LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
BOOKED Solid |
Review by Rebecca James |
I Am Not Myself These Days Josh Kilmer-Purcell (2006)
"So, I'll keep dancing in my costumes. Day and night. And I won't sleep as much as I should. And I will drink more than I should. And maybe, as I'm twirling and glittering, playing a retarded game of hide and seek in the middle of an open field, maybe, just maybe, whatever happens next will be bigger, and I will forget that which seems so huge to me right now." A few months ago, I immersed my high school juniors in the mixed-up Fitzgerald world of The Great Gatsby. The easiest point of entry for today's students seems to be the theme of a self-created identity. They provided exceptional discourse on the nuances of teenage cliques, the pressures to define themselves upon entering high school, and the extensive influence of celebrities' experiences with wealth and fame. Like Gatsby, their idea of what it means to be rich is fairly glamorous and untouchable by regular means. But Gatsbya man who created a name, a past, and an image that spoke of the child-like fantasies he indulgedwas similar enough to the likes of modern self-generated celebritiesthink of Jessica Simpson, fame built around exposing her ill-fated young marriage on a reality television showthat my students could begin to relate to the novel. I can, too. More people toy with the tantalizing idea of recreating themselves when they are unhappy than care to admit it, I suspect. A new job, new place to live, new friend: anything can be fodder for the new you. Josh Kilmer-Purcell is no exception. His creation of Aqua (short for Aquadisiac), like Gatsby, simultaneously thrills him and destroys him. Aqua is no ordinary drag queen. She is the physical expression of the confident, witty, sought-after person hiding inside Kilmer-Purcell. A Midwestern guy relocated to New York City, Kilmer-Purcell had difficulty making ends meet and meeting friends. His previous experiences with Aqua in Georgia led him to allow her persona to emerge in New York, ostensibly to supplement his meager income as an advertising designer; Aqua, however, requires her creator to give up quite a bit to enable her act. "This is how I become not me: It is an exacting processthere's no room for error, and little for improvisation [...] It begins by monitoring my diet for the entire day before any show. My body must be relatively empty of food to fit into the corset [(which shrinks Kilmer-Purcell's waist to a minute 23 inches)], and relatively full of alcohol to dull the discomfort. About four hours before I head out, I gather together the pieces of my predetermined outfit." Kilmer-Purcell's memoir is about more than the construction of a drag queen, although the raw authenticity of his ritualized and painful production is quite interesting. Instead the author juxtaposes Aqua's downfall with his own survival. The two personas weave around an increasingly familiar epicenter, first with one emerging as victor, then the other. Kilmer-Purcell's habits and relationships spiral in and out of control as the drag self allows the daytime self to make more of the decisions that make his life more (or less) livable. It's a painful process to witness. Kilmer-Purcell does an excellent job of noting how a relationship (his is with a handsome, wealthy whore named Jack) can be an important point of positive growth even as it threatens to self-destruct. He has a talent in finding the humor in everyday absurdities, and in recognizing that what eventually becomes routine for him can be very unusual (and entertaining) to his readership. His experiences as an alcoholic drag queen tend to net him some very suspect situations that he takes in stride. Instead of a shameful, preachy, I-can't-believe-I-sunk-that-low voice, Kilmer-Purcell picks himself up off up the seven a.m. subway seat, adjusts his fish-filled clear plastic breasts, and hobbles on one high heel back to his Manhattan apartment. Just for kicks, he'll go on to tell you about the hog-tied, naked London businessman who lets him in his own front door ("Houdini" is the captive client of Jack). While Kilmer-Purcell's detailed descriptions of the vast quantity of alcohol he manages to consume and still remain somewhat functional (albeit not exceptionally so) can be a little repetitiveI found myself wondering why he continued to put himself through the physical pain of being Aquait was that emphasis that prompted my inner explorations of why he felt compelled to delve so deeply into Aqua at all. Ultimately, the author is forced to choose between Aqua and himself. It's a journey that takes some courage and some talent, but readers won't be sorry that they were along for the ride. Rebecca James divides her time between teaching in Allentown, PA and reading in Rehoboth Beach, DE. She may be emailed at jamesr@allentownsd.org. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 16, No. 9 Juky 14, 2006 |