Against the Current

22 07 2011

“Because woman lives vicariously she need take no moral responsibility for her behavior: because she has no responsibility she has no morality and no ego.  Because of the lack of ego and the variety of roles that women manipulate, they have no identity, as one may guess from their willingness to give up their names.  Woman is never genuine at any period of her life.” – The Female Eunuch Pg 120

Woman is never genuine at any period in her life.

Not for lack of trying, but because she is not allowed to have an identity. If one has no identity, no sense of self, sincerity can not be. Everything is a show, a mask is always on, for only with the masks that others hand a nameless being is it then named.

I would like to say that this isn’t the case anymore. But honestly in some ways I think its worse. Because there is clear lack of individuality in our society today. Individualism true is prevalent, but individuality is not.  Every one is supposed to put on face and be a rock, and island and happily pursue whatever this years American dream is. Meanwhile free thought, critical thinking, curiosity and imagination are being squandered, and all these things are essential in being a self actualized individual.

I don’t know how any one goes through life with out curiosity. With out wondering why it is that one person thinks this way or that. Or why it is that this group of people seem so taken by some smoe who doesn’t even know their history. With out curiosity and critical thinking, charisma and charm win out over integrity and justice. With out curiosity and wondering how things work, or why things are the way they are, innovation ceases. With out curiosity imagination consists of dreaming about the next object to fill the garage with, rather than inventing stories and creating, well….anything.

I see this in men and women, even children. A childhood with out curiosity…humans with out curiosity….we might as well as be fragile coral fixed to some rock…Barnacles, living forms that depend completely on a fragile environment never moving any where, longing for anything. The most movement we get comes from the involuntary sway with the current.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be a sponge, barnacle, or a goddamned sea fan.

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19 Fucks to make a line.

12 07 2011

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck





Three Days Gone

3 07 2011

I don’t remember dropping the book or falling to my knees. I just remember flashes of the NY marble bathroom floor, my wrists being bound to the headboard of my marital bed, his eyes changing, pain, insanity, and blackness. Not blackness of  like you get from drinking too much and loosing a couple of hours. The kind of blackness, darkness that comes from the place that most people  like to tell themselves that they’re incapable of.

The other day I was looking in my notebook, the one that has three years of my life inside of it. The only one I’ve ever actually finished. (If you don’t count sketchbooks)  And I looked for those days, the days that my life changed, the days that the man I called husband raped what love was left out of me.

They weren’t there.

I keep trying to understand why I didn’t run away. Why I  didn’t just leave. Why didn’t I? I can’t tell you. I know that there must have been a oportunity. I wasn’t tied up the whole time. It wasn’t like I was locked in the basement, or gaged. There wasn’t a dungeon involved. It didn’t turn into Pulp Fiction.

I don’t remember which time it was. But at some point he asked me to tie him up. So I did. He may have enjoyed it, but for me it was a decent into darkness. Because it wasn’t about sex. It was about power and the malicious pain I desired for him.  I had the power. I remember biting him so hard he bled, I thought about ripping his flesh with my teeth. I think I punched him. In my mind I imagined myself performing some ancient native ritual where I claimed his soul for myself by eating his heart. I knew, as I bit down harder and harder…his life was in my hands.

I could kill him, I thought. It would be sooo easy.  He was already tied up. I could have killed him. I could have maimed him. That power was mine. And I was that far gone.

But I didn’t do it. As my fantasy was building he asked, ” What do you want me to do?”

I laughed a psychotic coy laugh

“What do I want you to do?!” I laughed again, and bit down as hard as I could drawing more blood and he moaned with pain.

With the murderous intent of my insanity I replied. ” I want you. TO…” I gently stroked his chest just for a second and then went down, down, and stroked his balls, then looked at him with the most hatred I could send and said, ” Leave! And never come back”

And he left. Not that instant, but at some point he left. I don’t remember if this was the last time there was sexual contact between us. I know that what ever inhumanity was with in him at the time, he regained at least a sliver back because he did finally go, and stop.

I keep trying to make sense of a senseless act. The same kind of thing of the Never Ending Story’s Nothing. I keep trying to regain those three days, to see if I could better know why I didn’t just leave, what the fuck was going on inside my head, but I wasn’t there. Not for the most part. I wasn’t there. I came and went, and sometimes I know I saw myself being raped, I saw my hands bound, I saw the insanity building inside of me, but mostly….it’s just blank. As if my self just disappeared and went out into some other realm.

Maybe I hope that if I regain those days then I could have my life be my own again. And I wouldn’t be a rape victim or a rape survivor any more, I could just be me.