LAURELHURST PARK
by Judy ThornSuccess lives on the rubber smoke
borderlands. It’s very hard to get
there, having seen what we’ve seen
as a generation. We’re in a pickle.
Everyone claims they know what we
need, and it’s always to disconnect.
Plug ourselves out and make bread
with our closest friends.
The work I do is important to me.
I’m a writer who wears sunglasses.
That has to mean something.
I’m into antiques dear, always have
been. There’s nothing made today
that interests me. It’s all pointless
laminate phlox in a vase of red roses.
Symbols that are overdone are the
ones I love most. Let’s be hamfisted
together, you freaky dolt.
The ocean is important to women.
I’ve had intuitions my whole life that
a fish will eat me, and I’m scared.
Sharks know where I am and how to
find me. Even in a hot tub, my body
thinks it’s in crazy danger.
What makes trans women special
isn’t our capacity for fluidity and
compassion. It’s how weird we tend
to be. I enjoy weirdos, anyway.
Years ago, when I tried out being a
sugar baby, I realized I can come
across as hyper-independent. When I
auditioned for a talent agency, they
asked me about acting. I’m an
actress, I said, in the sense that being
closeted is a performance. I’m not
sure if I want to perform or if I want
the easy money that comes with it.
Dancing would be so much fun, and
in the moonlight nonetheless.
I have braids in my long, branching
hair that’s chock full of birds.
I feel a cold coming on under my
eyes and eyebrows, but I won’t buy
into it or let it get the better of me.
I’m a good worker bee and an even
better friend. Nadia says I’m one of
the great minds of our generation,
but I’m not sure. Wouldn’t it be
better to scream the word “yay” and
throw epic parties in summer?
Bobbing for apples: now that’s an
activity for really beautiful souls. For
Leah’s birthday, I had the idea that
we should play Capture the Flag at
the park. It was more fun than I’ve
had in several years, but I understand
that fun isn’t everything. Then,
Patrick took his shirt off and it was
just like high school.
Imagine a world of cotton candy.
Think about the end of the recession
and how nice it’ll be. Don’t let the
marionberry milkshakes curdle. Tell
me when it’s safe to leave the
apartment. Yeah, I have my scarf.
I’m not convinced there’s a single
force that can suppress me when I
get excited about a project. From
time to time, the “project” has been a
devious game of ursine seduction
that is frankly cinematic. It usually
involves a Betsey Johnson cocktail
dress with a zipper I “can’t reach” on
my own. I’m an opportunist.
The way to my heart is through the
written word. That’s why I don’t
tolerate people who never text back.
I’ve never understood those poor,
unfortunate souls. I must be the only
one in my friend group who doesn’t
have an attention-based disability.
My life is very easy in that sense.
I’m free as a bird on the wind and
just as persnickety. I never had much
of a taste for the great avant-garde
artists like Björk.
It seems we all want to be DJs.
Songs are actually best when they
are untouched, like nature.
My friend works in the Parks and
Recreation department. I’ve asked
her before what she thinks will
happen when it all goes sour and our
metropolis burns, crisps, and
crumbles. In lovely weather, she
likes to paddle down the river.
La la, here we go down the river that
bore us. There are seltzers in our
laps. This is like a Fitzgerald story.
The great censorship is going to be at
our heels before we know it, so grin
and bear it if you can.
I never read. I just write. It’s like
making food and not eating.
Marinated in lice, I agonized over
divorce and death and all the things I
could not change.
It’s true that when we’re in love, we
don’t mind all those disgusting
aspects: farts, body odor, and plaque.
In fact, in the most extreme cases,
we relish in them. That’s what makes
us no better than the animals at the
zoo. The difference is that I myself
am not caged, but lots of people are.
A Buddhist might say I am actually
in a cage, an energetic one.
I probably wouldn’t have much to
say to a monk. I’d ask him how he’s
doing and if he needs water. A nun,
on the other hand... She and I would
definitely queen out.
My old friends in Montreal seem to
be trapped in the excellence of their
city. It’s much better to live in a
mediocre city, which is essentially a
blank canvas. Squirt all over it. Lick
it with blue lollipop tongues.
When I came here at the edge or
uppermost tip of my life, not
knowing what I was made to do, it
was awkward. My birth sex felt
irreversible. I hated the hair that was
growing. I was in so much psychic
pain, like there’d been an accident in
the angels’ chamber. If God made
me, it wasn’t with very much
thought. Can a deity be distracted?
Probably. This is a wild realm.
I have grace for my boyfriend when
he gets overstimulated. It makes me
love him all the more. Poor thing. He
found the world too awesome, the
stink of piss too real. I hope he never
stops being my horny superhero, but
that’s not possible. We all stop being
what we are as we get older.
The gravity between us keeps me
femme. It’s true that womanhood is
like an infection. The trick is to learn
how to live with your symptoms.
I asked him to buy my lipstick, the
same one I always wear. He used his
father’s credit card, so his father was
really the one who bought me the
lipstick. Isn’t that how logic works?
But it was I who wore the lipstick.
Maroon: the color of the downfall of
Rome. All that clay and wine.
The key to life in your twenties is
never to dishonor yourself. There
hasn’t been enough scholarship
about the relics and habits of young
people. I believe my phone is my
baby, my twinkle, my file cabinet,
my cup of sweet yogurt. It makes me
happy. I may or may not figure out
how to make it do what it’s meant to
do. Either way, I fought hard.
Judy Thorn was raised by a family of artists in the US, the UK, and Canada. She is editor of May Wall Press and curator of Bloomers Poetry Club, a reading series for emerging writers in Portland, OR.