Tag Archives: feminism

selections from The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

“It’s only possible to betray where loyalty is due,” said Sandy. Continue reading

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selections from Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit

Feminism, as writer Marie Sheer remarked in 1986, “is the radical notion that women are people.” (122) Continue reading

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Emily Dickinson favorites (701-1100)

To Whom the Mornings stand for Nights,
What must the Midnights – be! Continue reading

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selections from The San Francisco Poets by David Meltzer

The DNA molecule is the memory. It is the memory of the meat. Four billion years of memory telling you to be a mammal. (274) Continue reading

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half of what i say is meaningless

three more days of work. less than three weeks until New York.

then: more than half a year of walking.

now? every moment a melding of dream and reality.

my lover lies at my side sleeping. i am in her bed, our bed… in her house, my house. we are not married nor engaged, and yet i have never felt such strong conviction in my love. if possible, it is deeper or more all-encompassing than conviction. it is decision, resolution, revelation.

the past few days, i have been moving so many boxes. boxes of records, boxes of clothes, boxes of bullshit. so many goddamn boxes. the modern age is all about acquiring things and putting them in boxes. in fact, we adore boxes so much that we live in boxes ourselves. and yet we wonder why cats care so much about boxes.

after leaving the office today, i boarded a railbound box headed downtown and immediately recognized a pretty little lady sitting near the window. she smiled at me and i smiled back almost laughing, wondering whether she would come over for a chat.

“Julia?”

“wow, you remember my name.”

“ronny.”

“oh man i was gonna say ‘ron!'”

this simple dialogue is a big deal for me. i can remember names. Julia’s a girl from Ohio who’d recently moved to San Francisco. i learned this when, a couple months ago, i caught her eyeing me on the same muni train after work. when i asked what was up, she confessed her admiration for my reading Charles Darwin’s “Origin of Species,” almost word-for-word in the way that other girl once talked to me on muni about my reading Einstein. in any case, Julia and i talked about a bunch of things that first time, including how i should listen to Lauren O’Connell and read Aldo Leopold’s “Sand County Almanac.”

in today’s encounter, things went even deeper. in less than ten minutes, we went from Emily Dickinson poetry (because of the book in my hand) to feminism. we talked about how women in business try to speak in lower voices so men take them seriously and we talked about why guys don’t wear dresses. and we talked about how those things ultimately represent the next great hurdle in gender equality. so far gender equality has been about bringing women to the same level as men… but… what if that’s incredibly short-sighted? what if true equality requires a complete rethinking and restructuring of the way the world functions, from business to culture to art? perhaps we shall never know harmony until we understand and appreciate the beauty in both femininity and masculinity and how to entwine the two, instead of just focusing on granting masculine powers to feminine beings.

Julia wrote her mailing address on a post-it note so i could send her postcards from the walk. i predict she will be a beautiful, wondrous friend for the future. i hope!

last night, four whole nights after discussing the nature of lucid dreams w friends, i traversed a vivid dream world. the beginning, or what i recall as the beginning, took on the tone of a gory bloodbath from a Blizzard game. except i, sword in hand, experienced the grotesque, poisonous attacks of mutalisks in the first-person. what seemed like an era later, i found myself at the very same site of that battle as it appeared at a later, more peaceful date. it was now a mansion surrounded on all sides by walls of junk. i wandered among the dusty corridors a warrior still, and attempted to scale the junkyard with a trusted German Shepherd at my side (who in the dream i called Kaiser though he looked more American than my dad’s dog).

in the morning, i awoke to birds chirping “Goodbye Blue Sky” from their digital prison in my smartphone. Continue reading

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selections from George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion (1912)

LIZA. Every girl has a right to be loved. (102) Continue reading

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ladies first

it’s Mother’s Day, and everything from breakfast in the city to wine in the country to dinner back at home was actually going amazingly swimmingly… until i blew up at my dad for calling michelle obama ugly.

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“that’s such a fucked up thing to say,” i said.

i could feel my nerves twanging as i (barely successfully) picked up everyone’s dirty dishes and ran away to the kitchen to wash away my anger.

it wasn’t just the statement itself. everyone’s entitled to feel attracted (or not) to whomever they want. it was the fact that he’d rattled over a few minutes why obama (the president) sucked so much compared to bush and clinton and every other president ever for so blatantly catering to the money in silicon valley etc etc etc. as for michelle? she sucks cause she’s ugly, obviously.

it wasn’t even just that.

it’s also hearing about a couple kids casually referring to their neighbor as a “whore.” it’s also the fact that hundreds of teenage girls just got robbed of their lives for a few bucks and an eternity of perversion. it’s the fact that some people think there’s nothing we can do about that. it’s India and its fucked up culture of rape. it’s conservative Islamic courts and the same. it’s the U.S. and our outrage at seeing Janet Jackson’s boob or Miley twerking, but our love and pride when the hypersexuality is controlled. the Bechdel test has broken my mind.

i don’t even know what i’m talking about anymore. i read too much. i stare at too many scrolling tweets and see too much media. i know that men are largely judged on their works and actions, women on how good they look while they’re doing things. i know it’s not just them. i know it’s not just my dad or my brothers or my mom… i know it’s me.

i am the rapist living scot-free in Delhi. i am the judge that set him free. i am the wealthy, white American quietly cursing both the judge and the rapist from halfway across the world. i am the wealthy, white American wondering whether it’s her fault for dressing a certain way. or perhaps even wondering whether she liked it. i am the knife, slashing my own fat belly at a perfect right angle.

from whence all this passion? woman i am not.

no matter. i am afflicted with a sickness. why else would exile sound so sweet? sleeping under the freezing stars, surviving on trail mix and water, months and months and months on the run—vacation. thankfully, i’ll have a companion: woman i am not and, without woman, i am nothing. Continue reading

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Read My Lips

what would the world look like if it were run by women?

it’s a question that’s been pestering me for the past few months, the latest development in the slow evolution of feminist thought unfurling in my brain over the past several years. it takes so many different forms (e.g. what would the world look like if women had run it from the beginning? what would the world look like if women start to run it in the future?) and each form flowers so many different answers, that i often find myself resolving on “who knows.”

the next smartest step, obviously, is to read something on the topic. but that would make too much sense.

instead, as i always do, i selected the book at the top of my “to read” stack and started reading that: “El nicaragüense,” by Pablo Antonio Cuadra. “El nicaragüense” es en libro de ensayos sobre el espíritu del ser nicaragüense. Cuadra describe todos los dualidades que existen en este espíritu. por ejemplo, el dualidad de los modernos y los antiguos… de los españoles y los indios… del océano Pacífico y el océano Atlántico… de la américa del norte y la américa del sur… de los violentos y los pacíficos. curiously enough, not only every Nicaraguan is a half, but i also am only half Nicaraguan. weird.

the point is that Cuadra set me on a journey with this quote:

Los arqueologos tal vez algun dia descrifen la incognita. Yo solamente tomaba de aquella dualidad el punto de partida. Y ante mis ojos antonitos de poeta, el “YO SOY OTRO” de Rimbaud se mehacia estatua dos mil anos antes por obra de los primitivos nicaragüenses.

Rimbaud. now i know i’ve seen that name before a bunch–you really can’t avoid the best French poets at a liberal arts college–but i’d never read anything by him. so i googled “i am other rimbaud,” and Google asked me if i meant “i am another rimbaud.” of course that’s what i meant.

this brought me to a page that included some of Rimbaud’s poems, in addition to a letter he had sent to Paul Demeny (a Frenchman that only earned his own page on the French Wikipedia, not on the English one):

Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who could judge it? The Critics! The Romantics! Who prove so clearly that the singer is so seldom the work, that’s to say the idea sung and intended by the singer.

For I is another. If the brass wakes the trumpet, it’s not its fault. That’s obvious to me: I witness the unfolding of my own thought: I watch it, I hear it: I make a stroke with the bow: the symphony begins in the depths, or springs with a bound onto the stage.

If the old imbeciles hadn’t discovered only the false significance of Self, we wouldn’t have to now sweep away those millions of skeletons which have been piling up the products of their one-eyed intellect since time immemorial, and claiming themselves to be their authors!

In Greece, as I say, verse and lyre took rhythm from Action. Afterwards, music and rhyme are a game, a pastime. The study of the past charms the curious: many of them delight in reviving these antiquities: – that’s up to them. The universal intelligence has always thrown out its ideas naturally: men gathered a part of these fruits of the mind: they acted them out, they wrote books by means of them: so it progressed, men not working on themselves, either not being awake, or not yet in the fullness of the great dream. Civil-servants – writers: author; creator, poet: that man has never existed!

very interesting stuff. kinda whisks away all those ancient poesies i love so much. you may not completely agree w him, but you can certainly appreciate and understand his passion for progressing the arts and inventions. he later writes, however, that “the poet is truly the thief of fire,” thus beautifully and brilliantly alluding to the myth of Prometheus. so he’s got one squishy fin in the ocean and the other foot planted firmly on land. typical man of the moment. but i liked his way of thinking and writing so i read on until i found this:

These poets will exist! When woman’s endless servitude is broken, when she lives for and through herself, when man – previously abominable – has granted her freedom, she too will be a poet! Women will discover the unknown! Will her world of ideas differ from ours? – She will discover strange things, unfathomable; repulsive, delicious: we will take them to us, we will understand them.

wow! the year was 1871, the month was the fifth, the date was the fifteenth, and 16-year-old Arthur Rimbaud, who hadn’t even been to Paris yet, was saying some extraordinarily inspiring things about la femme.

sure, there are issues here. if her “servitude” is “endless,” how can it be broken? who said she’s a servant anyway? a man? will it be man that “grants her freedom,” instead of her taking it for herself? does she even want to be a poet? perhaps she was already a poet? perhaps she was a poet before man was ever poet? somebody far more intelligent and far more steeped in queer studies could point out far more of the issues.

nevertheless–and maybe this is because, despite the century and a half between us, we’re both young white males–something in it speaks to me. not because it answers the question with which i opened this post, but because it shows that the question pained another in precisely the same way. when somebody describes a discovery as “strange” and “unfathomable” and “repulsive” AND “delicious,” you know that somebody has no idea what he’s talking about. that’s just Rimbaud being a poet.

what would the world look like if it were run by women? who knows. Continue reading

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my top ten albums of 2013

in the twelfth month, like the rest of the stinking Internet and its rabid music fans, i like to compile my top ten favorite albums from the past year. i do things only slightly differently from the rest. for one, i don’t rank them. i used to rank the albums, but it’s truly an exercise in bullshittery because–let’s be frank–a list of the “top ten” albums is silly enough already… no point in making it any sillier. secondly, like the rest of my blog, i keep it pretty personal. so don’t mind the two albums from 2012 and the two from the late 1970s that accidentally found their way in. whoops!

without further ado…

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Allah-Las — Allah-Las (2012)

it’s worth noting that this is the only rock & roll album to make my list this year. certainly that says more about me, and how much disco took over my life this year, than it does about the current rock scene. or so i hope.

thankfully, there’s at least this album floating around my mind. hailing from southern California, this would be modern-day garage rock revivalist at its finest… if it weren’t for Thee Oh Sees. but where dOCs are violent, Allah-Las are chill… where dOCs jam and jam for ten minutes at a time, Allah-Las are content with a little four-minute ditty… where dOCs push garage rock into its punk rock tendencies, Allah-Las wade into the psychedelic center between beach and the desert. “Sacred Sands.”

from the straightforward drums to the steady bass to the twangy guitar to the inviting voice, this music easily tricks listeners into thinking it came out in 1967, not 2012. even the number of tracks–12, or six to a side–feels like a throwback to 60s LPs. it’s only 40-minutes, and it’s just plain good.

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Cest+Chic+Chic

C’est Chic — Chic (1978)

i’m just going to be straight up: Nile Rodgers appears on this list three times.

it’s quite overdue. if ronblog were a shitty music awards program, i would be making a big speech about how we all worship Nile before handing him a “lifetime achievement award,” secretly masking the fact that we basically snubbed him for 40 straight years from the actual awards. in short, 2013 is the year i discovered how much Nile matters to music.

Carly Simon. Chromeo. Daft Punk. David Bowie. Diana Ross. Duran Duran. Larry Levan. Madonna. Notorious B.I.G. Sister Sledge. The Sugarhill Gang. Will Smith. the list goes on… and yet it doesn’t matter. the influence this man had on disco, funk, soul, and all music forever and ever cannot be computed.

while i had listened to many the above artists and even a ton of songs performed and produced by Nile, it wasn’t until Daft Punk’s collaborator series that i actually sat down and listened to Chic albums. i listened to a handful of the essential ones, but none are quite as perfect through and through as this one. unlike much of the disco hits of the late 70s and early 80s, “Le Freak” is actually far from the highlight of the album. from the opening cheer to the b-side’s house-y opener to the closing track’s irresistible grooves and laughter, it never lets up. even the slow songs are superb.

what more can i say? music like this never goes out of fashion. c’est chic!

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good kid, m.A.A.d city — Kendrick Lamar (2012)

i am a sinner who’s probably gonna sin again
Lord, forgive me… Lord, forgive me things i don’t understand
sometimes i need to be alone
bitch don’t kill my vibe, bitch don’t kill my vibe
i can feel your energy from two planets away
i got my drink, i got my music, i would share it but today i’m yelling
bitch don’t kill my vibe, bitch don’t kill my vibe, bitch don’t kill my vibe, bitch don’t kill my vibe

the year wasn’t yet halfway over, and i was already treating these lines like a prayer. whether freezing in a lake in Yellowstone National Park or freezing while biking through San Francisco streets or pissed off or annoyed or frustrated at somebody or no one, all i have to do is close my eyes, breathe, and recite these lines. what mantra could be better than “bitch don’t kill my vibe”?

and yet, at the same time, the very use of the word “bitch” makes some of the feminists in my life (and even a bit of the feminist in me, if such a thing can be said to exist) flinch at the word. not just the word, but the aggressive, over-the-top, gangsta machismo. “i pray my dick get big as the Eiffel Tower, so i can fuck the whole world for 24 hours!”

it’s silly… stupid even. but is it excusable? is it okay for a black kid from Compton to throw around “bitch” at the expense of women just so he can tell his own troubling story of an unprivileged life, of unavoidable heart-wrenching loss? does he even know he’s doing it? is this a step forward for everyone, or a step backward? is he talking about real pain? is this real pain? is this okay?

these are not my questions to answer. all i can say is “bitch don’t kill my vibe” while i rock my head to these sweet beats. and listen.

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Random Access Memories — Daft Punk (2013)

big. fucking. surprise.

no, but really, if you had asked me a year ago whether i’d put the upcoming Daft Punk album on my 2013 list, i’d have responded, “i don’t know… i really hope so.” it’s like i was traumatized from an experience in high school, when Nine Inch Nails made its epic comeback with the dullness of “The Hand That Feeds” and the okay-whatever of With Teeth. poor teenage ronny.

what would i do this time, besides try desperately to not have expectations? i would hope.

i still remember the moment when i heard the name of the album for the first time. when i saw the album cover for the first time. when i heard the first 15-second clip of “Get Lucky.” when i heard the second 15-second clip of “Get Lucky.” when they released the minute-long teaser at Coachella, complete with sparkly Pharrell, Nile, and robots. i remember playing that minute over and over again. i remember watching the collaborators’ videos. i remember waking up in the morning to see if a new one had been posted. i remember telling all my friends that the video series was too much, it was becoming a shitty marketing gimmick. i remember i kept waiting every day for more and more. i remember the full release of “Get Lucky” and playing it in the living room. i remember playing it multiple times at my house party that weekend, no shame. i remember the video they released the morning of the album’s release, i remember hearing the beginning of “Give Life Back to Music” with its epic dad rock intro, and i remember–at that very moment–feeling, at its most potent, the insane concoction of fear, hope, humility, and ecstasy that had been brewing in my brain for months, years.

then… i remember reserving a conference room at work, stepping inside, and pressing play.

i didn’t know what to think. it felt so cheesy. the intro to “Give Life Back to Music.” the emo voice on “The Game of Love.” the two whole minutes of talking on “Giorgio by Moroder” and its F-Zero finale of a guitar solo. more emo piano and singing. emo indie rock. and then “Get Lucky.” and then the rest of the album.

everyone was talking about the album online. most people loved “Giorgio,” which i didn’t quite understand. maybe, to their ears, it made up for the album’s lack of hard-hitting house music. the lack of Discovery. i didn’t really have a strong opinion. i felt confused and intrigued, and that delighted me.

i listened again. and again. and again and again and again and again. and it kept getting better. an accelerating Nilephile, i quickly cherished the funky-as-a-feather guitar work on the first track and the two singles. the perfect musicianship on “Game of Love” floored me time and again, and still does today. “Get Lucky” doesn’t get old for me. “Beyond” feels like the 70s and, like the songs we love from that time, so far beyond. the ending track… an experiment in noise and rocketry. and… “Touch.” the track that Xanthe thinks i only claim to actually like because she hates it so much. but i understand. it’s out there. it’s almost ten minutes long. it’s orchestrated, it sounds more like Sufjan Stevens than Daft Punk. but it’s so joyous and heartfelt and wonderful that once, while listening to it on a pier at the Embarcadero, i almost cried along to its sublimity.

they’d captured me. they brought in virtuosic studio musicians, recorded an orchestra onto tape, toiled over hundreds of tracks, and released not just an homage, but an autobiography. a love letter. a perfect, beautiful album.

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Random Access Memories Memories — Daftside (2013)

only one month after the release of RAM–i swear to god–Nicolas Jaar and Dave Harrington released this ridiculous rework of Daft Punk’s entire album. and i loved it.

every single component that made RAM what it was, they inverted. Nile Rodgers, the guy who played drums on Thriller, orchestras, and analog tape decks? we’ll just do this in Ableton. millions of dollars of hype and months of marketing? we’ll just upload this to SoundCloud. seven years making your album? we’ll do this in one month.

it’s half a joke, which is obvious when you hear the 2-second version of “Lose Yourself to Dance,” but, taken as a whole, it’s really not bad! Darkside knows what sounds good, so their screwing around with a great Daft Punk album in Ableton for a month actually isn’t a waste of time.

it sounds good, and they get a thousand points for creativity.

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Shaking the Habitual — The Knife (2013)

The Knife challenges you to look at this art, as they challenge you to listening to this album. The Knife challenges you to listen to this album, as they challenge you to understand what it’s about.

life is hard. waking up for work is struggle enough for some of us, but making it to 5pm can be even harder. when we get home, we want to drink beer, smoke a bowl, put on the game, and/or hear the smooth, pleasant “Heartbeats” of our favorite artists’ best songs. we don’t want to think about how many people don’t have jobs or money. we don’t want to think about the countries where, with our salaries, we would be considered the 1%. we don’t even want to think about how 50% of the world–our mothers, sisters, and daughters–automatically face a disadvantage in what we call the civilized world. we don’t want to wonder whether these things could possibly be connected, or how.

but we probably should.

you are given time to think about these things on the 10 eerie minutes of “Fracking Fluid Injection,” nothing but shrieks through a delay pedal and clings and clangs for percussion. you are given time to think about these things on the 20 spaced-out minutes of “Old Dreams Waiting to Be Realized,” which sounds like the soundtrack to a haunted planetarium show from 1972.

no, we are forced to think about these things on all nine-and-some-minutes of “Full of Fire,” which you think starts abrasively, but only grows increasingly frantic and insane as the minutes going on… until the last 10 seconds, when Karin ruins your favorite Salt-N-Pepa chorus with the line, “let’s talk about gender, baby, let’s talk about you” in a toilet flushing frenzy of distortion and noise.

you can feel the passion.

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Slow Focus — Fuck Buttons (2013)

to be honest, i can’t say too much about this album because i’ve only listened to it a couple times. so why does it make the list?

one, because it’s that damn good. Fuck Buttons is always damn good. to my ears, they’ve maintained consistently solid jams from Street Horrrsing to Tarot Sport to this. i wouldn’t say they’ve changed what they do very much, but that’s fine. they’ve got a good thing going.

two, because i saw them play it live. i was right near the stage in a small venue, i had ear plugs in, and i still felt myself going deaf. it’s just two guys, a shitton of electronics, and a floor tom, and yet their energy infected the crowd. electronic drone post-rock should be electrifying… just like this.

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Tomorrow’s Harvest — Boards of Canada (2013)

like the Fuck Buttons record, i’m not really an expert with this one. but i’ve listened to it just enough times to know it’s damn good.

even moreso, Boards of Canada have selected a tone for themselves and they know how to house themselves within that tone in a way that doesn’t become boring and repetitious. instead, they make the tone work for them in new and strange ways that keeps listeners like me and Mark F coming back for more.

besides, its theme shares sentiments with The Knife’s album: if we don’t look at this problem seriously, the problem being all of us, then we’re most certainly fucked.

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We Are Family — Sister Sledge (1979)

damn, look at those pretty sisters.

their luscious, harmonious voices match their smooth brown skin and the flowers blooming in their dark hair. they sing about how “He’s the Greatest Dance” and how they’re “Lost in Music.” they even plead at the end of the album that you “kiss me, say it one more time.” two decades before Daft Punk asked anyone to do anything “One More Time.”

from beginning to end, it’s all Edwards and Rodgers ripping up the bass and electric, laying down divine disco guitar for the four lovely ladies above to help you lose track of time.

dance music that Larry Levan, James Murphy, and your mom can very much get behind. we are family.

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yeezus-new-cover

Yeezus — Kanye West (2013)

Kanye says a lot of stupid shit. i mean a LOT of stupid shit. the shit on Kendrick’s album becomes standard fare salad at your local buffet when you compare it to the raw steak dripping fat and blood that are the words that never cease to spew from the mouth of Mr. West.

it’s worth repeating: anyone who listens to the Kanye’s music for the lyrics first is walking a risky road. even on The College Dropout, this guy was no poet.

but those beats.

i listen to the first 33 seconds of the first track–you know, the whole 33 seconds before Kanye says a single word–and i’m already convinced that this album is better than 99% of the music released in the past decade. i restart the track, just to make sure, and turn the volume up to 11… oh god yes. that’s the good shit. it’s that crack music.

how much does Kanye not give a fuck? enough to drop an angelic sample singing, “oh… he’ll give us what we need…. it may not be what we want,” in the midst of the hellish analog synth terrordome that is just song number one.

next song? panting human breath all throughout. next song? ghoulish screams chained to ice cold death. next song? Kanye thinks we’re trying to make new slaves, and he makes a damn good point. i’m not feeling very comfortable at this point. i feel somewhere between Kendrick and the Knife, and it’s a bit maddening.

it doesn’t get lighter. if anything it gets darker and madder and more ruthless… until “Bound 2.” gentle singing women, sampled brilliant by Yeezus to carry us away on a cloud of… confusion and love.

if any musician created passionate, unrelenting, avant-garde art in 2013, that musician is Kanye West. Continue reading

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love to love the stark reality of you, baby

the canvas is revealed, and instantly my own words come to haunt me:

i think writers love writing way too much sometimes.

do i stand by it? Booker’s bourbon deep within me or not, i do.

pasta sauce is on the stove, Tina’s yowling for dinner eleven whole minutes early, and here i sit, listening to strange jazz funk for those who were children in 1970. perhaps i was a child in 1970. perhaps i am a child in 2013.

immediately, my mind races to Natalie. lover, mother, sister, daughter. lover, liver, other, udder. lover, liver, killer, wanted. dead or alive, the love of my life.

i spent the past weekend not just with her but with my whole family. wedding #3. the best wedding, i would argue, but i’m biased because i love beaches. there we sat, taking up five of the nearly 40 chairs, on the beach in Avila, watching the two lovers dedicate the rest of their lives to each other. meanwhile, girls in bikinis, young girls, young boys, older boys, men, women, couples, swimmers, bros, volleyball voyeurs, everyone… looked on. it was us and it was them, and i certainly felt like them.

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the night before, Natalie and i had stared at our beautiful naked bodies in a giant mirror that took up the entire wall. while doing so, it dawned on me that narcissism was not reserved merely for individuals.

consider: a boy staring at his beautiful body in the reflected pool is narcissism. granted. likewise, a girl staring at her beautiful body in the reflected pool is narcissism. granted. however, the boy looks up and sees the girl across the pond, and he dies. struck with such immense beauty, an infinity times greater than his own, he stares and stares and stares and, at just the right moment when she felt his gaze, he looks away, only to look back and see her locking eyes with him. lust, granted. they edge the pond to share a conversation. the conversation leads to love leads to a later meeting leads to love leads to more meetings leads to love leads to… their becoming something of a unity. with or without marriage, granted, they become something of a one. this one finds themselves lying naked staring at themselves in a giant mirror… is narcissism. granted?

alas, as with the crashing waves parallel to my pupils, the tides do turn.

in the wake of the rainbow sand ceremony we had just witnessed, full of love and hope and happiness, i found myself plunged into the darkness of a quarrel with my love, who had found fault with some stupid words i spoke in the morning. i had apologized then, legitimately, but through my own prodding about some other subject after the wedding, had dug a hole that opened up the very same cavern of despair that i thought had been buried earlier.

but did this cavern really need to be so big? need the flames lick so high? need the darkness pitch so deep? i didn’t think so, but she did. but this writer had had enough of words. hopeless, stupid, careless, useless words. meaningless, pointless, hopeless. impossible.

so i stared at the ocean.

i stared.

and i stared.

and i gazed.

and i loved.

and i breathed.

and the mind wandered as it does but without words.

just breathing.

and loving.

gazing.

staring.

the waves crashed as they have for all time and as they will for all time. beautiful Avila Beach waves. beautiful.

stunning. impossibly perfect, gorgeous, crashing, perfect waves.

starry. star-struck, i was.

in love, i was.

i was.

i was, when my lover–now relegated to my periphery–caressed my face.

and at that very moment, i walked into my living room and threw Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” on the turntable. if you turn it up real loud, i realized then, you hear breathe in deeply before she starts sexily singing, “ohhh… love to love you baby.” Continue reading

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