Friday, May 06, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Shine Like the Top of the Chrysler Building
Why is my kitchen floor so clean, did I actually mop it?? No, nothing like that. As with most things illogical, the answer has to do with art. The question? Where is the best place to felt a 4' scarf. Naturally, pouring boiling water and soap all over the floor while I knead wool and silk to reflect my will is the most appropriate thing to do. (apparently, a tub was an alternative not to be considered until *after* the project was concluded) Happily, the floor was already wet and soapy, so it seemed best to just wipe the floor clean with the towel I'd gotten all wet anyway. Who says art isn't practical?
Starting the project, I had a very odd thing happen in my brain. I was working, and in the back of my mind, maybe from the lizard brain, came a feeling of rising hysteria. This is a feeling I've had before, not uncommonly. However, it normally happens in cases of extreme exhaustion. Since I'd overslept this morning for class after having clocked 10+ hours of sleep, I'm guessing exhaustion is an unlikely catalyst in this case. I was able to keep doing what I was doing (as I normally am when this happens) but had to spend at least some mental energy riding herd on the insanity. I found myself wondering... is this what it's like to go insane?
There's a half joke about how you're not insane if you think you are. What if that's not actually how it works? What if, like dementia, you can sort of see it coming. It creeps in, and you say "hey, what's that weird thing in my brain??" You work around it, and for a while it doesn't have much affect on your life. Eventually tho, maybe it just takes over and the next thing you don't know, you are standing in a gas station talking to yourself and the clerk is contemplating calling the police to have you removed, just to get rid of the smell of your body odor in their store.
Maybe it's like being on crystal meth. Reality becomes like a frictionless surface that you can't get a grip on, but the feeling of sliding along with reckless abandon isn't so bad anyway. I watched Spun the other day, and it was interesting to see people in that lifestyle. (and exactly how hot was Mickey Rourke as The Cook?? I kept watching him and had the keen desire to go slummin') That level of escapism has never really had much of a draw for me, but I do love to be a voyeur.
In this case, reality didn't slip away, I kept working. I think my design suffered because of the effort it took to keep the irrationality contained, but I was curious about it. I had a feeling that if I stopped, did something else, had a cup of tea or took a shower or something I could probably have gotten out of that mental state. (and it did melt away once I got in my groove on the project) But I was curious about this place in my head. What is it? Can I get there of my own volition? Would that have value?
I thought it was insanity, and in a way, I think it may have been. What if, on the other hand, it was actually a momentary access to the dream plane? Usually this happens with extreme exhaustion. I always sort of figured it was because my brain simply couldn't hold itself together a moment longer. But, what if instead, what my brain couldn't hold up was the barrier between awake and asleep? Conciously entering the dream world is what shamans do, perhaps I have a place where I can do that as well. How cool would that be? Pretty damn cool, I'll answer myself since I'm talking to myself.
This warrants closer investigation. I wish I had my ganzfeld glasses still, I'll bet they would help.
Starting the project, I had a very odd thing happen in my brain. I was working, and in the back of my mind, maybe from the lizard brain, came a feeling of rising hysteria. This is a feeling I've had before, not uncommonly. However, it normally happens in cases of extreme exhaustion. Since I'd overslept this morning for class after having clocked 10+ hours of sleep, I'm guessing exhaustion is an unlikely catalyst in this case. I was able to keep doing what I was doing (as I normally am when this happens) but had to spend at least some mental energy riding herd on the insanity. I found myself wondering... is this what it's like to go insane?
There's a half joke about how you're not insane if you think you are. What if that's not actually how it works? What if, like dementia, you can sort of see it coming. It creeps in, and you say "hey, what's that weird thing in my brain??" You work around it, and for a while it doesn't have much affect on your life. Eventually tho, maybe it just takes over and the next thing you don't know, you are standing in a gas station talking to yourself and the clerk is contemplating calling the police to have you removed, just to get rid of the smell of your body odor in their store.
Maybe it's like being on crystal meth. Reality becomes like a frictionless surface that you can't get a grip on, but the feeling of sliding along with reckless abandon isn't so bad anyway. I watched Spun the other day, and it was interesting to see people in that lifestyle. (and exactly how hot was Mickey Rourke as The Cook?? I kept watching him and had the keen desire to go slummin') That level of escapism has never really had much of a draw for me, but I do love to be a voyeur.
In this case, reality didn't slip away, I kept working. I think my design suffered because of the effort it took to keep the irrationality contained, but I was curious about it. I had a feeling that if I stopped, did something else, had a cup of tea or took a shower or something I could probably have gotten out of that mental state. (and it did melt away once I got in my groove on the project) But I was curious about this place in my head. What is it? Can I get there of my own volition? Would that have value?
I thought it was insanity, and in a way, I think it may have been. What if, on the other hand, it was actually a momentary access to the dream plane? Usually this happens with extreme exhaustion. I always sort of figured it was because my brain simply couldn't hold itself together a moment longer. But, what if instead, what my brain couldn't hold up was the barrier between awake and asleep? Conciously entering the dream world is what shamans do, perhaps I have a place where I can do that as well. How cool would that be? Pretty damn cool, I'll answer myself since I'm talking to myself.
This warrants closer investigation. I wish I had my ganzfeld glasses still, I'll bet they would help.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The Transitional Pope
We have a new Pope, the first in my memory. I was only 5 when we got the last one. I love the Catholic church, they have the most wonderful rituals. To pick the new pope, they cloister themselves. Every day, they debate in some secret fashion the picking of the new pope (although my understanding is that this pope came into the voting with the 50% of the votes needed after 15 days of debate, so it was really about whether he wanted the job or if he wanted to throw it to someone else) and at the end of the day, there is either black smoke from the chimney showing they haven't picked a new pope, or white smoke saying they have.
There was, apparently, some confusion for the people watching for the smoke, because the smoke on the first day of the voting the smoke was sort of light. And on the day they did choose, the smoke was sort of gray. Somehow, I find that sort of vagueness funny, and I'm not sure entirely why. Somehow, it seems to be a reflection of the emptiness of the ritual associated with choosing a pope. Perhaps it shows in metaphorical terms the new sophistication of catholics worldwide who have a better understanding of the political ramifications for choosing a pope, rather than a covenant with God.
This new guy is a real bastard. Apparently, he was, I kid you not, called "God's Rottweiller." He was the disciplinary arm of the Catholic church, the man who excommunicated for reasons never expressed in the bible as legitimate reasons for excommunication as a consequence for not cooperating with the ultra conservative veiws of the Pope. Meaning, priests who did not teach that homosexuals should burn in hell for all eternity weren't fit to be in the church. Ugly.
How did this guy end up as Pope? John Paul was a conservative guy, it's true. But the epithet "rottweiller" was never attached to him in any way. The theory is that this is a transitional Pope. He's 78 years old, and barely squeaked in under the wire of too old to be Pope. They anticipate he won't be Pope for long, and that that will lead into a more progressive Pope next time. I'm not sure I follow the logic, and I wish I could have it explained to me better. Is this wishful thinking??
The cardinals who elected the Pope are composed primarily of cardinals elected by John Paul. The theory is that they are all conservative types, so they, of course, elected a conservative Pope. Somehow, and this is where the logic breaks down for me, the theory is that this Pope won't be in office long, so the next Pope will be more progressive. How is that exactly? The new Pope is nearly a fascist in his beliefs, even more conservative than the last. As long as he's in office, he will be electing new cardinals who, presumably, will reflect his belief system. Thus, when he kicks over in a few years, the new board of cardinals will be just as conservative, if not more so, than they are at present. I don't get it.
I love the Catholic church. I have a fondness for it the same way I do many of my childhood memories. I am not attached to the church believing one thing or another, but there are a few aspects of the church I find galling. That homosexuality thing is a bummer. Honestly tho, that's not my biggest beef. What drives me absolutely nutty is the celibacy thing for the priests.
I had high hopes for a more progressive Pope, someone who would look at celibacy and realize the complete impracticality and the moral corruption it represents in the reality of how priests live now. Pope John Paul said, "some things are supposed to be hard." I really don't disagree with that logic. I respect devotion a great deal. I honor commitment and loyalty to anything a person considers worthy of that level of energy and respect. Fidelity to a person, and ideal or a spiritual path can be a beautiful thing. Does that level of devotion require celibacy? I know some people think so, but more importantly, some do not. That seems like it should be a personal choice, not a rules based decision.
Are priests celibate? It appears the answer is no. Yes, we've all heard about the business with the alter boys and whatnot, but on a more fundamental level, priests most certainly are having sex, and this is apparently well known. I another rather shocking blow to my feeling of sophistication, (I sometimes run into moments of cluelessness on my part that are sort of amusing) my grandfather supplied the answer to the mysterious question: If sex is natural, necessary and expected, then who are priests having sex with? The answer: their housekeepers.
The truth of that statement was felt in me immediately. I gasped, but it wasn't from disbelief, it was from how oblivious I had been about the completely obvious. He stated it so flatly, like *everyone* knew that, and it was completely *obvious*. From an 84 year old german Catholic, that was pretty mind blowing. He even had a favorite story about a priest in his town who had gotten transferred to California and how his housekeeper had packed up and gone with him. Then, the woman had a baby. No one talked about the source of that child. However, when the child (a girl) married, he presided over the ceremony. At the wedding, he gifted a house to the girl and her new husband. At that point, my grandfather says rather smugly, we knew for sure the child was his.
I hate this story, and I hate this habit. Priests are religious and spiritual leaders of their community, of their churches. They shouldn't be forced to live a life of lie. It's fundamentally rotten and it eats at the ethical core of the communities they are supposed to lead. It's not wrong to love, and it's not wrong to have sex. Humans are designed to do so, and sex can be a sacrament to the divinity. To deny men who are drawn to devotion to that divinity a basic mode of expression, their sexuality, is cruel and unreasonable. It sets them up for moral failure in a way that gives lie to their belief in a benevolent God. I loathe hypocricy, and this reeks of it.
It's common place and known that priest are, for all practical purposes, married to their housekeepers. It forces women, presumably good Catholic women, to live an unmarried life at best, and the life of a woman who has fallen from grace at worst. The priest is forced to allow this impression of his woman to be upheld. She doesn't get the rights, privilege and honor that befalls the helpmeet of a man of God, and that's not right. The church with its vow of necessary celibacy forces it's spiritual leaders to abandon their responsibilities to their life partner, and forces the woman to live a life of spiritual shame that goes against everything she's been taught and presumably believes in if she stayed in the church. It's disgraceful.
Now, with our transitional Pope, we have another decade of this, followed only with hopefulness that something will change at that point. A logic I just don't follow unless I'm missing a critical piece of information about how these things work. Pope Benedict, a name intimately tied with the history of an American traitor in my mind, somehow it seems to fit.
There was, apparently, some confusion for the people watching for the smoke, because the smoke on the first day of the voting the smoke was sort of light. And on the day they did choose, the smoke was sort of gray. Somehow, I find that sort of vagueness funny, and I'm not sure entirely why. Somehow, it seems to be a reflection of the emptiness of the ritual associated with choosing a pope. Perhaps it shows in metaphorical terms the new sophistication of catholics worldwide who have a better understanding of the political ramifications for choosing a pope, rather than a covenant with God.
This new guy is a real bastard. Apparently, he was, I kid you not, called "God's Rottweiller." He was the disciplinary arm of the Catholic church, the man who excommunicated for reasons never expressed in the bible as legitimate reasons for excommunication as a consequence for not cooperating with the ultra conservative veiws of the Pope. Meaning, priests who did not teach that homosexuals should burn in hell for all eternity weren't fit to be in the church. Ugly.
How did this guy end up as Pope? John Paul was a conservative guy, it's true. But the epithet "rottweiller" was never attached to him in any way. The theory is that this is a transitional Pope. He's 78 years old, and barely squeaked in under the wire of too old to be Pope. They anticipate he won't be Pope for long, and that that will lead into a more progressive Pope next time. I'm not sure I follow the logic, and I wish I could have it explained to me better. Is this wishful thinking??
The cardinals who elected the Pope are composed primarily of cardinals elected by John Paul. The theory is that they are all conservative types, so they, of course, elected a conservative Pope. Somehow, and this is where the logic breaks down for me, the theory is that this Pope won't be in office long, so the next Pope will be more progressive. How is that exactly? The new Pope is nearly a fascist in his beliefs, even more conservative than the last. As long as he's in office, he will be electing new cardinals who, presumably, will reflect his belief system. Thus, when he kicks over in a few years, the new board of cardinals will be just as conservative, if not more so, than they are at present. I don't get it.
I love the Catholic church. I have a fondness for it the same way I do many of my childhood memories. I am not attached to the church believing one thing or another, but there are a few aspects of the church I find galling. That homosexuality thing is a bummer. Honestly tho, that's not my biggest beef. What drives me absolutely nutty is the celibacy thing for the priests.
I had high hopes for a more progressive Pope, someone who would look at celibacy and realize the complete impracticality and the moral corruption it represents in the reality of how priests live now. Pope John Paul said, "some things are supposed to be hard." I really don't disagree with that logic. I respect devotion a great deal. I honor commitment and loyalty to anything a person considers worthy of that level of energy and respect. Fidelity to a person, and ideal or a spiritual path can be a beautiful thing. Does that level of devotion require celibacy? I know some people think so, but more importantly, some do not. That seems like it should be a personal choice, not a rules based decision.
Are priests celibate? It appears the answer is no. Yes, we've all heard about the business with the alter boys and whatnot, but on a more fundamental level, priests most certainly are having sex, and this is apparently well known. I another rather shocking blow to my feeling of sophistication, (I sometimes run into moments of cluelessness on my part that are sort of amusing) my grandfather supplied the answer to the mysterious question: If sex is natural, necessary and expected, then who are priests having sex with? The answer: their housekeepers.
The truth of that statement was felt in me immediately. I gasped, but it wasn't from disbelief, it was from how oblivious I had been about the completely obvious. He stated it so flatly, like *everyone* knew that, and it was completely *obvious*. From an 84 year old german Catholic, that was pretty mind blowing. He even had a favorite story about a priest in his town who had gotten transferred to California and how his housekeeper had packed up and gone with him. Then, the woman had a baby. No one talked about the source of that child. However, when the child (a girl) married, he presided over the ceremony. At the wedding, he gifted a house to the girl and her new husband. At that point, my grandfather says rather smugly, we knew for sure the child was his.
I hate this story, and I hate this habit. Priests are religious and spiritual leaders of their community, of their churches. They shouldn't be forced to live a life of lie. It's fundamentally rotten and it eats at the ethical core of the communities they are supposed to lead. It's not wrong to love, and it's not wrong to have sex. Humans are designed to do so, and sex can be a sacrament to the divinity. To deny men who are drawn to devotion to that divinity a basic mode of expression, their sexuality, is cruel and unreasonable. It sets them up for moral failure in a way that gives lie to their belief in a benevolent God. I loathe hypocricy, and this reeks of it.
It's common place and known that priest are, for all practical purposes, married to their housekeepers. It forces women, presumably good Catholic women, to live an unmarried life at best, and the life of a woman who has fallen from grace at worst. The priest is forced to allow this impression of his woman to be upheld. She doesn't get the rights, privilege and honor that befalls the helpmeet of a man of God, and that's not right. The church with its vow of necessary celibacy forces it's spiritual leaders to abandon their responsibilities to their life partner, and forces the woman to live a life of spiritual shame that goes against everything she's been taught and presumably believes in if she stayed in the church. It's disgraceful.
Now, with our transitional Pope, we have another decade of this, followed only with hopefulness that something will change at that point. A logic I just don't follow unless I'm missing a critical piece of information about how these things work. Pope Benedict, a name intimately tied with the history of an American traitor in my mind, somehow it seems to fit.
Anything for Love, but I Won't do That
I let my bratty little girl out to play last weekend. It was pretty fun. I got to go to an event where noone except the people I was with knew me. It was freeing and exciting. I like going places where I won't be met with preconceived notions of myself based on my reputation or what they've seen of how I play. (but yet to still be in communities where I identify) I got to meet people, and to form first impressions based on very little background information about myself. I find that to be a valuable reflection of how people generally take me. Reputations are funny little things. They can form realities in the minds of people you've never even met that take on form with little encouragement from the actual object of the reputation. That makes the reflections you get about yourself pretty suspect.
I discovered this reality when I got a regular job a couple years ago. Cradled in the bosom of a community where I'm known and generally understood even if I do/say dumbass things, it's a bit of a culture shock to go out into the real world and find out you are incoherent at best, and shockingly inappropriate at worst. Translation: My friends and community generally ignore obnoxious behavior on my part, but strangers do not. The regular world is peopled with much more closed minds than it appears I surround myself with.
Backside freshly stinging from the verbal spanking I'd perceived myself as having gotten the night before, I left town for a weekend of relaxation and ego licking. Somewhere along the line, I fell into brat mode. Being at the mercy of other people's schedule, the fact that other people were footing the bill for my trip, and a general feeling of petulence about my love life in general culminated in me spending the weekend as (described by someone else) "moody". Fortunately, I think this was said with tolerance and amusement more than annoyance. This came out as a general tendency towards smart ass remarks, inflammatory behavior, and minor foot stomping kinds of fits that involved saying things like "I don't want to eat there" with a *whine* and "I'm bored" in a sulky tone that would have gotten my mouth slapped if my mother was there.
It was when I walked by one of the people at the registration desk who was saying she wanted a sandwich for lunch, that I realized I was actually looking for my Daddy to smack me down. I was walking by and in my best Soup Nazi voice said, "no sandwich for YOU!" laughed and walked on. She called out, "What was that? I think you need to come sit on Daddy's lap so we can discuss this more." She was right, I really did need to sit on Daddy's lap and have a discussion about my bad behavior. I flipped up my skirt and wiggled my bottom at her, and got a laugh and an "exactly" comment from her, but then I bailed. She wasn't my Daddy and although the idea of taking comfort in the arms of a substitute was appealing, I wanted my Daddy and that was that.
I laid eyes on him that evening at the Ball. Tall, big (I like them big, so true) with shaggy red hair. I have a thing for redheads. He had on sunglasses and a leather policemans short sleeved shirt. Daddy substitute material?? I watched him from a distance and looked to see if I could get his attention. Eventually, I had a friend of mine who knew him call him over while we were hanging out on the outside patio. Ok, in reality, my friend said he was going to do it, and I figured the darkness would cover the 17 shades of red my face was turning at the prospect. My condition was further worsened by the conversation I'd had the night before on the VERY topic of male and female interactions, what was appropriate and what worked. Was I going to scare the shit out of this guy if I just said straight up, "Can I curl in your lap and call you Daddy, just for the weekend, since my Daddy doesn't love me anymore and I miss him something terrible?" I'm going to guess "yes" is the answer to that question. Ok, fair enough, plan B.
What, exactly, is plan B? Plan B is a combination of efforts, both traditional and honest. It helps to know his orientation... top, bottom, dominant, submissive are good starts. I had a pretty good idea from his dress and general bad boy demeanor that he was in the top realm at least some of the time, and that was all I needed. Then I was stumped. What if he's a switch? I'm a switch, and if he is too... how do you connect? It was the same question that came up from the interview that I had been mulling over... what happens if both people are playing the game? This advice is not gender specific, it can work either way. You take the approach that works, seduction isn't honest, and it has no ethical structure of its own except success. The key is how you figure out what game the other person is most comfortable playing. In normal vanilla situations, that's most commonly down gender lines. Not so in the fetish community. Switches make everything even that much harder, and I was getting a switch vibe from him. I'm flexible in my play. As long as the chemistry of power is in action, I don't much care which role I play.
I decided to base my approach on my goal. I didn't want to top him, which meant I had to make sure my approach was one where it set up a dynamic of his power. I started to warm to the task, and found the research I'd been doing recently coming in mighty handy. After spending some time catching his eye after that initial conversation outside, I approached to ask him a question about something that had come up in conversation before. He seemed interested in talking, and it was on. We chatted for a while, and I got a feel for him.
Maybe I could have done it, but in the end, I just didn't want to. He had the look, but not the vibe. Somehow I doubt anyone has the vibe fore me at this point. But it was good practice, and I'm glad I did it. It's nice to know I have a certain level of charm if I put my mind to it. Who knows, maybe next year.
I discovered this reality when I got a regular job a couple years ago. Cradled in the bosom of a community where I'm known and generally understood even if I do/say dumbass things, it's a bit of a culture shock to go out into the real world and find out you are incoherent at best, and shockingly inappropriate at worst. Translation: My friends and community generally ignore obnoxious behavior on my part, but strangers do not. The regular world is peopled with much more closed minds than it appears I surround myself with.
Backside freshly stinging from the verbal spanking I'd perceived myself as having gotten the night before, I left town for a weekend of relaxation and ego licking. Somewhere along the line, I fell into brat mode. Being at the mercy of other people's schedule, the fact that other people were footing the bill for my trip, and a general feeling of petulence about my love life in general culminated in me spending the weekend as (described by someone else) "moody". Fortunately, I think this was said with tolerance and amusement more than annoyance. This came out as a general tendency towards smart ass remarks, inflammatory behavior, and minor foot stomping kinds of fits that involved saying things like "I don't want to eat there" with a *whine* and "I'm bored" in a sulky tone that would have gotten my mouth slapped if my mother was there.
It was when I walked by one of the people at the registration desk who was saying she wanted a sandwich for lunch, that I realized I was actually looking for my Daddy to smack me down. I was walking by and in my best Soup Nazi voice said, "no sandwich for YOU!" laughed and walked on. She called out, "What was that? I think you need to come sit on Daddy's lap so we can discuss this more." She was right, I really did need to sit on Daddy's lap and have a discussion about my bad behavior. I flipped up my skirt and wiggled my bottom at her, and got a laugh and an "exactly" comment from her, but then I bailed. She wasn't my Daddy and although the idea of taking comfort in the arms of a substitute was appealing, I wanted my Daddy and that was that.
I laid eyes on him that evening at the Ball. Tall, big (I like them big, so true) with shaggy red hair. I have a thing for redheads. He had on sunglasses and a leather policemans short sleeved shirt. Daddy substitute material?? I watched him from a distance and looked to see if I could get his attention. Eventually, I had a friend of mine who knew him call him over while we were hanging out on the outside patio. Ok, in reality, my friend said he was going to do it, and I figured the darkness would cover the 17 shades of red my face was turning at the prospect. My condition was further worsened by the conversation I'd had the night before on the VERY topic of male and female interactions, what was appropriate and what worked. Was I going to scare the shit out of this guy if I just said straight up, "Can I curl in your lap and call you Daddy, just for the weekend, since my Daddy doesn't love me anymore and I miss him something terrible?" I'm going to guess "yes" is the answer to that question. Ok, fair enough, plan B.
What, exactly, is plan B? Plan B is a combination of efforts, both traditional and honest. It helps to know his orientation... top, bottom, dominant, submissive are good starts. I had a pretty good idea from his dress and general bad boy demeanor that he was in the top realm at least some of the time, and that was all I needed. Then I was stumped. What if he's a switch? I'm a switch, and if he is too... how do you connect? It was the same question that came up from the interview that I had been mulling over... what happens if both people are playing the game? This advice is not gender specific, it can work either way. You take the approach that works, seduction isn't honest, and it has no ethical structure of its own except success. The key is how you figure out what game the other person is most comfortable playing. In normal vanilla situations, that's most commonly down gender lines. Not so in the fetish community. Switches make everything even that much harder, and I was getting a switch vibe from him. I'm flexible in my play. As long as the chemistry of power is in action, I don't much care which role I play.
I decided to base my approach on my goal. I didn't want to top him, which meant I had to make sure my approach was one where it set up a dynamic of his power. I started to warm to the task, and found the research I'd been doing recently coming in mighty handy. After spending some time catching his eye after that initial conversation outside, I approached to ask him a question about something that had come up in conversation before. He seemed interested in talking, and it was on. We chatted for a while, and I got a feel for him.
Maybe I could have done it, but in the end, I just didn't want to. He had the look, but not the vibe. Somehow I doubt anyone has the vibe fore me at this point. But it was good practice, and I'm glad I did it. It's nice to know I have a certain level of charm if I put my mind to it. Who knows, maybe next year.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Geek! How I Spend my Free Time
I was halfway through a tango when it began. A muddled lead into a waltz twinkle broke my concentration enough to hear the siren's song. Moooo.... come see me, Mo, come see how I turned out. . . I fought through the urge while I practiced my cha cha fan and had no trouble ignoring the call during the rhumba, my favorite dance. It was the salsa that did it. I can't salsa to save my life, except the basic step and this funny throwing turn that my favorite dance partner does with me while we laugh hysterically the whole time since it's the only thing either of us know in that dance. I had to go, I just had to. I knew it had only been 4.5 hours, instead of the "at least 5 hours, even if I don't wait the 8-10 recommended" I'd promised myself. I was almost sucked in by the samba line dance, and had already cha cha'ed with my coat on with a girl looking lost. Samba line dance be damned, I must GO!!
To my intense relief, the dye had picked up the yellow dye (at least enough to turn the color from purple to the brown family, the desired result) in the final hour... or, 5.5 hours since I'd seen it last. (a friend watched the pot the last hour of cooking so I could go do kid pick up) I should note, based on my earlier rant, that this is *not* a soul sucking brown, but rather a beautiful brown that defies description, vaguely referring to itself as brown for lack of a better english word to describe this brown that edges somehow into purple, but can certainly not be called such. Its purple nature is brought out by the failure of the silk gauze to dye the same way the wool did. The absolute purple of the silk gauze had me sighing somewhat smugly, "this is why we do color samples." On the piece that had felted wool on it, the colors go together nicely (I should hope, since they were both in the same dyebath) but they are distinctly different. I'm assuming the yellow left in the water is the yellow that failed to absorb into the silk.
So, it's 10pm and I think... hey, I don't have the kids, I should dye something! Internally, I'm taunting myself, "that's it, art geek, go dye some stuff. You got no kids, you're dressed up for dancing and looking good, why don't you spend the next 2 hours sweating over a dye pot and trying to keep fabric dye and acid off your clothes instead of going out and getting a life." Hmm... good idea, I think I will do just that. And I did. My hands are covered in dye (of course, gloves are for wussies!) but I did manage to keep my clothes unscathed. I'm rather amazed by that.
The light green skirt was asking for it, and the black tank top, suitable for keeping me from sweating *quite* as much in the oven they call a dance studio, (which, naturally, wasn't actually that bad today since A) it wasn't warm outside and B) I was actually dressed appropriately for the heat) was begging for an acid splash right onto that tender exposed cleavage. I could have been somewhat less appropriately dressed, but it would have required me being topless and wearing white. I actually was wearing white earlier in the day, dressing without any real thought about what I'd be doing today: dyeing. I did manage to keep *my* dye off me, but walked into the dye room at the exact moment my friend was shaking a jug of dye whose lid was not as secure as one would hope. The blue explosion resulting was such an amazing surprise that one could hardly jump fast enough to give it credit. The two blue spots on the right side of my white jeans are worn with pride, since one stride later and somewhat less fast reflexes would have had me as smurflike as my friend ended up being. While annoyed that she got dye on me after I managed to keep from getting it on myself, it's hard stay peeved at someone who has blue teeth. I hereby declare those jeans (getting too big for me, and with loops chewed off by my crazy australian shepherd some years go) as dye and/or paint jeans now, and there we have it. There's something intensely satisfying about getting color on white clothes. It's so incredibly apparent.
Ok, my hour is up. The wool turned the exact shade of purple intended, and the silk is an infuriating (if lovely in its own right) blue. We'll see how it looks tomorrow morning when I have the pleasure of getting up at the butt crack of dawn to rinse out the dye (mine, and smurfgirls)... likely, still blue. Stupid silk. What again was I thinking to set up a dye bath on the night before the only sleeping in day I get every other week? GEEK! Yes, it's true. When I choose art over sleep, there's something deeply wrong.
To my intense relief, the dye had picked up the yellow dye (at least enough to turn the color from purple to the brown family, the desired result) in the final hour... or, 5.5 hours since I'd seen it last. (a friend watched the pot the last hour of cooking so I could go do kid pick up) I should note, based on my earlier rant, that this is *not* a soul sucking brown, but rather a beautiful brown that defies description, vaguely referring to itself as brown for lack of a better english word to describe this brown that edges somehow into purple, but can certainly not be called such. Its purple nature is brought out by the failure of the silk gauze to dye the same way the wool did. The absolute purple of the silk gauze had me sighing somewhat smugly, "this is why we do color samples." On the piece that had felted wool on it, the colors go together nicely (I should hope, since they were both in the same dyebath) but they are distinctly different. I'm assuming the yellow left in the water is the yellow that failed to absorb into the silk.
So, it's 10pm and I think... hey, I don't have the kids, I should dye something! Internally, I'm taunting myself, "that's it, art geek, go dye some stuff. You got no kids, you're dressed up for dancing and looking good, why don't you spend the next 2 hours sweating over a dye pot and trying to keep fabric dye and acid off your clothes instead of going out and getting a life." Hmm... good idea, I think I will do just that. And I did. My hands are covered in dye (of course, gloves are for wussies!) but I did manage to keep my clothes unscathed. I'm rather amazed by that.
The light green skirt was asking for it, and the black tank top, suitable for keeping me from sweating *quite* as much in the oven they call a dance studio, (which, naturally, wasn't actually that bad today since A) it wasn't warm outside and B) I was actually dressed appropriately for the heat) was begging for an acid splash right onto that tender exposed cleavage. I could have been somewhat less appropriately dressed, but it would have required me being topless and wearing white. I actually was wearing white earlier in the day, dressing without any real thought about what I'd be doing today: dyeing. I did manage to keep *my* dye off me, but walked into the dye room at the exact moment my friend was shaking a jug of dye whose lid was not as secure as one would hope. The blue explosion resulting was such an amazing surprise that one could hardly jump fast enough to give it credit. The two blue spots on the right side of my white jeans are worn with pride, since one stride later and somewhat less fast reflexes would have had me as smurflike as my friend ended up being. While annoyed that she got dye on me after I managed to keep from getting it on myself, it's hard stay peeved at someone who has blue teeth. I hereby declare those jeans (getting too big for me, and with loops chewed off by my crazy australian shepherd some years go) as dye and/or paint jeans now, and there we have it. There's something intensely satisfying about getting color on white clothes. It's so incredibly apparent.
Ok, my hour is up. The wool turned the exact shade of purple intended, and the silk is an infuriating (if lovely in its own right) blue. We'll see how it looks tomorrow morning when I have the pleasure of getting up at the butt crack of dawn to rinse out the dye (mine, and smurfgirls)... likely, still blue. Stupid silk. What again was I thinking to set up a dye bath on the night before the only sleeping in day I get every other week? GEEK! Yes, it's true. When I choose art over sleep, there's something deeply wrong.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Umbrellas
People should be required to use visually interesting umbrellas. On a day when an umbrella is needed, the dreariness of the landscape is inescapable. Is it too much to ask that the huge swaths of cloth twirling and bobbing in motion should be the reward we get for enduring the complete lack of cheer that comes with the rain?
Black umbrellas, Bah, I spit in your general direction. As if it wasn't depressing enough be to damp and surrounded in an impressionistic landscape of desaturated color. Worse, I actually saw a brown umbrella. Don't get me wrong, I love brown. I think it's a misunderstood color with a rich depth and great potential when it's got a chromatic feel to it. However, this was not one of those browns. This was the exact color brown that gives brown a bad name. It's the color of brown with every last bit of soul sucked right out of it. Who would choose such an umbrella? Who is the soulless creature who thought it was a good idea to make it in the first place? It was a brown that was screaming for the release a mercy burning would give it. It could go to color hell where it belongs and release the general brown soul to try again next time... maybe a rich brown with a nice maroon edge, that would be nice.
Black is at least understandable. People who have black umbrellas are often the type of people who are so afraid of clothing that they can't take any risks with color. They are the accountants of the clothing world. This is not a surprise, considering how big the business school is in this town. Do you think tho, is it truly a fear, that people will take you less seriously with an interesting umbrella? You don't take your umbrella to the boardroom and you don't even want it drip drying in your office if you can help it, no matter what color it is.
That brown one tho, that was the insult that pushed the whole thing too far. Think of everyone else, people. We have nothing to look at but your umbrellas on a rainy day. Make it worthwhile. Take a little bit of time to bring some cheer to the world and pick an umbrella that's bright and cheery and possibly even brings a smile to the face of someone who looks at it. Is that too much to ask for on a rainy day?
Black umbrellas, Bah, I spit in your general direction. As if it wasn't depressing enough be to damp and surrounded in an impressionistic landscape of desaturated color. Worse, I actually saw a brown umbrella. Don't get me wrong, I love brown. I think it's a misunderstood color with a rich depth and great potential when it's got a chromatic feel to it. However, this was not one of those browns. This was the exact color brown that gives brown a bad name. It's the color of brown with every last bit of soul sucked right out of it. Who would choose such an umbrella? Who is the soulless creature who thought it was a good idea to make it in the first place? It was a brown that was screaming for the release a mercy burning would give it. It could go to color hell where it belongs and release the general brown soul to try again next time... maybe a rich brown with a nice maroon edge, that would be nice.
Black is at least understandable. People who have black umbrellas are often the type of people who are so afraid of clothing that they can't take any risks with color. They are the accountants of the clothing world. This is not a surprise, considering how big the business school is in this town. Do you think tho, is it truly a fear, that people will take you less seriously with an interesting umbrella? You don't take your umbrella to the boardroom and you don't even want it drip drying in your office if you can help it, no matter what color it is.
That brown one tho, that was the insult that pushed the whole thing too far. Think of everyone else, people. We have nothing to look at but your umbrellas on a rainy day. Make it worthwhile. Take a little bit of time to bring some cheer to the world and pick an umbrella that's bright and cheery and possibly even brings a smile to the face of someone who looks at it. Is that too much to ask for on a rainy day?
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Dreamscape: Mexican Cigarettes
I had my first dream involving ASL (American Sign Language) last night. I was waiting for the bus, it would come anytime. He drove up and said he was looking to buy something, but I couldn't figure out what he was saying... I realized that somewhere along the line he'd stopped speaking to me verbally and started signing. He was signing "Mexican", but I didn' t get it until he switched to the word "spanish". (which I thought I'd originally learned meant Mexican as well, but it appears doesn't. I'd just learned the proper sign for it yesterday in class) Oh! Mexican cigarettes, gotcha. ya, actually, this guy right here has some, maybe he'll sell them.
The guy says he will, and his wife is startled. She says something like "oh no, you're not going to sell those are you??" He replies that they need the money more than the cigarettes. (I recognized the scarcity of the product in my dream so I understood why it would be appealing) I walked back to the car and signed "30" I added "dollars" on the end, feeling concerned that he wouldn't know what the number meant without the referent. (duh) He gives me the money and I take it over to the guy. He pulls out the pack, and it's all sort of smashed. I cringe mentally. As the go between, do I take a product, overpriced, back to him that's inferior? Is it worth it to him to have it anyway, considering the scarcity? I can't make that decision and go with the Stroker Ace philosophy of "I know nothing, I am just a messenger."
The pack drops, and a little cellephane wrapped bit of extra tobacco falls out, he says he's going to keep that. The tobacco is lovely. It's a beautiful deep magenta seeping into puple (a nice RVR with some RVR S1 traits, for you art geek types) color, fuzzy like wool roving (do we have felting on the mind, mo??) with these dark spots in it. My mouth turns into an O of understanding. Well, no wonder this would be scarce and desired, just *look* at it. I decide that he isn't going to care if it's smashed, he can just smoke it in some other format if it's too ugly, the tobacco is what's important, I'm sure.
I take it back to him, getting a little edgy because the bus will be there *any* second. He's disappointed, I can tell. I offer to get his money back if he wants and he waffles. As the bus is pulling up, I'm panicking. I *have* to get where I'm going on that bus, and I know damn well he's not going to offer me a ride if I miss it. He finally decides to get the money back and I sigh internally and dutifully take the pack, watching the bus getting ready to pull away.
*****
Aside from my complete inability to set good dreamscape boundaries to get my own needs met over his, I'm so tweaked by the idea that I had a dream in ASL. Maybe not completely in ASL, but a mix. It was wonderful. There are some things that are just handier to sign than to say, and I love the idea of mixing the two in daily conversation. The origin of ASL has its roots in Martha's Vineyard. Apparently, there was an unusually high rate of genetic deafness in that population. The majority of residents had some proficiency in signing, since so many people they dealt with daily were deaf. Even between hearing people, there would be a mix of signing and verbal communication, based on what was simpler to use to communicate a thought. There are things, like directions and descriptions and emotional context that are just way more effective in ASL then they ever could be in English. Some of that stuff is right up my alley, it's body language with structure and consistancy so everyone can read it if they know how.
Of course, pretty much all non-verbal communication can be read if you know how. People are amazingly consistent in the way they communicate. For a paper I'm writing, I've been researching those seduction websites. I'm still pretty early into it, but the primary thrust seems to be teaching and manipulating body language in order to get a woman in bed. I'm fascinated by how they hook guys into these pages by implying that society set them up for failure with women by watering down their manhood, then immediately turns around and teaches them TO BE MORE LIKE WOMEN.
There are plenty of pot shots in there about "chick logic" and implications that women want men to take charge so they can subsume their desires to his, but it seems it's more a way to manipulate the male ego to think they're being manly, when in reality they're being taught to have the very feminine trait of sensitivity to the other persons body language in order to get what they want from them. Sure, it's plenty insulting that the highest goal they can think of is to actually get to put their dick inside a pussy, but it's the methodology that's bloody serious. (in fact, it's mucking up the primary thrust of my paper, and that pisses me off)
I started being annoyed that they would advocate the man pretty much turn off their authentic self and concentrate solely on being what they discover the other person wants. Then I realized... wait a minute, that's what women have been doing for centuries, is it so bad for them to get a taste of what that's like? (Oh, of course I love football/cars/monster truck races, *flutter flutter* I would love to go with you.) Ok, well, that mucks up my paper too. Then I was bristling at the metaphoric language: chick, chump, laid until I realized this was just a tool to stroke male ego in an already vulnerable state (if you weren't feeling unsuccessful with women, you wouldn't be there, right?) in order to help them feel some power over a situation they find overwhelming.
I think my main point is valid that these websites don't do much to further open honest communication between members of the opposite sex and set up relationships on a fundamentally dishonest platform by forcing one of the people into a *performance* instead of an authentic representation of their personality. However, it's possible that they're *extremely* useful in being a bridge between old (and increasingly ineffective, inappropriate, and unfair) expectations of how men are expected to act, and the new reality of our more female based societal reality. In relationships, jobs, parenting, and more, men are expected to be more able to operate in our increasingly service based society. That means they have to develop skills like being more sensitive, multi-tasking, and understanding body/meta language the way women have been doing for a lot longer.
I firmly believe men are perfectly capable of developing these new skill sets, but are still struggling to do it willingly. Men do a lot to keep each other in line, the very nature of male bonding is one of sadism on an emotional and physical level. They think nothing of humiliating a friend in order to make sure the friend upholds the standards of masculinity he feels are important. Female society isn't much kinder to their own members, of course, but womens liberation has done a lot to muddle the issue even among ourselves. We can't force someone to conform when we've been told from the moment we could understand that we could do anything, that we can stay at home or work, we can have kids or not, we can be more masculine or more feminine, wear make-up or not, and it's all ok. We have been given the freedom of variety that is still considered normal and acceptable. Men haven't been given that freedom yet, and they are trying to figure out what to do now.
My peers are all young. My masculinity class is full of women who scoff at the stereotypes of manhood presented in the literature we're reading. They simply can't believe that men would be so emotionally crippled, so unable to communicate their feelings, so unwilling to consider alternative viewpoints, (especially coming from a woman) and so threatened by female success/assertiveness/independence. Their boyfriends are nothing like that. I don't think they're lying, I think, truly, the new generation of men reaching adulthood have a new understanding and a new freedom never before seen in men's lives.
A friend of mine explained this split when we were discussing a situation that had happened in a group we are both a part of, where it seemed the problem lay distinctly down generational and male lines. He said "well sure, it's because we're not assholes. We are the first generation of men to be raised primarily by women." I was absolutely confounded. Is that true? I think it may be. Single motherhood is reaching levels where joint parenting is becoming the surprise to discover. If nothing else, fathers are recognizing the shift in society that tells them that their warrior skills are no longer the ones really needed in the society they live in. Kids have to have people skills: jobs require greater levels of sensitivity, understanding and interpersonal relationship skills to be successful. A penis and a good golf score simply aren't going to get you ahead anymore.
No matter what, there's a difference between the men my age and the men in the undergraduate studies now. (those are the men I see most commonly right now) There's even more of a difference between men my age and their fathers. Most men I know my age are fucked up. They are struggling to identify who they are as men, and what manhood means at all. They aren't like their fathers in any real way. They were raised by those men, however, and have come to adulthood with some of the expectations of male entitlement that were the natural birthright of the penis bearer in our society as late at their own fathers time. That entitlement simply isn't as easy to come by anymore. Women bonded to the men my age were raised by the first generation of feminists, the first wave of women who came to adulthood with expectations of their own entitlement: entitlement to a job with a competitive to men wage, entitlement to their own sexual pleasure, entitlement to help around the house when they too work outside it, entitlement to pursue their own interests and to expect support from their mates to accomplish it. This stuff is all radically new, and it happened since I was born.
The first programs in feminist/womens studies started in 1972. I was born in 1973. The bonding together of women who stood up and said "we will not be allow ourselves to be oppressed anymore" happened as my mother was blossoming into adulthood, deciding what kind of adult she wanted to be. She is so different from her own mother, that not just grandma being foreign (Latvian) and my mom being raised basically American explains it. I had always just thought it was a cultural difference. It is, of course, but I think it's much huger than country of origin. My mom was a transitional generation. She isn't on board with all that feminist crap. She still wants her door opened and if you want to get in her drawers, you better buy her dinner. On the other hand, she in no way expects that any woman should have to tolerate an inferior position in society based on gender, and in the workplace, she expects absolute parity between the sexes. Go mom. I was raised unfettered by any real notion that my gender would be something that would hold me back in the world. I thought being a woman was GREAT. I got to do anything I wanted, and men buy me stuff, open my doors and work hard to convince me to *allow* them to get in my pants. It was a good deal, I thought.
Now, I'm not quite that person anymore. I married a feminist, and he broke me of those notions of getting my door opened and getting stuff bought for me just because I was a woman pretty quickly. You want equality? You got it, babe, open your own damn door. It ended up being a fair trade. I opened my own door, he did the dishes.
Somewhere along the line tho, he cracked. I can only speculate on what caused it, I never even identified the situation until it was well over. Was it the pressure from his own gender? Did his imbedded ideas of what a man is really like finally leak through the seal he'd put on them until there was a crack that broke the whole thing down? Was it subtle pressure from his dad, implications that he wasn't a real man? Was it his own insecurities about being ahead of the curve, a man unlike the men around him? And he was. He was unlike the men around him, he was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, unlike anything I had known was possible for a man to be. Those men are the standard now, they're just 20 years old and not 30something. He was a man ahead of his time, and maybe being on the frontier just got to be too much. He's retreated into traditional masculinity with an aplomb I find sort of fascinating, if grisly.
It's interesting to see that it was in there all the time. He slid into it and it fits him like a glove. I wonder if it feels to him like my trip into emotional addiction felt to me... like returning to the womb, pure pleasure in running amok. He claims this was in him the whole time, and I can see he is right. It's got to be an intense relief to be away from all that pressure, to just be a "guy". I find myself wondering if the 20 year olds are going to revert after a time, or if the new generation will be able to hold true to the change.
I went to a lecture by Michael Kimmel, and he talked about how this change we're seeing is inevitable. Men simply are going to have to take on more traditionally feminine roles in society. Those roles still need to be filled, and women aren't going to back to working in the house only. This hasn't been completely accepted yet, it seems. In 1992, the... oh damn, what is the name of that guy, the member of the cabinet in charge of labor... anyway, he said that unemployment rates would drop to acceptable levels if women would just go back to the homes. *laughs* 19fucking92 people, and shit like that was not only still said out loud, but by a cabinet official. In any case, he pointed out the definite benefits to men if they take on these roles. If they're helping around the house, the woman they're with is going to be less tired, more happy, and more likely to have the energy and desire to have sex. Men who help around the house get laid more. They actually did the research. Men who help around the house have better health stats, more connection with their children, the children are better adjusted and get in less trouble academically and socially. Everyone wins here.
This isn't to say that people (especially Americans) aren't willing to deny the inevitable for longer than seems humanly possible, (look at our environmental situation) but unless the current administration is actually successful in getting women barefoot, pregnant and chained to the stove once again, it looks like the dialogue between men and women in relationships changing to one of more egalitarian sets of domestic responsibilities truly is inevitable. Those 20 year olds aren't going to have the option of reverting, not if they ever want to get laid again. The 30somethings, well, they can still find women who are willing to put up with all manner of misogynistic nonsense, but those women are getting harder and harder to find. Let's hope, anyway.
edit 4-13-05- I would like to say that I am thankful that for this once, my procrastination basically took the form of writing out the contents as they stood for my paper, and I'm able to take this post, play around with it, and form it into a rather workable rough draft to go over in class today, yeah me! I managed to blab on for 4 pages worth once I added an introductory paragraph, and took out my naturally vulgar expletives. w00t!
The guy says he will, and his wife is startled. She says something like "oh no, you're not going to sell those are you??" He replies that they need the money more than the cigarettes. (I recognized the scarcity of the product in my dream so I understood why it would be appealing) I walked back to the car and signed "30" I added "dollars" on the end, feeling concerned that he wouldn't know what the number meant without the referent. (duh) He gives me the money and I take it over to the guy. He pulls out the pack, and it's all sort of smashed. I cringe mentally. As the go between, do I take a product, overpriced, back to him that's inferior? Is it worth it to him to have it anyway, considering the scarcity? I can't make that decision and go with the Stroker Ace philosophy of "I know nothing, I am just a messenger."
The pack drops, and a little cellephane wrapped bit of extra tobacco falls out, he says he's going to keep that. The tobacco is lovely. It's a beautiful deep magenta seeping into puple (a nice RVR with some RVR S1 traits, for you art geek types) color, fuzzy like wool roving (do we have felting on the mind, mo??) with these dark spots in it. My mouth turns into an O of understanding. Well, no wonder this would be scarce and desired, just *look* at it. I decide that he isn't going to care if it's smashed, he can just smoke it in some other format if it's too ugly, the tobacco is what's important, I'm sure.
I take it back to him, getting a little edgy because the bus will be there *any* second. He's disappointed, I can tell. I offer to get his money back if he wants and he waffles. As the bus is pulling up, I'm panicking. I *have* to get where I'm going on that bus, and I know damn well he's not going to offer me a ride if I miss it. He finally decides to get the money back and I sigh internally and dutifully take the pack, watching the bus getting ready to pull away.
*****
Aside from my complete inability to set good dreamscape boundaries to get my own needs met over his, I'm so tweaked by the idea that I had a dream in ASL. Maybe not completely in ASL, but a mix. It was wonderful. There are some things that are just handier to sign than to say, and I love the idea of mixing the two in daily conversation. The origin of ASL has its roots in Martha's Vineyard. Apparently, there was an unusually high rate of genetic deafness in that population. The majority of residents had some proficiency in signing, since so many people they dealt with daily were deaf. Even between hearing people, there would be a mix of signing and verbal communication, based on what was simpler to use to communicate a thought. There are things, like directions and descriptions and emotional context that are just way more effective in ASL then they ever could be in English. Some of that stuff is right up my alley, it's body language with structure and consistancy so everyone can read it if they know how.
Of course, pretty much all non-verbal communication can be read if you know how. People are amazingly consistent in the way they communicate. For a paper I'm writing, I've been researching those seduction websites. I'm still pretty early into it, but the primary thrust seems to be teaching and manipulating body language in order to get a woman in bed. I'm fascinated by how they hook guys into these pages by implying that society set them up for failure with women by watering down their manhood, then immediately turns around and teaches them TO BE MORE LIKE WOMEN.
There are plenty of pot shots in there about "chick logic" and implications that women want men to take charge so they can subsume their desires to his, but it seems it's more a way to manipulate the male ego to think they're being manly, when in reality they're being taught to have the very feminine trait of sensitivity to the other persons body language in order to get what they want from them. Sure, it's plenty insulting that the highest goal they can think of is to actually get to put their dick inside a pussy, but it's the methodology that's bloody serious. (in fact, it's mucking up the primary thrust of my paper, and that pisses me off)
I started being annoyed that they would advocate the man pretty much turn off their authentic self and concentrate solely on being what they discover the other person wants. Then I realized... wait a minute, that's what women have been doing for centuries, is it so bad for them to get a taste of what that's like? (Oh, of course I love football/cars/monster truck races, *flutter flutter* I would love to go with you.) Ok, well, that mucks up my paper too. Then I was bristling at the metaphoric language: chick, chump, laid until I realized this was just a tool to stroke male ego in an already vulnerable state (if you weren't feeling unsuccessful with women, you wouldn't be there, right?) in order to help them feel some power over a situation they find overwhelming.
I think my main point is valid that these websites don't do much to further open honest communication between members of the opposite sex and set up relationships on a fundamentally dishonest platform by forcing one of the people into a *performance* instead of an authentic representation of their personality. However, it's possible that they're *extremely* useful in being a bridge between old (and increasingly ineffective, inappropriate, and unfair) expectations of how men are expected to act, and the new reality of our more female based societal reality. In relationships, jobs, parenting, and more, men are expected to be more able to operate in our increasingly service based society. That means they have to develop skills like being more sensitive, multi-tasking, and understanding body/meta language the way women have been doing for a lot longer.
I firmly believe men are perfectly capable of developing these new skill sets, but are still struggling to do it willingly. Men do a lot to keep each other in line, the very nature of male bonding is one of sadism on an emotional and physical level. They think nothing of humiliating a friend in order to make sure the friend upholds the standards of masculinity he feels are important. Female society isn't much kinder to their own members, of course, but womens liberation has done a lot to muddle the issue even among ourselves. We can't force someone to conform when we've been told from the moment we could understand that we could do anything, that we can stay at home or work, we can have kids or not, we can be more masculine or more feminine, wear make-up or not, and it's all ok. We have been given the freedom of variety that is still considered normal and acceptable. Men haven't been given that freedom yet, and they are trying to figure out what to do now.
My peers are all young. My masculinity class is full of women who scoff at the stereotypes of manhood presented in the literature we're reading. They simply can't believe that men would be so emotionally crippled, so unable to communicate their feelings, so unwilling to consider alternative viewpoints, (especially coming from a woman) and so threatened by female success/assertiveness/independence. Their boyfriends are nothing like that. I don't think they're lying, I think, truly, the new generation of men reaching adulthood have a new understanding and a new freedom never before seen in men's lives.
A friend of mine explained this split when we were discussing a situation that had happened in a group we are both a part of, where it seemed the problem lay distinctly down generational and male lines. He said "well sure, it's because we're not assholes. We are the first generation of men to be raised primarily by women." I was absolutely confounded. Is that true? I think it may be. Single motherhood is reaching levels where joint parenting is becoming the surprise to discover. If nothing else, fathers are recognizing the shift in society that tells them that their warrior skills are no longer the ones really needed in the society they live in. Kids have to have people skills: jobs require greater levels of sensitivity, understanding and interpersonal relationship skills to be successful. A penis and a good golf score simply aren't going to get you ahead anymore.
No matter what, there's a difference between the men my age and the men in the undergraduate studies now. (those are the men I see most commonly right now) There's even more of a difference between men my age and their fathers. Most men I know my age are fucked up. They are struggling to identify who they are as men, and what manhood means at all. They aren't like their fathers in any real way. They were raised by those men, however, and have come to adulthood with some of the expectations of male entitlement that were the natural birthright of the penis bearer in our society as late at their own fathers time. That entitlement simply isn't as easy to come by anymore. Women bonded to the men my age were raised by the first generation of feminists, the first wave of women who came to adulthood with expectations of their own entitlement: entitlement to a job with a competitive to men wage, entitlement to their own sexual pleasure, entitlement to help around the house when they too work outside it, entitlement to pursue their own interests and to expect support from their mates to accomplish it. This stuff is all radically new, and it happened since I was born.
The first programs in feminist/womens studies started in 1972. I was born in 1973. The bonding together of women who stood up and said "we will not be allow ourselves to be oppressed anymore" happened as my mother was blossoming into adulthood, deciding what kind of adult she wanted to be. She is so different from her own mother, that not just grandma being foreign (Latvian) and my mom being raised basically American explains it. I had always just thought it was a cultural difference. It is, of course, but I think it's much huger than country of origin. My mom was a transitional generation. She isn't on board with all that feminist crap. She still wants her door opened and if you want to get in her drawers, you better buy her dinner. On the other hand, she in no way expects that any woman should have to tolerate an inferior position in society based on gender, and in the workplace, she expects absolute parity between the sexes. Go mom. I was raised unfettered by any real notion that my gender would be something that would hold me back in the world. I thought being a woman was GREAT. I got to do anything I wanted, and men buy me stuff, open my doors and work hard to convince me to *allow* them to get in my pants. It was a good deal, I thought.
Now, I'm not quite that person anymore. I married a feminist, and he broke me of those notions of getting my door opened and getting stuff bought for me just because I was a woman pretty quickly. You want equality? You got it, babe, open your own damn door. It ended up being a fair trade. I opened my own door, he did the dishes.
Somewhere along the line tho, he cracked. I can only speculate on what caused it, I never even identified the situation until it was well over. Was it the pressure from his own gender? Did his imbedded ideas of what a man is really like finally leak through the seal he'd put on them until there was a crack that broke the whole thing down? Was it subtle pressure from his dad, implications that he wasn't a real man? Was it his own insecurities about being ahead of the curve, a man unlike the men around him? And he was. He was unlike the men around him, he was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, unlike anything I had known was possible for a man to be. Those men are the standard now, they're just 20 years old and not 30something. He was a man ahead of his time, and maybe being on the frontier just got to be too much. He's retreated into traditional masculinity with an aplomb I find sort of fascinating, if grisly.
It's interesting to see that it was in there all the time. He slid into it and it fits him like a glove. I wonder if it feels to him like my trip into emotional addiction felt to me... like returning to the womb, pure pleasure in running amok. He claims this was in him the whole time, and I can see he is right. It's got to be an intense relief to be away from all that pressure, to just be a "guy". I find myself wondering if the 20 year olds are going to revert after a time, or if the new generation will be able to hold true to the change.
I went to a lecture by Michael Kimmel, and he talked about how this change we're seeing is inevitable. Men simply are going to have to take on more traditionally feminine roles in society. Those roles still need to be filled, and women aren't going to back to working in the house only. This hasn't been completely accepted yet, it seems. In 1992, the... oh damn, what is the name of that guy, the member of the cabinet in charge of labor... anyway, he said that unemployment rates would drop to acceptable levels if women would just go back to the homes. *laughs* 19fucking92 people, and shit like that was not only still said out loud, but by a cabinet official. In any case, he pointed out the definite benefits to men if they take on these roles. If they're helping around the house, the woman they're with is going to be less tired, more happy, and more likely to have the energy and desire to have sex. Men who help around the house get laid more. They actually did the research. Men who help around the house have better health stats, more connection with their children, the children are better adjusted and get in less trouble academically and socially. Everyone wins here.
This isn't to say that people (especially Americans) aren't willing to deny the inevitable for longer than seems humanly possible, (look at our environmental situation) but unless the current administration is actually successful in getting women barefoot, pregnant and chained to the stove once again, it looks like the dialogue between men and women in relationships changing to one of more egalitarian sets of domestic responsibilities truly is inevitable. Those 20 year olds aren't going to have the option of reverting, not if they ever want to get laid again. The 30somethings, well, they can still find women who are willing to put up with all manner of misogynistic nonsense, but those women are getting harder and harder to find. Let's hope, anyway.
edit 4-13-05- I would like to say that I am thankful that for this once, my procrastination basically took the form of writing out the contents as they stood for my paper, and I'm able to take this post, play around with it, and form it into a rather workable rough draft to go over in class today, yeah me! I managed to blab on for 4 pages worth once I added an introductory paragraph, and took out my naturally vulgar expletives. w00t!
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