03 November 2000 ~ Norman, my wonderful freak, and being free as a bird...

I woke up shortly after Norman left his apartment for class. I lay snuggled up in his blankets for a little while, then got bored, went to the bathroom, had some orange juice, and pulled a random book off one of his shelves.

The thing that pisses me off about queer-theory books is that they all sound the same and none of them sound like me. Even the bisexual ones are, "oh, I love women and men, but mostly men, but that doesn't mean I'm not bi, so don't oppress me." The gay ones are "fuck you, I am too gay, and I have a long-term lover to prove it. Oh yeah, and I had a long and difficult coming-out process." There are no books for me, a straight female faggot with occasional moderate-to-intense crushes on women... Seems to me that queer-theorists are trying to prove something to themselves with most of this crap, and it also seems they're not really buying into what they're saying, or they wouldn't be so angry about it.

I put Norman's books back and did my best to put them out of my head.

I stood in the middle of Norman's empty apartment, looking over his belongings with affection: his guitars, and sheet music strewn all over, and books everywhere: some with nice plain titles, and others that are nearly incomprehensible. From what he's shown me, the incomprehenisble ones are the ones with all the underlines and check-marks in them. Of course, that thought made me smile.

Norman fascinates me. It may seem that this statement doesn't have much meaning; after all, I'm the one who's fascinated by fucking EVERYTHING: orange juice, Denny's, spaceships, coffee, queer-theory, chocolate chips, Ann Landers... you name it, it fascinates me... But Norman fascinates me more. Every time I get the idea that I have some idea about who he is and who we are when we're together, he does something completely unexpected. Not just something kinda weird, but something that completely juxtaposes everything I think I know about him. And I love it.

We went to the zoo last weekend. Norman sang a little song to a bison (I'll not reprint it here; it might be copyrighted) and decided to found an organization along the lines of "Be Nice To Two-Toed Sloths," after telling a two-toed sloth to "rock on" and giving it the "Satan Rules" hand signal. Ordinarily, one would never think of these tricks as a method of impressing one's girlfriend, but it worked.

Last night, after Norman gave me a private performance of a little rap he wrote in high school, we decided to meet up with a group of our friends, during which I would proclaim something like, "I love this bar more than almost anything. Except orange juice and Norman's penis." Yeah, it's badly constructed and pretty crude, but I couldn't help giggling.

You're such a freak... I love you so much...

I stood, this morning, in Norman's living room, letting my eyes roam around, and feeling a happy, sleepy, snuggly affection for everything around me. As he'd gotten dressed and run off to catch his bus this morning, I tried to articulate the profound sense of cheesy glee I felt by just listening to him shower, and dash around looking for his stuff. I couldn't think of quite what to say, and I was still half-asleep, so I didn't say anything, just smiled to myself.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The closer I feel to Norman, the less constricted I feel about my entire life. In the moments before I left his apartment for my own, I thought:

I could go home right now, pack a photograph, an old blue notebook and a few hundred dollars into my bookbag, grab an extra sweater, and disappear. I could hitchhike to New Orleans. I could take a bus to visit my friends Brian and Neil in Seattle, and then disappear from their lives again as suddenly as I'd appeared on their respective doorsteps. I could just simply run off. Or, I could hide in my apartment for days and days, and no one would come looking for me, except maybe Norman or Aaron or my mom. I feel very free. I am free and I am alive, and I don't have anything tying me down except minimum wage employment and bills that are almost under control.

I can leave everything behind me if I want -- all the stupid books and notebooks and furniture and toiletries and clothes. I don't really care much about clinging to my belongings or my surroundings. They don't make me feel secure so much as they limit me. They tie me to my weird little past of weird little lovers and weird little friends, and weird little escapades and a lot of longing for something better. I have something better now, and I'm not afraid it will leave me or die. My entire life is actually okay. I don't really need adult supervision. I don't really HAVE anybody in particular watching out for me. I don't have a school nurse or a mom to run to if I have a fever. I don't have a dad to run to for money and talks about sex. Nobody's taking care of me, and nobody's holding me down.

Fucking FREE... Fucking, independent. Kind of, almost, a little bit, grown up.

"...Cause I'm free as a bird now... And this bird you cannot chain..." --Skynyrd

I like that feeling. I like it a lot.

Love and juxtaposition...
~Helena*