Constructing myself

It's me in my finest rubber looking out of the window of a WWII bunker into a garden where my mother, age 68 (or age 9), is sitting on the swing her husband built for her 6 years ago. Her little girl's fairy tale world is as carefully constructed as my late fetish--clothes, setting, posture. Both worlds are very separate from the rest of our lives (with the potential for disaster or comedy when they meet). My mother's construction is a lonelier one--straight 68-year old women have not built an underground tribe around their little girl fantasies. They probably also have not been identified as a consumer group. Yet.

Those constructed constructions are a home of a sort, in a world where dislocation is the cultural norm. Where do you belong? In a world all by yourself or is nowhere a better place? If one is lucky, one never had to ask the question, or one can afford to buy a place...