feminism. art. wit. happenings.
On the plane, I read a page, fell asleep for an hour, thought about how I get attached to people and places too quickly, wondered about the couple next to me wearing matching lime green t-shirts, and had some ginger ale.
And now, home. 151 emails. 1000+ items in Google Reader. Two friends in today’s NY Times Wedding Section. Mosquito bites. Awkward sunburn. Confusion. I have dirt still under my finger nails and I want it to stay there.
People published some things that I wrote.
1. I’m super proud of this, because it’s the first piece of fiction that I’ve had published in a while, and I love it. Read it at Atticus Review. http://atticusreview.org/youll-never-get-anything-accomplished-on-an-empty-stomach/.
2. My essay about Jewish women and friendship is up at HBI: 614. http://www.brandeis.edu/hbi/614/article3a.html
(tea in a bedouin tent near Arad, Israel. photo by me.)
S and I went to the Brooklyn Flea today. I ate a pickle on a stick, which is a thing of beauty, in case you were wondering, and took some pictures. Then I bought many, many protein bars and these crazy delicious wasabi/soy almonds and went home on the train, where I started reading You Know Who You Are, by Ben Dolnick, and watched some tourists with their large maps. I was feeling weirdly chatty, and thought about asking them where they were going, but I didn’t.
Tomorrow, very early, I will be in a cab, and then on a plane, and then in Mexico. Any and all adventure reporting will have to wait until I get back on the 29th. I’m leaving my laptop behind, which is already giving me palpitations, but it has no business where I’m going. ( Dear fictional loved ones: I miss you so much already.)
(Taken somewhere in Midtown on the East Side. Everything about her posture is adorable. Photo by me.)
Wednesday songs: Eternal Flame, the Bangles; Waiting for the Bus, Violent Femmes; Sweet Talk, the Killers; Zuma, Coyote Grace; Shadow Stabbing, Cake; Blacking Out the Friction; Death Cab for Cutie; Edit, Regina Specktor; Let it Rain, Tilly and the Wall; Cocoon, The Decemberists.
This weather is killing me-I’m incredibly sluggish and no amount of coffee seems to be able to wake me up, which is saying something. I keep dreaming about zombies and dancing, but not in the same dream. I have an article to write and a tremendous amount of pre-Mexico prep to do, but at least I found wasabi soy almonds. I’m still reading The Slide, by Kyle Beachy, which keeps being amazing.In spite of anxiety, I am trying to collect joy.
On the writing front, if I didn’t think baths were the most disgusting thing Gd ever created, I would want to take one with this story. Instead, I want to find a few hours before I leave to take a walk with it, and probably, during the walk, we’ll hold hands.
(Menu from a restaurant on the beach in Tel Aviv, where E and N and I ate schnitzel with a lot of mayonnaise and gossiped and put our feet in the sand. Photo by me.)
I’m writing this on the bus on the way to Union Square. There ‘s a girl reading Are You There Gd? It’s Me, Margaret. Every time I figure out a way to take the bus instead of the subway, I get really excited.
I have a new piece up at Fictionaut, which is a place where writers can post work and get feedback from other writers. The story is called ‘First Shift.’ Meg Pokrass, who in the world I occupy is a huge, huge deal, called it fascinating and brave, which makes me feel pretty awesome.
Also, I got asked to submit to a publicaton, so now, I have both a reason and a deadline for writing the road trip piece, which I’ve started to give shape to. Last night, I wrote a few lines that I still love today, which is rare. Sometimes I write something, love it, and then wake up the next day and decide it’s crap. It’s hard to describe the feeling that comes with finally writing something-anything-remotely or reasonably good after staring a screen for several hours. It’s anti climactic and exhausting and simultaneously euphoric and sad and completely worth it.
Once again, cleaning out my Google Reader.
(click to enlarge image)
“Let me put it to you this way. Rape culture is a culture in which people who have survived a violent crime are asked to laugh about it because other people think it’s funny.”
“For women, getting angry is socially unacceptable, even when the anger is over violence, discrimination, misogyny, and other forms of oppression. Anger is unacceptable because angry women are women in touch with their passion and power, especially in relation to men, which threatens the entire patriarchal order. It’s unacceptable because it forces men to confront the reality of male privilege and women’s oppression and their involvement in it, even if only as passive beneficiaries. Women’s anger challenges men to acknowledge attempts to trivialize oppression with “I was only kidding.” And women’s anger is unacceptable to men who look to women to take care of them, to prop up their need to feel in control, and to support them in their competition with other men. When women are less than gracious and good-humored about their own oppression, men often feel uncomfortable, embarrassed, at a loss, and therefore vulnerable.” (Allan G. Johnson)
And finally, via Jezebel: Answers to your questions about who has abortions.
friday songs: the man, we’re about 9; recycled air, the postal service; cold beer and remote control, indigo girls; red red rose, the weepies; don’t shoot me santa, the killers; one dollar, gillian welch; snare drum, lucy wainwright roche; air, the owls.
Median at Broadway and 81st. People on the way to synagogue, kids in shorts with lacrosse sticks, folks eating giant sandwiches with lots of mustard from Zabar’s on the bench near mine. Surprise visit from M and then E.
Earlier today I finished The Summer of Naked Swim Parties and started The Slide, by Kyle Beachy, and then it felt like something-voices, textures, conversations, images-was rumbling through me. I courted it in the best way I know how-with caffeine and a long walk, during which I let it roll around in my brain until I sat down here and it became a different game. In a weird way, it’s like feeling like you have to throw up and then running all the way to the bathroom and realizing you no longer have to. I’m not going to go any further with this metaphor, because it’s about to get disgusting. The challenge for me comes once I’ve sat down, because then I have to get all the stuff I’ve been thinking about for 60 or so blocks down. Sometimes it seems like it could never be as good on paper1 as it is in my head.
(Bells, market in Emek Refaim, J’lem. July 2010. Photo by me.)
I’m reading The Summer of Naked Swim Parties, by Jessica Anya Blau, and also Jami Attenberg’s blog, which makes me want to live in a loft in Williamsburg. Just now, I ate this milk chocolate/white chocolate thing that was both complicated and delicious. I’m sunburned and tired and a little more than week away from staffing an AJWS service learning trip to Mexico, where I will become more sunburned and tired, and also exhilarated.
And now, some feminist announcements:
1. According to Kate Bornstein’s Twitter, today’s the 17th anniversary of Kate’s book, Gender Outlaw.
2. I’ve had this piece on the Ms. Blog about the feminist solution to surnames in my Google Reader for a super long time. There’s a poll attached to the piece that’s worth looking at. The comments are also pretty interesting: (“What if your future husband doesn’t want to do any of those? What if he isn’t a feminist?” “So, don’t marry him!”)
I will definitely write a more expansive post about this subject at some point. Writing about it will be hard, since so many of my friends are married and have changed their names or are getting married and will confront the issue, so, again, there’s the worry about making people uncomfortable. It’s okay, though. Productive discomfort is good for everybody. Gird yourselves, kids.
