predatory lending praxis

It takes a while to not want all of the aesthetics that are lent to you by x,y,z boring old-hat kultural institutions. 

I was lent this one at age 12.



I thought I wanted to have mermaid hair until I was 23 (I didn't, all I wanted was a babybulldyke pillowprincess bratty blonde crop that is impossible to run your fingers through-- all the better of a base for long candy-colored Cher wigs)

I thought I wanted an arsenal of facepaint for DL drag-queening.

I thought I wanted to have dark, mysterious aesthetic vibes (I didn't, I wanted to be a sunny, short-haired, short-tempered Manic Pixie Dykemare Girl)

I thought I wanted sweat-free, hair-free, musk-free armpits (I didn't, I just wanted everyone to leave me alone)

You think you want all of these things, until one day you find yourself sitting in a seminar called "Perversion" on the 7th floor of a building in Manhattan, reading a short story about a girl who kills rabbits with her father and then wears the skins around.

Then you read some Irigaray.

Then you read some Freud.

Then you read more Freud.

Then you make friends with artists who don't even call themselves that, they just are because if they didn't make things they wouldn't know what to do and would probably die (alive to their banks but dead to the world)

Then you make friends with a fat Canadian genius-babe who is quite obviously a high priestess/radiant ball of healing blue light/angel from another plane of existence, and she teaches you that being fierce and being tender are not mutually exclusive

Then a thought slowly starts to slug into your head:

I don't want any of the aesthetic ideas that have been lent to me. But where from here?

Now the fun part begins!