The X-Files feels modern in many ways, but it is still a product of its time – and that time was twenty years ago. The two episodes that feel the most dated to modern eyes are 1x07, ‘Ghost in the Machine’, for its reliance on what was at the time modern technology (faxes! dial-up internet! mobile phones as big as the pink plastic one from DreamPhone!); and 1x14, ‘Gender Bender’, for its attitudes to sexuality (gender is binary! accidental gayness is shameful!). Despite these problems, the episode still raises questions – though it’s not entirely successful in answering them.
On the day of your scan I make a soup
to wean us from meat. Beans soak and blanch
an hour while I slit open the cell-
ophane wrap on the celery, chopping
the ribs into small pieces, the size
of the stones that follow an avalanche.
Carrots sliced into see-through orange mem-
branes, others hacked into jagged boulders, bi-
sected as though by the pressure of shift-
ing plates. Onions, at knifepoint, suppurate
and toss themselves into the hot oil. What
is left? two blind see-no-evil potatoes.
Sweet herbs; I pull apart ovate leaves
of basil and sweet marjorum. Red kidney
beans slip out of their bladder skins, rubbing
against the Great Limas. Together,
they give off a kind of scum which keeps down
the foaming boil: instead it heaves and
swells, trembling like a bosom, but does not
spill out. Thank God for scum! I rinse my knife,
watching its gleaming edge rotate under
the water; now there is only the wait.
Neither race nor gender is an intrinsic feature of bodies, even though the markers of gender and race typically are. To have a race is not to have a certain appearance or ancestry, and to have a gender is not to have a certain reproductive anatomy.
— Sally Haslanger (via berfrois)
Inventory #139: Robe
REGARDING THE DEVIL IN EXILE
“Can I be that thing which I am—can I be possessed of a peculiar rare genius, and yet drag out my life in obscurity in this uncouth, warped Montana town?” –Mary MacLane
that which is not measurable//sunday crafting//crafting out of sadness, as in away from it, not from it, but actually both
Working the long edit on my (full draft!) novel and my novel is all:
bisexuality and what is america what is being an immigrant how much can you fuck up and never connect and still be good and stabbing with glass and pretty clothes as a balm and scenic description (my only real talent) and memory, oh good, memory tidal waves and girlmonsterhood.
I’m tired and I hope one day it will be good and will be read.