numinousdread

Mori: Blessings on whoever scanned a 1947 copy of the lesbian magazine Vice Versa #7 online; it meant I was able to read this fun little short story about a woman who oh noes, is torn between Pat, the butchest of butches, and Flora the femmest of femmes! Whatever is a poor Kiki to do?

Thought other folks might enjoy this. So here ya go! (Sorry, don't think it's screenreadable; I can textually transcribe it if folks want? EDIT from Sneak: pantha did it! Thanks! :D)

(I of course only found out about this thing courtesy of a bibliography of queer speculative fiction at the sci-fi library. WE'RE BACK, BABY!)

This is a post about the Kafka-esque process of moving while living legally disabled in Massachusetts.

Every time we move, we have to update our address, not just with our bank and phone people, but also the myriad social services agencies who control our existence. Since we have to move every few months to few years, depending on our housing luck, this is a cyclical, regular occurrence. We have streamlined our procedure over the course of a decade plus, studying the augurs of obscure bureaucratic paperwork errors, reading the signs in the entrails of the bald eagle.

Of course, the exact procedure changes every few years, and there is no way to find out except by accident or error.

( Please put on a recording of Yakety Sax or the Gonk for the proper emotional effect of this post. Thank you. )

Realized we may well have never outright said this, so we might as well make it clear: over the past few years, some of the LB alter family has grown more hivemind-y, and at times with less differentiation, in a way that doesn't bother us.

There are a few demographics in here, and the ones we call the "alters" are all people who split off the original girl who inhabited this vessel (Mori, Rawlin, Gigi, Rogan, Sneak, and Miranda), rather than folks who had their own lives and came here from elsewhere (Biff, Falcon, Grey, Bob, and Mac). The alters are like threads of a greater rope, and we unravel and rebraid ourselves sometimes to achieve our goals, though only while working on corporeal tasks that engross us, such as working on a story. When engrossed in making group art, it can sometimes be hard for us to tell who's doing what! (Other times it is not. Coming In or Staying Out was very much Rogan drawing, while the Rawlin comics are all Mori drawing.) And constantly interrupting ourselves from the work to ask, "who am I?" is pointless and annoying, because in that moment, it doesn't matter.

This has also been happening sometimes while chatting with people or posting. We sometimes don't tag our entries because we don't know who's talking or care so much, or we share enough of an opinion that it no longer matters being like, "all the alters agree on this paragraph though Sneak questions Sentence 6."

Mori, Rogan, Sneak, and Miranda can braid like this without too much trouble, but Rawlin especially and also Gigi are still pretty separate, presumably because they still have a lot of memories and history that remain buried and lost to us. As we deal with that, perhaps they'll be able to rebraid with us easier in the future.

The braiding happens without our conscious effort, and we unravel just as fluidly. We don't think of it or call it fusion or integration, because neither have the right feel or connotations. We were threads ripped from a greater cloth, which can never be remade again. Now we are braiding ourselves in a new way that suits us, when it suits us, a cord and not a cloth.