I’ve been here before; it feels like 1999.
I’ve been here before; it feels like 1999.
Clouds hung low
to scrape the sky,
hands were formed
in an effort
to stay warm; the
trees were wrapped
If I tell you my identity, will you tell me what to buy?
Ask me questions. I want answers.
This time of year brings out a different kind of angst in understanding who I am. From pressures to BUY SOMEBODY SOMETHING to calibrating the dangers of assimilation (of all kinds), I appreciate everyone who has added to my voice and sense of agency.
I’m tempted to make promises that I can’t keep.
Oscillating between choice and denial has sparked new, and powerful, imaginary yearnings. I want that feeling of checking your assumptions; a feeling of being heard. Let’s practice justice everyday so that these memories are in our muscles, so that we are conscious when we fail.
Can you feel the rush for the end?
We report back different memories. Like when we visited her in the mental hospital and learned how tradition is precarious security. She sadly handed each one of us a painted gold angel made of plaster, which I still carry with me as evidence. It was the only thing she could provide to us, a product of her extreme sadness. You said we baked chocolate chip cookies in the industrial kitchen and have no memory of her angelic presentation. We both agreed that she was never coming home again.
How will you remember me?
justice will take us millions of intricate moves
- William Stafford
As each day tucks into the next, I add up the cumulative influence of how silence can be a weapon of intention. My head reminds me that this is the familiar effect of winter and the reappearance of those heavy memories that not-so-gently announce its arrival. My heart has been in hibernation for weeks.
There is nothing left for you; I promise.
Shall we think of junctions as felicitous opportunities to recast and reassess? If the rumors are true that the world is ending in less than a month, let us wake up each day with strategic purpose. This ritual is bigger than you or me.
Have you noticed that the air smells sweet with rotting leaves?
I think constantly about familiar tensions:
sunny winter blue skies.
I am dreaming in violence again.
The holidays are nearing.
I want to only read radical things:
There were places I was supposed to be this week.
Instead, I appreciated that my shadow was in front of me.
Living in bear country – a landscape of turn ons and fractured binaries -
I analyzed the world through a post-choice lens
and declared my love for the Datsun 510.
I remembered the 4th of July that was
an inappropriate miniskirt with a zenith of vodka tonics
followed by a drive home powered by a miracle and freedom.
Reminders of where I used to be frame where I see myself now.
They are the optics that position an erotic that begets joy.
I was born into a complex relationship.
There was no choice but to embrace multiple perspectives.
You said truth is an aesthetic and my heart skipped a beat.
Neptune has taken residence in my seventh house.
It will be there until I die, and longer. It means boundaries will dissolve – escapism of the best kind. This requires awareness, in all the ways awareness can be interpreted, from conscious to knowledgable.
My leisure has run away with my intentions.
I am delighted that I cannot control that fact.
There was a protest banner that spread the words, “Castrate the State!”; articles about fetal rights as civil rights; and a revelation about a perceived ”intensity gap” in pro-choice institutions.
This was the narrative arc leading up to Mother’s Day 2012.
We are supposed to celebrate those that have participated in accouchement, the standard and narrow definition of mother.
The anti-sex and the pro-parental zealots sound the same to me – both promote progeny.
In this land of homogenous seasons, I am afraid I missed my hibernation cycle.
She told me that I need to understand the difference between worry and disconcert; there was empowerment embedded in that assumption. There is also tension in that settling.
Happy Birthday Jesus.
An interview with myself:
1) What was the first word or phrase you thought of when you woke up this morning?
Me: leg salad (both an image and words)
2) What was the last thing you picked up off the street?
Me: a fortune that said, “FORTUNE TRULY HELPS THOSE WHO ARE OF GOOD JUDGEMENT”
3) Name something you wish you would have picked up but didn’t, and why didn’t you pick it up?
Me: a twisty balloon that looked like a strawberry, it was in the middle of a busy street and I thought it belonged to a baby that had just passed me
4) What do you wish you were doing right now?
Me: walking in dry, crunchy snow that is glittering in the moonlight
5) Do you like to ask questions or answer them?
Me: I tend to ask questions but really enjoy answering a good question.
6) What are you currently obsessed with?
Me: contradictions, dichotomies, and the space in between
7) What makes you angry?
Me: traffic lights that make you push a button in order for you to walk, murdering animals for food, invoking sexuality to sell fast food
8) What makes you happy?
Me: epiphanies, phrases that make your heart stop for a nanosecond, uncovering the obvious
9) What makes you brave?
10) What are you excited about for the upcoming year?
Me: riding my bike, making music, and deconstructing the hype of an impending apocalypse
To quote Kim Gordon, “my future is static, its already had it ” (Schizophrenia). My holiday wish is pretty simple: please let the next sixteen days zip by and let the future year roll forward like it’s no big deal. Expectations, purposely constructed or illusionary, make me nervous and if past experiences are indicators of anything, vehicles of disappointment. This is not an indictment. It’s a calculated reference to the above label.
I love reading the top searches that a random passerby used to find this mess of a blog. Child vagina (WTF?!) and man pussy apparently are two tubes you can take to find this url.
As American feminists were hissing about the Plan B reversal due to “common sense”, British feminists rallied for the muff, in her original glory. The body politic is gloriously exposed; sexuality was rationalized on the lips of politicians and defiantly displayed on the streets. It’s all so Victorian. Foucault just yawned.
A random list of ten good things from the last three months:
Valentine’s Day. Meh.
“Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads – at least that’s where I imagine it – there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.” — Haruki Murakami Kafka on the Shore
Summer Wish List:
Happy Mother’s Day! And even happier day to those of us who choose not to birth or be restricted by our wombs.
Gail Collins’ Op-Ed column in last week’s New York Times, What Every Girl Should Know, is a stark reminder of how precarious our happiness is and how we all need to be advocates for our choices, lest they be made for us.
Sometimes it feels like change is glacial. Yet it’s only been 50 years that the birth control pill was approved by the FDA, 45 years since married women were prescribed the pill, 36 years since single women could gain access to the pill, and it’s only been 37 years since abortion was codified. It can seem like menstruating women are measuring time by trimesters and months.
We often forget that transforming the cultural landscape is a modern project of progress. We assume that we can map out all the complexities of change and have thousands of theories of action to document these assumptions. But this is a project where constant change is the chorus and trying to interpret the illogical can become an obsession. What we choose to focus on and obsess over matters greatly because if change is the constant, you may find yourself looking back and not recognizing where you came from.
I’ll never forget the last time I sat on a Santa’s lap.
It was the first time I learned about boundaries.
Photo by me. Dolphin Bay Hotel, Hilo, HI fire alarm in the “Superior Suite”
I’ve been so busy that I had to go two pages into CuteOverload.com to catch up.
Avoiding the suits, seeking other opportunities, drunken noodles, remarking that writing and reading all day makes one a poor communicator, and a quick phone call to the one who birthed me; it’s been a long, remarkably unremarkable day.
Best friend. Vegan. Sculpture.
(a toast to saint patrick’s day : Lá ’le Pádraig )
Jesse Helms has died.
On November 19th, 1931, (only one month after Thomas Edison died) either Dr. Earle C. Haas or Dr. Philip Harville submitted a patent for an “invisible” device that once inserted into a woman’s body, collected her menstrual blood. A little device called a tampon.
Whoever submitted the patent did so with the explicit notion that women should not have to touch themselves while inserting said devise. Despite its initial association with destroying women’s lives (rupturing sacred hymens did not help it’s initial sales), tampons were considered a convenient revolution. It wasn’t until the 1960′s that the general public shed the illogical belief that a tampon was synonymous with a dildo.
With menstruation becoming obsolete, will the tampon remain revolutionary?
Reposting the conservative christian’s interpretation of a liberal holiday wish list.
I wonder which liberal agenda will be passed first? Which will be Bush’s second veto?
My money is on the last one minus the terrorist rant.
Here is what we can expect if the liberals win:
It’s good to see Rummy hard at work.
Crisp white shirt.
Serving a woman soldier murder.
Another nominee. Another white man.
Maureen Dowd’s synopsis of the future of feminism was just as depressing and arrogant as Bush’s pick.
Make-up, sex and children. Lack of job opportunities and sexual objectification. Discussing the dichotomy of why Maxim allures and frightens, Dowd fails to breakdown the consequences of such absurdity. Her lack of class analysis was the most frightening of all. Quotes from overly educated, privileged single women who blame their ringless fingers on their positions of power is grotesque.
Feminism is much more than these sexy bytes of information. It is about analyzing the structures of power that create and maintain hierarchy. Trying to squeeze into a bankrupt system is the last thing this “modern girl” wants to do.
It was a great honor to be an American woman on this International Women’s Day 2005.
The post-feminist revolution has arrived. Unfortunately it was not televised. It should come as no surprise. Cowboys are not always catalysts.