notes from the nice side of the fence

I turn on the tap and check the water, then pour in some Dr. Bronner soap, Eucalyptus. if it came to that, I’d give up coffeeshopping to be able to afford my Magic Soap. luckily it doesn’t quite come to that. though who knows what I’m indirectly missing out on on account of my coffeeshopping (and soap). I check my bank account - if there’s money there I use it, if not I don’t.

I put my foot in and it tells me that the water’s too hot. I find myself thinking about the water and where it comes from. am I being wasteful? would taking a shower use up less water than a shallow wash in the bath? is it more important that I save up water in my home, or that the government explores alternatives like recycling and desalination, many of which are avoided for political reasons? I don’t know. I turn the tap off as soon as I have enough.

I soak in, and my mind drifts to the future day’s activities. I’ll write that email, submit that application form, work on that song, translate that book. all of which will involve sitting at my laptop, while something I tend to think of as “real life” will be going on outside; on the streets, in offices, in bars and cafes, in checkpoints and refugee camps. I am struck by how little I actually live. so many hours of my days are consumed by sitting across from a computer screen, and the ones that are not mostly involve maintenance and upkeep to that end, like cooking and making tea so that I can keep going. sometimes even meeting a friend for lunch is just a respite from this routine, a charge-up. I converse with people online, I do my learning online, I do much of my paid work online, I make my art online - I even do most of my political protest online. it’s all by proxy.

I live my life not in reality, but in representations of reality. is this significant? is this wrong, or unhealthy? did I choose to live like this? when was the last time something actually happened, I ask myself. as response, my mind gives me images from the events of the weekend - housewarming, clubbing, weekend papers, sex (with other people, for a change). surely, leaving the house and meeting someone is more sensual than talking to them on skype, and therefore more real, more meaningful. surely, ranting on the Occupation at a house party is more effective and powerful than doing so on facebook. it moves things. it makes things happen - faster, better.

but hang on a minute, I tell myself as I rub my scalp. what is this duality about? I mean, what is this “real life” I’ve so readily idealized? does it even exist? when I meet a friend and listen to them speak and watch their body movements, am I experiencing what’s “real”, or just a representation of something I can never have any access to in the first place? I hear the sounds coming out of their mouths and I attach them to words I’m familiar with. I then attach those words to meanings, and I go on to attach those meanings to stories from my experience that match them. I call this “understanding”. but what did I understand? I just constructed a story about what is happening in the moment of the conversation (“where did she get that scar?”, “why is he being so nervous?”, “how long have we been sitting here?”, “is it hot in here?”), and about the narratives that I’m hearing (“she’s taking too long to grieve”, “he shouldn’t have done that”, “she’s being too pushy about this”, “he’s so adorable”). not only that, but even when I’m relatively free from my own interpretations, I still rely entirely on my subjective imagination to relate to another person. someone tells me they’re upset about getting dumped, and I imagine what heartbreak must feel like. I conjure images from my past or theirs (which I can only imagine). I hear songs about breakups and see tear-jerking movie scenes. I look at their reddening eyes and connect them to all those things, and I say “oh you poor thing”. so what I react to is not reality. I react to my interpretation, based on an experience that can only ever be mine. much like I would to a blog entry or a status message. even when a hand touches my skin, when fresh air enters my nostrils, when my muscles ache from running - it’s all I ever do, all I ever can do. all my life I’ve been trapped behind these eyes. the internet, like everything else, is just another little reminder of this. it’s here to wake us up to what we already know - there is no world outside of thought. there is no pain or pleasure outside of thought. we live inside our own representations.

I get out the bath and look outside the window. I make tea and sit down to write. it’s a life.

my stockings are sliding down my legs as I plod around the club in my unlaced boots. I’m not in drag per se, I just tried to bring something out in me for the occasion using clothes I’m not very used to wearing. “artist area”. I get to be in the artist area! that’s a first. venues I play never have artist areas. there’s no backstage, I just step back to the nearest table or escape outdoors with a friend who smokes. I always think of that as a really good exercise in switching. transitioning. there’s very little time, or space, to descend from whatever heights I might find myself during a show. it’s like, back to earth. bang, here it is. and I’ve come to see that as a good thing. but anyway - stockings. I pull away the curtain dividing drunk revelers in their costumes from the select team of entertainers for the night, which includes myself, a few drag artists and a one-night-only 3-piece rock band. we’re here for Wigged, a club party/concert in tribute to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which I absolutely love.

“artist area” turns out to be not a whole lot of fun. it’s dark, the vodka’s gone, and the few seats are occupied by couples snogging and a pile of bags that people left behind in the absence of a proper cloakroom. but Diva D is there and she helps me to pull up my nylons until they reach my crotch again. “if you have another pair of underwear you might wanna wear them on top to keep it there.” why didn’t I think of that? hmm. we trod on to the stage and I look around on the way. everyone looks very happy. I like that. I play my cover of “Sugar Daddy”.

after I play I break a sweat carefully moving my piano back to the store room (a chore I wouldn’t delegate for the sake of suspending anyone’s disbelief) and then walk back to the bar, rewarding myself with a bit of ice-cold vodka. I turn around to the dancefloor and lean with my elbows back on the bar. everyone’s still happy. dancing. and I smile, feeling completely need-less.

I had a phone conversation a few months ago with a Palestinian friend of mine who lives in the UK. from the few Muslim people I know, he is certainly one of the more devout - married young, doesn’t drink, prays, the works. I don’t usually find myself connecting with people of certain lifestyles, but this guy had such a fierce and thirsty intellect when I first met him, and combined with his profound all-round kindness his friendship was just irresistible. it’s a privilege to know him.

so we talked about this and that, and eventually the conversation steered to sexuality, as it does and has done before, which I’ve always felt was a kind of last frontier in our relationship - after all, if my drinking and swearing didn’t make me a dirty heathen, surely my man-on-man tendencies would, right? it was never so much a no-go zone in our chats, but more like a drop-by-but-don’t-stay-for-tea kind of zone. so that’s ok, you know, we all have our assumptions about each other. and then he says:

“you know, Shahaf, I’ve been thinking about this lately and I figured - I mean, Allah gives life to everything. nothing excluded. so if he gives life to those people [non-straights] it must mean that that’s the way it should be. so I’m fine with that.”

an internal “wow” put a very big smile on my face. this was music to my ears. what is, is. what do we get for arguing with it? what do we get for thinking we know why something is? the terror of facing an undesirable future. the hurtful manipulations we put our children through. the energy wasted on efforts to fight, to silence - against things that may only benefit, in the long run, from our attempts. but what my friend discovered was the other option. and as an afterthought to that initial “wow”, I thought, true Islam. this is true Islam, it is true surrender. surrendering to the will of God. true humility. and that’s not to say that he would not hurt if his son or daughter ever came out as gay, nor is it to say that he condones the idea of homosexuality. but evidently, this is a man who is awake to reality, and who is able to notice two things: that acceptance and support are not the same, and that accepting things makes a lot more sense than arguing with them.

in recent months I am finding that much of the stuff I thought I knew, I actually don’t. and that has been really liberating because I see that I cannot hold myself responsible for stuff I don’t really know about. it’s a shame that there seems to be such a widespread bias against not-knowing. but then I don’t even really know that such a bias exists. at least in my life it always did. for example, I always thought I had to make decisions. I thought that that’s how my life ran, and everyone else’s, by the power of calculated intention. it only took a closer look to realize that actually, in my life, things have a way of happening and then I either know what to do, or I don’t. when I know, there’s no decision to make, I just do it. when I don’t, there’s still no decision to make. I have my stand: I don’t know. and yes, to some things, especially those fleeting by, a non-yes is usually a no. not knowing whether to board a train usually means not boarding it, unless I notice that I’m on it. and not knowing might not be a good enough reason to board it. so there’s my decision, and I didn’t even have to make it. either I’m on the train, or not. I could torment myself for months over the need to make a decision about something, or I could accept that I just don’t know - either way, I’m not making it, and life happens. when I know, I know; when I don’t, I don’t. and it changes all the time without me doing anything. tomorrow something might happen, and suddenly I’ll know. or not.

so I was looking at my parents the other day, and then I heard myself saying: “mom, dad - just wondering, what would be the thing I did in my life that would bring you the most joy and happiness? what one thing would you be most satisfied with?”

it was a trick question, of course, because it assumed their own happiness can ever depend on something I do, which in reality would not be true. but I trusted them to know whether it was true or not for them, and had a strong feeling that it was. I did not expect a “son, you’re already so perfect and amazing that we cannot imagine anything you can do that would make us any happier than we are.”

it didn’t take them long.

mom said having children. dad said marrying a woman (and, he promptly added, having children with her).

so I said “hmm. okay. thanks.” and went back to my apple sauce.

I did not see a problem with this little exchange until I described it to a friend of mine who was slightly shocked: “how insensitive! they know you’re not straight, right?”

they do know I’m not straight. but insensitive? not at all, I said. I mean, what would be kinder, if they lied to me about how they really felt? at least this way I know what I’m dealing with here. if ever I went for selling a million records and filling up Carnegie Hall, well, now I know I had better not do it for them, because impressed they might be, ecstatic - hardly. in fact, they might even disapprove if my career deferred me from procreation. so now I know what not to expect. and in the less-than-likely event that I did feel like marrying a woman, I now know that my parents would be the right people to ask to cover expenses. it would bring them so much pleasure. and not only that, but if said impulse does arise it would probably be less of a muddle separating between my own passions and theirs, as subliminally conveyed through coercion over years of upbringing. until I just came out and asked right up. now I can be very clear about our differences: they have an ideology regarding my future, and I don’t. and only an ideology can make you disappointed with a particular outcome.