If you find it difficult to understand why people are wierd or unfathomable to be weird yourself, you are probably not weird, may never be and will probably never understand why people can be.
But being weird is the domain of a privileged few. The Weirds are chosen by God as perpetuators of fresh ideas, revolutions, provocations, invocations, evocations and dawns of new eras. The Weirds are the neo-zealots of the millenium, even though some have already gone batty before Y2K. The Weirds are usually not happy people. The Weirds are in a constant state of psychiatric nebular, constant defeat, sporadic helplessness and eventual loss.
Ac.Stet met the artist Carrie Moyer and found her very lovely. She of the squeaky voice and duo-textured shagged hair that seems cut like a bowl of fettucine cupped over her head, with long strands peeking down; a hunched posture of her barrel-body, huge legs, a suspicious shifty gaze but oh, what a pure soul those eyes reveal.
And then there was the artist Sheila Pepe, the walking subversion. Ac.Stet talked to her moustache a bit, and the irony is blatant and yet, the gender confusion is naturalized. XYZ is everything from a portly (and less camp) reincarnate of gender illusionist Jackie Curtis to a woman dressed as a man who is acting as a woman trying to work like a man. If Hercule Poirot de-waxed his handlebar moustache and dressed in t-shirts and slacks on an off-day, he will look like Ms. Pepe. If Kathy Bates decides one day she will not shave and cuts her hair earlobe-short, she will look like Ms. Pepe.
And of course, there is Lynn Yaeger. If Ac.Stet wants a godmother, he would definitely want to Ms. Yager to be The One. Lynn Yaeger, of the old-world Parisian child prostitute make-up, burlesque rogue, kewpie doll cut-out hair and Miss Havisham vintage. Very wierd, very odd and very beautiful.
Ac.Stet was once a Weird. Only once. For a brief moment, God gave him the condition of a blind eel out of water. Because of that, he nearly went batty a few five-years ago but reined himself back because he wasn’t comfortable being deranged and being cast as a misfit. He didn’t know what that place between lack-of-self and lack-of-others is, and didn’t know how to negotiate that gray area between being himself and being trapped by the gaze of others. In short, he didn’t know there was anything else he can be except be part of The Normals. He wasn’t sure if there was such a thing as a place in the world for The Weirds. If being one of The Wierds is being an island, alone in its battle against the tides, the winds, the ‘namis and the quakes, Ac.Stet wasn’t prepared to leave to the land-locked safety of his peninsular upbringing to become an island.
But on reflection, Ac.Stet should allow himself to grow mad. That was a different place where Ac.Stet talked to his heaven-ward mother in the darks of the attic to ask if she could help him get his hands on a sewing machine; a place where he wrote his darkest prose and poems; a place where he made a dress out of safety pins; a place where he negotiated his identity as both lovers to two enigmatic and charismatic man and woman; a place where architectural flowers were coaxed out of flat paper and a place where being poised on the edge of roofs gave an immense sense of aloofness, security and liberation.
A place that the now-saner Ac.Stet could hardly recognize anymore.
Like Avalon, whose entry is now clouded with the mists of earthly desires and yearnings. Ac.Stet may never be able to enter Avalon again, even if he is now willing to let go a little and become a Weird.
Being Weird is a condition bestowed by God only once, and only to a privileged few.