though I may have grown to excel at offering such things. My life, my skills, are my investment, and without food I expire too.

Listen to your neighbors. We aren’t meant for battle, though I know fear lies chokingly nearby. I may never firsthand understand your fantasies or your needs, but I will travel as far as I am able to, to embrace our differences, to let you know I wish you peace. Compatible and not compatible, we share molecules and breath. We effect each other. We orbit one another. In meaningful ways we owe each living thing our livelihood and our lives.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

This writing takes time, research, and consideration. It is my art.
Please visit my Patreon, offer one time Support or email me for other options. Thank you.

It’s About to Rain

It’s about to rain and I am leaving my house soon. Thunder is cracking. The heat and humidity has been terrible and a storm will pass through to wipe it all away. Reset the air. Reset our attitudes. Reset for the next swell of inflammatory summer. I am beginning my writing too late. I’ve been putting it off, feeling my own stress build — but that’s what happens when you live in a van crossing the country in a driver’s seat instead of staying on top of your email. I’m excited to be caught walking in the wet (abnormal for this cat but true). I’m scratching at the door. Let me out of here!

I want the wet to decompress in. I want the wet to soggy down my thoughts and haze, hanging humid in my brain about what next: City or country? Domlife or stage haunt? Garden and tincture or weld and glassblow? Why not all the aboves? How? Am I keeping up with my daytime disciplines or do I need to be doing more each day to find my foothold, to get ahead? I’m thirsty. I want the wet to cool me, calm me, center my body and mind. I want the wet to be, like, graphically wet. Natural lubrication from the sky over my clothes and body making things slippery smooth, and I’ll have no choice but to feel everything differently because of it. The wet slows me down even as it unglues me. Wet, as it hangs around undry, argues that we are Taking. Our. Time.

Everyone is arguing the vocabulary of identity in this heat, as if a standard could ever exist… The point of identity is intimacy. The words I whisper to you about me. My words, mine. In the big picture yes, they shouldn’t say that in front of those people, because everyone knows better these days, but what does this mean now that we’ve embraced that thing over there, and where do we put all those ideas from yesterday? On and on and on forever because as organisms cursed with the glory of life we must do the most beautiful-terrible thing constantly all the time: grow.

I, for one, am happy that we won the term “Queer” back, and that “they/them” is in vogue these days (I’ve been waiting patiently for that one for a couple of decades now), yet it seems they’re taking “Bi” away in exchange. I’ve been Bi, and even if it’s not what I use now, I don’t like the new fangled words more than that one. I think it’s fine, and unfairly villainized, and everyone knows what it means even though the echo of “two” turns a tad sour in our mouths when we taste for Gender. But that’s not what it really is trying to say. Yes? Still though, off and away she goes. I hope my made-up identity, “Sexual”, catches on one day. I know there’s a question mark containing eyebrow arch from an Ace or Ace ally in the room (written with love).

Words are imperfect.

Our attachments to them are not just by dictionary, but in association. We each associate variably.

I love the word “Cunt” because it feels so fucking good in my mouth… just like a cunt does. And “Dyke”. It’s mine. My identity. You can’t wrestle it away from me.

What are the symbols for Queer now? What pictorial phraseology do we use to wink at Stealth Queers and Passing Trans and Kinksters in a picture of “Friday at the office” before going out to haunt the night dressed in shades of inappropriate and “oh my”? Does it matter anymore? Has it all been commodified and commercialized and spread too thin to recognize? Now that we ask one another for pronouns, and get all the consents, what’s the point of a flag or a tapdance on the men’s bathroom floor? Where are our cheats and naughty, perverted, under the radar confessions flown in public now? How do we signal the quiet queering of our spaces? Or is outing it all without a legally backed oppressor in sight what we’ve been building towards? Will there be no Queer one day? Will we laugh or cry on that humid afternoon? (See, one can get all romantic and sappy about the shitty but hardcore past without being a TERF about it. Fucking wankers.)

And the rain. Slowing. Me. Down.

Even though 1s and 0s seem to make the Earth spin faster on its axis, when we get together after typing lustful confessions and someone lumbering through town to the other one’s sty, we still have to face one another. Cold water. Eye to eye. Breath and breath. Heartbeats, nerves, smiles, knee jerks, clumsy fumblings, mismatched desires, unequal libedo, and under it all a glorious sense of “am I really doing this right now?!”. Yes! The short answer. That perversion is still real. You are doing it.

So breathe. Don’t sweat the small stuff. We haven’t forgotten how to communicate completely, we’ve just been pressured to move too fast.

What do you want to know about me? I want you to ask. We can fight about politics if you scene me roundly into a second date… But for now, slow down. Let’s be wet. Wet and cool and away from the swell of inflammatory summer.

It’s raining now, I’m stepping out.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature (Crea)

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