Jun 22, 2012
May 18, 2012
He Works Out!
Listen up, boys: we are bringing back the Speedo.
By we, of course, I mean you, I already have a scandalously scanty bathing suit. You, the sexy chunks of man tuna I see at the pool hiding your white-legged shame beneath floppy surfer shorts. You, the middle-aged dads who could be total DILFs if you would just stand up straight and own your years. You, the prematurely-balding college kid sitting on the edge of the hot tub with a look that apologizes for being half-naked anywhere, ever.
You, sirs, are bringing back the Speedo. I hereby free you from the tyranny of clothed obscurity! It's your turn, you get to be sexy. I don't care what you look like, you are going to take joy in your body. You are going to be happy with your random assortment of borrowed molecules. You are going put on that stretchy man hammock, and you are going to work it hard.
Objectification: it's not just for ladies anymore.
After my last post, I received an email from a male friend voicing his concern that I had chosen to talk about my own personal vagina (instead of just pooti-tang in the abstract sense). He wondered what I hoped to accomplish by making people think about my genitals. (There you go again... Naughty.) He said that he was sure "all of the non-hegemonic women who read your blog loved it", which is sort of a nice way of saying "whores like whore stuff, duh", but in the beginning of his note he hypothesized that if a man had written a similar essay about his penis, it wouldn't be as well-received.
Subtly patronizing slut-shaming aside (good girls don't talk about their nethers, and you want to be a good girl, don't you?), he makes a valid point. While men are very rarely shamed for their promiscuity the way women are, they are often equally objectified and ridiculed according to rigid definitions of masculinity, denied the full and dynamic range of their personhood.
Male sexuality has been long neglected, treated with a sort of callous, bro-style chest-bump that leaves very little room for nuance or variety. Men in our culture have been led to believe they are incapable of being sexy. Any attempt is looked down on as "acting like a woman", or being "metro-sexual". Men are allowed very few avenues of physical vanity while women have a full toy chest, an arsenal dedicated to attracting the opposite sex. We get silky panties, and fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels. Men get aftershave.
This is, in part, due to popular and pervasive attitude that women are just inherently more sexy than men, that the female form is smooth and curvy and soft, while a man's body is all angles and pointy things, hairy and gross.
Well, we are done with all that. Men, take note: times are changing. We want to see you naked. There's a ladyboners section in Reddit's popular gonewild subreddit. There's LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know it" video, which is both a parody and a male-centric homage to the typical rap video. There's... Manuel Fucking Ferrara. Your masculinity is quickly becoming a commodity, and you don't have to be Daniel Craig to cash in. You just need to figure out what about being a fella makes you feel sexy. Is your shoulders? Your biceps? Maybe your beard? Or is it more primal, when you get right down to the meat of things, is it, as my friend seems to imply, something too long unmentioned and neglected?
Enough thinking about my vagina, honey, talk to me about your cock. At length, if you like. I wait with baited breath to read your blog about how powerful and sexy and duderrific your member makes you feel. I can't wait to see men of all shapes and sizes shaking their money-makers at the beach. I want to catcall construction workers, and ogle teachers. I want Boylesque to be a big and sensational thing, I want this attitude that women don't really look at men banished, gone forever from the public consciousness. I want the Full Monty. Bring me your naked, your hairy, your erect and flaccid masses...
You're sexy, and it's time you knew it.
By we, of course, I mean you, I already have a scandalously scanty bathing suit. You, the sexy chunks of man tuna I see at the pool hiding your white-legged shame beneath floppy surfer shorts. You, the middle-aged dads who could be total DILFs if you would just stand up straight and own your years. You, the prematurely-balding college kid sitting on the edge of the hot tub with a look that apologizes for being half-naked anywhere, ever.
You, sirs, are bringing back the Speedo. I hereby free you from the tyranny of clothed obscurity! It's your turn, you get to be sexy. I don't care what you look like, you are going to take joy in your body. You are going to be happy with your random assortment of borrowed molecules. You are going put on that stretchy man hammock, and you are going to work it hard.
Objectification: it's not just for ladies anymore.
After my last post, I received an email from a male friend voicing his concern that I had chosen to talk about my own personal vagina (instead of just pooti-tang in the abstract sense). He wondered what I hoped to accomplish by making people think about my genitals. (There you go again... Naughty.) He said that he was sure "all of the non-hegemonic women who read your blog loved it", which is sort of a nice way of saying "whores like whore stuff, duh", but in the beginning of his note he hypothesized that if a man had written a similar essay about his penis, it wouldn't be as well-received.
Subtly patronizing slut-shaming aside (good girls don't talk about their nethers, and you want to be a good girl, don't you?), he makes a valid point. While men are very rarely shamed for their promiscuity the way women are, they are often equally objectified and ridiculed according to rigid definitions of masculinity, denied the full and dynamic range of their personhood.
Male sexuality has been long neglected, treated with a sort of callous, bro-style chest-bump that leaves very little room for nuance or variety. Men in our culture have been led to believe they are incapable of being sexy. Any attempt is looked down on as "acting like a woman", or being "metro-sexual". Men are allowed very few avenues of physical vanity while women have a full toy chest, an arsenal dedicated to attracting the opposite sex. We get silky panties, and fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels. Men get aftershave.
This is, in part, due to popular and pervasive attitude that women are just inherently more sexy than men, that the female form is smooth and curvy and soft, while a man's body is all angles and pointy things, hairy and gross.
Well, we are done with all that. Men, take note: times are changing. We want to see you naked. There's a ladyboners section in Reddit's popular gonewild subreddit. There's LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know it" video, which is both a parody and a male-centric homage to the typical rap video. There's... Manuel Fucking Ferrara. Your masculinity is quickly becoming a commodity, and you don't have to be Daniel Craig to cash in. You just need to figure out what about being a fella makes you feel sexy. Is your shoulders? Your biceps? Maybe your beard? Or is it more primal, when you get right down to the meat of things, is it, as my friend seems to imply, something too long unmentioned and neglected?
Enough thinking about my vagina, honey, talk to me about your cock. At length, if you like. I wait with baited breath to read your blog about how powerful and sexy and duderrific your member makes you feel. I can't wait to see men of all shapes and sizes shaking their money-makers at the beach. I want to catcall construction workers, and ogle teachers. I want Boylesque to be a big and sensational thing, I want this attitude that women don't really look at men banished, gone forever from the public consciousness. I want the Full Monty. Bring me your naked, your hairy, your erect and flaccid masses...
You're sexy, and it's time you knew it.
Feb 9, 2012
You are now thinking about my vagina.
In her review of "A Dangerous Method", Kartina Richardson says, "I’ve never wondered about (Keira) Knightley’s vagina before. Her characters, though romantic leads, seem vagina-less..."
She's absolutely right. Why is that? Why are our sex objects only desirable from the belly-button up? Why have I never thought about Keira Knightley's vagina before? She must have one, and if we're going to admire the daintiness of her cleavage in those pirate movies, one would assume our imaginations would eventually slip, like a droplet of sweat, in between brazenly-displayed decolletage, tracing smoothly down her abdomen past the refined dip of her belly button until at last we reach the pubic mound, parting pale thighs to reveal the soft secret of her womanhood.
And yet, many of us have never probed so far south, not just with her, but with other famous starlets. We tend to focus on the superficial aspects of our attraction, on the PG elements of a woman's body, on her cleavage and rump, objectifying her without actually sexualizing her, as if she were as anatomically incorrect as poor Barbie.
When I was a young woman, my sexuality was an external thing. I was an exhibitionist, eager to share my body, deriving my pleasure from the enjoyment of others. I didn't expect to have an orgasm every time I had sex, after all, climaxes were tricky, elusive things that required perseverance and hard work. I didn't yet feel I had the right to ask for such diligence, sex felt good and that was enough. My vagina was generous, understanding, full of youthful indulgence and good intentions. It was a pussy; meek and sweet, with no expectations, no inconvenient demands.
As I get older, I find my sexuality grows more selfish, more insistent. I now have, as Kartina says, an adult vagina. Greedy. Unrestrained. Dangerous. The kind of vagina that strikes terror in the hearts of patriarchies, that causes burqas and stones to be handed out in equal measure. The kind of vagina that can't be objectified, can't be easily domesticated and tucked into a tidy Donna Reed corner, because it encompasses all manner of degradation, all manner of desire.
I once asked Raleigh if he was a butt or a boob man. He said, "I'm a vagina man. Tits and ass are just window-dressing." This, I have learned through eleven years of sweaty, grunty, unlady-like fucking, is the correct answer.
One of my favorite comedians and feminists, Rob Delaney, says he considers eating pussy to be a political act.* I adore him, and I think he's right when he says,"Sexism and misogyny still run rampant in our world and in our culture and it will be the death of us if we don’t seek to counter it in our own lives", but the funny thing is, he himself is served by that exact prejudice. People find his constant references to cunnilingus hilarious, but when a woman (such as myself) mentions the same act, suddenly it's gross. If a man says he wants to eat my pussy, that's fine, it's safe, the pussy is contained, it's handled, it's on a leash. But if I tell Rob Delaney "I'm going to sit on your face. I want your tongue deep inside me, I want you to smell me, taste me, feel me, bury your face in me and don't you fucking dare come up for air until you've finished what you started." Well. That shit's kinda scary, isn't it? I bet half of you threw your laptops across the room. (Note: this could strictly be that Rob Delaney is funny and I am not. In which case, disregard all mentions of my hooha.)
Vaginas are predatory. They're famished. And you're surrounded by them everyday.
Congratulations: You are now thinking about my vagina.
*Rob Delaney, if u r reading this, hit me up, I will ride ur mustache so hard, you'll think I was filibustering ur face.
She's absolutely right. Why is that? Why are our sex objects only desirable from the belly-button up? Why have I never thought about Keira Knightley's vagina before? She must have one, and if we're going to admire the daintiness of her cleavage in those pirate movies, one would assume our imaginations would eventually slip, like a droplet of sweat, in between brazenly-displayed decolletage, tracing smoothly down her abdomen past the refined dip of her belly button until at last we reach the pubic mound, parting pale thighs to reveal the soft secret of her womanhood.
And yet, many of us have never probed so far south, not just with her, but with other famous starlets. We tend to focus on the superficial aspects of our attraction, on the PG elements of a woman's body, on her cleavage and rump, objectifying her without actually sexualizing her, as if she were as anatomically incorrect as poor Barbie.
When I was a young woman, my sexuality was an external thing. I was an exhibitionist, eager to share my body, deriving my pleasure from the enjoyment of others. I didn't expect to have an orgasm every time I had sex, after all, climaxes were tricky, elusive things that required perseverance and hard work. I didn't yet feel I had the right to ask for such diligence, sex felt good and that was enough. My vagina was generous, understanding, full of youthful indulgence and good intentions. It was a pussy; meek and sweet, with no expectations, no inconvenient demands.
As I get older, I find my sexuality grows more selfish, more insistent. I now have, as Kartina says, an adult vagina. Greedy. Unrestrained. Dangerous. The kind of vagina that strikes terror in the hearts of patriarchies, that causes burqas and stones to be handed out in equal measure. The kind of vagina that can't be objectified, can't be easily domesticated and tucked into a tidy Donna Reed corner, because it encompasses all manner of degradation, all manner of desire.
I once asked Raleigh if he was a butt or a boob man. He said, "I'm a vagina man. Tits and ass are just window-dressing." This, I have learned through eleven years of sweaty, grunty, unlady-like fucking, is the correct answer.
One of my favorite comedians and feminists, Rob Delaney, says he considers eating pussy to be a political act.* I adore him, and I think he's right when he says,"Sexism and misogyny still run rampant in our world and in our culture and it will be the death of us if we don’t seek to counter it in our own lives", but the funny thing is, he himself is served by that exact prejudice. People find his constant references to cunnilingus hilarious, but when a woman (such as myself) mentions the same act, suddenly it's gross. If a man says he wants to eat my pussy, that's fine, it's safe, the pussy is contained, it's handled, it's on a leash. But if I tell Rob Delaney "I'm going to sit on your face. I want your tongue deep inside me, I want you to smell me, taste me, feel me, bury your face in me and don't you fucking dare come up for air until you've finished what you started." Well. That shit's kinda scary, isn't it? I bet half of you threw your laptops across the room. (Note: this could strictly be that Rob Delaney is funny and I am not. In which case, disregard all mentions of my hooha.)
Vaginas are predatory. They're famished. And you're surrounded by them everyday.
Congratulations: You are now thinking about my vagina.
*Rob Delaney, if u r reading this, hit me up, I will ride ur mustache so hard, you'll think I was filibustering ur face.
(Magic starts at 4:00. Yes, I realize he is stache-less in this clip.)
Dec 28, 2011
Calvin Courage: Defender of Fruits and Fairies.
"You're gay. I'm going home."
My son Calvin, eight years old, was playing with the neighbor kid and after some altercation over whose turn it was to play the computer, the neighbor boy tells my son this. "You're gay. I'm going home. "
Truth is, I kind of can't stand this kid, but I let him hang around because I feel sorry for him. He's a real hard-knock-life case; mom in jail, foster homes, lives with grandma part-time because dad doesn't give two shits for him. Even worse, he's the spitting image of Alfred E. Newman. How can you be mean to a kid with such bad luck? You can't. You let him come to Easter, and you feed him dinner almost every night, and you try to be understanding, and remember his lack of non-meth-related role models when he calls your kids such gems as "Chinese niggers" and "faggy butt faggots".
When he calls Calvin gay, I go into instant Mom Mode. A little sensitive, maybe, because Calvin has always been what I believe is referred to in medical terms as "a little light in the loafers". He's a hand-flapper, a mincer, a high-pitched giggler. People have asked me if my young man is gay, to which I generally reply "he's eight", but the truth is, given how much of the gay is in my family and Raleigh's, yeah, the boy's probably going to be on the fruity side, like his aunts, like his gramps, like his mama, like his ABBA loving papa. And I don't want him to ever, EVER think there's anything wrong with that.
So, my dander's already up, ready to explain, once again, that in THIS HOUSE we don't use words to hurt other people, and that being GAY is totally the fucking bee knees, so there, you little ginger shit, when Calvin puts up his hand and says, "I got this, mom," and turns to his friend.
Calvin: What do you think that word means?
Neighbor Kid: What word?
Son: Gay. I'm curious to know what you think that word means, and why you think you should use it as an insult.
NK just shrugs and says, "Stupid, I guess," and Calvin launches into an explanation of homosexuality that would make both Dan Savage and George Takei burst into a million happy rainbows, followed by a discussion about love and tolerance. He uses his gay aunts, together twenty years and over at our house all the time, as examples of people NK knows that are gay, and finishes up the conversation by explaining why using the word "gay" in a negative way hurts people he cares about. NK says, "Oh, okay. Sorry." And they sit back down at the computer while I stand behind them making literally this face:
Whatever my son is--gay, straight, so intergalactically awesome he defies all labels--I am beyond proud that he would stand up to a friend for what he believes in. If that's being gay, then color me FABULOUS!
Update: I've had several emails/tweets claiming that there's no way an eight year old talks like this. Calvin is a really special kid, he was homeschooled until he was 7 and now attends Montessori school. He's very bright, but I'm not going to lie, he's also exceptionally odd. Basically, he's like if RainMan and SpongeBob had a baby. Lots of enthusiasm, lots of facts, lots of verbal skills, trouble with voice modulation and impulse control. So, yeah, he really does talk like that. :)
Double Update: My three year old, Smooth, heard Calvin lecturing his cousins on the meaning of the word gay ("it's when a man and man want to get married, or a woman and a woman"), and he rolled his eyes and said, "That's not gay. That's just love."
My son Calvin, eight years old, was playing with the neighbor kid and after some altercation over whose turn it was to play the computer, the neighbor boy tells my son this. "You're gay. I'm going home. "
Truth is, I kind of can't stand this kid, but I let him hang around because I feel sorry for him. He's a real hard-knock-life case; mom in jail, foster homes, lives with grandma part-time because dad doesn't give two shits for him. Even worse, he's the spitting image of Alfred E. Newman. How can you be mean to a kid with such bad luck? You can't. You let him come to Easter, and you feed him dinner almost every night, and you try to be understanding, and remember his lack of non-meth-related role models when he calls your kids such gems as "Chinese niggers" and "faggy butt faggots".
When he calls Calvin gay, I go into instant Mom Mode. A little sensitive, maybe, because Calvin has always been what I believe is referred to in medical terms as "a little light in the loafers". He's a hand-flapper, a mincer, a high-pitched giggler. People have asked me if my young man is gay, to which I generally reply "he's eight", but the truth is, given how much of the gay is in my family and Raleigh's, yeah, the boy's probably going to be on the fruity side, like his aunts, like his gramps, like his mama, like his ABBA loving papa. And I don't want him to ever, EVER think there's anything wrong with that.
So, my dander's already up, ready to explain, once again, that in THIS HOUSE we don't use words to hurt other people, and that being GAY is totally the fucking bee knees, so there, you little ginger shit, when Calvin puts up his hand and says, "I got this, mom," and turns to his friend.
Calvin: What do you think that word means?
Neighbor Kid: What word?
Son: Gay. I'm curious to know what you think that word means, and why you think you should use it as an insult.
NK just shrugs and says, "Stupid, I guess," and Calvin launches into an explanation of homosexuality that would make both Dan Savage and George Takei burst into a million happy rainbows, followed by a discussion about love and tolerance. He uses his gay aunts, together twenty years and over at our house all the time, as examples of people NK knows that are gay, and finishes up the conversation by explaining why using the word "gay" in a negative way hurts people he cares about. NK says, "Oh, okay. Sorry." And they sit back down at the computer while I stand behind them making literally this face:
 |
| I birthed queer Jesus. |
Update: I've had several emails/tweets claiming that there's no way an eight year old talks like this. Calvin is a really special kid, he was homeschooled until he was 7 and now attends Montessori school. He's very bright, but I'm not going to lie, he's also exceptionally odd. Basically, he's like if RainMan and SpongeBob had a baby. Lots of enthusiasm, lots of facts, lots of verbal skills, trouble with voice modulation and impulse control. So, yeah, he really does talk like that. :)
Double Update: My three year old, Smooth, heard Calvin lecturing his cousins on the meaning of the word gay ("it's when a man and man want to get married, or a woman and a woman"), and he rolled his eyes and said, "That's not gay. That's just love."
Nov 21, 2011
Story Story Night: One Minute Idaho Submission.
My Idaho Meat Story. Only a minute long, but full of protein-y goodness.
Nov 2, 2011
In Defense of NaNoWriMo.
When I first joined the beekeeping club (and I was a charter member, there from the first meeting on, holding several officer positions, including Treasurer, Tyrant, and Community Outreach and Education Committee--yeah, mofos, I was the whole damned committee), there were a lot of commercial beekeepers who didn't approve of us hobbyists. They were worried about amateurs bringing the industry down as a whole, about PR disasters and bad press.
The first beekeeping conference I attended to was supposed to be strictly for commercial guys, but I crashed it (very politely and wielding my patented Unavoidable Arnold Charm). A few of the big boys told me straight out I didn't have a place there, that I wasn't welcome. But here's the thing: I love bees. I love the keeping and keepers, I love teaching the general public about amazing little bugs, seeing kids' eyes light up when they find the queen in an observation hive. So, I stayed anyway, and I went the year after that, and the year after, and so on, until those gruff old men couldn't remember a time when I wasn't there, til they were bored of me and my hobby pals.
And guess what? Last year, several of them approached me and thanked me. They said we had been "great for the industry". That's right, us dorky, little amateurs had actually spent the last couple of years helping the commercial guys--educating the public on the importance of pollinators, collecting swarms as a community service, staffing booths at fairs, school events, etc., purchasing honey and equipment from local beekeepers, and generally promoting the craft in a positive light. Why? Because we have time for enthusiasm. When you do something professionally, when it is your job, it can be hard to get excited about your work, and even harder to get other people excited about your work.
Which brings me to National Novel Writing Month.
It's become the cool thing for self-styled serious writers to dump on NaNoWriMo. To mock the efforts of amateur writers, to exclude the so-called wannabes from the tent, to make people feel bad for wanting to try something they've dreamed of. I get why some of the professionals might be prickly. Writing a book is incredibly difficult, it's a skill, a craft, something that takes years to hone, and they resent some "one month a year" hobbyist writer thinking they can just hop in and do in 30 days what so many struggle day after day after day to accomplish.
I get why they're snarky and rude, but really, they should knock that shit out because it is super unattractive, and more importantly, it's bad for business.
NaNoWannaBes buy books. We're good for the industry, just like the hobbyist beekeepers. In NaNo, professional writers get a pre-packaged community, already enthusiastic and appreciative of the craft, excited to read writing blogs and promote products. We're the people still reading, that's why we want to write, that's why we want (in very Ariel fashion) to be a part of your world. Any writer who poo-poos NaNoWriMo is an idiot, plain and simple.
I, of course, am doing NaNo this year. I have 3500 words so far, and as usual, I'm having a ball. I don't do it because I only have the discipline to work one month out of the year, I do it because it's fun. It takes a normally lonely craft and socializes it. I already write everyday, but only with NaNo do I get to talk to people about my writing everyday. It helps kick-start my writing clock, getting me back into the groove, setting my feet back on the path to awesomeness.
Every time I encourage a new writer, some one just cracking out their first-ever 500 words, a little of that enthusiasm rubs off on me. All the hobbyist hub-bub helps me re-find joy in my craft. I get that sometimes writing is all work, sometimes you slog through and just hope to come out the other side. But for one month, I get to be a part of something slightly crazy, with people who understand my lunacy perfectly. Thank you fellow NaNo-ers, for supporting the industry I love while simultaneously helping me hone my skills. You guys rock!
The first beekeeping conference I attended to was supposed to be strictly for commercial guys, but I crashed it (very politely and wielding my patented Unavoidable Arnold Charm). A few of the big boys told me straight out I didn't have a place there, that I wasn't welcome. But here's the thing: I love bees. I love the keeping and keepers, I love teaching the general public about amazing little bugs, seeing kids' eyes light up when they find the queen in an observation hive. So, I stayed anyway, and I went the year after that, and the year after, and so on, until those gruff old men couldn't remember a time when I wasn't there, til they were bored of me and my hobby pals.
And guess what? Last year, several of them approached me and thanked me. They said we had been "great for the industry". That's right, us dorky, little amateurs had actually spent the last couple of years helping the commercial guys--educating the public on the importance of pollinators, collecting swarms as a community service, staffing booths at fairs, school events, etc., purchasing honey and equipment from local beekeepers, and generally promoting the craft in a positive light. Why? Because we have time for enthusiasm. When you do something professionally, when it is your job, it can be hard to get excited about your work, and even harder to get other people excited about your work.
Which brings me to National Novel Writing Month.
It's become the cool thing for self-styled serious writers to dump on NaNoWriMo. To mock the efforts of amateur writers, to exclude the so-called wannabes from the tent, to make people feel bad for wanting to try something they've dreamed of. I get why some of the professionals might be prickly. Writing a book is incredibly difficult, it's a skill, a craft, something that takes years to hone, and they resent some "one month a year" hobbyist writer thinking they can just hop in and do in 30 days what so many struggle day after day after day to accomplish.
I get why they're snarky and rude, but really, they should knock that shit out because it is super unattractive, and more importantly, it's bad for business.
NaNoWannaBes buy books. We're good for the industry, just like the hobbyist beekeepers. In NaNo, professional writers get a pre-packaged community, already enthusiastic and appreciative of the craft, excited to read writing blogs and promote products. We're the people still reading, that's why we want to write, that's why we want (in very Ariel fashion) to be a part of your world. Any writer who poo-poos NaNoWriMo is an idiot, plain and simple.
I, of course, am doing NaNo this year. I have 3500 words so far, and as usual, I'm having a ball. I don't do it because I only have the discipline to work one month out of the year, I do it because it's fun. It takes a normally lonely craft and socializes it. I already write everyday, but only with NaNo do I get to talk to people about my writing everyday. It helps kick-start my writing clock, getting me back into the groove, setting my feet back on the path to awesomeness.
Every time I encourage a new writer, some one just cracking out their first-ever 500 words, a little of that enthusiasm rubs off on me. All the hobbyist hub-bub helps me re-find joy in my craft. I get that sometimes writing is all work, sometimes you slog through and just hope to come out the other side. But for one month, I get to be a part of something slightly crazy, with people who understand my lunacy perfectly. Thank you fellow NaNo-ers, for supporting the industry I love while simultaneously helping me hone my skills. You guys rock!
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 29, 2011
Little Gothic Girl.
I love Halloween. I know, I know, everyone says they love Halloween, but those other people are posers. They only like Halloween for the slutty costumes and the candy, they're Fright Night amateurs. I like those things, too, I'm especially fond of naughty nurses and dark chocolate, fyi, but I love the day for its older, more gothic roots. I love that it reminds us all how scary death is, how creepy worms and skulls and mortality really are. I like that it gives us a chance to reflect on our many myths and stories surrounding our unavoidable demise. I like that our obsession with vampires and zombies really comes down to a very Monty Python-esque "I'm not dead yet!" human tendency to cling to life at all costs, even those involving our very humanity, our very soul.
I don't know if you know this about me, but I like dead stuff. Ever since I was a child, I've been fascinated by death. While other children were riding bikes and playing tetherball, I was holding elaborate funerals for insects and boning up on ancient Egyptian mummification procedures. I lived part-time on a farm, and so I saw a lot of death, saw animals go from Alive to Bag of Meat in a matter of seconds, saw the light leave their eyes, and so, developed a rather Eccesiastical view of mortality in general.
To everything, there is a season. Turn, turn, turn.
I became very interested in the way people dealt with death. In America, we consistently avoid all contact with the un-living. The dead go from morgue to funeral parlor to grave, accompanied only by solemn-faced professionals, those first world untouchables who make the dead presentable for the living. Embalmed and rouged, the dead are put on display so we can make comments about how nice they look, how life-like, how peaceful. We don't allow the dead to make a fuss, nor the living a scene. We pretend not to notice that decay has already set in, cells breaking down, microbes devouring our loved one right before our eyes. Decomposition is the fate that awaits us all, but everyone in the room entrenches themselves in the moral superiority of life. If the dead could speak, they'd laugh, and remind us we too are just borrowing these molecules, the universe expects them back anytime.
As with many things in our country, death becomes just another exercise in consumerism: instead of wailing and tearing our clothes, we buy the satin-lined coffin, the perfect urn, the final resting place with subdued distraction. There's nothing divine about death in our culture, no celebration. In a Christian ceremony, you may have a few references to heaven, but even those have a hollow, conciliatory ring to them. "He's with Jesus now." Yes, but in the meantime, his body is worm-food. The eyes you loved, the mouth you kissed, the skin you caressed--all of it, breaking down to its basic elements, little of packets of carbon that don't care a fig for anniversaries, medals of honor, or credit scores.
No wonder we like Dracula, we just want something that will last. Celebrating Halloween helps us laugh in the face of all that inevitable despair. I know a lot of people like to rent scary movies to get into the holiday spirit, but me, I like to sit on the patio with a hot cup of cider and spend the month indulging in spooky reads. The world dying around me, leaves falling to the earth with red and yellow dismay, air crisp with the promise of winter, twilight coming earlier and earlier, reminding me, deliciously, that there is a time for everything, and that time is incredibly short.
This year's horror novel batch included: John Dies at the End, House of Leaves, Inside the Outside, Gerald's Game, and Pet Cemetery. Properly terrified, I can go about the rest of my year reminded that my body is just a fragile bundle of blood and guts one chainsaw away from oblivion, my brain is merely unconsumed zombie fodder, and that nothing I do really matters all that much, when compared to the vastness of time and space and Cthulhu.
Happy Halloween, my pretties. Enjoy it while it lasts.
International Pony - Gothic Girl by shinobi2
I don't know if you know this about me, but I like dead stuff. Ever since I was a child, I've been fascinated by death. While other children were riding bikes and playing tetherball, I was holding elaborate funerals for insects and boning up on ancient Egyptian mummification procedures. I lived part-time on a farm, and so I saw a lot of death, saw animals go from Alive to Bag of Meat in a matter of seconds, saw the light leave their eyes, and so, developed a rather Eccesiastical view of mortality in general.
To everything, there is a season. Turn, turn, turn.
I became very interested in the way people dealt with death. In America, we consistently avoid all contact with the un-living. The dead go from morgue to funeral parlor to grave, accompanied only by solemn-faced professionals, those first world untouchables who make the dead presentable for the living. Embalmed and rouged, the dead are put on display so we can make comments about how nice they look, how life-like, how peaceful. We don't allow the dead to make a fuss, nor the living a scene. We pretend not to notice that decay has already set in, cells breaking down, microbes devouring our loved one right before our eyes. Decomposition is the fate that awaits us all, but everyone in the room entrenches themselves in the moral superiority of life. If the dead could speak, they'd laugh, and remind us we too are just borrowing these molecules, the universe expects them back anytime.
As with many things in our country, death becomes just another exercise in consumerism: instead of wailing and tearing our clothes, we buy the satin-lined coffin, the perfect urn, the final resting place with subdued distraction. There's nothing divine about death in our culture, no celebration. In a Christian ceremony, you may have a few references to heaven, but even those have a hollow, conciliatory ring to them. "He's with Jesus now." Yes, but in the meantime, his body is worm-food. The eyes you loved, the mouth you kissed, the skin you caressed--all of it, breaking down to its basic elements, little of packets of carbon that don't care a fig for anniversaries, medals of honor, or credit scores.
No wonder we like Dracula, we just want something that will last. Celebrating Halloween helps us laugh in the face of all that inevitable despair. I know a lot of people like to rent scary movies to get into the holiday spirit, but me, I like to sit on the patio with a hot cup of cider and spend the month indulging in spooky reads. The world dying around me, leaves falling to the earth with red and yellow dismay, air crisp with the promise of winter, twilight coming earlier and earlier, reminding me, deliciously, that there is a time for everything, and that time is incredibly short.
This year's horror novel batch included: John Dies at the End, House of Leaves, Inside the Outside, Gerald's Game, and Pet Cemetery. Properly terrified, I can go about the rest of my year reminded that my body is just a fragile bundle of blood and guts one chainsaw away from oblivion, my brain is merely unconsumed zombie fodder, and that nothing I do really matters all that much, when compared to the vastness of time and space and Cthulhu.
Happy Halloween, my pretties. Enjoy it while it lasts.
International Pony - Gothic Girl by shinobi2
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)