Q. Why Is Compassion so Damn Hard for the Witty and Charming?
A. Because you are afraid it will make you into a fanatic.
Fact is you are already fanatically avoiding feeling compassion, every time you unthinkingly give the less fortunate people (there are ALWAYS less fortunate) a hand-out just to get them away from you, rather than because you think someday you might end up that way. Or every time you unthinkingly blame the more fortunate people for not helping you more often (my family's speciality). Or else you are fanatically avoiding all people so that nobody can ever criticize you or make you feel uncompassionate, which makes you feel bad. But think-- fanatically avoiding ever feeling bad means that you never know when you really feel GOOD.
I know, I know, it's not an exact science, but here are my inane equations anyway. There has to be a way to explain why people, seeing me dealing with grief over my dying girlfriend's suicide, are actually repulsed and even TELL me that they have a hard time feeling compassion for me. So here's my wild ride down the slippery slope of character equations.
YOUR AVERAGE PEOPLE PERSON + inner child (id) or inner optimist (desiring anything and acknowledging it takes optimism)= someone who will seek faith, a faith, something to direct their choices, a code of right and wrong, so that people will like her/him. This person seeks ways to ingratiate her or himself through wit (not just knowledge, but discernment, knowing what's funny when). This person is a natural flirt, even if they couldn't hold up their end of a conversation with a saw horse.
NON-PEOPLE PERSON + inner child = my sister, never quite getting a joke, never quite understanding why the choices of words she makes sometimes infuriate people, someone basically not open to leading an examined life because she gets it "wrong" so often. She knows how to want, and how to seek faith, but she condemns herself so often without seeking remedy, that she generally avoids people and got herself a heinous husband who people generally avoid. He thinks he's infallible, he criticizes her to the point where she categorically dismisses all his criticism, and then she lashes out at people to make herself feel superior because she doesn't really know what she's worth anymore.
OK. I had to open up a shelf in the hierarchy where I could leave my sister. What do you do with someone you don't trust to make good choices who specifically doesn't have compassion for anyone, even herself? What do you do with a drunken sailor? I'm just going to say call this a NON-PEOPLE PERSON and leave them to their slurred little Song of Theirself.
Moving on, let's say you are a PEOPLE PERSON SEEKING WIT (the highest expression of ego: discernment) but you have forgotten your optimistic side. You are rootless. You can't remember why you got up this morning, or came out of the womb in the first place. You are reading T.S. Elliot "The Wasteland" with your breakfast every morning and you can't quite grasp why HE got up every morning. Nobody reads poetry anyway. Nobody cares. You don't even care. Why try?
This is the state of mind that I think most people are in. From this state it is impossible to overcome your need for a right/ wrong answer, extend yourself beyond the few things you believe to be true, and be compassionate to a stranger who looks as though they've made at least a few choices that you would not have made.
I'll characterize this as: PEOPLE-PERSON - inner child + wit = your average twit. Myself on a bad day. The egoist with her latte and a bus pass but no way to see that the soulless bus driver is not actually TRYING to spill her drink, because it's technically illegal to drink on the bus. This person is prone to feeling permanently wrong, permanently punished, and that everyone's expectations are Too Damn High.
Then there is the PEOPLE-PERSON + inner child + wit = someone seeking routes to transcendence, new expansive ways of thinking, access to compassion. This person understands the role of the responsible citizen, the inner-parent / super-ego. They believe in parking laws, even if they sometimes break them. Then, they pay the ticket and don't act like that 28 dollars makes them Broken Down By The Man. They accept that they are tools, or better yet, cogs in the machine, and they aspire to understanding what this machine might be up to, and since they are bringing their inner child along for the ride, this machine might just be up to something Good.
Then there are the NON-PEOPLE-PEOPLE + inner child + wit, which equals the reclusive artists like Edward Gorey. And the NON-PEOPLE-PEOPLE - inner child + wit, which equals Andrew Dice Clay, back in the day.
And this brings us to the Compassionate Person.
PEOPLE-PERSON + inner child - wit + compassion= someone who follows blindly, like your average local 19 year old Mormon "Elder." Or someone at Jonestown. Someone who can't sit down and make a cost benefit analysis about a moral choice to save his life. These folks serve in the interest of whatever piques their interest that day, giving them good, optimistic feelings, like a child in a room of phones and a telepromter telling them what to say when they make those fundraising calls and a fearless leader there to offer them a glass of kool aid as a reward for their excellent work.
PEOPLE-PERSON - inner child + wit + compassion= I think a lot of existentialist liberals end up here. They understand service to a Greater Good. They understand a set of rights and wrongs. They just can't see the Why Try of things. They read the Tao of Pooh and the Te of Piglet and end up like Eeyore. They become graduate students and eventually become lawyers and eventually end up becoming the life of the wine and cheese party only quoting book and movie reviews and never books or movies. Snore. I think this is the place I am most in danger of ending up.
PEOPLE PERSON - inner child - wit + compassion = a Methodist minister. My grandma, for example (who is a Methodist minister). She can't tell a joke. She takes herself incredibly seriously. She is almost militaristically "at service" to any and all. She doesn't visit, she steam rolls various parts of the family on a seasonal basis. Sigh. Two weeks until her 84th birthday. I have a completely wholesome low-fat anti-war pity-drenched dinner to look forward to this Thanksgiving. Not that I need fat, or war, or dry wit to keep me going. OK fat and wit, but not war. All I'm saying is that it is hard to have prolonged conversation with this person.
NON-PEOPLE-PERSON +/- inner child +/- wit + compassion= the non-people person's compassion is only theoretical: they don't actually leave their safety zones to test it, so I'm not going to count it. Let's just call this person My Sister That One Time She Nailed a Non-Abusive Joke And Had Intended to Do So To Show Someone Who Was Having a Hard Time that She Understood. A rare bird indeed.
So what's my bottom line here? To keep from getting stuck in a rut in life you might work harder to be aware of all these three-- optimism, discernment, and compassion. To realize when these three things come and go takes practice and discipline. And practice doesn't make perfect, it just makes less imperfect. And more daily practice.
1. Hold and enjoy the moment in your mind when you know you're feeling optimistic.
Me, trotting out to get a Gingerbread Latte without even thinking that they might screw up and burn the espresso.
2. Sit back and enjoy watching yourself make a decision. Take advantage of your ability to make good choices.
Hm, I want to save money, so I'll get a small Gingerbread Latte and use the rest of the money for bus fare. And I won't offer to buy the Gingerbread Latte of my friend in line behind me.
3. And then be kind to yourself and others in a conscious way, if only in your inside voice and not your outside voice.
That bus driver didn't mean to spill my latte on me, I think I won't imagine Buffy jumping out of a seat and killing him. Stab stab stab stab stab stab stab.
Well, I said it was a practice.
Monday, November 11, 2002
Saturday, November 09, 2002
Buffy the Vampire Slayer Could Branch Out For a Change
More Important than Compassion: Personal Vengeance
Buffy the Irresponsible Dog Owner Slayer
Making the Parks Safe for Children and Their Picnic Blankets Everywhere
Buffy the Drivers of SUVs Who Turn Left At Red Lights While Talking On Their Cell Phones and Not Signalling Slayer
These People Even Scare the Shit Out of Vampires
Buffy the Purveyor of Insufferably Cute Poetry Chain Letters and Concerned Citizen Petitions Slayer
The Taliban didn't ever read your petition protesting the treatment of women, and I will lose my few remaining friends, not a hallmark of good luck, if I forward them all your horrible poem about the child whose father died in the World Trade Center, OK?
Buffy the Uncaring Medical Professional Slayer
Can't Afford to Get a Bedside Manner Transplant in Time for Your Next Appointment With the Sick and Vulnerable Woman with Cancer Who Needs Help With her Pain Management? You Can't Afford Not To Get One!
Buffy the Overzealous Arbitrary Parking Law Enforcer Slayer
Soulless Creature, Nobody Likes You and Nobody Will Miss You
Buffy the Grammar Snob Slayer
You the Middle Management of the Literary Art World, Humanities Majors Gone Wrong, Underemployed and Taking Out Creative Insecurities on the Innocent-- Be Warned! Obsessively pointing out bad spelling to a short blonde cheerleader may be the last thing you do! I mean, I like a typo-free piece of text as well as the next person, or maybe more than the next person, but especially men who like to make women feel stupid by reading only a woman's typos and dismissing her ideas need to be stabbed more than once with a stake in the heart.
Buffy the Everyone Who Voted for Bill Simon Slayer
What was it, you liked his criminal record better than Grey Davis'? Repent and vote Green for chissakes. Or better yet, Meet Mister Pointy!
{Imagine Stabbing Noises Here}
Next, More on Compassion!
More Important than Compassion: Personal Vengeance
Buffy the Irresponsible Dog Owner Slayer
Making the Parks Safe for Children and Their Picnic Blankets Everywhere
Buffy the Drivers of SUVs Who Turn Left At Red Lights While Talking On Their Cell Phones and Not Signalling Slayer
These People Even Scare the Shit Out of Vampires
Buffy the Purveyor of Insufferably Cute Poetry Chain Letters and Concerned Citizen Petitions Slayer
The Taliban didn't ever read your petition protesting the treatment of women, and I will lose my few remaining friends, not a hallmark of good luck, if I forward them all your horrible poem about the child whose father died in the World Trade Center, OK?
Buffy the Uncaring Medical Professional Slayer
Can't Afford to Get a Bedside Manner Transplant in Time for Your Next Appointment With the Sick and Vulnerable Woman with Cancer Who Needs Help With her Pain Management? You Can't Afford Not To Get One!
Buffy the Overzealous Arbitrary Parking Law Enforcer Slayer
Soulless Creature, Nobody Likes You and Nobody Will Miss You
Buffy the Grammar Snob Slayer
You the Middle Management of the Literary Art World, Humanities Majors Gone Wrong, Underemployed and Taking Out Creative Insecurities on the Innocent-- Be Warned! Obsessively pointing out bad spelling to a short blonde cheerleader may be the last thing you do! I mean, I like a typo-free piece of text as well as the next person, or maybe more than the next person, but especially men who like to make women feel stupid by reading only a woman's typos and dismissing her ideas need to be stabbed more than once with a stake in the heart.
Buffy the Everyone Who Voted for Bill Simon Slayer
What was it, you liked his criminal record better than Grey Davis'? Repent and vote Green for chissakes. Or better yet, Meet Mister Pointy!
{Imagine Stabbing Noises Here}
Next, More on Compassion!
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
The Agenda of the Extreme Optimist
or, why people are afraid to be compassionate
The theme for this week is compassion and optimism. I think these are actually the same thing.
People fear that being an optimist (i.e. having compassion) will cause them to:
1. Lose their credit cards
2. Wear ugly shoes
3. Meditate
Solution:
Encourage optimism where you see it by:
1. Spreading optimistic information (noticing that we are barraged by negative information)
2. Noticing optimistic moments out loud
3. Finding out what causes optimism, like alcohol.
Later I will address the sport of Extreme Compassion and why it threatens, in particular, people who are witty and charming.
or, why people are afraid to be compassionate
The theme for this week is compassion and optimism. I think these are actually the same thing.
People fear that being an optimist (i.e. having compassion) will cause them to:
1. Lose their credit cards
2. Wear ugly shoes
3. Meditate
Solution:
Encourage optimism where you see it by:
1. Spreading optimistic information (noticing that we are barraged by negative information)
2. Noticing optimistic moments out loud
3. Finding out what causes optimism, like alcohol.
Later I will address the sport of Extreme Compassion and why it threatens, in particular, people who are witty and charming.
Friday, November 01, 2002
Haitian Homebrew from Hell
or, the Story of Miss Zora and the Zombie Makers
In 1937 the anthropologist (and African American/ Caribbean storyteller and story-collector) Zora Neale Hurston suspected a chemical poisoning to be behind the high Haitian zombie population... fifty years before science proved her right. Read a little about the amazing Miss Zora and the Recipe for Making Your Own Zombie Slave. Stock up on tetrodotoxin, atropine, and scopolamine, kids!
There are still some of those zombie folk employed by SF Muni as busdrivers... I guess it beats a labor camp. Won't someone please organize a zombie liberation movement? If only for the sake of all the fun acronyms you can make with the letter "z"?
or, the Story of Miss Zora and the Zombie Makers
In 1937 the anthropologist (and African American/ Caribbean storyteller and story-collector) Zora Neale Hurston suspected a chemical poisoning to be behind the high Haitian zombie population... fifty years before science proved her right. Read a little about the amazing Miss Zora and the Recipe for Making Your Own Zombie Slave. Stock up on tetrodotoxin, atropine, and scopolamine, kids!
There are still some of those zombie folk employed by SF Muni as busdrivers... I guess it beats a labor camp. Won't someone please organize a zombie liberation movement? If only for the sake of all the fun acronyms you can make with the letter "z"?
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Getting in Touch With Your Inner Undead Person
...through blue eye shadow abuse.
A year and four days ago my girlfriend died. I misspoke for a long time and said that I had died on that date instead of her. I still can't say her name plus the word "died" and believe my own words. But, well, I lived. She died.
Last night I danced at a local bellydancing restaurant, and made myself polished, glittered, and inky-eyed for the occasion, since someone was videotaping and that always washes out your features. Last time I just did mascara and lipstick. This time I tried out the eyeshadow that I found in a makeup bag alongside the road I walk to public transport in the morning. I have a personal rule: I don't buy any makeup besides coverup, I always have such good luck FINDING stuff. It's like all these femmes are walking around tossing brand new lipsticks into couches wherever I go. Well, anyway, I am not very good at putting on makeup and I don't want to waste my money on something I don't know how to use.
So, I made the mistake of mixing a lightish blue and a darkish blue on my eyelids just before going on stage last night, and the SHIT DON'T COME OFF. I came home and I looked in the mirror and there I was: me as a zombie. I don't know how many times in the last year I FELT just like I looked last night in that mirror.
For now I'm at peace with sticking it out with my cat and my various tattered lives that keep me busy, but I know that it is only a matter of time before I will be with my girlfriend. Meantime, I will try to live mostly as a living person and give my inner-undead-person a chance to express herself through a little occasional abuse of blue eyeshadow so that she won't EVER show up in my mirror unannounced and scare me like that again.
For the record, when I go I don't want to be one of the Walking Dead. I expect the Dancing Dead will let me join them when I show up at that great undead parade, marching towards the light.
...through blue eye shadow abuse.
A year and four days ago my girlfriend died. I misspoke for a long time and said that I had died on that date instead of her. I still can't say her name plus the word "died" and believe my own words. But, well, I lived. She died.
Last night I danced at a local bellydancing restaurant, and made myself polished, glittered, and inky-eyed for the occasion, since someone was videotaping and that always washes out your features. Last time I just did mascara and lipstick. This time I tried out the eyeshadow that I found in a makeup bag alongside the road I walk to public transport in the morning. I have a personal rule: I don't buy any makeup besides coverup, I always have such good luck FINDING stuff. It's like all these femmes are walking around tossing brand new lipsticks into couches wherever I go. Well, anyway, I am not very good at putting on makeup and I don't want to waste my money on something I don't know how to use.
So, I made the mistake of mixing a lightish blue and a darkish blue on my eyelids just before going on stage last night, and the SHIT DON'T COME OFF. I came home and I looked in the mirror and there I was: me as a zombie. I don't know how many times in the last year I FELT just like I looked last night in that mirror.
For now I'm at peace with sticking it out with my cat and my various tattered lives that keep me busy, but I know that it is only a matter of time before I will be with my girlfriend. Meantime, I will try to live mostly as a living person and give my inner-undead-person a chance to express herself through a little occasional abuse of blue eyeshadow so that she won't EVER show up in my mirror unannounced and scare me like that again.
For the record, when I go I don't want to be one of the Walking Dead. I expect the Dancing Dead will let me join them when I show up at that great undead parade, marching towards the light.
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
More Undead News and Resources
Duke University Study Recommends the Living Wear Bicycle Helmets Around Undead-Americans
Georgegore Albush Declared President - A Red-Letter Day for All Composite Undead-Americans
A Nice Interview with Spike and Drusilla - The Vampire King & Queen of the Bon Mot
Duke University Study Recommends the Living Wear Bicycle Helmets Around Undead-Americans
Georgegore Albush Declared President - A Red-Letter Day for All Composite Undead-Americans
A Nice Interview with Spike and Drusilla - The Vampire King & Queen of the Bon Mot
Continuing the Honor Roll of Undead-Americans and Other Undead Role Models
Amelia Earhart
Buffy
Superman
Xena & Gabrielle
The Six Million Dollar Man
The Bionic Woman
Robocop
Note that I've expanded my definition of the Undead to include cyborgs, i.e. everyone with an artificial vital organ; actually, I'm including everyone who wears glasses or any other life-enhancing prosthesis, has no magazine subscriptions, and wears out-of-style clothes. You yourself my unwittingly be eligible for my Undead Honor Roll. I think the Undead Continuum can be roughly outlined as this:
|- LESS UNDEAD (MORE DEAD-DEAD) ---> MORE UNDEAD (MORE DEAD-BUT-LIVING) -|
|-Residual Floating Energy Presence ~ Bottle-genie ~ Patron Saint/ Spirit Guide/ Deified Dead Person ~ Poltergeist ~ Zombie ~ Vampire ~ Cyborg ~ Basic Standard Issue Geek ~ Librarian -|
Amelia Earhart
Buffy
Superman
Xena & Gabrielle
The Six Million Dollar Man
The Bionic Woman
Robocop
Note that I've expanded my definition of the Undead to include cyborgs, i.e. everyone with an artificial vital organ; actually, I'm including everyone who wears glasses or any other life-enhancing prosthesis, has no magazine subscriptions, and wears out-of-style clothes. You yourself my unwittingly be eligible for my Undead Honor Roll. I think the Undead Continuum can be roughly outlined as this:
|- LESS UNDEAD (MORE DEAD-DEAD) ---> MORE UNDEAD (MORE DEAD-BUT-LIVING) -|
|-Residual Floating Energy Presence ~ Bottle-genie ~ Patron Saint/ Spirit Guide/ Deified Dead Person ~ Poltergeist ~ Zombie ~ Vampire ~ Cyborg ~ Basic Standard Issue Geek ~ Librarian -|
Honoring Our Inspiring Undead-Americans and Their Role Models
For the next few days I'm going to try to make a list of Inspiring Undead for us to think about as we approach the Day of the Undead (Oct. 31) which is followed by All Saint's Day (the day to honor the Goody Two-Shoes Undead, aka Hallows -- the 31st is Hallow's Eve, or Hallowe'en), and then the Day of the Dead (those who may be eligible for the Undead roster if they play their cards right).
Here we go. Some of my Favorite Undead (see definition of Undead in yesterday's blog entry if you need to):
Buddha
Jesus
Elvis
Lazarus
Angel and Spike, Buffy's lovely boytoy Vamp camp-followers
the Virgin of Guadelupe
to be continued...
For the next few days I'm going to try to make a list of Inspiring Undead for us to think about as we approach the Day of the Undead (Oct. 31) which is followed by All Saint's Day (the day to honor the Goody Two-Shoes Undead, aka Hallows -- the 31st is Hallow's Eve, or Hallowe'en), and then the Day of the Dead (those who may be eligible for the Undead roster if they play their cards right).
Here we go. Some of my Favorite Undead (see definition of Undead in yesterday's blog entry if you need to):
Buddha
Jesus
Elvis
Lazarus
Angel and Spike, Buffy's lovely boytoy Vamp camp-followers
the Virgin of Guadelupe
to be continued...
Monday, October 28, 2002
The Undead Continuum
A coworker friend of mine used the word "Undead" today as he was describing the plot of a little play he just saw "Attack of the Living Dead Drag Queens." I contended that "Living Dead" was redundant for "Undead" and that if I were a Zombie Person I'd prefer to be called a Living Dead Person, rather than the dismissive-sounding Undead (which is also a confusing term-- aren't you really Resurrected rather than Undead?). He opened my eyes and got me to think about all the myriad ways you could be Undead.
So, welcome to the Undead Continuum:
UNDEAD-- umbrella term for the differently dead.
If you are "undead" you have a living-history and are now identifying with the post-living. However, you could be living with many different "undead" identities.
"Undead" does not include you if you are a Werewolf, Mermaid, or other seasonally/ environmentally changing creature, because you never technically died.
THE LIVING DEAD-- also called THE WALKING DEAD. These are the undead (formerly living) who are experiencing something like a life while actually not technically having a beating heart and traditional human dietary habits. Among the living dead you can find undead people who identify as any of the following:
ZOMBIES
VAMPIRES
They tend to dress a little out of step with fashion, but that's a beautiful thing too. It's ok to be different. It's not easy being green, as Kermit says.
DO NOT ASSUME THAT ALL LIVING DEAD REQUIRE:
* Nourishment from blood
* Protection from sunlight, holy water, or crosses
* A coffin for a bed
* A soil sample of her or his homeland to rest
* An invitation to enter a non-living-dead person's home
DO NOT ASSUME THAT ALL LIVING DEAD CAN:
* Survive anything
* Hear your personal conversations from miles away
* Do triple flips in mid-air from a standstill
* Heal themselves with blood (yours or someone else's)
DO NOT ASSUME THAT LIVING DEAD CAN BE "KILLED" by:
* Wooden stakes
* Decapitation
* Sunlight
* Any recitation of biblical source texts
Most of the above points are copped from this site---
I have no idea what it is.
If you are Undead, but not Living Dead, then you may identify as any of these...
GHOST (a category that includes Poltergeists, Ancestor Spirits, Casper-the-Friendlies, etc.)
GHOULIE
WILL O' THE WISP
MONSTER (Frankenstein's, etc.)
DEMON
PATRON SAINT
The more you dwell among the Currently Living (signified by the number of magazine subscriptions you have), then the more you may identify as a Living Dead person. There is no reason why a Ghost could not be living among us completely unnoticed and undifferentiated from the Currently Living. Look at your bus driver tomorrow morning-- could this person really be alive? Couldn't s/he be a Ghost? Would you really notice if s/he was?
The more you are tied to place or object (such as a genie in a bottle), the less likely you are to identify with the lifestyle of the Living Dead. However out of step with the world of Currently Living you may be, I'm sure you will be welcomed and supported among your Undead peers.
More than ever it is time to stop saying "EVIL" and "UNDEAD" in one breath without giving some consideration to the rich lives, uh, lifestyles these folks live. Are they reeeeally Evil or are you just envious of how they don't have to pay taxes?
Here are Some Resources for Undead People:
Care and Feeding of Undead Pets
Zombie Guide 2002
A Vampire-centric View of the Undead (for you Vampire fundamentalist-separatists)
An Actual News Article About Undead Banks in Russia ...slightly Vampicentric but a good read nevertheless.
A coworker friend of mine used the word "Undead" today as he was describing the plot of a little play he just saw "Attack of the Living Dead Drag Queens." I contended that "Living Dead" was redundant for "Undead" and that if I were a Zombie Person I'd prefer to be called a Living Dead Person, rather than the dismissive-sounding Undead (which is also a confusing term-- aren't you really Resurrected rather than Undead?). He opened my eyes and got me to think about all the myriad ways you could be Undead.
So, welcome to the Undead Continuum:
UNDEAD-- umbrella term for the differently dead.
If you are "undead" you have a living-history and are now identifying with the post-living. However, you could be living with many different "undead" identities.
"Undead" does not include you if you are a Werewolf, Mermaid, or other seasonally/ environmentally changing creature, because you never technically died.
THE LIVING DEAD-- also called THE WALKING DEAD. These are the undead (formerly living) who are experiencing something like a life while actually not technically having a beating heart and traditional human dietary habits. Among the living dead you can find undead people who identify as any of the following:
ZOMBIES
VAMPIRES
They tend to dress a little out of step with fashion, but that's a beautiful thing too. It's ok to be different. It's not easy being green, as Kermit says.
DO NOT ASSUME THAT ALL LIVING DEAD REQUIRE:
* Nourishment from blood
* Protection from sunlight, holy water, or crosses
* A coffin for a bed
* A soil sample of her or his homeland to rest
* An invitation to enter a non-living-dead person's home
DO NOT ASSUME THAT ALL LIVING DEAD CAN:
* Survive anything
* Hear your personal conversations from miles away
* Do triple flips in mid-air from a standstill
* Heal themselves with blood (yours or someone else's)
DO NOT ASSUME THAT LIVING DEAD CAN BE "KILLED" by:
* Wooden stakes
* Decapitation
* Sunlight
* Any recitation of biblical source texts
Most of the above points are copped from this site---
I have no idea what it is.
If you are Undead, but not Living Dead, then you may identify as any of these...
GHOST (a category that includes Poltergeists, Ancestor Spirits, Casper-the-Friendlies, etc.)
GHOULIE
WILL O' THE WISP
MONSTER (Frankenstein's, etc.)
DEMON
PATRON SAINT
The more you dwell among the Currently Living (signified by the number of magazine subscriptions you have), then the more you may identify as a Living Dead person. There is no reason why a Ghost could not be living among us completely unnoticed and undifferentiated from the Currently Living. Look at your bus driver tomorrow morning-- could this person really be alive? Couldn't s/he be a Ghost? Would you really notice if s/he was?
The more you are tied to place or object (such as a genie in a bottle), the less likely you are to identify with the lifestyle of the Living Dead. However out of step with the world of Currently Living you may be, I'm sure you will be welcomed and supported among your Undead peers.
More than ever it is time to stop saying "EVIL" and "UNDEAD" in one breath without giving some consideration to the rich lives, uh, lifestyles these folks live. Are they reeeeally Evil or are you just envious of how they don't have to pay taxes?
Here are Some Resources for Undead People:
Care and Feeding of Undead Pets
Zombie Guide 2002
A Vampire-centric View of the Undead (for you Vampire fundamentalist-separatists)
An Actual News Article About Undead Banks in Russia ...slightly Vampicentric but a good read nevertheless.
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
Stalking the Sparkling Ms. Dynamite
She makes me happy.
"Dontcha know there's no such thing as superstars, you leave this world alone, so who gives a fuck about the things you own." --It Takes More.
Her Dynamitishness' Explosive Web Home where you can watch the video that I saw on the international TV channel that got me hooked on her song Dy-Na-Mi-Tee.
And a link toher first single Booo! - a reggae dancehall supergroove-- "feel tha bad girl bass injection..."
And lastly, the fansite that, despite the Angelfire plague of popup ads, is actually more user-friendly/ informative than Ms. D's own site Ms. Dynamite Online.
I might be a widowed old lady at 29 polishing my tarnished silver at home with my cat late into the night, but at least I am not reduced to being a fan of lite rock love songs.
She makes me happy.
"Dontcha know there's no such thing as superstars, you leave this world alone, so who gives a fuck about the things you own." --It Takes More.
Her Dynamitishness' Explosive Web Home where you can watch the video that I saw on the international TV channel that got me hooked on her song Dy-Na-Mi-Tee.
And a link toher first single Booo! - a reggae dancehall supergroove-- "feel tha bad girl bass injection..."
And lastly, the fansite that, despite the Angelfire plague of popup ads, is actually more user-friendly/ informative than Ms. D's own site Ms. Dynamite Online.
I might be a widowed old lady at 29 polishing my tarnished silver at home with my cat late into the night, but at least I am not reduced to being a fan of lite rock love songs.
Tuesday, October 22, 2002
The Poet in the Weather Room
Where can an English Major get work where you don't have to wear a funny hat and a grease-stained uniform? Either in social services, education, or, apparently, writing the San Francisco Chronicle weather report. Sitting at a burger joint-- where I do NOT work, thanks for asking-- reading yesterday's leftover paper I noticed that the forecast summary for yesterday, today, and tomorrow are all the same IDENTICAL forecast. But, written as artfully as a sestina, so that you would not know that the weather will not change a whit for three days. Notice how they change the temperature one degree each time to keep it exciting.
Witness the genius:
Today -- Mostly sunny skies after morning fog. Highs, 59 - 77. Lows, 44 - 53.
Tuesday-- Areas of fog, then mostly sunny skies. Highs, 60 - 78. Lows, 45 - 54.
Wednesday -- Clear to partly cloudy after morning fog. Highs, 59 - 75. Lows, 46 - 52.
This person clearly cares about the reader, wants the reader to have an interesting reading experience even though nothing is happening. This writer inspires me and makes me feel like a careless brute for cutting-and-pasting identical passages, missing opportunities to flex and glory in my English skills.
Grief has turned me into an old lady. At 29, I am checking the weather report every day, spending my evenings (lately) polishing my tarnished silverware, and doing Latin-- for fun.
Sunday, October 20, 2002
Useless Knowledge to Live By
Things I have inadvertantly recently learned.
About 16% of women have extra taste buds that are specifically in the bitter range.
Alligators have a weakness for marshmallows.
Jell-o is made from such vile stuff that they won't allow the manufacturing process to be filmed.
Romania has closed its borders for adoptions because of the problem of poor people selling their prettiest children.
Civet juice comes from a dead civet cat and ambergris comes from dead whales. (These are both common perfume ingredients.) Also, civet cat shit is harvested for the coffee beans it selects to eat in the wild. Since it's a picky eater people pay 200 dollars a pound for the beans it has excreted.
Is that enough information for everyone for today?
Things I have inadvertantly recently learned.
About 16% of women have extra taste buds that are specifically in the bitter range.
Alligators have a weakness for marshmallows.
Jell-o is made from such vile stuff that they won't allow the manufacturing process to be filmed.
Romania has closed its borders for adoptions because of the problem of poor people selling their prettiest children.
Civet juice comes from a dead civet cat and ambergris comes from dead whales. (These are both common perfume ingredients.) Also, civet cat shit is harvested for the coffee beans it selects to eat in the wild. Since it's a picky eater people pay 200 dollars a pound for the beans it has excreted.
Is that enough information for everyone for today?
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
Stalking Slovenia
This sounds like a lifestyle to strive for (from a Washington Post article at the site I linked above):
A Slovenian aristocrat evaded taxes and an angry emperor's armies by building a four-story castle -- complete with ballroom and chapel -- into the side of a mountain riddled with caves and tunnels. He used secret tunnels in the castle's back to sneak out and gather supplies while under siege. He taunted those below by throwing fresh cherries and roasted duck at them.
And besides being the home of the original Lipizzaner horse breed (famous in Vienna), it is the home of a nice and healthy skeptical political view- since they are the most successful / prosperous/ democratic of the former Yugoslav Republics and essentially are a bridge between Western and Eastern Europe... They are a liberal and tolerant society. Except they don't like the US much. But that's ok, I have lots of problems with the US too. Here's a link to a political cartoonist's page published in the online Slovenian news source Dnevnik. Here's a recent cartoon "Final Resolution," with George W. sending off a US missle aimed at Saddam with Kofi Annan & the UN flag roped onto it.
More reasons to love Slovenia: here's the latest Sestre interview (which I found in the latest edition of this mainstream Slovenian news source). They make a cute, very pink picture. Sestre (Sisters) is the world famous drag trio which was selected as the Slovenian contender in the Eurosong contest this past spring. In this interview, one of the Sestre, Marlenna, said "We’re a revolution in Slovenian thinking about sexuality."
And look! Here's the Sestre home page! Well, for the moment it's not working right, so here is a bunch of Sestre links from a fan site. And if you don't love Slovenia yet, here's a link to a site for a Slovenian dyke punk band Sapphire Doric.
This sounds like a lifestyle to strive for (from a Washington Post article at the site I linked above):
A Slovenian aristocrat evaded taxes and an angry emperor's armies by building a four-story castle -- complete with ballroom and chapel -- into the side of a mountain riddled with caves and tunnels. He used secret tunnels in the castle's back to sneak out and gather supplies while under siege. He taunted those below by throwing fresh cherries and roasted duck at them.
And besides being the home of the original Lipizzaner horse breed (famous in Vienna), it is the home of a nice and healthy skeptical political view- since they are the most successful / prosperous/ democratic of the former Yugoslav Republics and essentially are a bridge between Western and Eastern Europe... They are a liberal and tolerant society. Except they don't like the US much. But that's ok, I have lots of problems with the US too. Here's a link to a political cartoonist's page published in the online Slovenian news source Dnevnik. Here's a recent cartoon "Final Resolution," with George W. sending off a US missle aimed at Saddam with Kofi Annan & the UN flag roped onto it.
More reasons to love Slovenia: here's the latest Sestre interview (which I found in the latest edition of this mainstream Slovenian news source). They make a cute, very pink picture. Sestre (Sisters) is the world famous drag trio which was selected as the Slovenian contender in the Eurosong contest this past spring. In this interview, one of the Sestre, Marlenna, said "We’re a revolution in Slovenian thinking about sexuality."
And look! Here's the Sestre home page! Well, for the moment it's not working right, so here is a bunch of Sestre links from a fan site. And if you don't love Slovenia yet, here's a link to a site for a Slovenian dyke punk band Sapphire Doric.
Monday, October 14, 2002
Hot off the AP wire: "Lovers of Latin Rising"
I'm taking Latin. My volunteer at work who is cooler and younger than me just started taking Latin. Now I find out this is a trend all over the US-- We Are Everywhere.
As the article points out, you really can enjoy the Harry Potter books more if you know a little Latin. Now I must run off and finish off the Potter book number three so that I can get on with my life. Until someone loans me the 740 page book number four.
I'm a big geek you say. Well I'll just get back to you when I'm a supervillain whose secret superpower is to be able to curse you in three different dead languages. Non ambigitur. [No doubt.]
I'm taking Latin. My volunteer at work who is cooler and younger than me just started taking Latin. Now I find out this is a trend all over the US-- We Are Everywhere.
As the article points out, you really can enjoy the Harry Potter books more if you know a little Latin. Now I must run off and finish off the Potter book number three so that I can get on with my life. Until someone loans me the 740 page book number four.
I'm a big geek you say. Well I'll just get back to you when I'm a supervillain whose secret superpower is to be able to curse you in three different dead languages. Non ambigitur. [No doubt.]
Saturday, October 12, 2002
All That I've Learned Working for Three and a Half Years at an International Gay Organization
1. Gay don't mean nice. You answer the phone and try to help someone who just wants someone to talk to, and they will act like you are responsible for their death if you tell them to call another agency that can actually help them. The people who are actually in the most danger aren't usually threatening suicide and threatening to expose your organization as incompetent, they're fighting to live and be left alone.
2. If you are gay and you have political promise, you are sent far away. The Foreign Service is therefore full of gay people. Your visa is not delayed because of homophobia, it is delayed because of the satellite TV marathon of Queer as Folk. Or because you didn't pick up on the visa officer's hints that you should meet him later for cocktails.
3. You wouldn't believe how many people think they have chips in their heads. And think the CIA and KGB really are controlling their thoughts via TV commercials during Ally McBeal reruns. Being able to write a letter using both upper and lower case letters appropriately doesn't mean you're sane. Gay don't mean sane, and sure as hell don't mean smart! Whoever thinks LGBT people are better than other people-- just do an 8-hour shift answering our phones. We've got our share of red-zone whacko scary wingnuts. And if you are one of these: THE CIA DOESN'T CARE ABOUT YOU. They're too busy with "regime changes" to tap your phone just because you are a lesbian.
4. This is the most important one. Never chalk up to homophobia what can be accounted for by sheer incompetence. The post office doesn't hate you because you are receiving a lot of mail from organizations with the dreaded "GL " consonant cluster in their acronyms. They hate everyone the same.
Those four points really just about do it. I have a lot of advice to give to those new to working for/with the queer / LGBT community, but these four are the most enduring tidbits.
1. Gay don't mean nice. You answer the phone and try to help someone who just wants someone to talk to, and they will act like you are responsible for their death if you tell them to call another agency that can actually help them. The people who are actually in the most danger aren't usually threatening suicide and threatening to expose your organization as incompetent, they're fighting to live and be left alone.
2. If you are gay and you have political promise, you are sent far away. The Foreign Service is therefore full of gay people. Your visa is not delayed because of homophobia, it is delayed because of the satellite TV marathon of Queer as Folk. Or because you didn't pick up on the visa officer's hints that you should meet him later for cocktails.
3. You wouldn't believe how many people think they have chips in their heads. And think the CIA and KGB really are controlling their thoughts via TV commercials during Ally McBeal reruns. Being able to write a letter using both upper and lower case letters appropriately doesn't mean you're sane. Gay don't mean sane, and sure as hell don't mean smart! Whoever thinks LGBT people are better than other people-- just do an 8-hour shift answering our phones. We've got our share of red-zone whacko scary wingnuts. And if you are one of these: THE CIA DOESN'T CARE ABOUT YOU. They're too busy with "regime changes" to tap your phone just because you are a lesbian.
4. This is the most important one. Never chalk up to homophobia what can be accounted for by sheer incompetence. The post office doesn't hate you because you are receiving a lot of mail from organizations with the dreaded "GL " consonant cluster in their acronyms. They hate everyone the same.
Those four points really just about do it. I have a lot of advice to give to those new to working for/with the queer / LGBT community, but these four are the most enduring tidbits.
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
Blessings on Your Journey Aileen (Lee) Wournos
b. Feb. 29, 1956- d. six hours ago, executed as a serial killer
Dear Lee,
Your struggle is our struggle. Rest in peace. May my girlfriend Kris receive you and help you find your way to the other side.
Hardly a week has gone by that I didn't think about you since I joined the effort to publicize your case in 1996. Kris admired your use of force against your rapists. She froze when she was attacked. You acted.
Activists made stickers in San Francisco-- "Wournos Self-Defense Tip #1, carry mace"; "Wournos Self-Defense Tip #2, own a dog"; Wournos Self-Defense Tip #3, scream."
The Radical Cheerleaders wrote a cheer for you: aileen wournos is her name and she don't take no shit
when some men tried to rape her well she shot them in the dick
now she's on death row they wanna give her the chair
what do we say? we say GET HER OUTTA THERE!!
FREE (clapclap-clapclap)
AILEEN (clapclap-clapclap)
FREE (clapclap-clapclap)
AILEEN (clapclap-clapclap)
what did she do?
SHE DEFENDED HERSELF AND WE WOULD TOO!
what do we need?
WE NEED TO LIBERATE OUR SISTA FROM LEGAL MISOGYNY!
Some San Francisco artists even made an opera about your case. It didn't make much difference. The prison set cost a lot of money, and the singing was too good, too professional, to convey the gritty truths of your case. The good intentions of the artists melted into the ineffectual pool of well-wishing that trickled your way all these ten years you waited to die.
Your history of sexual abuse, mental disability, poverty, and betrayal by trusted loved ones was disregarded. Jeb Bush, one of the killing governors, today agreed to grant your suicidal wish to be executed by the State of Florida. I can't judge your wish to die. I can judge the government for being the next weapon you used to kill again.
I wish we activists and artists had been able to make you want to fight and live. Maybe I still can make a difference by talking about what happened to you. May you find the God of your heart and be loved now as you never were.
The Story of Aileen Wournos breaks it down with a perspective on how Lee was denied fair consideration and mislabeled a serial killer.
The CNN article on the execution, which I stumbled on while trying to figure out if the US had gone to war yet.
The Reuters article on the execution, that tells a little longer version of Lee's story.
A pretty straightforward version of Lee's tragic life story that includes the fact that journalists (not the police, who didn't bother) easily found out that one of her victims had served 10 years in prison for a violent rape in another state.
b. Feb. 29, 1956- d. six hours ago, executed as a serial killer
Dear Lee,
Your struggle is our struggle. Rest in peace. May my girlfriend Kris receive you and help you find your way to the other side.
Hardly a week has gone by that I didn't think about you since I joined the effort to publicize your case in 1996. Kris admired your use of force against your rapists. She froze when she was attacked. You acted.
Activists made stickers in San Francisco-- "Wournos Self-Defense Tip #1, carry mace"; "Wournos Self-Defense Tip #2, own a dog"; Wournos Self-Defense Tip #3, scream."
The Radical Cheerleaders wrote a cheer for you: aileen wournos is her name and she don't take no shit
when some men tried to rape her well she shot them in the dick
now she's on death row they wanna give her the chair
what do we say? we say GET HER OUTTA THERE!!
FREE (clapclap-clapclap)
AILEEN (clapclap-clapclap)
FREE (clapclap-clapclap)
AILEEN (clapclap-clapclap)
what did she do?
SHE DEFENDED HERSELF AND WE WOULD TOO!
what do we need?
WE NEED TO LIBERATE OUR SISTA FROM LEGAL MISOGYNY!
Some San Francisco artists even made an opera about your case. It didn't make much difference. The prison set cost a lot of money, and the singing was too good, too professional, to convey the gritty truths of your case. The good intentions of the artists melted into the ineffectual pool of well-wishing that trickled your way all these ten years you waited to die.
Your history of sexual abuse, mental disability, poverty, and betrayal by trusted loved ones was disregarded. Jeb Bush, one of the killing governors, today agreed to grant your suicidal wish to be executed by the State of Florida. I can't judge your wish to die. I can judge the government for being the next weapon you used to kill again.
I wish we activists and artists had been able to make you want to fight and live. Maybe I still can make a difference by talking about what happened to you. May you find the God of your heart and be loved now as you never were.
The Story of Aileen Wournos breaks it down with a perspective on how Lee was denied fair consideration and mislabeled a serial killer.
The CNN article on the execution, which I stumbled on while trying to figure out if the US had gone to war yet.
The Reuters article on the execution, that tells a little longer version of Lee's story.
A pretty straightforward version of Lee's tragic life story that includes the fact that journalists (not the police, who didn't bother) easily found out that one of her victims had served 10 years in prison for a violent rape in another state.
Monday, October 07, 2002
Now Presenting Aslan versus Dumbledore in the Center Ring
Or, How Rowling Divorced Authority from Power, Castrated Aslan, and Put the Kids in Charge
I'm just fascinated by power. Power is knowledge is magic-- the ability to transform, pliability in the face of stress, adapting and accepting and creating the world in your own image. I'm also reading the first book in the Harry Potter series after having just finished a re-read of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Neither Rowling nor Lewis treated race or gender with much imagination in their books (or, from what I've read/ reread so far...), but they did vastly different things with the idea of divinity/authority and power.
C.S. Lewis -as a man- had a lot to gain from authority, believed in authority, and- as an author- invested most of the power in his magical world in an authority figure, Aslan. J.K. Rowling, a divorced mother looking for a way out of poverty, doesn't seem to care for authority. Her Dumbledore, the Aslan of her series, is like Jesus as much as Santa Claus is like Jesus. Magical/ mythologized and human with a side of slightly-superhuman. Magic/divinity is imminent in all people, anyone can be good or evil, without some plan of redemption-- everyone's actions cause reactions and that is all. The law of the playground-- inventiveness and agility of mind as well as physical wholeness/aliveness-- reigns supreme in all worlds, which are really all one world. If resurrection of the dead happens, it is not necessarily a good thing (and it's not reserved for the cleansed-of-sin!).
I pretty much like everything the evangelists consider Pagan, and-- as this Focus on the Family article warns-- causes people to "become confused about supernatural matters." This article especially dislikes how power is divorced from authority:
Despite superficial similarities, Rowling’s and Lewis’ worlds are as far apart as east is from west. Rowling’s work invites children to a world where witchcraft is "neutral" and where authority is determined solely by one’s cleverness. Lewis invites readers to a world where God’s authority is not only recognized, but celebrated — a world that resounds with His goodness and care. It’s a difference no Christian should ignore.
...nor a Pagan fail to celebrate...
Aslan seems to have poor Dumbledore by the throat, but I can't tell who is winning from the swarm of kids on brooms trying to have a Quidditch game around them...
And on the topic of Quidditch...Here is a page of comments by kids giving their thumbs ups and downs to the "Harry Potter Nimbus 2000 Broom" -- a vibrating toy that you stick between your legs. 10 year old Alessandra says "I think the Geek gadgeta are fabulicious." Here is a page of comments by parents, including a few who would take the batteries out of their children's little power toy. Except for one (probably fictitious) parent who wrote "I was surprised at how long they can just sit in her room and play with this magic broomstick!"
Power=knowledge=magic=pleasure. As the kids say, ain't no power like the power of the yout' cuz the power of the yout' don't stop.
Or, How Rowling Divorced Authority from Power, Castrated Aslan, and Put the Kids in Charge
I'm just fascinated by power. Power is knowledge is magic-- the ability to transform, pliability in the face of stress, adapting and accepting and creating the world in your own image. I'm also reading the first book in the Harry Potter series after having just finished a re-read of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Neither Rowling nor Lewis treated race or gender with much imagination in their books (or, from what I've read/ reread so far...), but they did vastly different things with the idea of divinity/authority and power.
C.S. Lewis -as a man- had a lot to gain from authority, believed in authority, and- as an author- invested most of the power in his magical world in an authority figure, Aslan. J.K. Rowling, a divorced mother looking for a way out of poverty, doesn't seem to care for authority. Her Dumbledore, the Aslan of her series, is like Jesus as much as Santa Claus is like Jesus. Magical/ mythologized and human with a side of slightly-superhuman. Magic/divinity is imminent in all people, anyone can be good or evil, without some plan of redemption-- everyone's actions cause reactions and that is all. The law of the playground-- inventiveness and agility of mind as well as physical wholeness/aliveness-- reigns supreme in all worlds, which are really all one world. If resurrection of the dead happens, it is not necessarily a good thing (and it's not reserved for the cleansed-of-sin!).
I pretty much like everything the evangelists consider Pagan, and-- as this Focus on the Family article warns-- causes people to "become confused about supernatural matters." This article especially dislikes how power is divorced from authority:
Despite superficial similarities, Rowling’s and Lewis’ worlds are as far apart as east is from west. Rowling’s work invites children to a world where witchcraft is "neutral" and where authority is determined solely by one’s cleverness. Lewis invites readers to a world where God’s authority is not only recognized, but celebrated — a world that resounds with His goodness and care. It’s a difference no Christian should ignore.
...nor a Pagan fail to celebrate...
Aslan seems to have poor Dumbledore by the throat, but I can't tell who is winning from the swarm of kids on brooms trying to have a Quidditch game around them...
And on the topic of Quidditch...Here is a page of comments by kids giving their thumbs ups and downs to the "Harry Potter Nimbus 2000 Broom" -- a vibrating toy that you stick between your legs. 10 year old Alessandra says "I think the Geek gadgeta are fabulicious." Here is a page of comments by parents, including a few who would take the batteries out of their children's little power toy. Except for one (probably fictitious) parent who wrote "I was surprised at how long they can just sit in her room and play with this magic broomstick!"
Power=knowledge=magic=pleasure. As the kids say, ain't no power like the power of the yout' cuz the power of the yout' don't stop.
Thursday, October 03, 2002
OK, Now Some Pleasant Things About Orthodoxy
After bashing Orthodox religion yesterday a little part of me was whimpering that the real scandal of how religion was used in My Big Fat Greek Wedding was that it was used thoughtlessly. The character was baptised as though it was a contractual fulfillment in a business deal, without consideration of what it really meant for his soul, or relation to the divine (at least as far as the movie was concerned). It reduces the role of religion to a cultural idiosyncracy. I don't think Orthodox faithful would like it any more than I, a jaded Pagan, like it.
So, for a counterpoint to my outcry yesterday about the bloody, racist and misogynist history of Orthodoxy, I'd like to list my top ten favorite things about Orthodox - Russian, Greek, Serbian- Christianity:
10. The all-male priesthood still wears the dressy robes, all the time. And, nice beards!
9. There is not a strong present-day tradition of Orthodox evangelism. Racism, misogyny, homophobia, nationalism, violence, yes, but evangelism, no. The Mormon and Protestant Christian evangelists treat the Orthodox (who have been faithful since the 800's) as though they were filthy unbaptized Unitarians or something, and I like any religion that evangelists think is Pagan.
8. They retain the use of Old Church Slavonic and other obscure ancient languages, and still believe in Satan as a individuated real-live being. Where would us occultists be without someone carrying the heavy torches of both obscurantism and the Fear of Evil?
7. The icons. There is nothing quite like the gold auras, ornate gilt iconostases, bejewelled frames, and the dark, dark, up-all-night-decaf-drinking faces of those faithful old saints and saintesses. They drank bad coffee to save your soul.
6. The standing. Originally Orthodox churches didn't have seating because, if I recall correctly, they could pack in more people and the closeness of the bodies would keep everyone warmer in the winter. These churches are about three degrees colder than the outside (if they are traditionally built) because there are almost no windows, because they didn't have glass at their disposal in the old days. I find the moving, pushing, living crowd of believers a more powerful experience than sitting in some chair or pew half asleep while someone reads a half-baked sermon. Here, mostly people don't understand a damn thing being sung or said (since it is in ancient tongues), and they are just trancing out, swaying to the music, eyes glittering with gold candlelight.
5. The bells. When I lived in Russia my violin lesson happened in a new building- the conservatory- built butt-up against a "kolokolitsa," a structure that holds bells up above the kremlin walls so that the whole countryside can hear the call to worship, which happened about ten minutes into my lesson. I watched the bell ringer climb this SEVERELY leaning old structure and dangle from a rope to make the most ethereal resounding music, amplified only by the cold in winter. The bells silenced all work in the conservatory for several minutes of sheer, cleansing, ringing joy.
4. The singing. I sang some liturgical music in the female choir of the convervatory, and later (here in San Francisco) joined an Orthodox choir for the Easter service as a favor to my friend the choir director. There is an Orthodox belief that anything that is sung reaches the ears of God, so *all* prayer and liturgy is sung, usually in many part polyphony, with haunting minor chords. Most of it is memorized by the faithful, which makes for an impressive force of voices responding to the bass drone of the priest.
3. The frankincense. The smell of heaven, according to the Orthodox. There is nothing more transporting than full-body entering a cloud of sweet incense while the bells are ringing to start the service.
2. The word "bogoroditsa." The god-birther. It underscores the female power of the Mother of God. She didn't just raise him, she BIRTHED him. I also like the liturgy of the Theotokos, another female divinity within Orthodoxy, but that's another story. Basically, there is a recognition of the absolute power of the feminine within, around, and above the figure of Jesus in many places in the Orthodox traditions, and we Pagans like that. Actually, I have known many Pagan Orthodox, who follow...
1. The Slavic tradition of "dvoeveriye." The double-faith. Since Orthodoxy was a hard sell to the staunchly Pagan peasants living in Slavic territory, the church openly campaigned to enfold Pagan beliefs and divine personalities into the Orthodox practices. So, people kept up with the worship of their ancestors and household deities and came to church to serve the Orthodox Jesus and the church accepted them as followers of the "dvoeveriye." They were respected, left alone, and because of the Orthodox church's relatively tolerant attitude, to this day many ancient Pagan beliefs are accepted and sustained among the Slavs. I personally saw a Summer Solstice (Ivan Kupalo) ritual at a Rainbow Gathering in Karelia that was 100% Pagan, complete with naked jumping over bonfires and casting floral wreaths onto the water, which was concluded with prayers by the local Orthodox Priest. He came out in the morning wearing his long robes to bless the groggy people poking about the bushes for their underwear, many of whom were not only baptised, but passionately Orthodox.
After bashing Orthodox religion yesterday a little part of me was whimpering that the real scandal of how religion was used in My Big Fat Greek Wedding was that it was used thoughtlessly. The character was baptised as though it was a contractual fulfillment in a business deal, without consideration of what it really meant for his soul, or relation to the divine (at least as far as the movie was concerned). It reduces the role of religion to a cultural idiosyncracy. I don't think Orthodox faithful would like it any more than I, a jaded Pagan, like it.
So, for a counterpoint to my outcry yesterday about the bloody, racist and misogynist history of Orthodoxy, I'd like to list my top ten favorite things about Orthodox - Russian, Greek, Serbian- Christianity:
10. The all-male priesthood still wears the dressy robes, all the time. And, nice beards!
9. There is not a strong present-day tradition of Orthodox evangelism. Racism, misogyny, homophobia, nationalism, violence, yes, but evangelism, no. The Mormon and Protestant Christian evangelists treat the Orthodox (who have been faithful since the 800's) as though they were filthy unbaptized Unitarians or something, and I like any religion that evangelists think is Pagan.
8. They retain the use of Old Church Slavonic and other obscure ancient languages, and still believe in Satan as a individuated real-live being. Where would us occultists be without someone carrying the heavy torches of both obscurantism and the Fear of Evil?
7. The icons. There is nothing quite like the gold auras, ornate gilt iconostases, bejewelled frames, and the dark, dark, up-all-night-decaf-drinking faces of those faithful old saints and saintesses. They drank bad coffee to save your soul.
6. The standing. Originally Orthodox churches didn't have seating because, if I recall correctly, they could pack in more people and the closeness of the bodies would keep everyone warmer in the winter. These churches are about three degrees colder than the outside (if they are traditionally built) because there are almost no windows, because they didn't have glass at their disposal in the old days. I find the moving, pushing, living crowd of believers a more powerful experience than sitting in some chair or pew half asleep while someone reads a half-baked sermon. Here, mostly people don't understand a damn thing being sung or said (since it is in ancient tongues), and they are just trancing out, swaying to the music, eyes glittering with gold candlelight.
5. The bells. When I lived in Russia my violin lesson happened in a new building- the conservatory- built butt-up against a "kolokolitsa," a structure that holds bells up above the kremlin walls so that the whole countryside can hear the call to worship, which happened about ten minutes into my lesson. I watched the bell ringer climb this SEVERELY leaning old structure and dangle from a rope to make the most ethereal resounding music, amplified only by the cold in winter. The bells silenced all work in the conservatory for several minutes of sheer, cleansing, ringing joy.
4. The singing. I sang some liturgical music in the female choir of the convervatory, and later (here in San Francisco) joined an Orthodox choir for the Easter service as a favor to my friend the choir director. There is an Orthodox belief that anything that is sung reaches the ears of God, so *all* prayer and liturgy is sung, usually in many part polyphony, with haunting minor chords. Most of it is memorized by the faithful, which makes for an impressive force of voices responding to the bass drone of the priest.
3. The frankincense. The smell of heaven, according to the Orthodox. There is nothing more transporting than full-body entering a cloud of sweet incense while the bells are ringing to start the service.
2. The word "bogoroditsa." The god-birther. It underscores the female power of the Mother of God. She didn't just raise him, she BIRTHED him. I also like the liturgy of the Theotokos, another female divinity within Orthodoxy, but that's another story. Basically, there is a recognition of the absolute power of the feminine within, around, and above the figure of Jesus in many places in the Orthodox traditions, and we Pagans like that. Actually, I have known many Pagan Orthodox, who follow...
1. The Slavic tradition of "dvoeveriye." The double-faith. Since Orthodoxy was a hard sell to the staunchly Pagan peasants living in Slavic territory, the church openly campaigned to enfold Pagan beliefs and divine personalities into the Orthodox practices. So, people kept up with the worship of their ancestors and household deities and came to church to serve the Orthodox Jesus and the church accepted them as followers of the "dvoeveriye." They were respected, left alone, and because of the Orthodox church's relatively tolerant attitude, to this day many ancient Pagan beliefs are accepted and sustained among the Slavs. I personally saw a Summer Solstice (Ivan Kupalo) ritual at a Rainbow Gathering in Karelia that was 100% Pagan, complete with naked jumping over bonfires and casting floral wreaths onto the water, which was concluded with prayers by the local Orthodox Priest. He came out in the morning wearing his long robes to bless the groggy people poking about the bushes for their underwear, many of whom were not only baptised, but passionately Orthodox.
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
And on a lighter note: Save the Cones!... another neglected species in desperate need of your help. Please think about putting your support behindThe Traffic Cone Preservation Society. A rare Dwarf Speckled Cone adoption costs $4.50 (plus $2.25 shipping). They take Pay-pal. If you are short of cash, you can print out a Membership Card from their website for free. I'm disappointed at the list of names of Charter Members. You'd think some celebrities would have (been) signed up.
The rest of my review of My Big Fat Greek Wedding that I started below, cut off by my incompetence with HTML:
The Last Time I Circle Danced...
was at a Kitka concert at a Methodist Church one block from my house. Yes, I'm an (ex-)Unitarian middle class ethnically ambiguous (Swedish/Welsh/English) white person, and yes, circle dancing, besides being good exercize, tapped into my need for a sense of ethnic rootedness. But I wouldn't marry a circle dancer—they’re not my type. I'd rather marry a polka dancer. Wait, I can't marry a circle dancer or a polka dancer, it's not legal for me to marry anyone yet. The movie never addresses the problems of marriage as a construct, it only addresses the compulsive nature of marriage. Thank the gods they didn't follow the lead of Monsoon Wedding and couple off every last single character right down to the second cousin twice removed from Toledo.
There, now I've talked about every movie I've seen in a theater all year, except Spiderman. Spiderman definitely swam against the tide of compulsory couplehood. Was Peter Parker that movie's gay character? Hm... another time I'll revisit that question.
And still another time I'll tackle why everyone thinks gayness is an ethnicity. We have a flag, don't we? We must have a homeland and an aboriginal language if we have a flag... Maybe we could declare war on someone, say they stole our homeland. I think Tuvalu sounds good this time of year.
Suffice it to say, just because a white/light-skinned Greek-American, English-American, or Queer-American does the hora, it doesn't make her an anti-racist, or a white-supremicist, or Just Like You and Me. Well, Just Like You, anyway. Ethnic dancers are just dancers, and the Serb nationalists are still hostile to non-Serbs, and the Greek nationalists are hostile to Turks and Islamic Cypriots, and Russian nationalists are hostile to (the dark-skinned) Caucasians -- all under the flag of Orthodoxy.
In summary, go see My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but don't waste your time as I did looking for brown people in the movie to problematize its racial agenda, or guessing who they are going to kill off to give the movie more depth and remind us of the history of real sorrow that trails behind those quaint Orthodox rituals.
The Last Time I Circle Danced...
was at a Kitka concert at a Methodist Church one block from my house. Yes, I'm an (ex-)Unitarian middle class ethnically ambiguous (Swedish/Welsh/English) white person, and yes, circle dancing, besides being good exercize, tapped into my need for a sense of ethnic rootedness. But I wouldn't marry a circle dancer—they’re not my type. I'd rather marry a polka dancer. Wait, I can't marry a circle dancer or a polka dancer, it's not legal for me to marry anyone yet. The movie never addresses the problems of marriage as a construct, it only addresses the compulsive nature of marriage. Thank the gods they didn't follow the lead of Monsoon Wedding and couple off every last single character right down to the second cousin twice removed from Toledo.
There, now I've talked about every movie I've seen in a theater all year, except Spiderman. Spiderman definitely swam against the tide of compulsory couplehood. Was Peter Parker that movie's gay character? Hm... another time I'll revisit that question.
And still another time I'll tackle why everyone thinks gayness is an ethnicity. We have a flag, don't we? We must have a homeland and an aboriginal language if we have a flag... Maybe we could declare war on someone, say they stole our homeland. I think Tuvalu sounds good this time of year.
Suffice it to say, just because a white/light-skinned Greek-American, English-American, or Queer-American does the hora, it doesn't make her an anti-racist, or a white-supremicist, or Just Like You and Me. Well, Just Like You, anyway. Ethnic dancers are just dancers, and the Serb nationalists are still hostile to non-Serbs, and the Greek nationalists are hostile to Turks and Islamic Cypriots, and Russian nationalists are hostile to (the dark-skinned) Caucasians -- all under the flag of Orthodoxy.
In summary, go see My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but don't waste your time as I did looking for brown people in the movie to problematize its racial agenda, or guessing who they are going to kill off to give the movie more depth and remind us of the history of real sorrow that trails behind those quaint Orthodox rituals.
The SlackerStalker Review of My Big Fat Greek Wedding
Racializing white people - the ibuprofen for that nagging race anxiety headache.
I give it one thumbs up.
It met the minimum lesbian film requirement: at least one conversation between two female characters about something other than a man.
But, one thumb down because it informed my life very little. It was a pro-nerd movie, and in that I related to it, but it had a super duper bright shiny happy pretty (nail)polished sheen that leaves out the good girtty underpinnings of the totally problematic religious aspects. They had the groom baptized just to use the church! Without him learning a damn thing about the misogynist and racist history of Orthodoxy! As though Orthodoxy isn't still killing people-- as though it was just a quaint hold-over from a forgotten time. I really wanted someone to die. Would it have killed 'em? Just one little death, that's all I asked.
It also had no animals in it.
The breakdown:
FOUR conversations between women not about a man: one about college, one about business, one about ethnic heritage, and one about a zit.
JESUS FIGURE: the grandmother. I coulda sworn they were going to kill her. I wish they had, not just to give the movie more depth, and the neglected role of women in Orthodox cultures a little more space, but to give more face time to an interesting "nonpretty" (almost third-gendered) character. Death would've helped develop her character beyond the "redemption" scene of her sharing her wedding crown with our heroine. Come to think of it, they had to gender her in that scene, showing her as a young woman, to resolve her place in the movie. Did we ever see her again after that? I didn't.
GAY FIGURE: the brother. Weirdly single, comes and goes mysteriously, likes the company of other young men, "comes out" as an artist. I hope there's a sequel where he marries the groom's best friend, who looked a little lonely and gay.
QUESTIONS: compulsive sexuality, fertility, consumption, but also celebrates those things in the end.
ANXIETIES RELIEVED: professional class/ working class anxiety-- resolved through mysterious vodka-like substance out of tiny fluted glasses; race anxiety among light/white skinned people-- resolved through (surprise!) circle-dancing! The timeless and functional ethnic tension panacea where we can imagine Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class Generic Unitarian White People (yes, a little redundant, that) linking arms and heaving into the grape-vine with the Sopranos, Woody Allen, Crocodile Dundee, Juliette Binoche and other valorized and racialized white people in the popular mind.
THE LAST TIME I CIRCLE DANCED: was at a
Racializing white people - the ibuprofen for that nagging race anxiety headache.
I give it one thumbs up.
It met the minimum lesbian film requirement: at least one conversation between two female characters about something other than a man.
But, one thumb down because it informed my life very little. It was a pro-nerd movie, and in that I related to it, but it had a super duper bright shiny happy pretty (nail)polished sheen that leaves out the good girtty underpinnings of the totally problematic religious aspects. They had the groom baptized just to use the church! Without him learning a damn thing about the misogynist and racist history of Orthodoxy! As though Orthodoxy isn't still killing people-- as though it was just a quaint hold-over from a forgotten time. I really wanted someone to die. Would it have killed 'em? Just one little death, that's all I asked.
It also had no animals in it.
The breakdown:
FOUR conversations between women not about a man: one about college, one about business, one about ethnic heritage, and one about a zit.
JESUS FIGURE: the grandmother. I coulda sworn they were going to kill her. I wish they had, not just to give the movie more depth, and the neglected role of women in Orthodox cultures a little more space, but to give more face time to an interesting "nonpretty" (almost third-gendered) character. Death would've helped develop her character beyond the "redemption" scene of her sharing her wedding crown with our heroine. Come to think of it, they had to gender her in that scene, showing her as a young woman, to resolve her place in the movie. Did we ever see her again after that? I didn't.
GAY FIGURE: the brother. Weirdly single, comes and goes mysteriously, likes the company of other young men, "comes out" as an artist. I hope there's a sequel where he marries the groom's best friend, who looked a little lonely and gay.
QUESTIONS: compulsive sexuality, fertility, consumption, but also celebrates those things in the end.
ANXIETIES RELIEVED: professional class/ working class anxiety-- resolved through mysterious vodka-like substance out of tiny fluted glasses; race anxiety among light/white skinned people-- resolved through (surprise!) circle-dancing! The timeless and functional ethnic tension panacea where we can imagine Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class Generic Unitarian White People (yes, a little redundant, that) linking arms and heaving into the grape-vine with the Sopranos, Woody Allen, Crocodile Dundee, Juliette Binoche and other valorized and racialized white people in the popular mind.
THE LAST TIME I CIRCLE DANCED: was at a
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Some Tiny Omissions from My Vocab List for the Modern Sensualist Have Been Noticed
- SEX
- 1. Sometimes understood to mean gender (see my notes on gender from a few days ago), but I think gender is performative/ learned/ constructed, something you play with (for ex. a butch is playing the masculine part, a femme is playing the feminine part, a futch is a femme who secretly plays team sports, a low femme is a femme who wears sensible shoes, etc.) Sex is more about your genital and hormonal make up- female, male, or intersex; 2. A conscious intimate act where all consenting participants experience orgasm (or some amount of pleasure); 3. A conscious consensual act where all participants are exposed to eachother's bodily fluids. The former is what people would rather talk about, the latter is what people avoid talking about until their life is threatened.
- LOVE
- 1. Trust and understanding. 2. Warm iced pecan cinnamon sweet rolls.
- LOVER - also see below "fuckbuddy"
- 1. Just a synonym for fuckbuddy; 2. a fuckbuddy who has had one working phone number for you for more than a year or through one move, especially if s/he helped you move; 3. anyone you think you've had sex with (usually in the #2 sense of sex).
- TOP/ BOTTOM
- 1. Roles people take in sexual acts, or in power-charged office situations, like a staff meeting. These roles range from pillow queen (bottom), to switch, to stone (top). The closer you are to the pillow queen end of things, the more likely you are to own knee pads but not play hockey. The closer you are to stone, the more likely you are to wear a full outfit of clothes to bed, every night, even when you are sleeping alone.
Monday, September 30, 2002
Looking for Dates at the Free Lizzy Borden Protest
Or, the 19th century Eileen Wournos as a Social Occasion
I am taking a sick day, which is good news for my blog and bad news for my landlord, on whom I now have time to concentrate my wrath about the lack of hot water in my apartment. But meanwhile, The Legend of Lizzy Borden (1975) is on Oxygen, and I'm enjoying seeing how - apparently - Lizzy's case brought out a lot of proto-feminists in the creaky old year of 1893, when suffrage was a distant pipe dream, and the first women's college - my alma mater Vassar - was just being established. Just like how the Lesbian Avengers would have parties to rally support for the lesbian "serial killer" Eileen Wournos, on death row in Florida, on the grounds that she was a mentally retarded prostitute and therefore could easily be telling the truth that all those men she killed in fact were trying to rape her... Never mind that Eileen truly is - how shall we say it - unbalanced - and was converted to Christianity and disavows her lesbian identity (it was her lesbian lover who turned her in)... It still makes for a good case to talk about prostitutes' rights, what constitutes consent, and how the media will convict someone before a court sees the legal process through. However, Eileen was convicted of all of her murders (12, I think), and she even confessed to them on the bad advice of her lesbian lover. Lizzy was acquitted, despite all the evidence.
So why doesn't the "she's just a nice good-natured innocent victim of the partriarchy" argument work anymore? I'll think about it and let you know. Meanwhile, I'll just stay with my imagined scene of big-hatted cameo-throated lesbians cruising eachother outside the Lizzy Borden trial.
Here is a link to a virtual tour of the Borden house and other Lizzy resources, including a newsletter with all the latest theories of her case.
Or, the 19th century Eileen Wournos as a Social Occasion
I am taking a sick day, which is good news for my blog and bad news for my landlord, on whom I now have time to concentrate my wrath about the lack of hot water in my apartment. But meanwhile, The Legend of Lizzy Borden (1975) is on Oxygen, and I'm enjoying seeing how - apparently - Lizzy's case brought out a lot of proto-feminists in the creaky old year of 1893, when suffrage was a distant pipe dream, and the first women's college - my alma mater Vassar - was just being established. Just like how the Lesbian Avengers would have parties to rally support for the lesbian "serial killer" Eileen Wournos, on death row in Florida, on the grounds that she was a mentally retarded prostitute and therefore could easily be telling the truth that all those men she killed in fact were trying to rape her... Never mind that Eileen truly is - how shall we say it - unbalanced - and was converted to Christianity and disavows her lesbian identity (it was her lesbian lover who turned her in)... It still makes for a good case to talk about prostitutes' rights, what constitutes consent, and how the media will convict someone before a court sees the legal process through. However, Eileen was convicted of all of her murders (12, I think), and she even confessed to them on the bad advice of her lesbian lover. Lizzy was acquitted, despite all the evidence.
So why doesn't the "she's just a nice good-natured innocent victim of the partriarchy" argument work anymore? I'll think about it and let you know. Meanwhile, I'll just stay with my imagined scene of big-hatted cameo-throated lesbians cruising eachother outside the Lizzy Borden trial.
Here is a link to a virtual tour of the Borden house and other Lizzy resources, including a newsletter with all the latest theories of her case.
Friday, September 27, 2002
"Come in! Come in! Fortunate favourite of the Queen-- or else not so fortunate." said Fenris to the turncoat Edmund.
There are only three coworkers in the office with my today after this gruelling long week of meetings. I left out on my desk the copy of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe that I'm reading, and I've so far had unsolicited conversations about Turkish Delight, about the masculine and anti-fertility-deity nature of the White Witch, and her origin as a Daughter of Lillith, and how Lucy and Edmund- who introduce Narnia to the world of man- do it through potentially erotic encounters with mystical beings of the opposite sex...
In case you haven't read it, I did manage to find an unpretty version of the LWW text on some Russian website (that has all the books of The Chronicles of Narnia, it seems). However, it is in some awful font with no text wrapping, so I recommend you cut and paste to a more readable format before attempting to read... or better yet, go buy the book and curl up with a lapcat and a cup of tea and read it in a sunbeam.
One of my coworkers hasn't read it, another has read it twice, and the other has read it twenty or more times over the course of his whole life.
Of all the many sites I have cruised today to find more information about the morphology of words invented in the text of Narnia, two have caught my attention the most. One is a compilation of descriptions of meals eaten in The Chronicles and the other is Wizard Words which tries to source terminology invented by J.K. Rowling in the Harry Potter books. Horrifying as it is, I haven't read the Harry Potter books, but I saw the movie and was fascinated by the use of Latin in the dialogue-- and now that I'm studying Latin it is interesting to learn how Rowling played with it to create mystical-sounding nonsense words.
The author of this Wizard Words site didn't hestitate to throw in a little political history to spice the mix, either:
Binns
------- Professor of History of Magic at Hogwarts
Leon Trotsky wrote that the Mensheviks, a Russian revolutionary faction, belonged in "the dustbin of history". The phrase has become a cliché. Dustbin is a British word for garbage can. This helps to convey the impression that Professor Binns is dry as dust, and the history he teaches is mostly rubbish.
There are only three coworkers in the office with my today after this gruelling long week of meetings. I left out on my desk the copy of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe that I'm reading, and I've so far had unsolicited conversations about Turkish Delight, about the masculine and anti-fertility-deity nature of the White Witch, and her origin as a Daughter of Lillith, and how Lucy and Edmund- who introduce Narnia to the world of man- do it through potentially erotic encounters with mystical beings of the opposite sex...
In case you haven't read it, I did manage to find an unpretty version of the LWW text on some Russian website (that has all the books of The Chronicles of Narnia, it seems). However, it is in some awful font with no text wrapping, so I recommend you cut and paste to a more readable format before attempting to read... or better yet, go buy the book and curl up with a lapcat and a cup of tea and read it in a sunbeam.
One of my coworkers hasn't read it, another has read it twice, and the other has read it twenty or more times over the course of his whole life.
Of all the many sites I have cruised today to find more information about the morphology of words invented in the text of Narnia, two have caught my attention the most. One is a compilation of descriptions of meals eaten in The Chronicles and the other is Wizard Words which tries to source terminology invented by J.K. Rowling in the Harry Potter books. Horrifying as it is, I haven't read the Harry Potter books, but I saw the movie and was fascinated by the use of Latin in the dialogue-- and now that I'm studying Latin it is interesting to learn how Rowling played with it to create mystical-sounding nonsense words.
The author of this Wizard Words site didn't hestitate to throw in a little political history to spice the mix, either:
Binns
------- Professor of History of Magic at Hogwarts
Leon Trotsky wrote that the Mensheviks, a Russian revolutionary faction, belonged in "the dustbin of history". The phrase has become a cliché. Dustbin is a British word for garbage can. This helps to convey the impression that Professor Binns is dry as dust, and the history he teaches is mostly rubbish.
Thursday, September 19, 2002
"You would think a band of Amazons was battling." - Statius AD 92
This is what happens when you get cable and/or purchase sets of whole show seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Xena the Warrior Princess at the same time. You start giving your Latin tutor enormous headaches by insisting on translating all the texts about battles which do not specify the third person singular person's gender as female (Her troops were sent but never arrived. The spears of her men were found in the center of town. She killed the man who slaughtered the inhabitants.) My tutor never fails to assume the male gender of the unspecified third person singular, I never fail to assume the female. Click here for more information on real written and archeological evidence of a legacy of real-live ass-kicking women warriors who fought fierce battles against and alongside men in ancient history.
I really am such a stereotype sometimes. Oh well.
This is what happens when you get cable and/or purchase sets of whole show seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Xena the Warrior Princess at the same time. You start giving your Latin tutor enormous headaches by insisting on translating all the texts about battles which do not specify the third person singular person's gender as female (Her troops were sent but never arrived. The spears of her men were found in the center of town. She killed the man who slaughtered the inhabitants.) My tutor never fails to assume the male gender of the unspecified third person singular, I never fail to assume the female. Click here for more information on real written and archeological evidence of a legacy of real-live ass-kicking women warriors who fought fierce battles against and alongside men in ancient history.
I really am such a stereotype sometimes. Oh well.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Another Pearl From Nanna and a Note on Gender
Nanna is my bellydance teacher and she frequently imparts pearls of wisdom that are good for dancers and good for anyone. I have classes on Tuesdays and so today I have a new pearl.
Have a focus-- inward focus, or outward focus. Focus gives strength.
At this point in class another dance student who is studying massage therapy showed us how much strength someone's lifted arm gains when the person just focuses a little attention on it. If you move through life inattentive to your own movement and action, you will move through with a fraction of the power and strength you could have with just a little focus and attention on what you are doing.
And a note on gender. I wrote my definitions for sensual-living-related terms a few days ago-- and I neglected the many varied words I use to describe differently-gendered people. It's just the truth that someone in my presence is experienced by me as a gendered being, and if they are living (or preferring to try to live) as a boy or a girl, I will refer to them as a boy or a girl. I dated a self-identified bi-gendered person once, someone who 12 hours of the day passed as a man and 12 hours of the day passed as a woman, but in my presence she was a she, and liked to be called a she, so she remains a she in my stories about her. However, I will tell the details of her gender identity in pertinent contexts. Her bigendered nature was not the most remarkable part of her-- she *passed* as both genders, and liked to screw with people's assumptions all across the board, blurring the lines around her (Filipina) ethnicity by using exoticized pseudonyms, and wearing blonde wigs. Unfortunately, she kind of ended up stalking me, but from afar (she lives in another city), so I lovingly owe her the credit for inspiring the phrase "slacker stalker." She shows up at my performances most of the time, but when she misses one, I complain that my primary stalker lacks ambition.
A short collection of some of my favorite gender-identifying terms: trannyboy, trannygirl, third-gender, genderqueer, androgyne, gynandrone, genderfuckr, boi, grrrl, and of course the old stand-bys femme, butch, FTM, and MTF. Construct your own gender? Why not! But gender is a private thing, a secret set of personal beliefs, kind of like a religion, so before you offend someone with your assumptions of heteronormativity, female or maleness, or Christianity-- just ask!
Sample dialogue: Q. Are you a bidyketrannychaserwitch?
A. Why, hell yes! Thanks for asking!
Nanna is my bellydance teacher and she frequently imparts pearls of wisdom that are good for dancers and good for anyone. I have classes on Tuesdays and so today I have a new pearl.
Have a focus-- inward focus, or outward focus. Focus gives strength.
At this point in class another dance student who is studying massage therapy showed us how much strength someone's lifted arm gains when the person just focuses a little attention on it. If you move through life inattentive to your own movement and action, you will move through with a fraction of the power and strength you could have with just a little focus and attention on what you are doing.
And a note on gender. I wrote my definitions for sensual-living-related terms a few days ago-- and I neglected the many varied words I use to describe differently-gendered people. It's just the truth that someone in my presence is experienced by me as a gendered being, and if they are living (or preferring to try to live) as a boy or a girl, I will refer to them as a boy or a girl. I dated a self-identified bi-gendered person once, someone who 12 hours of the day passed as a man and 12 hours of the day passed as a woman, but in my presence she was a she, and liked to be called a she, so she remains a she in my stories about her. However, I will tell the details of her gender identity in pertinent contexts. Her bigendered nature was not the most remarkable part of her-- she *passed* as both genders, and liked to screw with people's assumptions all across the board, blurring the lines around her (Filipina) ethnicity by using exoticized pseudonyms, and wearing blonde wigs. Unfortunately, she kind of ended up stalking me, but from afar (she lives in another city), so I lovingly owe her the credit for inspiring the phrase "slacker stalker." She shows up at my performances most of the time, but when she misses one, I complain that my primary stalker lacks ambition.
A short collection of some of my favorite gender-identifying terms: trannyboy, trannygirl, third-gender, genderqueer, androgyne, gynandrone, genderfuckr, boi, grrrl, and of course the old stand-bys femme, butch, FTM, and MTF. Construct your own gender? Why not! But gender is a private thing, a secret set of personal beliefs, kind of like a religion, so before you offend someone with your assumptions of heteronormativity, female or maleness, or Christianity-- just ask!
Sample dialogue: Q. Are you a bidyketrannychaserwitch?
A. Why, hell yes! Thanks for asking!
Monday, September 16, 2002
The Slacker Stalker Guide to Big Time Sensuality
Because I had to go crack open the subject of my sordid sexual history and all... I might as well define my terms.
I actually wrote a nice poem that sort of rhymed with a list of what I called "San Francisco Alternative Terminology for the World 'Girlfriend'" but I don't want to start blogging with my own poetry, so here is a less poetic, functional and easy-to-use guide to my personal metrosexualesque (jaded urban) sensualist terminology.
Before you all embark on the high seas of romance armed with these handy terms, remember what Bjork says (warns): "it takes courage to enjoy it, the hardcore and the gentle, big time sensuality."
Because I had to go crack open the subject of my sordid sexual history and all... I might as well define my terms.
I actually wrote a nice poem that sort of rhymed with a list of what I called "San Francisco Alternative Terminology for the World 'Girlfriend'" but I don't want to start blogging with my own poetry, so here is a less poetic, functional and easy-to-use guide to my personal metrosexualesque (jaded urban) sensualist terminology.
- girl
- an estrogen-based life form, or someone who lives 24/7 as though s/he were one.
- boy
- a testosterone-based life form, or someone who lives 24/7 as though s/he were one.
- date
- when a boy and a girl are involved, this is a simple matter: you meet to get to know eachother and the sexual tension is usually evident as part of the proposition; when it is a boy and a boy, I understand that it is clear from word one when it is a date or not and exactly what kind of sex is expected (or not); when it is a girl and a girl, dissertations can be written on when and whether the participants know it is a date. In my life, it is when a pre-set (more than an hour before) evening appointment is made for the clear purpose of getting to know one another with the evident intention of eventual romantic intimacy. I pretty much never get dates, but if I got one, I think this is what it would be.
- relationship
- a vile, vile word, used for the purposes of emotional blackmail so often that I recommend that it be added to the list of poisonous swearwords along with the word (if you are polyamorous) scheduling (see below). A relationship in my world is what happens when you know eachother's name and/or any non-disconnected phone number. Having one entitles you to stalk the person from afar, but not much more.
- polyamourous/ polyfidelitous
- the first describes someone who can hold up more than one meaningful relationship for more than one date each, with everyone knowing about everyone else; the second describes someone who makes a commitment to more than one person so that they (usually) all have to agree before proliferating their dating efforts, which leads to the dirty dirty word...
- scheduling
- the common root cause of anxiety attacks and depression among polyfidelitous people. So many lovers, so little time, so tiny the print in our little date-planners...
- fling
- the amino acids of the protein that is romance, necessary and often found in easily-consumable pleasures, like fried chicken. Just kidding. Fried chicken is more of a commitment- it leaves grease stains that last. Hickeys and bruises fade (and don't photograph well): you get no real battle scars to show for your trouble. A fling is any mutual and consensual sexual experience that lasts 10 minutes or more. I don't use the term one-night-stand because in my world those last so long they tend to become synonymous with the...
- extended fling
- ...which lasts minimally for 1-3 nights or the equivalent (if you are situated where you have white nights around the summer solstice). By the end of one of these, you have no commitment, but you generally do have a relationship (see above). These are fun, but a burden, because in the lesbian world, they open the door to the U-Haul Syndrome, an affliction which plagues mostly rural dyke communities, but against which nobody is immune. The U-Haul Syndrome is where two lonely girls who have the time and the money (if only barely) to do so move in together as soon as they know eachother's name and one working phone number.
- girlfling/ boyfling
- what you call the participants in any sort of fling, usually means "just a fling," without the extended road warranty.
- girlthing/ boything
- the panacea of the dating-terminologically-delayed, this makes do while you are awaiting permission to use one of the terms below...
- girlfriend/ boyfriend
- used to describe someone who has been in an extended fling with you for four weeks or more, often used on the sly for a while before being agreed upon in private in a two-person consensus usually secured through fancy home-cooked meals, anniversary gifts, and/or blackmail.
- partner
- is anyone who lets you call her/him your "partner" in public- other pronunciations include "parrrrdner," "attorney at law," and "pooky-boobs." Just kidding on that last one. It is definitely an avoidable term, in other words. But I like it for its easy use in declension.
- domestic partner
- means that you've got a certificate number attached to your non-heteronormative relationship.
- significant other
- abbreviated s.o. ("esso")- implies a meaningful, committed relationship that lasts from one night to a lifetime or beyond. Preferred term for bisexual women describing their male partner within the earshot of a lesbian of unknown bifriendliness.
- long term emotional entanglement
- describes almost every significant relationship the Slacker Stalker has ever had.
- fuckbuddy
- strictly a anonymous or pseudonymous trick- or one that you wish was- and to whom you give one working phone number, but not two.
Before you all embark on the high seas of romance armed with these handy terms, remember what Bjork says (warns): "it takes courage to enjoy it, the hardcore and the gentle, big time sensuality."
Saturday, September 14, 2002
some people leave no electronic footprints
which is frustratin' somethin' awful to your casual armchair stalker
I am - for it seems the forty billionth time (but really just about the third time) - trying to find some electronic footprints left by my ex-girlthing in St. Petersburg, Russia. It seems there aren't any for a fifty-something non-English-speaking butch dyke roadside-flower-kiosk-employee with no college degree and whose 15 minutes of fame was founding the first Russian lesbian club Sappho and taking them to a last place finish in team handball (Team Sappho) in the 1996 Berlin Eurogames. Look up Natasha Petrova Ivanova and you end up with too much information about an Anastasia Romanova imposter. Maybe she's going by her nickname, Ivanov. Oh well, the slacker stalker has been forced to admit defeat. Again.
which is frustratin' somethin' awful to your casual armchair stalker
I am - for it seems the forty billionth time (but really just about the third time) - trying to find some electronic footprints left by my ex-girlthing in St. Petersburg, Russia. It seems there aren't any for a fifty-something non-English-speaking butch dyke roadside-flower-kiosk-employee with no college degree and whose 15 minutes of fame was founding the first Russian lesbian club Sappho and taking them to a last place finish in team handball (Team Sappho) in the 1996 Berlin Eurogames. Look up Natasha Petrova Ivanova and you end up with too much information about an Anastasia Romanova imposter. Maybe she's going by her nickname, Ivanov. Oh well, the slacker stalker has been forced to admit defeat. Again.
Homesick for An Adopted Home
Somehow, when I lived in Russia all the hijinx of the US government seemed distant, predictable, even funny.
My cable tv has started including suddenly my old favorite channel- American Movie Classics- and today they are playing that creaky cold war movie White Nights which I haven't seen since it came out in 1985, or maybe 1986. In 1989 I went on a student trip to the Soviet Union, because it was either there or Emden, Germany, where I would have to live with the exchange student I had been forced to endure from there, who was a racist nationalist. I also thought the Evil Empire would be cool. I didn't think I would feel like I'd come home. I learned Russian and went back there to live.
Now, I find myself in homesick tears watching the defected Mikhail Baryshnikov do a heartfelt, grief-filled dance to the dissident song "The Horses" of the Russian bard Vladimir Vysotsky on the stage of the Marinsky (circa the Soviet Union it was the Kirov), a gorgeous theatre in Petersburg where I tried to see a performance at least every other month, and every time I've been back. What that dance, on that stage, to that music must have meant for Mikhail. I can only imagine. It brought together the old Russian empire design of the theatre (see in this Quicktime tour the box for the royal family center-screen), the Soviet conditions, and the resistance music.
I remember watching this movie when I was 12, when we borrowed the VCRs and movies from U-Haul (where my mom rented out trucks). I was suckered in by the creepy music making the Russian landscape seem creepy, never for a moment doubting the good intentions of the US Americans. It's not a great movie, but it brings out two realities that are very true for me: the existance of Russian petit tyrannies over individuals, and US American racist arrogance towards non-white artists. The movie never relents-- they are always cutting to scenes in Petersburg that wrench my insides with longing. The storefront of a reliable, good bakery on Nevsky Prospekt. The griffin bridge that's next to the Economic Institute where I used to crash on weekends, and next to the club where I went to the club "Joy" whose gay dance party on Saturday was called "Greshniki"-- sinners-- but which on Friday was the lesbian night club -- and was called "Greshnitsy" -- girl-sinners.
The pale yellow of Leningrad-Petersburg's buildings, the gorgeous Italian-style architecture- music to my eyes. The cobblestones my tired feet knew so well. There is nothing like it in this country. I have the lukewarm unreliable hot water, but I don't have the cobblestone pereulki, the sidestreets winding you into the maze of bridges.
Oh, and for the record, I'm not really a Communist. I'm not really a Capitalist. I've decided recently that I'm a Pagan Theocrat- we should all worship the Earth and regard Her protectors as our leaders. Our holy ghost if we need one can be Judi Bari.
If the environment was a little less abused there, and women were a little less targeted by crime, and, oh, maybe if Natasha hadn't dumped me the last time I was there, I would go back to Petersburg in a heartbeat. Maybe the United States' international policy of violence against anyone who doesn't let us control their oil production wouldn't feel as much my problem as it does. Then again, maybe it would start to make sense.
I did hang an American flag (stolen off a mailbox by a girlfriend after a concert on the first Lollapalooza tour as a token of affection) in my one-room apartment in Novgorod. Next to a picture of Ani Difranco. If the boys I hung out with said anything overly sexist I would point to the flag and say "you're on American territoritory here, that shit don't fly." But of course, I used Russian swear words, since Russian boys are allowed to say things in front of Amerikanki womenfolk that they aren't allowed to say in front of Russian young ladies. I would always embarrass them parroting back their horrible turns of phrase. Finally, on Valentine's Day, I got my Russian boyfriend to teach me the grammar system of "mat"- the forbidden swear language. Ah, the romance.
Tomorrow I am getting together with my bay area Russian-speaking dykes potluck and conversation group. I hope there is some good gossip from back home, and if I'm lucky, dish about Natasha.
Somehow, when I lived in Russia all the hijinx of the US government seemed distant, predictable, even funny.
My cable tv has started including suddenly my old favorite channel- American Movie Classics- and today they are playing that creaky cold war movie White Nights which I haven't seen since it came out in 1985, or maybe 1986. In 1989 I went on a student trip to the Soviet Union, because it was either there or Emden, Germany, where I would have to live with the exchange student I had been forced to endure from there, who was a racist nationalist. I also thought the Evil Empire would be cool. I didn't think I would feel like I'd come home. I learned Russian and went back there to live.
Now, I find myself in homesick tears watching the defected Mikhail Baryshnikov do a heartfelt, grief-filled dance to the dissident song "The Horses" of the Russian bard Vladimir Vysotsky on the stage of the Marinsky (circa the Soviet Union it was the Kirov), a gorgeous theatre in Petersburg where I tried to see a performance at least every other month, and every time I've been back. What that dance, on that stage, to that music must have meant for Mikhail. I can only imagine. It brought together the old Russian empire design of the theatre (see in this Quicktime tour the box for the royal family center-screen), the Soviet conditions, and the resistance music.
I remember watching this movie when I was 12, when we borrowed the VCRs and movies from U-Haul (where my mom rented out trucks). I was suckered in by the creepy music making the Russian landscape seem creepy, never for a moment doubting the good intentions of the US Americans. It's not a great movie, but it brings out two realities that are very true for me: the existance of Russian petit tyrannies over individuals, and US American racist arrogance towards non-white artists. The movie never relents-- they are always cutting to scenes in Petersburg that wrench my insides with longing. The storefront of a reliable, good bakery on Nevsky Prospekt. The griffin bridge that's next to the Economic Institute where I used to crash on weekends, and next to the club where I went to the club "Joy" whose gay dance party on Saturday was called "Greshniki"-- sinners-- but which on Friday was the lesbian night club -- and was called "Greshnitsy" -- girl-sinners.
The pale yellow of Leningrad-Petersburg's buildings, the gorgeous Italian-style architecture- music to my eyes. The cobblestones my tired feet knew so well. There is nothing like it in this country. I have the lukewarm unreliable hot water, but I don't have the cobblestone pereulki, the sidestreets winding you into the maze of bridges.
Oh, and for the record, I'm not really a Communist. I'm not really a Capitalist. I've decided recently that I'm a Pagan Theocrat- we should all worship the Earth and regard Her protectors as our leaders. Our holy ghost if we need one can be Judi Bari.
If the environment was a little less abused there, and women were a little less targeted by crime, and, oh, maybe if Natasha hadn't dumped me the last time I was there, I would go back to Petersburg in a heartbeat. Maybe the United States' international policy of violence against anyone who doesn't let us control their oil production wouldn't feel as much my problem as it does. Then again, maybe it would start to make sense.
I did hang an American flag (stolen off a mailbox by a girlfriend after a concert on the first Lollapalooza tour as a token of affection) in my one-room apartment in Novgorod. Next to a picture of Ani Difranco. If the boys I hung out with said anything overly sexist I would point to the flag and say "you're on American territoritory here, that shit don't fly." But of course, I used Russian swear words, since Russian boys are allowed to say things in front of Amerikanki womenfolk that they aren't allowed to say in front of Russian young ladies. I would always embarrass them parroting back their horrible turns of phrase. Finally, on Valentine's Day, I got my Russian boyfriend to teach me the grammar system of "mat"- the forbidden swear language. Ah, the romance.
Tomorrow I am getting together with my bay area Russian-speaking dykes potluck and conversation group. I hope there is some good gossip from back home, and if I'm lucky, dish about Natasha.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002
Living and Dying with Dignity
I want to wish everyone a Happy National Joylucklovefun Day. Actually, the correct name for the holiday for Colombians today is "DIA DE AMOR Y AMISTAD." For people in the US it is probably going to be called a National Day of Remembrance and Blood Vengeance. A survivor of the WTC disaster, Laura Manning, talking with Terry Gross this morning said she was completely happy that US troops wrote her name on a bomb to drop on a target in Afghanistan. I can't judge her for feeling that way. But the only way I know I'm going to get through this state of perpetual war with any dignity is to try to hold on to at least a molecule of a feeling of mercy towards those who violently attack a perceived threat- perpetuating hate- in the name of religion and God, and likewise a molecule of a feeling of mercy towards those who are reacting violently to being attacked in the name of religion and God- perpetuating more hate. I also try to drive as little as possible, since oil is the beast behind so much violence. I also go to places sacred to me and cry to the gods of my heart that I might see justice done on this earth, in my lifetime, to the highest good of all living beings, and that I might live with dignity and gratitude, the state of grace.
I am not "pro-death" and I am not "pro-life." I will not judge someone for defending themselves, or ending their own life, or ending the life of an unborn fetus, in an effort to avert disaster from themselves or their loved ones. But I will not advocate for another person to put an end to another person's life and call that justice done. I will not advocate for soldiers of this nation to die in Iraq to avert the development of nuclear arsenals by a tyrant displeasing to our government. Saudi Arabia's royal family funds the development of Iraq's nuclear arsenals- a royal family unpunished and even lovingly- kiss kiss, both cheeks- embraced by the Presidents Bush. Does anyone remember Iran? How we - with Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, the UAE, and the UK- helped Iraq develop biochemical weapons to use against Iran? This war we are waging is not random, not arbitrary, and yet it is not in the cause of human rights or democracy. If you think it is about justice, then watch the money, see who benefits from the threat to the US government's targets, and watch who we are not attacking. Never attacking. These allies are not countries who are defenders of human rights, and they are not democracies. Some of them have nuclear capability, and some use biochemical warfare. Why is the US in bed with the nuclear-sabre-rattling Pakistan? Pakistan would be inconvenient to hate right now. Where is the virtue and dignity in my country's oil-addicted alliances?
Today I also mourn the anniversary of my beloved's final diagnosis of cancer of the vertebrae- a cancerous broken neck, a metastisis from her breast cancer. She elected to end her life after a series of radiation treatments that burned her throat and all but prevented her from swallowing even her pain medication for weeks. Today I sent my yes-vote to a national referendum sponsored by Death With Dignity, a group advocating the legalization of physician-assisted suicide.
That about summarizes all I have to say about life and death. This recent poem by Ani Difranco recorded on her new album So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter says some other stuff I believe about the US, my home, this big, muscular, beautiful, confusing, burned, bludgeoned, head-sick, body-sick, heart-sick country.
I want to wish everyone a Happy National Joylucklovefun Day. Actually, the correct name for the holiday for Colombians today is "DIA DE AMOR Y AMISTAD." For people in the US it is probably going to be called a National Day of Remembrance and Blood Vengeance. A survivor of the WTC disaster, Laura Manning, talking with Terry Gross this morning said she was completely happy that US troops wrote her name on a bomb to drop on a target in Afghanistan. I can't judge her for feeling that way. But the only way I know I'm going to get through this state of perpetual war with any dignity is to try to hold on to at least a molecule of a feeling of mercy towards those who violently attack a perceived threat- perpetuating hate- in the name of religion and God, and likewise a molecule of a feeling of mercy towards those who are reacting violently to being attacked in the name of religion and God- perpetuating more hate. I also try to drive as little as possible, since oil is the beast behind so much violence. I also go to places sacred to me and cry to the gods of my heart that I might see justice done on this earth, in my lifetime, to the highest good of all living beings, and that I might live with dignity and gratitude, the state of grace.
I am not "pro-death" and I am not "pro-life." I will not judge someone for defending themselves, or ending their own life, or ending the life of an unborn fetus, in an effort to avert disaster from themselves or their loved ones. But I will not advocate for another person to put an end to another person's life and call that justice done. I will not advocate for soldiers of this nation to die in Iraq to avert the development of nuclear arsenals by a tyrant displeasing to our government. Saudi Arabia's royal family funds the development of Iraq's nuclear arsenals- a royal family unpunished and even lovingly- kiss kiss, both cheeks- embraced by the Presidents Bush. Does anyone remember Iran? How we - with Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, the UAE, and the UK- helped Iraq develop biochemical weapons to use against Iran? This war we are waging is not random, not arbitrary, and yet it is not in the cause of human rights or democracy. If you think it is about justice, then watch the money, see who benefits from the threat to the US government's targets, and watch who we are not attacking. Never attacking. These allies are not countries who are defenders of human rights, and they are not democracies. Some of them have nuclear capability, and some use biochemical warfare. Why is the US in bed with the nuclear-sabre-rattling Pakistan? Pakistan would be inconvenient to hate right now. Where is the virtue and dignity in my country's oil-addicted alliances?
Today I also mourn the anniversary of my beloved's final diagnosis of cancer of the vertebrae- a cancerous broken neck, a metastisis from her breast cancer. She elected to end her life after a series of radiation treatments that burned her throat and all but prevented her from swallowing even her pain medication for weeks. Today I sent my yes-vote to a national referendum sponsored by Death With Dignity, a group advocating the legalization of physician-assisted suicide.
That about summarizes all I have to say about life and death. This recent poem by Ani Difranco recorded on her new album So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter says some other stuff I believe about the US, my home, this big, muscular, beautiful, confusing, burned, bludgeoned, head-sick, body-sick, heart-sick country.
Saturday, September 07, 2002
A long blog today. That's what you get for letting me listen to NPR on a Saturday.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The Pottery Barn Theory of Regime Shopping~~~~
Tom Friedman of the New York Times was on NPR this morning talking about his Pottery Barn Theory regarding the plans the US always has about taking down a government and rebuilding something they like better. You break it, you bought it. Do we really want to be responsible for rebuilding the infrastructure and government of another country, and setting up the first secular, oil-rich, democratically-elected, free/fair-market-friendly, Arab/US-backed government in the Middle East? That region has no model for that kind of state. Our ally states- whose leaderships were in no way elected in free/fair elections- will not be liking the new US outpost in their midst. Turkey- a serious military power and important US training ground- will have none of us as long as we're trying to make alliances with their arch-enemy, the Kurdish insurgent groups. The US and UK are poised to start ripping down this hopelessly complex and ancient set of structures in the middle of the Middle East, in Iraq. I'm not going to say anything about the atrocities of Hussein's regime (and how they've been exaggerated in the US press- see a blog by Tom Tomorrow addressing the infamous false baby-incubator-theft story), in any case I don't think this tyrant is something we can afford to break. And plus, according to international law, acts of unprovoked aggression by one state against the other are criminal.
Tom Friedman also pointed to the mess in Afghanistan, where the current leader survived an assassination attempt this past week. He collects postcards for his wife, and he bought her a pile of them in a hotel in Kabul. One postcard depicted "The Ruins of the Afghan Museum." It's like a joke. You know you've been at war too long when you are selling postcards of rubble. These governments we want to break have normalized a culture of constant warfare. Who are we to think we can end those cultures in a grand renaissance of freedom, democracy, and abundant human rights for all? This might sell to the mainstream press and public, but what genius really thinks we can actually do this in Iraq? Selling such a gameplan is like trying to sell office space in that pile of rubble north of Battery Park. Are we selling postcards of that yet?
What a silly question. I guess it's a consolation that some things still make me cringe. Oh goody, here's one that looks like one of those souvenir cartoon maps, like the one of Amsterdam showing hookers mooning the stoned locals, only this time it's cartoon buildings burning. Yeah, a "day of infamy"- where tragically HUNDREDS of cartoonists and graphic designers simultaneously had brain farts.
I found another blogger against the new war, and a slacker-in-arms, concerned that we have forgotten our original impulse in invading Afghanistan: read the comments by the Slacktivist.
As pointed to by my friend and another blogger against the new war, Interesting Monstah, read an anti-war activist information resource list from the Nation.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Postcards of Rubble
The Pottery Barn Theory of Regime Shopping~~~~
Tom Friedman of the New York Times was on NPR this morning talking about his Pottery Barn Theory regarding the plans the US always has about taking down a government and rebuilding something they like better. You break it, you bought it. Do we really want to be responsible for rebuilding the infrastructure and government of another country, and setting up the first secular, oil-rich, democratically-elected, free/fair-market-friendly, Arab/US-backed government in the Middle East? That region has no model for that kind of state. Our ally states- whose leaderships were in no way elected in free/fair elections- will not be liking the new US outpost in their midst. Turkey- a serious military power and important US training ground- will have none of us as long as we're trying to make alliances with their arch-enemy, the Kurdish insurgent groups. The US and UK are poised to start ripping down this hopelessly complex and ancient set of structures in the middle of the Middle East, in Iraq. I'm not going to say anything about the atrocities of Hussein's regime (and how they've been exaggerated in the US press- see a blog by Tom Tomorrow addressing the infamous false baby-incubator-theft story), in any case I don't think this tyrant is something we can afford to break. And plus, according to international law, acts of unprovoked aggression by one state against the other are criminal.
Tom Friedman also pointed to the mess in Afghanistan, where the current leader survived an assassination attempt this past week. He collects postcards for his wife, and he bought her a pile of them in a hotel in Kabul. One postcard depicted "The Ruins of the Afghan Museum." It's like a joke. You know you've been at war too long when you are selling postcards of rubble. These governments we want to break have normalized a culture of constant warfare. Who are we to think we can end those cultures in a grand renaissance of freedom, democracy, and abundant human rights for all? This might sell to the mainstream press and public, but what genius really thinks we can actually do this in Iraq? Selling such a gameplan is like trying to sell office space in that pile of rubble north of Battery Park. Are we selling postcards of that yet?
What a silly question. I guess it's a consolation that some things still make me cringe. Oh goody, here's one that looks like one of those souvenir cartoon maps, like the one of Amsterdam showing hookers mooning the stoned locals, only this time it's cartoon buildings burning. Yeah, a "day of infamy"- where tragically HUNDREDS of cartoonists and graphic designers simultaneously had brain farts.
I found another blogger against the new war, and a slacker-in-arms, concerned that we have forgotten our original impulse in invading Afghanistan: read the comments by the Slacktivist.
As pointed to by my friend and another blogger against the new war, Interesting Monstah, read an anti-war activist information resource list from the Nation.
The Arm of Laocoon ~~~~
or, the Debut of the Slacker Stalker's Fractured Fine Art History (Pun Intended)
It turns out that if you can stick out the collective committee-driven creative process, you can lose a whole right arm and get it back again. Maybe not for 1,956 years, but eventually, you can get that first, best arm back. In the first century "before our era" (B.O.E.) (as the academic secularists in Russia still say instead of "B.C.") a committee of three Greeks, Agesander, Polydorus, and Athenodorus, created a monument to the suffering of a Department of Psychic Works employee for the City of Troy who warned the devastated remnants of leadership to Beware Greeks Bearing Gifts (Timeo Danaos, et dona ferentes!). He and his sons were killed in an accident while they were tidepooling (by serpents sent by the angry goddess underwriting the Greek effort), and the Trojans thought that was proof of malfeasance of that particular DPW employee, Mr. Laocoon, and proceded to solicit gifts from their enemy Greeks, who obliged. Troy was destroyed by the Greeks about 1184 B.O.E. Look at the face of Laocoon's monument and know the suffering of the passionate public servant hung out to dry by management. Meanwhile, the story of the monument. The statue was unearthed in 1506 O.E. when Michelangelo was on the gallery circuit, trying out his new "bag of rocks" muscle-bound floppy-wristed rentboy look in the medium of marble, and he got a look at the 1st century B.O.E. sculpture, which had lost its right arm. He came up with a theory of how the arm should look- bent backwards over the head- with a nice limp wrist. The owners of the galleries (failed artists) told him to stick to his girly pietas. Their non-union and probably heterosexual stooge, Mr. Montorsoli, glued a macho John Travolta disco-pointing arm on the figure in 1532 O.E. In 1905, B.C.E. (Before the Communist Era, when bourgeois sculptures were reconstructed by committee, ushering in the artistic school of Futurism), an archeologist was in a marble-cutter/ antique shop and discovered a nice limp-wristed arm, and he, a Mr. Ludwig Pollack, was a secret partisan of the Michelangelo School of Laocoon Armism - the MSLA (a turn-of-the-century kind of gay social club), so he knew that this was the original lost arm of that bereaved public servant, and so it was.
Mr. Laocoon was finally made whole again in 1957 O.E., after the fall of the Communist Facists (and their long-lived but unproductive Komitet for Creative Reproletarianization of Antirevolutionary Art by Propertarianists-- CRAPKOM) ...and after other partisans of the MSLA found the rest of the pieces that comprised the supporting fragments of the arm. It took them a long time because of the early-century invention of absinthe, popular among the Armists. OK, I made that last part up. Nobody knows why it took so long, except that every stage of this sculpture's life involved committees, and no doubt then committee meetings. Eventually the suffering Laocoon was made whole. Don't he & his son look happy about it?
I wonder why I can't find an on-line postcard of Laocoon. I guess that facial expression just doesn't say "have a nice day." Here is a PDF of a lecture on the real history of "Laokoon" (the metric spelling). Read a linked-up version of the story from the Tufts 'Perseus' network of Classics databases here.
Last Call~~~~
My girlfriend was hijacked by breast cancer, her body destroyed by disease, her mind by terror. After her diagnosis of involvement of bone cancer in her neck vertebrae on 9/11/01, we went shoe shopping. She responded to the terror of her diagnosis and the global paroxysms of terror after that date by trying to make "normal" happen as often as it could. She cleaned the house. She bought me small gifts. She made breakfast while I watched CNN. She kept me as close as she could, which meant not as close as before in some ways, closer in others. She stopped smoking her medicinal marijuana and she started to dream again. We stayed up late in eachother's arms talking about dreams. She called me the Sunday before she ended her life and left a message: "Hi baby. I'm just calling to tell you I love you, I really do. I'm ok. I hope you're ok. I'll talk to you soon."
Today NPR is playing excerpts from the Sonic Memorial to the Trade Center. The recordings of the last phone calls sound like that last message my paramour left me. Nonurgent, heartfelt, normal. These sound remnants are the aural postcards of rubble.
I kept that last message until Sprint PCS suddenly deleted it. It's too gruesome to lose the last recorded sound of a silenced voice, but like a postcard- you can only re-examine it so many times. It's hard to admit that I am more than the sum of my loss, and that this lost sound postcard is really not more than a postcard. Someday I'll let go of my anger at losing that last message, and their subsequent shittiness in their treatment of me in my distress, but for now I stoke a little fire in my heart and wish nothing but humiliation and disaster for a stupid cell phone company.
P.S. If you also hate Sprint PCS, you can post your complaints to SprintDidABadThing. I'm sorry that I can no longer find IHateSprint.com - which looked like the corporate site, except for the animation of a guy pooping on their logo.
Thursday, September 05, 2002
In my search for more bad Leonard Nimoy poetry...
I have found a kindred blogger who also appreciates the danger of "crossing the beams" of Star Trek and Tolkein elements with that dancing and singing Hobbit video by our friend Spock -- that I blogged about 2 weeks ago. Sorry about adding a Ghostbusters reference to that volatile mix.
I have found a kindred blogger who also appreciates the danger of "crossing the beams" of Star Trek and Tolkein elements with that dancing and singing Hobbit video by our friend Spock -- that I blogged about 2 weeks ago. Sorry about adding a Ghostbusters reference to that volatile mix.
This apt observer of culture has a blog that is classified by Google as "Recreation > Humor > Bizarre > Farts" -- another obvious reason you should check out the spiffiness that is Mr. Pants.
I have so far failed to buy a copy of or find online anything worth mocking from Come Be With Me, but I have found another Nimoy video clip, of him performing his song "Highly Illogical." I also present to you The Leonard Nimoy Estrogen Brigade (LNEB). I am disappointed the page doesn't include seem to include photographs of its "18 and over" female members.
Now, to close, I'm going to join Joan Houlihan, a poetry snob, in quoting some bad U.S. American poetry from a book by Ellen Bass, a book lauded by the popular U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins.
"They pulled you from me like a cork
and all the love flowed out. I adored you
with the squandering passion of spring
that shoots green from every pore. "
Human parasite extractions! Popping noises! Green lasers shooting out of every pore! It's a Sci-Fi thriller stanza! "But if this be pleasure, in what does torture lie?" moans Ms. Houlihan. The article (and poem) in its entirety is linked at The Arts & Letters Daily but can also be read in its original context in her column "The Boston Comment" at Del Sol - "locus of the new literary art."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Removing All Sorrow"
I'm a 29 year old kind-of-widow whose lesbian partner died last October, and as my dear-departed's 51st birthday approaches- and the 1st anniversary of the shitty event that happened on the day after her birthday, 9/11 - I've been noticing a word turning up in lyrics of the sad songs I listen to that seems to beg to be examined: Nepenthe. I'm not a lyrics-listener usually (I'm still sometimes shocked to find out what Led Zeppelin's songs are talking about even after playing the tapes ragged for years), but sometimes a word gets stuck in my mind like a catchy tune. Don't ask me what kind of music I listen to that uses words like Nepenthe. I can't remember what albums I'm listening to-- I'm a widow: I have griefheimers.
"Removing All Sorrow"
I'm a 29 year old kind-of-widow whose lesbian partner died last October, and as my dear-departed's 51st birthday approaches- and the 1st anniversary of the shitty event that happened on the day after her birthday, 9/11 - I've been noticing a word turning up in lyrics of the sad songs I listen to that seems to beg to be examined: Nepenthe. I'm not a lyrics-listener usually (I'm still sometimes shocked to find out what Led Zeppelin's songs are talking about even after playing the tapes ragged for years), but sometimes a word gets stuck in my mind like a catchy tune. Don't ask me what kind of music I listen to that uses words like Nepenthe. I can't remember what albums I'm listening to-- I'm a widow: I have griefheimers.
From Webster's as found on Bibliomania...
"Nepenthe: (Ne*pen"the) n. [Fr. Gr. removing all sorrow; hence, an epithet of an Egyptian drug which lulled sorrow for the day; not + sorrow, grief.] A drug used by the ancients to give relief from pain and sorrow; — by some supposed to have been opium or hasheesh. Hence, anything soothing and comforting. Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe. -- Poe ."
Poe's quote is part of the wish for forgetfulness from the narrator of "The Raven" who couldn't bear to live with the memory of a lover who had died.
The herb the ancients called Nepenthe was probably actually borage, a weed often found in garbage heaps and at the edge of gardens. Borage may be descended from a word meaning a couragous man in a Celtic tongue- "barrach." It may also come from a corrupted version of the Latin "cor" (heart) plus "ago" (I bring)- or courage, "I bring heart." Roman soldiers were given borage-steeped wine before battle. It makes you absolutely forget sadness and fear, and dwell only in the moment. Borage oil, something you can buy in any health food store, is sold as a source of healthy fatty acids, for heart trouble.
What my widow friends call griefheimers, absentmindedness due to grief, is the opposite of Nepenthe's state of mind-- it is dwelling so completely in the past that you forget the moment absolutely. It makes you lock your car keys in the car while it's running. It is a constant state of un-heartedness, humiliation-- spoiled food, stained clothes. Nepenthe is mental bleach.
Some mental bleach, as recommended by a widow friend:
equal measure boiling water and whiskey
a spoonful of honey
a squirt of lemon juice.
(a traditional English hot toddy)
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
"Stay calm and work with simple ideas." -- Nanna Candelaria
I love my bellydance teacher Nanna's pearls of wisdom. Tuesdays are the nights I harvest my pearls. Tonight she talked about creating a routine in bite-sized chunks, staying calm and working with simple ideas. She also said (I'm paraphrasing) "find the places in your body that are calm and stay with them."
Some other Nanna pearls, talking about moving your hands into position consciously: "How you got there is part of why you're there." Another one, talking about visualizing planes of horizontal movement: "If you hold these things in your mind, they will happen in your hands." And another: "Look for opportunities to open your chest." She was talking about keeping an open posture in your upper body. Talking about holding different volumes of movement in mind: "move in your full dimension." So much about dance is also about projecting yourself into physical space with control and precision, and Nanna's advice comes back to me in stressful work situations all the time.
Read another professional dancer's rave review of Nanna as a dancer and teacher. This link has a link to Amira, where Nanna performs. Read a short article Nanna wrote about taking her troupe Tabu to an international dance festival in Beijing. This link also has a nice picture Nanna uses for promotion. Sign up for her Wednesday beginning (levels 1 & 2) bellydance classes at the Berkeley YW. Upstairs there at my links list of "Some Obsessions" also has a link to a nice photo of Nanna with her troupe in action.
Sunday, September 01, 2002
Sometimes she thought about packing it all up and moving into town.
This was the caption on a favorite old t-shirt of mine, under a picture of a pretty young cowgirl kneeling on the ground and looking up at the moon. Then I packed it all up and moved into town, leaving my horse and saddle behind.
Today I'm homesick, even after a day (yesterday) of homie-hop at the hip-hop stage at gay pride Oakland, organized by Juba from the Deep Dickollective (D/DC). A whole ten-minute freestyle with a stage full of queer rappers, mostly butch men and women, mostly but not all African-American, was the phenomenal climax of the show. It may have been the first ever city gay pride hip hop freestyle, at least maybe the first publically-sanctioned one of that magnitude. And most of the rappers in that freestyle were young- some barely drinking age. As D/DC sings (and thank the gods for this fact): "Why keep on trippin'-trippin'-trippin...? We are your future."
So why am I homesick? If I wanted more laid-back music there was the womyn's (wymyn's?) stage where someone I know saw a nice lady playing solo acoustic guitar and singing a song about yoga. Oh it wasn't (all) that bad. That stage also featured Kindness, and they do rock, they do, with Dawn Richardson of 4-Non-Blondes at the drums and bassist Catherine Chase and Shelley Doty (a guitar superforce). So, what don't I have here that I had back in the sticks?
See a web cam where I'm from.
OK it's not exactly where I'm from, it's about 2 hours east of where I'm from. And this is 43 hours west of where I live now. If I pointed my Toyota at Northern New York and started driving today, just three days' drive.
Now, to pull out my fiddle and polish up some tunes for a hoe-down this afternoon for some other expat citified hicks who grew up with live music as something you do for eachother as a way to pass the time, with whom I went to an empty San Francisco bar last night and saw The Trout Band, which may or may not have included some of these people. (This picture speaks a thousand twangy words.) The commonplaceness of live music is something the rural US has in common with urban Russia-- another part of the mysterious conglomerations of reasons why I ended up there at age 20, I guess.
Thursday, August 29, 2002
Another Reason to Abandon Identity-Based Politics: the Curse of the G/L Consonant Cluster
I work in the US for the queer non-profit IGLHRC. I make fun of the acronym of the US queer organization NOGLSTP. A respected queer foundation is about to fund GLO-P (in South Africa- I see they have just changed their name to OUT) and GAG-L in Paraguay. I don't believe we are a minority if you include all permutations of queerness, but for acronymic consonant cluster reasons alone, I vote for "sexual minorities" to replace "gay and lesbian." Think of it. SM. OrgaSM, SMile, SMash, AweSM. Of course, I always tell people we should rename our organization Up With Sodomy, and have the Up With Sodomy Singers on a perpetual world tour. But they don't let me into the branding and fundraising meetings since I kept suggesting a human rights slave auction.
I have been living both in an identity-based and in a post-identity world now for at least a decade of queer activism, and the acronymicization of "GL" is just gonna kill me some day soon now. Yes, even with all the pretty GLOEs and GLAADs and GLSTNs.
I work in the US for the queer non-profit IGLHRC. I make fun of the acronym of the US queer organization NOGLSTP. A respected queer foundation is about to fund GLO-P (in South Africa- I see they have just changed their name to OUT) and GAG-L in Paraguay. I don't believe we are a minority if you include all permutations of queerness, but for acronymic consonant cluster reasons alone, I vote for "sexual minorities" to replace "gay and lesbian." Think of it. SM. OrgaSM, SMile, SMash, AweSM. Of course, I always tell people we should rename our organization Up With Sodomy, and have the Up With Sodomy Singers on a perpetual world tour. But they don't let me into the branding and fundraising meetings since I kept suggesting a human rights slave auction.
I have been living both in an identity-based and in a post-identity world now for at least a decade of queer activism, and the acronymicization of "GL" is just gonna kill me some day soon now. Yes, even with all the pretty GLOEs and GLAADs and GLSTNs.
There's only one peach with a hole in the middle. Maybe.
Mmmm. Peaches. Maybe she hadn't seen Tiny's Organic Donut Peaches yet when Peaches wrote that song.
Well, I thought a cure for my gloomy mood might be to go to Whole Foods (aka Whole Paycheck) and buy myself a package of those bizarre new donut peaches they are selling for $6/half-dozen. The price of a matinee movie, a luxurious novelty, they are organic- nothing but bug footprints on them. They are small, sweet, easy to eat, very sexy. Then, talking to a friend on the phone, I was musing that today is the 1/2 year mark for the birthday of my 103 year old adopted great-great grandmother, Valentina Mikhailovna, AKA my babushka. We have blogs and e-mail as a daily part of our lives, while she is still getting used to women walking out on the street wearing pants, and now we've entered a whole new state of whacky- we have donut-shaped peaches. Then, I looked them up. They are much older than Valentina Mikhailovna. The Saucer Peach, Chinese Peach, Saturn Peach, Flat Peach. The third day of the third month of the Chinese Lunar Calendar is the Festival of the Flat Peach. The other peach with a hole in the middle. As I've written this I've nibbled down four.
Mmmm. Peaches. Maybe she hadn't seen Tiny's Organic Donut Peaches yet when Peaches wrote that song.
Well, I thought a cure for my gloomy mood might be to go to Whole Foods (aka Whole Paycheck) and buy myself a package of those bizarre new donut peaches they are selling for $6/half-dozen. The price of a matinee movie, a luxurious novelty, they are organic- nothing but bug footprints on them. They are small, sweet, easy to eat, very sexy. Then, talking to a friend on the phone, I was musing that today is the 1/2 year mark for the birthday of my 103 year old adopted great-great grandmother, Valentina Mikhailovna, AKA my babushka. We have blogs and e-mail as a daily part of our lives, while she is still getting used to women walking out on the street wearing pants, and now we've entered a whole new state of whacky- we have donut-shaped peaches. Then, I looked them up. They are much older than Valentina Mikhailovna. The Saucer Peach, Chinese Peach, Saturn Peach, Flat Peach. The third day of the third month of the Chinese Lunar Calendar is the Festival of the Flat Peach. The other peach with a hole in the middle. As I've written this I've nibbled down four.