Chapter 2 re: life, the universe, and everything.
Created | Updated Mar 7, 2002
click here to return to chapter one: http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/classic/A704909
CHAPTER TWO:
stillness at the heart of the rose
like the silence at the heart of the Cosmos
speaks of things unseen
yet dimly known
unknown
yet strangely felt
and i
clown princess of trans
stumbling through life like a drunkard
directionless
for the most part
with only one goal
to be whole
a goal I shall never reach
for those who teach
have not learned
from the stillness
nor the silence
at the heart
of the god.
---Cassandra Morrison
"The Voice of the Silence
*********************************************************************
April 13, 2001
Friday
Of late I find myself growing less and less interested in the question: "What causes Gender Dysphoria?" By which I
mean that I don't really care whether or not it is a physical proble, a psychological problem, or both. In the end it doesn't really matter because, you see, the fact of my transsexual state is something I have to cope with...no matter what the answer may eventually turn out to be. The question that I am beginning to deal with now, though,
is: "Why am I a Transsexual?" In other words: "What did this soul do that it should receive this particular form of karmic retribution during this particular incarnation?" Or more simply: "Why me and not somebody else?"
I can't be the first one to have personalized the question in this way...I know...I know...but, then, no one else's answer would or could be valid for me! I find myself in the position of the Christian Mystic who said: "Of what use, Gabriel, is your message to Mary---unless you bring the exact same message to me?" Or, paraphrasing a question the disciples once asked of Jesus: "Who hath sinned: this girl, or her parents, that she should be born into the wrong body?"
Because, when you get right down to it, this is the question that demands an answer. And it is one that never even gets asked...not, at least, at any of the transgender support groups I have been involved with. Everybody there is so concerned with why society treats them like outsiders that they never pause to ask the simple question "Why was I put in this position to begin with?"
Thus:
I
A sojourner of Night
(Afraid of Light)
Creature of the lonely ill-lit walks
Who baulks
At clean and well-lit places
(Afraid of Faces)
The Blessed Ones
Who linger there beyond despair
And leave me to my dim-lit walks
Where Self engages Self in Talks
How my life could run differently
(If only I were not like me)
Thus:
A Cross-Sexed Angel cloaked in Night
(Afraid of Light)
Concealed from Crowds by fogs and clouds
Too proud
(Or scared)
To talk in shared
Confidences of our painful status
What Power made us
Thus?
---Night Angel by Cassandra Morrison
The question begins with a perception, though...doesn't it? The problem wouldn't even arise unless a) I perceived myself as being somehow different from those with whom I came in contact and b) others, in their turn, perceived me as being somehow different from them. Unless these two criteria are met then one can not say that the difference I feel is a real or absolute difference. Others must also perceive it. So, then, do others perceive me as being different? Yes, they do NOW: those who knew me both before and after my transition certainly see me as different.
That's not what I'm trying to get at.
What I am trying to discover is if they sensed something different about me before my transition began. Did my friends from those distant days of Childhood know what they saw when they saw me?
"Well, yeah, now that you mention it," Joe-Bob says in answer to my question, scratching his red neck as he launches a graceful squirt of tobacco juice into his nephew's goldfish bowl. "I allus kinda figgered yew-all fer a pansy."
Well, there you have it---confirmation of my inner perceptions by
an outside observer!!!
Now I am ready to confront God.
Saturday, April 14, 2001
As I clamber up Mount Sinai I realize (among other things) that stiletto heels and fish-net stockings are probably not the best garb for mountaineering, but I press on, nonetheless, for I want some answers here! Ah! There it is: in that cleft just above and to my right. A bush that burns yet is not consumed. "Yahweh!" I cry. "It is I...thy daughter Cassandra! I would have speech with thee!"
I wait half hopefully and half fearfully for a response. Will the old Collector of Foreskins talk to me or will he blast me to nothingness as I stand. Then from the Burning Bush comes a Voice:
"We're sorry...no one is available to take your call...please leave your name and number at the tone and We will get back to you as soon as possible...the (ahem) Recording Angel."
I am growing old before my time...and it is through no fault of my own...you understand that, right? Right? I mean...for years I was taught that "God is Watching!" He notices even the fall of the lowliest sparrow" I mean....all that omniscience BS...and then to find out that He's out to lunch! It is aggravating to say the least. Does this Collector of Foreskins really suppose that I have nothing else to do but hang around waiting for Him to finish His coffee break?
Spurned by the Bush That Burns I turned back down the mountainside in righteous wrath and much huffiness. For 40 Days
and Nights in White Satin I did Wander in the Wilderness surviving on HoHos and Wild Honey and it was during this time that the Devil came to me and tempted me. And some of the time he had the appearance of Brad Pitt...and some of the time did he look like Harrison Ford...but always and always his Voice was the Voice of Sean Connery.
"If thou beist Transgendered then command these Tumbleweeds that they be made razors!"
"It is written," said I. "That Pre-Ops shall not live by Gillette alone...but by every word of that proceedeth out of the mouth of Harry Benjamin!"
Then the Devil took me up on a high mountain and showed me all the Frederick's' of Hollywood. "Worship me," said he, and all this lingerie shall be yours!"
"It is writ..." I began. "Er...did you say ALL?"
And the Devil nodded and he laughed...and I laughed and nodded. And I did worship Lucifer there in the Wilderness.
I spent the major part of my formative years in fasting and prayer...praying that He would remove these "evil inclinations towards femininity" from me and make me normal! I fasted, I tell you...and I prayed...and occasionally I "sinned" (as the Scripture would have it) by once again putting on women's clothing...after which I would feel guilty, AND depressed, AND suicidal, and I would pray yet again. "Oh, Father, in the name of thine Only Begotten Son, Our Lord, Jesus Christ, make me normal, I beg thee!"
Nothing.
Finally, one day, it came to me...God is either: a) Dead, or He never existed in the first place.
b) The sort of sadistic monster who sets some up to fail just because He occasionally gets bored. OR
c) He, She, or It is not the God of the Holy Bible at all and whatever He, She, or It may be (S)he does not care that I am a Transsexual. In fact, that is precisely what (S)he wanted me to be from the Beginning.
Alternative 1: That God is Dead (or never existed). I have no logical reason for dismissing this possibility. It just feels wrong. As I behold the Multiverse in all its beauty and complexity I cannot believe that it was created by that legendary Riverboat Gambler: Random Chance.
Alternative Two: God really is the sort of sadistic, etc. etc. If this alternative is the true one than clearly God is not worth wasting my time on. So the hell with what He wants...time to carpe that old diem!!!
Alternative Three: There is a God, alright, but She has nothing to do with that book called The Bible at all. She is something entirely different and much more wonderful. (We'll come back to this later).
Interlude:
"Have I said it before am learning to see. Yes, I am beginning. It still goes badly. But I intend to make the most of my time. To think, for instance, that I have never been aware before how many faces there are. There are quantities of human beings, but there are many more faces, for each person has several. There are people who wear the same face for years; naturally it wears out, it gets dirty, it splits at the folds, it stretches, like gloves one has worn on a
journey. These are thrifty, simple people; they do not change their face, they never even have it cleaned. It is good enough, they say, and who can prove to them the contrary? The question of course, arises, since they have several faces, what do they do with the others? They store them up. Their children will wear them. But sometimes, too, it happens that their dogs go out with them on. And why not? A face is a face.
"Other people put their faces on, one after the other, with uncanny rapidity and wear them out. At first it seems to them
they are provided for always; but they scarcely reach forty---and they have come to the last. This naturally has something tragic. They are not accustomed to taking care of faces, their last is worn through in a week, has holes, and in many places is as thin as paper; and then little by little the under layer, the no-face comes through, and they go about with that."
---Rainer Maria Rilke
The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.
click here to go to chapter three: http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/classic/A706169
CHAPTER TWO:
stillness at the heart of the rose
like the silence at the heart of the Cosmos
speaks of things unseen
yet dimly known
unknown
yet strangely felt
and i
clown princess of trans
stumbling through life like a drunkard
directionless
for the most part
with only one goal
to be whole
a goal I shall never reach
for those who teach
have not learned
from the stillness
nor the silence
at the heart
of the god.
---Cassandra Morrison
"The Voice of the Silence
*********************************************************************
April 13, 2001
Friday
Of late I find myself growing less and less interested in the question: "What causes Gender Dysphoria?" By which I
mean that I don't really care whether or not it is a physical proble, a psychological problem, or both. In the end it doesn't really matter because, you see, the fact of my transsexual state is something I have to cope with...no matter what the answer may eventually turn out to be. The question that I am beginning to deal with now, though,
is: "Why am I a Transsexual?" In other words: "What did this soul do that it should receive this particular form of karmic retribution during this particular incarnation?" Or more simply: "Why me and not somebody else?"
I can't be the first one to have personalized the question in this way...I know...I know...but, then, no one else's answer would or could be valid for me! I find myself in the position of the Christian Mystic who said: "Of what use, Gabriel, is your message to Mary---unless you bring the exact same message to me?" Or, paraphrasing a question the disciples once asked of Jesus: "Who hath sinned: this girl, or her parents, that she should be born into the wrong body?"
Because, when you get right down to it, this is the question that demands an answer. And it is one that never even gets asked...not, at least, at any of the transgender support groups I have been involved with. Everybody there is so concerned with why society treats them like outsiders that they never pause to ask the simple question "Why was I put in this position to begin with?"
Thus:
I
A sojourner of Night
(Afraid of Light)
Creature of the lonely ill-lit walks
Who baulks
At clean and well-lit places
(Afraid of Faces)
The Blessed Ones
Who linger there beyond despair
And leave me to my dim-lit walks
Where Self engages Self in Talks
How my life could run differently
(If only I were not like me)
Thus:
A Cross-Sexed Angel cloaked in Night
(Afraid of Light)
Concealed from Crowds by fogs and clouds
Too proud
(Or scared)
To talk in shared
Confidences of our painful status
What Power made us
Thus?
---Night Angel by Cassandra Morrison
The question begins with a perception, though...doesn't it? The problem wouldn't even arise unless a) I perceived myself as being somehow different from those with whom I came in contact and b) others, in their turn, perceived me as being somehow different from them. Unless these two criteria are met then one can not say that the difference I feel is a real or absolute difference. Others must also perceive it. So, then, do others perceive me as being different? Yes, they do NOW: those who knew me both before and after my transition certainly see me as different.
That's not what I'm trying to get at.
What I am trying to discover is if they sensed something different about me before my transition began. Did my friends from those distant days of Childhood know what they saw when they saw me?
"Well, yeah, now that you mention it," Joe-Bob says in answer to my question, scratching his red neck as he launches a graceful squirt of tobacco juice into his nephew's goldfish bowl. "I allus kinda figgered yew-all fer a pansy."
Well, there you have it---confirmation of my inner perceptions by
an outside observer!!!
Now I am ready to confront God.
Saturday, April 14, 2001
As I clamber up Mount Sinai I realize (among other things) that stiletto heels and fish-net stockings are probably not the best garb for mountaineering, but I press on, nonetheless, for I want some answers here! Ah! There it is: in that cleft just above and to my right. A bush that burns yet is not consumed. "Yahweh!" I cry. "It is I...thy daughter Cassandra! I would have speech with thee!"
I wait half hopefully and half fearfully for a response. Will the old Collector of Foreskins talk to me or will he blast me to nothingness as I stand. Then from the Burning Bush comes a Voice:
"We're sorry...no one is available to take your call...please leave your name and number at the tone and We will get back to you as soon as possible...the (ahem) Recording Angel."
I am growing old before my time...and it is through no fault of my own...you understand that, right? Right? I mean...for years I was taught that "God is Watching!" He notices even the fall of the lowliest sparrow" I mean....all that omniscience BS...and then to find out that He's out to lunch! It is aggravating to say the least. Does this Collector of Foreskins really suppose that I have nothing else to do but hang around waiting for Him to finish His coffee break?
Spurned by the Bush That Burns I turned back down the mountainside in righteous wrath and much huffiness. For 40 Days
and Nights in White Satin I did Wander in the Wilderness surviving on HoHos and Wild Honey and it was during this time that the Devil came to me and tempted me. And some of the time he had the appearance of Brad Pitt...and some of the time did he look like Harrison Ford...but always and always his Voice was the Voice of Sean Connery.
"If thou beist Transgendered then command these Tumbleweeds that they be made razors!"
"It is written," said I. "That Pre-Ops shall not live by Gillette alone...but by every word of that proceedeth out of the mouth of Harry Benjamin!"
Then the Devil took me up on a high mountain and showed me all the Frederick's' of Hollywood. "Worship me," said he, and all this lingerie shall be yours!"
"It is writ..." I began. "Er...did you say ALL?"
And the Devil nodded and he laughed...and I laughed and nodded. And I did worship Lucifer there in the Wilderness.
I spent the major part of my formative years in fasting and prayer...praying that He would remove these "evil inclinations towards femininity" from me and make me normal! I fasted, I tell you...and I prayed...and occasionally I "sinned" (as the Scripture would have it) by once again putting on women's clothing...after which I would feel guilty, AND depressed, AND suicidal, and I would pray yet again. "Oh, Father, in the name of thine Only Begotten Son, Our Lord, Jesus Christ, make me normal, I beg thee!"
Nothing.
Finally, one day, it came to me...God is either: a) Dead, or He never existed in the first place.
b) The sort of sadistic monster who sets some up to fail just because He occasionally gets bored. OR
c) He, She, or It is not the God of the Holy Bible at all and whatever He, She, or It may be (S)he does not care that I am a Transsexual. In fact, that is precisely what (S)he wanted me to be from the Beginning.
Alternative 1: That God is Dead (or never existed). I have no logical reason for dismissing this possibility. It just feels wrong. As I behold the Multiverse in all its beauty and complexity I cannot believe that it was created by that legendary Riverboat Gambler: Random Chance.
Alternative Two: God really is the sort of sadistic, etc. etc. If this alternative is the true one than clearly God is not worth wasting my time on. So the hell with what He wants...time to carpe that old diem!!!
Alternative Three: There is a God, alright, but She has nothing to do with that book called The Bible at all. She is something entirely different and much more wonderful. (We'll come back to this later).
Interlude:
"Have I said it before am learning to see. Yes, I am beginning. It still goes badly. But I intend to make the most of my time. To think, for instance, that I have never been aware before how many faces there are. There are quantities of human beings, but there are many more faces, for each person has several. There are people who wear the same face for years; naturally it wears out, it gets dirty, it splits at the folds, it stretches, like gloves one has worn on a
journey. These are thrifty, simple people; they do not change their face, they never even have it cleaned. It is good enough, they say, and who can prove to them the contrary? The question of course, arises, since they have several faces, what do they do with the others? They store them up. Their children will wear them. But sometimes, too, it happens that their dogs go out with them on. And why not? A face is a face.
"Other people put their faces on, one after the other, with uncanny rapidity and wear them out. At first it seems to them
they are provided for always; but they scarcely reach forty---and they have come to the last. This naturally has something tragic. They are not accustomed to taking care of faces, their last is worn through in a week, has holes, and in many places is as thin as paper; and then little by little the under layer, the no-face comes through, and they go about with that."
---Rainer Maria Rilke
The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.
click here to go to chapter three: http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/classic/A706169
