Friday, December 21, 2007

$$$ and cuteness

My GPA is higher than 3.5 this semester, yippee. It fell last semester after Wulfy and I started dating, as did his; my parents were confused because they didn't have that problem when they were dating in college, and I'm having trouble reminding them that we are not them. I'm still a little bit scared about my workload next semester. I'm taking one class that's a survey course of novels. We'll be reading about 15 novels during the semester, and that is of course on top of the other stuff I'll have to read, which will probably be, at least in part, novels as well. Oh gad.

My most expensive book is about $120...and I need twenty-four more books, most of which are between $10 and $20. Oh fer fucks sake.

The campus bookstore reeeally cheats us out of our money. I buy a book used...which is maybe 10 dollars cheaper on an expensive book. then I sell it back and they give me less than half of my money back...and sell it to someone else at the exact same price I bought it. It sucks. But I haven't really found a cheaper source. I guess I need to look harder.

I want to start saving up money for when I'm out on my own but it keeps getting sucked out of my pocket by frivolous little things like, oh, required textbooks and that silly stuff everybody has...oh yeah, food.

I'm sorry, I'm whining, there are a lot of people who would give an eyeball to science to have my privilege. But that doesn't mean it doesn't kinda suck sometimes.

On a more (truly) frivolous note, behold my new picture. It's a damn good facsimile of me, courtesy of this candybar doll maker. I love these things, even though they only come in skinny and pale-white. But I am skinny and pearlescent, so it's all good for me. And for the muffin, who already looks like a cartoon, and therefore doll-izes easily.

I'm also a nerd who makes candybar dolls of Kingdom Hearts characters:


And Namine:

They're cute.

And that's enough dorking out for one day.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

What a jerk...

I may be behind in my web surfing (in fact, I know I am) but

Somebody needs to kick this guy's butt.

He's just so proud of being a total ass.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

late/early. learly? eate?

I've gone and gotten myself a single room for next semester, in what could generally be regarded as the nicest dorm on campus. Whoopee. My grandmother gave us the money for a nice little flatscreen for my room (spoiled brat, I know), and I have one of those twisty medusa lamps and a metric buttload of photos and dilly dallies for my walls, so I aim to be nicely ensconced next semester. I just turned in my last final (yes, just now; it was a take-home and she emailed it to us, so I just emailed the damn thing back with my answers, good riddance). I had to read half the stuff we read this term to finish it (remind me to actually read Cat On a Hot Tin Roof sometime, my skim didn't do it justice) but paused to draw a little illustration for one story that I'm rather proud of. I think I may do a few more for that story when I feel up to it.

Wulfy is asleep on his bed behind me. I've avoided my room this semester because I no longer room with the adored Muffin (she wangled a single before I did) and my roommate for the semester was just too damn perky. All the time. I mean, I have perky friends, but damn. I felt bad for keeping away but there's only so much happyhappyjoyjoy I can stand, thanks. Next semester's going to kick ass--mine specifically, I'm not taking many hours but the classes I'm taking are the sort that will wear black leather and tell me to say "thank you" after every whack. Ouchies. The thought of the papers is already making my poor tender head ache.

Anyway, it's late/really fucking early, so I'm either going to eat some Easy Mac (surprisingly good stuff) or go to sleep, maybe both sequentially. The dinner Wulfy's parents bought us has kind of worn off--why wasn't I hungry when I ate it? Argh. I'm rambling, bye.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

I'm starting to write the paper that's due tomorrow--oh wait, it's tomorrow already.

But it's on Charles Frazier, whom I adore, and it's only five pages, and tomorrow is Reading Day so I'm really going to write the dang thing tomorrow. Lucky for me he's only written two books so far and I've devoured them already. Mmm yummy yummy books.

You know what just struck me as funny? I write more about sex as a Lit major than anything else, it seems.

Beowulf didn't get any sleep last night writing his five page paper about Medieval Islamic society so he's asleep now...sort of. He keeps waking up and either

a) mumbling long rants in Tongues, I swear, or

b) telling me to go get some water from the creek we just passed on our hiking day trip (!) and whining that I and our driver (!) are laughing at him. And that we're doing it to be mean to him to get him to tell us where he came from and it's not working so there.

c) just grunting indistinctly and twitching, like a dog dreaming about chasing rabbits.

The hiking thing probably stems from leftover anxiety about his Hiking Camping and Orienteering class, which went on a camping trip last weekend. He didn't really want to go. I bet he'll detail the trip on his blogthingy, along with his instructor's crazy Peruvian camping stories.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

dreaming of your Etcetera

I really shouldn't be writing here...I have two long papers due Friday, a performance piece to arrange and memorize (for my Renaissance and Enlightenment Literature class, oddly enough) another paper due midweek next week, two reading journals to write (because I'm a terrible student who hasn't already done this), finals to study for (FINALS stands for Fuck I Never Actually Learned this Shit, according to one group on Facebook), friends to visit, a Beowulf who often needs a good firm nudge to do his homework, and, importantly, a room to move out of. I'm switching to another dorm--admittedly an older and possibly grody dorm, but one in which I will have a room to myself. As I've hated living on campus this semester, this is a good thing; and next semester I have a shot at a single room in the nicest dorm on campus (score!) even though there's no guarantee. And if I get that room, I can keep it for next year and might not have to find an apartment in order to have some dang privacy.

Next semester is going to be hellishly busy (even though I'm only taking thirteen hours of classes) but has potential to be really fun. The Feminist Collective is, of course, putting on the Vagina Monologues, which I'm thinking about auditioning for (I figure hey, I should do it while I'm a fledgling college feminist and I have the chance, right? Even if it's become something of a cliche) and the Theatre department is doing the Tempest, and Vanilla wants me to audition for that--again, when the hell other than now am I going to get the chance to be in a good performance of a play? I could do community theatre later on but I don't know what I'm going to be doing in my life later on. I'm Carpe-ing the Diem, heh. I'm also going to try to work on my photography and creative writing, which have suffered like woah this semester because when I haven't been working on school shit, I've been sleeping and/or desponding too much for anything else. Though this might still be on the back burner depending on the job I get--up till now I've only been working in the summer at home, but I'm getting all anxious about saving up for grad school (IF I manage to make it into a grad school; the sleeping/desponding has been shaving bits off my grades, which have already suffered since the advent of the relationship with the Beowulf. I'm a terrible student. This CHANGES next semester, dammit, and I'm going to learn how to take decent notes {a skill I never learned in highschool because the classes were mostly too damn easy--thanks a lot, No Child Left Behind.}). Wow, that was a doozy of a parenthetical remark.

Anyway, I've got class in an hour and a halfish, and I haven't eaten breakfast, and I need to work on my ten page paper. I'll write the eight-pager tomorrow; that'll be the hard one because I don't give a shit about my topic. For the ten-pager, I'm writing on the effect of war on poetry; both the general paradigm shifts post-war that allow change in convention. Would T. S. Eliot written The [Godawful] Wasteland without WWI? Doubtful. But I may focus on the effect on individual poets who were involved in various wars in US History. I'll be using Whitman's "The Wound-Dresser" and E. E. Cummings's "my sweet old etcetera" for that--two of my favies! Yayz! And I found a collection of interesting Vietnam War poems and some political poetry about Iraq, to round it all off. I wish I had a month to write this thing. Maybe I'll revisit it for my senior thesis?

I had a really great idea for my senior thesis while laying in bed awake at three in the morning, but I didn't write it down so the only thing I remember about it now is that it was Fucking Awesome and would have Changed the Face of Literary Analysis As We Know It. I'm only brilliant late at night when I don't have a notepad on hand *facepalm*

Next semester I'm taking senior comps; I'm getting them out of the way early, that way if I do absolutely terribly (as I likely will) I'll have at least two more semesters to try.

I have a plot for a book rattling about in my head; one that could be a romance novel, in fact, although hopefully a good one...involving hippies. There are a lot of Nouveau Hippies around the area--sometimes it feels like to many, especially when they are of the opinion that deodorant is Unnatural and therefore Evil; and hey, their odour doesn't bother them! Some of these are actually in my ballroom dance class so it occasionally feels like I'm dancing with a Giant Armpit. I'm sure they're wonderful intelligent etcetera people but I don't know because I'm not fond of their apocrine sweat glands.

I will eventually have something to say about something important; my own life has swallowed me whole.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Emily Dickinson

...I wrote a paper on her religious views, as expressed through her poetry. I'm not terribly in the mood to post anything, so here. It's fairly mediocre literary analysis--though not bad considering I pulled it out of my nether regions the day it was due (I'm a terrible student, I know).


Emily Dickinson has been the subject of much discussion, ever since her work began to be published, about not only her work but also her mysterious personal life. We seem intent on discovering what she thought, whom she loved, and why she did what she did—especially, why she spent so much of her life in seclusion. Her religious beliefs also remain alluringly ambiguous; while some poems suggest an adherence to the Calvinist Christianity of her time and place, many others are wildly unorthodox. Having failed to have the dramatic conversion experience expected of her, her poetry at times expresses anger or confusion toward God; at other times she seems to adore her Higher Power and his Creation.

What is not lacking from Dickinson’s poetry is a belief in God in general. What is most intriguing is her view on who God is. Sometimes, her God is benevolent, even a teacher or pastor to her. In Poem 236, she writes, “God preaches, a noted Clergyman—/ and the sermon is never long” (Dickinson, 1204) In this poem, she speaks of keeping the Sabbath at home, outdoors; she revels in the beauty of nature and the lessons her God teaches her through it. Here, God is both a benevolent Creator and a wise and eloquent teacher. In Poem 39, she speaks of crying out to God upon losing loved ones, calling God “Burglar,” Banker,” and “Father” in the same breath. “Father” is one of the most common descriptors of God in Judeo-Christian tradition, a very richly shaded metaphor that implies he is a loving progenitor, protector, provider, teacher, guide, and disciplinarian. A father is both someone to love, and someone to fear. In Dickinson’s case, her Father God is someone to turn to in time of need, a provider and caretaker. God has already sent “Angels” to “reimburse [her] store” twice before; she cries out for him to aid her again, and seems sure that her compassionate Father God will once more supply (1201).

All this is a fairly typical, orthodox, non-threatening view of God. Her use of the word “Banker” is more troubling. While she also uses this word to mean that God will help her in her time of need, “reimbursing” her loss, a banker and a father are distinctly different creatures. While a good father has the interests of his children in mind, and gives freely, a banker has his best interests in mind. A banker would expect Dickinson to pay back her loan someday. And what is it she is begging for, anyway? Mere comfort? Love? Companionship? We can’t be quite sure, but whatever it is, is likely to not be easily repaid, as her Banker God would be aware of—and maybe not care.

Her use of the word “Burglar” is startling, but perhaps not surprising. The Bible itself describes God as “like a thief in the night” (New International Version, 1 Thes 5:2). The author of 1 Thessalonians (namely the apostle Paul) would have known the Old Testament well, and referred to it; in the book of Job, Job speaks of the same event referred to by Paul, namely the “day of the Lord,” Judgment Day, and says “when daylight is gone, the murderer rises up and kills the poor and needy’ in the night he steals forth like a thief ” (Job 24:14). In the same way, Dickinson is saying that God, while at the same time still the Banker and the Father, also the one who took her loved ones from her. She is hurt and angry with her God, and yet has no choice but the rely on him for help. There are probably many Christians who feel this way; God “taking” someone is, after all, a common euphemism for death; but most would not dare talk about it, much less with Dickinson’s intensity.

Dickinson seems even bitterer about death in Poem 1668. In this poem she relates death as a random, natural occurrence, as the Frost “beheads” a “happy Flower.” But she takes no comfort in the naturalness of death—even though the death of the Flower is “accidental,” she yet describes the Frost as a “blonde Assassin.” She resents that life moves on, that “the Sun proceeds unmoved,” and that another day passes with no consideration for death, even of something—or someone—she loved. Most of all, she seems bitter at God for watching the proceedings and not only not stopping death, but being “Approving” of the whole process. Unlike Poem 39, she does not cry out to God. He is not a Father or a Banker, or even a Burglar; he is no longer personal at all (Dickinson 1221).

So, Dickinson’s belief in and relationship to God was undeniably complex. In fact, her poems argue that God himself is complex; her God is not comprehensible, he is mysterious. She says in Poem 365, “I know that He exists.” The poem at the end of this line emphasizes it, standing out against her usual unusual punctuation. This poem she starts with a concrete statement: He exists, period. No more discussion about God’s existence, she’s already figured that out. However, she goes on:

I know that He exists.
Somewhere – In silence –
He has hid his rare life
From our gross eyes.

Yes, God exists, but only “somewhere.” She gives no concrete location—no typical “in heaven” or “all around” or “within me.” He also exists “in silence.” No glorious throngs of angels singing His praise for all eternity; no giant James Earl Jones voice booming commandments from the sky; no still small voice of guidance. Just silence. In some ways, Dickinson’s God at this point would seem to be the “watchmaker God” of Deism. But somehow He remains more of a concrete being than an obscure, distant Creator God. It’s not that he doesn’t care about us, he has merely “hid his rare life,” the glory that “our gross eyes” cannot bear to see (1211).

Dickinson also makes no mention of Jesus in her poetry, only God. For her, God does appear to truly reside “somewhere,” rather than having come to Earth, died, and taken up residence inside the hearts of believers. Perhaps her experience at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary affected her view of Jesus and salvation; being constantly one of the few girls who experienced no religious awakening, no dramatic salvation experience, perhaps it is logical that she would leave behind the idea of a Savior—no great Redeemer had come for her soul. Why should she put any stock in a belief that in no way applied to her?

Her views on death and the afterlife could well have been informed by this belief—or lack of belief—in a Savior. Death is often more of a concrete being than her idea of God; in Poem 355 he is as concrete as Night, Fire, or Frost (1209). More notably, in Poem 479 Death “kindly stopped” for Dickinson in his carriage, and they take a cold and melancholy, but not unpleasant, ride to her grave and eternity (1214). This is another odd feature of her beliefs about the afterlife. In her poems about death, especially those in which she speaks as one of the dead, she is very concretely in her body. In poem 124, she describes the dead as meekly sleeping in their tombs, waiting on the Resurrection. They are not in heaven, traipsing about on clouds, or singing eternal praises to God. They lie in their caskets as if asleep—a sight she would have been accustomed to when attending funerals and preparing bodies for burial (1202). In Poem 448, she describes herself as dead, laying peacefully in her Tomb; her soul, or whatever she would call what her selfness is composed of, is not in Heaven or in Hell, or wandering as a ghost; it is very decidedly decaying along with her body, as is the soul of the gentleman beside her; and they talk quietly until they are decomposed under the soil and forgotten above (1214). Even more frightening visions of death are painted in Poems 340 and 591. In Poem 340, she describes the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of her Mourners. She herself is “wrecked” and “solitary;” and her death itself is described as “a Plank in Reason” breaking, and herself falling and knocking into different Worlds all the way down until she finally “Finished knowing” (1207). In Poem 591 she dies in “Stillness…like the Stillness in the Air – Between the Heaves of Storm,” and describes her death itself as the windows failing, “and then I could not see to see –” (1215)

Her seeming lack of belief in a positive afterlife in these poems, frightening as it is, is in some ways mitigated by her beliefs in Poem 236, where she keeps the Sabbath “staying at Home.” In the last lines, after describing God’s sermon, she states, “instead of getting to Heaven, at last – I’m going, all along.” Her love of Nature and of her benevolent God allows her to see the life she is given on Earth as a kind of heaven, against the Calvinistic belief that humanity and the pleasures of life in this world are utterly depraved and evil (1203-1204).

In fact, she disagrees with religion itself on principle in many of her poems. In fact, that same Poem 236, while being cute, is also rebellious—after all, she’s not going to church on a Sunday. She even describes herself as angelic; opposed to clergy who “keep the Sabbath in Surplice,” she says, “I just wear my Wings.” Her own mind, and the Nature around her—a singing Bobolink and a beautiful Orchard—beautiful but everyday wonders—sustain her in a way church religion never could.

Even more, in Poem 373, she denounces not just religious ceremony, but religion and faith themselves. While she begins with a fairly orthodox “This World is not conclusion,” she does not go on to talk about how God or Heaven or Angels are beyond this World, but a strange “Species.” This mysterious form of being is beautifully described as “Invisible, as Music – But positive, as Sound –” She says that Philosophy doesn’t know this otherworldly Being, Sagacity can only know it through a Riddle, and scholars are puzzled by it. This is all well and good, but furthermore, Faith can’t show it either. This is the direct opposite of average religious thinking, which says that the mind can’t understand God, but Faith can help us understand. Instead, Dickinson says “Faith slips – and laughs” and not only is Faith a bit silly this way, it “Plucks at a twig of Evidence – And asks a Vane, the way –” Faith, at least as understood by the religious, is a false guide—going on but the tiniest amount of real evidence and asking the way from a weathervane, which points one direction one minute but changes with the changeful wind. But that’s not all. Not only is Faith false, says Dickinson, but the “Gesture, from the Pulpit” and the “Strong Hallelujahs” that “roll.” She describes religion as “Narcotics;” and not only are they mere pain-relieving drugs, they “cannot still the Tooth that nibbles at the soul –” In other words, no amount of faith, preaching, or congregational approbation can still the longing in her soul to truly know this mysterious, divine presence (1212).

In essence, we can never be sure exactly what Emily Dickinson believed (and really, it’s difficult enough to know what we ourselves believe), but we can gather clues from her work. Dickinson sees God as a Creator, a Preacher, and a Father; but also, in times of pain, her hurt and anger cause her to see him as a cold, far-off observer who doesn’t care, or as a thief who has taken away her happiness. At the same time, she loves the Nature he created, and is suspicious of church religion, believing her supreme being is greater than anything religion can offer. And though she is saddened, deeply, by death, and afraid of it, she does not always believe it is evil; and she believes that whatever makes her, her, will persist.

While we cannot call Dickinson an orthodox Calvinist Christian as she was expected to be, there is no doubt that she felt a relationship to God and to his Creation that many Christians should envy.

Works Cited

Dickinson, Emily. "Poems." The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007.

Quest Study Bible. New International Version. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zondervan, 1994.

*yes, I turned it in without a title. The next day, I turned in another paper with the same mistake. *facepalm*

Saturday, October 13, 2007


I am taking three Literature courses, a Humanities course, and Ballroom Dance. I had a paper and a midterm on Wednesday, a longer and more involved paper due today (that I finished at 3:00 in the morning because I had too much other oddly necessary stuff to do at times I otherwise would have worked on it), an even more involved paper due Monday, and just before we had our wimpy two-day Fall Break, I had three other midterms and a paper, plus I'm behind on the reading journals I'm supposed to be keeping in two of my Literature classes and I haven't started on my final paper and performance piece! for Renaissance and Enlightenment Literature. Anyone wonder why I hadn't updated this blog in a while?

I have a new roommate, just for this semester; she's Korean. She's very sweet and easy to get along with, but I don't make friends easily and I miss the Muffin. She also doesn't like having boys in the room so Wulfy usually isn't allowed over unless she's not there. And I don't exactly hate Wulfy's roommate; I just find him obnoxious, petty, and...odourous. Between the stress of classes, dealing with Wulfy's roommate, living in a room that doesn't feel like a home, having zero privacy, being in a different building that isolates me from most of my friends...I'm a wreck. So I haven't been writing.

And now Wulfy has his own blog and I let him start reading this one...and we got into a mild fightish thing over one entry.

So yeah, I'm not having the best time right and the whole blog thing has been put on the back burner for a while.

Saturday, July 21, 2007

101 Words

I have been online as much as ever, I just haven't bothered writing--it takes too much energy and I've been working more than ever, while having occasional migraines. I'd never had migraines before this year, and it's beginning to worry me. I also had a (small) nosebleed while visiting Wulfy last weekend. I think it freaked him out as much as it did me.

Oh, and I got my driver's license on Wednesday. It took me long enough, didn't it?

And because anything else I would like to talk about is too private and/or close to be able to, have a 101 word story I wrote for my last creative writing class. It was good exercise in not wasting words--though one very verbose fellow student could not cut hers down, and so it ended up being 201 words. It was a very good 201 word story...but it was plain that too much odd detail was being included that could have been cut out without hurting the actual story. Anyway...mine is actually cut down and altered from a roleplay character history I wrote for a small, irl-friends-only game that went on for about two straight years.

"Caprice, a runaway, seventeen, sat in a lonely diner, drinking a cup of bitter black coffee to help stay awake as she rode west. The man beside her tried to lure her away from her seat with the promise of a warm bed on this cold night. She shuddered as she realized his true intention.

“Go to hell,” she said.

She laid a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter to pay for her coffee, only half finished, and walked outside. The man followed.

A few miles down the road, she stopped her motorcycle to wipe his blood off her hands."

Sunday, June 24, 2007

The RIGHT column, imbecile! RIGHT!

My job is annoying me. I like it well enough when I'm there, it's just little things that patients do annoy me way more than they should.

Here's a tip for my ever-so large constituency of loyal readers: when you are at the eye doctor's office and you have to use the accuities machine (the thing with the bar you put your forehead against, like the thing you use to look at roadsigns at the DMV) please listen closely to the person conducting the test, and if she says "read the smallest line you can see in the right-hand column," read the smallest line you can see in the right hand column. Do NOT use the left hand column, do NOT start at the top and read down, and do NOT read from right to left. Oh, and don't come into the office and expect us to give you contacts if you haven't had an eye exam in three years. My office only gives out contacts if you've had an exam within a year--that varies, but we need to know we won't blind you by giving you something your eyes can't handle. And yes, this applies if you're wearing color contacts, even if you don't have any Rx in them. They're still a medical device that comes into direct contact with your eyes (they're called contact lenses for a reason) and your eyes have to be healthy in order to wear them. There's a lot more that can be wrong with your eyes than needing glasses.

Oh, and that one condition? It's "astigmatism," not "a stigmatism." And it's not "a stigma", or "stigmata". Yes, people call it that, and while it's funny, it makes me want to smack you in the forehead like those V8 commercials.

In other news, my brother is an ass. My parents and I are visiting him over the weekend, and his intellectual condescension is getting really obnoxious. He makes me feel incredibly stupid. I keep trying to nurse my self-worth by telling myself that, after all, my IQ is supposedly higher than his. But it doesn't stop there--he manages to find something he doesn't like about the books I read, the music I like, the clothes I wear, the way I laugh, my glasses, my skin, my hair, my never ends.

However, my dad bribed me out of acting terribly annoyed at everything at large this morning (I had a pre-noon relapse into moody teenager mode--after all, being around mon frere makes me feel like the least popular kid in high school again) by saying we'd go by Beowulf's town on the way back home. So I suppose it's worth it.

I've also been having migraines in the past few months, which I've never done before. Today's ended up just being a medium-strength headache that two Advil knocked out, but it was accompanied by a light sensitivity, and yesterday's was light-sensitive and nauseated, but I headed it off by going to bed early. Sleep remains the best thing for a migrain, apparently, other than supposedly snorting hot pepper. The idea behind the pepper is that it short-circuits the brain's pain receptors by being incredibly ouchie. I suppose it's similar to biting your tongue when you stub your toe.

I'm not in my normal time zone, so I'm getting really sleepy. Maybe my next post will have more of a point.

Oh, btw, thanks DBB, I'd actually been thinking about reading some Ayn Rand sometime soon. Honestly, I haven't even gotten around to reading anything on that list; my mom derailed me by finding a few books by Madeleine L'Engle that I hadn't read.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Wuv, Twue Wuv

I have not written lately because it is summer and I am lazy.

Plus we just ditched our old dialup in favor of cable with a wireless setup, so I've been catching up on my YouTube and

Renegade Evolution (whom I enjoy and hope to never piss off) recently had a "Blog for Sex Education" day, which I missed. But my one-sentence answer for why I would like to see better sex ed in the US, specifically my south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-Line area, is:

I never again want to say to a boy (or man!) over the age of twelve, "No, girls do not pee through their vaginas."

I had to explain that to Beowulf once.

Speaking of, he has already visited twice, with a two-week space between each visit. Having him here is always lovely, which is saying something because I hate having people invade my house. This includes relatives, and friends, unless I'm very very close to them. Wulfy actually just left; his actual reason to visit this weekend was a friend's wedding that my non-driving self needed a ride to. It was a pretty wedding. The bride and groom are the same ages as Beowulf and I. It's strange to have one's friends get married.

It's getting late and I have to get up early tomorrow for work.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Summer (not) In the City

Summer has arrived. I am done with classes--now to work my ass off to make sure I get to go back in the fall. I do tech work and some secretary/receptionist work at a doctor's office--so I either get to deal with ornery patients, or get stuck in a back room with boxes and boxes of files. Lovely.

And I am separated from my Beowulf for most of the summer. And talking on the phone is long-distance, and we're both terribly awkward over the phone. So it's instant messaging and email for more or less an eternity. I am a silly little schoolgirl over this boy--it's only a few months, and I'm getting all highschool-dramatic over it.

I am about to see if my grades are posted for the semester. Wish me luck.

On a happier note, even though I am working, work involves no homework, so I will be able to devote my free time to other, more pleasurable things. Like my photography--I will be around Violet, who is gorgeous in a unique and very sexy self-confident way, and Josey, who is also stunning. I have beautiful friends.

I'm also declaring this the Summer of Literature; I have not read as many of the great classics as I should have, especially since I actually like reading the tough stuff. So on my list for the summer:

A Farewell to Arms
Pride and Prejudice
The Picture of Dorian Gray
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
Moby Dick (this one intimidates me)
Antic Hay
Bend Sinister (I need a copy of Lolita, as well)

I also want to read some Vonnegut (I've only read one short story--the one they put in highschool textbooks, Harrison...something), and a little more Shakespeare, and C.S. Lewis's space trilogy. And a large number of short stories. I also should read Mere Christianity, now that I'm thinking about Lewis; I'm also supposed to lead a Bible study next semester and I want to start preparing ahead of time. And somewhere in there, I'll throw in some spy novels and re-reads to not kill myself. And Angels and Demons, which Beowulf gave me for Xmas. We'll see if this happens--I'm a fast reader, but the TV and the Internet have a very loud call.

Does anyone out there (I know there aren't many of you reading this) have any other suggestions of books that one -must- read?

Wednesday, April 25, 2007


Finals season is upon us. I have two large papers to write in the next week or two, one interesting, the other really, really not. The interesting one is on the connections between Calvin's ideas of predestination and election and Shakespeare's tragedies, probably with a focus on Othello. I'll post that one here in chunks, probably.

My friend Violet came to visit a few weeks ago--a wonderful excuse to explore downtown. This city is amazing, I tell you. She was going to come up again with her girlfriend Vic, but that plan seems to have fallen through.

Note on Violet: her madre needs to grow a clue. She and Vic are not together because Vic hypnotized her with evil lesbian mind tricks or whatever the mom thinks; they are together because they genuinely care for and love each other. Their relationship is a hell of a lot healthier than various hetero relationships Violet has been in. A lot of my churchy friends need to realize this as well. Not all non-straight relationships are based solely on The Evil Gay Sex, just as not all hetero relationships are founded on teh solid rock of Twue Wuv.

Oh, and my parental unit recently chewed me out--if only mildly--because Violet's mom didn't know she was visiting until she was already here. And I couldn't tell them why I was okay with that--namely Violet's mom flipping out on her, believing everything she does is wrong and evil because of Vic--because all hell would break out in our ever-more-conservative church if anyone found out about Vic.

:end rant:

So on Violet's heels came Josey the Sex Kitten, who has been my designated BFF for a number of years, and her cute Leprechaun of a boyfriend. They only stayed a night, and nothing terribly exciting happened.

Beowulf and I are doing quite peachy-keen, one week away from our three-month anniversary, and about two weeks from being separated for the summer. I'm guessing that we'll see each other for a total of two weeks until August, so it looks like I'll get a test in Long-Distance Relationships 101. Thank God for AIM.

This has been a really me-centric post. So, links to the webcomics I use to procrastinate:

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Courtly Love

I said I'd post this here. It's about a five page paper. Not the best I've written, by far, but it made a good grade.

Courtly love, or fin amor, “fine love,” a literary tradition began in the Middle Ages, has had a lasting impact on Western thought.

The poetry of courtly love sprang up in the songs of the troubadours, often characterized as poor wandering minstrels, though in reality troubadours were often celebrated members of court. They entertained their fellow court members, in large part ladies and unmarried men, with songs of gallant knights elegantly seducing the beautiful ladies who drew their desire. Though the concept of courtly love originated in song, eventually young aristocrats imitated the stories in the troubadours’ ballads, and an elaborate set of rules sprang up to govern their affairs. Though the most “official” set was written down by Andreas Capellanus for Marie of Champagne, and consists of 31 rules, subsequent scholars have boiled down the concept of courtly love into more general elements (Halsall).

According to C.S. Lewis in The Allegory of Love, the three main elements of courtly love were humility, courtesy, and adultery (Delahoyde). The affairs of courtly love were usually extra-marital, with the lady in question a married woman being pursued by a younger, unmarried knight. Hence, the relationship between the two could be considered adulterous, especially if fully consummated, though there is disagreement about the level of physicality in the affairs of courtly love. Humility is exemplified in such relationships by the abject posturing of the knight and his raising the lady onto a pedestal, honoring her every wish as more important than his own desires. Lewis’s notion of courtesy stems from the idea that the feudalism of the times was reflected in the hierarchy of courtly love; the lady was in effect the liege lord, accepting the devotion of her vassal, the knight, but required to give reward in return.

The songs of courtly love had a very significant impact on the literature of Europe during the Middle Ages, an impact which can still be felt today. They established the tropes of love in Western literature; the anguish of the lover over the coldness of the beloved, the wan sickness of one wasting away with unrequited affection. These “ailments” had been recording much earlier by Ovid, but the troubadour tradition cemented them in Western thinking. Previously, the ballads of the Middle Ages were solely concerned with the daring exploits of male warriors like Beowulf; with the invention of courtly love, the gallant deeds of derring-do were not abandoned (the lady sets difficult tasks for the knight, in order to prove his love), but the points of view of the women in the stories were included, and room was made for romantic love. Though love poetry had existed for a long time in Arabic and Hebrew (as in the Song of Solomon), this was the first instance of it in Western literature. In fact, some scholars believe that romantic love itself was invented by the troubadours. C.S. Lewis was of the notion that romantic love was a literary invention, a lie, so to speak; however, it is of interest to note that his work relating to such matters was written well before he met the woman with whom he fell in love.

In Medieval times, women were given two role models, Mary and Eve. In the tradition of courtly love, women played both parts; beautiful, saintly Mary, passionately loved but inviolately chaste; and seductive Eve, giving in to temptation and desire. While previously, as evidenced in epics such as Beowulf, women were thought of as servants or as a way to cement political alliances through marriage, courtly love supposedly elevated the lady to a point where she commanded the lives and wills of the men pursuing her (Delahoyde). The knight obeys the every whim of the lady he loves. However, the eventual submission of the beloved to the lover is always included in such stories; while women are given a place in art and a modicum of power over their love lives, their freedom is still tightly circumscribed within the rules of courtly love. In fact, the lasting impact of the ideals of courtly love on literature has encouraged a continuation of the Medieval view of womanhood; the strong, handsome lover, the yielding beloved ultimately helpless to the lover’s desires. In the end, the lady is always subjected to the wills of men; her lover demanding payment for his adoration, her husband taking his property from the lover.

Whether or not romantic love was invented per se by Medieval poets, the work of such poets profoundly affected the meanings of the word “love.” While originally, the two types of love were sharply delineated—caritas, or charity, being Godly love, and amor, a term mainly designating carnal desire—the “religion of love” inspired by the practice of courtly love blurred the distinction. Amor became the more common word; the inscription on Dante’s medallion reads “amor vincit omnia,” love conquers all, but uses the term for romantic love instead of religious charity. The linguistic replacement of amor for caritas reflects the shift in importance between religiosity and secularism. Redemption and sublimation were formerly sought through the church; now, the acts and feelings of being in love were expected to raise men to a higher plane of being. The move from a religious society to a secular one in Europe was not solely due to the traditions of courtly love, but the ideology of courtly love (which one commenter calls “a suave new kind of paganism”) began to offer alternatives to the strict regulation of the Catholic Church; a very attractive alternative that made room for sexual pleasure (Simpson).

These ideas about the nature and function of love have had very interesting affects on life in the modern West. Christian preachers across America decry the state of the modern family, in particular the high rate of failed marriages. Such preachers often attribute the weakening of the traditional marriage structure to the immorality of our society (notable, homosexuality and pornography), but it can also be explained by a belief in a modified form of courtly love. Young lovers today still experience the symptoms of passion as described by Andreas Capellanus—the feverish desire, the loss of appetite, the preoccupation with the beauty of their beloved—Sex in the City’s “cant-live-without-you love”. However, the conventions of courtly love have an expiration date; love can be lost through discovery of the affair, or by bad conduct of the lovers, or even by spending too much time together. The modern Disneyfied version of romantic love, on the other hand, believes that this state of passion can last forever, and is a suitable basis for marriage. When the fervor of the newlyweds begins to die, however, they have none of the duty and companionship of medieval marriage to fall back on. As one story of Eleanor of Aquitaine’s Court of Love explains, once a lady marries her lover, he is no longer her lover but her husband, and the system of courtly love breaks down.

The concept of the lady herself is also consequence of courtly love, and possibly one of the more odious ones. Though the precepts of courtly love supposedly raised women to a better place in society, it kept women down for longer than it elevated them. In the (probably fictitious) Court of Love held by Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor supposedly sat by the side of her husband, ruling over questions of love as the king made decisions about matters of law. While Eleanor herself was doubtless a very powerful woman, this Court of Love cemented the idea that matters of law and logic were masculine domains, while romance was for women. Echoes of this idea are heard in the voice of everyone today who tells a smart, career-driven woman that she should be finding a husband. The ideal lady in the tales of courtly love—a lady like Queen Guinevere, for instance—while originally cold toward her suitor, invariably turns into a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued by her gallant knight. This image, so familiar as to seem innocuous, has cemented itself into the Western psyche, and with it the implication that, no matter how strong she seems, a woman still needs a man to protect and complete her, an idea that chafes any strong woman seeking to make her own way in the world. Both the image and the idea behind it are attacked in works considered feminist. For instance, Ani Difranco’s “Not a Pretty Girl” proudly proclaims “I am no damsel in distress, and I don’t need to be rescued.”

In short, the stories of courtly love and the lessons they taught had major impacts on society, both in the times of their conception and today. Though the modern world attempts to distance itself from Medieval ways of thinking, decrying them as primitive, even barbaric, the ideals of the age—including courtly love—are inextricably woven into the fabric of Western society.

Works Cited

Delahoyde, Michael. "Courtly Love." Michael Delahoyde Homeplanet. Washington State University. 08 Mar 2007

Halsall, Paul. "Andreas Capellanus: The Art of Courtly Love." Internet Medieval Sourcebook. Oct 1997. Fordham University. 7 Mar 2007

Simpson, David L. "Chivalry and Courtly Love." DePaul University. 1998. DePaul University. 8 Mar 2007

Saturday, March 24, 2007


All last night I dreamed about weddings. White dresses galore (and other colors--my dreams can be noncomformational), and vows of eternal devotion. Some of the many of me getting married were happy; some weren't.

According to an (admittedly small) amount of research I've done online, dreaming about a wedding can symbolize a number of different things, among them:

a) The desire to get married.
b) a transitional period in my life, specifically in my relationships.
c) a need to integrate different parts of my life.

The shiny newness of my relationship with Beowulf is beginning to wear off, sadly enough--we've been "official" for nearly two months--and problems begin to set in. Puritanical guilt over our physical involvement, his anxiety disorder and accompanying paranoia that something is wrong, and my own wanderlust conspire against us.

He and the better part of my friends here are on a hiking trip today, one I skipped out on in order to stay in bed, dreaming of weddings and worrying. Is the idea that some day we may love each other enough to hold us together?

Saturday, March 10, 2007

I'll Think You Properly

...the next time I see you. Thus typos Vanilla the Theatre Boy.

This is a Random Post.

C.S. Lewis wrote in the nineteen thirties that the notion of romantic love was invented by Medieval troubadors. Interesting enough, this was long before he met his great love, Joy Gersham.

Courtly love was silly.

The Song of Solomon was less silly, though I'm not sure how I would feel about having my breasts compared to baby deer. Not to mention the whole teeth-as-sheep image; I mean, I get the whole snowy-white thing, but sheep are kind of...wooly. When my teeth feel fuzzy, it means I need to brush them.

I want to have WildRampantSex (tm) with Beowulf. But he is several hours away, and tired from the even longer drive from M.O.U.S. land, and we're good Xian kids who know better. But still. A girl has needs. Silly vows of abstinence.

I still haven't really started that dang essay--it's a five-pager--so I'm going to be up for a while. With no caffeine. God help me.

I think I will add a blogroll to this thing. Hm.

Beowulf is online and telling me how much he wants to fuck me, so...

Lazy Lima Bean

I've been on Spring Break for the past week. My plans for a Crazy Girls beach trip fell through (none of the crazy girls' schedules match enough) so I've been sitting around at home, eating a ton of peanut butter and watching TV, two things I don't get to do often while off away at school. And, of course, not doing any homework whatsoever. I'm going to be totally swamped when I get back.

Beowulf and some others, including Rapunzel, Thyme, and The Muffin, are off on a mission trip on the Gulf Coast, fighting off Mosquitoes Of Unusual Size while repairing Katrina-ravaged houses and generally getting no sleep at all. Poor Wulfy is ready to come home to his Seraph's loving arms--not to mention his own cushy bed. The boy has one of the softer dorm bed's I've ever lain in. I'm jealous.

I am about to start working on an essay about Courtly Love, which I will post here. Interesting stuff--and a vehicle through which to write about the feminism I rather intended this blog to cover more. Hm.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007


Fevrale dostat chernil i plakat,
Pisat O Fevrale navsnryd,
Poka grohochushaya slyakot
Vesnoyu charnoyu gorit.

[february. get ink, shed tears.
write of it, sob your heart out, sing.
while torrential slush that roars,
burns in the blackness of the spring. ]

--Boris Pasternak

February is a miserable month. No matter what happens in February, I will always think it is a terrible, terrible time of the year.

I am currently not getting along with The Muffin. Not necessarily because of Beowulf, though a bit of subconscious jealousy that I am in a relationship--a very good one--and she is not might factor into it. In part it's because she's more of a neat freak than I am. It's also because of stuff going on in her personal life that I don't know about (I don't know about it because she doesn't tell me such things. She doesn't tell me because she doesn't trust me. She doesn't trust me because _once_, nearly a year ago, I accidentally let something she'd told me slip in conversation. I apologized and said I was an idiot and I'd be more careful in the future. She'll never forgive me). And in large part it's because I'm still friendly with Vanilla, the boy she has a crush on who was afraid to ask her out. Vanilla deserves what he gets, I admit, but I try to be a good forgiving Xian, plus I don't like the feel of specific hate for too long. I can hate humanity in general for long periods with no qualm, but to feel as if I'd like to hold one little theatre boy under water until the last bubble of his breath goes "glub"...well, that's a nasty burden to carry about beneath my ribcage. So I started talking to Vanilla again. He's not my best friend or anything, but we have a few similar interests--mostly photography and, to an extent, theatre and literature. But the mere fact that I am not purely hateful to the boy grates on The Muffin's nerves to no end. I "ruined" her birthday--a day I tried to make as perfect as possible, by the way, Beowulf and I took a bunch of friends out to dinner at a good restaurant, and we chipped in and got her the perfect gift (a real, live bunny rabbit named Morpheus)--simply by mentioning that I'd talked to Vanilla. After that we got into what for us is a huge fight, and I spent the night with Beowulf rather than go back to la Chez de la Muffin.

That, plus the miserable weather. O fevrier, le mois de tristesse.*

So I've been taking comfort from spending as much time as possible with Beowulf, and have consequently become one of _those_ girls, who abandons her friends for her new significant other. I'm trying to not be _that_ girl, but Beowulf is one of the few things in my life right now that makes me feel good. But I'm trying to schedule some photo shoots with some girlfriends, and I eat lunch with The Mastermind, who is one of my best friends, and I talk photography with Vanilla, and I still go to all of my extracurricular stuff. The Mastermind is really the one pointing out my _that_ girl-ness.

So that's my life right now, mostly, really just the stuff that's on my mind right now. I'll write about less personal stuff later...

*I've been working on mon francais lately. Bear with me.

Wednesday, February 7, 2007

Beet Red

Oh. My. Gad.

I am more embarassed than I have ever been.

My roommate, The Muffin, just walked in at the most inopportune moment possible--Beowulf was lying on top of me in the middle of the floor, as we kissed with a great deal of passion.

Beowulf and I just started dating, btw.

The Muffin is going to despise me for a long, long time. The Muffin will probably regard this as an example of the "pda" she so hates, though we were definitely not in public. In fact, we were very much in private, in the room that happens to also be mine, and not anywhere near her bed. Sure, maybe we should have locked the door, but it's not like we said to one another "hey, let's meet in Seraph's room and make out on the floor to gross out The Muffin!"

The Muffin is not a physically affectionate person--I don't believe she's ever kissed anyone with tongue. She looks a little bit uncomfortable when we hold hands, and turns green when we hug. If he kisses me on the forehead in her presence, she loudly excuses herself with an openly disgusted look on her face. If she is feeling unhappy or sick and I attempt to give her a friendly hug, she cringes away like a beaten puppy. I feel a little bad for The Muffin in that regard. I used to do the same thing.

Though to be honest, if I walked in upon her and one of her flock of admirers--Vanilla the Theatre Boy, for instance--in the same situation, I would be a little uncomfortable meself. Though I wouldn't say "Oh my gad, gross, I think I'm going to be sick." I'd put it more like "Um. Okay. Excuse me." and leave quickly. I would wait until later to say "Hey Muffin, could you go somewhere else with that stuff, or at least lock the door? Thanks."

And now I have a cold. Oh, the misery.

Monday, January 22, 2007


Blog for Choice Day - January 22, 2007

Today is the 34th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Being rather less than 34, I have grown up in a world that is, at least in part, a consequence of this decision. This blog is why I--a young Christian girl raised in a fairly conservative Baptist church--am firmly pro-choice.

I believe that being pro-choice does not mean being anti-life. Being pro-choice does not even mean being particularly pro-abortion; I think that having an abortion is a huge decision, one that shouldn't be taken lightly, and in a lot of cases it's probably morally wrong according to the creed of my faith. All life is sacred, life is a gift. We don't have the right to say whose life is worth more--the life of a baby, of a sweet old grandma, of a rapist or a killer or a terrorist.

Or the life of a woman who doesn't want to be pregnant anymore.

You see, a woman who is desperate, who knows she just can't have a child right now--if she can't get a safe, legal abortion performed by a trained doctor--if abortion isn't legal--what is she going to do? Is she going to shrug her shoulders and say "oh well, guess I'll have the damn baby anyway"?

If this woman does what I think she would (and, I must admit, what I damn well might do in her situation) and goes somewhere else, finds another method--she could get hurt, she could get sick, she could die. And what makes her life worth less than that of the child inside her?

I once brought up this imagined scenario in a Bible study I was in. The discussion as I remember went something as follows (excuse the Xian jargon):

Seraph: So what if this woman, this desperate woman who truly believes she has no other choice, goes and gets an illegal abortion--some coat-hanger deal in a back alley somewhere? And suppose she gets some terrible infection and dies? And suppose this woman isn't a Believer, and when she dies she does indeed go to hell? And what if, if she'd been able to have a safe, legal abortion, she could have lived long enough for someone to share Christ with her? Are you going to send a woman who doesn't know Christ to hell for one mistake?

Other Girl*: Well that would be her problem, not mine--she deserves to go to hell!

I nearly threw up, or got up and left. At any rate, my jaw hit the floor. Way to be loving and Christlike, Other Girl. Aren't we all deserving of hell? Isn't that kind of a big point in our faith--we don't deserve God's love, but he gives it to us anyway? Isn't every time you look at someone (like our hypothetical woman) with hatred in your heart--isn't that murder in the eyes of our Savior? Do you really think you'd never, ever consider having an abortion, you fucking hypocrite?

To sum up (oh no, I'm going into school-essay mode) I'm pro-choice. I'm pro-anything that helps women get by in a world that often seems to hate us. I'm pro-life--even the life of an evil evil floozy who wants to kill her innocent unborn child. Ha.

I've never had to live in a world where the option to abort a pregnancy, safely and humanely, hasn't been there, if I need it. And I hope I never have to.

*name changed to protect the aggravating.

Saturday, January 20, 2007


It's taken me a few days to get this post written--but hurrah, the financial gauntlet has been passed and I am once again in the college town I affectionately refer to as Hippieville. Or HippieVegas--some churchpeople in my small hometown refer to it as if it's Sin Central, so I suppose it fits.

Along that vein, I went out to a gay club Friday night, and had about the best time I've ever had without feeling like shit in the morning for it.

Note: I'm not gay. I get mistaken for a lesbian a lot and it's a bit of a touchy subject so I feel as if I should make that clear.

But the club was entirely awesomely fun--danced with all my group of friends, including Thyme and a boy I'm currently pursuing, Beowulf. Beowulf is a Preacher's Kid, and kind of inhibited, so he was a little uncomfortable with the entire thing, as was my similarly inhibited suitemate, Rapunzel. Rapunzel had once even said that she would never, ever go to this particular club--oh, it's so scandalous. But she got dumped not long ago and really needed the lift, so for once she was up for a little more life than usual. And both of them ended up having a wonderful time and being glad they went. Well, Rapunzel is, Beowulf is still unsure--as he says, "well, I didn't mind the dancing, but I'd rather not have to go to that place again." Funny sheltered boy.

My relationship with Beowulf is one of the more ambiguous and angst-ridden aspects of my life right now. He doesn't know quite what to think of me--I'm quite honest, sometimes brutally, and certainly more so than a lot of girls my age will be with guys. I'm also very open about my sexuality, which is a personality trait rather foreign to the church people I seem to end up hanging around. I'm still as pure, if not more so, than any of them...but I'm honest about the fact that yes, I have a sex drive, and hey, Beowulf, if I were a different sort of person I'd probably be fucking you.

Note: I do enjoy thinking up handles for my friends here--it adds a little more anonymity and sometimes humor. Like should see this girl's hair. Good gad. And Beowulf, who is actually a shy, timid sort due to an anxiety disorder (what is with me and neurotic people?)

Anyway...the blogging for choice thing. I don't have many (if any!) readers here, so no one was able to attempt to throttle me for not believing abortion is a heinous act of cold-blooded murder, but I posted it (edited for swear words) on a site most of my friends are on. And boy, have I caught hell from two of my girlfriends--especially the one I used as an example, who denies that I gave the argument that way, and that she answered in that fashion. Possibly my memory of that night have been twisted over time, but I could swear she said what she said. And what's funny is that she is a really sweet and loving person...It's just she can't seem to see past what she's been taught. Namely, she's been taught that, when a woman chooses to have sex, she gives up her right to choose if she has a child.

It's too early in the morning for me to start writing about that again...especially as I just answered OtherGirl's rather offended email attacking my position.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

I Don't Want to Grow Up

I am in dire financial straits. Or rather, my whole family is--most of "my" money is really my parents' still.

And we don't have enough for my school this semester.

My mom handles our finances. Usually she's way better with money than the rest of us...but she's been struggling with depression for a while now, and she's tried to hide how bad it is from everyone, and she let our finances slide...and now she's really depressed because she feels like she's failed us, especially me. And I mean, she has...but it's not like we love her any less. She's a great mom, it's just her brain chemistry is getting the best of her.

Apparently, depression runs in her side of the family. I'll bet my grandmother has some sort of mental problems along that line--she's at least got some anxiety disorder or other--and my mom is clinically depressed, and I've struggled with the same on and off since I was about thirteen. Ah, the joys of adolescence, right? One thing that's really keeping me from being just pissed at my mom for this is knowing what it's like.

My friend Thyme is telling me to "have faith" that everything will work out. I know that a lot of people think I'm rather stupid for my beliefs--the whole Christianity bit isn't really popular where I live, I mean even a simple belief in a higher power will occasionally draw a sneer--but I don't think God has ever let me down. He (I wish there was a less gendered pronoun for a being who goes so far beyong male and female...) has gotten me through the darkest times in my life. I wouldn't be here without I can't help but believe he'll get me through this.

Gee, that sounds cheesy. But it's true, and I'm tired and, yes, worried, and I can't think of a better way to put it right now.

I guess that's all I have to say.


Okay, so I've noticed a great deal of turmoil in the Kingdom of Blog lately, especially among the feminists. I get what it's about...despite the kind of confusing bee analogy...but I'm going to stay out of it. I'm not a part of it. I'm going to keep my mouth shut. Or rather, my keyboard.

What I really want to talk about is boobs.

Ah, boobs. How we love them. They're so soft and squishy-bouncy and fun. Too bad I don't have any.

Okay, well I do technically have breasts, but not much. A former romantic interest of mine once described the size of them as a "mouthful." It was cute at the time...

I went bra shopping today. There isn't much that will make me feel more physically inadequate than shopping for bras. I wear a 34 A. It's hard to find a good bra in that size...and they never make it to sale prices. America loves big boobs, and, apparently, so does whoever decides how many bras of each size get put on the rack. Members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee kind of get the short end of the stick in this regard.

A lot of fleshier girls complain about how society likes bony skinny women. They look at me with a mix of envy and hatred. When men praise women who "look like real women," I feel left out. When a woman says "ew, look at that model, you can see the bones in her chest," I look down at my own ribcage and sigh. The slimness of my body--it's natural, too, my family got stuck with some skinny gene or other--is reviled as looking ghostly, cadaverous, prepubescent, or anorexic. Voluptuous girls are told they should love their curves, their healthy, womanly bodies. Skinny girls don't get told to love their bony hips and collarbones; we're told to gain weight. We're asked if we've got an eating disorder; "it's okay, you can talk about it, we can help." Thinness has been disease-ified.

Yes, my fleshy friends get taunted for their round asses and full chests and soft thighs. I know it's hard to grow up feeling fat. But middle school gym class was hell for me too...getting told "damn girl, eat a hamburger or something." Knowing the end to the rhyme, "Roses are red, violets are black..."

I guess what I'm saying is that even women who are "ideal"--model-thin, fine-boned as a bird, like I am--are held to standards we can't uphold. It's just as hard to learn to love ourselves, to be able to stand in front of a mirror and say, "damn...I'm not half bad, am I?"

Most of the time, I can do that.

But not when I go bra shopping.

Oh, by the way. I did find a few bras that I liked...I recommend Lily of France and l.e.i, for my small-boobed sisters. And has anyone else noticed how unreliable the sizing at Vicky's Secret is? Not to mention the pricing...remind me not to return any time soon.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Almost an Angel

So, this will be my blog for the world to see, the face I show to the world, my soapbox and my soap opera. I guess I had better watch my grammar.

I suppose an introduction is in order:

-On this blog, I will be referring to myself as Seraph. Previous internet incarnations of myself include Reb (on AO-hell message boards) and GingerRose (on dA).

-I'm young. How young, I don't think you need to know--but I'm a good bit past sneaking into R-rated movies.

-I define myself as a Christian (or Xian, as I dorkily like to type it) but I'm not one of those Christians. You know what I mean.

-I'm a feminist. My male friends occasionally call me a feminazi...but I do shave and wear makeup and all that patriarchy-approved nonsense. I can feel pretty if I want to, right?

I think the rest of my character will come out eventually. I'll never reveal my real name, or the real names of my friends, or where I live. Now, down to the posting.

Why do I even set up these blog thingies, anyway? What sort of abnormal need for communication and approval do we bloggers have, that we air our dirty laundry online for the world to see? I do have friends out there in the "real" world, friends I can talk to and laugh with, some of whom I can tell everything. But there's something about a stranger...probably the impulse to blog is the same impulse that occasionally leads me to pour out my life story to people I've just met--an impulse that has occasionally landed me in uncomfortable places. Especially since the moment a guy my age hears a girl say "oh, my last boyfriend came out of the closet this summer..." he immediately retreats inside himself and closes the door. Oh noes, he thinks to himself, she'll turn me gay too! Aaaaaagh!

So yes, I dated a gay dude. Oh the horror. *rolls eyes* What gets me is that he's such an utterly fagtastic gay man, I don't know exactly how I missed it. I'll refer to him as Jai, because that's almost his name.

I have a tendency to get off topic, forgive is rather late/early here. Back to the subject of blogging: I am a writer by nature. I have been making up stories since before I could write--at that time, I dictated to my grandmother. I fell in love with poetry around the age of eight, and have kept a fairly consistent journal since I was twelve or so. There is something in me that won't let me go without my writing. It's a force like gravity, or the pull of the moon on the ocean. And many of my friends don't I turn to the faceless crowd of the Interweb. Ha.

I think that will do for a first post.