activist, cat, crip, crowd-funding, disability, disabled, disabled people, First in the World Somewhere, house of lords, London, love, Morrissey, poetry, robert wyatt, sex, Unbound, wheelchair, woman, writer
I’m distancing from my personal Facebook page. It’s ragging my nerves, which are quite ragged at the best of times. People get nasty too fast. I’m not engaging. Much better to prattle on here and make brief Penny pronouncements for those interested.
I’ve got a broken shoulder. In fact, I’ve had a broke shoulder for some months which severely limits my typing. Don’t mention voice dictation software. I use it, when I have enough mental stamina to manage it. It has no soul and does not compute creative subtlety. Give it a poetic word and it goes into a brainless meltdown and makes a word like ‘penniless’ into, yes, penis. Therefore it’s taken me a long, long time to write this blog.
Meanwhile, I was at the House of Lords last night, doing my bit as a “disability sexual activist”, which is an interesting label to add to my CV. It was a good event, though I am weary. Crip sex is still a taboo and there’s still a lot of About Us Without Us. It is improving, that’s a hopeful thing.
Visiting the House of Lords is always a weird experience for a poor little working class bumpkin like me. It smells. Age, polish. Wealth? The building is extraordinary, I can’t deny that. It caresses my writer’s dizzy brain, and as a friend once said, it’s like Hogwarts. I did get to meet – briefly – Black Rod, due to the inevitable confusion with parking. Not every one can say that, and perhaps they wouldn’t want to.
I’m chugging on with the crowd-funding efforts for my memoir First in the World Somewhere. I’m glad the publisher Unbound are looking after me. They are real people. I feel they care about their writers, and they wanted the memoir. It’s hard at times to be telling the world this is a great thing and please, pledge. But it’s not a begging bowl-it’s a transaction. And outside of my personal story, I know this tale has not been told in this way. My disability weaves within the pages, implicitly social model, as I fight – shyly at first – to follow my dreams as a writer, singer-song writer and bohemian. Discovering sex, writing about sex, enjoying sex – connecting with like-mind crips in arts and activism, is also in there. Join me if you believe this book should be out there, pledge if you can. Robert Wyatt, dear man, has done so and is happy to me to shout his endorsement from the treetops.
My cat Bessie aged 17, gets noisy at night these days. Apparently it’s akin to the confusion of an elderly person. She miaows in a long pathetic fashion, often in the echo chamber of the bathroom. Advice is to not respond as it reinforces the behaviour. That’s tough, even though I know she’s well, fresh from a mani-pedi and gaining weight. I want to reassure her and gather her to my bosom, so we can sleep peacefully together.
And on that note I realise I am tired. There was the awfulness of the Syrian air strikes to talk about; the utterly tiresome squabbles of politics and the biased media. But I can add little to that right now, and need to retreat to the stuff in front of my noise.
Be happy for the holidays. Be pragmatic. Remember, the light returns after December 21st. You can always rely on natural phenomena to give you a reasonable constant. Sort of.