Silence (Jackpot January #8)

Tonight, I watched the 1992 film version of Orlando. I liked it a lot; it was camp but playfully subdued in a way the book was not, as far as I remember.

Virginia Woolf’s Orlando lives in my memory as a book about connection, but that might be far off the mark. It is famously a book about a remarkable individual based on a remarkable individual: Woolf’s lover, Vita Sackville-West. Orlando is intoxicating: playful, romantic, dreamy, wilfully floating down the river of history. They are the person they are, regardless of sex.

Orlando’s charm rests in their quiet confidence. They seek love, art, and poetry at all costs, yet they meet all the trials and upheavals of life with a bemused acceptance. They drift through time with purpose.

For a long time, I’ve had a rather limited view of assertiveness. I thought it was about being loud, decisive, cool, and knowing yourself for certain. But lately, I’ve become envious of silent self-assurance.

Earlier today, I thought about TERFs again. It’s not good for me, but when I contrast their anger with the joys of Orlando, frustration and confusion take hold of me. Why do people rely on the certainty of categories so dull as man or woman? Why can’t they just identify with a label and leave it at that? Why would you refuse to explore all your wholeness and complexity, and instead let a word and its connotations constrain you?

Near the start of the film, Orlando laments that others perceive them as strange because of their devotion to ‘beauty and solitude.’ When they transform from man to woman, they say, “Not much has changed. Same person. Just a different sex.” That’s how I feel at my core.

My behaviour is too often skittish. I over-explain and vacillate, not because I am afraid to commit but because I do not ever want to foreclose other possibilities. I want to hold onto most things most of the time. Because I see myself as constantly in flux, I fear silence. I fear that it may mean stasis, the death of change.

Recently I’ve gotten better about this. I’m more comfortable equivocating. I’ve come to love silence and stillness and the contents of my own head. I’m learning to keep my thoughts to myself and to let go of the need to prove my variability.