Hemingway, enlightens my butchness?

Hot day,

I seem to write,

that,

a lot lately,

maybe,

because,

it’s so,

darn hot:-)

I started re-reading,

A Moveable Feast,

by Hemingway,

I’ve read this book,

many times,

and yet,

 every time,

I read it,

it is as if,

I have never read it.

There are,

few books,

I re-read,

The World According to Garp,

I’ve read,

three times,

I think,

and yes,

I discover,

things each time,

it is,

a multi-layered plot,

and some things,

I forget,

from one reading,

to the next,

but,

some things,

I anticipate,

I look forward to,

Garp’s conception,

the meeting with Ellen James,

and more,

it takes away,

none,

of my enjoyment,

but,

I expect.

84 Charing Cross Road,

is like a good conversation,

with a friend,

I don’t see often,

and,

everytime,

I think why,

don’t,

we see each other,

more often?

To keep it special,

I guess:-)

But,

with,

Moveable Feast,

it’s different.

I know,

Hemingway,

will write about,

his time,

in Paris,

his writing,

his friendship,

with,

Sylvia Beach,

his honest,

observations,

of,

Gertrude Stein,

and,

F Scott Fitzgerald.

Yet,

each time,

I discover,

a sentence,

a nugget,

that brings,

me to reflection.

Lights up,

something,

that I couldn’t quite see,

a candle flicker,

that illuminates a shadow.

For a few,

maybe even,

more than,

a few,

days,

I have been,

pondering,

a question,

asked by a friend,

of mine.

It is a sincere,

and,

honest question,

why would anyone,

choose,

to wear,

a label?

she was refering,

to Ivan Coyote’s,

brilliant,

writing on the nature,

of the butch beast:-)

and,

of,

my recent identification,

with,

and crushing on,

said writings

Why,

did I wear,

indeed,

embrace a butch label?

I know where,

she’s coming from,

I hope she will corect me and clarify if I am mistaken,

Her position,

is,

many people fight,

their whole lives,

to free themselves,

of labels,

to rise above them,

to say,

I am so much more,

than you think,

than you see,

I won’t gently,

enter into,

the little narrow box,

you’ve constructed,

and reserved for me.

I get that,

I don’t accept,

labels,

that are pinned,

on me,

the labels I wear,

I want,

I like,

I have,

grown enough,

to embrace,

it’s personal.

I’ve never,

wanted to be one,

thing,

I am many things,

as Ani De Franco,

has sung,

I am 32 Flavors and then some

a woman,

a lesbian,

Canadian,

Québécoise,

French,

English,

neither,

both,

fairly well read,

and,

a University dropout,

I am all these things,

and I am butch,

I like the butch,

I have grown into,

I am no caricature,

although sometimes,

I ham it up.

Yeah,

I wear,

boots,

and,

ball caps,

boxer shorts,

and men’s shirts,

I like hockey,

and wouldn’t be,

caught dead wearing,

pink!

I also can’t drive,

neither own,

nor know,

how to use,

power tools,

I like to cook,

and enjoy,

romantic comedies,

Nascar?

I don’t think so!!

I like to lead,

while slow dancing,

and,

open doors for my lady,

but,

she has to drive,

and does,

well.

I like tweed caps,

leather patches,

and to fish,

but,

mostly I walk,

city streets,

I am a bookish butch,

a mass of contradictions,

and for some reason,

I like to call myself,

butch,

I’m also a Taurus,

which is neither here,

nor there.

Hemingway didn’t like,

his generation,

being labeled,

the lost generation,

and yet,

he wrote about it,

and made,

the phrase famous.

made me reflect,

I have no answers,

but,

I like to call myself butch,

and the beauty of it,

is I live in a time,

and place,

where I not only have,

the right to,

but,

also the pride in.

The women’s movement,

Stonewall.

Made it possible.

I am butch.

Later girls,

BB