I want to ask how we ended up with the racist party who wants to build up the (French) suburbs and keep out immigrants, but I’m not even surprised. I’m just glad I quit my warehouse job, I guess. I’m thankful for the air I have been able to breathe into my lungs, the lessening of the tightness, the aching that seems to traverse my whole body with increasing regularity.
I see the despair everywhere and I feel the despair trying to sink me like a ship and I falter at the precipice, wondering, What Even Is The Point Anymore, and then I watch a 13 minute video about baking bread that reminds me it’s about those simple, little things.

Like taking a small handful of easily accessible ingredients and performing some kitchen magic with some fresh herbs from the backyard garden and thoroughly nourishing a few people for an evening.

Fuck the government anyway. Grow food, bake bread, feed your friends. It doesn’t have to be complicated or fancy. It just has to be done with attention and care.

Skin

What a year it’s been.
And it’s just barely spring. The lilacs aren’t blooming yet, but crocuses are popping up. Whenever I see those first flowers something flutters within me, no matter where I am in my life. The cycle continues. The flowers are back. I can still grow. The world can still change.

In New York, there were flowers blooming. Back at home they’re just starting.
Move forward.
Move some shit.
Back up.
Try again.

The week in New York I am still finding words for.
I arrived with no small amount of apprehension and fear in my belly, afraid for repeats of the losses I faced the last couple of times I set foot within the bounds of The Skin Project. I considered staying away, but these people are my family, now more than ever before as I properly sever my biological blood ties and so rely exclusively on my created and chosen blood ties within these communities. It is a very, very big deal. And it’s not because of the hype, the hooks, or the rope. Although that stuff is pretty cool too.

This project changed my life. The first Skin:NY was my first introduction to the larger community of suspension, to the possibilities of it, to becoming a facilitator, to the community I’d long since given up trying to find. There I met my husband, fell in hook love and real love and had my face branded by the sun on a rooftop in Williamsburg. And nothing was ever the same again.

Of course there are challenges. Challenging people, extreme environments, high emotions and not enough sleep. You don’t always get to choose your family. I married into this one, so now we’re stuck with each other and I’d like to figure out how to make it work. I worked on that last week. I let down my guard and let someone I have not been comfortable around pierce and tie me up in a way that forced me to confront my gender dysphoria head on, mostly naked, in a room full of people. I hadn’t known what my suspension was going to be, whether I was even going to feel comfortable enough to do one, but when he presented the project to me I knew it was the one. Seven stitches in my left knee that haven’t cut through my skin yet says he took care of me. Hackles have been lowered. Tight smiles have become relaxed, more genuine. We will probably never be great friends. But we can work together, we can exist together. I can feel safe.

And that’s not even the main reason I was nervous.

The magic in that space was a real fucking thing. Being reunited with my community again and building cool shit with them nurtures my heart in a way I can’t find anywhere else. Unexpected connections and trials. I came with no specific goal except to be my best and work as much as I could and run around with the kids backstage and I got to do all those things and more. I learned so much, and somehow, I managed to let go a little bit, let people in, and learn how to stand my ground. Nothing is solved yet, but it’s moving, finally, after a long painful year of being really stuck.

We are moving. Slowly plodding on to our dreams of finally getting out of the city. It’s so much closer than it’s ever been and there’s more work than ever to do. I can’t help feeling a loss as I return home to the cold and snow, still waiting for my garden to thaw out so I can start digging around in it, still waiting for the city to breathe it’s sigh of relieve for a joyous instant before plunging into the humid festival maelstrom that is Montreal summer. While going through my contact list trying to figure out who to invite to our birthday party, I felt a pang of sadness for every name I’d just left behind and don’t know when I’ll see again. Most of the reason for the party was for us to remind ourselves we have community here that’s real and valuable. But in the end I went to bed too drunk, confused, frustrated, and woke up with a headache.

I will rest, gather my reserves, and try again tonight. And tomorrow, and next week. But honestly guys, I really don’t like my boss or my job, I’m sick of concrete and grey and all the fucking people all the time and constantly looking for new communities because people don’t take care of them and they splinter and fragment and everyone I love moves away. I am tired of chasing something so elusive. I want to put down some fucking roots and grow the damn thing.