I need some body

My list of household duties has shortened up a bit.  I no longer have to make dinner, iron or vacuum.  That enables me to complete my others chores, the chores still left for me, more thoroughly, quickly.

Cleaning the bathrooms.

Mopping the floors.

Washing, drying, folding and putting away the laundry.

Taking out the trash.

Washing dishes.

The shorter list frees up some time for me to go to work, study and do homework, help others with their homework or work-related projects, spend time with my children, give sex to my husband, call doctors, call schools, look happy, write checks for rent and bills, listen to everyone else’s problems, good news or complaints.

Sometimes, while in bed late at night, I wish I had some body- some body to help make life run smooth for me.  I wish I could look in my closet and expect clean things there without having to be the one who made them clean, folded them beautifully and put them there.  I wish I could wake up to a pot of coffee, never wondering how it got there but simply pouring a cup and enjoying it.  Like a child, I wish.  I wish I could leave shaving cream and little hairs and drops of toothpaste all over the bathroom sink and counter then simply walk away.  I wish I could return to a blank canvas to mark up with my carelessness- never having to consider how I’d previously dirtied it up or how it got cleaned.

I need some body whose time and dignity I could ignore.  Some body who would stop slamming drawers shut, mumbling under her breath or smoking excessively when offered the ocassional thank-you. I need some body I could use as a maid, an ear, a hole, a pillow, a mop, a sanitation worker, a receptacle.  I need some body invisible, stealthy and good at picking up after me so I don’t have to think about it.  I need time to do things that make life meaningful like sitting in front of a computer all day or playing outside or reading philosophy books or watching tv or thrift store shopping or anything I feel like doing with all the free time I’d have because some body is doing everything else I don’t have to do because I have some body. 

I need some body whose life is taking care of my life.

I need some body like me.

letting go of other people’s eyes

This year has been about my striving to break free from the bondage of other people’s eyes, thoughts and ideas concerning, well, everything.  I am hoping to achieve my own sense of beauty, intelligence and ideology apart from the standards of others.

I am also working hard not to impose standards of beauty, intelligence and ideology on others.  This is hard to do, considering that I am highly opinionated.  Still, I want to possess my own standards for my self, rather than looking to the same old bullshit rule book for steps on how to proceed.

Can I have opinions and feelings and express them while not retaining some judgement toward others?  Can I call out what is unfair while claiming to let go of the standards of others?  I think I can, by not waiting for the validation of others regarding my ideas.

Then why blog?

being black in southern oregon

Being black in southern Oregon means that no matter how crowded the bus is, I almost never have to share a bus seat.

Being black in southern Oregon means I am often mistaken for others being black in sourthern Oregon.

Being black in southern Oregon means lacking any sense of community.

Being black in southern Oregon means finding hair care products is just about impossible for me.

Being black in southern Oregon means questioning every developing relationship.  Who benefits?

Being black in southern Oregon means that I will be referred to as ‘girlfriend’ at least once a week.

Being black in southern Oregon means my children have often come home upset because a teacher, classmate, or random person said something ignorant, hateful and hurtful about people of color.

Being black in southern Oregon is about being trapped.

Being black in southern Oregon means no professional hair cuts ever again.

Being black in southern Oregon means some other black people in southern Oregon probably won’t acknowledge me- no matter how warm my smile is.

Being black in southern Oregon means that when another black person does acknowledge me, and even speaks to me, I can enjoy that comfort for days.

Being black in southern Oregon is about unhappiness, loneliness, and anger.

why watching porn with me is not all good times

I watch pornography.  I’ve been watching porn since age eleven but my first encounter with pornography was at age five.  My uncle, who was eight at the time, and I, stumbled upon a magazine while playing catch in a field we were not supposed to play in.  Some of the images from that magazine remain clear in my mind.  From time to time I pull them from my memory to energize my organs.

While pornography, for me, does what it’s supposed to do- which is get me all saucy- it mostly gets my critical thinking juices flowing.  I’m sure many authors and thinkers have noted the beauty requirements of female actors in the industry while male actors can be fat, hairy, pasty, bony, greasy, etc.  Very rarely do we get a full view of a beautiful man in a vulnerable or physically painful position.  I’m sure many writers have addressed how casting average looking men in porn films gives average looking male viewers a sense of empowerment and invites him to believe that they could experience such an encounter.  I’m certain that many thinkers have noted how only showing viewers the male counterpart’s cock, balls and paunchy belly, male viewers are better able to fantasize themselves into the scene- imagining it is their cock, balls and paunchy belly getting all the action with a beautiful, lusty, uninhibited woman who is a contortionist-  always ready and waiting just for them.  I’ve read many articles regarding the difference in pay for male and female actors, and how porn industry terms have made it into mainstream vernacular.  If I hear that something is the money shot one more time…

The thing for me is that when I watch porn, the thoughts above come to me.  And I begin to wonder about the pain.  I once watched a gang bang.  It was very disturbing and didn’t turn me on at all.  Nine men and one woman.  I kept wondering why the men were allowed to penetrate the actress’ anus, then her vagina, knowing that was unhealthy for the actress.  The actress looked and sounded like she was in pain.  But the most disturbing part, for me, was watching the group of male actors standing around, waiting their turn, touching themselves to keep it hard.  Most of them seemed unsuccessful at their attempts.  I wondered if it was the realization of what they were a part of- the presentation of a woman as holes to be poked- that kept them flaccid, or the fact that they were sharing the same woman.  I also wondered how the woman got through such an ordeal.  It had to be physically painful.  Or maybe I am projecting?

The latest trend in thinking is the idea of female sexual empowerment that many women espouse in defense of pornography.  And while more and more women have become honest about watching pornography, I cannot believe that female sexual empowerment has much to do with it.  I watch porn because it is visceral, primal and as I said earlier, it turns me on.  But make no mistake.  Porn is filled with oppression, aggression and objectification.  I never forget that, even as I feel the pulse of horniness inside my panties.

Still, the idea of female sexual empowerment in porn is lost on me.  Yes, the women may choose to participate and make a lot of money.  And I imagine being regarded as a sexual icon can create a sense of power for a woman, but female pleasure is not the goal of most pornography.  Female fantasy is not its inspiration.  Foreplay does not exist in pornography.  I know porn is not intended to present viewers with intelligent dialogue or intriguing plot- that’s not what porn is about.  But with the female actors being held to a higher standard of appearance, having to do most of the performing and enduring the bulk of physical pain while getting less pay, the idea of empowerment is ridiculous.

I am a hypocrite, I know.  I watch and am aroused.  However, I am repulsed at the same time, just like the men in the gang bang scene.  I wonder why I continue to watch.  Then I wonder why I shouldn’t.

Monday shall be set aside for assholes: a definition

Unfortunately, the world is roiling with assholes.  I hate to say that but it’s true.  Don’t get it twisted, though.  I think every single human being has been an asshole from time to time.  We all have our moments, but such moments are exceptions to the rule.  There are those who are assholes on the inside, thinking assholish thoughts but for the most part conduct themselves in a manner that more or less hides the fact.  But we know.  Then there are people in the world who are pure, unadulterated, 100% asshole.  Inside and out.  The genuine article. 

Whatever kind of asshole we are, Mondays will be set aside for assholes.

I’ve typed the word asshole about a million times.

Assholes are people who misdirect their anger, are imaptient, treat others with disrespect, are rude, don’t listen, use intimidation in an attempt to get their way, ignore the facts of a situation, are ignorant as hell, possess a false sense of entitlement, believe they are better than everyone around them, push their babies in a stroller while smoking a cigarette, cut you off, have tantrums, blow up at little setbacks, are possessive, are abnormally selfish.  Assholes are always trying to cut corners, get over on someone or make themselves feel powerful by making others feel powerless.  They watch when they shouldn’t, listen when they ought not.  Assholes gossip.  Assholes love to be in the middle of everything- stirring things up, watch the aftermath.

 And they call other people assholes all the time.

Assholes are not concentrated in any particular group in regard to race, religious affilliation, gender, ethnicity, political identitifications, sexual orientation, height, status, physical ability, educational level or age.  Although, sometimes it may seem that way because some groups tend to be louder than those from other groups or have more opportunity to express their views to a larger audience.  Assholes lurve to be heard.  Moreover, they love to hear themselves.  Another factor in this misconception is that the general public tend to listen to assholes from certain groups more than others- which is kind of assholish as well.

Mothers can be assholes.  Old people can be assholes.  Brothers, uncles, sons daughters, grandmas, friends, wives and husbands.  Even children.  In fact, children who are assholes are the very worst kind of asshole because we assume that children shouldn’t or couldn’t actually be assholes and it catches us off guard.  Another thing about young assholes is that it is almost garuanteed that their parents are deluxe assholes.  However, being the child of an asshole does not necessarily mean you will be an asshole.  Many such children grow up not to be assholes, which is cool.

Assholes operate in many spheres of our society and the societies around the world.  The political sphere is chockful o’ assholes.  A lot of assholes become lawyers.  There are teachers, doctors, retail workers and actors who are total assholes.  There is nowhere on this planet where you will not meet at least one asshole in a 24 hour period- even if that asshole is you.

I don’t believe in anything.

Not God.  Not a theory.  Not a philosophy.  Not you or myself.  I do what needs doing, clean what needs cleaning and dream what needs dreaming.  I attempt to do my best but not to get into heaven, not to win approval or respect from my peers and not for any reward aside from doing a good job.

I don’t believe the mirror.

I don’t believe the ads.

Love is an abused word who will do anything not to be abused.  While I feel sorry for that, it still creates a situation in which love cannot be believed.  It is too damaged.  Broken.

I don’t believe in politics or the American dream.  I don’t believe in the American standard of beauty or excellence or goodness.

I don’t have standards.

I live.  I don’t have to believe to live.  I simply have opened my eyes after sleep for as long as I have been alive, kicked back the blankets and done what I do.  There will come a sleep that doesn’t end and how will I know any different?  I will continue to sleep.

I don’t believe in measuring time or borders or outer space.  I don’t believe in confinement or freedom because these are puny human constructs put in place for people to feel in control of our lives and activities, or to attempt to control others.

It’s all lies. 

I don’t believe in -isms.  I don’t believe in party affiliations.  I don’t believe that individualism exists and there is no such thing as belonging.  There will always be something to keep each of us outside.

the end is nigh

May 21st.  A Saturday.  The day of hangovers.  The Other-Half has a take I happen to like on this subject:

People believe.  People scoff.  Either way it plays out, for a moment or for a few days, even scoffers may have considered the direction of their lives, rethought priorities, wondered for a spilt second “What if?”

A young man I know quoted a verse of bible scripture- Matthew 24-42- which says no one can know the time of the end: you just have to be ready.  So.  How can Harold Camping know its exact date?  Maybe he’s not a man, a regular man?  Maybe he’s an angel wearing a man suit?  Or maybe he is a man, but a special man?  Probably, I think, he’s just a man.

I’ve decided I will not believe.  Nor will I scoff.  However, I will try my very, very best to be mindful that the end of my world can occur at anytime.  Maybe I’ll be struck by a bus on the way to work or my heart will just stop in the middle of the night?  Or perhaps I will choke on a piece of food?  Or what if I swallowed a bunch of pills or am shot during an armed robbery?

Or maybe I’ll just disappear.

a blue that is real

Not sky or denim.  Not eyes- eyes because eyes can be dishonest.  Not even the sea but rather clocking in on time at a job you loathe or the hurt, having pulled a hangnail a bit too far.  Alone in an elevator.  That sigh when you really have to pee and you fall onto the toilet seat and the heat streams out and it’s loud and you are proud of that strength because it’s the only strength you have, and  it is such a relief it’s almost sinful.  Echoes in a stairwell.  Something melting into your tongue.  Reading the jacket of a book and the moment you decide you’re going to get it is blue.  When you are talking to a person and they look away at someone else, that is blue: god’s blue: a real serious blue.

Wet concrete is blue.  And shadows in the evening before their thickening and spreading to black.  Veins, so vulnerable beneath our thin skins.  All sighs are blue.  Chin resting in hands, not thinking, not seeing or watching but looking: the kind of blue that stains.

A blue that is real.

green: an interpretation

Like green, like Legion, I am many.

The new bright green of spring.  The brown-edged green of something dying.  The dark rich green of royalty, the sick yellowgreen of envy or bile.  A shiny wet green that is alluring.  There is a cold green, frosted and cool like me, sometimes, when I am wearing my feather earrings and feel like switching my hips around and let my eyes do all the talking.  The blued-green of a molding, rotted thing is me when I languish in my sadness.

There is the gaudy green of bruises when I’m feeling brutal and the trace of green like starvation under the eyes when I can’t go on.

There are so many greens.

I am all of them.

other people: a revelation

For the most part: annoying as hell.

Sitting in the back of a library while a writing class- to which I do not belong- is receiving instruction on how to use library databases.  The librarian- who looks very smart in her pants suit- not intelligent smart but stylish smart- led the students to the main page step by step.  Then someone raises her hand to say she arrived there a different way.  Then a man says the same.  Then a couple of others.

But the thing is they all got to the same place.  So why the big deal?