Confinement

I woke up thinking of a class I took in grad school called, "Imprisonment and the Dramatic Imagination." We read texts by prisoners, e.g. Eldridge Cleaver's Soul on Ice, texts written from the "prison" of a mind gone mad, such as Antonin Artaud; as well as other interpretations of what it means to be imprisoned. I wanted to be careful not to romanticize imprisonment but at the same time I found the concept of being locked up --dependent on another for basic support -- really appealing, and in a way, freeing.

At the time I took the class I had two very young children and my creativity was restricted to whenever I could catch a moment to write: at 5am; or if both miraculously napped; or if I could keep my eyes opened past their bedtime.... Most of my academic and creative work sat in my mind and I held on to it, playing it over and over until I could get it down on paper. I was confined by the demands of motherhood, which I took very seriously because I was a nervous mother, with no real understanding of the maternal instinct, and certain that if I didn't construct the meaning of "mother" as I went along, I would fall down on the job.

That was also the time I came out. I did not come out as a lesbian because I did not desire sameness; I came out as a femme who wanted a butch. That was after spending years in the NYU library, from the confines of heterosexuality, figuring out what exactly I was.

If one could choose moments to do life-transforming events, my moments have been the most impractical. That's true when I moved to NYC from LA (no place to live, tenuous job); got pregnant with my daughter (4 months before my wedding so that I had to buy another wedding dress); started college as an undergraduate (with a baby and toddler, ridiculously expensive college); came out (right after I started college, couldn't afford to live on my own, had two young children); moved to Northampton (gave up a college teaching job with a future, left NYC to write a dissertation that relied on being in NYC); got married to a butch partner and then divorced (too complicated to sum up in parentheses); sold my house in Northampton (the worst seller's market ever, so broke I had to sell to greedy wenches); moved to NYC (in June -- can't re-start a personal training or freelance copyediting business when all of NYC is in the Hamptons).

There is a reason I've done things this way. Partly it's impatience. Partly it's waiting until I have to do something fast and then my choices are limited. And partly it's because I've had a fairy tale desire to be taken care of, to be dependent on another, to be submissive to a dominant person. I never played out this fairy tale with men. With men I was pragmatic, in charge of everything from the bank account to sex.

But from the time I was a child I wanted to be enveloped in female flesh while being kissed at the door by a boy. I wanted chivarly and breasts; machismo and cunt. These desires eventually merged in the form of butch lovers, and it was in a butch that I looked for a caretaker, a dad/mom/lover/husband.

Some might think this desire is imprisoning. It is. It's about giving up freedom for a never-certain trust. It's the core of sadomasochistic relationships, a willingness to put aside autonomy for a moment of rapture. Though I would not characterize my relationships as s/m because degradation does not appeal to me, I have been submissive to another person while turning a blind eye to the dangers lurking. I've handed over my body, my heart, my wordly goods, my peace-of-mind, for the deep deep wish that I would be enveloped in safety and be loved and be known.

I have come out of it feeling like a sacrifice. I've given up a lot and finally, finally understood that everyone is looking for someone they can lean on. There is no dominance there is no submission there is no daddy mommy father caretaker god; everyone is vulnerable, fragile, frail. There is only pretending, and then you get up and put your clothes back on.

I am Isaac. He did not defy Abraham and leave the altar. Rather he followed him, who he trusted and loved, and was willingly led right to danger. And in the end everyone is vulnerable. No one is in charge. Not even the character of God and his ridiculous game. Everyone is motivated by their narcissistic needs. And everyone is fucked. God is a pricktease not giving Abraham the thrill he seeks; Abraham is a sociopath; and Isaac will lie down for anyone, as long as he is adored. That is an erotic story; biblical pornography.

There is still some part of me that craves the confines of dependency, but I know it's a myth. I've learned after all these decades of crawling out from under bad or just the wrong decisions and starting again and making it work, that the person I can depend on most is myself, as cliche as that sounds. I'm still a femme, still submissive, still a bottom, but I've found that when I impose my own restraints, my own framework for how I want my life to work, I am the most creative and productive and free.

The windows and doors of my apartment