That’s not true, sometimes I dance when I’m alone. My voyeur is Trotsky. There is joy in moving your body to a well crafted rhythm. With brave hips and confident expression, I am amplified.
When did I learn to view life from such an out-of-body perspective? Building complex layers of assumptions about how others see me, a fortress of bricks comprised of invisibility and insignificance. It’s a portentous hustle.
Our death marches are a boon to my psyche. Confession produces truths. My heart waltzes with many partners. My body is my own. My knowledge ars erotica.
Apparently it’s me and surly 15-year-olds who can’t stop trolling the interwebs for images that are both mundane and inspirational. I suspect it’s the mundane pattern recognition that makes them inspirational. At the very least, it’s cheaper than Prozac and (hopefully) less damaging to my neurons. It’s literally my virtual basket of kittens.
The future may not bring us moving sidewalks or jetpacks, but men may finally get to control their fertility. Men are interested, according to surveys, so there’s funding. And that may be the “sense of accomplishment and success” that men will need to arrest manopause. I’m calling it: 2011 is the Year of the Man. If those in power are smart, they’ll add language to the Affordable Health Care Act that ensures their fertility is also covered.
As the summer days tumbl by, I dream impractical.
*Yiddish for social misfits, or rather an impractical dreamer with no business sense. Literally, air person.
“I was always interested in sex, even as a kid. Sex includes shame and humiliation and fantasies and longing. It’s so dense with the kinds of things I’m interested in.” — Miranda July
It’s a daily struggle to authentically practice feminist ideals in a culture whose discourses include paternal debates about women’s autonomy of their bodies* and close-minded demands that there is a formulaic way to love another. As Miranda July notes, sexuality embodies a myriad of powerful contradictions.
It’s fascinating to watch constructed private matters exhumed so publicly. The violent rhetoric needed to maintain the facade of control over such matters is obvious. Such porous boundaries are fluid which is why they are so dynamic. Others have written more eloquently (Bordo, Luibheid, Butler, Lorde) about these constructions and how they discipline our practices and influence our longing and fantasies.
This move to another state, a new city, and a deviant version of the same occupation has afforded the possibility to practice these principles in a new way. It’s a privilege I do not take lightly.
* add race, class and sexuality and it gets even more dense
Erica Jong’s Is Sex Passé? rant was provocative. She certainly aroused me with her assertion that sex is a nostalgic trip for youth (she defines “youth” as mid-30s).
According to Jong, these youngsters are rebelling against their mothers old-fashioned quests for sexual liberation. She notes, “If their mothers discovered free sex, then they want to rediscover monogamy.” What does a rebellion of sons look like?
“Sexual passion is on life support” due to a desire to control the chaos in a depressing culture of war, conservative values, and persistent attacks on women’s rights. Ultimately, Jong calls for a feminism that unites both sexes which I wholeheartedly endorse. It’s her homogenous heterosexual perspective of rebellion (have babies) that I find limp and passé.
I’m a singleton again (which unknowingly is a great segway from above). I stood at the nexus of nature versus nurture; evolution versus status quo. Intentions are questioned and desires to understand how we can be so different go unanswered. There are assumptions we both operate under which creates the distance. I miss her.