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…