The Winds of Change Blowing Up My Skirt

I’m not really sure what to say. 

My emotions, my mind, my memories are all ajumble.

I’m doubting memories long held as fact, I’m developing new curiosities.

I’m afraid.

And I’m elated.

I’m releasing old hurts and hoping for new futures, even as I wonder if I may be rejected.

Is it okay to let yourself hope? Is it okay to let the past go and open yourself up?

Only a few years ago I would have said no. No, it’s not okay, it’s foolish, it’s irresponsible.

But it’s not a few years ago. It’s today. And tomorrow. And whatever years I have left.

And the person I become, and the company I keep, are mine to choose.

If I’m brave enough.

Wish me luck.

Book: The Locket and the Flintlock by Rebecca S Buck

Song: I’m Coming Home by Daughtry.

Blog: A Stranger in this Place by Wendi Kali

Respect for the Sporty Butch

I’m not a sporty girl.

I know it’s hard to believe.

But it’s true. I don’t like to sweat (it makes me itch. Does that mean I’m allergic to sweating? I think it does). I don’t like to be out of breath or have my hair all messed up. I don’t like to run into other people’s sweaty bodies, especially if it’s not sexual.

I mean, what’s the point?

But S, on the other hand, is very sporty. Football is her passion (soccer, for the US folks), and she’s really good at it. (Yes, I may be slightly biased. And I don’t know much about the sport. But I do think she’s good).

Yesterday, S played football with her colleagues from work. There were four teams, playing seven aside. So, twenty-eight folks, not including the ones they put in when the others get tired. (I can’t think what they’re called–replacements? Extras? New sweat? Ah–substitutes. I think.)

Some of these players were particularly large men.

S was the only woman on the pitch.

The only one.

And she took some good hits. The largest guy on the pitch tackled her, and she tumbled acrobat style head over ass, laughing with a British ‘fucking hell’ when she got back to her feet.

Can I tell you how much I respected her out there? How it made my heart swell with pride when she nabbed the ball from some guy, got around him and passed to a teammate? Can I tell you that although I winced, I was also damn proud that she got right back up and kept playing, even after getting trounced by someone who throws people out of bars for a living?

I stood there on the side lines, cheering her on like a good femme, taking a zillion pictures, and thinking…

How frigging awesome is it that my butch is out there, playing a game she loves, running circles around guys half her age, taking hits, and just being herself, amid all that testosterone?

And how much cooler is it that they played the way they played with everyone else–no one stopped to make sure she was okay, no one worried about shoving her out of the way, no one treated her any differently than any other player.

Now that’s respect.

To me, that’s the essence of both butch and gender respect–S kicked ass out there in all her sweaty footballishness, and the guys didn’t give a rats ass she was female, as long as she played well.

Nice.

Song: Sexy and I know it by LMFAO

Book: Women in the Ancient World (The British Museum)

Blog: Silly Wrong but Vivid Right

Thank You.

So, I read a lot of blogs. More than I have on my blog roll, since I haven’t updated it in a while.

But I read loads, because I find people and their philosophies and expressions through words interesting and often inspiring.

Over the last few days I’ve seen an interesting trend: people are thanking people. For reading, for responding, for support and shared ideas. For being a pair of eyes when it feels like no one else sees you.

I blog to be part of a conversation. Compared to some of the blogs I read, I’m an infant in the world of readership. And compared to others I’m an old hand.

How excellent to be both at once, to have readers who write to say Thank You for writing, and to be a reader who writes to say Thank You.

I’m going to share a few blogs with you that I love to read. I’m going to try and do this along with the book/song I put at the end of every blog. Because by sharing, maybe I can draw you into the bigger conversation too.

And: Thank You. There’s little point in being a writer without a reader. And because you read, because you comment, because you make me think, I continue to write and grow as a human being.

What better?

Book: Goddesses, Whores, Wives, & Slaves by Sarah Pomeroy

Song: I’m the only one left

Blog: Butch Wonders

 

A Letter to the Rainbow

You are not inadequate. 

You are not too fat.

Or too thin.

You are not stupid.

Or worthless.

You should not be hurt.

Or shoved aside.

You are amazing.

You are not worthless.

You are exceptional in your bravery.

You are beautiful from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to bed.

You know things others don’t, and are willing to learn more.

You are loved.

You have so much to give, and yes, it is appreciated. Even if you don’t know it.

Do not cringe, do not hide, do not fade. Be proud that you have the courage to get up and move through your day to the best of your abilities. Be aware of the good, the beauty, the sublime around you and know you reflect it in every breath you take.

They can only take it away from you if you let them. Don’t let them. Don’t give them any power over you, because it’s your power, your individuality, your naked vulnerability they fear.

Stand tall, stand proud, and show them just how amazing you are, no matter what their silly, small, preconceived notions may be. Let their box, be their box, not yours. You do not need to fit into anyone’s category, anyone’s phylum, anyone’s religious paradigm.

All you have to do is be true to yourself. And that means learning about yourself, figuring out who you are and who you want to be. And that will change, each and every day, with the things you learn and the power you gain through the courage of living as the person you are and not the person they want you to be.

And there are others like you. Never forget that. You are not alone on this little planet. You’re a keystroke away from someone who can say, “you’re wonderful.”

Because you are. Wonderful, amazing, lovely, funny, sweet, witty, charismatic, caring, devout, loyal, smart.

Loved.

Show them. Show them all.

Chasing the Rabbit

Tick tock tick tock ticktocktockticktickticktocktocktock 

How do you make time? How do you organize all you need to do?

Lists? Calendars? Notebooks? Paranoid scratching on the wall?

Because let me tell you, folks, I’m chasing that damn rabbit, trying to rip that big clock out of his pocket so I can smash it into a billion pieces. But the little bastard is faster than you would think.

Between editing, writing, the arena, phd work, 2 writing groups, reading, research, writing retreats, housework, spending time with S, and an attempt at a social life, I’m beginning to flounder.

Okay, actually, I’ve been floundering, but pretending I have a raft, which in Tinkerbell fashion seems to have kept me afloat. But now, no matter how much I believe, I seem to be going under. And the more overwhelmed I get by those waves of responsibility, the more paralyzed I become, making it so it’s easier to sink into the couch and numb out to television than it is to sit and spend five hours editing.

And….breathe.

What are your coping tips? How do you deal with being oversubscribed?

Book: Tyger Tyger Burning Bright by Justine Saracen

Song: Freeze by T-Pain

The Texture of Evil

(This came in the middle of the night, the terrors of the Holocaust and current civil rights issues blending into ugly nightmares).

What if evil was a physical thing? Something, if you were just vigilant enough, you could scoop out, catch and release like some malignant fish? Or something you could spray with pesticide, killing through chemical positivity.

What if, the moment you noticed it you could cup your hand and scoop it out, dig it from the life-drain so it didn’t infect anything else? If you could see it, feel it on the skin and scrape it away, leaving a healthy pink behind. Fling it out the window or trap it in a glass to dump outside.

Would it burn the hand, leave blisters? Would just a little simply sting, while more require an actual ladle so it didn’t back up the pipes, breed in the dark closeness and cause an overflow? Or would it be thin, harder to catch, evil egg yolk that ran through your fingers and through the pipes, a corrosive acid eating away at the strongest metal, let alone the softest skin?

It’s something you can sense, something that pulls at your skin and makes you shift, uncomfortable in your space. It makes you want to get away, to push against it and make it go. But there’s no removing it, no ladle or scythe to fling it into the ether.

You have to fight it in other ways, without pest control or kitchen utensils. You have to believe it away, you have to scribble it away, you have to stay vigilant and loud. Silence lets it grow unchecked, a nest of cockroaches feeding on its acidic narcissism.

There is no Draino for evil, no Mr Muscle to kill the germs of intolerance or violence. Our ladle is our pen, our scythe our voices raised in objection.

“One single Anne Frank moves us more than the countless others who suffered just as she did but whose faces have remained in the shadows. Perhaps it is better that way: if we were capable of taking in all the suffering of all those people, we would not be able to live.” Primo Levi

“Yet you know that you exist and others like you, that this is a game with mirrors. It takes some strength of soul — and not just individual strength, but collective understanding — to resist this void, this not-being, into which you are thrust, and to stand up, demanding to be seen and heard.” Adrienne Rich

Do not go quietly, my friends. Write, talk, scream if you have to. Our fight is not done. Make noise, let them know we are here and we will not let them putrefy our lives.

Be a Good Guest

I just spent three days with my in-laws.

An amazing, loyal, loud, chaotic and loving bunch of people. And after three days at various houses talking to various family members, S and I were talking on the way home about hospitality and expectation.

So as a public service, here are some Rules of Hospitality:

1. Make sure you’ve been invited. Is this obvious? Not as much as you’d think. Clarify when you’re getting there, when you’re leaving, and make sure it’s okay with your hosts. Even with family and best friends, having a sense of entitlement just because they are friends and family can make for bad feelings.

2. Don’t show up empty-handed. We brought my mother in law a simple bunch of flowers and enough beer to share with her. Showing up empty-handed suggests you don’t really appreciate your host hosting you. It’s respectful and kind.

3. Clean up after yourself. We go to visit family. But we leave our bedroom just the way it was when we got there. We do not expect anyone else to clean up after us. It’s not a hotel. Our hosts are not maids, and should never be treated as such.

4. Ask if you can help. With anything. Cleaning up, cooking, watching the kids. Whatever. You may be told it’s not necessary, but offering shows you appreciate being hosted.

5. Don’t over stay your welcome. Even your family needs to get on with their lives, their routine, their day. So let them get to it. Communicate if you’re going to stay longer than you thought, tell them why and when you plan to go. If you’re going to leave early, let them know that too.

6. Take pictures and videos. Funny ones, silly ones. One’s where they are drunk and wearing wellies with boxer shorts or a hardhat and noise protection earphones with a lowcut dress. Enjoy your time with them as human beings you love spending time with and embarrassing in full using all social networking sites available.

Basic, simple rules. No sense of entitlement, no bad feelings, no miscommunication. The better guest you are, the more likely you are to be invited back.

Right. Go forth and socialize…

Do you have any you can add?

Do Not Eat Your Offspring

So, in the shower this morning, I was having an argument with a fellow writer. 

In my head, obviously.

I’m not sure why it was that particular writer, as I have no idea what her actual position is. It just seemed like she’d be the right person to have a counter argument to mine.

It kind of goes back to the motivation post, but this time it’s about biological imperative.

Biological imperatives are the needs of living organisms required to perpetuate their existence: to survive. Include the following hierarchy of logical imperatives for a living organism: survival, territorialism, competition, reproduction, quality of life-seeking, and group forming. Living organisms that do not attempt to follow or do not succeed in satisfying these imperatives are described as maladaptive; those that do are adaptive. (Wikipedia)

My thought is this:

Through evolution, biological imperatives can change nature, but not change completely. We’re animals, and as such, we will always need to reproduce, to survive, to be territorial.

However, there’s a grey area. On a planet that is hugely overpopulated, the need to reproduce our DNA in the form of children, as a culture/society/planet, is greatly reduced. The need to reproduce in order to have more hands to keep the farm going is nearly non-existent. Many people could care less about their family lines or genetics dying out. So while the desire may still be there, the actual need is not.

I wrote a tongue-in-cheek paper at the end of my Masters degree for a class called “Gender and Evolution.” It was a BA level class I had to get out of the way to graduate. The paper was supposed to be on celebrities or some such.

I wrote it on why homosexuals are the next step in evolution.

My (facetious) theory: Animals adapt according to the planet-if something dies out a population needs, the population moves on or learns to live without it.

The planet is overpopulated. Therefore we’re seeing a growing population of homosexual animals (us) who do not automatically reproduce, thereby decreasing the population boom and helping restore balance.

He failed me, but I like the theory. As animals, we no longer have to leave sick children on a mountain top to die because we know they won’t thrive. Even dogs and cats will often walk away from a sick pup/kitten, that we as humans can save. We’ve adapted so that death is further away than ever.

I have no clue where this was going, but it’s creating a cesspool in my head and I had to get it out.

Feel free to spit back whatever feels right.

Book: Saints Astray by Jacqueline Carey (lovely lesbian YA)

Song: Pame Havai by Alkistis Protopsalti

Murderous Sympathies

(Follow up to previous post) My motivation: I bore easily. I love seeing my name in print. I want to be remembered. I want to be acknowledged. I want to be part of the ‘in’ crowd. I get a physical and mental high from learning new things. I love teaching people. I love knowing I’ve touched someone’s life in some way. I want my partner to be proud of me and what I’ve accomplished.

Those are mine. The general ones, anyway. There’s something financial in there too, obviously. But writers and editors don’t do it for the money, believe me.

I’m working on a difficult novel right now. My character kills quite a number of people, including her own children. And I’m working through her motivation for each killing, trying to decide if she’s a genuine whack job, or if she has ‘valid’ reasons for these killings. (it’s based in ancient Greece, and everyone was offing people back then. It’s just figuring out the why of it).

So today’s question: is any kind of killing justified? Are there killings that make the murderer more or less sympathetic? Are we harder on male killers than female killers? Does the motivation matter, or just the act?

A Lifetime of Reruns

Routine.

We all have one. We get up, scratch, stumble to the loo, brush our teeth, check for new zits, find the least wrinkled thing in the closet and get dressed in the dark so you have an excuse, flop into the kitchen and grab a candy bar for breakfast before heading out to drudge your way through work. Then you come home, fling off your shoes, microwave your dinner, pick the bits that missed your mouth off your shirt, eat them, balance your dish on the tower of mouldering dishes in the sink, shower, and fall asleep in bed with reruns of Southpark lighting up the bedroom walls.

And do it all again the next day.

So my question is this:

What motivates you? What keeps you going, what makes you focus on your passion, what makes you strive for more? To be more? What keeps you from the soul crushing routine I’ve described above? What makes you want to learn about new things, or try new things?

Is it self-respect? Is it adrenalin? Is it the need to show other people? Is it a narcissistic desire to be the best, ever, at everything? Or is it because it brings you inner peace?

So tell me: what juices up your life, and what does it inspire you to do? You tell me yours and I’ll give up mine. (There’s a reason I’m asking…)

Song: Valerie by Amy Winehouse

Book: Trumpet by Jackie Kay (seriously. Frigging amazing.)