My Blog #015 ~ An unlikely reunion!

Hello it is me again (Rory). I am back connected to the internet with news of excitements that have befallen me over the last months!

A quick update for any concerned parties (uncle Craig) - the only damage from my long covid is liver and brain damage.

As this is my first update in many months, I should bring all you virtual pals up-to-date!

~ ~ ~

In July last year I was humbled into admitting Covid-19 was indeed a genuine pandemic when I got the illness.

It is possible I infected many many people as I was prostituting myself at the time* (thanks to a bad bunch who befriended me).  Witnessing first hand, hospitals filled with coronavirus sufferers like myself, was a mindblowing situation.  It was this reality that helped me realign and recognise my mental troubles.

Once well enough to be on my feet, I began seeing several mental health professionals who have been very good for me (well, Dr. Carol is at least, I don't expect to be seeing Dr. Murdock again anytime soon**).

I now realise I am a submissive personality and inflicted with manias. Which specifically my doctor doesn't know yet.  We are working through this.

I would like to thank the excellent health carers of Thurso and Scrabster for these last eighteen months and apologise again for making their jobs so much harder.

But what of the excitements I promised?

These come in the shape of a very unlikely reunion!

~ ~ ~

Just before last Christmas I received a visitor.  An old colleague; musician, poet, explorer - it was Mr. Steven Wicked (form. Glenn Glenson)!

For years I'd feared seeing my old friend Steven again.  His face represented something I had grown to hate: my own failings.  But the day he did turn up on my fathers doorstep (December 25th, 2020) was exactly the right time (whilst practically being quite an inconvenient time).

Hospitalised with "long" covid between July and October, I had turned over a new leaf mentally.  My body dysmorphia had subsided to the point where I no longer cared about my pallid androgynous ugliness.  My mind was cleared and thoughts had returned to the poetic.

Despite my (albeit unexpected) joy at seeing Steven in the flesh, he seemed much less receptive.  It turned out we were contractually still bound to a reggae project together, entitled Spliff Riddims.

Our previous Spliff Riddims release (from 2012) had made a "major comeback" financially - accruing several digital sales (known in the industry as digisales) within a two week period. Business-savvy as ever, the brain behind the band now known simply as TIFG, Wicked (alongside, begrudingly, his lackey Robert Heart Jnr) was chomping at the bit to release more music to fill this re-emerging market.

In December 2019, I couldn't have imagined ever making music again but, a year later, the prospect thrilled me!  The thick-slather of pride that came knowing these professional musicians wanted my contribution again certainly resurrected some mojo - spirits were higher than they had been in recent memory (since possibly - dare I admit it - the glory days of An Angel Called Lucifer?)

So on Christmas Day 2020 I found myself riding shotgun back down south, Mr (or should that be Maestro?) Steven Wicked at the wheel of a very impressive car!

[I here must apologise, again, to my long-suffering blood relatives for abandoning them on Jesus' Special Day. Since his days studying under Master McWren, Steven has refused to acknowledge December 25th as a public holiday; consequently it was the only day he was available to collect me]

Steven gratiously put me up in a (very fancy!) B&B just outside of Swinton for several days before we crossed the mythic border - where my homeland ends and that Great Mistress England begins.

After a fourth night alone [I must confess: around Day 3, scared I'd been forgotten, my panic attacks of old returned with increasing ferocity - needless to say I was being a dafty!!] my collaborator, inspiration and "bonne ammiee" (French = "best bud") reappeared for the final leg of the journey.

Returning to the Bowels Of The Basement studio did bring mixed emotions; so many bad bad times were had in those latter days of 2013.  Predictably, bullish colleague Robert did his best to undermine my abilities - his vitriolic attacks weren't completely without merit however.  I hadn't realised we'd be going straight into a recording situation, so picking up drumsticks for the first time in years was intimidating.  Plus I'd forgotten how reggae was meant to sound.

Once the stylistic intentions were ironed out, we completed an albums-worth of songs within a couple of hours [lo and behold, the talent never went away!] and I was permitted my old bed (how I'd missed staring up at that dripping boiler!) in Steven's grandma's basement.  She was as lovely as ever! [although didn't remember me, oddly?]

~ ~ ~

Herein lies another announcement: Yes, we recorded an entire ALBUM that day! 

As of today only a single has been released (for marketing technicalities beyond me) but I will keep you updated when I have details on the album release date.

A second Spliff Riddims album!  Blessed times indeed 💚

~ ~ ~

In a flurry of activity I added the instruments I remembered how to play and oversaw the mixing process.  Unless my memory has degraded to an extent further than my doctors expect, all the recording technology appears to have changed since 2013?  I spent several years attempting ― through magic, herbs and group-think ― to erase all memories of electricity; so it's possible this did work after all?!

Engineering Steven and Robert's demands was a challenge, especially with their heavy imbibing of illicit substances.  Substances I myself have now abandoned.  I was led to believe [in some brief small-talk Steven engaged in during our nine-hour journey] that the two were recently sober.

But akin to method actors diving into their role whole-heartedly, my musical brothers insisted authenticity could only be achieved through chemical alteration.  I agreed.  In hindsight I am thankful they kept me at arms-length for the whole process of recording.  Illegal drugs and me can no longer mix and I presume they must have known that.

~ ~ ~

The musical work had been finished within a few days of that initial session but it was agreed I should remain on-hand for a week or so in case needed.  Unfortunately the English government enforced another pandemic-lockdown, resulting in three months isolation in the aforementioned basement.  Food and drink were left outside daily (Steven's grandma?) and once every two weeks I was permitted a video-call with Dr. Carol.

It is testament to the excellent work of my psychologists that those days between January and March found me mentally capable enough to survive.  No natural light, no human interaction and an incessant drip-drip-drip which become swiftly tiresome!

Each day began with the possibility [and hope] I may be required to record my friend Steven (or even foe, Robert!)  Although that rarely came to pass, I occupied myself happily(!!) with drawing, solitaire and writing imaginary songs, each at tempo with the leaking boiler.

I was needed twice over the months to correct some pitch issues and insert some monologues - both quick jobs.  My first interaction-proper came towards the end of March when Robert opened the door to my defacto-prison, presenting me with a coach ticket to Aberdeen.

Despite our disagreements as musicians and humans, it was nice to see Robert that day.  He looked almost shocked to see me in one piece!  Telling me he had "been aware" of my "problems" he was "glad I felt happier as a woman."  It was a nice thing to say and I appreciated it both then and now.***

Steven, Rory (male) and Robert

 

These pictures were taken on the day in 2013 a new contract was drawn up determining the future of The Ill-Fitting Garibaldis and other TIFG-Projects revenue splits. Robert's successful distraction technique (pictured) resulted in me failing to read the contract I then signed (pictured). In short, as Steven was seemingly aware of and uncomfortable with (pictured), the contract shafted me. On the plus it retained my equal involvement with Spliff Riddims!

 

So therein lies the first part of this lengthy update.  An arrival coinciding not with the release of Spliff Riddims 'A Warning' single (as originally intended had I internet access) but, as eagle-eyed TIFG-Project fans will have noticed, upon the release of ANOTHER NEW RELEASE!  More of that in my next blog...

I love you all and thank you for standing by me all these years.

I am back and better than ever!

I am Rory x

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

* To any of my family reading this: yes, your suspicions were true and I truly regret you finding this out here but I do not have the fortitude to admit these things to you in person for reasons that should be obvious.  Also I apologise for the "troubles" (those concerned know what I mean!)

** Sorry, once again, Dr. Murdock; I hope you are in better health now.

*** As you can only have been aware of my developments from this blog, I'll presume you are reading this and use this as a chance to say: thank you, Robert.  I know I was a wreck when we parted ways in 2013.  I strive to be better not just for me but for you as well.  Peace and love, always.

My Blog # 013 ~ et moi

#MeToo

A number sign and five letters. Yet so much anguish contained within.

With the wave of digitally-empowered LGBTQ sisters, now is also the time for me to come forward and tell of a time when I too fell victim to a sexual predator.

It was during my teenage years, back when I was inhabiting the body of a wee boy. [Edit: to clarify, I was at that time the said boy. Not, as some of you trolls have suggested, that I was perpetrating the crimes. Get real.]

I was a music enthused under-developed youngster, innocent to the ways of the world. That is: innocent to the wickedness all men possess within.

Consequently I was molested repeatedly by a musician I was working with around the years 2005-2006. I don't want to name names.

I have long been confused about this issue as at the time I was very receptive to the sexual attention and although not being able to admit it - because I was definitely not gay!!! - got pleasure and comfort from the "encounters."

The woman in me now understands this "affection" for what it really was: classic male manipulation. I was a victim of brain washing. I was brain washed into THINKING I was enjoying intimacy with another man. He was several months older than me so clearly I was a vulnerable target. It disgusts me.


This perpetrator fled to the other side of the country as I hit my 17th birthday. Could that be a coincidence? I'll let you be the judge of that!!!

Now admittedly we continued to have a friendship up until my recent gender revelation which was kind, humorous and gentle on his part. (Oh so easy to pretend from behind a keyboard!) And although there is no evidence of this perpetrator having committed crimes against any other, as all my victim-sisters out there will testify: all men should be treated guilty until proven innocent. In my eyes the lack of evidence just displays how cunning this man truly was and probably continues to be. Yes he is now "happily" married but I'm sure many cruel predators hide behind the appearance of stability marriage implies.

I can only hope that through my advice, no other trans-woman has to be subjected to the cruel manipulation of a man in their pre-re-gender-assigned teenage years.

I feel better for getting this off my breasts. And although I never did feel like a victim at any point up until recently, that isn't to say I wasn't one. I was unaware. Everyday I'm now revisiting the past and seeing where men have mistreated me.

One final warning sisters: do your best to wake up and smell the coffee. 99% of men cannot be trusted. Scientific evidence may not back this up but I have a proof greater than that of science. The fact is not only have I spent the majority of my life living with men, for the majority of my life I was one. So I know.

May the Gods bless and heal all the sisters who may now feel brave enough to come forward on social media. I love you all, stay strong, stay female.


R.
x

My Blog # 012 ~ a 'trans'-formation

It is official and I finally feel free of all inhibitions to talk openly with you: readers of the present and the future!


Hello, my name is Rory, a transgender female born into the body of a Scotsman in the last decade of the 20th Century. For years, like so many, I struggled with the skin I was in.

I couldn't understand why I never fitted in with other boys. Why despite definitely not being gay, post-puberty I was attracted to men. Why my poetic sensabilities were so forthcoming whilst my physical abilities as a drummer were so limited. Why my spatial awareness was so impaired. Why I craved peace not war...

I was always physically weaker than other boys. Mercilessly bullied for my "strange ways" throughout childhood and the majority of my twenties. I always loved cooking, sewing and bright colours. Always far more conscious of bodily and household cleanliness than seemed normal for a man. A truly torturous existence I lived. Until it all became clear.

I was raised in Thurso on the northern tip of Scotland, by my father. He always despised me and despite having encouraged me to take up the snare drum (the drum corps youth regiment was supposedly the easiest way to get into the army) he later decried me using those skills for rock and roll. Telling me music would lead to no good, I - then a teenage boy - ignored his warnings and went searching for fame and fortune as drummer and songwriter in an English rock trio (pah, the stupidity of man!) Father ultimately proved correct.

Upon returning to his abode several years back, I received the worst physical and verbal beatings I have ever experienced. I do not wish to call him out on these. They were for the best. They were what I needed. They led to the woman I am today. He always told me I was a "walloper" who needed "t' grow a set a' baws". "Yer a' gurl" had been his mantra my entire life and it was during a particularly gruelling fist-attack that his message finally hit home, so to speak.

Thanks to my amazing friends in the Thurso Wicca community who opened up my spiritual side consequently enabling me to engage in a deep understanding and acceptance of myself, that nascent thought "perhaps you are a girl?" took its course. By the time I moved to Cumbernauld a couple of years on, I was well and truly on course to being the independent woman who stands before you today. (Or should that be "sits before you today"? Ho ho!)

Perhaps if it wasn't for the gradually ever-more enlightened age we're living in, I'd have never realised I was a woman born into the body of a man. It is only looking back with hindsight on my previous life that events make sense. Puberty was particularly confusing for me. Thinking at the time I was supposed to be a man, it was very awkward when, as late as my twentith birthday, my testicles still hadn't dropped. Of course my body was attempting the unnatural! Eventually the testes were medically coaxed out by a doctor who queried the small nubbin of shaft and (comparatively) large bulb that was my 'todger' [Yorkshire term I picked up meaning penis]. I was severely teased by a couple of work colleagues (not mentioning any names) over many years that it looked more like a "large clit" [they however used a more vulgar phrase that - as a woman - I find incredibly offensive] than true male anatomy. Medically I was catagorised as suffering from the condition parva ipsum colem. I'm 100% convinced these issues and every other I ever experienced were all down to the fact my body was perpetually in an unnatural state.

We take technology for granted but it is scary to think that without the internet I would most likely not have been able to self-diagnose my transgender state. Would know nothing about my heroes Chelsea Manning, Jenna Talackova and Caitlyn Jenner, and very possibly have struggled on as an inadequate, confused man - no doubt committing suicide as (at best) a middle-aged drunkard. It is to the brave global transgender community I owe my life alongside Mother Earth, the Universal Goddesses of Truth, Forgiveness and Awareness and my Wiccan friends across Scotland and elsewhere (you know who you are!)

So it is now October 2017.

Ten months have passed since my acceptance of womanhood and by deed poll successfully my name and gender has been corrected. I have been on hormone therapy but my body hasn't taken too well to it thus far and there have been some frankly groteseque side-effects which led me to quit work before summer and continue to leave me mostly housebound. At least for the time being! That infinitely-deep well of faith keeps me positive.

To fans of my music, I am aware changing surname could entail confusion but I feel to truly enjoy the newly found emanicipation I must escape from a family name I have always disliked, both for its enunciation and evocation of buttocks. (One may have assumed I would take up my sometime pseudonym "McBrute" but this again is a brutal masculine sounding name I no longer wish to be associated with.) I will be updating all my promo pictures when I am healthy enough to do so and although the pitch of my voice has yet to change significantly, as it regains its true femininity I may just have one or two more songs in me yet! ;)

McBee was the nickname bestowed upon me by High Priestess Nigella S. Thringe during my first visit to Stromness in 2014 and in light of her tragic, unexpected passing last year, I thought I would honour her by making it my official surname. The fact Rory is a gender-neutral name explains why subconciously I've always liked it and felt like a 'Rory'. Kaitlyn on the other hand is both tribute to my favourite female wrestler and aforementioned Ms Jenner - whilst keeping the 'K' of my birth initials intact. Changing initials seemed quite honestly a step too far!

How am I finding life as a woman? So far so good! Mentally at least. Physically quite the opposite but it is very early days. I have at least joined up with the feminist society in Cumbernauld and next week hope to take part in the protest to put an end to ALL discrimination. It is the 21st Century, when will men learn their place? We women are not only going to show the chauvinist male pigs that we exist but (in the words of the Queen herself) "we rule the world"!*

We transgender females may yet not be fully accepted in Cumbernauld but we continue to fight the good fight of awareness and understanding (peacefully of course). If any of you have questions or doubts about your own transgender issues do contact me. I will be shortly publishing on this site my poetry as a woman - and in true humbleness I say it is FAR greater than anything conceived before my awakening - alongside more frequent updates about my new life.

And how to end this momentous update? A short prayer of course;

Mother Earth,
High Priestess Universe
I am born again.
Semblance in truth,
Femininity unbounded
You create and protect.
Womanhood creates,
And is life
So praise her.
In peace


I love you all,
R x


* To my wiccan sisters: like you I *do* condemn Beyoncé's bourgoise message but can't deny I find her lyrics empowering. I am speaking as a poet alongside a fan of music.

An Awakening

The first day of a new year, the first day of a new me. An awakening has occured, please join me in The Lady's Prayer:

 ♀

Our Mother,

Who art amongst us,

Hallowed is Thy presence.

Our realm is here,

We sense Thee near,

On Earth, which is our living Heaven.

Teach us this day to bake our bread,

And accept us in our human-ness

As we accept each other, in spite of our limitations.

Lead us not into domination,

But empower us to freedom.

For ours is this Air, This Fire,

This Water, This Earth,

Forever and Ever.

Blessed Be.