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August 6th, Two Thousand Five: On a lighter note....
... my sweetheart arrives here in a mere FOUR HOURS. Yippee-kay-ai-yay!
I still expect to be screaming shortly, but in a far, far more
pleasant manner.
(And know what's cool? Know all those little hopes and daydreams
one wistfully entertains about someone you really fucking dig
saying all the things you've waited an eon for someone to say
and truly mean, without asking them to say any of them? What's
cool is when it actually, finally, really happens. All the damn
time.) |
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August 5th, Two Thousand Five (#2): Must. Scream. Now.
Mifepristone, or RU-486 is NOT Levonorgestrel, Plan B, or the Morning-After Pill. Reporting that the FDA should not approve emergency contraception
or needs add extra warnings to a medication because of deaths
due to AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT MEDICATION is at best, a serious
fact-checking problem or just damn stupid, and at worst, and more
often, purposefully manipulative misinformation. Stating Plan B should not be OTC, or needs special warnings
regarding deaths or side effects of Mifepristone is equivalent
to saying Ben-Gay shouldn't be OTC or requires special warnings
because of deaths or side effects from Ibuprofen.
Something cannot "cause" an abortion. Abortion, by definition,
is an INTENTIONAL and deliberate termination of pregnancy. Miscarriage
is a natural or unintentional termination or discontinuance of
pregnancy to term. And Plan B cannot cause miscarriage: there
isn't any data to back that up whatsobloodyever. Even if it did,
it's cause far, far less of them than nature herself brings about.
The morning-after-pill can only PREVENT a pregnancy if a pregnancy
has NOT YET OCCURRED.
Plan B is the equivalent of but FOUR birth control pills. FOUR. Now, how is it it is suddenly a grave concern if women take FOUR
when it's NOT a concern they take 21 every month, kids, sometimes
for a decade or more? (And funny, how we're concerned about four small doses of hormones,
but NOT, say, the hormones kids are growing up eating and drinking
several times a damn day, eh?) I have even heard progressives using that approach, who have
NO trouble with plopping 13-year-olds on birth control pills or
even something like Depo. And what the hell is this line of argument
that it'll be used as regular birth control: what women do they
think have that sort of big cash (hundreds of dollars a month
if someone were having intercourse a handful of times in a given
month) and that sort of access to EC but NOT -- strangely, with
all that dough -- access to OCPs or a desire to use a hormonal
method that is INSANELY cheaper, easier, and far less likely to
make you feel like you want to throw up for a handful of days
every time you take it?
And while we're at it: do you think anyone lobbying against RU-486
for abortion under the guise of it causing a couple deaths, or
claming concern over EC because of some pretty harmless side effects
-- less so than those for MANY OTC drugs -- have looked up the
death rates for pregnancy and childbirth lately? If so, since both have an EXPONENTIALLY higher death rate -- the highest death rate of any reproductive option
-- isn't it curious, isn't it just bizarre, that no one in that
camp is lobbying to ban pregnancy because of all the deaths it causes? Heck, how come we don't
hear anything about all the health risks and side effects of pregnancy?
Seriously, if I get one more Google news alert on the status of
OTC Levonorgestrel that's talking about Mifepristone to purposefully
muddy this issue, I'm going to lose it. probably, I'm preaching
to the choir, but holy cats, this is making me kookoo.
(And since when, anyway, is it a Christian ethic to lie to your
neighbors to get them to take your side? Given: Buddhist, but
I did plenty of Bible study in college and afterwards, and put
my time in in both Irish Catholic AND Southern Baptist environs,
and for the life of me, I just cannot remember a single sermon
or passage in which Jesus told everyone to go out and be a big,
fat liar.) |
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August 5th, Two Thousand Five: I dreamed about Tom Waits last night, and he could dance just
fine.
I have perhaps mentioned before in passing that either I am not
a dreamer or I do not remember my dreams. I had a therapist in
high school -- an excellent woman who was really key to my surviving
my oft-traumatic adolescence -- who suggested I wa one of those
anomalies who truly did not often dream, and had a theory that
it may well be because I tend to keep my subconscious conscious.
But every time she'd theorize about it, it'd make our heads hurt,
so I have no final conclusions about the validity of that theory.
In any event, maybe a few times a year, at best, do I remember
dreams, so long as I'm actually sleeping well. In the last few
months, I've dreamt/recalled more dreams than usual, which has
been nice. One of the last times, I had an incredibly delicious
dream about Mr. Price having sex with an ex-fling of mine. It
was very, very pretty and thus, I was very, very thankful to my dreaming mind for providing me such fine entertainment
and masturbatory fodder.
But last night's dream may just take the cake for Best. Dream.
Ever.
I was on an airplane, bound for Mexico. And as it turned out,
I was sitting next to Tom Waits. I heart my unconscious.
Tom and I immediately struck up breakneck-paced conversation --
without any acknowledgment that he was, like, Tom Waits -- and
at some point, ended up talking in a bed side by side, as the
plane was strangely equipped with hotel-style rooms of various
types. We stayed in this room for a while, gabbing energetically
about art and life and love and muses and politics and poverty
and the universe with the covers tucked up to our chins and bottles
in hand, as if I were at the world's coolest slumber party.
Tom and I seemed to have some sexual chemistry going on, so we
were very flirty, but mostly, we were busy talking and then: dancing. Tom, it appears, very much liked to dance, and so we'd hop up
and take breaks to waltz and tango around the room. At some point,
Tom told me to dance as if I were in love with him, which wasn't
a very big stretch, since I have been for years. It was excellent
dancing, in no way perfect, with plenty of fumbles and klutziness
and laughing. He even let me lead.
But the oddness of the plane didn't stop at these sort-of sleeper
cars. The plane was also linked to villages and alternate universes,
so I took Tom to, for instance, a small village that was-but-wasn't
a village I spent time in last November on the strange, inspiring,
short across-the-UK three-day affair I wantonly conducted. It
was that village if that village looked like (which it doesn't)
a combination of the meat-packing district in NYC before it got
cool, northern Ireland and lower Wacker Drive. We found a pub,
where LO! Affair-from-the-UK was present and I got to introduce
them and watch everyone be all amazed because I just nonchalantly
walked into the pub with Tom sodding Waits. We passed the whiskey
bottl, walked and danced along smoky, cobblestone streets and
talked and talked. I was imparted with many beads of raspy Tom-wisdom.
We flirted. It was incredibly artful: me and Tom, against a monochromatic
red sienna backdrop of street and building, fog in the air, smokestacks
abound, waltzing and humming.
We then somehow ended up in a mall we were both desperate to get
out of. But, the elevator was this enclosed amusement-park-from-hell-looking
thing that would have made claustrophobic me LOSE it, especially
since everyone else in it, mostly small children, were SCREAMING,
and not in the good, fun, rollercoastery-way, either. It was very
Brazil. Tom and I watched the scene with great fascination and no small
measure of horror. (It was so weird, you'd totally have thought
we were in a dream or something!)
So, we ended up back on the plane again, and went to go back to
our "room," followed by my UK-pal, but as it turned out, it was
already full of several incredibly cute dykes, who were very nice
and very flirty, but didn't seem to want to give up what ended
up being their room so Tom Waits and I could get it on. Unbelievable.
A bunch of my artwork was blown up to megasize and hung around
the room, and I got to watch Tom look at it thoughtfully.
The airplane staff were calling one another, looking for rooms
for Tom like good lackeys, but there weren't any to be had. While
this was going on, some very cute lass was fiddling with my breasts
to Tom's great amusement and I made some odd comment to UK-fling
about how he always seemed to get in the way when some cute girl
was around, though I'm not sure why, since that made no sense
at all. Tom and I walked through a few rooms searching, but we
kept just walking in on droves of old couples reading, in rooms
that looked like everything from cabins to luxury suites to spaceships
to alleyways.
Tom incredulously informed me at some point that, in lieu of room
availability, the steward gave him my phone number instead.
We then did some more chatting, after I passed him a semi-blank
book I had in my travels for everyone to write in, and he ripped
two blank pages from it because he said he would write better
once I was gone. More flirting ensued, while we gabbed and mushed
about my Mark and his Kathleen, and how fascinating it was to
be so in love and still have these other strange, passing relationships.
At that point, there was spoken and unspoken acknowledgment that
while Tom Waits had acquired my phone number, and we'd connected
magnificently, us not having sex was something of a charmingly
bittersweet disappointment-that-wasn't, but the chemistry was
massively enjoyed all around.
Then suddenly, Tom Waits, in expressing again playfully that he'd
really like to sleep with me (oh, ego-sleeping-made-happy), made
an eerily precise Mark Price want-to-play-with-Heather's-boobies-gesture,
with both perfect hand movements and facial gestures.
I started laughing so loud, I woke myself up. Bollocks.
(Tom didn't sing once, for the record. Collective humming was
as close as it got on that score.)
I am going to interpret this dream as a seriously good omen, all
around. And a fine, accurately strange and perfect representation
of my brain.
If you happen to see Tom, do please tell him I said hello. And
have a waltz with him for me, eh?
* * *
As of Wednesday night, around 11:30, I was herewith freed of the
shackles of hard deadlines and overextension -- by MY standards,
mind you -- that have had me bound since the beginning of March
without any chance to come up for air until NOW.
And this last week? Sheesh, what a fucking doozy. Wednesday was literally scheduled back-to-back in fifteen minute
increments from 8 in the morning through 11 at night, after days
just like it and worse; then I had a GIANT monkey wrench thrown
into this mix which meant trying to find a few hours that didn't
exist to even try and deal with and delegate the damage control.
(More on that at a later date when it's not socially/professionally
delicate: it is technically bad news, and seriously vexing, but
my agent tells me it's actually a blessing in disguise, and I
was too tired and overworked to choose anything but to believe
him.)
The bummer is that there was also a lot of specialness in the
week. mark was home in Ohio visiting family, which resulted in
one or two truly spectacular and beautiful phone conversations
late at night with his head in a relaxed (and okay, a little drunk)
space. I also got calls from all four of the Brothers Price from
ball games and drunken evenings, a quick chat with Mark's granny
from a lunch they were having, and a charming email from Mark's
Dad.
I'm not accustomed to being enthusiastically brought into family:
it's seriously bloody cool.
I still have lots of stories for you to tell I'm behind with:
the whole of the airport-speculum story, for instance. Lovely
points of the last WA visit. Details of my plane woo! A very silly
but potentially fun and profitable art idea I had at the beach
yesterday. And more gushiness than you can shake a stick at. (I also seriously need to archive this page so it doesn't take
five years to load, sorry!) But I can do all this. have my life back, my life of enough time
spent at Scarleteen, deal with Scarlet Letters, of new ideas,
of being to create more spontaneously and freely, of actually
getting enough rest and enough time where I don't have to do anything
at all.
I'm off for now to go clean my house before grabbing drinks with
Becca then passing out. I'm teaching two kickboxing classes tomorrow,
fluffing up the bedroom, having a soak, and then gleefully, gladly
and giddily hopping the lightrail to fetch my darling boy from
the airport yet again. I plan to engage in a good night and day
of mostly having sex and kissing until our lips fall off before
the show Sunday night. For those of you who attend, should I be
lipless, no poking fun allowed.
(I was informed last night, by the way, that the statement "We need to get you from the airport, then get back here and begin
having sex as soon as is humanly possible," fulfilled a long-standing adolescent daydream of Mr. Price's,
which makes me happy. It's really quite pleasant to discover that
there are people who stick around with whom my unfiltered bluntness
about carnal matters is considered greatly appealing, rather than
merely tactless.)
I'm still a bit -- just a bit -- giddy and seriously, exponentially in love, in case you hadn't
noticed. Shit, I even talked to Tom Waits about it. But he was goofy and giddy about HIS love too, SO THERE. |
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| Just a little shrunken PR for locals or those nearby: today marks
the day after MONTHS of work at double-time under deadlines I
FINALLY get to come up for air. (My sweetheart coming in briefly
for the show this weekend will actually get to meet me not stressed
out and overworked for the very first time! Wahoo!) Off to coffee
with a friend right now, but real entries en route afterwards,
I promise. |
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August 1st, Two Thousand Five: mumblegrumblegroanmuttergrowl.
I sat down this morning and started sewing more, then took a look
at the quilt/women's sexual history project.
And realized I need at least another month to work on it, not three days, even if I stay up all night, every
night, until I install Wednesday. I also realized that there is
a corner of the quilt that needs adding that'd be considered too
explicit for this show, but without it, or by watering it down,
it'd... well, be lacking. Same goes for the pieces missing from
it that I don't have yet. If I put it up as an in-progress piece,
it'd look like a disaster, and no one would have any idea what
the hell it was. And I just don't want to do this piece half-assed
in any way: it's too important.
Why I thought I could hand-sew a very heavy, complex quilt by
myself AND figure out how to engineer the underlayer of canvas
AND a glass pillow in less time it takes an entire quilting bee
to do your average quilt, I have no idea. If I'm not underestimating
myself, I'm overestimating myself, I tell you. I think I need
to learn to plain, old estimate myself. Does anyone actually do
that? Do you give lessons, if so?
It'll be okay: I'm prolific as hell, it's not like I don't have
other work, I do. The seven-foot-door piece is nearly done, and
I can finish the window project in time, I think. I have four
transparency pieces done and framed, one more nearly done, two
prints done and framed, and three more I just need a day with.
I have time to shoot, print and frame a couple concepts I've had
brewing in my brain -- including one with some of the quilt objects
-- which'd bring the print total to around 15, which is the limit
I was given anyhow. I'll need to call Brandon and beg a ride to
grab a few more frames, but that's doable. The optimist in me
says it's better, really, to have more work I can actually sell;
that I can just bust my chops to get another show before year's
end, and that I even have two cities I could do it in. She also
says my general well-being could use a break, while I'm at it,
and that pretty much no one at the show will know anything is
missing, anyway.
That's about all my inner optimist has to say. She likely wouldn't
have said anything at all if the pessimist in me hadn't put that
loaded gun to her head. I'm disappointed in myself and disappointed
to be unable to show this, even though I know my expectations
were incredibly high, given the timing of everything -- finishing
the book revisions, the health crisis tucked in there, being back
and forth between cities, et cetera.
I 'm not real fond of being disappointed in anyone else, but hate finding myself to be the big disappointment. Yuck. |
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July 31st, Two Thousand Five: The proverbial barf bag of emotional vomit returns.
Really, there will be sweet and funny anecdotes soon. I do have
them, really, I do.
The past couple of days I have just been too busy freaking out
to write them down.
So, I tried talking to friends, bending the ears of Brandon, Jane
and Neogrammarian. I tried a dose of Buffy, but I SO picked the
wrongest episode to be watching, given the particular freakout
at hand (Bargaining 1 & 2, Season Six, for the record: seriously bad choice), and I tried
burying myself in art, including things which normally would be
therapeutic: going at an oak door with the claw end of a hammer,
getting paint all over my hands from lettering. I resisted calling
Mark because I just didn't know how to bring these issues up.
What they boil down to, the public version, is this: we live in
very different worlds to some degree. Our natures are very, very
similar. Our backgrounds are incredibly different. Our feelings
for one another and about the essence of our relationship are
identical. The worlds we live in -- our communities, especially
the larger concentric circles of them -- are at times completely
different planets.
Some aspects of Mark's world, which were illuminated primarily
during the big party last Friday night, are downright depressing,
soul-sicky and triggering for me. Before one begins to wonder
what on earth that could be and perhaps goes places far beyond
what I'm actually referring to, understand that over the years
-- in case you don't already -- I've built a really alternative
environment for myself in many ways; an environment where I can
live my life as authentically as possible, as in line with my
own ethics and goals for the world at large as possible. I don't
work in any aspect of corporate culture and never have. I'm a
full-time activist and artist. I work to create egalitarian community
around me when it comes to gender, race and class, and that has
been aided by the fact that my dating history is like the It's
a Small World ride at Disney: I've been all over the map, and
for once I don't mean that in a self-.... manner. I have constructed
my life so that I can address inequities I might experience or
see very directly and without hesitation. In any given day, I
don't have to deal with sexism or classism up in my face, and
if I do, I can address it, rather than bottling or nodding and
smiling, and if the concentric circles around me become dysfunctional
or nasty, I am completely able to simply opt out, or cut anyone
out who simply crosses one too many of my lines. There isn't a
TV here. Mainstream magazines don't come to my door. I ride a
bike or walk rather than driving. I don't have to ask if it's
okay to talk politics, dumb myself down or encourage anyone else
to. I eat like a big hippie, I have a farm share every summer,
I usually cook at home, from scratch. I'm queer, I'm independent,
I spend most of my days without makeup or elaborate grooming rituals
beyond bathing and toothbrushing. And I've made and continue to
make a lot of sacrifices to live in that world, because it's worth
it to me and far better than the alternative.
Mark's world isn't some nightmare place.
It is simply, in some ways, your basic mainstream, heterosexual
20-30-something community. And usually, it is seriously just fine:
I like the people closest to him very much. But the further and
the further I get away from "normal" life -- and there haven't
been that many times in my life I've been all that inundated to
begin with, given my upbringing and my schooling, but when I was
it was... not good -- the tougher and tougher it becomes to be
around it at its less-than-model moments without feeling soulsick,
especially when I find myself in positions where I can't speak
up, for myself or someone else, where I can't easily object, opt
out or turn my face to the proverbial sun.
The older I get, the more feminist I become, because the context
looks smaller and smaller the more board my view is, the more
years I spend working in these issues and those surrounding them.
The older I get, all of these issues become all the more fever-pitch,
especially given the state of the country I live in. The older
I get, the more I evaluate how the world I make to live my life
within is or is not aligned with the world I am trying to make
at large, and the more important living authentically in that
regard becomes. Moreover, the older I get, the harder I find it
to backpedal on those things in any way, even with something so
simple as one evening where most of the events, comments and goings-on
would probably seem irritating, but generally banal and benign
to most people.
It's a tricky disparity to explain to most people because it's
generally so hard to imagine living in a different environment
or mindset than we are accustomed to, especially when that environment
or mindset is to a certain degree in-step with most of the world
as we know it. But I got triggered last Friday night more than
once, I felt soulsick more than once, I felt lost, and all within
the span of just the last few, dwindling-down hours of the party.
By the time another incident occurred over the weekend -- which
is private -- happened, and then another monkey wrench got tossed
into the mix, I was starting to panic. And by the time Wednesday
rolled around, I was back enough in my world to start to freak
out completely.
I got scared, see. Very. I have no doubt I escalated things given
the timing, given being triggered there, given certain choices
being considered, given the high emotional intensity of everything
right now. However, these are still fairly critical issues.
Namely, I am terrified that at some point I will be faced with
making a choice to be with the love of my life -- and I know this
man to be it, and no, I don't know how I know that, but I do --
OR to live my life authentically, within my ethics, and within
environments in which I feel safe, comfortable and able to be
myself; which I by no means feel the need to hide from the rest
of the world or misrepresent to save my credibility or the worth
of the ideals I espouse. I don't want to ever find myself having
to be in the position of smiling and nodding at, or turning my
head away from, inequities or bullshit, and doing it more than
once seriously ate at me; made me feel like a fraud, like less
of myself in the company of this person who generally makes me
feel like MORE of myself.
This is a choice I never want to have to make.
I have to believe I won't have to: Mark sure doesn't want me to,
and I by no means ever want him for a minute to feel he needs
be anyone but the person he is around me or mine either (and I
don't think he's felt that way, mind you -- if he has, he hasn't
mentioned it). I have to believe I won't have to because it would
be the most unfair choice to have to make, and given my life history,
all the more so.
I did end up talking to Mark for a long time the other night about
all this, and it was hard as hell. Often, the differences between
us actually make for really original, interesting and productive
conversations on these issues, but that's often far less personal,
and more academic, discussion. I'm terrified of hurting him, I'm
terrified of setting myself up to be hurt, and I am terrified
of losing this/him (and boy is THAT unfamiliar terrain, or at
least terrain from so long ago it feels unfamiliar). I'd normally
deal with something like this so much more ably, but when it's
in the context of feeling the way I do -- which IS unfamiliar
and outside my comfort zone -- I don't know how to do it, stay
calm about it, not panic and get more than a little shallow of
breath and histrionic. My life is my life, and even with its challenges,
I was fine before this, but you know, everything is better WITH
this and I find it hard to imagine life being as good without
this person I cherish and adore in it.
A big part of why I didn't write a lot here when I suddenly found
myself attracted to the occasional man again was because I was
finding it so difficult to explain to people WHY that upset me:
why I was very, very conflicted about dating men. Even most of
the people within my closest circles didn't get it, and the couple
people it got brought to -- rather than me bringing it to them
-- outside my inner circle REALLY didn't get it. A nice handful
actually got very angry at me for even suggesting there was anything
that could be problematic about all this, or that I was conflicted;
I found I ended up having to defend myself more often than I was
able to just talk about how I was feeling and try and sort it
all out with a little support. That's still often the case, no
matter the audience. Again, it's a matter of trying to explain
what life is like outside the context of a life someone has always
lived: trying to explain to people who are and have always been
very deeply entrenched in heterosexual community/life, or not
lived very far outside certain norms is even more difficult than
trying to explain the inverse to someone like me, because mainstream
life is incredibly visible and pervasive. You have to actually
work to live outside of it and escape it at every turn: choosing
alternatives you have to work to try and find them in the first
place, usually make much of it by yourself, and it's pretty much
100% optional with easy exit routes.
When you're a woman dating a man, you end up having to counter
a lot of things you wouldn't otherwise, you end up having to often
be exposed to assumptions, attitudes and environments you wouldn't
otherwise. (And when you're a dyke dating a man, don't even get
me started on how complicated THAT one is to try and explain,
though I find, actually, the other dykes closest to me now seem
to get it just fine, without any discord as to my ID.) Heck, Friday
night there was a ridiculous but sad and dysfunctional straight-girl-for-male-sexual-attention
competition incident where normally, as a dyke, I could have intercepted
in an incredibly graceful way, turned the thing around, and pretty
seamlessly gotten everyone involved behaving in a way that was
a lot more respectful of themselves and everyone else, a lot more
positive, and likely even net them better results, including some
desired outcomes for all involved. Butcha see, I wasn't the dyke-in-attendance,
I was Mark's Girlfriend, and thus, just some other straight woman
there, with likely all the straight woman assumptions in tow (sexually
jealous, in competition with other women incessantly, living in
a perpetual beauty contest, man-obsessed, blah blah blah -- the
craptastic dreck I read about in advice letters every day, and
know about all too well, even given my alternate universe). That's
a little example: it's such a HUGE topic -- this issue of being
a woman sleeping with/in love with a man -- and one with so many
little lakes off the ocean: appearance stuff, aging, birth control,
STI issues, expectations of hetero coupledom, assumptions about
what my relationships with women - platonic and sexual, if the
latter is known -- are/were like, behavioural expectations (some
of which aren't even accurate for many straight women, mind you),
feminist disconnects... lots of stuff in the women's sexual history
textile piece I need to go work on, actually.
I do feel better now. I think a lot of the panic was just being
scared to death to bring any of this stuff up in the first place
for fear of making Mark feel bad about himself or those he cares
for, or having him tell me this was unmanageable or I was unreasonable,
or causing him to freak out to the degree I was freaking out myself.
See, most everyone always gets their back up, in my experience,
when I bring up stuff like this, because it becomes a matter of
my saying that their world is in some way lesser than mine, rather
than different. And the trouble is that in some ways I am: I DO
think environments and communities without -- or with far less
-- accepted, unacknowledged or internalized sexism or heterosexism,
racism, classism, homophobia, xenophobia, sizeism or the celebration
of capitalism without any eye for oppression ARE better. That
isn't to say alternative environments of various flavors are ever
100% free of dysfunction or anything close, but that without those
things, or with it being a given understanding that those things
really need to be eradicated and protested, life is BETTER. I
can say this pretty confidently per my own experience, and per
the experiences of others both within and without environments
with and without those things. I gotta say, I have yet to hear
anyone say they have just GOT to get out of communities or environments
because they really miss sexist comments or homophobia... unless
they're the folks who aren't at the receiving end of them and
who like the dish out that crap because they're either self-loathing
or aren't the oppressed parties. It's also a weird position to
be in: to be perceived as -- or to think others may perceive you
as -- feeling or being superior because you want to create and
live in a world without the hierarchies which ALLOW anyone to
be superior or inferior. And it's even difficult to explain that
complete irony when it's so hard for so many people to even envision
what life is without that power structure.
I also know that exposure to MY world isn't easy or some sort
of utopia. Life with me involves hearing about heavy stuff more
often than most people are used to. Some of the issues that get
brought up in a given workday for me result in conversations which
are precarious. I also come to the table with personal history
of rape, of abuse, of poverty, of loss: things I have had a lot
of time to process and get used to carrying myself. Any of us
who have gone through or are within the process of examining things
like gender and class politics, violence, self-image, sexuality
know it's very individual, it's very difficult and there are times
being LESS aware is vastly more appealing. Mark is without some
of the buffers and processing tools I've built up over the years
for all of this stuff, so I know it's not easy for him. (To some
degree, I'm seeing him start to have the sort of difficult process
a lot of women do when they're first engrossed in feminist issues,
and I suspect that, odd as it may seem, it's actually harder to
do that processing as a man.) Too, I've no doubt, given all that
is in my brain in a day, that I don't mention as often as I should
that his world and his experiences have just as much to contribute
to me as mine might for him.
Plus, have I mentioned that neither of us has yet gotten our handbook
in the mail as to how to manage the gift we've been given? It's
tricky to be dealing with any sort of discord between us, because
alone, our dynamic is just the most effortless thing, even when
we disagree. I have neverevernever been in something both so easy
AND so passionate AND so loving: in my experience, things this
easy and comfortable tend to also be....well, not exactly what
you'd call on fy-ah. So, both hitting a couple hiccups on the
road that are just between the two of us AND this community stuff
feels like a serious sucker punch.
And SCARY. I think I said that already, but hey, I'm all about babbling
redundancy today, so what the hell. I AM SCARED. I am so in love with this man it makes me dizzy, and as time goes
by, that thing that usually happens with new relationship energy
where things, like, ebb? It isn't happening. It's only getting
MORE intense.
But wait, there's more!
To top it all off, I am terrified per the upcoming gallery show
opening.
I always end up having to face disbelief when I say it, but in
many ways, I am incredibly shy. I'm friendly, I'm gregarious,
and when I'm comfortable (or really nervous) I'm insanely talkative,
downright loud and pretty damn animated. And yes: it hasn't escaped
my attention that a lot of the work I do exposes me to a degree
that most people don't expose themselves, physically and emotionally.
But, but, but!
Per the visual artwork, I have this buffer, see: I don't have
to look at anyone else looking at me or my work, and even more,
I don't have to be looked at and taken in in person while that's
going on. Situations where not only am I completely in the spotlight,
but both me-as-person AND my work-as-me are? And that work-as-me
in which I am emotionally and physically naked only ups the ante
further?
Oh, sweet jesus.
Have I mentioned lately that I'm also my own worst critic? That
with nearly anything I do, I feel amateurish and am generally
fairly certain I seriously suck, and anyone who says otherwise
is just being incredibly kind?
The show runs for a month: I only have to be there for an evening.
I only have to not throw up and pretend to be fabulous for six
or seven hours.
Today was a day of printing and putting the finishing touches
on one of the two largest pieces: a sculptural collage piece about
domestic violence built on a seven foot oak door. I can recognize
the door will have impact, and visually, it pleases me in terms
of what it looks like and what it has to say, but it's been so
long since I've done big, tangible artwork with my hands, I feel
totally insecure about it. When I'm in process, I don't -- something
about putting your hands all over something, as if you could transfer
energy from your heart through your hands -- but then, I have
had more than one form of art where I've had to accept that while
I enjoy the process and feel it has value, the product sucks utterly
(one of many reasons why Miz Heather does not paint anymore).
One thing I struggle with is feeling like my work is just too
sodding earnest, to the point that it either comes off as cornball
or as artificial, because earnestness is just not....well, especially
popular in the arts, especially in visual art. Then I look at
the show as a group of pieces, and save one or two pieces, I just
think, "Fucking HELL, am I a downer." I mean, hey, I know nobody
wants a seven foot door reminding them that millions of women
are LESS safe in their homes than outside them. I'm no dummy:
I don't tend to make salable work, and I have learned to try not
to judge my work in that regard. But again, the theme comes up
of life in my head just being way too heavy for anyone to even
want to enter into, or if they do enter, I figure they'll either
a) get really angry with me, b) run away screaming like smart
people, c) cry or d) dismiss me -- or worse still, the tricky
shit I try and make visible that I feel needs to be visible --
as just another terminally-wounded, pissed-off, man-hating quasi-feminist.
(Or, perhaps worse still, no one will even show up.)
Le sigh. It's a little lonely and isolated in my world right now
when I stop for a minute.
(Where are the rest of the living-alone, independent, unmarketable
feminist artist and activist, dyke-in-love-with-a-boy, grew up
poor, lived through hell but came out marginally sane and functional,
crunchy granola, orgasm-addicted, martial artist, tequila-drinking,
chain-smoking, nature-loving, lusty, frazzled, multitasking, pug-juggling,
hyperactive, insomniac women, anyway? Huh? I need you!)
When I'm moving, working this week, it's emotionally trying, but
it's good. I love ending the day with fingers full of paint, little
bits of art detritus floating all over my apartment; passing out
in bed not too long before the sun is about to come up. I love
that often visual artwork reprograms my body to work best into
the wee hours, rather than early in the day, as is the case with
writing. There's something really great about singing aloud with
the stereo, tears on my cheeks, pain and glue in my tool belt
(even if I discover my the end of the night that my working ensemble
of underpants, tank top, tool belt, ink on my nose and paintbrushes
in my pigtails is something less than dignified) and something
much bigger than I am under my hands for hours on end.
But then, see, I stop for a minute. And with the timing of everything
-- the show upcoming, the revised manuscript turned in, this whole
finding the love of my life business -- I am TOPPLED by insecurity,
wondering how the FUCK I can be remotely passable at all of this,
let alone good. How do I go about trying to be Good Artist, Good
Activist, Good Writer, Good Girlfriend, Good Friend, Good Buddhist,
Good Feminist, Good Humanist, Good Person, Good Woman? How can
I even examine all of that without feeling utterly and completely
overwhelmed, and utterly and completely incapable? How can I even
look at that list without feeling evaluated down to every little
last detail by the whole frigging world? How do I even try and
do all that AND find the time and energy to, like, teach classes,
do the dishes and remember to put my pants on before I leave the
house? How can I possibly be in the position to do all this stuff,
to be good at ALL of these things and NOT fail?
* * *
Much of that above was written a couple days ago, but it seemed
like it should be posted a) for posterity's sake and b) because
I've been so freaking happy so much of the time that plenty of
readers have all but begged for a reprieve. So, there you go!
The insecurities still loom, the freakout about disparate universes
is far smaller, but it's something we know we've got to deal with.
But I've got to believe that we can.
Sofia and I were talking yesterday -- yes, I have lengthy conversations
with my dog, as she's an excellent active listener, and I do live
alone, so -- about all of this. About how during her lifetime,
she's never seen me with anyone who made me this happy and fit
me so well in so many ways. About how I don't know what other
partner of mine would sit with a photo of the door piece and spend
a good hour and some constructively working on the design elements
with me without reservation; whose recent script I'd sit with
enthusiastically the very next evening, highlighter in hand to
do similar. We discussed phone calls that came in from strange,
remote places just to give potent reminders I am loved and cherished.
We sat and told many happy little stories about Mark. (Okay, I
did: but she gave me some meaningful looks and thoughtful head
tilts which made them feel joint.) We even discussed that it really
is okay for me or anyone else not to be good at absolutely everything,
and that if I'm perceiving any extra pressure from Mark to be
perfect, I'm being really silly.
(I realized that was part of my problem yesterday when I was substitute
teaching the early class for Dante and kept finding myself seriously
annoyed at nearly every woman in class clearly not giving it anything
close to her all; sometimes I forget, you see, that not everyone
needs to be a perfectionist 24/7 like some people we know. Thankfully,
I realized this before I went ahead and said out loud that a given
woman was punching like a worn-out ape or another was lucky she
wasn't a lesbian, because with that little intensity placed in
her arms and hands, her lovers would fall asleep during manual
sex, or any of the other crappy things I was thinking.)
I apologize for the jumbled, jangled nature of this entry: there's
so much going on in my head it's tough to sort it out. That's
also made worse by the fact that save yesterday, I've been up
all night nearly every night for days working on the pieces, which
has me emotionally delicate and volatile in equal measure, and
more than a bit physically tired. And I need to get back to it
now.
Give a girl a couple days: I need to finish some more work to
feel justified in journaling, but given Mr. Price is visiting
his family in Ohio this week and mostly without net access, I
do want to share the good stuff, especially since that means I
can tell stories about him when he's not listening, as that's
always fun. Once I can afford to be a little bit further from
the inner workings of my psyche, and am a bit more rested, I expect
to be more entertaining and happy and less of a beautiful disaster.
But I'm keeping some extra bags handy, just in case.
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July 27th, Two Thousand Five: I'm back, and I have plenty of tales to tell. However, somehow
I managed to sleep through all three hours of a seriously delayed
red-eye. I then also managed to sleep from ten AM once home until
6 in the evening. I then passed out at midnight and slept until
almost 11 this morning. Given that tallies my sleep in less than
48 hours at 22 hours -- more sleep in that time than I often get
in nearly a week much of the time, I am more than a little out
of it and more than a little pissed off at myself. I have so much
art to make in the next six days, I'm vexed I lost a lot of that
time.
I had -- per usual -- a wonderful visit in Washington. But not
only am I distracted and feeling emotionally and intellectually
out of sorts right now, my special brand of relationship/love
panic has started to creep up on me and forcibly invade my psyche.
It's all the more intense because this relationship and my feelings
for Mark are all the more intense and more than a little unfamiliar.
Here's hoping I can sort them out creatively while I work, or
at least quell them some so that they don't get in the way of
the good stuff (don'tfuckthisupdon'tfuckthisup is my current mantra) and everything I have to do in the next
week. Here's hoping one of these days I can stop being such a
guy, for that matter.
In any event, once I get some coffee in my system and get some
artwork started (or better still, done), I'll be back with some
charming little anecdotes, some feminist observations, some mush
n'gush, some neurosis, and something at least vaguely coherent
to say. |
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July 19th, Two Thousand Five: 522 12 pt. palatino font, double-spaced, single sided pages.
That's what finally got finished at 3 AM Monday morning after
one last marathon day that began at 8 AM Sunday and continued,
nonstop until I crossed the finish line and sent the revised ms.
into my editor.
Editing the thing -- especially since a good 30 pages of quotes
were added, but a good 150 pages were cut, which I managed somehow
to d without feeling I'd had my heart or my integrity amputated
-- was actually far tougher than writing it in the first place.
It feels like a much bigger accomplishment.
Especially since I have got to be the most verbose writer on the
planet AND a rather poor editor of my own work, to boot.
So help me, gawd, if I have to do any more major content edits
on this puppy again OR if I ever write a book this size and scope
again. If I start suggesting doing so, please feel free to involuntarily
lobotomize me.
Mark (and observe as I brag a bit AND sneakily improve the Google ranking of one Mark Price while I do it!) talked to me on the phone when I finished, and
even did a victory dance in the middle of Sea-Tac in honor of
the end of my marathon. Once more, I feel the need to apologize
to airport patrons: maybe we should just put up a billboard with
a general apology for all of our airport misbehaviour?
Because I'm back to it myself again tomorrow afternoon, and I've
every expectation we'll be the cause of much groaning yet again.
Talk about your airport terrorism.
I'm seriously exhausted and more than a little brain dead. I only
ended up getting three hours of sleep Monday morning, then was
out at Heather and Carissa's last night sipping wine and munching
grilled veggies with more friends, then on the phone way late
so I only clocked five more hours of sleep after that, too. Today
is crazed and there isn't enough coffee in Nicaragua to manage
it: I have to clean the house so Brandon's cat and plantsitting
visits aren't torturous, I have three loads of laundry going;
I have to pack for myself and for Sofi to go to Becca's. I have
to figure out how much I can pack up per artwork to work on (and
how to deal with a possible luggage search which will make it
look like I'm trying to open a backalley clinic), because once
I get home, I'll only have six days until my installation date
to finish three large sculptural pieces and about 12 - 15 prints
-- OH!
Prints which I can FRAME. NICELY. Thanks so much to my mini-grant-givers I met my goal, and so
quickly! Y'all rule!
Anyway. Housecleaning, garbage hurling, packing, photo archiving
the hundreds of artifacts I have so far before I put them in any
of the pieces, an arseload of emails and phone calls and some
other grunt work. If I'm a really lucky lass, some bonafide sleep
tonight. A bath: that'd be swell, too. But plane woo is apparently
arriving for me today, too, so I wish Sr. or Sra. FedEx would
get their bootie here soon because I'm antsy. And if I could squish
an hour at the beach in before the sun goes down, I'd be seriously
razzed: I had to spend way more time indoors over the last two
weeks than I liked.
The timing of this visit hasn't been so great in terms of how
much I had to accomplish in the last two weeks, but it all very
much did result in making getting out of here very appealing.
A week without looking at this office will make for a Very Happy
Heather, indeed.
I apologize for the scatterbrainyness of this entry. Not only
is my exhaustion making it hard for me to think, I just get so
damned excited before I see my sweetie, to the point that I am
thankful I live alone, because otherwise, it'd be pretty humiliating.
Even the stuff that is already really good only gets/feels better
when we're in close proximity, and the notion right now of having
even just a few hours -- let alone a week -- to sink into those
freckly arms is about one of the best things I can think of. I
need that solace and rest right now, but I also simply want that
tangible connection right now, because it just keeps on becoming
more and more to celebrate. (It's exceptionally weird, for the
record, to think about the fact that we only started this whole
schtick four months ago. It doesn't feel like that length of time;
instead, it either feels like years or five minutes, depending.)
And this visit involves a big party, a weekend trip to Bellingham
and Vancouver, likely a visit to Cheryl, a couple days where I
can work on the art while mark is working, and plenty of evenings
packed with various and multifarious types of horizontal and vertical
mambo. And that still-very-weird thing where I get to be in the
company of someone who I know to be My Person, who I not only
love and am dizzy in love with, in spite of myself, who -- in
spite of himself -- is in the exact same space.
And kissing. Ah, the kissing. Kissingkissingkissing.
(Isn't it sucky that you can whack off per genital sex, but there's
no way to masturbate to fill an order for missing the kissing?
This vexes me. But I won't have to be vexed by it for the next
week, so. Fa la la.)
Gotta jet, kids, and spend the next ten hours or so being the
best crazy lady I can be. Have a fantabulous week!
P.S. A couple quick shoutouts:
- Kyth: Thanks ever so for the artifacts package, and for the necklace,
to boot. It's beautiful, and I love that it made you make it for
me. Mua!
- Hanne: Hang in there, babe. You're so close!
- Becca: If Sofia tries to tell you she can eat cat food whenever she
wants, she's so lying.
- Jen: Thanks so much, both for the grantage and for being so brave
per letting me take the post-surgery photos the other day. That
was pretty darn exceptional.
- Audra: Thank you, thank you.
- Subscribers: I promise to have scads of new work for you in the next two weeks.
I'm so sorry for the delay. I've lobbied for more hours in the
day, but thus far, my prayers have gone unanswered. Also, it doesn't
work to just try and make more hours by never sleeping: go figure,
there's still only 24. Irksome, that.
- Rita, my old, dusty 18-year-old feline: Please don't die while I'm gone. If you must, at least take the
evil pee kitty with you when you go.
- Mark: So, so soon sugarplum. Oh, and don't forget to have coffee, please.
You'll need it Thursday morning even more than I will, mind you.
And a clear space on the bed. And open arms for me to pounce into
all Tigger-like as I'm generally inclined no matter how much I
try to be all cool and dignified.
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July 16th, Two Thousand Five: I know I've said this once already, but it just keeps getting
more intense.
I am SO touched, so moved, so honored by what has been coming
in, by post and e-mail for the women's sexual history project.
A letter or a box arrives, and I just sit here awed and amazed
at both the trust given to me by women who have never met me,
with items and descriptions that are so loaded and so personal,
AND at the stories women are telling me.
I'd love to say I'm surprised or shocked at the toughest of these
stories, but I'm not. The burdens women carry per sexuality, reproduction,
sexual violence are all too familiar and known to me. How many
women take history of sexual violence or trauma to bed with them,
how it nearly always is unacknowledged -- or the survival of such
daily unrecognized; hey, every orgasm is a landmark coup for many
women, just because of what they have to get past to get there
-- is something always in my mind, always known to me.
But statistics aren't the same as this. Having these stories told
to you by women in your daily life isn't the same, either.
(Speaking of WOW, check this out. Have a tissue handy, and be prepared to shout "Yes!" loudly
if it's early where you're reading and anyone else is still sleeping.)
To boot -- I don't know what was in the kool-aid the last day
or two, but I'm all for it -- I also got this pile of random emails
over the last 48 hours or so from people all telling me how much
I inspire them. A single mama performance artist, a visual artist,
an HIV aid worker, a former volunteer, a scientist heavily invested
and seriously active in progressive politics, and a couple other
readers all seemed to intuitively know at the same time that I
could use some pep talking. On top of that, I have three of the
six mini-grants for framing I was looking for already. Thanks
so, so much, all of you, for everything.
(And to top it all off, the International Heather Corinna Reader
Squad came to a quick rescue for my LAX-stranded boyfriend. Thanks,
Jeyoani!)
The timing is...well, it's intense. As I finish the book, part
of me is sorry that it can't be thousands of pages, that there
are things I can't address or address as fully as I'd like because
it has to be a manageable size, and because, flatly, plenty of
what I'd add or say are things way too many people can't really
hear. And in this country, in this administration, there are things
I'd really like to say but I simply cannot say, not because I'm
not willing to step up to the plate, but because if I find myself
in debt from legal fees, covered in civil lawsuits, mired in extra
doses of controversy, there won't be a minute in the day to actually
DO the work that needs doing. Sometimes it all leaves a really
horrid taste in my mouth.
For instance, even a chapter on birth control and safer sex is
depressing, because I sit here telling young women (the book is
all-gender, but you'll see where I'm going) how to use this thing
or that one, what method does what, when I know -- both from knowing
about these issues as a while, but also from the boards and their
surveys -- for how many of them these things are academic because
so many don't even get to choose when they're having sex in the
first place, due to outright rape or to coercion, much of which
they'll never report, or even tell anyone else close to them about.
Reading the boards or the quotes that remind me how many women
-- of all ages -- have sex to avoid conflict, to glean esteem
or out of feelings of obligation, or in the context of violence
and power, and too often without their consent, and knowing I can address that
all I want, but with the world as it is, it's only going to change
so much just really brings me down.
* * *
I am a very strong initiator. I am a very strong sustainer. I
am not very strong in the finishing department.
The last few days have been tough on me: I have been having a
really hard time both finding the motivation to finish all the
edits and additions (so much of the book needed to be cut back,
I held off on additions for last to be sure they really were needed)
and the faith to trust that once I sent it off, it'd be cared
for properly by editors, publishers, designers. I'll do a few
hours of work, then this wave of defeatism will just wash over
me, and I'll retreat to bed for a few hours, reading, Buffy-geeking,
then get mad at myself for being tired or overwhelmed. My health
symptoms have been poking at me again, likely more because of
stress, too much coffee and too little sleep -- and go figure,
now that I CAN finally sleep well again, I haven't got the time
-- than because my acupuncturist is home in Yugoslavia for a spell.
I've been so distracted, overwhelmed and overextended that in
the last month, I completely forgot to open ANY of my bills, and
ended up with my phone shut off for a day last week, all because
of spacing out a stupid little $40 bill.
I have been terrified I won't have the time I need to do and finish
the pieces for the gallery show, especially since three of them
are BIG sculptural pieces and I'm seriously out of practice in
that arena. I have been terrified this book is going to suck righteously,
and/or that I'm going to have to do yet another set of major edits
in the next few months, or fight for the content that's in there
which I just don't feel like I have in me. I'm scared what I'm
doing with the book and Scarleteen, with my artwork is not of
value, and that at this point in time, it's all so visible, and
on the cusp of even greater visibility, that it'll be shown up
as crap and blow my opportunities down the road to use the visibility
to bring things to light I think are vital; to foster change I
think very much needs fostering. In other words, I see myself
in a position of influence, and entering into a greater one and
I am mortified I'll blow it. The ACLU wants me more involved with
things, and to put me in a few spots to be more visible in that
regard, and public speaking phobias aside, their apparent faith
in my ability to be articulate about tricky things aside, I find
myself continually feeling like a charlatan at times. And yes,
even though I KNOW -- I do -- that the things I champion and work
for ARE vital, are of value, are underrepresented and that I do
have the capacity to do what I do well.
Plans that I have for the next two years are going to require
even greater bravery on my part, likely more scrutiny of all I
do. Allies I once had aren't all still allies: even something
as seemingly personal and small as no longer feeling I can support
sex with reinforced hierarchies or any sort of violence involved
-- and heck, I haven't even taken a big, vocal stand about it
yet -- has lost me support over the last year. Getting more specific
about the kind of pornography I can and cannot support has done
same. becoming less and less able to be malleable, flexible, when
it comes to women's issues over the last few years: ditto.
But then I get letters like I have the last couple days; I have
women sending me artifacts and trusting me with their stories,
stories most have not told anyone else before. And even when those
things don't give me all the confidence I need at a low point,
they do inspire me to want to do everything I can to honor that
trust, to deserve credit for inspiring.
I'm off to go box, then to teach the kids. Last Saturday, I did
that, then went to a NOW rally across the street at Walgreen's,
who had instituted a policy to allow pharmacists to refuse prescriptions
-- read: birth control and emergency contraception -- based on
personal religion and morality. As it turned out, we had something
happen which is supposed to when you do activist work, but which
I've seen happen all of once or twice since my first protest at
the age of six with my Dad. Walgreen's not only rescinded the
policy BEFORE the rally because of the PR threat, they did so
nationally AND tacked on an agreement to ship prescriptions to
a woman's home should a pharmacist exercise his or her now-legal
right to refuse to prescribe. Hot damn.
Saturdays tend to be good days for me -- not always so great as
that, but even though they require me starting early and working
hard on a bunch of fronts, usually all day and evening, it tends
to be a day that leaves me feeling good and feeling able.
With that, I'm off to start the day reminding myself that I am
a strong and able warrior; to feel in my body what I also need
to feel in my heart and my mind to get through the last two days
of editing, and into the next two weeks of art-making. |
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July 14th, Two Thousand Five: Yesterday was a Very Good Day.
I've been working 16-hour-solid days routinely since the minute
Mark when back home the weekend before last.
Ever edited for 16-hours for days, sometimes weeks on end? If so, you know how very much fun it is. You fondly remember,
perhaps, the constant tension headaches and the blurring text.
You nostalgically wax about the reading and rereading of pages
of work which, while in English, eventually look as if they were
written in Swahili. I've no doubt you miss every surface in your
home being covered in hundred of pages of hard copy, a Hansel-and-Gretel
trail of post-its, a minefield of highlighter pens and research
books, overflowing ashtrays and coffee cups. And if what you've
been working on involves addressing and displaying incredibly
depressing and unacknowledged gender inequities, sexual shame,
teen pregnancies where the fathers ten years and more older always
fled the scene, fully excused rape and abuse, anorexia, et cetera,
you know what a wonderful, optimistic mood being immersed in that
endlessly leaves one in. Why, you just want to step outside and
shout out what a wonderful, beautiful world we live in and how
much you love everyone in it.
I now have two more days of this. Really, I could give myself
a few more than that, as my editor has been out of town and is
unlikely to look at anything until next week, but I simply have
too much else on my plate which is also under a tight deadline
AND I want this thing off my desk more than I have wanted psychotic
ex-lovers out of my house; more than I wanted to leave the worst
apartment I lived in in my adult life, which was infested with
thousands of baby cockroaches, a mama roach as big as a shoe,
and a janitor who let himself into my apartment at night while
I was sleeping.
Tuesday night, I went to bed at 4ish (mind you, I was done working
that night by one, I was on the phone with you-know-who for a
couple hours after that, then just couldn't get sleepy), and my
assistant came at 8:30. With a tall coffee in hand, bless his
heart.
But in trying to map out what to do that day, I could not even
think my way through complete sentences, let alone form them aloud.
Or edit them. It was also in the high nineties yesterday, which
wasn't helping.
So, we made a list of what was yet to be done and it looked far
better than I thought it would. Like this:
finish parent foreword
add quotes to sexual safety/safer sex, birth control, pregnancy
Finish the can’t have an orgasm list
GET & add quotes for relationships, sexual violence, repro options
write summary
last check on sticky-note edits
cover letter for editor
redo TOC
...which are duties fully manageable over two days. Which meant
I could take yesterday off. THANK MAUDE.
So, we cleaned up the office a bit then headed to Ax-Man, where we could go hunting and gathering for items for art pieces
we're both working on. (My favorite Ax-Man signage yesterday?
A box of casters which read "Caster, the Friendly Ghost.") Where
for the low, low price of $60, I found:
- a new folding, carryon garment bag which I've been needing when
traveling
- several medical supplies I'd wanted for the women's sexual artifacts
piece: urine analysis cups, small vials, bags marked for soiled
linens and biohazards
- more items which fit perfectly with that piece and another sculptural
piece I have in my head: a bullet shell, sheriff's "do not cross"
tape, a window lock (a key item in one of the incidents of sexual
violence in my teens), a "keep gate closed" sign, warped rectangular
mirrors, wooden display boxes.
- a few silly presents for my sweetie, including two forty-year-old
or more examples of the graphic design of something perfectly
attuned with its engineering
- and more
We then hit the art supply store, then had a lovely lunch. Because
Brandon is also a gardener, I was able to wax poetic with him
about how, whenever I finally get my land, I want to construct
a garden designed less visually than olfactorally, and we mused
about what would best follow the scent of lemon verbena then gardenia;
what should come after being wafted with the heady scents of peonies
and night-blooming jasmine.
After fighting a bit of traffic, we headed back here to sit and
watch some Gilmore Girls on DVD.
I spent the evening with leisure reading in bed with a beer, pug
and cat snuggling (to the degree my allergies allow me to snuggle
my cats), then talking to my sweetie (okay, so in there was some
phone...erm -- support? -- for me moaning rather than talking,
but still, it was interactive) early enough to put me asleep by
midnight. And I slept through to eight this morning.
Aaah.
Ladies and germs, I believe I now have my brain cells back, even
though I've still got the vague vestiges of the last headache.
And two days to complete this stuff before I leap into massive
visual art production. I'll then have four days to do that before
I head back to Seattle for a week -- where I can have at least
two days there to work, and where, on the flight there, I was
purportedly be toting substantial plane-woo, whoohoo! -- then
back here where I'll have five more days to finish before I have
to install. This includes, mind you, the first of the sexual artifact
pieces, the design of which at this point makes it a sculptural
piece with some tricky maneuvers that will be about six feet high
and four feet wide. Aie.
Which reminds me: I DESPERATELY want to have the print pieces
framed well for a show for a change, rather than in cheap clip
frames because I can't afford anything else, especially after
the health care costs over the last month or two. So, I'm looking for four to six people who would be up for tossing
me a $50 mini-grant to frame my work at least quasi-decently.
Especially since this is a show where all funds from sales go
right into my pocket.
The $50 donated could then be deducted from:
- the purchase of any of the pieces which are for sale in the show,
with an additional 10% discount AND advance showing via email
of what is for sale before the opening on the 7th
- the purchase of any existing prints for sale
- a portrait sitting
- my eternal gratitude, OR the fee which I had later intended to
charge those who wan absolute assurance I will not make up reputation-sullying
tales about in the memoirs I intend to publish from my deathbed
when I've nothing else to lose. People in my family tend to die
on the young side, just FYI.
I'd also suggest that for those for whom I have done pro-bono
or low-bono work in the past, this would be a really great time
to return the favor if you've got $50 lying around right about
now.
(If you're interested, my Paypal is set up via hcorinna@aol.com.
If you want more info, don't email me there, but via one of the
email addresses I actually check, like this one.)
Thanks!
* * *
Know what's funny?
What's funny is when two people who have in EVERY other relationship
in their adult lives BEGGED for an excess of personal space finally
find themselves in a relationship which afford them more than
plenty....and it turns out to be the one relationship where they
don't really want it.
Heh. Figures.
But in the next month, we've got it pretty good, even if it does
make our schedules a bit nutso. Mark is in L.A. for the next handful
of days for a director's workshop, then I'm there Wednesday. He
leaves for a day-job trip that next day THEN to see his folks
for a week, but is coming back here Saturday the 6th to be here
for the show on the 7th (because he rocks, and also relishes any
opportunity to don a suit), and leaves at an ungodly hour Monday
morning. THEN, he meets me in Chicago for my sisters wedding the
very next weekend (a weekend we get to finish at Wrigley Field
no less, because again, the boy rocks).
The other night, I had a very comical moment where, after a given
string of words was said which illustrated -- as happens now and
then -- the serious differences between my approach to gender
politics and Mr. Price's* -- my head was suddenly flooded with the memory of EVERY incident
like this, plenty of which are highly comical. (I will not list
many of these incidents, as I would like to keep my sweetheart
from an international lynch mob.) I completely cracked up and
could not stop laughing or breathe well for a good fifteen minutes.
Some of that was due to the funny. But the other part of it was
my sheer incredulousness at the fact that I feel love for a person
so strongly who's nature and energy is so scarily similar to mine,
yet whose ideas and approaches can be so radically different,
eve to the point of offense, and this is not bothering me in the
least. And that, my friends, is something I can make no sense
of whatsoever, which only adds to the incredulous.
*I should add that it initially disturbed me that from almost the
very start of this relationship, when not calling Mark some version
of honey, sugar, sweetie, lovemuffin, baby, hey-you-with-the-cute-ass,
I kept finding myself calling him Mr. Price. Which is his name,
yes, but I really hate formal address as a whole, and there is
no master/mister bullshit in my life, so it seemed so totally
weird. However, the more time I spent out and about with him,
the more I saw I was not the only one inclined to do this. And,
in fact, as I have since been informed, people have been calling
him that without knowing why since elementary school. So, it's
not just me, thank goodness.
* * *
And with that, it's back to the wars with me for the last of the
editorial marathoning. Next you hear from me, there will be one
highly edited, seriously adapted book which has managed to lose
a good 150 pages over the last three months while actually still
retaining pretty much everything I could get away with putting
in it without it turning into a weightlifting program.
* * *
(Hey you: six days, baby-baby. Eat your Wheaties, clear the wall
for new scratches and smudges, leave the roomies their earplugs
on their respective nightstands, make sure there's plenty of coffee
and each of our favorite recreational substances, and prepare
yourself to have the stuffing loved right out of you.
And, secretly, for I cannot imagine anyone brilliant enough to
crack such ingenious code: On'tday orgetfay otay etchstray outway,
andway oday away ittlelay ocalvay armupway, ecausebay osay elphay
emay odgay, Iway amway osay otnay oinggay otay ebay ethay onlyway
oneway eamingscray ikelay away irlgay isthay imetay.
Iway ovelay ouyay, ovelay ouyay, ovelay ouyay.)
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July 10th, Two Thousand Five: A Choose Your Own (Mis)Adventure Entry (because I have a) spent so many hours in the last couple weeks
editing, cutting, pasting and rearranging text for the book that
is clearly all I can do anymore and b) because it appears my entire
world has been split down the middle into two camps of late, nearly
to the degree the country I reside in has.)
When last we left our sheroine, she was counting the hours until
her lover arrived. Her trusty minion personal assistant arrived in the evening as scheduled, as she
was walking the dog. He drove by sticking his head out of the
window with a strange barbaric yawp, which she at first thought
coquettish and charming -- "Ah, that Brandon," -- until he rounded the block and was not appearing to circle back. For a few fleeting and panicked moments,
she wondered if perhaps the yawp was in anger, and she had done
something to so terribly annoy him that he'd punish her by NOT
stopping to take her to the airport to claim the aforementioned
paramour d'arrivée.
She began to wonder what she could possibly do to exact appropriate
revenge should this be the case, because entertaining revenge
scenarios seemed a more dignified response than dropping to her
knees on the pavement and howling, "WHY God, WHY!?!..."
But alas, he merely had a hard time finding a parking spot. Lucky
for him her.
After a drive which involved many flashbacks to the days Heather
was a driver in Chicago, including wild manual gesticulation,
and more than once incident of yelling in Itanglish out the car
window to drivers doing truly annoying things like, you know,
stopping at red lights, a parking spot was found and Ms. Corinna
and her poor, beleagured lackey employee raced to the gates.
....to wait. Much, much too long.
Meanwhile, Brandon became quite engrossed in his position as paparazzi
for the evening. Heather would turn from her tired gate-staring
to kvetch at her gaydy-in-waiting personal assistant about, for instance, the unmitigated gall
of other people flying into the airport on the eve of HER sweetie's
arrival, and he would not be where he stood mere moments before,
but instead, fifty feet away, coquettishly poised behind a water
fountain. She would approach him again, bitch accordingly, then
stare at the gate again, only to turn to voice her vexation once
more and find him missing again, this time misplaced on the other
side of the gate behind a rubbish bin. She drew the line when
he hoisted an elderly woman in front of him, moving her around
to attempt to remain hidden. I mean, really.
All of this waiting made our Heather...
Suddenly, coming down the escalator was a posture and a shiny
head she recognized! (Who did not see her right away, despite
her bouncing up and down like a hyperactive buoy in waters infected
by eels doing the Electric Slide, but noticing he was having his
picture taken by some strange man, figured she must be nearby.)
What happened next was...
Brandon was incredibly tolerant of the pair on the drive back
to Chez Corinna, even if he did clearly drive a little hastily
to be rid of them and their painfully gooshy behaviour. Brandon
also sighed with Heather and gave a knowing grin as her paramour
stated, before they were about to leave the airport, the words
anyone in a relationship longs to hear: "I have no baggage."
They stayed up fairly late. Heaven knows why (though neighbors
have surmised it was either due to marathon lovemaking, a loud
cat in heat or an attempt to design a combination of Bikram yoga
and primal scream therapy).
* * *
The next morning, after breakfasting...
Mark and Heather suited up, packed a bag, grabbed bikes and headed
out for a bike tour of the lakes inside the city. They enjoyed
the sunny day, some beach stops, a break at Sonny's. While driving
behind Miz Daisy, her braids flapping in the breeze like Dumbo's
ears, her sexy boy's cargo shorts over her overlage calf muscles,
Mark thought to himself and later remarked,
They biked, they beached, they swam, they snuggled, they enjoyed hurling various two, three and four word phrases
at one another, as many lovers do.
Once arriving back home and taking a bath -- because of the sand,
you know -- the pair dressed semi-formally for dinner. This resulted
in the staff at Heather's most frequented restaurant -- who have
a sort of selective memory about her occasionally donning something
other than a ponytail, a just-washed face and old jeans -- spending
most of the evening with their jaws gaping open, whispering that
our narrator looked like an actual girl AND an actual girl quite
bizarrely appearing to be more than a little enamored of this
critter with her with a PENIS.
(To the degree, it should be added, that when attending the restaurant
later in the week after Mr. Price's departure, back to the ratty
jeans, ponytail and lack of eyeliner and in the company of some
of her usual queer commandos, it was remarked that everyone felt
rather relieved. Heterosexual privledge, my Dago ass, I tell you.)
As many do, this evening culminated immediately in bed. Because...
Saturday found the pair starting the day with a boxing class heather
had to substitute teach, but which was also attended by Ms. Elise,
who discovered she had more mobility than she thought. Heather
also got to spot and field punches from her boyfriend, who she
tried VERY hard not to kiss or make eyes at while she was supposed
to be punching and kicking all serious-and-surly-like, especially
since she has been trying to be considerate of her entire city's
gaping jaws at her being with a BOY.
Breakfast at the BLB with Elise and Juan followed, who remarked
more than once that our star-crossed lovers had quite the habit
of smiling like complete dorks rather incessantly (which, as the
cynics know, was surely due to gas, and CERTAINLY not due to having
found true love or anything, for that would be preposterous).
Mark's phone rang, and he spent some time on it talking to his
father.
So, after breakfast they headed down the street to Dreamhaven
where Mark geeked happily and kept apologizing for some strange
reason. Heather had a fine time geeking herself, followed by discussing
the coming apocalypse in the U.S. with an old tenant who was also
in the shop that day. After being dropped off by Elise and Juan,
the two rode off to nab some hooch and fetch items for dinner
the next couple nights, poured the booze, took another bath (after
engaging in an endeavor previous which shall never be named here,
no not for all the rubies in Burma) and then raced to get dressed
for yet another evening out.
(And how much do we love Beqi, for everytime I wear my silly,
skintight cotton cocktail gown with all the kids and baby animals
in the spaceships on it, it both beguiles and amuses, which is
precisely what a cocktail gown on a ghettobootied feminist pugilist
dyke-in-love-with-a-boy should do, IMO.)
On the agenda? Dinner at the Soul Food restaurant which has vegan
exceptions with Becca and her husband and Brandon and his boyfriend
(where the food was amazing, Mark could not stop compulsively
saying JAM-BA-LAY-YA with every vowel stretched to capacity, the
service was atrocious, and the dinner guests seemed to keep forgetting
that you maybe don't ask a couple who haven't seen each other
in weeks what exactly they've been doing over the visit). Then
to a three-man interactive show my friend Brian was in (sort of
a Blue Man Group cum Garrisson Keillor-drunk-on-ludefisk sort
of thing, I'm sure you can imagine). Then to the chichi bar where
the other Heather works for what turned into a rather impromptu
party where everyone and their uncle showed up and either:
a) Gladly accepted and chowed down on the infectious goosh, lust,
excited hyberbabble and revelry of our leading man and leading
lady (and perhaps even muscled their way in a little bit to get
RIGHT in the goosh, but hey, nearly all of my friends are drop-dead
gorgeous, so who's complaining?),
b) Looked at the two of them as if they had just been released from
the asylum, or were perhaps catching a drink en route, or
c) Ordered a piss and vinegar cocktail with a side of bitters.
Everyone and their uncle also were apparently a little unclear,
when the Corinna Contingency said they were calling a cab to go
home, that no, that was not because they were TIRED, and no, because
they were NOT TIRED did not mean they wanted to NOT GO HOME and
do OTHER THINGS (which are currently illegal to do on the bar
patio, plus: concrete, awfully hard on the knees).
They stayed up late and had sex.
Then they woke up early and had some more.
There was another bath somewhere in there. Come to think of it,
there was more rather mind-blowing sex in the bath.
There was a spontaneous guacamole-off, after which it was intially
agreed that each of our offerings were SO radically different
that comparing them would be impossible, and both were tasty.
However, Mr. Price seemed hell-bent on some sort of victory, so
insisted that The Lady Sofia taste-test each and make the final
vote.
She only touched Mark's guac. Which endeared her to him perhaps
even more greatly than before.
It has not yet been mentioned that until he had met Sofia the
visit before last, my beloved had never liked a single dog in
his life. Mind you, a rabid dog-hater he was not: by virtue of
growing up with a family allergic to the entire world and everything
in it, he simply had no reppor with our canine friends, and had never met the dog with whom he might develop such a thing.
The plan Sunday evening, after engaging in a highly delightful
and tasty meal and watching Heather's favorite movie (which, thank
goodness, Mark enjoyed, otherwise she may have had to reconsider
this who schpeal, no matter how utterly amazing it is otherwise),
was to go to bed early so that a sunrise awakening could occur
without too much agony for either party.
That was the plan. Really.
Three hours after passing out in a sweaty, monosyllabic pile,
the alarm went off, Ms. Corinna made the coffee, and then she
got to experience her boyfriend being annoyed with her for the
very first time.
(Cynics, please do stop clapping now. I'm still talking. It's
rude.)
It went something like so:
Heather (all too awake so early to be in any way lovable): "Hey baby,
it's time to get up."
Mark: "Ten minutes."
Heather: "Yeah, no can do. We're already late, and the sun's got
her own schedule."
Mark (dryly, but with gumption): "TEN MINUTES. DAMMIT."
Heather (trying very hard not to laugh, because it's quite hard not to
laugh at someone who is clearly seriously unhappy, but who looks
so cute and smushy-faced while exhibiting annoyance, is still
100% asleep, and just happens to still be the love of your life,
live and in person in your bed, however cranky): "Five."
Mark: "I'll take five."
Heather (two minutes later, trying to add kisses to her approach): "Time's
up. Here's coffee. Let's move it. I love you!"
Mark (one eye open, trying to grin through a grimace): "Hrrmmphhmmmrgh." |
* * *
Know how they say "and never the twain shall meet?" Well, not
this time. Oh, no no! Cynics and romantics, all together now!
Mr. Price and Ms. Corinna are, in numerous ways, remarkably similar.
To the point that many who know them have taken up jogging. Quickly.
In the other direction. However, in some respects, Mr. Price and
Ms. Corinna are remarkably disssimilar. To the point that many
who know them have gifted Mark with extra padding and Heather
with a Get Out of Jail Free card. Sometimes, the behaviour or
opinions of one is slightly less than endearing to the other.
For instance, when, post-coital, our dashing duo lie naked in
bed gabbing, gooshing and waxing poetic, and our non-smoking boyfriend
plucks one nipple of his girlfriend, looks down, then looks up
at her to say "Hey, where's my cigarettes?" (A joke likely lost, given, on the younger generation.)
And she sits, jaw agape at the rampant objectification.
And he then decides to MOCK HER FURTHER by, in pseudo-Heather
voice (which is, oddly, an octave higher than actual-Heather voice)
presenting the monologue:"I work night and day to HELP people
with their sexuality! I am a champion of body image! I am a pseudo-feminist
ICON! And what do I get? Huh, huh? I get a BOYfriend who grabs
my tits and is all --"
(insert shiny-headed man with rather large eyes pantomiming panicked
radio-nipple dialing here)
".....Come in, Tokyo!"
See, the twain SHALL meet. It's pulling into the station in Japan,
apparently. Without me on board.
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A visual demonstration of the poky little puppy/brave little toaster/
little engine that could (but really didn't want to), once the
beach was gotten to, via bicycle.
"Ah, sunrise. Pret-ty. Shiny."
"So pretty, very.... shiny. Pretty, pret-ty, very shhhii ... chuunnnhhhzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
"Wha--hunh-- I'm awake! I was just resting my eyes! Whoohoo, sunrise! Three cheers for
girlfriends who perkily wake me up at 5 in the morning then throw
me on a bike when I've one leg in my pants! Who couldn't love
THAT? (She's so, so lucky I love her, or else I'd.....)"
(In case you needed further evidence as to Mark's zeal for early
mornings.)
* * *
The rest of the day help some napping on the part of the XY in
attendance. More bathing. More sex (and no, I am so NOT informing anyone about my vocal chords deciding
to get creative and coloratura during that session, thank you
very much). Stoop sitting. Photo taking, because we both...
There was one more dinner. There was living room pug-waltzing.
There was misting up on both sides more than once (clearly, it
was allergy season). There was an awful lot of embracing and sweet-talk
and a couple secret plans and promises made. There was two people
being pretty darn sad about parting, but who were thankfully insulated
by the fluffy cartoon clouds they were floating upon. There was,
as always, lots and lots of (very, very icky) kissing.
So there.
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July 6th, Two Thousand Five
Consider this your placeholder for the time being, until I get
enough edits entered off the hard copy to justify spending time
journaling. Once I do that, I have plenty to tell you, far too
much to show you, a goodly amount to keep to myself and merely
intimate about, and will do my level best to make adaptations
for the sick-of-this-shitsters, the crusty cynics, the diabetics
and the otherwise romantically-challenged. |
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June 30th, Two Thousand Five: So, my sweetheart arrives here in less than a mere 8 hours.
Eight. Hours.
Which means you can fully intend to hear not word one from me
until at least Tuesday. Unless you live next door, in which case
I profoundly apologize.
You know, y'all think you know (eh, probably you don't, but stay
with me, here) how bad we have it with this thing. But -- BUT!
You don't see the back-and-forth woo-by-post that gets passed
around here and tortures the postpersons greatly, for instance.
Like this, from one rather silly boi:
Or this woo-package cover from just after the last Minneapolis
visit, from one woman-made-ridiculous (which looks so much better
on the kraft paper it was printed on, but so it goes):
This is merely a teeny taste, my friends. You don't even KNOW about the wretched excess that
is the airline care packages, for example.
Y'all don't listen to the endless phone conversations, during
which, at some point, two very intelligent people nearly always
appear to devolve into a few small steps away from scary pet name
calling.
(Which is against the rules, for the record. Quite aware of our
inclination to get mighty silly in our twitterpat, we do have
some ground rules. Stupid pet names are out. Arbitrary anniversaries
which mean absolutely nothing to anyone else -- it's been 3 months since, you know, that day you wore your red
shoes and I wore my red shoes and we both said "Wow, we have matching
red shoes! Happy 3-month sneakerversary, schmoopy!" -- are by no means acceptable. I forget the rest. We talk very
late at night.)
Point is, it is SO much worse than you know. You'd plotz if you
did, really you would. Or call for an intervention of some sort.
You also don't know, because I haven't expressed it here, that
I don't just like this man an awful lot. And that I'm not simply
googoogaga in love with him, either. Nor that I don't simply enjoy
doing really dastardly things to him and vice-versa.
I love this man. Love him. Loads.
Sure has been a big surprise, but it's also sure been about the
nicest surprise of my life.
(So there.)
* * *
In other news, I got a package from a reader -- who works in sexual
health -- yesterday for my new project that made my YEAR. Do I
have speculums and a couple IUDS? Yep. Do I have a huge pile of
birth control pills, diaphragms, spermicides? I do! Do I have
packs of prenatal vitamins, birth control patches, nuvarings,
swabs for smears, breast cancer campaign ribbons, condoms, dams,
contraceptive film? Yes, yes, I do! Do I have some incredible
personal items from her she was insanely generous to share? I
so do! This box alone combined with my stuff not only gives me
the best start possible on this project, but if a stranger comes
in here and sees the two cubbies on my shelf already full of this
stuff, and all the books and propaganda that already live here,
they're going to think I'm running some sort of underground clinic.
When that box came, I was like a kid on Christmas. I am so, so
excited about this project, especially since it's looking like
it'll be many projects, likely over the next couple years, and I feel incredibly confident it's going to impact anyone
who sees this stuff very profoundly, and in the best way possible.
Again, Elizabeth? THANK YOU. And thanks to everyone with packages
en route. Even just getting these, going through them, is a very
profound experience for me. And for anyone else who wants in on
this, here's the link to the info again.
The next few weeks, after I finish my revisions (which should
be 100% done on my end just one mere week from now), I'm afraid
I'm going to look like some sort of demented, postmodern Betsey
Ross, sitting in some chair or another with needle and thread,
stitching all of what's been coming here into a very large piece
of textile work. I feel the need for a bonnet.
(Just pleasepleaseplease don't pass that on to my mother, who
was way out of control with the bonnet-making and forced wearing of bonnets when we were wee, something which wasn't exactly a boon to the
kid who liked living barefoot in overalls, rolling in the dirt
and worked mighty hard to convince the boys she was their equal.
In a sodding bonnet, no less.)
Also in other news, I've discovered that feeling distressed about
the lack of support I see others give makes giving as much as
I always want to myself easier. It's something I've had to defend
far more than once in my life, unilaterally giving lots of support,
sometimes to people not everyone likes or feels okay about, and
justifiably sometimes has concerns for me about.
But for some reason, all this in the last couple weeks -- including
the health issues and the healing, finishing up the book edits,
starting this new project, changes in my personal community, and
my closest interpersonal relationships, good and bad, but certainly
feeling someone who very clearly stands behind me 100% (probably
because he's insane, but I'm not about to nitpick) -- has not
only made giving that support easier than it's been through my
life before, but making clear that I'm dedicated to giving it,
that that's simply part of who I am. And that's mighty cool.
With that, I gotta go. I ended up with even more on my plate today
than I'd planned for, on a day when I already had no room for
dessert.
But I'll make room, believe me. And then some.
* * *
And by the way, Canada? Spain? I love you, too. Love you. Loads.
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June 28th, Two Thousand Five: Today was the second Tuesday in a row I came home from acupuncture
to find out that a young mother I cherished had drowned under
the weight of her life.
I mean this figuratively, but last week it was Allison Crews'
(a young mother who was one of the most promising upstart social activists I've talked with, ever) death, and today it was a friend of mine
who attempted suicide. Both very young women, both very young
mothers of small children. Both women -- for different reasons
-- I held/hold dear and many others do same.
Hanne and I were having a long chat on the phone the other day,
much of which turned into a sort of communion session on trying
to manage the emotional heaviness and the neverending legs of
working in women's issues and women's sexuality issues day in
and day out. About how when you do that, with a very real investment,
and one that because you're a woman certainly includes you, but
isn't primarily about or for you, it changes your life quite profoundly:
it becomes more and more difficult to compartmentalize things
and isolate issues. It becomes harder and harder, the more and
more context you have, the more and more time you've put in, to
simply put it away or turn it all off or not see how far it reaches.
And how very far we haven't come, how bloody hard it is going
to be for us all to get there, and how very long it is likely
to take before everyone would allow us all to.
Days like today -- and all the more so when it's with someone
very close to me -- I find it harder than ever to understand how
people can present things as huge political issues which ultimately
are so secondary: whether or not people can easily access the
porn that they like or make a big enough profit from it while
taking the least personal risk, have enough lovers or sex, do
whatever it is they want to do with their leg hair, wear a t-shirt
that says "vagina" on it at work, what have you.
This morning, accessing all the news that comes into my box, I
read again about more Afghan refugee camps being closed (which affects women and children far and above anyone else, and
they'll suffer greater for it) and the Afghan girls school that was set on fire (by those opposed to girls there getting education), injuring more than 40 girls, about the Supreme Court ruling
that police officers are exempt from legal action, even if their
refusal to enforce a valid restraining order results in death.
in terms of protection and follow up in domestic violence cases,
then I read a study that showed women were more concerned about
health care costs than men (as if this were a surprise), and then some more on the bill here in Congress which would
require parental notification for minors to receive birth control
(presumably, someone stupidly -- or apathetically, because sexually
active young women, even when they aren't fully consenting lord
knows how much of the time, deserve to be "punished" with pregnancy
as we all know, and the children of those who don't or can't abort
deserve to be a punishment -- feels that this would keep young
women from having sex, rather than assuring more will become pregnant
young mothers, plenty of whom will drown just like the two women
I knew who did this week). I read a brief about how the Pro-Life Action Network appealed
to the Supreme Court to lift the injunction which keeps them from
violent attacks on women's clinics.
You know, when you're sitting here reading about people who are
actually arguing to the highest court in the land that they should
have a legal right to violence against women it is very, very hard not to wonder if you're hallucinating.
But then, you remember -- as if when you're entrenched in this
stuff daily you could forget -- that this IS the world we live
in. And you wish you WERE hallucinating.
Then I read a bunch of really impassioned stuff about how angry
and pissed off people are about the stricter laws requiring more
filing for photo releases of explicit sexual acts to prove models
and performers aren't underage. And some more fierce anger about
people's attitudes about how women look, and how we need to have
the right to look as we'd like.
That isn't to say that some aspects of some of those sorts of
issues aren't related or aren't important. Nor is it to say work
done on less dire issues, or less immediate one, is unimportant:
by all means, we should all do the activist work which most loudly
calls to us and which we feel the most emotionally driven to do.
Rather, it's to say we have bigger fish to fry, and those with
less agency, less leisure time to even worry about anything beyond
the bare basics or getting through the day, and far less freedom
and safety NEED everyone to start frying the bigger fish, too,
and worrying about things that truly are not dire later.
I want to know why it's so much harder for me to find fierce tirades
and hot anger about young mothers drowning and dying, about women
endlessly being raped and assaulted, starved to death, poisoned
by their own healthcare systems, set up -- still! -- to become
pregnant when they do not want to be, murdered by their own partners
while the police seek a way to be unaccountable for denying women
proper protection from the people who claim to love them while
they're battering them with their fists.
I really, really want to know why everyone isn't ferociously angry
about these things, and very deeply troubled by them into SOME
semblance of action, before the other stuff that really, truly
is far less important.
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