20 October 2009
Today ended in another one of those beautiful autumn sunsets, like the one I saw yesterday. The difference was that I saw it on my way to work, or more precisely, while running errands on my way to work. Then I taught my night class. They're a good group of students, but sometimes I wonder whether I'm boring or whether they're working very hard during the day: I feel, at times, as if they're going to fall asleep on me.
Hey, putting people to sleep isn't in my job description. I'm not an anaesthesiologist, you know.
I'm thinking, again, of "Jeanne Genet"s comment a few days ago. She was talking about relationships formed during intense transitions: They tend not to survive once the transition is complete, or at least has reached a plateau. (Sometimes I think of what Jean Valentine told me about writing a poem: You never finish it; you only abandon it. Sometimes I think that applies to transitions, as well as many other things in life!)
I wonder if her insight explains something else I've described in a previous post or two. I am talking about the passage of time, or at least the way I've been experiencing it. For some reason, last Spring--when I was only a few months before my surgery--seems like lifetimes, or even aeons, ago. I feel sometimes as if it's the life of someone I'd always heard of but who were elsewhere, whether in this world or another.
Perhaps I have to get to work on developing the Tranny Theory of Relativity. I knew that the surgery would be a point of demarcation: Life Before and Life After. Except that this seems to be the inverse of the physical laws I know about.
In any case, it may be that, as per Jeanne, a lot of what I had and developed as a young male or in my transition is no longer neccesary or useful and I'm moving on. Of course, what you're moving away from seems further away than that which is scarcely, if at all, visible.