Digital Phlegm

Day 464

When I first started stacking up girl progeny like a squirrel packing acorns away for a rainy day I tried to read feminist writings on the web. Not classical writings or vetted writings or even popular writings, just the random rants of bloggers who happened to be women and happend to be upset about something. I say ‘something’ not because I can’t recall what it was they were upset about, but because I was never sure inthe first place. They all seemed angry and eventually I stopped reading their anger.

I’d been looking for idea on how to raise my kids more gender neutral. To give them a person’s perspective of the world rather than a gender’s. I’m sure I didn’t look hard enough because I didn’t find what I was looking for until yesterday. Kinda.

In two instances related only by temporal proximity I did a bit of thinking. The first was a status update I made on Facebook: “Thanks to Kathryn Bigelow none of my children will ever be the first woman to win Best Director”. The other was a pair of articles about DC Comics’ character Wonder Woman and the bio of the author of each (http://www.digitalfemme.com/journal/index.php?itemid=1272).

So the first bit is tongue in cheek in a way designed to make others think. Most went for the straight up interpretation that I am just commenting on the hoard of girls I’ve got headed out into the great wide world here in the next several years. That’s fine. I, however, thought down the path of why-are-we-still-having-to-make-these-distinctions and how-long-will-it-be-before-we-don’t-?. That and I hadn’t ever spent much time considering that one of my daughters would be a lead creator. Anyhow, thinking.

The second instance got me thinking less about how Wonder Woman is a man’s tough princess, a madonna-whore, and more about author CherylLynn’s bio. I haven’t a clue what a “warrior woman” is or how one would go about being a “bad-ass mamajama”. I don’t know what it means to be either of those things because I’m not entirely certain what it means to be a warrior or a bad-ass. I’m not an aggressor. I’m not taking life by the balls and making it what I want—never have. This isn’t a plea, just an observation. It’s the thing (lack of thing) that makes understanding my friend’s desire to ride his bike for 100s of miles in a week difficult.

My personality aside, I can see why someone would want to plunge into icy water first, dance without inhibition, or generally suck the marrow of life from the bones of the world (metaphorically of course) and I want some of that for my children.

Lumpy

Day 463

Maybe someday I’ll feel more shame that I never write on weekends anymore. I’m certain were I to go back and check I’d find that those days’ contributions to 1000 Days to be below the average quality I maintain here. I cling to the absurd notion that Saturday and Sunday mornings allow for sleeping in. They don’t.

Place absurd clinging here.

As for the current weather, I’m not buying it. Gray, raining, and warm? I don’t think so. This ain’t Seattle.

I’d like to thank Kathryn Bigelow for fucking it up for all of my daughters. Yet another woman based hurdle they won’t break. Cheers Kat! What was up with Sandra Bullock? She appeared embarrassed to win—genuinely upset. I thought it was nice Jeff Bridges calmed his nerves with some pharmaceutical or another. Jim undoubtly curled up in his $100 bill quilt crying himself to sleep.

This was not my plan.

This Won’t End Well

Day 462

http://gorillaartfare.com/2010/02/dont-finkfeeeel/

She was naked. And halfway in and halfway out of a marble wall.

I was a dog, another species unable to appreciate her beauty. Except I wasn’t. I was as human as she appeared to be.

Of the three of us, her, me, and the marble wall, only the wall responded to her prescense. It swirled and splashed with pastel illustrations of feathers, fronds, and joyous bongols. These happy illustrations radiated from the rose-like flower blooming between her pale breasts. I wasn’t sure if she caused this or if the wall volunteered. Many of the sinuous petals looked to have smiling faces.

Except for her hands, which she tucked modestly between her legs, a crisp angle defined the intersection of her body and the plane of the wall. Her hands though, more her fingers…fingertips really, extended vaguely into a shadow beyond the surface of the wall’s reality. In that deeper world she might have perched on the cusp of a tall tower like a gargoyle or sat on the prow of a fantastic sailing ship. She wore short brown hair.

The body and face of a maiden with the eyes of a matron.

“I am asking you a question,” the maiden said.

She asked me a question? Or will ask? “Huh?”

“I will be asking you a question. You may choose to answer yes or no,” the matron clarified.

“But in the end I’ll be doing whatever you wish of me?”

“Of course,” answered the heart of a crone.