before the takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this still life

nostalgia. is a river i don't mind floating awhile. as i consider quietly what might have happened had i stayed at that bar in chicago for another hour or two just talking to you about our early lives, the witness to which i can't find your equal. yes. you and I might have sat talking of our own volition. as i recall, you said, in your very words, we got to. and we did, for a few, but the few more we didn't, i regret. forgive me for caring about keeping other friends waiting. you. you knew me before i was cool, and i love you for that. so there. happy thanksgiving, asshole. wish we could have spent something like it together again.

katy

thanksgiving

we wish each other well as though it's a right that's been known to be alienable
since underneath, we understand what we tacitly acknowledge:
we may not be well although we feel so entitled

to peace we regard like a destination wedding: it's great if you can make it
and take pictures, captured premonitions of our regression

all this to say that you i have not assumed a constant; meanwhile, you
have shown to me love at every turn, knowing as we do that love, really,
is a fervent well-wishing that walks as well as talks

foreclosure notice

I had a good time. You had the best time. I would have liked to have been unaware of this imbalance.



blue oyster cult "don't fear the reaper"

at the (minneapolis) airport

in my dream I saw you again
and I thought you saw me too
waiting to make your way back
to paris again or somewhere else
we meant to go together that
you've been since without me
and there was so much to say
but I went gliding by on a coaster car
that I couldn't stop because I was
there to say goodbye to someone else
who wouldn't take it so well, in fact,
who asked why the face and I lied
that I could have done without
seeing that guy I used to know--
when really the sight of you made
me inhale so deeply I woke up

(with breath enough to spill out
the story that led to the bbq sauce
supposing i ever saw you again
and found a way to begin telling it
so that you could understand
what made me want grad school
more than you and all your things
that started with m knowing
i still chew the reasons i kept from
everyone what i kept from you)


james taylor "fire and rain"

give me a tuesday any day

We fling the window open and crawl out to sit on the roof in our underwear brushing a spot clear of acorns and waiting for the neighbors to look the other way disgusted that they aren't us talking of mountains we tried today while we baby our blistered toes and toddle off to bed when we're tired.



lykke li "little bit"

"unsex me" : why lady macbeth should be ashamed

pudendum. Latin. "that which one should be ashamed of"

Culturally speaking, we are a long way from a place where sex, or sexual identity, doesn't matter. Nope, we are still slogging through a cultural mire where vaginae and penises signify whole loads of shit that we, as individuals, may or may not be cool with. So let me get where I'm going with this. People for centuries have been reading Lady Macbeth as the real villain of the play, the unscrupulous woman who effectually takes the plot advancement into her own hands. Historically, American textbooks for girls have even excerpted her "out, out damn spot" situation and OCD-esque handwashing as a means of exemplifying the desserts of female guilt. What a delicious appropriation. But I read different stains on Lady Macbeth's hands.

So let's backtrack. What about the part in Act I where she calls on evil spirits to "unsex" her and remove the inherent weaknesses of her femaleness and translate her into a completely resolute and masculine agent. She doesn't, in fact, want to be de-sexed at all. She wants to be identified as male for the purposes of empowerment to usurp the throne. It's like being female means she's sexed, and being male means she's unsexed. Male must be the default. Lady Macbeth's guilt, then, is trying to be female and masculine. Her shame results from denying the fact that she's really female and so needs to "act like it" with all the tenderness and nurturing and hospitable nature that femininity entails. Apparently, a girl needs to learn she can't wash off shame, just like she can't wash off female.

If I were Lady Macbeth, "unsex me" would have a different meaning. I would unsex being female according to someone else's rules. And I would unsex being male; there are plenty of unfair rules to maleness as well. Unsexed, I don't have to be either. I can be who I am according to my own purpose, draw my own shape, and make my own distinctions. Sex doesn't need to dictate or moderate me or my behavior, and I resent that it does, as much as it does, so much that I've made my own resistance that would take a wholenother post to begin explaining. But let me start here:

Do I think the world, including America, is a shitty place to be female? Yes, but only if you aren't content having your sexual context scripted by men.

Do I consider myself female? Yes, and I submit that sometimes playing to the script is fun. But I'm also aware that enacting this kind of femininity exacts its price from all my other kinds of femininity that get erased. I realize that the script is bankrupt, but I still pay in sometimes when I open my mouth, get dressed, or go shopping.

Why? Because I need men like holes in the head. But I like that they need me for...somewhat related reasons, to be continued. For now, I need to go throw up my Chinese dinner. Not because I have a problem, but because I left the box sitting in the car too long.