i’ve been thinking a lot about pornography lately. it’s a topic i find hard to grapple with because it’s something that i’ve always had a difficult time reconciling with my particular personal brand of feminism. my brand of feminism, i guess if i had to describe it, is based in a largely pragmatic view of the world at large, but with my efforts funnelled towards those causes i think can have the greatest impact. in my personal brand of feminism, i don’t like to spend a lot of time railing against everything (though one might not guess that from some of my posts here!), but there are key changes needed which i believe are fundamental to the advancement of women’s equality. i believe that, like all fights for rights, the war is a long one, and change is slow, so you have to pick and choose your battles, and wisely consider where best to invest your energies.

pornography is a thorny thing for feminism in general. there are credible arguments from feminists that porn is empowering for women. there are also credible arguments from feminists that porn is truly harmful for women. which leaves me (and others) feeling somewhat stranded between a rock and a hard place.

as someone who has viewed and enjoyed pornography before, i have a hard time condemning porn outright. i’m not a prude, and i don’t have any particular objection to men or women taking pleasure in watching sexual acts, as part of a wide continuum of sexual expression. additionally, i am not an idiot – pornography is nothing new. from the early days of human representational art, sex has been depicted visually in various forms from religious to erotic. film and photographic porn is, in some ways, simply an extension of this.

in other words, porn is not, in and of itself, bad.

the difficulty for me arises from the fact that modern pornography is created, marketed and sold within a particular context – a context from which the end product cannot be extricated or innoculated. a context which is problematic in many ways.

the first and most obvious difficulty is that women involved in porn usually arrive at a place where they are getting their kit off for money because there are not exactly a plethora of other options available to them. in a nutshell, no little girl thinks “i want to be a porn actress when i grow up” – they just don’t. that’s not to imply that women in the porn industry don’t have free will – because many do participate willingly. but selling one’s body as a means to earn a living is not usually someone’s preferred choice of career. for many women, their socio-economic status still restricts the opportunities for earning a living wage. so pornography is an industry which makes its profits off of women who, via various paths, have come to see their bodies as a commodity which they sell, because at a practical level, it made the most financial sense out of the choices available to them at the time. and no matter how you dress it up with hugh hefner’s smoking jacket or cute little bunny ears, that amounts to economic exploitation. exploitation which there is considerable financial incentive to continue to propagate.

which leads us to problem number two: the reason women come to view their bodies as a saleable commodity is because our society is saturated with messages that reinforce that belief. every advertisment which pairs an image of a sexy woman with either a service being sold, or a glossy inanimate object we’re supposed to want to buy, reifies the underlying subtext that women are something you can either obtain or use for money. much like pavlov’s original experiment paired salivation to a bell, this is precisely what happens in the media and advertising world. women’s images are used to sell burgers, cars, lightbulbs. the overwhelming objectification and fetishisation of women’s sexuality (i.e. “pornification”) as part of our mainstream societal wallpaper is not a new phenomenon, and one i’ve written about before here, so i won’t belabour the point. it is, however, that same social context, where everything and everyone has a invisible pricetag, that makes pornography a viable option for women in the first place.

the third big contextual problem with pornography is that is exists in a society which still tolerates (and in some cases condones) sexual violence against women. this ties in with the pervasive mainstream objectification, because a side effect of the women-as-sexualised-objects culture is that it encourages the women-as-sexualised-objects-for-the-enjoyment-of-men culture. men who are taight to view women as objects lack empathy for them as humans – a detachment which can be dangerous. it creates the potential for a sense of sexual entitlement amongst men who have a propensity for violence. historically, women’s bodies have long been objects for the sexual gratification of men to use as they pleased – something which was long embedded in legal and societal mores in western countries. but even in westernised countries where modern-era women’s rights have been been rooting for 50 years, one in four women will still be victims of gender based violence in their lifetime. set against that horrifying backdrop, the pornography industry, whose model and medium is still overwhelmingly male-dominated-women-subjugated, is, at a minimum, not helpful.

so where does that leave me? as someone who staunchly supports a woman’s right to control her own body as a basic human entitlement, i end up conflicted. on the one hand, i want women to feel free to express themselves sexually, and i would never presume to tell anyone what they should or shouldn’t do with their body (including monetising it) – whether i agree or not. i want women to be fully empowered sexual beings. yet on the other hand, we have a society which continues to devalue women’s bodies as something to be used and abused. where women feel selling their body is the best of the bad choices. where women are still not free from sexual violence.

in an ideal world, i could support porn… but we don’t live in an ideal world. yet the pragmatist in me knows that pornography is not going anywhere any time soon. i don’t want to demonise erotica as anti-woman, and i don’t want to waste my time trying to eradicate something that will never go away. so i supposed that the best i can do in the meantime is continue to support changing the context. to continue to advocate for women’s education and employment opportunities which give them choices. to fight against the objectification and stereotypes of women which are so prevalent. to work to end sexual violence and hold perpetrators accountable.

and that suits my particular brand of feminism to a tee.

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i’m at that point where i’ve got about 6 or 7 half drafts sitting in the queue – the lonely stepchildren waiting for their deserved attention. the problem being that none of them seem quite worthy – they’re only old thoughts, rehashed, retreads. nothing novel, no diamonds in the rough. i give them a halfhearted pass every once in a while, but they’re just a handful of unpolished pebbles.

things in my life are starting to feel a bit like that as well. nothing new or exciting. the holidays are rolling around again in spite of my protest, and i have a feeble commitment to *do something* about them that resembles celebration and cheer. and i do mean it. sorta.

it’s this horrible sense of blah that gets me every time. give me emotional ups and downs and work and stress and drama and love and despair… but if you want to kill me properly, boring will do the trick. what other people embrace as calm and contentment is pure torture for me. it all makes me feel a bit deadened, numb. which is a problem of my personality, i freely admit (and given a big enough vacuum, will manufacture something myself) – but i just can’t help it. there’s time to be boring when you’re dead – that’s my motto.

but writing about boredom is boring. so i wait. i’m waiting for that next challenge or new glittering thing. waiting for the holidays. waiting for inspiration. waiting for boredom and winter and blahs to end.

i hope i’m not waiting too long.

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i’ve held off on commenting on the stupak-pitts amendment to the healthcare bill which was passed by the u.s. house of representatives this week in part because i’ve found it difficult to put my feelings into words, and in part because i feel others have said it sooo much better than i.

(if you haven’t been paying particular attention to the political machinations around this issue in the states, here’s a quick recap:right before this version of the healthcare bill was to be voted on, some right-to-life republicans and democrats [oooh, i accidentally just typed demoncrats - freudian slip?] attached a last-minute amendment which forbids any health care plan, private or public, from offering abortion services if they wish to accept even one federally subsidised customer. since the overwhelming majority of new customers who will be purchasing plans are the soon-to-be-subsidised poor who currently cannot afford health care, this effectively forces providers to choose between any new business, or covering abortions, *and* prevents any poor people from accessing abortion services as part of their mainstream reproductive health coverage.)

the phrase “thrown under the bus” has been tossed around a lot, and that encompasses some of the sentiment that i feel. women were definitely run over here in the name of expediency and pragamatism – those voices that continue to try to convince us that the “compromise” was necessary to get any kind of bill passed.

but what comes closer is this: pure unadulterated ire. how dare you. how very fucking dare you. this was no compromise – a compromise is when you give away some of what you want in order to get more of what you want. the failure here is the lack of recognition that abortion rights do not fall into the “want” category. *rights* are not *wants*. they’re not pie-in-the-sky wishes – they are full-fledged-constitutionally-enshrined-and-protected rights. they are not, therefore, something which can be put into the pot as ante. they are not political capital to be traded away like marbles.

they are womens’ *rights*, damnit, and they are mine and hers and hers, and you can’t just take them away when it suits you. but when only 76 of the 435 representatives are women, i suppose it’s easy for the rest of them to forget.

abortion is the single most common surgical procedure carried out – the idea that health plans not only should not, but *must not* cover it because 64 democrats (62 of whom were men) said so is completely out of touch with reality. are these same providers banned from covering vasectomies because of the religious views of a few? i don’t even need to check to know that they’re not.

the most reprehensible bit is that it is the most vulnerable women that are subjugated to the moralistic dictates of others – poor women who cannot afford their own private-pay healthcare, who likely then cannot afford their own private-pay abortion… yet are somehow supposed to be able to afford to raise a child? the courts have said that a woman’s right to privacy entitles her to primacy over her reproduction. but 64 democrats think as long as *they* hold the purse strings, that right is superceded by their own religious beliefs, fuckyouverymuch. in other words, if you’re dependent on the government for help with healthcare, then we will tell you what their god says you can and cannot do with your uterus.

it’s hostile paternalism of the very worst kind – the kind where games are played with people’s legal rights and doctors are bent to the political will of a few, because a group of 64 representatives think they above all others, know what’s best for women living in america. dangling a woman’s right to control her own body like a playtoy on a string, just out of reach… unless you have the cash to buy an indulgence. rich women don’t have to worry about anyone else’s god but their own.

so really, “thrown under the bus” isn’t the half of it. poor women have been put back under the jackboot of the morality police, and stripped bare of their most basic civil right – the right to control over their body. i’m furious at the newest reminder that my rights and hers and hers and hers, all hang in the balance of just a few elected individuals. i’m angry that once again i’m forced to sit here and stew while hoping that someone else is brave enough to stand up for me and her and her and her. it’s a special kind of torture to have to watch your autonomy twist in the breeze. and that’s not sacrificing women voters for the sake of practicality or compromise – that’s creating a women’s-only fucking abu ghraib.

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i was reading on facebook today about my cousin applying to medical school. and for a split second, i had that stomach-plunging feeling of guilt tinged with shame. only for a split second, but it happened nonetheless. so i shook my head to banish the negative thoughts before they could take root, clicked off the page, and went on with the rest of my evening.

it’s a reflexive reaction, this guilt – the guilt of someone who was always labeled as “gifted”, who was always told how talented and intelligent she was, who was always at the top of the class without even trying… and who has spent the past 20 years doing sweet fuck all.

i remember the first time i was singled out in some way – in the first grade, my teacher took those three of us who could already read and write aside, and gave us the primers for the second grade to begin on. a few years later, i was given an iq test. by the time i got to fourth grade, i was being taken out of class once a week and bussed to an “enrichment programme” to play with computers and work on logic puzzles. by 6th grade the advanced kids were segregated into different classes altogether. by high school, we were being encouraged to take calculus and physics to beef up our scores for a demanding university application. even within in those segregated classes, i was always in the top ten with ease. i applied to two very selective universities, and got into both.

don’t get me wrong – this guilt, this pressure to achieve “great things” has always been completely internally generated. no one ever told me i had to achieve – but with an educational upbringing like that, somewhere the seed that there were *expectations* was planted. to whom much is given, much is expected, after all. so i’ve always had the idea that i was supposed to be a neurosurgeon or human rights lawyer or research scientist – some noble profession that involved academic rigours and long years of selfless sacrifice hunched over in a lab or reading briefs late into the night, but making a notable contribution to the greater good. needless to say, i’ve clearly never pursued those paths. alternatively, i also saw myself perhaps becoming a missionary-type, dedicating my life to helping the poor in underdeveloped countries, leading some important ngo, speaking 4 lanugages and wearing lots of flowing linen and silver jewelery.

yeah, that never quite happened either.

instead, i’ve turned into a middle manager. i live, by all accounts, an ordinary life. i do some interesting things sometimes. i do some boring things a lot of the time. i’m not terribly ambitious about my current career. some of what i do matters to some people – but if i were to die tomorrow, the whole of humanity would not be diminished by my unfinished work. and that’s okay.

i am, by and large, happy. i do things i’ve always wanted to do. my parents and family are proud of me. my friends think i am a good person. it’s all i would ever expect or want for anyone else i know.

yet there are these flashes of doubt. this nagging idea that i have squandered my gifts. every once in a while that internal pressure rises up into my chest and makes me feel guilty for being happy at being ordinary. so when i read about my cousin who is doing research into hiv and preparing for medical school, i can’t help but wonder if i shouldn’t be doing something more than being content with being ordinary.

until i click off the page, pour a glass of wine, settle into the couch with my husband and cat. and spend a few moments in revelling in just how extraordinary being ordinary can be.

ordinary – the alternate routes

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I’ve been wasting my days, Good and reckless and true, I have danced in the dark at the edge of the water, Swinging my hips at the black and the blue, When you die will you be surrounded by friends? Will they pray for a heaven out loud, a hope that somehow they will see you again? And at the end of the day, knowing not what it means, Will you stand in the ashes, building a flame for the rest of your dreams? Would you love, could you love to be ordinary? I know its hard but I can’t see you trying, Would you love, could you love to be ordinary? ‘Cause I can’t see you trying now

And I see strangers at war, I see strangers at peace, Still I hang my head in confusion, It’s always been a choice that’s been harder for me, And at the end of the day, knowing not what it means, Will you stand in the ashes, building a flame for the rest of your dreams? Would you love, could you love to be ordinary? I know it’s hard but I can’t see you trying, Would you love, could you love to be ordinary? No I can’t see you trying now

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kimberly munley is the cop who shot the suspect in the recent Fort Hood tragedy. and instead of just praising her for being a brave *cop* and doing her job in a crisis, under pressure (as she was trained for countless hours to do), the media keep using gag-worthy phrases like “tough cookie”.

really? “cookie”? how sexist can you get?!! and by focusing on her sex as if it’s somehow extraordinary that a woman should be brave, they completely undermine the heroic achievement of a lifetime. in hamhandedly trying to honour her, they completely demean her.

because when you focus on the fact that she’s female (yes, cnn, i’m pointing at you), the implication is that even in 2009, people are still surprised that women (who’ve had the exact same training as any man in that job) could enter a dangerous situation with an armed suspect, and respond exactly as she’s been drilled to: shoot to kill.

the crazed episode itself is obviously newsworthy. the fact that she is a woman is not. can you imagine an article about a man using the word “cookie”? or emphasising his “toughness”? or calling him “aggressive”? no. in fact, what they say when these kinds of articles are written about men are:

they were just “doing their job”.

yet our stereotypes about the “weak woman” are so thoroughly embedded in our social consciousness that we often don’t even realise it. i’m absolutely sure that those people who are calling her a “tough woman” don’t realise that by doing so, they’re actually perpetuating the idea that women aren’t *expected* to brave, competent, steel-nerved cops. that even when they are doing the same risky job as a man, the public don’t expect them to do the *really* risky stuff.

we see it repeated nearly daily in the media – the stories about the women soldiers, and the handwringing over the children they leave behind (as if the fathers are expendable) when they end up killed or hostage. the particular emphasis on “women and children” whenever casualties are counted -as if women and children are somehow equivalent in their innocence and helplessness, but men are supposed to die. over and over, the reification of the subtle but persistent idea that women are the “gentler” sex, that women should be protected first and foremost because they are less able to protect themselves, that women should be shielded from the brutal, nasty, dirty, risky stuff of living.

and now for something that may, at first glance, seem like a complete tangent: this is part-and-parcel of the reason i cannot stand to have a door held for me, or to have people pay for me, or to have people allow me to go first in the queue. it’s all a subtle and pervasive way of reminding me (whether consciously, intentionally, or not), that society still sees me as a less able person than a man. it’s a hard leap for many men to understand – they have often been indoctrinate to show “manners”. they don’t understand how i can see being “chivalrous” as incredibly insulting.

to which i’d say, if you truly respect me, you’d see me as your full equal, and not needing any deference or assistance *simply because i’m a woman*.

so every time a newspaper calls someone a “tough woman”, it’s a reminder that that is somehow surprising or exceptional. and every time you offer to pay for me, it’s a reminder that i’m not expected to have as much money. every time you hold a door for me, it’s a reminder that i’m expected to be weaker. in short, every time you offer me help or protection i don’t need, you remind me of the stereotypes that pervade our entire culture, and which i have to battle against every day.

and every time a woman cop or solidier is hailed as being a “tough cookie”, it’s a reminder that in spite of doing the same job as any man, in spite of being a trained, skilled, focused professional who gets paid to put her life on the line…

underneath it all, she’s still just seen as a “cookie”.

eta: even the ny times falls into the habit: would they ever describe a man as a “ball of fire”? or contrast his ” fierce love of hunting, surfing and other outdoor sports” with tending his garden and playing with his daughter? ugh.

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and in a move which will live on in ignominy, yesterday maine became the second state to rip full marraige rights out of the hands of gays and lesbians.

i don’t often agree with andrew sullivan, but he manages to nail precisely why this defeat hurts so much, why it’s so important. and why love *will* prevail in the end.

The truth about civil marriage – why it is the essential criterion for gay equality – is that it alone explodes this core marginalization and invisibility of gay people. It alone can reach those gay kids who need to know they have a future as a dignified human being with a family. It alone tells society that gay people are equal in their loves and in their hearts and in their families – not just useful in a society with a need for talented or able individuals whose private lives remain perforce sequestered from view.

This is why it remains the prize. And why our eyes must remain fixed upon it. In my view, the desperate nature of the current tactics against us, the blatant use of fear around children (which both worries parents and also stigmatizes gay people in one, deft swoop) are signs that what we are demanding truly, truly matters.

…

But guess what? Civil marriage is already here. It exists in several states already, it exists in the consciousness of an entire generation. It exists abroad in America’s closest neighbor and in America’s closest allies. The speed of the movement towards it is unprecedented in modern civil rights movements, even as it may seem crushingly slow to those who live under discrimination’s weight. These defeats – even narrow defeats as in California and Maine – should not discourage us. The desperation and fanaticism of our opponents proves they know that this is the crucial battleground. And they’re right.

But civil rights victories, the final and enduring ones, are always built on the foundations of defeats. Sometimes, the defeat of a minority’s sincere aspiration to equality helps reveal the injustice of the discrimination and the cruelty of the marginalization. Sometimes, it helps show just how poorly treated we are, and galvanizes a community to fight back more fiercely as we saw in that amazing march on DC last month. That has certainly been true of previous civil rights movements. It is just as true of ours.

So congrats, Maine Equality. You did a fine job. Congrats, HRC. You helped. No congrats to Obama who is treating this civil rights movement the way Kennedy first treated his. But we don’t need Obama.

We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. And we will win in due course, with a good spirit and keen arguments, and with passion and conviction in our hearts. We will win.

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remember that episode of “friends” where monica’s credit card is stolen by a bon vivant, and used for all sorts of fun things?

[Monica is examining her bill. Rachel emerges from her room]

Rachel: Oh, Monica. You are not still going over that thing.

Monica: This woman’s living my life.

Rachel: What?

Monica: She’s living my life, and she’s doing it better than me! Look at this, look. She buys tickets for plays that I wanna see. She, she buys clothes from stores that I’m intimidated by the sales people. She spent three hundred dollars on art supplies.

Rachel: You’re not an artist.

Monica: Yeah, well I might be if I had the supplies! I mean, I could do all this stuff. Only I don’t.

Rachel: Oh, Monica, c’mon, you do cool things.

Monica: Oh really? Okay, let’s compare, shall we.

Rachel: [Yawning] Oh, it’s so late for ‘Shall we’…

Monica: Do I go horseback riding in the park? Do I take classes at the New School?

Rachel: [Yawning] Nooo…

Monica: This is so unfair! She’s got everything I want, and she doesn’t have my mother.

yeah. so what happens when someone clones my debit card? they spend £900 on purchases at a garden centre and driving lessons.

what does that say about my life?

been caught stealing – jane’s addiction

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the other day i was inspired to start clearing out my emails, i’m not sure why. rather predictably, somewhere along the way i fell into the rabbit hole of actually reading them, rather than deleting them. and in the course of that journey down memory lane, i found myself re-reading early emails between jonno and myself.

oh! those early emails! they so perfectly reflect that time of falling in love – falling, tumbling, helplessly, eagerly. the intense desire to both know and reveal everything, the apetite for the most personal details, the willing offering of scars and trust. the awkwardness of trying to figure out where all the pieces fit together, the coupling of couplehood, negotiating boundaries in a tangle of limbs and emotions. it makes my heart hurt to read them, they’re so raw, so needy, so vulnerable, so tentative, all at once. shyly reaching out a hand, the electricity when warm fingers meet and wrap firmly around your own. that freshness of desire that it always feels like you must be the *very first people* to ever discover. that this love is like no other love which has ever been, obliterating all past hurts, blocking out the past like it never was.

it all fades, of course. the rhythms and grooves become comfortably worn. as partners, you map out the terrain of smooth highways, rocky detours and dangerous relationship landmines to be traversed. the small triangle of freckles on their shoulder becomes as familiar to you as your own skin, habits and patterns fitting neatly into the shared life you construct together. the experiences melding together to become something thick and rich and deep with time. and you wouldn’t trade it for anything, really you wouldn’t.

but oh! those early emails! preserving in clumsy words the overwhelming excitement and nervousness of discovering a soul which complements yours so well. i thank god for those emails that, in their own fumbling, bumbling way, stand as record of a heady time we can never recapture, but which i can revisit with just a trip through my inbox.

you and i – wilco

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remember a few months ago when i raged about the latest odious invasion of the big brother police state? police files on people who have no criminal convictions but are seen as “potential troublemakers” because they show up at “too many” political demonstrations?

well the “spotter cards” have made it into the public domain this week.

the police say:

“This is an appropriate tactic used by police to help them identify people at specific events … who may instigate offences or disorder.”

which, considering that these people have no official offenses, seems to be a conclusion based on nothing more than their imagination.

but call them “domestic extremists” and suddenly it all sounds a little more credible, doesn’t it? certainly well-worth £9 million. never mind it has no legal basis in definition or fact.

so they take your photo at a public and peaceful protest and log it in a giant database. oh, and think those speed cameras are innocuous? they track your car registration too.

the guardian has done a great series featuring interviews with subjects of the “spotter cards” here.

it’s oppression of free speech and free assembly through bully tactics… you might also recognise it as a key hallmark of those harsh dictatorships around the world which we decry. you may think that a facile comparison, but if you’re too intimidated by the police to exercise your right to protest in the first place, isn’t the chilling effect just the same as those who would intimidate and suppress opposition through brute force?

the information commissioners say:

“We do have genuine concerns about the ever increasing amounts of information that law enforcement bodies are retaining. Organisations must only collect people’s personal information for a proper purpose. We will need to talk to Acpo to understand why they consider it is necessary to hold lawful protesters’ details in this way, before considering whether this meets the terms of the Data Protection Act.”[...]“Individuals have the right to request information that is held about them and can challenge organisations about whether, and for how long, the data should be retained.”

he misses the point entirely: trying to use the data protection act to challenge an infringement of basic civil liberties is like trying to put out a forest fire with a waterpistol. and, i would hasten to point out, is only useful if you happen to know you’re on a super-secret database *in the first place*.

a society without the right to peaceful protest and civil disobedience is a society where all our rights hang in the balance. a society without the notion of “innocence before guilt” is a society where the laws and judicial system have lost their footing. without the means for dissent, or the ability to demonstrably demand change from our government, we are all captive – whether we’ve been caught on police camera or not.

updated: you can follow the excellent guardian series on surveillance and civil liberties here.

requiem for dissent – bad religion

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i came home this evening and jonno summoned me to his computer – “come here, i’ve got to show you these!”

he spent his entire lunch hour looking at cats in halloween costumes. (he’s convinced we’re going to get zeke into a pumpkin outfit!)

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i collect music like some people collect stamps or buttons – i love the variety of shapes and colours and patterns. and one of the things i like to collect most is cover songs. i love it when someone brings a fresh or surprising perspective to a song i thought i knew, allowing me to see it in a whole different light. it takes talent to take something familiar and make it seem new again.

here then, are some of my favourite covers, for your enjoyment:

• sympathy for the devil – the rolling stones as covered by jane’s addiction.mick jagger sang the original with swagger and braggadocio. perry farrell sings this with creepy lecherousness.

• i want you – bob dylan as covered by bruce springsteen. bruce gives this song a plaintive edge that bob never allowed it to reveal, in spite of the lyrics.

• hallelujah – leonard cohen as covered by bob dylan. everyone knows the jeff buckley cover of this song which makes people think it’s supposed to be a pretty one, but i like that bob gives the song back some snarl. the “hallelujah” almost sounds deliberately sarcastic. maybe it is.

• i know it’s over – the smiths as covered by jeff buckley. speaking of jeff buckley, the lyrics of this heartbreaking song become extra poignant knowing about his early demise.

• black star – radiohead as covered by gillian welch. i think this is a perfect cover – thom yorke’s cold, nasal alienating vocals turned into something rich and warm and embracing.

• a case of you – joni mitchell as covered by prince. prince manages to turn a sweet introspective folk song into a sexy r&b ballad.

• when doves cry – prince as covered by the be good tanyas. prince’s iconic 80s pop song goes countrified.

• let’s hear it for the boy – deniece williams as covered by doveman. neither of these artists are household names, but if you knew the cheerleader version from the early 80s, you can appreciate the truly different take that doveman puts on it, making it sound sad and reverential, like a funereal hymn.

click below to play them all
MP3 playlist (M3U)

and here’s the feed for downloads in itunes or your other music manager of choice.

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i am not a patient person.

in fact, the imprecision of that statement irritates me – i am a *highly impatient* person. i like to joke amongst my friends that i have the patience of a fruit fly. i want results now, dammit – although if i’m honest, i’d prefer them yesterday.

and so back in march, i started to write a post that surprised me – i’d been doing yoga for a whole year. an entire year of at least 3x a week. a full year of practicing a form of quietude and discipline and patience. and i loved it. i know! i could hardly believe it myself. i felt centred and supple. balanced.

and then i got injured. the hip problems that forced me to drop out of my marathon forced me to give up yoga as well. difficult to do pigeon pose when even sitting on the sofa hurt. i did absolutely no exercise for five months, waiting for the deep pain in my hip to ease, even a little. i could practically feel my tendons shortening, my muscles contracting, as day after day i could do nothing to prevent it.

finally last month, i started beginning to work out again. the hip is still not great, but i couldn’t sit still any more. and i started trying to get back into my yoga.

i feel as weak as a newborn baby and i can barely touch my toes, let alone get chin-to-shin in janu sirsasana the way i used to. it’s so frustrating – to have to start all over again. to have to begin the practice of slowly stretching into the poses over time, building my strength back up for holding poses, ground myself through the shaking and wobbles, reconnect with my centre of gravity and stability.

because more than physical strength or flexibility, that’s what yoga is about. taking time to breathe, balance, centre. all the things i’m not naturally good at.

there’s a saying that’s continually repeated throughout classes: wherever you are today is exactly where you need to be. so here’s where i am, re-learning the lessons, reconnecting with my foundations. rediscovering patience.

please be patient with me – wilco

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in what has now become international news, a louisiana justice of the peace denied an interracial couple a marriage license:

“I’m not a racist. I just don’t believe in mixing the races that way,” Bardwell told the Associated Press on Thursday. “I have piles and piles of black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else.”

Bardwell said he asks everyone who calls about marriage if they are a mixed race couple. If they are, he does not marry them, he said.

Bardwell said he has discussed the topic with blacks and whites, along with witnessing some interracial marriages. He came to the conclusion that most of black society does not readily accept offspring of such relationships, and neither does white society, he said.

“There is a problem with both groups accepting a child from such a marriage,” Bardwell said. “I think those children suffer and I won’t help put them through it.”

If he did an interracial marriage for one couple, he must do the same for all, he said.

“I try to treat everyone equally,” he said.

my first husband was (is) black – we were together for nearly 10 years and never faced any real hostility. part of that was living in urban areas where interracial relationships are much more commonly visible. part of that was luck. part of that was probably choosing not to see certain things. but i know, and have always known, this kind of bigotry existed.

everyone is all up in arms. i feel like i should have something to say about this – shock! outrage! condemnation!

the fact is, i feel none of those things. the world is crawling with prejudiced people – we all see them, we just never confront most of them. they keep their voices low, or preface their statements with, “i’m not a racist, but…” they rarely ever get called to account because, let’s face it, who’s up for the challenge of taking on that kind of argument? few people ever say anything in the face of racism – it’s easier to let it slide.

admit it – you’ve sidestepped racism before. i have too. like the pile on the sidewalk, we walk on and pretend it wasn’t there. life is sometimes easier that way.

so no, i’m not surprised that in this day and age, someone sees fit to say the kinds of things this man has said. he’s admitted to blatantly turning down interracial couples many times before – he’s been a justice of the peace for 34 years! how many colleagues knew about his practices or views? how many friends or family?

and who ever called him on it before? no one, that’s who.

so when the aclu calls it “astonishing” that this would happen in 2009, i can’t agree. i’m not astonished in the slightest.

as long as well all continue to turn a blind eye, this kind of thing will continue to happen. that’s just the truth of human nature.

and that doesn’t shock me or enrage me – it just saddens me a little.

until i sidestep, and move on. like it wasn’t even there.

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the other day i turned around, and september was gone. i’d missed it completely, like a ship passing in the night.

this kind of thing keeps sneaking up on me – the elusive, mercurial nature of the hoursdaysweeks slipping past my consciousness, through my fingers. it’s beginning to feel worrisome – stop! i’m missing stuff! give me my day back!

i am more preoccupied than usual, this is true. i’ve been given something of a promotion at my job, and the unending mountain of things to do which just continues to grow has kept me busy for every working moment for the past few weeks. i come home and collapse in a heap on the couch, with barely enough energy to wield the remote control.

and it’s full autumn now. the advancing bookends of dark, chilly mornings and dark, early evenings tend to close in on the day, compacting it, making the hours feel shorter. rising in darkness, returning in darkness makes it seem like the cycle is speeding up on itself. wait, wasn’t it just dark a few hours ago? what happened to the intervening daylight?

in truth, i fritter hours away. i spend mindless time watching, surfing and tweeting with nothing to show for it. the days fly by indistinguishable from one another in cookie-cutter repetition. no grand projects to work on, nothing new to aim at. and so i kill the restlessness with numbness, an electronic novocaine.

i read an article the other day about a woman who set out to read a book a day for a year. that would once have seemed like a dream project to me, and yet my first thought was, “where would i find the time?”

i am wasteful, wanton with my minutes. i am too lazy to corral them into some semblance of activity or productivity. the modern daydreamer trades in links and bytes.

because compared to many, i have nothing *but* time. no kids, no obligations, i only sleep 5-6 hours a night. even with 10 hours a day for work and travel, that leaves me with 8 hours a day during the week, and (with a lie in) 16 hours on the weekend. that’s 72 free hours a week. or 3,744 hours a year. i have 13,478,400 seconds at my disposal.

so where the hell did september go?

these days – nico

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being an expat really tests your loyalties.

so you think you’re a baseball fan? have you spent hundreds of dollars just to be able to watch your team play… not in person, mind, or even on television, but on a tiny window of the internet? have you ever turned down social engagements, and risked alienating countrymen who don’t understand american sports, to sit at home hunched over the computer urging your team on from thousands of miles away? after a big game, have you ever experienced the unique loneliness of having *absolutely no one* to share your joy or despair with? have you ever come home from a long day at work, gone to bed ridiculously early, then woken up at 2am to spend 3 hours in the dark breathlessly watching your team win or lose, only to then try to catch one last precious hour of sleep before the alarm goes off in the morning, drag yourself through the day, and repeat that routine for the next several weeks?

until you have, you can’t really appreciate the unique hell that is the life of an expat sports fan – particularly during the playoffs. i’ve done this routine for a few seasons now – i have the redbull, i have the jersey – but somehow it never gets easier.

my beloved red sox are facing off against the los angeles angels of anaheim (otherwise known as the “we-can’t-figure-out-where-we-want-to-be-from angels”) in the american league division series. unfortunately they’re already down 2-0 in the best of five series, so have a big challenge ahead.

in other words, they *need* my support. punking out because i’m “too tired” is not an option.

but at 2am, peeling my lids open with my fingers, yawning so hard my eyes water, and trying to stay quiet so as not to disturb those sleeping next to me… it’s either a test of faith, or a measure of stupidity. when every fibre of your being is crying out desperately for sleep, you have to wonder: just how much do i love this team anyway?

lucky for me, the answer is “a helluva lot”. cause there’s no other reason behind the irrational hell that i put myself through this time of the year. and of course, better to be in the playoffs than not!

at least, that’s what i tell myself at two in the morning.

strictly game – harlem shakes

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it’s national poetry day.

i am ashamed to admit that poetry, once as essential to my being as drawing breath, has faded amongst the familiar dusty “hobbies” that take time and attention and commitment, that sit on a shelf in the dim background like so much unnoticed wallpaper.

i used to write poetry ceaselessly. i used to write urgently, with the need to fill the page and spillover, writing only to *let the words out* as they demanded to be, tumbling over each other in their rush to make themselves known, claim their space.

these days i rarely do. the truth of it is, writing is easy, it’s -necessary- when your insides are all stirred up.

it’s hard to write about contentment.

that’s not a bad thing.

but it feels there is a part of me missing – some numb and disused limb that has atrophied. i miss the way words made me well up, the way they could light up my nerves and explode my heart. that’s fucking power. i miss it.

and so in that vein, i would like to offer you a little something i’ve written… but i don’t know if i’m brave enough for that. i find my stuff hopelessly derivative and gooey – i read it now and it makes me cringe a little.

so instead: one of my all time favourites (though not british, i’m afraid). perfect in its simplicity, simple in its perfection, it resounds within me like a clanging echo, banging around in my chest, which thumps a loud “yes” in reply.

Keeping Things Whole
by Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

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i want my grandfather to die.

i want my grandfather to die, because i know if he were aware of the state he’s now in, he would want to be dead. he who owned a gun and would nonchalantly talk about using it against himself, can no longer manage a steak knife. he who took such pride in his perfect posture and thick black hair, has crumpled in on himself. he who piloted the plane that was my very earliest memory, and prized his freedom above all else, is locked behind safety doors. he who spent his life as a chemical engineer, can no longer tie his shoes. he who never wanted to be a burden on his family, is legally incompetent of mind and infirm of body. those essential things that made him the man he was so proud to be, have been torn away from him – and if he could have, he would have gone down fighting tooth and nail to go out with them. he is no longer aware of who he once was – but who he once was would rather die, than be who he is now.

i want my grandfather to die because at this present moment, he is happy. because i know that the path which lies ahead only becomes more distressing and debilitating. because i know there is no kind or peaceful ending for this cruel disease, there are no mercies. for right now, he is happy in his simple way. singing music, eating food, retelling times half-remembered, relaxing into a soft touch. but i know full well, that this will not last – there is future fear and sickness that i only wish he could be spared. he is happy because he knows none of this.

i want my grandfather to die because it’s killing my mother. it’s killing me to watch my mother lose her father in a thousand tiny moments, eroded memory by cherished memory, dignity by precious dignity. it’s killing me to see her try to be strong as he grows ever frailer. it’s killing me to watch her try to hold on to a ghost. it’s killing me to watch her watch him vanish in front of her eyes. it’s killing me to watch her see herself one day in his shoes.

i want my grandfather to die because the reasons i have for wanting him to live are so selfish, so cowardly. it’s me who is worried about grief and the avoidance of pain. it’s me who can’t bear the sadness that he no longer remembers me. it’s me who is too weak to watch him shuffle off for a diaper change, to watch him eat his meals with his fingers, to watch him become more childlike each time i visit. it’s me who can’t stand it when i feel his papery hand in mine, when i tuck his thinning hair behind his ears, when i tell him i love him and he says “i love you” back, not knowing who i am. it’s me who is too scared of a time when he can’t say it back. i want my grandfather to die because i cannot cope with the process of losing him. the steady, irreversible loss that wears away at my heart.

i don’t want my grandfather to die – but he is dying. i don’t want my grandfather to die. but my grandfather – strong, fiercely independent, pilot, engineer, devoted husband, proud father – is long gone.

shelter for my soul – bernard fanning

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and so, i hear you clamouring, how was the vacation?

let’s play a little game, shall we? guess how many pictures i took with my camera? now, given that for most of my holidays, i come back with anywhere from 300 – 400 photos to sort through and edit, and given that i was in sun-soaked turkey for a week, you’d probably expect somewhere in that neighbourhood, right?

three. i took three photos with my camera. despite dutifully lugging it everywhere in hopes of capturing some bucolic holiday shots, i might as well not have brought it along at all.

(now, i didn’t let this whole experience go undocumented – oh no. i did take a whole dozen pictures with my iphone. i’ll share some of them below, with apologies for the quality).

i preface my moaning by saying that i’m *not* a high maintenance kinda girl. those of you who know me in person will attest to that. i really feel i need to mention that disclaimer.

i’d signed on to this holiday completely sight unseen. my good friend Tracey asked if i wanted to join herself, another acquaintance of ours, and two friends of the acquaintance (whom i hadn’t met), on an “all-inclusive” package holiday to turkey. given my druthers, package holidays are not generally my preference, but i’d been on two before and enjoyed myself. sun, food and alcohol are really what all-inclusives are all about, and so, i said ’sure’ without even thinking twice about it. the hotel was supposedly 5-star, but i also knew to take that rating with a huge grain of salt. i just wanted some sun and a few umbrella drinks.

so we arrived, and the hotel looked a bit tacky – strange constellations of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, balloons and crepe-paper streamers as decor, fake plants, all a bit motel 6-ish. which, you know, is not a big deal. it was a cheap holiday, and i didn’t have terribly high expectations to begin with. the room was fine – i had to change rooms after the first night because being located next to the stairwell was too noisy, but that was fine too.

here’s me on day one – all excited about a week of pure relaxation ahead.

we check in, settle, head down to check the pool (it’s still really early). the pool is appealing, although unheated. there are plastic sunloungers abounding, and we strip down for some spf-30 roasting action. bake-turn-bake-turn. it’s soon breakfast time and there’s a giant buffet of good food (including the bizarrely faux-pink turkish sausages which have that red-dye you sometimes see in bologna). for drinks, however, there is automated a sad little automated coffee vending machine (blech!), and Tang. several varieties of Tang, being paddle-stirred in large slurpee-style dispensers.

now, if you were a child of the 70s in America like me, you’ll remember Tang as the powdered imitation orange flavoured breakfast drink of the astronauts. in the 80s, however, Tang fell out of favour and largely disappeared from the shelves.

ladies and gentlemen, i am here to tell you that Tang is alive and well, and being served in cheap turkish resorts in place of real juice.

and this was the first harbinger of doom. because really, can you not provide real juice at an “all-inclusive” resort? i hasten to add real juice *was* in fact offered – fresh squeezed orange juice, for just an additional 2 turkish lira, or roughly £1. i kid you not.

so we had lots of Tang, because Tang was what was on offer the entire week – unless you went to the “bar” and asked for some flat generic coke or lemonade or orange soda, served in an airplane-sized plastic cup, half full of ice. there were a few large cups floating around the hotel, and we took to holding on to them when we were lucky enough to stumble across one. which is, in and of itself, pretty sad – we were hoarding plastic cups.

so we headed back to the pool, where we are surrounded by 99.9% brits. fine, okay. there are several copies of the daily mail paper spotted, and books like “ant and dec’s bio”. there is lots and lots of smoking going on – probably 90% of the adults and many of the children (*maybe* 14 years old at a stretch?) are smoking. it wasn’t terribly pleasant to be constantly surrounded by smoke, and see cigarette butts littered everywhere. but hey, it’s turkey, right? everyone smokes here, not a huge deal.

the whole pool area is nice enough. here’s a picture – the building across the street is another “resort”.

the music in the pool area starts up. it’s a strange mix of s club 7/take that/tom jones (as to be expected), lady ga ga’s “poker face” (maybe 50 times in the week?), too fucking much michael jackson, some oldies (for the senior set), and lots (lots!) of the black-eyed peas “boom boom pow”. if you care to, you can have a listen here, but the lyrics go a little something like:

That digital spit
Next level visual shit
I got that boom boom pow
How the beat bang, boom boom pow

I like that boom boom pow
Them chickens jackin’ my style
They try copy my swagger
I’m on that next shit now

I’m so 3008
You so 2000 and late
I got that boom, boom, boom
That future boom, boom, boom
Let me get it now
…

I’m a beast when you turn me on
Into the future cybertron
Harder, faster, better, stronger
Sexy ladies extra longer

‘Cause we got the beat that bounce
We got the beat that pound
We got the beat that 808
That the boom, boom in your town

so that was fun.

after lunch, we got a little thirsty. as part of the “all-inclusive” there is free beer and wine, and free vodka drinks – at least, until 11pm, when, as it turns out, drinks are £5. i wish i could say that the drinks were even palatable – it’s not like i’m some kind of snob! – but truly, they weren’t. the beer was watery, the wine was practically vinegar, and the vodka drinks… well on does get tired of tiny thimblefuls of cheap vodka and orange soda (again, no juice!). after day two, i just gave up.

and so it turns out that the only thing worse than a tacky, rundown, boring holiday is a *dry* tacky, rundown, boring holiday.

it only went downhill from there. the activities were minigolf (putting into a wooden box) and boules, facilitate by crazed activity staff who ran around shouting at the guest, haranguing them to join. the cafeteria tablecloths became soiled and weren’t changed (yet strangely people dressed to the nines in glitter and stilettos for dinner!?!) the glasses were frequently dirty. the towel stand was only open on alternate days? (thus negating the point of the towel card – having to drag beach towels back and forth every day.) in the evenings there was no entertainment – we played cards until bedtime like a bunch of oaps. the incessant music went on until well past 2am. the other guests were loud, crass and generally rude. we nicknamed one family the Clampetts, if that’s any indication. after two days on holiday, i actually started to feel rather depressed – was everyone else having a great time besides me? was i just being a big old snob? i began tweeting my observations (at 50p a text), simply because i couldn’t keep them to myself.

on day three, then, i jumped at the idea of going on a walk to the local beach with tracey. as we walked out of the gates of what i had begun in my mind to call “the compound”, it felt like a huge weight dropping from my shoulders – freedom!! we walked a few hundred yards to the beachfront, only to find… dirt. it was a little smudge of dirt crowded with sunloungers stacked nearly on top of each other. i made some tentatively snarky comment about at least being outside the “resort”, she and i looked at each other and just started laughing. relief flooded over me and i said, “oh thank god! i thought i was the only one who thought it was horrible!” and to my utter thankfulness she said, laughing, “oh it’s *hideous*!!” i nearly knocked her over hugging her – all this time i’d had to hold in my disappointment, worried about hurting the feelings of our other companions who all seemed to be enjoying themselves. finally i had an ally! things were looking up.

here was the beach. it almost looked pretty… from a distance you can’t even see the trash!

from that point on, we made a concerted effort to spend as much time as possible getting outside the walls of the “resort”. we trekked into the town of Altinkum – a shitty little strip of cafes serving up “full english breakfast”, “footy on the big screen”, “x-factor tonite!”. we went on a party boat – broiling in the day long sun, choked by chain smokers. we had dinner and went in search of a bar that wasn’t blaring karaoke or “amarillo”. we got tipsy on real beer and wifi access.

(as a side note: when i arrived, i asked the staff if they had wifi access, which they said they did – they only needed a mac address, which i happily provided. the it manager then told me it “doesn’t work for iphones”. ummmm, huh?! but whatever – being trapped at the hotel with no connectivity only exacerbated my feeling of isolation.)

our other three companions? never ventured outside the hotel. for the entire week, they were perfectly content with horrible drinks, shabby surroundings, and chavvy holidayers. we tried to encourage them, but they declined every time. all i can say is thank god for tracey, because she made the rest of the week bearable, and at times, even fun. we enjoyed ourselves in spite of our surroundings, and not because of them.

i perversely wish i hadn’t taken any pictures at all, because i’ve been told i actually made it look rather attractive, when in reality it was dingy and depressing. nevertheless, here’s my week in pictures:

the poker. we played for a cocktail and i won and ordered a piña colada. that was a tactical error because (without any juice at the hotel) my colada had no piña.

the day we first escaped from the compound. that’s relief tinged with hysteria you see on my face.

some lovely flowers at the dirt “beach”. too bad they were surrounded by a pile of rubbish.

tracey dives off the party boat. there was no shade, only a few sunloungers (which we possessively claimed in order to avoid sitting on a bench the whole day!)

we ventured to the bar across the street for one night. real cocktails!!

this gentleman was sunning himself while wearing a half shirt, a thong, and tube socks. standing up, it was not a pretty picture.

some classy ladies out for a night on the town (i.e. drunkenly singing “amarillo” at the top of their lungs). i can see why a night out in altinkum is something you’d dress up for!

one of our nights out, enjoying a turkish coffee.

the airport waiting for our flight home. i refused to pay £5 for a slice of pizza.

so to sum up: the resort was awful, altinkum was a shithole, and the most redeeming features about the whole week were the weather and clinging desperately to my sanity via tracey. it took me a week to write this blog post, in part, because i think i’ve been trying to block the whole thing out – i now know why they have those “holiday from hell” programmes. (other people have reviewed the resort here)

this is hell – elvis costello

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i am present present present only in this moment, this moment, this moment – this is the rhythm my feet sing out as they hit the ground, over and over. my legs, too short to stride, churn a simple beat. man has been running since the beginning of his existence, and i now tattoo the earth in the same elemental way. lungs fill and empty, synapses fire billions of small miracles as the trees rush past me. the change of season announces itself – there are chestnuts now spilling over in abundance as the leaves begin the cycle of decay, the dry burnt tang of them hanging in the air. it gets darker now, and the moon is a waxen balloon. waxing moon. waning trees. my body knows how to do this instinctively, no learning necessary, just the communication reflex travelling along nerves and sinew and muscle, guided by the brain stem. my thoughts get out of the way, and let the feet do their thing. i do not try to run, i simply do. and even as i subconsciously note the arrival of autumn, and the beginnings of death all around, my body has never been more alive and my awareness in each new second is only this:

i am present present present in this moment, this moment, this moment.

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so much to say about my holiday, and no time to say it tonight. if you’ve been following my twitter feed, you’ll know there are lots of stories to tell.

but in the meantime: it’s banned books week. fight censorship – check out the ala’s list of most frequently challenged and banned books. then donate here on behalf of free speech.

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barbara ellen gets it spot on when she says katie price is like other women who’ve been raped who are afraid they won’t be believed.

If even the revelation that she’d been raped couldn’t do it, one wonders if there is any situation that could lead to people feeling sympathy for Katie Price?

Or is the mood against her so far gone that a plane could fall out of the sky, right on top of her head, and there would still be members of the British media and public muttering: “Well, she deserved it, didn’t she? Publicity-seeking trollop. Look at how she treated Peter Andre!”

Something has to explain the bizarre attitude of some parts of the media regarding Price’s account of being assaulted. Always careful to toss in a caveat (”Anyone who’s been raped deserves sympathy”), too often this would segue into a (surely irrelevant?) diatribe about Price’s character and behaviour, followed by baiting over her refusal to involve the police. Irresponsible, if not downright suspicious, seemed to run the rationale.

Well, not really. If anything, with her fear of involving the police and the courts, Price was behaving like a typical rape victim.

Doesn’t this, the omnipresent culture of automatic disbelief around sexual assault, serve to highlight why Price, and many other victims of rape, are so loath to come forward? Indeed, doesn’t Price’s obvious lack of faith in the legal system mirror the torment of many other rape victims, ordinary women, who fear they have little chance of being believed?

the comments beneath the article only serve to illustrate the point: that we seem to think it’s perfectly acceptable to judge the veracity of a woman’s rape allegation based on her dress/comportment/interaction with the media.

it’s the same sort of disgusting stuff which gets dragged into the courts in an attempt to discredit the victim – a variation of the tired old chestnut of “she deserved it”. no wonder she doesn’t feel any desire to prosecute – the public is doing the defendant’s job for them by spit-roasting her at every turn.

the idea that her looks/attitudes/actions have anything to do with “context” in which we should judge her allegation is ridiculous. after all, where’s the “context” for the rapist and his crime?!

once again we focus on the woman, rather than the perpetrator. the anger and disdain is aimed squarely at her instead of the criminal, and we make judgements about her character and her status as a victim based on how likeable she is. somehow it’s her burden to prove to the public that she really was violated, and there’s more outrage about her status in the gossip mags than there is about the fact that there’s a rapist walking around out there.

millions of women do not report rapes to the police. nor do they have to (though i wish they would). they do not do so precisely because they are afraid of the kind of condemnation on full display for Katie Price. the court of public opinion on rape is so often crueler for the woman than the perpetrator. no one seems in the slightest bit bothered that the social environment all but ensures that Katie Price will not believed and that a criminal is possibly going free – they’re too busy reviling her because they don’t like the fact that she makes money by blatantly using her sexuality and from doing interviews with OK! magazine.

the vitriol is, quite frankly, repugnant and depressing. that women who are raped (whether famous, infamous, sexually explicit, or “nice”) still have to overcome the immediate knee-jerk cynicism and critique of their personality, dress, activities, drinking habits, etc. in order to be taken seriously is a gross failing of our society. until we conquer those prevailing attitudes, how can we expect a rape victim to take them on?

________________________________

PSA: off for another week of holiday, see you when i’m back

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