I'm travelling to Britain at the end of next week and intend to stay for a month, and it's taken quite a bit of planning, hence the silence here. Of course, I used to live in Britain but, having visited twice last year, I now feel pretty alien in such a xenophobic, transphobic, run-down place. Brexit and the extremism that followed killed everything in my life there. But there are residual things for me to complete there so I must go. I shall be spending a lot of time visiting family and friends, too. Sometimes that will be pleasant, like a long weekend with Roz in the Highlands of Scotland; sometimes it may be tense, such as talking to Doctor Moron about his eccentric behaviour, or my transphobic sister about her hatred for lugbutts. We'll see how it goes.
I also plan to see some of my old trans girlfriends. It's not easy to organise a meet-up like in the old days since I no longer live in London and will need to have everything packed in a suitcase. I get the feeling that the virulent transphobia in the UK that I read about is mainly directed at the younger generation. I'm not aware of particular attacks on older transwomen. Well, not yet anyway. But it all makes me nervous.
In addition, I hope to see Suki, pen name of the widow of my lovely friend Kate, the anniversary of whose death was yesterday. Suki has always been the kindest of trans allies. I miss Kate so much and I'm crying as I write, which happens every time I think about it, so I hope Suki and I can find solace by seeing each other again.
Frustration
It's been a boring week dealing with accounts and business stuff, too, hence the longer than usual silence here. My attempt last week to get my hair and makeup nice were thwarted by a beautifully warm and sunny weekend that brought people flocking to the seaside and made my rather light and open flat a bit too much of a public viewing gallery. There will be other opportunities.
Commemorating Lord Byron, the queer icon
George Gordon Byron, or Lord Byron, British peer, poet and queer icon, died 200 years ago today whilst on campaign in the Greek War of Independence. He spent a lot of time on the Italian riviera (now the region of Liguria where I live) are there are various commemorative events here today, especially in Genoa where he wrote much of Don Juan, and around the Bay of Poets (or Gulf of La Spezia), where he used to swim the two or three miles of water from one side of the bay to the other. An athletic, aggressive, even wild man, no doubt, with appetites that it's best not to enquire into too closely, but a remarkable poet.
His satire on the Don Juan legend reverses the classic character and turns him not so much into a seducer but a man easily seduced, one who is at times an opportunist crossdresser, and the details of which hint at Byron himself having enjoyed a frock or two in his time. Try this crossdressing scene from Canto V, lines 609-637, which sounds like a typical trans maid dressing service to me!
And then he swore, and sighing, on he slipped
A pair of trowsers of fleshcoloured silk,
Next with a virgin zone he was equipped,
Which girt a slight Chemise, as white as Milk;
But tugging on his petticoat he tripped,
Which – as we say – or as the Scotch say – Whilk
(The Rhyme obliges me to this; Sometimes
Monarchs are less imperative than Rhymes)
Whilk, Which (or what you please) was owing to
His Garment’s Novelty, and his being awkward;
And yet at last he managed to get through
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward;
The Negro Baba helped a little too,
When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard;
And, wrestling both his arms into a gown,
He paused and took a Survey up and down.
One difficulty still remained: his hair
Was hardly long enough; but Baba found
So many false long tresses all to spare,
That soon his head was most completely crowned,
After the manner then in fashion there;
And this addition with such gems was bound
As suited the Ensemble of his toilet,
While Baba made him comb his head and oil it.
And now being femininely all arrayed,
With some small aid from Scissors, paint, and tweezers,
He looked in almost all respects a maid,
And Baba smilingly exclaimed, “You see, Sirs,
“A perfect transformation here displayed;
Always remember, dear TERFS and alpha males, that being gender queer is as old as time. Byron's poem is intended as a challenge to your supposedly established order.
Here's a photo of the Bay of Poets I took when looking for a home in 2019.
And the beautiful, dramatic headland at Portovenere on the opposite shore where the jumble of rocks marks what remains of Byron's Cave, where he used to meditate and draw inspiration. It was a cave until the roof collapsed after a storm a few years ago.
It's a beautiful part of the world. Other poets and novelists writing in English who lived in this bay are Percy Shelley and his wife Mary Shelley (she of Frankenstein); D.H. Lawrence who lived here in 1913; Virginia Woolf (whose novel Orlando is an LGBT masterpiece); and Baroness Orczy, whose Scarlet Pimpernel character is also an opportunist crossdresser.
Sue x
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