existence zéro

well...

I was reading… oh bof en français

Je lisais Dany Laferrière en me réveillant à 4h45 ce matin et je me disais que, lorsque j’écris mes réflexions, comme il le fait dans l’Art presque perdu de ne rien faire, ça n’intéresse personne, et donc personne ne me lit. Personne n’a d’intérêt à me lire, et ça n’a rien à voir avec mon style, mon propos, mon angle, rien de ça, ça a à voir avec seulement le fait que personne ne me connaît. Personne ne me reconnaît non plus. C’est un peu la même chose, j’imagine. Il est vrai que M. Laferrière est un grand écrivain, enfin… je ne sais pas en fait mais il est reconnu et connu, à l’Académie. Surtout, il a beaucoup lu, et pas moi.

Est-ce à dire parce que je n’ai pas beaucoup lu que je n’ai rien à dire? Que je ne puis écrire? Que mes écrits sont d’un intérêt nul zéro? Ben… je pense que M. Laferrière lui-même dirait que non, qu’il y a (peut-être) un intérêt, bien que s’il ne l’est pas dans ses écrits, il me semble élitiste quand on l’entend ou qu’on le voit en entrevue. Bah il a réussi, chapeau. J’avais pas été capable de terminer la lecture de son premier roman, je dirai pas le titre, c’est interdit maintenant, et j’ai souvent essayé de nouveau ses oeuvres suivantes, mais j’arrive jamais à accrocher. C’est la première fois que je lis un de ses livres et que je m’emmerde pas. Mais c’est pas un roman, c’est une foule de réflexions, plus ou moins courtes, certaines poétiques. C’est bon.

Je me suis toujours donné une importance relative dans le monde, très relative. Je suis huitième d’une fratrie de huit, et mon entrée en scène dans ce monde ne s’est pas faite sous le signe de l’entraide mutuelle. Quand dans un film ou un roman, il est question de loyauté, fidélité à ou d’un frère, je n’arrive pas trop à saisir, parce que je n’ai jamais senti ça d’un de mes frères.

En tout cas, aucune importance. En fait oui, c’est d’une importance extrême, l’enfance, mais bon… D’autres ont vécu la guerre, l’émigration forcée, l’adoption, whatever.

Ce que je voulais dire, c’est que même si j’écris bien et/ou si mon propos est intéressant, personne ne s’y intéresse puisqu’ils ne me connaissent pas. Inversement, quoi que ce soit ce que publie Dany Laferrière est nécessairement intéressant. C’est comme l’oeuf ou la poule. De nos jours, on peut même être populaire et donc publier quoi que ce soit et être d’intérêt sans avoir le moindre talent ou propos intéressant. Ça démontre mon point: le réel n’y est pas, le contenu. Il n’y a rien. Les humains, leur monde est tout inventé et n’existe que si on y croit.

Si j’écris à ma soeur, elle va me lire, même si ce que je lui raconte n’a aucun intérêt pour elle, et même si ce que je lui dis lui semble choquant, elle va me lire parce qu’on se connaît et elle me lit toujours. Et d’ailleurs elle répond toujours également. Mais c'est parce que c'est ma soeur et qu'elle me connaît, et qu'elle reconnaît par ailleurs je pense un certain talent en écriture.

Mais si j’écris sur ce blog-ci par exemple, Mue à l’envers, que personne ne lit jamais ou presque, j’écris dans le vide. Si j’entreprends un roman, c’est avec la motivation qu’il sera lu; si je n’ai pas cette motivation, écrire devient absurde, je n'ai justement pas la motivation nécessaire pour le faire. C’est comme me conter à moi-même une histoire, ce que par ailleurs je faisais à l’école primaire, tout du long, parce que la réalité était assez insupportable.

D’ailleurs depuis que j’ai genre 15 ans que je veux écrire, publier… Cela ne s’est jamais produit et j’ai au fil des ans découvert plein de gens plus jeunes que moi qui écrivent publient, scriptent des séries, etc.

Est-il possible que l’importance très relative que je m’étais donnée au départ et qui s’est effritée au fil des ans était encore trop grande? J’en viens, oui, à cette conclusion aujourd’hui. Mon existence n’a aucune importance et même si je ce que j’ai à dire était intéressant, ce l’est peut-être parfois, personne ne s’y intéresse, et donc ça n’existe pas. je n’existe pas. Pas en tant qu’auteure en tout cas. Ni même en tant qu’écrivaine. C’est l’arbre dans la forêt que personne n’entend tomber. Aucun intérêt zéro. Existence zéro, donc, voilà.

Ben... j’ai déjà abordé tous ces concepts dans mon roman que je sais pus comment qu’il s’appelle, le Sentier des monstres aux dernières nouvelles mais je lui changerai peut-être le titre si je le publie à nouveau (la réécriture complète de 2018-2020) à compte d’auteure. Il n’y a rien, même pas moi. Si on n’y croit pas. Les humains vivent dans un monde inventé. Je devrais ici citer Dany Laferrière que j’ai lu tantôt et hier soir qui disait quelque chose de semblable dans l’Art perdu de ne rien faire. Mais je reprochais justement à Dany Laferrière dans son premier roman qu’il fasse étalage de son érudition, ce qui m’a assez fait chier pour que j’arrête de le lire avant d’arriver à la fin.

Par contre, j'ai réalisé après-coup que j’ai aussi tenté dans mon roman d’insérer mon érudition, non pas en citations directes mais via des concepts que Soliane raconte à sa manière. 

La fratrie, l’amitié, l’amour, la loyauté, la foi en ce monde inventé par les humains qui, lorsqu’on n’arrive pas à la saisir, fait qu’on n’existe pas. C’est tout cela que dit et vit Soliane, qui n’existe pas. Bien sûr, elle est un personnage de roman. Et elle le réalise. Il n’y a rien, ni auteure ni roman ni personnage ni rien, Soliane n’existe pas puisqu’elle ne croit en rien, pas même elle-même.

Mais comme personne ne l’a lu, ou presque, le message ne passe pas. Devrais-je m’atteler à tenter à nouveau de le faire passer? À quoi bon? Les humains ne veulent pas entendre cela. Se faire dire que l’on n’existe pas n’est pas bon à entendre.

J’avais choisi un clavier mécanique à touche moyenne forte, c’est pas du tout adapté à la chambre que j’occupe en ce moment. Les voisins m’entendent taper, on se rapproche un peu des vieilles dactylos. Au moins, ça démontre que j’écris, beaucoup et rapidement. Ça les aide à construire une image de moi, j’imagine, ça me fait un peu exister. mais je ne peux pas écrire la nuit, rien passé 22h, même 21h.

Je pense que je vais pas bien du tout et que j’ai peut-être même des cellules cancéreuses. Ça s’ajoute à un spleen gluant dans lequel je me suis empêtrée depuis la fin de l’été… Une remise en question de tout.

Je me suis laissée tomber en amour depuis deux ans avec une fille avec qui il serait vraiment absurde et idiot d’avoir une relation, et que même la relation d’amitié qu’on a entretenue plus ou moins depuis deux ans est absurde aux yeux de la société, du Corps Sociétal, comme l’écrit Dany Laferrière, simplement à cause de notre grande différence d’âge, et c’est suite au fait que cette non-relation est devenue de plus en plus absurde et de plus en plus, justement, une non-relation, que j’ai réalisé l’absurdité de celle-ci et que je me suis retrouvée dans cette flaque de spleen automnal intense de laquelle je tente de m’extirper maintenant. C'est aussi en réalisant l'ampleur de l'absurdité de cette non-relation que j'ai réalisé la même ampleur d'absurdité de toute ma câlice de vie, surtout depuis ma transition en 2015, tout ce que je suis, comment je me présente, ce que je dis même puisque j'ai pas la crédibilité, mon image ne dégage aucune crédibilité. Je suis r

I feel like the end of the road, I'm not even sure I want to go on anyways.

Dans les recherches que je fais pour peut-être un livre, un roman, j'ai lu (était-ce les Relations des Jésuites?) que les "sauvages", comme les Français, et les Canadiens, les appelaient alors laissaient derrière certains aînés et autres malades incapables de suivre le groupe dans les terres pour l'hiver, et que ceux-ci étaient laissés à eux-mêmes sur la rive du Saint-Laurent au campement d'été, vers une mort atroce de froid et d'inanition. J'ai lu des passages pas très ragoûtants sur des pièces de viande pourrie qu'ils récupéraient...

Toujours est-il que cela est normal pour une troupe nomade ou semi-nomade aux moyens réduits, et les vieux eux-mêmes devaient être d'accord avec ce geste, allez, partez, ainsi le veulent les esprits... les ancêtres... c'est toujours ainsi qu'ils ont procédé.

Par ailleurs au 17e siècle, les Français et les Européens en général n'accordaient pas plus de valeur à la vie, probablement même moins, je dirais même. Une fois une bande de coureurs des bois malhonnêtes a été trouvée coupable du meurtre d'un Iroquois, et les autorités françaises ont fait fusiller les cinq quidams, malgré les vives protestations des Iroquois présents à l'exécution. "Nous n'avons perdu qu'un seul homme, disaient-ils, un seul devrait être exécuté". Ils moururent tous les cinq. Ainsi le clash des cultures. Ainsi la Loi française, ainsi les valeurs autochtones d'Amérique.

Toujours est-il que voilà, les autochtones d'Amérique nomades ne pouvaient pas traîner avec eux les invalides, les vieux, ceux qui pouvaient pas se traîner eux-mêmes... je sais pas trop les critères ni comment que ça se décidait, ou si c'était l'objet d'une non-décision consensuelle, comme tout était généralement consensuel chez ces peuples...

Je me sens totalement inutile au groupe, au Corps Sociétal, et je me sens me délabrer, me défaire, me décomposer... Genre un cancer s'installe en mon sein maintenant, oh boy...

Pas envie de traitements ni rien, là je trouve même pas la force d'aller à l'épicerie ni même à la SQDC, mais demain pas le choix, je vais en manquer. Cannabis.

Je me souviens quand j'étais jeune et qu'on marchait sur le chemin de terre au chalet, on se rendait au petit magasin puis revenir, c'était huit kilomètres total. Quelle expédition. Pour moi, c'était presque au delà de mes forces et j'arrêtais constamment en disant: "Je vais vous attendre ici, vous me trouverez au retour", mais on me forçait à suivre le groupe puisque j'étais trop jeune pour rester comme ça sur le bord de la route en plein bois.

Je me sens comme ça, là. J'ai pus envie d'avancer. Pourtant je peux facilement écrire 2000 mots par jour. Mais d'autres fois, je rédige pas, même si j'écris quand même. J'écris tout le temps, même quand je rédige pas.

Mais sans lecteur... c'est trop absurde, écrire.

Dominique Rock

two of me

When I first open my eyes, every morning, still laying in my bed, some ugly episode or aspect of my life replays. Then I get up, fix myself an instant coffee and roll up a joint, and then go out to smoke it, rain or shine, and preferably before people start crowding the streets. Usually it then made me slip into a more confortable world where those memories don't taste as sour or are redirected to the background fade away, for some weeks, but recently, it makes little difference.

Obviously, there are weird biochemical actions happening in my body, and I'm not referring to my intentional hormones therapy (MtF). Since I was very young, I've been sick, and my Mom obviously very upset with non-answers from the health people, the physicians who could understand my Mom's worries and also observe some of the symptoms she noted, but couldn't explain them with any facts, and therefore usually concluded, maybe without saying it openly that 'it might go away by itself', and often it does, without any explanation (but most certainly these unexplained symptoms are at the source of some more important pathologies that may occur later in life, but science (medicine) only treat what they can identify... what they cannot may also exist; some physicians admit that).

Cluster headaches, a very unexplained and incurable and untreatable pathology is a good example of that. I have been forced to adhere to that sinister club since I was 18 years old. A very sinister club, I insist, cluster headaches have taken control of my life when I was a teen and still today I have no choice but to keep that on top of my priorities. That's been my medical reason for not being in the workforce for the last couple of years. There are times when I don't suffer from attacks, it's been the case since I stopped working, but for most of my life I was hit with one or two crisis a year, and these crisis last 8 weeks each, of total nightmare...

Unexplained. Total mystery for science, so is the fact (recognized in part by science) that LSD can prevent it, or psilocybin. It plays in the same sectors of the brain, I know, I felt it. (cluster headaches on Wikipedia)

Anyways my point was that the fact that no physician or specialist can put the finger on what is wrong with me doesn't mean that there is nothing wrong with me. And Cluster headaches are suspected to be related to the hypothalamus, and that is where the messages for more or less hormone is sent from to the various glands, and obviously, I have all sorts of weird things happening there in my hypothalamus, the cluster crisis are just the total peak of ongoing abnormalities in these messages. I have nodules and other lumps that grow and disappear on my skull and around my neck and jaw, they come and go, and obviously it's linked to my weird moods and lack or (relative) bursts of motivation, and also to my hair. These were some of the symptoms my mother was worried about 50 some years ago, and she was right: it's not normal... but science is speechless.

I only have my own observations and knowledge out of my many readings to maybe build hypothesizes, observations on me, but also on other clusterheads (my brother, my nephew and those I exchanged with all over the world on the Web around 2011-2014).

I am not one, I am two; there are mosaic parts of my body that are from another basic cell, my twin, who has fused with me at very early stage of conception. I feel like this, always did. It could also be that I'm simply not completely formed, some connectors haven't been plugged in, something like this.

Genetic studies are still young but I put forward that babies conceived by older adults, older than 40 years old, are most likely to be unfinished products like me. What I have read lead me to claim this, and also that many generations of such (my case 5 out of 7 of my ancestors since early 1600's) is also very much more likely to bring defects in the offsprings. But also, the autism spectrum might not be related to only that factor but it certainly shows in the figures. A majority of ASD subjects have a father older than 40 at conception. So maybe if I'm in the ASD it's simply another thing taking over my body and brain instead of myself, not just all one big failure I mean, but simply many weird aspects of a complex individual.

I also thought for a while that cluster headaches and ASD were related, but now I think it may not.

But there are two of me...

Dominique Rock

thin line

(english version below)

La ligne devient de plus en plus mince entre la dignité ou je ne sais quel autre principe qui te retient de ramasser le butch a terre ou de te mettre a ramasser des canettes, et la réalité, les besoins. Les besoins finissent par prendre le dessus. Quand t'as faim, quand t'as envie de fumer ou d'une bière and your need it so bad, ce principe s'amincit. Si je l'écris, c'est parce que je le vis. J'en suis pas aux cannettes, mais j'ai ramassé des mégots. Et cette bonne femme qui passe subrepticement avec un sac a ordures noir… je l'ai déjà vue et peut être que c'est pour nourrir des enfants qu'elle se démène ainsi. Parce que moi aussi j'aurais besoin de deux cannes de tomates. De la margarine… Cinq piastres, je peux aussi acheter un joint, ce qui peut me sauver la vie.

The line is getting thinner and thinner between dignity or some other principle that keeps you from picking up that butch from the ground or starting redeem cans, and reality, the needs. Needs eventually take over. When you're hungry, when you want a smoke or a beer and your need it so bad, this principle thins out. If I write it, it's because I'm living it. I'm not at the cans, but I picked up cigarette ends. And this very normal looking woman who passes surreptitiously with a black garbage bag… I've seen her before and maybe it's to feed children that she is struggling like this. Because I too would need two cans of tomatoes. Margarine… Five bucks though, I can also buy a joint, which can save my life.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Eight

This is the 8th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

Models

It might be always when the expectations are the lowest that better things happen. I went out last Friday with the lowest expectations ever, and a handsome young man smiled at me as I was going into the dépanneur to get cigarettes (with my last 10$), then at my exit smiled again and told me : how beautiful you are today!, in French, so the feminine ''belle'' made it very obvious that he was underlining my femininity.

It felt great, so is the feeling I get when my friend who lends me 30$ tells me I made a real difference in her life. I helped her quite a bit getting on the right track for a couple years, up until not long ago.

I tried all my life to help younger people grow. Share my experience of life without judging their behavior or thinking, never. I am young too. I really did always try to help, as soon as younger than me started to be around me; for the first twenty years or so of my life, I was always the youngest, so I remember… not being helped by anyone older than me, and I craved it, as I was the youngest of the family.

And I'll remain young. I had decided that already in my twenties. That means welcoming change. That means reinventing myself constantly, and it means also to really welcome change, novelty, and bad reactions to sometimes what I had liked the most and is now outdated, and much more letting go.

So now… now that I’m stuck here in this shitty room…

I really need to reinvent myself now. I didn't chose to do it this way, or to do it at all. I guess life always gets me stuck at some point where I have no choice but to do that... erase the past and try to look forward.

One of them turning points was when I admitted to myself I'm a woman, a transsexual woman, late 2008. It took me like seven years from that point on to the day I started my hormone therapy, by taking light testosterone blockers, low dose spironolactone (25mg? Yea, think it was). I felt its action in the minutes that followed on my scrotum and testes, within an hour, I swear. Then I couldn't stop, I liked it too much, and the next eight months saw my testosterone flew my system... my brain. Mostly my brain, and my body start to change under the action of the estrogen dermal patches I was prescribed by an incredible doctor I had then but who now quit the trade.

So I took the train, that was six years ago. I had a whole life of trying to be a man behind me, and I needed to let all my feminine side out, which I had simply hidden the best I could till then. As I posted here before, I realized early I couldn't fit into any of the categories of people... any model. I'm unique and special and cannot escape being myself, I realized it early in life. And I told my shrink in 2010 that I knew I would be a special kind of trans also if ever I came out.

(and also, I must add, I also admitted to myself I’m bisexual in 2008. It’s important to specify, as gender and sexual orientation are two separate things. I probly should have admitted to myself that I like sex with men earlier, as I always was hit on by members of the gay community, all along my life, and, uhhh. I guess I missed a lot of fun, but really, I could have put this search on myself aside and remain a trans woman nonetheless, it’s really two separate matters)

So... I get lost in all kind of digressions but my point is models.

I only could put a name on why I don’t have models, and found out at the same time it’d be very difficult for me to have one no matter how hard I try: 

I'm ASD. I'm into the autistic spectrum disorder and my behavior, many ways I had acted in the past are actually simply autistic traits. I'm not that unique, the way I act is the same way many other ASD act, it's even predictable. I can predict how I will behave and react, and that's why I smoke cannabis. It smoothes down ASD symptoms, traits, whatever you call it.

I first realized I’m ASD reading a weekly chronicle in a daily free paper, Metro. I went on her blog and all her articles were there; she simply described how she reacts, talks, think... I read them all, and it seemed she was describing my own life. That's when I realized I wasn't that unique, and that the fact that I was weird corresponded to autistic traits, I mean how I acted, how I talked to my bosses, how I lost my jobs all the time...

Then I read and read on autism, many very specialized books, and I understood how it works, and I can now not only explain my own behavior, I can also quickly identify autism traits in others, and predict how they will behave, if I know them well enough.

So I can predict my own future, in the short term, I do it all the time to try to avoid shit, to try to avoid saying things I shouldn't be saying, or at that moment.

I'm checking on myself. I have a big tendency to speak too much. I don't know what to say, so I say anything. I just open the valve of my brain. Direct stream. That's the Asperger side of the spectrum. Other ASD I know don't know what to say and therefore speak not. Especially about themselves, the inner self. Personally, I do that all the time. Direct stream. It's two opposite sides of autism, but it's the same problem at the source : the socialization chip is malfunctioning, or maybe is from a different origin (different type of homidae). ASDs think differently than most people. It's very rational, and emotions work differently.

Anyways I'm losing the subject again, here, maybe I'll remove these paragraphs about ASD, that wasn't my point.

My point was that, if ASD behavior is identifiable and detectable, they follow some patterns, it's the same for neurotypicals, that is those who are not on the ASD spectrum, so like 85% of any given population (in my opinion), there are models, transmitted by imitation (like any ape does in order to learn) that are so strong that it seems I'm meeting the same people on the street as 30 or 40 years ago, but they are 30 or 40, so… those I met in the past are either dead or 70-80 years old, and themselves look like the elders I knew then, so…

Humans repeat models, neurotypicals by imitation, those in the ASD by genetics. Yes. I’m saying that. Simply explained, I can read or see other people on the ASD behaving just like me, thinking just like me, and I don’t know them, never heard of them. I'm not following a model that I learned but many sides of my behavior can be found described in books on autism.

I never followed any model by imitation, I’m just not capable of doing that. I’m just myself.

There are, though, people on the ASD who follow models, certainly there are. It’s a spectrum. I’m somewhere on the spectrum, maybe mixed with a severe attention deficit (it plays in the same zones of the brain anyways ASD and ADD) where I’m totally to the opposite it seems.

And when  someone on ASD follows a model, they follow it very strictly and rigidly, with a deep belief that this is the only truth possible.

So... not me. I really tried to in the past, but the only models I can dig is languages, words, syntax, the only ones.

Communication with others is very important for me, with trees and dogs and cats and birds as well as with other humans.

I'm desperately trying to fit in a society that uses models without being able to follow any model.

It's the absurdity of my life.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Seven

This is the 7th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

My Strange (ASD) self

I’m just being myself.

I wasn’t being myself completely before my transition, I did try hard to fit into one or another of my society’s preset box and patterns that are acceptable for a male individual at many points in my life.

I’m just being myself and it’s an original and unique way of being. I’m not feminine enough, I don’t pass enough, I’m too old… I don’t know what it is exactly but I don’t feel good.

I actually never felt good in this life, and it’s getting much worse.

At one point in my life must have been when I was around 15 years old, maybe earlier, I remember childhood… Anyways I realized it would be impossible for me to fit correctly in one or the other of those patterns. Impossible.

I was strange, special and one of a kind, I was told that often early in my life, even in childhood.

Actually, I realized that I couldn't be anything else but myself, and that I had no models (I understood less than 10 years ago why: I’m ASD)

Then again in my twenties I tried to fit models, with my two friends and roommates, they tried to make me fit, to show me how. Then again later in my thirties… I mean I really tried, haircuts and all. No use.

I can't be anything else but myself, and I realized, rather, admitted to myself too late that I'm a woman.

And now it's too late. The hormone replacement therapy doesn't really work...Surely no doubt it would have worked better if I had started when I first realized it, age 16 when my friend told me so. No doubt, would it be only hairwise: I had practicly no beard untill age 30. But that was so long ago, being trans then was like completely off the wall, and I knew if I headed that way that I would surely live an underground life… I still hoped to fit in as a man. My brothers were not that manly either… like yo I didn't know… I was 16 and didn't want to even respond to the calls of the gay community, I got hit on sooooo much in my teens.

Just like now as I'm typing this on my phone, and recently… I'm becoming a character in this park especially. I always have older or disabled dudes staring at me. I suppose they're gay. Maybe bicurious? They seem to find me very attractive (maybe strange also though), well… Many told me so very directly.

Now I’m out of cannabis and I realize how much I need it and why: everything is so dark and grim without it. I keep thinking about suicide all the time. I mean not precisely how and when I would do it, but when I try to think about… I don’t know.. like the future, or even just the state of my relations with my family or those who at one point pretended to be my friend, and the rest of society, it gets all dark in my head and I see only one escape possible and it’s death. I can even feel anger, I get angry at everything. Cannabis calms me down, otherwise my ASD keeps getting me to react to too many things, and too strong. Past scenes that come back make me want to kill, mostly recent and mundane scenes, like the French renting the room next door who had welcomed my arrival at this building by swearing in his mother tongue “putain, non mais c’est pas vrai!” behind me as I was walking back to the building, and having a good look at my legs and crop top for a first time. At that moment I wanted to just stop and confront him and ask him what was wrong precisely, but I was also scared so I did not, but later I replayed the scene in my head and ... I just censored a couple of paragraphs XD

So… I'm stone now, I found some hidden change I had and bought 2 strong joints at the SQDC. Cannabis is legal here. Government store. And uhhh, I'm addicted. Without it, everything gets too grim and dark and suicidal thoughts are omnipresent.

It's been my anti-suicide medication since… actually always. Since I was 14 when I first got buzzed on local leaves.

And it's my fuel for writing too, and has been for almost 15 years. Before also but since I was trying to fit in, and supply was then irregular… and I was writing then mostly professionally, as a reporter and communications officer, but I did start to get buzzed while working, then starting around 2008, I was mostly stoned when I wrote professionally.

It's my medication because… life has no meaning nor any goal, nor is there any kind of God. There is nothing.

That is the subject of my novel, in French, Le Sentier des monstres, that I will soon publish on Kobo.

But I need to come back to what I was saying also LoL.

I’m a very special individual, there is nothing I can do about it, I was when I was a child, I would have been a very special trans woman if I had transitioned in my teens or twenties, I just can’t escape myself.

And my social skills aren’t very good. I’m better at socializing if I’m buzzed on cannabis, otherwise, I say things just out of the blue, I react too much to everything, I rationalize too much, I look like a real fool, a nerd. I really need cannabis to help me smooth things out, both ways, what I say and how I react, and every sensation coming in, by any of the five senses.

Well that’s the autistic Spectrum Disorder for you. One of its faces, somewhere on the spectrum, there I am.

Did you know that ASD and transsexualism are linked?

Dominique Rock

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Mile-End Six

This is the 6th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

 Against the grain

I cannot think freely, no human being can think freely at any time.

There are presets in my brain, or any human brain, that were passed along by genetics, firstly very basic things to ensure I will flee or fight if facing threat, to ensure I will be thirsty if I get dehydrated, hungry… I will crave sex to insure reproduction, etc.

I can work on not eating even if I’m hungry, same for sex, thirst, any of these basic presets transmitted to us just like to any mammals, but these mechanisms in my brain remain nonetheless. It’s a good part of what a human being is: we breathe, our heart beat… we don’t have to think about it.

The need to socialize is another preset that was transmitted to us by genetics, and the ancestors developed culture to respond to that basic need, or both evolved in parallel.

I met many people in my life, even many professionals like my psychologist, doctors… who told me to fight, that life is tough and that one has got to fight… and that this was the essential part of the human being: its capacity to fight.

Now come on! Fighting isn’t at all one of Homo Sapiens’ skills. Au contraire, it’s the fact that they are social, even with strangers, with other species (of hominidae and others like the wolf), that they bred with them in the past, and it’s the fact that communitarianism was at the center of the life of Homo Sapiens that made us, first survive, then thrive, certainly not fighting. Yes they had to fight big prey, but they did it in groups, and without that culture of being together, sharing, helping, language, we wouldn’t be here today, because first, we wouldn’t have been able to kill big prey, therefore our brain wouldn’t have developed, and so on.

War was only part of hominidae for about 10,000 years, most of our existence was spent without any knowledge even of war. War brings nothing good to humans, nothing at all (and Neanderthal and Homo Sapiens did not fight one another, not at all: they bred together, that’s what they did, just like the Natives of America welcomed the European newcomers and offered them their daughters. They did! Encrypted in our brain is also the need to mix the genes, and that’s one point where human cultures have gone wrong since a couple thousand years).

Fighting is not the essence of humans, more resilience, adaptation and communitarianism.

So what I’m saying is that the need to socialize is one of the most important parts of Homo Sapiens. Culture was developed around that need.

And therefore, culture is a very important part of Homo Sapiens, but none of it, none at all, zero, nada is transmitted by genes to the next generation.

It is learned, all of it. Transmitted by the peers, by the elders, tradition… But still, it’s a very, very important part of Homo Sapiens, an imaginary thing (one cannot touch culture per say, traditions… it’s not real, it’s invented by the human brain), transmitted by peers and learned, and becoming so strong that it feels like the truth… THE truth; this particular culture of one group of humans feels to them as if it must have been dictated by a superior form of intelligence.

So then humans invented God.

All invented, it’s not real, it’s not palpable, it… doesn’t exist. Just in our mind. Like the language… Humans feel as though their language, their culture was always like how it is here and now, but it’s not the case, it evolved by adding up many little presets in the mind of these humans.

Presets, yes, just like the ones transmitted by the genes. Culture has become so strong, so important for humans that it has become as important for human’s survival as the basic needs presets, hunger, thirst...

All this to say that it’s impossible for humans to go very far, thrive and evolve if they don’t answer those basic needs, all of them.

It’s even impossible for them to think completely outside culture, or another, or a new one, culture there needs to be. Because simply, without culture, we go back a couple million years, and back then, hominids weren’t very much able to think, they were then similar to chimps today.

Therefore, therefore... it’s impossible to think outside these learned presets just as it is impossible to stop responding to the basic needs like hunger and thirst.

I can adopt a new culture, invent a new one, but at the base, it’s very difficult to overcome what was learned in childhood, and that is another preset we live with: what was learned before age 8 remains encrypted very deep in the brain, much more than whatever was learned further down in life. The likes for music, food, and many other things that we learned in our culture before age 8 remains the most important and very difficult to erase.

In order to think freely, one would need to bypass all those presets, which is actually quite impossible, just like one cannot go without eating.

And that is why it’s difficult for a older and not very passable transsexual woman to go out in society. About 70% of the people I go by on the street, in parks tell me with their eyes that I’m going very much against one of their presets. It hurts them; I hurt them, it touches them deep inside.

I’m going against the grain. I’m even a threat, a threat to the survival of the species. We’re not even from the same culture, often, I mean Montréal is a very diverse city, but there are some basic things that pretty much every Homo Sapiens culture share, and one of them is that a man is a man and a woman a woman.

And again (I feel I wrote this before), I’m not sure what defines that exactly, as I feel I just don’t pass enough so that the brain of the people I meet on the street doesn’t flash: error, error! Is it my face? My lack of breasts? The fact that my cock shows, somewhat, in my pants?

I’m really not sure. As I said before, I have the body of a top model, tall, very slim, flat belly, small breasts. Check the clothings ads... 

Maybe with more work, like plucking my eyebrows more, putting on make-up, jewelry… Well no. I always went against the grain. I feel I serve more humanity doing that then conforming to any presets, and I’m just being myself. Finally.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Five

This is the 5th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language.

 Old and alone

I never realized it was the Gay Pride Parade yesterday Sunday. I went to Jeanne-Mance park where I’ve been hanging in the morning for the past week or so, then started to type on my PC, rolled a joint.

I found there were many policemen. Then I saw gay, and then a trans flag, then again more coloured flags I’m not sure I can identify. Bisexual flag?

Many queers with flags started to sit all around me in the park… 

That goes to show how much I’m not really a part of this community.

I wasn’t aware… this was THE day I’m allowed to be myself, especially here, in the middle of all the queerests in Montréal and from elsewhere around.

But all of a sudden, I started to feel not queer enough kind of…

I had no flag, I wasn’t on a celebration day, just usual stuff, about to pluck a few hair on my face, wearing my usual shorty shorts and white flowery crop top. I do that there, it’s vast and most mornings an empty space (I can’t do that at home, I need the sunlight). 

Anyways… I pick up my things and go back to my luxury shelter, mainly to get rid of the PC and try to join this party, hoping they wouldn’t all be gone already when I come back, since it’s only a march this year due to Covid, no floats.

So I wasn’t late, I didn’t miss the march. But it made me realize that I’m alone and always have been. There were not many people alone in this parade, this 4 km march, everyone could count on a support person, right there besides them, and if I didn’t feel as though I’m the weirdest thing around as I usually do, I still didn’t feel accepted, amongst all those whom I’m supposed to be connected with, being a trans, and bisexual woman.

I’m old. That’s my category now, whether I’m transsexual, queer, strange looking, it only kind of adds up to the main fact: I’m not in the game, I cannot be, I’m too old.

I didn’t feel any connection. I’m just old. There were not many older people in that march, I’d say… 4% were over 50, no more than that. Including me.

I’m from a past that is being rejected by the youth in many ways, and they’re right to do so, because change is always what humanity needs, always, and only the youth brings that.

Only youth and some like me who remain young... who are working on it, it’s not natural for humans to do that (but I’ve always done it, since I’m like 24 years old, when I started to feel old).

Naturally, the youth relies on the elders to have some directions, that they modify with some novelty, so naturally, when a human gets old, they like it and remain in their tradition. Not me, I fought that all my life.

I wrote a post earlier on this blog about that, maybe in French though: humanity is a mix of tradition and novelty, that is a break in traditions, that’s what ensured its survival and progress, and evolution. Because without any tradition, survival is at great risk in natural conditions, as what was most of the 200,000 some years of existence of that species Homo Sapiens, and without novelty, without an unacceptance of tradition, there is no progress possible.

So traditions are for survival, but so is novelty. Neandertal lacked novelty but their very strong traditions (how to hunt, the tools…) saw them survive some 800,000 years before novelty (Homo Sapiens who came from Africa) hit them and totally surpassed them. They never evolved, really, in such a long time, so they eventually went extinct, smashed by novelty.

Now Homo Sapiens is a mix of the two species, Neandertal granting some 4-8% of the genome. And that mix was very good, for pure Homo Sapiens probably lacked good reasoning.

Yes, I’m saying Neandertal were more rational than Homo Sapiens.

Why am I talking about that?

Oh yes, youth is rejecting me since I’m old, that’s why, but they’re wrong on this one: I carry no tradition at all, I fought against tradition all my life, and especially the past 12 years since I admitted to myself I’m a woman, well a transsexual woman.

I mean actually, I always knew I was a trans woman, I just found other ways to call it, or justify it, like saying in all of my previous incarnations, I was a woman, or that I am a pink man, or a mauve man as I used to say en français. Not gay, just… not like usual men.

But anyways, I have to come to terms with that: I’m not part of the youth… well I mean they don’t see me as one of them (even though I am), so therefore, I am not one of them. It’s always just a matter of recognition.

I am barely being recognised as a human, and that’s nothing new. I never completely felt accepted wherever, neither my family…

I have no friends anymore, and those I’ve had were not friends since they’re not in my life anymore… I mean, a friend is forever, or else it’s not a friend.

Maybe I’m being too optimistic about friendship. Friendship is like love, it lasts forever. Or at least many decades.

Anyways to end this Blog post, I’ll just say that as soon as I left the crowd of that march, people started giving me strange looks again.

I’m alone, too hey. Most humans are not alone. If I’d walk with a friend, or whoever, things would be different.

I don’t have a friend. That’s why I’m writing.

And I’m old, and many boomers find me attractive.

ok… well… next blog post maybe. About those Boomers.

Dominique Rock

Muse

 Muse

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

I sit and try to think of ways

To satisfy your every needs

I try to guess what they could be

Maybe the moon if I could reach

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

The warmth that spills out from your room

You text a smile, I cook for you

It feels just like I fly a plane

Your chocolate smile: I go insane

I just love your moods

I crave for your moves

To meet your eyes…

You're motivation...

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

Sweet Sunshine Queen I see you rise

I want to stay just by your side

A muse can go with any guys

Just let me art your dreamy eyes

My motivation

What drives me on is you

Your sweet and sulky mouth

It tells me no

And you just don't know

Whatever not right now

All right just tell me how

Dominique Rock

5e anniversaire 5 years!!

This blog is five years old today, I just noticed. It's a bilingual blog but will tend to be more in English from now on.

Je viens de remarquer par hasard que ça fait exactement cinq ans que j'ai démarré ce blog, le 15 août 2016.

En relisant vite fait, je suis pas mal contente du résultat, exactement ce que je prévoyais: un rien non organisé, mais il y a ici de profondes réflexions sur la vie, de la poésie, des brouillons, des extraits de mes manuscrits, toute sortes d'affaires...

Mais aussi, lorsque je l'ai mis sur pied, et d'ailleurs le nom du blog Mue à l'envers en est tiré en quelque sorte, je venais de terminer la première réécriture de mon manuscrit, que j'avais d'abord soumis une première fois à des éditeurs en janvier 2015.

Et aujourd'hui, 15 août 2021, je m'apprête à publier en ligne, à mon compte, le même manuscrit, qui a subi depuis une deuxième réécriture, plus majeure celle-là, et je considère le fruit mûr, à point.

Par contre, les éditeurs ne m'ont toujours pas choisie. Je suis par contre honorée que Les Herbes rouges m'aient signalé qu'ils l'avaient lu en entier.

Donc... preeeesque.

Enfin, bon, je sais pas pourquoi ils le refusent tous, faut que je l'envoie à Flammarion et à Seuil, mais ça coûte cher, ils n'acceptent pas par courriel, je suis à Montréal...

Donc, anyway, ils refuseraient.

Je prévois donc publier d'ici quelques jours Le Sentier des monstres sur Kobo.

Entre temps, je continue de documenter mon espèce d'étude sociale que j'ai entreprise malgré moi en étant évincée de mon logement, et forcée de vivre ma transitude sur la rue puisque c'est pas possible de rester toute la journée dans une petite chambre minable telle que le shelter de luxe que j'occupe depuis le 5 Juillet.

Oui, c'est en anglais, j'aurais peut-être d'ailleurs dû écrire Le Sentier des monstres en anglais.

J'écris surtout en anglais désormais, le français, c'est trop limité comme public potentiel, d'autant que j'écris plus ou moins en français, dans mon français québécois que les Français ne veulent pas vraiment se donner la peine de comprendre. Ils se crissent ben de nous les Québécois, les Français.

Sais-tu? Je pense que je me crisse ben d'eux aussi, maintenant. Ils envahissent le Plateau où c'est que je vis, se croient chez eux... importent leurs us et coutumes et réactions à... moi par exemple. C'est pas très évolué, la pensée française, c'est même presque assurément gage de tradition rétrograde, la France.

Confirmé par une Française à qui j'avais loué une chambre dans le temps que j'avais un logement et que je pouvais faire ça: une fille sexy ou encore pire tatouée, en France, ça se fait traiter de pute à tous les coins de rue.

Alors sachez que c'est pas comme ça au Québec, encore moins à Montréal. Vraiment pas.

Je voudrais pas être transsexuelle ailleurs qu'à Montréal.

C'est ma ville et je l'aime.

Dominique Rock

Mile-End Four

This is the 4th blog post about me, a not so passable but still very sexy mature transsexual woman wandering in the streets of Montréal, Québec after landing in a shitty small room in a 65 room building following an eviction for renovations...

and after spending most time after transition locked away inside the apartment where I lived since 2015 and that I had to leave in a rush on July 5, 2021. It's not necessarily written in a chronological order, and I might (so it seems) be repeating myself. Excuse my English: not my 1st language. 

Luxury Shelter

I live with the poors, out on the street and in different parks every day, spending 14 hours outside most days since July 5.

In the neighbourhood where I hang out, where my luxury shelter is, the Mile-End, I pretty much met all of them by now. Beggars, homeless people, simply unemployed, poor and having nothing to do, and living in a small room like mine… Picking up empty cans and bottles all day, some do it very seriously and systematically, others not at all.

They’re nice people, most of them, and very respectful. Really! Society denies them for they look dirty and are obviously NOT in the same world as they are, busy, having lunch at the park with a colleague, waiting for the bus or for the green light to cross the intersection.

“Would you spare change please, madam? Do you have a cigarette. Have a good day”

Annoying for most people, and they don’t even get close to them, for fear of diseases, fleas or bedbugs. But enough of them spare some change so that they can go on.

There is one on the corner of Saint-Urbain and Saint-Joseph, he works hard every day, offering a windshield wipe, very respectfully. He told me he spent last two winters outside but is working on a plan to avoid that this year. I think I saw him sleep on a porch on Laurier Street, around 1:00 am one night. He says he does enough to survive. He greets me “Bonjour madame”, every day with a smile. His workplace is right between my luxury shelter and the nearest park where I hang out most.

Or anyways, that was before… I don’t go as much in parc Lahaie anymore, since one of the homeless there hit on me constantly, appreciating my sexy slim body that apparently, according to him, I show because I want sex.

No, I wear light clothes because it’s very hot outside. I’m only wearing short shorts, just like many other girls on the street.

Well I guess since most people see me as something else than a woman, and once again (I wrote about this in the previous posts)... I’m not allowed to wear these “normally”, in their mindset, their system of thoughts, of arranging things. In their mind, since I wear these, I’m not a “normal” person.

And that gives them rights over me, the right to catcall me (one actually meowed at me, minutes ago), which is very uncommon nowadays in Montréal for “normal” women, and to comment on my style, my clothes, on my state… my condition, whatever, I mean how they classify me in their head.

So anyways, these were the three most fantastic days of the year, weather wise, and therefore, everything else wise. The heatwave is ending tonight, and unless September has something in reserve, we’ll slowly head to Fall weather, and quickly Winter.

And it looks like I’m going to have to stay here, remain in my luxury shelter. I finally tamed the shower and toilet in the hallway, cleaned them up, so it’s the 3rd day of a heatwave, but I took showers, I’m freshly washed in the park now and I feel great.

I have a small refrigerator and will do grocery later on with the last 30$ on my Visa, and I will cook me meat and stuff that I’m planning to keep me fed until I get more money in like two weeks, actually more… I’ll need to borrow.

So my situation is much better than that of those I live along… Well actually, I often try to avoid them too. They’re not very interesting. They have nothing ahead, that’s the thing. All in the past. (well they’re a lot in the here and now, and their here and now is boring: he stole me a beer the other day, I told him to watch out for him… whatever, their conversations are right down boring, but they are nice people anyways).

I try to avoid that. The past. More and more. I’m running away from my past life, I’m a trans woman now, I cannot have had girlfriends nor even worse, have been a father. It’s such a nonsense in people’s head that I’m learning to avoid talking about my past.

But I’m old. Estrogen made me look much younger (well I alway looked younger than my age but estrogen really gave me another couple years younger looking, fading away the wrinkles).

I’m old, that’s another category… There are the homeless and the poors, but also there are other categories of people who are set apart by Society. Irrelevant people.

I tried once again to get into a roommate ship, had some kind of an interview with a bunch of youngsters drinking fancy drinks with mint leaves in them.

It’s no use, I’m in the ‘old folks’ category. The slope is too hard to climb again. The only way I’m going to live with youngsters again is if I get my own apartment and rent rooms. But it has become impossible for me to do that. I’m too poor, the prices of the rents and red tape all around the leasing of them, credit check and all… is too much.

I can’t stand to be old. I don’t want that.

So I’m down to my luxury shelter. I have to get used to it.

But about me being a transsexual woman, I now more or less understand the place that Society is leaving me, I think I can manage with that. Problem is Society is pushing me aside mostly because I’m old, and there is nothing I can do about that.

I have so much problems ahead, such a black hole ahead, I don’t have a prescription for estrogen anymore, I’m in need of a doctor, a specialist, anyone… And that’s another steep slope.

It would be possible for me to find a man who can offer me either a space to grow, either 400$ of pot every month. It is. my legs rock, my slim body is very hot, some dudes get very excited seeing me on the street, especially if I show my belly, flat firm belly. I could put an ad on a network… Many Boomers are so bored… and have money.

This is confronting me now: I can take that step, I mean go in that direction. Just uhhhh…. the type of guy who hit on me so far, is… I’m not sure. I was hoping for better.

So I’m facing myself: I can go all the way, be a woman and cook for a dude and have sex with him. It’s possible if I’m really seeking that.

Am I seeking that?

Dominique Rock