Sarah Sarai

My Kind

Diary: I am at camp. Jane and Ginger in C-5 were also summoned but they couldn’t be found and I saw the super give their apartment keys to a yapping poodle of a realtor. There were ten of us in a beat-up van-to-erasure. No one talked. Thank god for bananas and Red Vines. We ate a shitload of both. I had a scenario in mind, that we were going to be plunged in the Hudson to see if we sank. But, in fact, we are all slated for conversion.

Diary: I am in a closeted conservative’s wet dream. Some of the staff are Mormon missionary-types on crack. Some are just here.

Diary: Is this place ever government-run. I’m here to short my love of women and I’m in a dorm filled with women. The New York City dykes are snotty as hell, per usual.

Diary: We’re assigned to sessions plus each of us meets with a counselor daily. Mine is a Rosa Krebbs prototype, SMERSH operative in From Russia with Love. Before the golden period of 2015 to 2016, writers and directors portrayed us as scary-stern. Fuck their contempt for dykes, although my Rosa is hateful as James Bond’s. I am sure little blades flash out from her boots.

Diary: Lots of staff, here. Our wad-of-dick administration is a job creator, if you are 90 percent rage and willing to work for 1980s’-style minimum wage. Around Rosa Krebbs I toe the line, but I’ve been a smart-ass in the sessions. One heterosapian slapped me. She doesn’t think she is going to change me. She just dip-shitty hates me. And herself for being duped into voting for feudalism.

Diary: I wonder if camps near other metropolis-es are big as this. Everyone felt safe being out in a big city. The joke going round is that San Francisco has become a big conversion camp and straight-o-s relocated to Silicon Valley. We call the True Love coach ‘the Womb’ because she tries to birth us into our new life. Blow me. She’s as loving as a Fox newscaster. I hear there will be boy-girl dances in a week or so, with Lawrence Welk music and cattle prods. Shelley, from the NYC community, tried to bribe them to let her leave. Now she’s limping.

Diary: Why they hate us isn’t because of the Bible or the snake of my fat tongue in a cunt.

Diary: Whitney, who was always too thin, collapsed during a session and was lugged out. Okay, I admit they are aiming for serious damage. History favors the appearance of retrograde motion, sliding back before trundling forward, but that’s a card trick and inept calculation. Maybe they will kill me. I’d prefer they give into my request for lanyard-making. Who doesn’t love lanyards?

Diary: Some of my kind will convert similar to ancestors of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the dark night. When I read that a few years ago, that Teresa and her confessor’s ancestors were conversos, I felt a helium balloon pop in my brain. I felt all the pick-up sticks scatter to the four corners of the earth and the history of western spirituality a game with pieces lost, found, secreted and proper nouns are exhausting. Mom’s church didn’t baptize so once I worked out I was going in her direction and not Pop’s I choose to be baptized by a congregation of Anglican queers; a good many of us are here.

Diary: The idiots in power are knowing fools who know not they are fools. They think they are ‘in’ on something. Some of them have become meaner. Some sadder.

Diary: Seeing as I paid my rent a few months in advance, maybe I will still have an apartment, be able to carry on when I return to New York, subterfuge help for the resistance. It does clear the mind to get away from New York for a spell. Fuck. I hear the gentle clomp of Rosa’s boots. Lights out.

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