Love this post. Totally lovely and hilarious and true.
P.S. I can't find my template, where did it go? I wants to edit it. Where is it? Help. Blogger? Anyone? Help?
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Infrastructure Projects Take Forever. It's Just Their Way
Dear Interwebs,
I don't know how I feel about you either, but I'm in another moment of crossing wide deep waters in my life, and wonder whether this bridge has been repaired. I'm taking over from my alter-ego Corinne, now I will be blogging as my ego (let's be honest). I'm making no commitments; I'd like us to have a casual relationship. I fully intend to have a relationship with other media while spending time with you. Cool? Readers, you say? Yeah, I don't know if any of the old folks will show up again, or if new folks will stumble upon this, and I don't know what my 'subject matter' will be. I'm a little high maintenance that way, or, perhaps, refreshing. Let's say I'm refreshing.
Love,
Andra
I don't know how I feel about you either, but I'm in another moment of crossing wide deep waters in my life, and wonder whether this bridge has been repaired. I'm taking over from my alter-ego Corinne, now I will be blogging as my ego (let's be honest). I'm making no commitments; I'd like us to have a casual relationship. I fully intend to have a relationship with other media while spending time with you. Cool? Readers, you say? Yeah, I don't know if any of the old folks will show up again, or if new folks will stumble upon this, and I don't know what my 'subject matter' will be. I'm a little high maintenance that way, or, perhaps, refreshing. Let's say I'm refreshing.
Love,
Andra
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Deadlines (a.k.a. All I Blog Are Lists)
1. There is so much snot in my head, I think that if I could blow my ears (or eyes for that matter), it would make me feel better.
2. I have to read for the new endeavor tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, and maybe Thursday morning too.
3. There are deadlines popping up with the new endeavor, and the car, and the job. Life just keeps happening and I think that I'm keeping on top of everything reasonably well, but, goodness, who knows? And sooner or later my smile won't get me as far as it usually does.
4. TP and I might go for a walk on Monday. A real, in person, walk. I am all kinds of not ready for that.
5. In ten days, I'm flying to California to go backpacking, probably in the Big Sur area. It will be a whole new landscape to soak up.
6. There are deadlines for most things and they help me to get my ass in gear. But there is no deadline for this pain, or the ways we wind our path.
2. I have to read for the new endeavor tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, and maybe Thursday morning too.
3. There are deadlines popping up with the new endeavor, and the car, and the job. Life just keeps happening and I think that I'm keeping on top of everything reasonably well, but, goodness, who knows? And sooner or later my smile won't get me as far as it usually does.
4. TP and I might go for a walk on Monday. A real, in person, walk. I am all kinds of not ready for that.
5. In ten days, I'm flying to California to go backpacking, probably in the Big Sur area. It will be a whole new landscape to soak up.
6. There are deadlines for most things and they help me to get my ass in gear. But there is no deadline for this pain, or the ways we wind our path.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Things That Are Over and Done With
1. Linear Algebra and Multivariable Calculus as a thing in my life; the discipline will continue quite happily without me.
2. My relationship with TP; a.k.a. a whole set of dreams and goals and commitments I made to another human; a.k.a. the most significant adult romantic relationship of my life.
3. Another year; today is my birthday.
I'm sorry, I haven't been able to muster the emotional energy to write here, there has just been too much.
2. My relationship with TP; a.k.a. a whole set of dreams and goals and commitments I made to another human; a.k.a. the most significant adult romantic relationship of my life.
3. Another year; today is my birthday.
I'm sorry, I haven't been able to muster the emotional energy to write here, there has just been too much.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Concrete
con•crete
1: naming a real thing or class of things
2: formed by coalition of particles into one solid mass
3 a: characterized by or belonging to immediate experience of actual things or events b: specific, particular c: real, tangible
Send inquiries and submissions to:
ssp.submissions@gmail.com.
1: naming a real thing or class of things
2: formed by coalition of particles into one solid mass
3 a: characterized by or belonging to immediate experience of actual things or events b: specific, particular c: real, tangible
Announcing the first open call for submissions to Concrete, a literary print journal through Sideshow Press, a publishing house for the rest of us. Editor and publisher, Toni Amato will work with one guest editor each issue.
Our premier issue will be guest-edited with Andra Hibbert, a queer writer and researcher who lives in Jamaica Plain, MA and is negotiating the concretes of faith, love, food, and vocation.
For each of us, there is a moment where our abstracts --home, recovery, ability, family, grief, faith -- become concrete. For the first issue of the journal, we are interested in creative nonfiction, poetry, and fiction that present the personal and particular negotiations and explorations of these moments.
Submissions may be no more than 15 double-spaced (12 point, Times New Roman or Garamond) pages of prose or up to 5 poems (not to exceed 15 total pages). Include your name and the title(s) of your pieces and be certain to paginate. Please send your work as word document or rtf attachments. Be sure to include a valid email address and phone number. Selected authors will receive two free copies.
Submissions for the premier issue are due by May 30th, but all work will be considered for future themed issues as well.
Our premier issue will be guest-edited with Andra Hibbert, a queer writer and researcher who lives in Jamaica Plain, MA and is negotiating the concretes of faith, love, food, and vocation.
For each of us, there is a moment where our abstracts --home, recovery, ability, family, grief, faith -- become concrete. For the first issue of the journal, we are interested in creative nonfiction, poetry, and fiction that present the personal and particular negotiations and explorations of these moments.
Submissions may be no more than 15 double-spaced (12 point, Times New Roman or Garamond) pages of prose or up to 5 poems (not to exceed 15 total pages). Include your name and the title(s) of your pieces and be certain to paginate. Please send your work as word document or rtf attachments. Be sure to include a valid email address and phone number. Selected authors will receive two free copies.
Submissions for the premier issue are due by May 30th, but all work will be considered for future themed issues as well.
Send inquiries and submissions to:
ssp.submissions@gmail.com.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
11 True Things
1. I realized just now that I missed blogging, I'm here, kids, I'm not slipping or falling away from the blogosphere.
2. Most of the things I feel moved to write about right now would reveal to you the city I live in, the job I have, the darkness that slides around behind my heart.
3. If you commit yourself to enjoying the aesthetics of your situation, and you are creative, you can enjoy almost anything.
4. Right now I'm curled with a ceramic mug of ginger tea, scattered white pages of math, wrapped in a HUGE gray cardigan, my bare feet on a red footstool -- this is all most pleasant because of #3. I'm not sure the math test tomorrow will be quite as charming.
5. Something has shifted this week such that I have been enjoying my job a lot more than recently. Maybe because of the abstract sent off to a MajorNationalAssociation (MNA), or because I got to spend time with reference librarians (and really, what more can you ask for in a day's work?) Maybe because of some chemical tweaking that I am not privy to, in any case. I feel better there and more engaged. This is good.
6. I get to see Female to Femme next week. I'm excited to the core, and I shall have most excellent company.
7. By the end of the summer, I will be leaving my quirky yellow garret room, and I'm almost sad about that. But then, maybe my next room will have a closet, maybe?
8. I hate that my google account follows me wherever I go on the web, particularly when I am signed into email as *me* and I want to leave comments on blogs as *Corinne*. Has anyone figured out a loophole for this?
9. I bought some color coded folders this week to organize my life into. I'm very excited, but still haven't taken them out of my messenger bag. That said, my messenger bag is a good deal more tidy than this, though also a bit less interesting.
10. Next weekend, I'm going to be home in HarborCity, right now the only things I have planned are a film and a morning of writing by myself in a coffeeshop. I also desperately want to scrub the kitchen floor and make sourdough. It will have been almost two months since I've had such a weekend. 10 more days until I can be the homebody I really am.
11. For the next four days I'll be in BlueCity, RedState visiting TP ... and my aunt and uncle, and my mother and sisters will also be down there -- it's a big get together that was *totally* not my idea, and hopefully will not be too awfully stressful. But then, what could be more stressful that using the simplex method to solve the dual problem in game theory (see #4)?
Oh, right, sisters and mother and food and alcohol and the opportunity to wear bathing suits. Catch'ya on the flipside.
2. Most of the things I feel moved to write about right now would reveal to you the city I live in, the job I have, the darkness that slides around behind my heart.
3. If you commit yourself to enjoying the aesthetics of your situation, and you are creative, you can enjoy almost anything.
4. Right now I'm curled with a ceramic mug of ginger tea, scattered white pages of math, wrapped in a HUGE gray cardigan, my bare feet on a red footstool -- this is all most pleasant because of #3. I'm not sure the math test tomorrow will be quite as charming.
5. Something has shifted this week such that I have been enjoying my job a lot more than recently. Maybe because of the abstract sent off to a MajorNationalAssociation (MNA), or because I got to spend time with reference librarians (and really, what more can you ask for in a day's work?) Maybe because of some chemical tweaking that I am not privy to, in any case. I feel better there and more engaged. This is good.
6. I get to see Female to Femme next week. I'm excited to the core, and I shall have most excellent company.
7. By the end of the summer, I will be leaving my quirky yellow garret room, and I'm almost sad about that. But then, maybe my next room will have a closet, maybe?
8. I hate that my google account follows me wherever I go on the web, particularly when I am signed into email as *me* and I want to leave comments on blogs as *Corinne*. Has anyone figured out a loophole for this?
9. I bought some color coded folders this week to organize my life into. I'm very excited, but still haven't taken them out of my messenger bag. That said, my messenger bag is a good deal more tidy than this, though also a bit less interesting.
10. Next weekend, I'm going to be home in HarborCity, right now the only things I have planned are a film and a morning of writing by myself in a coffeeshop. I also desperately want to scrub the kitchen floor and make sourdough. It will have been almost two months since I've had such a weekend. 10 more days until I can be the homebody I really am.
11. For the next four days I'll be in BlueCity, RedState visiting TP ... and my aunt and uncle, and my mother and sisters will also be down there -- it's a big get together that was *totally* not my idea, and hopefully will not be too awfully stressful. But then, what could be more stressful that using the simplex method to solve the dual problem in game theory (see #4)?
Oh, right, sisters and mother and food and alcohol and the opportunity to wear bathing suits. Catch'ya on the flipside.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Violence and Writing: Incomplete Thoughts
I have not been following the Virginia Tech stuff very closely; but I have been musing nonetheles on violence in our society, how we all handle it, and how it invades us. Cho Seung-Hui was invaded by violence, and wrote violent creative writing that should have been a tip off, or that's what they say.
I took one writing class in college. It was an Introduction to Fiction Writing class
taught by a man who was nice, but, frankly, had no idea what to do with us ELAC-kids when we got going in a classroom. Many things went down in that classroom that were sexist, racist, etc. (Imagine this: someone asked me why there weren't more father figures in my short stories, and suggested the "return of the father" as a plot point for... everything.) I digress. One day in class, we were critiquing a story that was about graphic, violent, rape. This story was gratuitous in its descriptions, and sexist in its characterizations of both men and women. The community context of this classroom was that no less that seven women had recently gone to the dean to report sexual assault. It was a bad spring at ELAC, and I was thick in the planning of Take Back the Night. My friend L., another TBTN organizer, after trying to talk to this boy about the violence in the story and having him defend it, had to leave, slamming the door. Sitting there in that classroom, I felt that this boy and the story had committed another act of violence.
I don't know who in that classroom I would have referred to psych services based on their writing, but thinking about Virginia Tech, and I am very wary of censoring creative minds as they begin to explore their own inner workings. But I have thinking about what my role in a classroom would be and what the role of violence is in art. (Very few people express violent urges in economics problem sets.)
Let me be clear: I have written about graphic violence. Much of my current work deals with the outrageous violence that we do against each other in society and the ways in which that breaks a society apart. Some who have read it, included Sister, Esq. have been stunned by my capacity and willingness to describe a violence that I have never witnessed. I feel like I am with violence everyday, that is surround and pervades me so completely that writing it out is a way to counter, no perpetuate it. My writing is violent, but I hope that it never does violence, I hope that the ways in which it disturbs always probes myself and others to reach out of the darkness and push against the cold damp stones of the trap we have set for ourselves, into a brighter day.
Epilogue: The guy who wrote the rape story now runs a small porn company. I have a feeling it is not the happy sex positive porn that I would like.
I took one writing class in college. It was an Introduction to Fiction Writing class
taught by a man who was nice, but, frankly, had no idea what to do with us ELAC-kids when we got going in a classroom. Many things went down in that classroom that were sexist, racist, etc. (Imagine this: someone asked me why there weren't more father figures in my short stories, and suggested the "return of the father" as a plot point for... everything.) I digress. One day in class, we were critiquing a story that was about graphic, violent, rape. This story was gratuitous in its descriptions, and sexist in its characterizations of both men and women. The community context of this classroom was that no less that seven women had recently gone to the dean to report sexual assault. It was a bad spring at ELAC, and I was thick in the planning of Take Back the Night. My friend L., another TBTN organizer, after trying to talk to this boy about the violence in the story and having him defend it, had to leave, slamming the door. Sitting there in that classroom, I felt that this boy and the story had committed another act of violence.
I don't know who in that classroom I would have referred to psych services based on their writing, but thinking about Virginia Tech, and I am very wary of censoring creative minds as they begin to explore their own inner workings. But I have thinking about what my role in a classroom would be and what the role of violence is in art. (Very few people express violent urges in economics problem sets.)
Let me be clear: I have written about graphic violence. Much of my current work deals with the outrageous violence that we do against each other in society and the ways in which that breaks a society apart. Some who have read it, included Sister, Esq. have been stunned by my capacity and willingness to describe a violence that I have never witnessed. I feel like I am with violence everyday, that is surround and pervades me so completely that writing it out is a way to counter, no perpetuate it. My writing is violent, but I hope that it never does violence, I hope that the ways in which it disturbs always probes myself and others to reach out of the darkness and push against the cold damp stones of the trap we have set for ourselves, into a brighter day.
Epilogue: The guy who wrote the rape story now runs a small porn company. I have a feeling it is not the happy sex positive porn that I would like.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Girl Skills
I know, I know, you all want to hear about some reading that happened two weeks ago or whether I've found my life path or at least given up and really failed that stupid math class. But I don't want to talk about those things, yet.
However, in the ongoing hash out of femme. I've decided that one of my favorite new femme skills is the ability to look really put together and bad ass when I feel totally brokedown. Read into that what you will about my current state. But below are two pictures of my newest tool in this endeavor. Ten dollars, sidewalk sale - yes, oh yes. This post should keep sulky fashion minded butches at bay until I want to actually fill you in on ... anything.
And I know that they look a lot like the heels from last October, but trust me, they are different, more brown, more everyday, every bit as sexy.
However, in the ongoing hash out of femme. I've decided that one of my favorite new femme skills is the ability to look really put together and bad ass when I feel totally brokedown. Read into that what you will about my current state. But below are two pictures of my newest tool in this endeavor. Ten dollars, sidewalk sale - yes, oh yes. This post should keep sulky fashion minded butches at bay until I want to actually fill you in on ... anything.
And I know that they look a lot like the heels from last October, but trust me, they are different, more brown, more everyday, every bit as sexy.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Lemons, Limes, My Wrist: One from the Archives
I was told by a Jamaican friend last summer that limes "cut your nature". That they will calm you down when you are horny. I hadn't really thought about citrus in connection with sex again until about five minutes ago.
Today, my boss strolled by my desk and asked if I had a knife. When I told her I didn't, she showed me the problem -- inside her red waterbottle was a lemon wedge, which she had squeezed in there, but could not remove. Thirty seconds later the waterbottle is upside down over my trashcan and my hand is all up in there. My wrist starts to hurt, but I'm determined, and with a few more movements, the lemon is free and I'm left with a juicy hand.
Remind you of anything? Yeah, it reminded me too. Sometimes I think that when TP goes on T I will be subjected to dealing with someone with hormones raging around like an adolescent boy -- then I remember that sometimes I think about sex like a teenager too.
Today, my boss strolled by my desk and asked if I had a knife. When I told her I didn't, she showed me the problem -- inside her red waterbottle was a lemon wedge, which she had squeezed in there, but could not remove. Thirty seconds later the waterbottle is upside down over my trashcan and my hand is all up in there. My wrist starts to hurt, but I'm determined, and with a few more movements, the lemon is free and I'm left with a juicy hand.
Remind you of anything? Yeah, it reminded me too. Sometimes I think that when TP goes on T I will be subjected to dealing with someone with hormones raging around like an adolescent boy -- then I remember that sometimes I think about sex like a teenager too.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Easter, of a sort
This morning, just before sunrise, two dear friends and I walked up to a hill near our houses and sang and prayed and greeted the day and the new life within each of us asking, only, for us to roll away the stone.
There was Mary Oliver, e.e. cummings, Sara M. Campbell, Ted Loder, a hymn, a gloria, confession, the sun and birds, each other and other things most holy.
I had meant to write this post about recognizing holiness and creating sacred space and how that is done, but now, I just want the fact of it to sit on my lips for longer before I try to analyze. Suffice it to say that I felt more at peace and filled with purpose walking home than I have for a while, even in the midst of everything.
"Rouse us from tiredness, self-pity,
Whet us for use,
Fire us with good passion.
Restore in us the love of living,
Bind us to fear and hope again."
-Hope Again, (author to be looked up and posted later)
There was Mary Oliver, e.e. cummings, Sara M. Campbell, Ted Loder, a hymn, a gloria, confession, the sun and birds, each other and other things most holy.
I had meant to write this post about recognizing holiness and creating sacred space and how that is done, but now, I just want the fact of it to sit on my lips for longer before I try to analyze. Suffice it to say that I felt more at peace and filled with purpose walking home than I have for a while, even in the midst of everything.
"Rouse us from tiredness, self-pity,
Whet us for use,
Fire us with good passion.
Restore in us the love of living,
Bind us to fear and hope again."
-Hope Again, (author to be looked up and posted later)
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
This Post Has Been Brought to You By: Irish Breakfast and the Compound Sucrose
Right now, I want to stay up all night writing and drinking tea and reading and thinking and not doing my math homework. I know that that sentence is too long and poorly constructed, but I --- am caffeinated.
Instead I'm dealing with eigenspace. Let me know if you have any clue what that is, and I'll send you a sparkle. Honestly, doing my math homework makes me feel like someone has taken a series of drill bits and put them in my skull. Right now, that way that I'm counteracting this effect is by looking at MFA program websites. Can I take this as a sign?
I should blog in a non-snarky way about the fact that I'm not doing well in this math class which was supposed to be my all powerful signal to Econ. grad schools. Instead I'm looking ahead to a meeting with a mentor next week, where I need to let her know where I'm really at.
P.S. Where am I really at?
P.P.S. I promise that someday I will blog about something other than my navel, which can best be described as an inbetweeny rather than an outie or an innie... in case any inquiring minds would have wanted to know.
Instead I'm dealing with eigenspace. Let me know if you have any clue what that is, and I'll send you a sparkle. Honestly, doing my math homework makes me feel like someone has taken a series of drill bits and put them in my skull. Right now, that way that I'm counteracting this effect is by looking at MFA program websites. Can I take this as a sign?
I should blog in a non-snarky way about the fact that I'm not doing well in this math class which was supposed to be my all powerful signal to Econ. grad schools. Instead I'm looking ahead to a meeting with a mentor next week, where I need to let her know where I'm really at.
P.S. Where am I really at?
P.P.S. I promise that someday I will blog about something other than my navel, which can best be described as an inbetweeny rather than an outie or an innie... in case any inquiring minds would have wanted to know.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Lookee!
Hey,My life is insane. The season of change which cometh upon you in the night has cometh. I have an ex (not the ex) in town this week, next weekend my mother will be in town, the weekend after that I'm going to BigCity to see Sister, Esq. for her birthday. The weekend after that my father will be in town. The weekend after that I'll fly to RedState to see TP and visit family. By the end of May, I could have moved "across the river".
However, in the meantime I managed to escape to CoastalHaven for the weekend and all I got was more freckles and a this new mug to replace the mug that busted last week. If you realized how much tea and coffee I drink, you would realize how significant a purchase this was, and it's really quite fetching.
Kisses,
C.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Am I Not Plain? A List of Responses to Definitions
I could write a whole other post about why I'm writing this instead of doing work, but I want to write this, because there are good reasons I don't want to think about the rest of my life.
Plain:*
1. Not decorated or elaborate; simple or ordinary in character.
That my dears, depends on the day. But I would like to believe that femmes, when we claim that as an identity and not a descriptor are just as femme when they are traipsing through the woods with axes as when they are wearing heels, and dangling jewelry. I don't want there to be a contradiction between wanting someone to open my door for me (sometimes) and being the one wearing carhartts fixing the leaky sink. So decorations depend on the day, but I don't think simple or ordinary in character makes much sense.
2. Without a pattern; in only one color.
I am not this, and neither are femmes worldwide.
3. Bearing no indication as to source, contents, or affiliation.
Probably true. My femme-ininity is a mish-mash-genderberry-mosh-mess. I was raised by a hairy-legged woman who used her hippie cred and class aspirations to cast aspersions on makeup. I am, at base, a country girl, and a tomboy who is learning how to be a girl (more on the particular challenges of this to come). All these factors means that gender expression is a little bit up in the air, and so it is not so surprising that the gender itself doesn't bear clear markers.
4. Having no pretensions, not remarkable or special.
Remarkable and special, yes please. But can that be with pretension on the side?
5. Without title or status
Right, other than femme, and potentially lady, girl, etc., I don't want title or status. I want to be down in the ditches working on the work with everyone else. Which isn't to say that I don't like the occasional femme worship ;). It just isn't a title or status thing. It is a respect given where due thing. I hope.
6. Easy to perceive or understand; clear
I am not this, femme is not this. It is a complicated, messy, misunderstood thing. That is why Hannah and I get to have tea. That is why I'm writing this. I cannot perceive or understand myself in relation to femme, I am not clear on any of it. I don't know many people who are clear on it. So, no.
7. Clearly expressed, without the use of technical of abstruse terms
Well, here is something to aspire to, but seeing as 6 isn't true, I don't know if I'm equipped to go about describing this without the use of technical terms. I may have read too much high queer theory to be able to do that. Tainted forever by Butler and Foucault and caught red-handed in my po-mo linguistic gymnastics.
8. Not using concealment or deception, frank
When I first was called a plain femme by the online quiz, the first thing that sprang to mind was the idea of a "plainclothes femme (PF)" like a plainclothes policeman. Undercover in the gender war... Yeah, it has potential, especially because it allows the PF to be in disguise in both the straight and queer communities -- which I feel like I am. In straight spaces, I am read as straight, and in queer spaces my position is much more complicated, but I don't ever feel like I am not dissembling somehow. I would love to leave the stage sometime, but I'm not sure how. This, too, is a whole other post.
9. Not attractive.
See #2.
*I have no idea how to cite a widget, forgive me.
Plain:*
1. Not decorated or elaborate; simple or ordinary in character.
That my dears, depends on the day. But I would like to believe that femmes, when we claim that as an identity and not a descriptor are just as femme when they are traipsing through the woods with axes as when they are wearing heels, and dangling jewelry. I don't want there to be a contradiction between wanting someone to open my door for me (sometimes) and being the one wearing carhartts fixing the leaky sink. So decorations depend on the day, but I don't think simple or ordinary in character makes much sense.
2. Without a pattern; in only one color.
I am not this, and neither are femmes worldwide.
3. Bearing no indication as to source, contents, or affiliation.
Probably true. My femme-ininity is a mish-mash-genderberry-mosh-mess. I was raised by a hairy-legged woman who used her hippie cred and class aspirations to cast aspersions on makeup. I am, at base, a country girl, and a tomboy who is learning how to be a girl (more on the particular challenges of this to come). All these factors means that gender expression is a little bit up in the air, and so it is not so surprising that the gender itself doesn't bear clear markers.
4. Having no pretensions, not remarkable or special.
Remarkable and special, yes please. But can that be with pretension on the side?
5. Without title or status
Right, other than femme, and potentially lady, girl, etc., I don't want title or status. I want to be down in the ditches working on the work with everyone else. Which isn't to say that I don't like the occasional femme worship ;). It just isn't a title or status thing. It is a respect given where due thing. I hope.
6. Easy to perceive or understand; clear
I am not this, femme is not this. It is a complicated, messy, misunderstood thing. That is why Hannah and I get to have tea. That is why I'm writing this. I cannot perceive or understand myself in relation to femme, I am not clear on any of it. I don't know many people who are clear on it. So, no.
7. Clearly expressed, without the use of technical of abstruse terms
Well, here is something to aspire to, but seeing as 6 isn't true, I don't know if I'm equipped to go about describing this without the use of technical terms. I may have read too much high queer theory to be able to do that. Tainted forever by Butler and Foucault and caught red-handed in my po-mo linguistic gymnastics.
8. Not using concealment or deception, frank
When I first was called a plain femme by the online quiz, the first thing that sprang to mind was the idea of a "plainclothes femme (PF)" like a plainclothes policeman. Undercover in the gender war... Yeah, it has potential, especially because it allows the PF to be in disguise in both the straight and queer communities -- which I feel like I am. In straight spaces, I am read as straight, and in queer spaces my position is much more complicated, but I don't ever feel like I am not dissembling somehow. I would love to leave the stage sometime, but I'm not sure how. This, too, is a whole other post.
9. Not attractive.
See #2.
*I have no idea how to cite a widget, forgive me.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
In Other News:
1. An online quiz just told me that I am a "plain femme" -- we'll deconstruct that another time, eh?
2.I had dinner with a wonderful new butch friend of mine, who blows my mind, and I hope will talk to me more about class, gender, race, and activism. I have so much to learn, and sometimes it is nice to hang out with folks who remind me of that.
3. I just had a conversation with my mother who honestly asked me why food would ever be stressful...STUNNED SILENCE...This from a woman who had her daughters, ages 14, 11, and 8 go around the dinner table and say how many grams of fat they'd had in a day. WTF? She has the most amazing selective memory.
2.I had dinner with a wonderful new butch friend of mine, who blows my mind, and I hope will talk to me more about class, gender, race, and activism. I have so much to learn, and sometimes it is nice to hang out with folks who remind me of that.
3. I just had a conversation with my mother who honestly asked me why food would ever be stressful...STUNNED SILENCE...This from a woman who had her daughters, ages 14, 11, and 8 go around the dinner table and say how many grams of fat they'd had in a day. WTF? She has the most amazing selective memory.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
You Know You Make A Lot of Sourdough When...
You are amazed by how quickly your yeasted whole wheat bread rises and fills the bowl and pushes the towel up and you barely catch it and punch it down before it makes a big mess in your clean clean kitchen.
I have been very productive this morning - scrubbed floor, swept whole apartment, reorganized pantry - mainly because I've been procrastinating going through my writing and pulling things to read to some queer youth I'm hanging out with tonight. I'm very excited, but choosing pieces to read is always a little harrowing. Hopefully the deep slush piles and ice puddles won't deter the plan.
I have been very productive this morning - scrubbed floor, swept whole apartment, reorganized pantry - mainly because I've been procrastinating going through my writing and pulling things to read to some queer youth I'm hanging out with tonight. I'm very excited, but choosing pieces to read is always a little harrowing. Hopefully the deep slush piles and ice puddles won't deter the plan.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Notes on Being Christian: Part I
So, I've been thinking lately about whether or not I'm Christian. And if I were to identify as Christian, how that would change how I am in the world. There are very few people in this world with whom I can have this conversation - hence the loveliness of the blogosphere.
This is a Part I post, because if I were to try to write a post that distilled everything I had to say on the topic, it would never get written and would fail to say the most important thing, which is that whenever I have thought about religion over my life I have felt both profoundly lost and profoundly lost in the Mystery of the divine. Also, I can't seem to string more than two paragraphs together here these days. So bear with me as I puzzle this out, if you have thoughts, please share them, and there will be a series of such ramblings.
Jesus Christ:
I realized at Christmas (a holiday which I adore, and which is deeply spiritual for me) that there should be a church where instead of having Christ as Lord, you have Christ as Metaphor, that would be about right. Jesus was amazing, and I believe in him as a pioneer and teacher in the realms of social justice that matter to me deeply (see Jackson Browne or the Chieftains' song Rebel Jesus, also Martin Sexton Hallelujah). In this way Jesus and his teachings are an example, but there are certainly others. I don't believe the Jesus is the son of God, at least no more than the rest of us, and that is one of the major stumbling blocks (ha! somewhere in the Deep South someone is talking about Christianity and a very different kind of stumbling block) to me being Christian. Maybe being Christian is about having one really wonderful example against which to hold your actions accountable.
I helped a woman find her train today. She was very confused and maybe drug addicted or learning disabled or both, and when I walked by she was trying to explain her situation to a law enforcement officer who wasn't getting it. On many levels. So I offered to show her where the inbound trains were, and she was incredibly grateful. But sometimes, folks aren't grateful, sometimes they spit in your face and have good reasons for doing that, and you have to fall back on the idea that you were doing your best to do something "good", and maybe it would be easier to do that if your fallback was that you were trying to do something "Christian" and have both a community and a text that validated your work.
The problem is privileging Christ over Buddha over Muhammed over Zeus* over Krishna, etc. That is the part that I can't quite get behind. So metaphor and example, here I come.
Alright. It's a night of fermentation - feeding sourdough, drinking beer, baking challah. More later.
*Not generally known for his social justice values.
This is a Part I post, because if I were to try to write a post that distilled everything I had to say on the topic, it would never get written and would fail to say the most important thing, which is that whenever I have thought about religion over my life I have felt both profoundly lost and profoundly lost in the Mystery of the divine. Also, I can't seem to string more than two paragraphs together here these days. So bear with me as I puzzle this out, if you have thoughts, please share them, and there will be a series of such ramblings.
Jesus Christ:
I realized at Christmas (a holiday which I adore, and which is deeply spiritual for me) that there should be a church where instead of having Christ as Lord, you have Christ as Metaphor, that would be about right. Jesus was amazing, and I believe in him as a pioneer and teacher in the realms of social justice that matter to me deeply (see Jackson Browne or the Chieftains' song Rebel Jesus, also Martin Sexton Hallelujah). In this way Jesus and his teachings are an example, but there are certainly others. I don't believe the Jesus is the son of God, at least no more than the rest of us, and that is one of the major stumbling blocks (ha! somewhere in the Deep South someone is talking about Christianity and a very different kind of stumbling block) to me being Christian. Maybe being Christian is about having one really wonderful example against which to hold your actions accountable.
I helped a woman find her train today. She was very confused and maybe drug addicted or learning disabled or both, and when I walked by she was trying to explain her situation to a law enforcement officer who wasn't getting it. On many levels. So I offered to show her where the inbound trains were, and she was incredibly grateful. But sometimes, folks aren't grateful, sometimes they spit in your face and have good reasons for doing that, and you have to fall back on the idea that you were doing your best to do something "good", and maybe it would be easier to do that if your fallback was that you were trying to do something "Christian" and have both a community and a text that validated your work.
The problem is privileging Christ over Buddha over Muhammed over Zeus* over Krishna, etc. That is the part that I can't quite get behind. So metaphor and example, here I come.
Alright. It's a night of fermentation - feeding sourdough, drinking beer, baking challah. More later.
*Not generally known for his social justice values.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Gender Trouble: An Open Letter
Dear Transguys:
I have a deal for you - let's trade! I'll give you some facial/body hair and you can give me some rack flesh*? I see it as a win-win.
Oh? That's not how it works? My mistake. I guess I'll just work on being a better feminist. Sorry to trouble you,
Love,
LaFemme
*I don't know how I feel about the term "rack flesh" but didn't want to offend the recipients of the letter with a girlier term. Now I just need to think of a supremely girly name for my mustache... yeah, nothing's springing to my mind, either.
I have a deal for you - let's trade! I'll give you some facial/body hair and you can give me some rack flesh*? I see it as a win-win.
Oh? That's not how it works? My mistake. I guess I'll just work on being a better feminist. Sorry to trouble you,
Love,
LaFemme
*I don't know how I feel about the term "rack flesh" but didn't want to offend the recipients of the letter with a girlier term. Now I just need to think of a supremely girly name for my mustache... yeah, nothing's springing to my mind, either.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Int'l Women's Day-Three Emotions on Being a Woman in Public Spaces
hate.
He is barking as I walk toward him. A man a few years older than me walking with his two young kids, and before him running for the train is a woman. She is running for the train like anyone would run for the train, the slide and shuffle of an adult dressed for work along the public tiles in the tunnels of downtown HarborCity. My body shakes before I speak, and he just stares at me, blank, and my body keeps shaking. The next morning, I am rushing down the stairs, we are like electrons in a wire, moving along, jostling. He is walking up the stairs and collides with a woman in front of me, as he slides his way along the railing toward me he says, "Fat fucking cunt". I look him in the eye and ask him loudly what he just said, he brushes past me, knocking my elbow.
love.
He is asleep. His finger between the pages of a book that has closed. There are fine wrinkles behind his eyes and the eyes move quickly behind thin eyelids, dreaming. He opens the door for me and takes me to lunch, it is a the shelter where he eats everyday and he signs me in as his guest, his knuckles are gnarled and his whole hand shakes as he lifts food to his mouth. He is telling me a story about how his old lady left him for Jesus, and how can an honest guy compete with that? It is raining and cold, I'm crossing the quad in not enough clothing, my shirt getting wet, he sees me and crosses grass to reach me and hands me his umbrella, walking away before I can argue, his shirt tented over the broad span of his shoulder blades. I keep the umbrella in my room for a whole day before taking it back to him, looking at the sleek dark folds of kindness.
fear.
I am coming out of the train and feel his body against me. I had paused, turned, and he, his dark gravely voice in my ear and his hands on my shoulders turned me around. I fill with panic, the moment is short, his deep voice only says "sorry" and his hands release my shoulders just as quickly. He didn't even spill my coffee that cools too quickly in the frigid winter air. Running, in the morning in the dark around the pond, I notice the signs that say that there have been coyote sightings and to call animal control if you see one. I don't, but rounding the corner where there are no lights, I see his form moving, walking slowly, hips low, legs swinging, a huge dark jacket, and a hood pulled low over his face. I square my shoulders and run a little faster, pulling knees higher, stretching legs longer, muscles pulling on bones to reach a few more inches. I reach my hand into the pocket of my windbreaker and lace my keys between my fingers. I know how to throw a punch, and the keys would dig sharp into his cheek and the soft tissue of an eye. This is how I would collect DNA evidence. He ambles past me, and I feel foolish.
He is barking as I walk toward him. A man a few years older than me walking with his two young kids, and before him running for the train is a woman. She is running for the train like anyone would run for the train, the slide and shuffle of an adult dressed for work along the public tiles in the tunnels of downtown HarborCity. My body shakes before I speak, and he just stares at me, blank, and my body keeps shaking. The next morning, I am rushing down the stairs, we are like electrons in a wire, moving along, jostling. He is walking up the stairs and collides with a woman in front of me, as he slides his way along the railing toward me he says, "Fat fucking cunt". I look him in the eye and ask him loudly what he just said, he brushes past me, knocking my elbow.
love.
He is asleep. His finger between the pages of a book that has closed. There are fine wrinkles behind his eyes and the eyes move quickly behind thin eyelids, dreaming. He opens the door for me and takes me to lunch, it is a the shelter where he eats everyday and he signs me in as his guest, his knuckles are gnarled and his whole hand shakes as he lifts food to his mouth. He is telling me a story about how his old lady left him for Jesus, and how can an honest guy compete with that? It is raining and cold, I'm crossing the quad in not enough clothing, my shirt getting wet, he sees me and crosses grass to reach me and hands me his umbrella, walking away before I can argue, his shirt tented over the broad span of his shoulder blades. I keep the umbrella in my room for a whole day before taking it back to him, looking at the sleek dark folds of kindness.
fear.
I am coming out of the train and feel his body against me. I had paused, turned, and he, his dark gravely voice in my ear and his hands on my shoulders turned me around. I fill with panic, the moment is short, his deep voice only says "sorry" and his hands release my shoulders just as quickly. He didn't even spill my coffee that cools too quickly in the frigid winter air. Running, in the morning in the dark around the pond, I notice the signs that say that there have been coyote sightings and to call animal control if you see one. I don't, but rounding the corner where there are no lights, I see his form moving, walking slowly, hips low, legs swinging, a huge dark jacket, and a hood pulled low over his face. I square my shoulders and run a little faster, pulling knees higher, stretching legs longer, muscles pulling on bones to reach a few more inches. I reach my hand into the pocket of my windbreaker and lace my keys between my fingers. I know how to throw a punch, and the keys would dig sharp into his cheek and the soft tissue of an eye. This is how I would collect DNA evidence. He ambles past me, and I feel foolish.
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