Here’s Johnny!

No, this isn’t a Johnny Carson tribute column. I haven’t been AWOL for two months mourning the erstwhile King of Television. Nor is the title random, it’s very pointed. It’s just that the point is, well, pointedly private. If you know me, you might get the reference. I should add that I’ve spent fifteen panicky minutes investigating the finer points of UTORweb’s email filter system and deciding that it’s simpler to change my name, move to yet another far away country, and – oh yes – give up being in the public eye.

My mother always said that writing would only lead to trouble. She didn’t, actually, but it seems like the kind of useful thing one’s mother might say. Actually, my mother is horribly supportive (or became so once she found out there was actual money to be made by writing; now she makes encouraging noises about my glowing future writing children’s books about wizards, hint hint) which is lucky, because she’s all the parent I’ve got. We’re very private, my family; we don’t even really talk to each other about what’s going on, which makes my obsession with online confession very odd indeed.

I’ve been mulling over this whole pile o’ dirty laundry as I gear up for an exciting new career as a film reviewer for NOW magazine. Press accreditation, early morning screenings, and all the geek boys I can handle. Bring it on. There’s just the small matter of going on the public record with an opinion which (you shake your head in disbelief, sir, but I assure you) is something of a problem for me. Maybe it dates back to when the lieutenant/general/boy in charge of the Officers’ Training Corps at my undergrad university tried to kill me in the street after my review of Saving Private Ryan suggested that, being a typical war film, it was maybe a wee bit homoerotic, much.

I’m sure it goes further back, into the cobwebby recesses of childhood pain and blah. I manage it pretty well, and am even known for the readiness with which I will offer an opinion on any text or event, whether or not I’ve read/seen/heard it. It’s just when it comes to turning the pen on myself. Shebytches was supposed to be much-needed training in this – not therapy as such, but an exploration of ways to talk about myself in critical (and entertaining) terms. Some weeks I succeeded, some weeks I failed. Some weeks I used culture as a shield. Some weeks I did things just so I could write about doing them. It all got very complicated.

In fact, being a Shebytch led me to a series of bold decisions involving my person. Listing them makes me sound like the feisty heroine of a Modernist novel (and they always end up lonely, penitent alcoholics, which bodes well). Suffice it to say they were bold and so far they’re proving excellent fun. The complicated thing was in finding a way to write about them – things so new that they would crumble at the keystroke.

Also, my therapist says I think too much and use too many words and I should try and be more in my body. Being the obedient chicken that I am, that’s my project. Part of it was (can I really write this?) to get a portfolio of erotic photos done by a charming and sassy photographer called Christine Ablett whose flyer caught my eye at Good For Her (workin’ on that body pleasure thing…) The deal was that I would write about the shoot and garner her some publicity. This all seemed cool indeed. The shoot was amazing, I felt great, I got to play fancy dress with the most outrageous clothes in my closet, and even to roll around nude on my thesis books (this is way, way more fun than it sounds). And the pictures look awesome. I actually like me in, oh, 60% of them. I even showed them to a select few people.

But whenever I sat down to write about it, for Shebytches or wherever, I came up against this block: the experience was mine, and I didn’t want to write about it. Once I got into the shoot, it wasn’t about critical distance or recording sensations, it was about being there, in my body (gah, I hate it when my therapist is right). To write about it would be to expose myself in ways that I’m not ready for – and as much as I wanted to get Christine some well-deserved exposure (check out her exhibition and workshop at Come As You Are this month, or indulge in one of her services), being naked in those photos made me realise there’s parts of me I want to keep under wraps. Until the world is ready for them & until they’re ready for the world.

There’s other parts I want to cast off – my name, my academic life. I’ve lived them to the full and I value their histories and memories, their colours and scents. But they are no longer me. I’m lucky that the path I’ve chosen allows me to be snakelike and shed every once in a while, to move profligately and sinuously from self to self, always freighted with the old me’s. Am I still a Shebytch? That’s something I’m trying to decide as I review my online existence, my voice & tone, my position in and on the world. I feel like I want to return to obliqueness (panic will do this to you) but at the same time, keep pushing the limits of what it feels safe to show. Like being in Toronto in early May, when the blossom is out and incandescent white against the sky, but it’s cool in the evenings and you spend agonising time trying to decide which shirt, which jacket, will keep you warm but open you to the spring air. Which self, which words… and the space in which to decide.

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