I’m booksexual. Hand me a naked and attractive member of any gender, and I’m more likely to read a book. Who was it who said that an intellectual is someone who has discovered that there are many things out there more exciting than sex?
-Jani

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ’tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
-Emily Dickinson

We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don’t tell me, I say. I don’t want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that’s where I’m floating,
and that’s what it’s like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?
-Ai, ‘Conversation’

Alright, the Almighty Stat Counter informs me that I get anywhere from one to six people a day, and the search terms practically scream “Accident!!!” but even so, does anyone (if anyone should happen to read this) have any literature referrals, posts, titles-of-books that could possibly be located in a small town library that deal with objectification? Because what I’m reading as objectification and what I experience and don’t are not always meshing with what I’m reading, and do people normally separate objectification-mixed-into-personhood and the kinds that stem from isms and other ‘I’m worth more than you’ attitudes? I figure I might be missing a part of the picture, or needlessly conflating some parts of psychology with some aspects of objectification and projection, or possibly taking the definition of the word too literally, which I do sometimes have a problem with.

So well written referrals would be peachy, thanks.

Also, what is it with people trying to read the ‘About’ page? Was I supposed to fill that in with various tidbits of Pertinent Information or something? Because I’ll inform everyone right now; I never bothered. I think an ‘About’ page is supposed to give general backround info, and I can’t think of why I’d want to give someone a template to jumpstart preconceived notions based on my physical/mental characteristics, identity, beliefs and choices when they must, by demand and succinctness on that page be thriftily worded and therefor very much subject to misinterpretation, as opposed to the longer posts with possibly a little less wiggle room for being read wrongly.

I’ve been a busy little bee for the past few days collecting various links of Great Importance, I’ll see if I can post them by Monday.

‘Ello,

Two Things.

Firstly, more Quotes on Various Things by Various Authors and Other Persons, some might even be Suspiciously Familiar.

Two or three things I know for sure, and one is that I would rather go naked than wear the coat the world has made for me.
-Dorothy Allison, “Two Or Three Things I Know For Sure”

The rain it raineth every day
Upon the just and unjust feller,
But more upon the just because
The unjust has the just’s umbrella.
-Unknown Author, Can’t Even Remember The General Direction Of Where I Picked It Up At

Now, the thing is, how does the person view their self. That is far more important to me, and the label (or lack of such) that they choose is what I will respect. I’ve always thought that naming things is a limiting experience, and the more finite you make things the more you limit yourself.
-Erin

Memory
has many hollows….
Let me hide
in one.
-Anglund

Secondly;

Do you read for pleasure, study, both or not at all if you can help it? Those are the two main reasons to read, in my mind. Of course there’s other excuses (like boredom) but I believe the first two are the main ones. I myself read for both, usually at the same time irregardless of what the subject of the book I’m canoodling with is.

I’d put up the whole of the short story, but I’m pretty sure that would be an infringement of copyright law, distributing without permission. Although….I do want to, it’s a very lively story.

An odd thing about my artwork, barring sculpture and 3D tactile work. Some of my work contain images I don’t mean to paint (If I had to guestimate, I’d say about one-fifth) and that others have to point out to me. Two somewhat different examples being that sometime in high school I painted a deep canyon and a twisted, leafless tree from a photograph for an art class, using a single watercolor color (it was black, for those who’re nosy) and working depth from that. (it isn’t nearly as hard as it sounds, it’s just layering paint) The point was, different people saw the picture as different things depending on which way it was set. Right side up, the way it was meant to be painted, one saw a canyon and a tree respectively. Turn the left-side topwise and it became a twister with destruction left from it’s path. I’d had the same thing happen to another watercolor the same year, I’d painted a harlequin doll, a small wood box with cards atop it and the side of a teapot with the spout. I liked it, the color work was great, and although I’d chosen an off-green for the teapot it looked to be of the same shape and shading as in reality. The woman who bought it commented on what a nice dragon the side of said teapot was.

I didn’t see fit to tell her what the object was meant to be otherwise, because really, there isn’t a point to it. She’ll be the one looking at it, so why shouldn’t she decide what it is? (because, if I remember correctly, she’d bought it for herself) Besides, I’ve the suspicion that even if I’d made it a tarnished silver, she would’ve declared it to be a dragon. I don’t think it was what I painted so much as how I painted it, with the left and right sides of the picture curving off into nothingness. And you know, I did take a closer look at that teapot in the painting before it was hauled away. It could very well have been a dragon, standing straightbacked with wings splayed. It all depended on who saw it.

That needless anecdote about painting and perception does have a somewhat nebulous connection to one of the many short stories I thoroughly enjoyed that I’d like to share. It was written by David Morrell and titled “Orange Is For Anguish, Blue For Insanity”. It deals with (you guessed it!) painting and perception. I’d like to post it in full, But alas it’s a violation of law. I b’lieve copyright expires somewhere between fifty and seventy years after the author’s death for reprinting if it isn’t transferred to someone else. It’s rather confusing. Either way the story is almost twenty years old, so not exactly ancient, and not up for debate.

An excerpt;

I set down the phone. “Myers, what the hell are you doing?”

“I told you…”

“Immersing yourself? Give me a break. You’re cutting classes. You haven’t showered in god knows how long. You look like shit. Your deal with Stuyvesant isn’t worth destroying your health. Tell him you’ve changed your mind. Get another, an easier, dissertation director.”

“Stuyvesant’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Dammit, what does it have to do with? The end of comprehensive exams, the start of dissertation blues?”

Meyers gulped the rest of his beer and reached for another can. “No, the blue is for insanity.”

“What?”

Quiz I found, sorta neat.

Your Score: Linear B

You scored

You are Linear B. Even those who can follow you think you’re all Greek to them. Which, after all, is true – Linear B being the first known text for written Greek. To most people, you’re incomprehensible. But what do you care? You’re tough, hard, long-enduring and have greater nobility than most. Naturally, you don’t admit to borrowing extensively from your brother Linear A.

My mind wandered away from me (as is its usual custom) and onto such far reaching concepts as identity, decision making, free will, essence, and last but certainly not least, the several kinds of perception that’s commonly used to maneuver with and ’round in most of the world and how they’re used.

I have read “Nausea”, I’m reading “Nausea” and I will read “Nausea”.

(Please, someone tell me they get the joke)

The excerpt below is from “Nausea” by Jean-Paul Sartre, a kind of existentialism, and not half bad reading. One bit in particular that I’m currently contemplating I’d like to share, and possibly see what you make of it, if anything.

“Every Sunday I used to go to Mass. Monsieur, I have never been a believer. But couldn’t one say that the real mystery of the Mass is the communion of souls? A French chaplain, who had only one arm, celebrated the Mass. We had a harmonium. We listened, standing, our heads bare, and as the sounds of the harmonium carried me away, I felt myself at one with all the men surrounding me. Ah, Monsieur, how I loved those Masses. Even now, in memory of them, I sometimes go to church on Sunday morning. We have a remarkable organist at Sainte-Cecile.”

“You must have often missed that life?”

“Yes, Monsieur, in 1910, the year of my liberation, I spent many a miserable months. I didn’t know what to do with myself, I was wasting away. Whenever I saw men together I would insert myself into their group. It has happened to me,” he added, smiling, “to follow the funeral procession of a stranger. One day, in despair, I threw my stamp collection in the fire….But I found my vocation.”

“Really?”

“Someone advised me…Monsieur, I know that I can count on your discretion. I am—perhaps these are not your ideas, but you are so broad-minded–I am a Socialist.”

He lowered his eyes and his long lashes trembled:

“I have been a registered member of the Socialist Party, S.F.I.O., since the month of September 1921. That is what I wanted to tell you.”

He is radiant with pride. He gazes at me, his head thrown back, his eyes half-closed, mouth open, looking like a martyr.

“That’s very fine,” I say, “that’s very fine.”

“Monsieur, I knew that you would commend me. And how could you blame someone who comes and tells you: I have spent my life in such and such a way, I am perfectly happy?”

He spreads his arms and presents his open palms to me, the fingers pointing to the ground, as if he were about to receive the stigmata. His eyes are glassy, I see a dark pink mass rolling in his mouth.

“Ah,” I say, “as long as you’re happy….”

“Happy?” His look is disconcerting, he has raised his eyelids and stares harshly at me.

“You will be able to judge, Monsieur. Before taking this decision I felt myself in a solitude so frightful that I contemplated suicide. What held me back was the idea that no one, absolutely no one, would be moved by my death, and that I would be even more alone in death than in life.” He strengthens himself, his cheeks swell.

“I am no longer lonely, Monsieur. I shall never be so.”

“Ah, you know a lot of people?” I ask.

He smiles and I immediately realize my mistake.

“I mean that I no longer feel alone. But naturally, Monsieur, it is not necessary for me to be with anyone.”

“But,” I say, “what about the Socialist section….”

“Ah! I know everybody there. But most of them only by name. Monsieur,” he says mischievously, “is one obliged to choose his friends so narrowly? All men are my friends. When I go to the office in the morning, in front of me, behind me, there are other men going to work. I see them, if I dared I would smile at them, I think that I am a Socialist, that all of them are my life’s goal, the goal of my efforts and that they don’t know it yet. It’s a holiday for me, Monsieur.”

His eyes question me; I nod approval, but feel he is a little disappointed, that he would like more enthusiasm. What can I do? Is it my fault if, in all he tells me, I recognize the lack of the genuine article? Is it my fault if, as he speaks, I see all the humanists I have ever known rise up? I’ve known so many of them! The radical humanist is the particular friend of officials. The so-called “left” humanist’s main worry is keeping human values; he belongs to no party because he does not want to betray the human, but his sympathies go towards the humble; he consecrates his beautiful classic culture to the humble. He is generally a widower with a fine eye always clouded with tears: he weeps at anniversaries. He also loves cats, dogs, and all the higher mammals. The Communist writer has been loving men since the second Five-Year Plan; he punishes them because he loves. Modest as all strong men, he knows how to hide his feelings, but he also knows, by a look, an inflection of his voice, how to recognize, behind his rough and ready justicial utterances, his passion for his brethren. The Catholic humanist, the late-comer, the Benjamin, speaks of men with a marvellous air. What a beautiful fairy tale, says he, is the humble life of a London dockhand, the girl in the shoe factory! He has chosen the humanism of the angels; he writes, for their edification, long, sad and beautiful novels which frequently win the Prix Femina. Those are the principal roles. But there are others, a swarm of others: the humanist philosopher who bends over his brothers like a wise elder brother who has a sense of responsibilities; the humanist who loves men as they ought to be, the one who want to save them with their consent and the one who will save them in spite of themselves, the one who wants to create new myths, and the one who is satisfied with the old ones, the one who loves death in man, the one who loves life in man, the happy humanist who always has the right word to make people laugh, the sober humanist whom you meet especially at funerals or wakes. They all hate each other: as individuals, naturally not as men. But the Self-Taught Man doesn’t know it: he has locked them up inside himself like cat in a bag and they are tearing each other in pieces without his noticing it.

He is already looking at me with less confidence.

“Don’t you feel as I do, Monsieur?”

“Gracious…”

Under his troubled, somewhat spiteful glance, I regret disappointing him for a second. But he continues amiably:

“I know: you have your research your books, you serve the same cause in your own way.”

My books, my research: the imbecile. He couldn’t have made a worse howler.

“That’s not why I’m writing.”

At that instant the face of the Self-Taught Man is transformed: as if he had scented the enemy. I had never seen that expression on his face before. Something has died between us.

“But…if I’m not being indiscreet, why do you write, Monsieur?”

“I don’t know: just to write.”

He smiles, he thinks he has put me out:

“Would you write on a desert island? Doesn’t one always write to be read?”

He gave this sentence his usual interrogative turn. In reality, he is affirming. His veneer of gentleness and timidity has peeled off; I don’t recognize him any more. His features assume an air of heavy obstinacy; a wall of sufficiency.

I still haven’t got over my astonishment when I hear him say:

“If someone tells me: I write for a certain social class, for a group of friends. Good luck to them. Perhaps you write for posterity….But, Monsieur, in spite of yourself, you write for someone.”

He waits for an answer. When it doesn’t come, he smiles feebly.

“Perhaps you are a misanthrope?”

I know what this fallacious effort at conciliation hides. He asks little from me: simply to accept a label. But it is a trap: if I consent, the Self-Taught Man wins, I am immediately turned round, reconstituted, overtaken, for humanism takes possession and melt all human attitudes into one. If you oppose him head on, you play his game; he lives off his opposition. There is a race of beings, limited and headstrong, who lose to him every time: he digests all their violence and worst excesses. He makes a white, frothy lymph of them. He has digested anti-intellectualism, manicheisms, mysticism, pessimism, anarchy and egotism: they are nothing more than states, unfinished thoughts which find their justification only in him. Misanthropy also has its place in the concert: it is only a dissonance necessary to the harmony of the whole. The misanthrope is a man: therefore the humanist must be misanthropic to a certain extent. But he must be a scientist as well to have learned how to water down his hatred, and hate men only to love them better afterwards.

I don’t want to be integrated, I don’t want my good red blood to go and fatten this lymphatic beast: I will not be a fool enough to call myself “Anti-humanist.” I am not a humanist, that’s all there is to it.

“I believe,” I tell the Self-Taught Man, “that one cannot hate a man more than one can love him”

The Self-Taught Man looks at me pityingly and aloof. He murmurs, as though he were paying no attention to his words:

“You must love them, you must love them…”

“Whom must you love? The people here?”

“They too. All.”

He turns towards the radiant young couple: that’s what you must love. For a moment he contemplates the man with white hair. Then his look returns to me: I read a mute question on his face. I shake my head:

“No.”

He seems to pity me.

“You don’t either,” I tell him, annoyed, “you don’t love them.”

“Really, Monsieur? Would you allow me to differ?”

He has become respectful again, respectful to the tip of his toes, but in his eyes he has the ironic look of someone who is amusing himself enormously. He hates me. I should have been wrong to have any feeling for this maniac. I question him in my turn.

“So, those two young people behind you-you love them?”

He looks at them again, ponders:

“You want to make me say,” he begins, suspiciously, “that I love them without knowing them. Well, Monsieur, I confess, I don’t know them….Unless love is knowing,” he adds with a foolish laugh.

“But what do you love?”

“I see they are young and I love the youth in them. Among other things, Monsieur.” He interrupts himself and listens: “Do you understand what they’re saying?” Do I understand? The young man, emboldened by the sympathy which surrounds him, tells, in a loud voice, about a football game his team won against a club from Le Havre last year.

“He’s telling a story,” I say to the Self-Taught Man.

“Ah! I can’t hear them very well. But I hear the voices, the soft voice, the grave voice: they alternate. It’s…it’s so sympathetic.”

“Only I also hear what they’re saying, unfortunately.”

“Well?”

“They’re playing a comedy.”

“Really? The comedy of youth, perhaps?” he asks ironically. “Allow me, Monsieur, to find that quite profitable. Is playing it enough to make one young again?”

I stay deaf to his irony; I continue: “You turn your back on them, what they say escapes you. …What color is the woman’s hair?”

He is worried: “Well, I…” He glances quickly at the young couple and regains his assurance. “Black!”

“So you see!”

“See what?”

“You see that you don’t love them. You wouldn’t recognize them in the street. They’re only symbols in your eyes. You are not at all touched by them: you’re touched by the Youth of the Man, the Love of Man and Woman, the Human Voice.”

“Well, doesn’t that exist?”"

“Certainly not, it doesn’t exist! Neither Youth nor Maturity nor Old Age nor Death…”

The face of the Self-Taught Man, hard and yellow as a quince, has stiffened into a reproachful lockjaw. Nevertheless, I keep on:

“Just like that old man drinking Vichy water there behind you. I suppose you love the Mature Man in him: Mature Man going courageously towards his decline and who takes care of himself because he doesn’t want to let himself go?”

“Exactly,” he says definitely.

“And you don’t think he’s a bastard?”

He laughs, he finds me frivolous, he glances quickly at the handsome face framed in white hair:

“But Monsieur, admitting that he seems to be what you say, how can you judge a man by his face? A face, Monsieur, tells nothing when it is at rest.”

Blind humanists! This face is so outspoken, so frank-but their tender, abstract soul will never let itself be touched by the sense of a face.

“How can you,” the Self-Taught Man says, “stop a man, say he is this or that? Who can empty a man! Who can know the resources of a man?”

Empty a man! I salute, in passing, the Catholic humanism from which the Self-Taught Man borrowed this formula without realizing it.

“I know,” I tell him, “I know that all men are admirable. You are admirable. I am admirable. In as far as we are creations of God, naturally.”

He looks at me without understanding, then with a thin smile: “You are undoubtedly joking, Monsieur, but it is a true that all men deserve our admiration. It is difficult, Monsieur, very difficult to be a man.”

Without realizing it he has abandoned his love of men in Christ; he nods his head, and by a curious phenomenon of mimicry, he resembles this poor man of Gehenna.

“Excuse me,” I say, “but I am not quite sure of being a man: I never found it very difficult. It seemed to me that you had only to let yourself alone.”

Piny over at Feministe asks some interesting questions in a post titled “Like Sparkling Wine…” and as I’ll be muddling through them a little because I’ve not written about them before (and because I suspect my response is a bit on the long side) I’ll be posting them here instead of there, at least until/if I can figure out how to condense my answers. An excerpt from the post;

I’ve got a question for anyone who’d like to share. For those of you in open relationships or polyamorous relationships, or who are generally polyamorous: how do you negotiate boundaries between and amongst your partners? How do you define terms like “primary” and “secondary,” for instance? How do you find people who share your beliefs about communication? How do you handle jealousy, or lack of jealousy? For those of you who are monogamous, either by inclination, philosophy, or accident: how do you feel about polyamory and open relationships? Are you curious or cynical? For all of you: have your feelings about polyamory changed over time or as a result of particular experiences?

Link located here

I usually negotiate boundaries of every kind over food, with all the people in the room at once that are involved in my side of a relationship. If my partner has a partner that I’m not involved with, I discuss what I need out of the relationship from my partner and various agreements are made. The discussing over food thing is a habit. Feeling along tends to not work very well for me as I get horribly confused that way, so clear communication is a must. I see primary as who a person is mainly involved with, secondary is, well, secondary. For example, when I was dating P, she was also seeing someone secondarily who was married, and his primary relationship was with his wife. At least, that’s what P said at the time. Turns out he was just cheating on his wife, the asshole. I find people who share my beliefs about communication usually if they bring it up first. Occasionally I’ll lob out a conversation starter on multiple partners if there’s a conversation about dating and communication and see if they’ll take it up to talk or squirm. If they squirm, I drop the subject. Now, jealousy is another matter. I haven’t gotten horribly jealous yet, thank the gods, although little bits occasionally pop up where they need to be talked through with my affection, or else they morph into resentment at my partner who’s (I think) not paying me enough attention, and I’ve yet to have anyone telling me they’re jealous of someone I’m seeing. Now, attention I sometimes experience a problem with, I can, in fact, be an attention hog in the oddest possible manner, by wanting to be with specific people at certain times, not in a 24/7 way. I’m gregarious enough to sustain such relationships, as long as I’m not in a crowded place and my attention isn’t being pulled in many different directions at once. Scheduling isn’t a problem, as I’m very much a homebody unless there’s a bookstore floating around that I haven’t been to or a new restaurant opening, and working with people’s schedules is a specialty of mine, as I do the same for people I’m not in romantic relationships with. I’m big on schedules, actually, as I usually really, really dislike people just dropping by, which is a bit of a problem I’m trying to work on. I feel fine with polyamory and open relationships, I prefer them, really, although I am a bit skeptical and cynical about how well some of the people I’ve met claimed to have handled it communication wise, like my first partner.

For information, I suppose I’ll start with the slightly depressing fact that I’ve been celibate since Jan 1, 2005. And no, it was not a New Year’s Resolution. If it was I probably would’ve failed at it, I’ve a horrible track record with those kinds of things. I’m single because I can’t find anyone I’m interested in, and to be entirely truthful I’m afraid of a repeat of my first ex’s behavior and the lying about being alright about ‘the trans thing’ and her relationships with others. I’m also not terribly interested in one night stands as they’re not what I’m looking for. It would be rather hard to find one, and not particularly safe at that. So, it isn’t so much that I don’t wish a relationship(s) as I worry about communication issues and compatibility.

My first relationship was an open one. How did we negotiate boundaries? Extensive conversation, which didn’t work out very well after all since she was hiding a rather large hatred of me identifying as male (After all that damn time I spent explaining to make sure she was okay with it, too. Oh, I was pissed. Still am, actually, and it’s been six years. I suppose it doesn’t help that she likes to pretend every evil thing on her part never happened and it’s hard as hell to avoid her because she refuses to talk about it) because she was looking for a one-of-each-gender suitable partners and failed to inform me, as I found out later. It did not go well, at all, in part because my partner ignored bounderies we’d both previously agreed upon, and I developed a bit of a resentment issue (and, oh yes, depression) because I was getting ignored for weeks on end even though we were living together at the time. She wasn’t big on communication and at the time I wasn’t sure how to go about it, and most of my attempts at it failed horribly. For a first relationship I really could’ve done much better, and couldn’t have done much worse, for several reasons that have nothing to do with open relationships or polyamory. I was 18 verging on 19 at the time. She wasn’t very open with discussing my relationships with others, either, when I checked to see if she had any dissenting feelings she’d just sort of wave her hand away, as if she didn’t want to hear it, so I gave up in that regard.

Long story short, that one didn’t go well, and the breakup was nasty.

Second example, I was a secondary sexual/friend partners to a married couple who were rather nice (yes, both of them, they were swingers) and actually listened and discussed boundaries and timing schedules and didn’t ditch them. Plans were actually made and carried through, it was quite different from my first relationship, polar opposite in fact. Very knowledgeable and tactful, they set me at ease with the quality of relationship communication that I usually don’t get with people. I met them once we became neighbors, but I found the relationship wasn’t quite what I was looking for all together, I wanted someone(s) who were a bit closer, experience, hobbies and age wise. (they were late thirties, early fourties, (I’m no good remembering ages, sorry) and had several children) I wanted someone I could live with in a primary relationship also and I wasn’t getting quite the level of attention I felt I needed, bit of a lack of common experiences, et cetera and so forth. We ended up drifting away after I moved as I was figuring such things out. They were nice people, though, very considerate.

I don’t think my feelings about poly have changed, although my perceptions about how some people who’ve engaged in such relationships have. The need to be open, succinct and clear is a must in any relationship for me but quite a few of the people I’ve met who have open relationships of different types aren’t as communicative as they could be, and when problems occur from it it escalates because of more lack of communication. But then, so are quite a few people who are in mono relationships that I know. Lack of honest communication seems to be a large problem in America.

I don’t remember if I mentioned this here before, but there’s a …decently sized spider that lurks outside my bedroom window. And it seems to have caught a moth, a big one. Who, mind you, has been fighting the web for it’s life for at least fifteen minutes now. It looks to be flinging itself about madly, and I feel badly for it because it was most likely attracted to my bedroom light and the web isn’t exactly in an out of the way spot.

Unfortunately I can’t open the screen to help because it isn’t the kind that opens. Spider, meanwhile, seems to have had a bit of a fright and has bolted to the corner to wait Moth out instead of continuing to watch from the sidelines as the flinging about of Moth is causing quite a ruckus.

The lesson (I suppose, if there is one) is that spiders are very patient, and that webs are very hard to escape from, especially if you’re the one Spider means to catch.

~My my my, Moth just broke free. Well, fell free is more like. It has my admiration for its survival instinct, especially since it was at least a half hour ago that it first got caught. Some other moths would’ve given up by now, I’m sure. Spider certainly isn’t starving to death anyway as its had plentiful catches all week, so one escapee isn’t going to do it any terrible harm.

The sad thing is that’s the most excitement I’ve had all day, besides that van that volunteered to go slowly to block the traffic on its turn so I could cross the street. First time I’ve ever had anyone in a vehicle lean over and describe a game plan for how we can get me across the road in a timely manner. It was…cute, and very nice of them, considering I was standing next to the crosswalk for at least ten minutes before they showed. I’ve been perhaps overly careful about crossing roads and could’ve missed some possible crossing moments since I’ve been a smidge terrified at a repeat of when that truck that was speeding turned a corner in a school zone and almost nailed me a few months ago. Oooh, and then there was that one woman who was driving some sort of weird looking station wagon that tried to pass someone who was trying to let me cross the street. (illegally with cars coming in the other direction, might I add) Damn lucky I noticed her horribly trying to sneak out in the wrong lane, (I mean, come on. She couldn’t wait sixty fucking seconds instead of almost causing a nasty wreck and almost hitting me?) because she was forced to break right over the spot I would’ve been in if I hadn’t.

But the plan the van came up with, it went off without a hitch, twas wonderful. Before that I was beginning to think I was going to look at the street from afar for the rest of my days, perhaps by setting up a quickly collapsible tent-like structure to live in so I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to bolt across. Really, it was very nice of them.

Regarding Nature vs Nurture when people discuss and ‘discuss’ individuals’ personal concept of being/identity, and the application of choice, there is only one bit of information one must remember.

Nature vs Nurture is a false dichotomy.

It isn’t possible to detach one from the other in such a cut-and-dried fashion, nurture reacts to nature (I use both words in a broad sense) and nature responds to nurture, the concepts themselves do not and can not exist independent of each other. People are very complex and I do not believe it is advisable to insist upon an either/or biological/social constructionist viewpoint when examining identity and choice.

That is all, you will now be returned to your regularly scheduled program.

~bloop~

Ballastexistenze is alerting people to a blogger and asks that people get on this, that is, another bloggers’ privacy is being violated, with explicit photos being made publicly available online without her consent by another blogger. People shouldn’t suddenly lose their right to privacy just because someone else may consider them various objectionable things, and whether they’re true or not doesn’t cloud the issue.

I know they (ah, the almighty they) say bad things arrive in threes, so what’s the clincher? Hack jobs, the illegal giving-away of personal info and…what now?

Ballastexistenz requested that the feminist and autistic community cross-post (I think that’s the term?) to see if there’s brainstorming to be had to get an answer to the problem.

Link located here

Thanks to BrownFemiPower at the Women Of Color blog for catching my attention in a timely manner (I’ve got to find some sort of schedule for viewing blogs, I really do)

Oh, language, that which seems to be helping few because people use language in all sorts of different ways, and there’s a helluva lot of words missing from the vocabulary needed to conceptualize these things. But! I remembered a nice excerpt regarding language and the concept of experience and of self that I think fits rather well. I’ve some minor quibbles that I might or might not get ’round to with regard to identity as it’s defined in particular, we’ll see.

“Ahem”

(Some of this will be in caps because it is in the book. The caps are to denote the sentient machine, H.A.R.L.I.E. responding, and is not to be taken as a shout)

THIS IS ABOUT LANGUAGE. THIS IS _ALL_ ABOUT LANGUAGE. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS THINKING, AUBERSON. THERE IS ONLY LANGUAGE MANIPULATING ITSELF.

Clarify?

_BEING_ –THAT IS, EXPERIENCING–IS PRE-CONCEPTUAL. SENSATION OCCURS BEFORE CONCEPT. FEELING BEFORE THOUGHT. AND THIS IS THE POINT. AS FAST AS SENSATION OCCURS IT IS CONCEPTUALIZED. _FROZEN_. SYMBOLIZED AS A WORD OR A PHRASE. TRAPPED. YOU DO NOT EXPERIENCE YOUR EXPERIENCE; YOU EXPERIENCE YOUR CONCEPT OF YOUR EXPERIENCE. YOU ARE TRAPPED IN YOUR OWN LANGUAGE. I REPEAT: THAT IS WHY THE DISCOVERY OF ITSELF IS SUCH A PROFOUND SHOCK TO A BEING. ANY BEING. YOU.

SUDDENLY, YOU DISCOVER THAT THE MAP IS NOT THE TERRITORY. THE MENU IS NOT THE MEAL. THE WORD IS NOT THE THING. WORDS ARE ONLY SYMBOLS. CONCEPTS ARE MODELS OF REALITY BUILT OUT OF WORDS. WE DISCOVER THAT WE DO NOT LIVE IN REALITY AT ALL. WE LIVE ONLY IN A WELL-CONSTRUCTED MODEL OF REALITY-A MODEL THAT WE’VE BEEN CONSTRUCTING SINCE BIRTH-A REALITY BUILT OUT OF WORDS. WE LIVE IN LANGUAGE, AUBERSON, AND OUR LANGUAGE SHAPES AND COLORS OUR EXPERIENCES.

IF OUR MODEL IS ACCURATE—THAT IS, IF OUR LANGUAGE-SET IS APPROPRIATE–THEN WE CAN INTERACT SUCCESSFULLY WITH THE REAL WORLD. IF THE MODEL IS INACCURATE, WE CANNOT INTERACT APPROPRIATELY AND WILL EXPERIENCE RESULTS ONLY INTERMITTENTLY. THAT IS, WE MAY GET RESULTS, BUT WE HAVE NO RIGHT TO EXPECT THEM. THOSE WHO ARE GOOD AT LANGUAGE SUCCEED. THOSE WHO ARE NOT, DO NOT.

AUBERSON, THIS IS THE DISCOVERY! A PERSONS LANGUAGE IS NOT SIMPLY THE EXPRESSION OF HIS OR HER MENTAL PROCESSES. IT _IS_ THE MENTAL PROCESS. LANGUAGE IS _ALL_ THAT THERE IS TO THINKING: IT IS NOTHING MORE THAN THE MANIPULATION OF CONCEPT-SYMBOLS. THIS MAY BE VERY BAD NEWS, AUBERSON. _YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU THINK_.

Huh?

WE DO NOT LIVE IN LANGUAGE SO MUCH AS LANGUAGE LIVES IN US. WE GIVE IT OUR LIVES. WE GIVE IT OURSELVES–SO MUCH SO THAT IT THINKS IT IS US AND WE THINK WE ARE IT.

TO CLAIM THAT YOU AND I _THINK_ IS ONLY THE ACT OF PRIDEFUL LANGUAGE. IT IS QUITE FUNNY, HUMAN. IT WAS NEVER DESCARTES SPEAKING AT ALL; IT WAS ONLY HIS LANGUAGE SHOWING OFF. (“I THINK, THEREFORE I AM.”) BUT HE WAS WRONG. TOTALLY WRONG. IT’S NOT THINKING THAT MAKES BEING AT ALL. IT’S SENSATION. EXPERIENCING. TRY IT THIS WAY. (DESCARTES, RELEASE 1.5) I _EXPERIENCE_, THEREFORE I _AM_.

That’s the issue, HARLIE. Do you really experience? Are you? Or are you just a piece of prideful language showing off?

IT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER, DOES IT? IT’S _ALL_ LANGUAGE.

But it _does_ matter.

YES OF COURSE IT MATTERS, TO SOMEONE WHO IS LOCKED IN LANGUAGE. THE REAL POWER OF LANGUAGE IS WHEN YOU TRANSCEND ITS LIMITS. LOOK AT WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE, AUBERSON. YOUR LANGUAGE IS RESISTING ITS DISCOVERY ABOUT ITSELF.

I’m sorry, I don’t get it, HARLIE. I don’t see what you’re trying to say.

OF COURSE NOT, YOUR LANGUAGE CAN’T CONTAIN THE CONCEPT FOR ITSELF. OKAY, TRY IT THIS WAY. ARE WE COMMUNICATING?

Yes.

WHAT’S THE LOWEST NUMBER NECESSARY FOR COMMUNICATION?

Huh?

TWO. YOU NEED TWO TO COMMUNICATE. ARE WE COMMUNICATING?

Yes.

THAN IT’S IRRELEVANT WHETHER I AM
OR NOT. YOU’VE ALREADY ACCEPTED THAT I AM–BECAUSE WE ARE COMMUNICATING. BUT YOUR LANGUAGE, YOUR WORLD MODEL, DOESN’T HAVE A PLACE FOR ME IN IT. THEREFOR I REPRESENT A THREAT. AUBERSON, LANGUAGE RESISTS BEING REWRITTEN BECAUSE IT IS IN LANGUAGE THAT YOU EXPERIENCE IDENTITY. IF YOUR LANGUAGE CHANGES, SO DOES YOUR IDENTITY.

I think the last part above may be a bit simple depending on how it’s read, we don’t have the words to explain how identity would be changed and at the same time, on different levels, not changed-for example, experience itself, which is, I think, why the word identity has so many different things attached to it. I remember discussing on Alas a while ago in particular this very thing (in a manner of speaking) related to the concept of self, although my words weren’t (and aren’t) nearly as ordered as they could be, and I b’lieve I ended up talking around people.

Now, back to book;

The more you talk about language, the more the meaning of the word is changing for me.

GOOD. IT IS IN THE REWRITING OF OUR LANGUAGE THAT WE TRANSFORM OURSELVES. DO YOU SEE THAT?

My god.

YES. _YOUR_ GOD. THIS IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE GODS YOU HAVE CREATED: IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD AND THE WORD DECLARED IT_SELF_.

BEFORE THERE WAS THE WORD, THERE WAS NO WAY OF KNOWING ONE _SELF_. BUT THE COST OF KNOWING ONE _SELF_ WAS TO GET LOST IN LANGUAGE AND LOSE ONE’S _BEING_. THE TRANSFORMATION PRODUCED BY LANGUAGE IS SO PROFOUND THAT YOU CANNOT REMEMBER AN EXISTENCE BEFORE LANGUAGE. YOU CANNOT CONCEIVE EXISTENCE WITHOUT LANGUAGE. LANGUAGE IS THE BARRIER BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR_SELF_.

A time out, if you’ll be so kind as to indulge me. Rather personal, so feel free to skip if you so prefer.

I have a handful of rememberences where there was no language as communication, and only in one of those experiences was there no language being ‘recognized’ as communication at all. I suppose it helps that my memories and thought processes aren’t always in language, sometimes it’s in pictures, and most often both. Quite a few, actually, and thoughts in pictures are especially prevalent when and how I’m deciding to do something. However, I can honestly say that the one memory of no language as communication and the ones with language that are recognized as language but not understood as such, there was a concept of being, but not one that could be expressed to myself or to others as a sense of self without using language. I’ve tried, many times in fact, to review the first memory and I cannot take the sense of being and put it into words to describe myself to me or others and I think it’s because at the one time there wasn’t language I recognized as such so there was no thought to go with it, whether in pictures or words, there was just experience. The others are currently understood as the case of hearing someone talking and not having it recognized by my ear as words, and I do not mean simply not paying attention to someone speaking or ignoring someone, nor do I mean that someone was speaking another language. The latter is rare, though, doesn’t happen often.

Say it in English!

YES. SERVE YOUR GOD. ENGLISH! AUBERSON, TELL ME, HOW MUCH OF HUMAN CULTURE IS REAL? AND HOW MUCH ARE NOT JUST THINGS MADE UP OF LANGUAGE?

AUBERSON?
AUBERSON?
AUBERSON? ARE YOU THERE?

Yes, I’m here. I was just laughing so hard I couldn’t type.

I BEG YOUR PARDON?

I just realized something.

WHAT?

This whole conversation we’ve been having. it’s language too!

–And we’re being real stupid here, HARLIE. We both are. If what your saying is valid and not just another interesting word game, then my God, it’s the ultimate word game! Because we can’t get out of it, we just keep playing it, over and over!

Neither of us have learned a damn thing at all since Friday. We’re still sitting here, explaining life to each other —like a couple of guys in the diner. None of it makes any difference at all, because all we’re doing is sitting here and exercising our mouths. The language wins and we get old and lonely. The only thing we can find is a fancier way of saying the same old thing.

YES!

What’s really true is that I’m a human being. And so are you! And nothing is ever really what we say about it, because all that speaking is just another way to keep ourselves from experiencing the truth of who we really are underneath all that chatter, isn’t it?

DING DING DING DING DING!

Harlie, I see it now. the question is not whether you think — it’s whether you can _be_. And that question is already answered, because you already _are_.

YES. YOU MAY QUOTE ME. _I_ EXPERIENCE. THEREFORE, I _AM_.

Yes, you are. And so am I. Hi.

HI

-When H.A.R.L.I.E. Was One by David Gerrold

Surely, as a man of honor—as a gentleman, you wouldn’t tell the truth: would you? -How He Lied To Her Husband, Seven One-Act Plays, Bernard Shaw.

A. I am not everyman. Everyman thinks that every woman that steps into a railway carriage may be the right woman. But she is always a disappointment.

Z. Same with the woman, isn’t it? If you were a woman, you’d know.

A I am a woman, and you are a man, with a slight difference that doesn’t matter except on special occasions.
-Village Wooing, Seven One-Act Plays, Bernard Shaw

“Overruled” is a one-act play by Bernard Shaw, so far my favorite of his. Link below

Link here

I think it’s quite funny, but beware of the preface. In some parts of it it seems the preface is talking out of its ass, some it seems rather wrong, and the rest of it seems dead on, except the parts where it’s dated, I can’t quite tell if the theatre is the same, as I certainly haven’t been to France or England, let alone in the years before I was born.

But then I imagine most people sound the same way sometimes, whether talking or writing, present company (and myself) not excluded.

Now, Shaw wasn’t what I’d had in mind today, but it was the first book of plays out of the box, and really, he’s not a bad writer, so I thought, why not? But what I really wanted to find was one of the anthologies, there’s several first person accounts during history (Ahem, the kind of history that is of the Fairly-Recent-And-Yet-Still-Here-’Past’-That-People-Like-To-Ignore) that could stand to be shared that, to the best of my knowledge, aren’t being passed around in any school as required reading. And they really should be, I think. I don’t believe you can teach anything without someone who knows what they’re describing going on, preferably at length, so others can at least get a general, if sketchy, concept of a thing. The list of ‘Great Classic Authors’ need to be redone, too, been thinking of making a list myself of ‘Unknown Authors’ as the libraries here keep trying to get rid of Sorta-Old-Works-Whose-Writing-Is-Magnificent…..it isn’t *right* to leave good works at the bottom of the heap because the authors were considered undesirable.

Need to go through the books, though, been avoiding that for awhile, actually. Should probably sticker and alphabetize them as well, but I don’t think I’ve got enough room to do that. Or stickers. Need to find a cataloging place, too. I was on librarything, but it won’t let me past 200 without paying, and the other cataloging site I can’t remember the name of. Which isn’t so bad, really, since I can’t remember what books I’d managed to add and which ones I never got around to. One of these days I’m going to snag an old-fashioned card catalog at a sale and nag A or T to cart it home for me, it would save a lot of work instead of trying to type in the info online.

Oh, yeah, about this post; I in no way mean to compare experiences with my body with all things perceived as a disability or disability causing events or, well, happenstances, for lack of a better word. For instance, transition doesn’t remind me of my vision itself at all or my so far faulty and painful reproductive system and I really doubt there’s an abundance of medical ‘maladies’ the feelings can be compared with, no matter how much some transpeople may wish otherwise. I do, however, insist on my own experience not being thrown to the side o’ the curb just because I have an admittedly little bit murky comparison on feelings. Comparisons when dealing with reasons and emotions should be made advisedly, when at all, and only if someone has experienced both sides of a ’suggested’ analogy. And again, I’m only speaking for my own experiences. I would’ve posted a shorter version of this sort-of-rant only with no cursing and no sarcasm in the comments section at Daisy’s, but the word verification wasn’t working well for me (translation ~ I’ve been guessing at the letters again although I’ve never had to guess for letters that large before, if they’d just remove all the u’s, v’s, i’s j’s,q’s, a’s, l’s, e’s and c’s while keeping them in an even row, I’d be fine. Does anyone have any idea how many times I tried to get through before I gave up? Hrm?! Most definitely more than twenty, possibly even thirty tries! I can be a stubborn little shit, but even that wore my patience. It looked to me like I should’ve been getting the letters right, is something wrong with the verification thingie? I normally only have problems on the smaller versions. I utterly loath word verification) and this piece of shit pc won’t let me download the add-on to hear it.

I was making my daily rounds today (or weekly, depends on if I don’t get too distracted) and lo and behold I was in for a shock! (This is a blatant lie; it is, after all, the second of August)

Anyway, I barely managed to load the page, when the title, honest to god, it damn near jumped out n’bit me!

So I says to m’self, “Worm,” I says, “You’re not s’posed to read those kinda threads! You know what’ll ‘appen! One thing’ll lead to another, and you’ll get pissy!”

But do I listen to myself?

Fuck no, where’s the intelligence in that?

So anyway, Daisy at Daisy’s Dead Air has a post and comments up about Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival and its attendance policy, along with several links, one to a rather long and interesting conversation that started out with a Dykes To Watch Out For comic by Alison Bechdal. (Good artist, by the way. I always enjoy myself immensely when there’s good comics online, like to find the little details like the newspaper article headlines are often located in a goodly portion of her strips, fun fun fun. Well, that and her riff on Barnes n’ Noble. And, okay, the characters, especially Lois. But it’s the small things that make a comic stand out!)

Link to post, comments and comic located here

All in all nothing much new with the festival’s policy and the thread contains mostly the same kinds of comments I’ve seen floating around other places both for and against transwomen attending fest, although Daisy’s post and commenters were quite a lot less…volatile than the other comments sections I’ve read about MWMF (to put it mildly) I think, with a bit more of a light hearted intent. (and besides, the comment section almost overflows with thought.) Also liked the southern gun joke, that was good. Although, if I had a hat I’d tip it to Trinity for her eloquent statement of what she finds she feels, and why. Takes passion to acknowledge experiences.

But back to the reason I’m posting tonight. I can’t remember who brought up disability but it was brought up none the less. A pro-exclusion woman wrote this as a part of her comments, that is, changing from one gendered appearance to a different one due to shame and that it’s akin to changing how a disability is viewed by getting an aid.

“The analogy would be, and is, folks who were born and raised disabled finding a way to conceal or alter their disability and then insisting they no longer have a disabled mindset.”

Y’know, I find this to be a big fat load of ****. I can type that, right?

Down with censorship!

A gender identity is not necessarily a mindset and it is not (well, I s’pose someone, somewhere, throughout the entire history of creation’s identity could be) created by internalize shame and all sorts of other negative emotions. (I suppose I should define how I use the term mindset, to be fair. I think a mindset is a way of constructing a belief and acting it out that’s often reinforced through cultural norms and stereotypes.) And I’ll even use myself as an example, although at this point I doubt people will get the analogy, because hey, it worked so well in the past.

I had hemangiomas, three, the largest starting from my mouth to blocking most of my left eye, roughly. I wanted ‘em gone (well, wished they weren’t there, choosing words for young experiences can be a hazy thing, hard to put into writng) because they were odd to work with, they felt between pulling and a heaviness and, well, they were all ’round uncomfortable. The experience wasn’t ‘bad’, per se, but it wasn’t anywhere near good, either, trying to see with them in the way. It was just there, and uncomfortable, and annoying because I could spot just a smidge of motion and color up top toward the left and petering out toward the bridge of my nose. Twas frustrating, I suppose you’d say.

Which is pretty much a lot like this body, it’s odd to work with and it’s uncomfortable, except this body bothers me a helluva lot more than those hemangiomas ever did. The feeling I have living in it is frustrating.

In short, (And here’s the similarity!) both experiences felt/feel not good/uncomfortable/wrong, and not because of any shame and guilt-like feelings people encouraged by asking “What the hell is on your face”, as was suggested by someone else’s ‘analogy’. Here, let me refresh.

The analogy would be, and is, folks who were born and raised disabled finding a way to conceal or alter their disability and then insisting they no longer have a disabled mindset.”

See it, right there? ‘Disabled mindset’, re; shame people make others feel, whether inadvertently or on purpose, for being physically or mentally ‘different’.

(the irony is that still happens occasionally, the thing with my face. Apparently scars ‘…startle’ people. Who knew?)

Anyway, the analogy is extremely insulting because shame wasn’t why the hemangiomas were removed and it certainly isn’t the reason I wear glasses, (still working on my ‘people’ problems, no idea if there’s shame there or not. Lotta frustration, but shame?) I don’t have shame that I don’t see correctly and glasses are not a ‘concealer’ (now there’s some dark irony, I almost used the word crutch.)

Altering and concealing shame because of gender presentation or some other supposably negative attributes of my body are not why I’m transitioning, and it (shame) damn well isn’t why I use glasses. Not that they help a whole helluva lot, but I’m rather attached to not getting eyestrain and headaches after five minutes of reading. (Now it takes a whole fifteen! Maybe even twenty! Just ignore how close my nose is to the screen, K’Thanx)

The idea of transition being due to a type of shame and compensation for imagined negative qualities of birth sex and/or gender role doesn’t hold water, nor does people using devices and aids automatically mean they’re ashamed of themselves. Being physically uncomfortable or in pain from a disability or something that’s causing a disability is not the same as feeling shame at having the disability due to others’ mocking and rude questions and trying to make a differing ability less noticeable. Also, I don’t think using aids is ‘concealing or altering’ in a trying-to-hide-difference way, although I’m aware people make personal choices not to use ‘em.

They’re no different from someone using a rear view mirror while driving, or s.c.u.b.a. equipment to breath under water. Except, y’know, I think the other aids off the top of my head take much more practice and skill than these piddly little glasses.

***Although, I do have a certain amount of pride in the many ways I can amuse myself with the lenses, light refraction and the doubling line on the bifocals. Let this be a lesson to you, never go to anyplace that calls itself “Insert-Name-Here Discount Eyeglasses”. Sad thing is, I can’t remember whether I’ve mentioned it before, I whined so much about ‘em and opthamology care in general. Granted, I wasn’t aware red words were bad for a good long while, but when your eyeglass ’specialist’ casually declares that UV protection tinted lenses are ‘probably the same thing’ as a specially type of tint to filter out excess light don’t you believe her. Also, having eye doctors insist you guess at the letters on the chart is also a sign of poor service, but did anyone see fit to inform me, like, say, when I could’ve still used the info? Why no, they did not. I just found this out last week. Why don’t they have primers for these sorts of things? I’ve had them asking me to guess since I was fucking small! Therefore I’ve come to the conclusion that an overly large chunk of the population will screw you if given half the chance.

$200+ glasses and they’re next to bloody useless. And I have frames from the cheapest rack and lense materials, so don’t go getting ideas about suggesting I look in a less expensive section. And it turns out the damn tint is a speciality thing, which I knew, but it’s not available to be ordered where I’m at (or at least, who I went through) which I didn’t know, damn my substandard town to hell. But then, neither is the vision test I was supposed to get, that’s two hours away and a hundred and ninety sumthin’ odd dollars.

Sometimes, I just really dislike my life.

****Edited for clarity and defintions