sexual identity | The Poesie of Igor Goldkind

The Women Inside of Me Are Always Available to Me

Had a good night last night drinking cask barrel wine with Anneke Doty at Solterra Wine Bar in Leucadia, California. We were trying to recall how and when we knew each other 40 years ago at John J Pershing Junior High. We knew all of the same people, some still alive and obviously were on the same general childhood network but for the life of me, I can’t recall any specific interaction with her.

Is that because I didn’t pay much attention to girls in junior high?

Am I gay?

Who knows? Better late than never, I suppose.

Passion is always a matter of imperfect timing.

I’ve always preferred the company of women, on a spectrum quantum levels from physical to mental. I don’t really think that I’m gay (not like there’s anything wrong with that!), because I’ve never appreciated the scent of a man the way a woman might. Instead, I’m stuck in a blind Al Pacino movie.

Nonetheless, Anneke Doty does seem familiar to me as if we’d been friends for years. I think rather than having a submerged feminine nature, my feminine characteristics have alway been in the foreground, especially around other women. Don’t get me wrong, women can be just as troublesome as men but usually in a slightly kinder way.

I am nurturing in the sense that I get a kick out of helping my friends, or even those I don’t know, sometimes just with honest conversation.

I’ve always appreciated the aesthetic of something even before knowing what it was for.

I love to cook and serve a superb meal to the people that I love.

I suppose this is the way I’ve always expressed love to others, alongside my sardonic sarcasms.

I like plants and flowers and those things that grow, peak and then die.

Like me.

Perhaps it is decay and entropy that universalizes us all with common purposelessness.

For what else could this absurdist’s moment be but the peak of experience; the very pinnacle of existence? The infinite in a nutshell in an easy to swallow form.

Never bought into the notion of degrading a man by calling him a woman, even when I was young and being overlooked for sports team choices. To me being called a woman meant being called someone who could birth to a man. And endure the pain of doing so.

What could be more worthy of aspiration?

My feminine side has always been front and center, especially in interaction with other women. It just seems like the human place to go is female. Women define the best of humanity in my mind.

If aliens landed here they’d really only want to talk to our women; don’t you think?

My uncle used to cast bronzes of mountainous women holding a small child to her breast. A universal archetype and the symbol of our species nurturing the relationship to our Earth.

We are merely our planet’s child, no better, no worse than any offspring.

I miss my mother; she taught me so much about the divine experience of our senses reflected in the colours and sounds that curl over us like a crashing wave. I guess I’ll have to cling to her planet, the one she taught me to love, for just a little while longer. All I need is one breast bloated with milk to keep me subsisting . . .

Long enough to see the most beautiful fount of my being reach the sky above me.

goodnight.