The Rumpus Mini-Interview Project: Christine No
“Balance is its own beautiful practice.”
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Posts Tagged: dissociation
The Space Between Vertebrae
My hands grow cold and rigid. In those blue-tinged palms, I can see my future.
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If My Body Were a House
Where my masculinity dwells, I am in control.
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Sleeping with Myself
I exist in a field of landmines, never quite sure when one will go off or why.
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Writing for a Trans Audience: Talking with Torrey Peters
Torrey Peters discusses her debut novel, DETRANSITION, BABY.
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Poetics of Lineage
I see the birds. I feel my body, splitting from its spirit, lying in the grass.
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ENOUGH: Crime and Composure
A Rumpus series of work by women and non-binary writers that engages with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
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Finding the World Within
Secrets are expectations passed down over silent years.
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The Thread: The Unthought Known
The whole word suddenly fell apart, both as a concept, and as a sound.
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The Peep King’s Legacy: A Family Portrait
The day after Hugh Hefner died, I received a text from my sister that our grandfather was starring alongside James Franco and Maggie Gyllenhaal in HBO’s new series, The Deuce.
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Heartbeat Detected
I don’t want to say “calculated conversations.” I don’t want to say “I push my needs away.” I don’t want to admit I can’t control how our interactions go.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Ideal Lover
I don’t mind being left with a bruise if it reminds me that someone imagined something for me, that art can be part of the experience.
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(K)ink: Writing While Deviant: Jennifer Gilbert
Trauma steals meaning and expression. BDSM and writing create them.
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Market Researching My Desire
I noted the weirdness, and then filed it away until a time I might really consider the implications of wanting to bury someone’s stockings. I was lost in metaphor, which meant I was lost in everything.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: No Wound
Maybe I can touch it and show it to you. If I convince you, we can call it real. And then perhaps it will be.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: A Finished Brain
In her twenties, the author was criticized for showing too much emotion. Decades later, having learned to compartmentalize, she’s accused of not being able to feel. Is this depression, or contentment?
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Without Boundaries or Beginnings or Ends
That truth lives in my body, next to the bullet that’s still in my back.
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