Posted 16th August by @Eunuch_Onegin in series The Call-Out
content warnings: publishers; folding chairs
tags: manga; silence; literature; cats
A summer evening in the unwinding city.
It’s not yet dark, although the sun
is behind the buildings. Everything shitty
looks better in the dusk. The work-week’s done,
people are leaving their offices, milling
around the parks and pavements, and filling
the drinking establishment patios,
but their voices are gentle. It’s like everything slows
down on these evenings, like the air is thicker,
or the light is heavy. The barest breeze
crawls through the squares, where below the trees
the incautious fireflies hover and flicker,
gathering, as the people are gathering too,
just as incautious, with the same end in view.
Amidst all this various recreation
Kate and I are wending our way
to the anarchist bookstore that provides the location
for the trans lit reading. —“So Kate,” I say,
“What do you make of that girl, Gaia?”
—“She seems fine, I guess.” —“Oh whatever, you liar!
You loved it when she fangirled at you.”
—“I’m happy my stuff is getting through,
although it’s weird she called it satire.
I guess I make jokes. But I’m trying to not.
They’re just too safe.” —“You’re trying to what?”
—“To be more serious. Or like, my desire
is to do some writing where I don’t revoke
my meaning by making it into a joke.”
—“But like, if a piece of writing is comical
you both mean it and don’t. So the statement can be
like, denser, more complex, and more economical.”
—“I guess I’ve lost faith in ‘complexity.’
Oppression is simple.” So the conversation
continues till we reach our destination.
Meanwhile, as they move down a parallel street
Gaia is seizing the chance to entreat
Keiko to give her more information
about her work —“So like how did you start
learning to do this kind of art?
Like why is it prints? And representation?”
—“Well I like to draw.” —“Oh obviously. Sure.
but why in this style? There must be more.”
—“Well as far as why it’s realistic,
I don’t get why you wouldn’t be.
My parents are lawyers, they’re not artistic,
but how things look is just interesting to me,
When I was a kid I was always drawing . . .
but I should shut up, I’m being boring.”
—“Are you kidding? You’re a genius, you dork.
I promise, I want to hear you talk.
Like, tell me stuff. Please keep on going.”
—“Well so I’m interested in how stuff looks,
and I was really into comic books,
like, exaggeration as a means of showing
like the shapes or essences that underlie
the complexity of things, like a thing’s jittai . . .”
—“Quidditas I think is the Latin phrasing.”
—“Um, yeah. Well anyway, when I was eight
I was reading Hergé, which I thought was amazing,
and like, sure he’s racist, but his art is so great,
and also Jeff Smith, and then someone bought me,
my uncle I think, some manga, which taught me
a lot. It was different, it wasn’t from the West,
it wasn’t American. I became obsessed
with trying to draw like Taiyo Matsumoto,
Then I started to ask, where did he learn?
Did the person I’m copying copy in their turn?
One thing about drawing, why it’s different from a photo,
is that style has a history, so when you draw
you’re in touch with everyone who’s drawn before.”
—“But there’s a history of choices about style
that’s also going on in photography.”
—“That’s true. But drawing’s more versatile,
you don’t just click to turn what you see
into an image. So in terms of expressing . . .
okay, I’m a Luddite, fine, I’m confessing.
I hate photography and it isn’t fair.”
—“Oh hey, there’s the bookshop, we’re almost there.”
—“That’s kind of a pity. I liked us walking.”
—“I’m sorry, my fault! I walk too fast!
And like, you’re not wrong. About art and the past.”
—“Oh yeah. It’s weird for me, to be talking
about these opinions I usually hide . . .”
and chatting away, they go inside.
I’m already in there, unhappily seated
on a folding chair. They’re starting late.
People are standing, we’re all overheated
and sticky and smelly, and we have to wait.
The woman who seems to be organizing
keeps turning to the crowd and apologizing
—“Sorry, we’ll start as soon as we can!”
I know her a little, but I’m not a fan;
she’s always so bouncy and energetic.
Gets on my tits. She’s English too,
and she thinks she’s charming, but I see through
her act: the friendly and hyperkinetic
ingénue, who’s doing her best.
It’s exhausting. Like, lady, give it a rest.
Another twenty minutes passes:
at last the guy who owns the press
appears, in chinos and mirrored glasses,
to the evident relief of our perky hostess.
She hums in the microphone, bites her nails,
says “excuse me” a lot, and finally prevails
on the room to be quiet. —“Wow, what a crowd!
This is so exciting! Hurrah! I’m so proud!
This is such an amazing celebration
of our writing, of us, of who we are.
And now I give you, Rod François,
our publisher, and our inspiration!
Everyone, clap! Give Rod a big hand!”
and she skips away from the microphone stand.
Then Rod comes up, his glasses glistening.
He doesn’t remove them. He starts to sway.
Is he high? —“Hello. Are you all listening?
I’m glad so many of you are here today,
Because as of now, you’re part of a movement
that uses writing as a tool for the improvement
of the world! I know that of course it looks
like what we do is make great trans books,
and we do! You’ve all read Arizona?
And what did you think? Was it fucking great?
Were you like, ‘It’s a book, but I somehow relate’?
Turns out a novel about a tranny stoner
driving to Flagstaff can also be
a tool to build community!
“People think that the power of books is surprising,
like ‘it’s just a book.’ Well I’ve got news!
Books are vital. We need humanizing
depictions of ourselves, depictions we can use,
to feel okay, or make sense of our being.
Because if you’re cis, you’re used to seeing
people like you in books and on screen.
That’s normal, that’s how it’s always been.
But we have to do the work of trying
to insert ourselves, and pretend we can see
meaning in characters we could never be,
and failing, and feeling like we’re lying,
or else we conclude that books are lame
and go off to play a computer game.
“And simultaneously, we’re learning
we have nothing to say, that people of our kind,
whatever emotions we might have churning
around in our bodies, don’t have a mind:
we can’t be authors, we needn’t be respected,
at best we’re specimens to be dissected!
Know yourself, the philosophers instruct,
unless you’re trans, in which case, you’re fucked.
We’re known by others. Our prescribed aspiration
is to change ourselves, the definition of despair!
Worse yet, we don’t know what it is we share.
Because of our intellectual isolation
we’re strangers to each other, a community without
any real culture to talk about.”
He pauses, in a way that might be dramatic
or might be him just losing his thread,
strokes his glasses, then with an emphatic
gesture removes them. His eyes are red,
and sort of puffy. His pupils are tiny.
“I don’t like to sit around being a whiny
little bitch. So if something is shit
my question is what do we do about it?”
He replaces his glasses. “Our ambition,
me and my ex, when we started this thing,
was that books could be a way to bring
people together, build a coalition,
which then we could use to make real change . . .
doing this without her is really strange.”
He pauses again. “We had some friction.
But we always worked through it. We built trans lit.
Basically we invented transgender fiction!
And if you’re successful then people will shit
on you. But you know, they couldn’t ignore us.
We changed the game. What was here before us?
The problems began when things got good.
She wanted to fail. She thought she should . . .
I believed I could fix all these broken crazy
brilliant women, if I could get this press,
this book, this movement, to be a success.
Give them reasons to live. But people are lazy.
They don’t like it if you try to make them do
things for themselves. They turn on you.”
Our hostess is looking increasingly worried.
She shifts in her seat, and gestures snip-snip,
but the man doesn’t notice, or won’t be hurried:
he starts to discuss his relationship
with feminism, and with his mother
and has dropped that story, and is starting another
when she interrupts. Then one by one
she brings up the authors, who all overrun
their allotted times. It’s like they’re competing
to be the most boring. One reads in a drone,
one can’t seem to find her story on her phone,
one tells us she’s discovered, after completing
an online test, she’s part Cherokee,
then reads a piece about astrology.
Then there’s a lady who insists on silence
for three whole minutes, to commemorate
“our murdered sisters.” The only violence
I find myself able to contemplate
is against her person. At last they’re finished.
our hostess, her energy undiminished,
makes us all clap. She’s a maniac.
Gaia and Keiko are standing at the back
so they get out quickly. Gaia is barely
containing her excitement. —“Come on, let’s move!
Bits ‘n’ Tits! Let’s get in the groove.
It’s an all-trans night! That happens so rarely,
but when it does, it’s always so fun!”
She swings from a sign, and takes off at a run.
Keiko hesitates, but just for a flicker,
then she laughs, and starts to run as well.
Gaia has a lead, but Keiko’s quicker:
the two of them speed down the street pell-mell,
Keiko overtakes, Gaia grabs her fingers,
she spins around, the moment lingers,
then Gaia laughs, and Keiko does too.
—“Oh Keiko,” Gaia says, “I have fun with you.
You’re fun and interesting and clever.
I’m glad you came. We talk about stuff.
Like real ideas. I don’t do that enough.”
—“I’m glad as well! I’d normally never
attend an event with ‘health’ in the name.”
—“Oh my god, yeah. Health is so lame!”
—“It is!” —“But it’s really for socializing.”
—“Right! And socializing’s healthy for me.
Which, given the fact I’m criticizing
this conference for its health, is an irony.
But it’s joy, not health, that I desire:
and I like you too. I like you, Gaia.”
She blushes. And then they’re at the queue
and someone’s shouting —“Hey! You two!”
It’s Baker. He’s drunk. His enunciation
is careful and heavy. “I’ve got VIP.
I’ll get you in.” They’re about to agree,
when a very unfortunate realization
dawns on Keiko —“I forgot my ID!
I’ll have to go get it from the Airbnb!”
Back at the reading, I’m stuck and surrounded
by a surging crowd in the tiny room.
All the readers are being hounded
by fans, who seem to want to consume
them whole, as if their temporary glamour
could be gnawed and digested. My god, the clamor!
I’m so desperate to leave I even ignore
the table of wine, as I push to the door,
though I notice that Day is standing by it
quaffing some rosé, and talking at
a lady who read about her cat.
I hear Day tell her —“You should try it!”
That’s Day. I think. She’ll always try
too hard, and it makes things go awry.
At least this writer, who’s slightly older
than most of the others, pale and tall,
with straight blond hair that falls to her shoulder
(the only half-decent reader of all)
is being indulgent, or perhaps forbearing,
listening to whatever Day is sharing,
(boast, contention, confession of sin,
appeal for approval?) with a cryptic grin.
Outside, Kate grabs me, and starts advancing
away down the street. “Let’s go back to that park,”
she suggests, “we can sit on a bench in the dark.
Decompress for a bit, before we go dancing.”
—“You mean the square?” —“The square, yeah, right.
It looked like a nice place to be at night.”
And it is. We do a little exploring
and inspect the fireflies, the trees, the moon,
then sit. I say —“That event was boring,
and Rod François is such a buffoon.
So much vaunting, so little attainment.
So shoddy! They call that entertainment?
We get it, you’re representing our womanhood
but your work still has to actually be good.”
Kate laughs. —“Oh please, relax with the judging.
They’re young. I’m sure they’re working on it.
And Arizona’s good, you have to admit.”
—“It’s okay,” I say. I’m being begrudging.
Actually I loved it. —“You loved it,” Kate says.
“You wouldn’t shut up about it for days.”
She knows me so well. And she’s not mistaken.
I am ridiculous. She looks in my eyes,
and I look in hers, and I feel quite shaken.
It’s like all of a sudden we recognize
each other, at last. What are we doing?
We’re friends, we’re mates, we shouldn’t be screwing
that up! And then I say —“Um, Kate,”
and she says, —“Yes,” and the rest is fate,
or choice, or whatever. First there’s the leaning,
the touching of hands, the —“Hang on, this . . .”,
the —“I know, it isn’t . . .”, and then the kiss.
It’s just a moment, it has no meaning,
no-one knows, and it’s over so soon,
Surrounded by fireflies, lit by the moon.