Talking to my friend Catherine the other day, I somehow got on the topic of work. Service. Values. The paths that lead us through all three. Catherine asked me a great question, which got me thinking about my current place in the world, and the direction in which I’m moving: “if you could be a part of any movement, knowing it would succeed, what would that movement be and what would your role in it be?” I knew the first part of my answer immediately, and the second one is still forming.

I belong in the movement to end sexual violence against women. I believe, truly, deeply, almost maniacally, that the root of every bad thing that is happening in the world, now and across history, is a result of sexual violence. I recognize that my perspective on the state of things and my (sometimes obnoxious) outspoken attitude towards rape and sexual assault have pigeon holed me. Perhaps I am a cliché.

But I feel like my eyes have been opened, or a veil has dropped, or a light turned on, and only a few others in my life have experienced something similar when it comes to this kind of violence. Even the most sympathetic, open-minded, and even feminist people in my life have a difficult time accepting the truth about sexual assault and letting go of the myths (“women should be held accountable for what they let happen to themselves,” “half of all reported rapes are false,” “intoxication = consent,” et cetera). I find myself choked up, apoplectic when talking about rape because to me, it’s all so obvious. To me, it’s a no brainer that only 6-8% of rapes are falsely reported. To me, it’s no surprise that only 2% of perpetrators are ever convicted, incarcerated, or even arrested. To me, the fact that only about 25% of all rapes are ever reported is very discouraging; to others, 25% is plenty. Really?

Seeing what survivors experience in the aftermath, sometimes forever, means becoming simultaneously desensitized to rape and repeatedly horrified, disgusted, and determined. A victim’s body/soul connection is never the same following an assault, let alone what happens to her interpersonal relationships. Or her professional relationships. Or the way she sees her education. Or the way she feels safe. Or the way she trusts herself. Even if her perpetrator is sentenced to 15 years (HA!), that’s criminal justice. That’s not justice for the victim. Which, of course, leads to more questions. What IS justice for the victim?

At this point, many turn to other violent crimes like murder, assault, et cetera to point out that there are few resources for such victims once perpetrators are convicted, sentenced, and serving their time. However, many argue also that the laws, cultural attitudes, and even global perspectives on something like murder provide some relief, and perhaps prevention. That is not to say that “murder isn’t a problem,” in the world, but I believe (no, I KNOW) that sexual violence as a weapon, a tool of war, a vehicle for domestic violence, an oppression model, et cetera, is wildly underestimated. Rape is at once the most heinous and most accepted crime among cultures that do not anticipate it or punish it harshly enough. And so it continues.

I could go on and on. And will. I don’t know what my role, ultimately, will be. I’ve dabbled with the idea of law school, thought about a sociological route in academia, thought about media relations, and am pursuing women’s health. Ideally, I’d like to help steer the cultural perception of sexual violence against women towards something more... accurate. Do not mistake this for censorship, to which I am adamantly opposed. But our societal expectations and attitudes towards rape were all shaped somehow, and the education and laws surrounding SA will never change until the culture does. They feed one another.

I feel it so strongly in my gut that I belong in this field. My feminist philosophy, which stems from my childhood, my interests in women and values surrounding gender, my passion for this work, and my deep curiosity in how a life in this field could take shape excite and frighten me. Because it’s a constant struggle. Worth every moment.

More later.

Hmm, Really?

If Glenn Beck truly believes that Obama's "call to service and volunteerism" is really just a brain-washing tool by a ruthless pack of fascists, I'd like to be the first volunteer to tell Glenn Beck to suck it.

I'm glad that I have finally realized who the new most dangerous man in America is. Too bad that he, too, is a fucking moron. Why couldn't it be someone badass like... Walter Sobchack? Or Kahn? Sigh.

All this indignation gets stuck in my throat. Must improve upon that.

Was there ever a fall that looked so much like winter, but felt so much like spring?

Because I'm so cold, my heart hurts.

Big hearts. i can feel them, smell their blood

Filling, swelling, bursting over the Spring.

Rosary bees weave the new air around me-

A braid for me to pray on...

Please, bees, I promise you that I am

not a flower, But I am not afraid of you.

To the left, an ant is trying to wear my

Forgotten shoe, but let him-

An eye distracted is watching

My hand pluck chinks of buried light

out of the earth.

And right, there is music!

Oh, big heart, swell and share yourself-

I will leave my shoes in the tangle of this shade

And we shall be unafraid

And we shall be, unafraid.

If I can just hear your pretty voice, I don't think I need to see at all.

Soft hair and a velvet tongue
I want to give you what you give to me.
Because every breath that is in your lungs
Is a tiny little gift to me.

Regina

Don’t sing your next song.
Or sigh, or sound. Our affair has been
so divine so far and so good,
and I would rather remain suspended
knowing only that the unknown will stay so.

Suspended with great expectations. Willfully
bound to await the expiration of this fleeting gasp
with your mouth always at my ear.
Could my love grow? The borders I cross
To stay in tow already leave me writhing
and crazed, but if mystical things harvest resilience,
you feed me.

I hear your song and I hear you sing about how
it works, and as you sing it, you make it so.
Lay me down among the words and inscribe truth
with every roll of your tongue.

Brick and Ivy

When was spring so heavy?

I saw you carrying your love

Behind you, plodding through

The mossy weight of new ground

And the whining gates

That follow Winter. and I saw you

Scampering under the great pregnant

Belly in the sky-

Let her cry.

under sun illuminated

i felt her light in the trees- not through

i didn’t write that day but combed

the earth suspiciously

with curling toes to reap what heat

was hiding there and waiting

to peek at me. just then-

soft breath and great surprise.

When the hollow winds of debt
Broke over her, she shook
And drew the future close
In a seductive suck of final breath.

Reclining, resigned along her shore
She pressed an aching ear, weighty with figures to
The breast of the sea. Then lashes, elbow, and
Regretful tongue made brackish love with death.

A week(end) in review.

My weekend, despite working a half-day on Friday, began on Thursday. It was awesome. Whomever invented the pretzel-toss needs a prize. Which reminds me: I need to make caramel apples soon.

Then I traveled across the state to pay homage to some sweet foliage and friendship. Then I drank a martini in a railway tunnel. And bought an awesome jacket. I'm a consumer, but a damn good one, sometimes.

This was followed by some pumpkin carving. Pumpkin carving, much like cake decorating and egg dyeing, is one of those activities that seems exciting in the abstract that you don’t have the foresight to stop yourself before the top comes off (okay, maybe more like karaoke at Hong Kong’s than egg dyeing). And considering how much I love all things pumpkin, it seems strange that I still gag (literally) when I’m reaching for the guts of my beloved gourd.

The face came out cute though.

I also ate pumpkin ravioli and apple & brie pizza-- both of which were too sweet. I'm going to perfect both on my own, though.

I saw the two worst movies ever made this weekend, too. Plan 9 from Outer Space was awesomely bad and totally worth watching, and Bright Star made me want to kill John Keats with TB all over again. And I think he’d agree to it if he saw the movie. Lots of awkward moments and even more melodramatic wailing by a 19th century fashion criminal. Oh, and it was 2 hours long.

I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t go to Europe in January, but I’m also pretty sure I’m going to anyway. I need to see Paris again, but is this a good idea in winter? Of course not. It is, however, much cheaper than going in July. Maybe it would be nice right after Christmas and the New Year and whatnot? Also: Strasbourg, Schwarzwald, the Swiss Alps, and maybe something in provence before circling back to Paris. Amazing, right? Come with!

Weirdly, despite eating more ice cream than is good for me lately, I've maintained my weight loss from a few weeks ago. I guess I'll take it as a favor from the gods and try to keep it going. No excuses, and no pain.

Probably going to write again tonight.

And now, my song is a flood.

I am having a moment that is outside of space and time, apparently. A really brief moment of feeling eternally happy. And even if I don't remain completely happy in real time, in this moment, I have been happy forever. Past and future happiness. Maybe that's what hope is.

For the Love of God, Get Me Some Garlic.

As part of what we'll call a sort of "social experiment," I recently read the first installment of the Twilight series. I didn't know what to expect. I feared being sucked into the vortex of fandom like all of the other fang-bangers who've been salivating over her books. I've heard her compared to J.K. Rowling, to Stephen King. I was afraid I'd have to "come out" as a fan.

Don't worry. If I ever see Stephanie Meyer in person, I'll probably trip her in the street. I'd like to say she needs a thesaurus (I dare you to count how many times she uses "cold" and "perfect" throughout this piece of utter garbage), but she's already so enamoured of adverbs that I'd rather she keep her verbage to whatever minimum she can manage... which would include NOT writing another book. Please.

I won't even go into how much this drivel is really just a giant euphimism for domestic violence, but I will say that she needs to fire her editor(s). I can't bear to imagine one more sentence making millions like, "the crowded Suburban felt really claustrophibic." (JFYI: Cars don't feel.)

Honestly. This book makes Danielle Steele look like Nick Hornby.

Trips that need taking...

1. San Francisco, Napa Valley & Sedona, Yosemite

2. Scottsdale, Grand Canyon (May 2010)

3. Mexico for what will likely be my only "all inclusive resort" experience (February 2010)

4. Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Turkey, Greece, Macedonia! (Summer 2010? Ha!)

5. Washington DC, because why not?

6. Memphis, Nashville, New Orleans

7. Tokyo

8. Kalahari, African Plains, Kenya

9. Chicago

10. Upper mid-west and Northwest

Must consolidate.

free write because i can't write right anymore and i don't know how to let that dust that yellow dust go i had fingertips once that just couldn't quit even when they tapped on your lips and nothing else they moved to the rhythm of something other than hey there thanks so much eff why eye can't let you go the weight of security is not a blanket its a tarp and its choking me and security can never feel free when you require it you don't want to think critically about it because then where will i be can't stop it need it and it's funny that the institution that opens our eyes costs so much that we need to shut them curl up hold on shortly after and when will we bloom again? a tease a near orgasm of light and experience followed immediately by the dry choke of fantasy and is that philosophy? a throbbing pang of wonder a glimpse of understanding only to be shut and shuttered in the cold winds of debt? i couldn't tell you now because this impotence is whetted by the nine to five and the five oh nine each week please tell me i'm just weak that this won't last that i'm just adjusting for a year that the thrill will come back fill my lungs strain my brain pry my eyes and never let me go. it was there once in spring and winter a tingle head to toe no sleep no rest writing breathing believing and what will there be now? health and welfare and the IRA the 401K the diplomatic email the slip that's pink and having to smile for those with the something borrowed blue when you know i don't want to and maybe i should just stop complaining because this is what it is to become a tumor on one's own soul. to separate oneself from nature. and what good will that do when i'm reaching for the dust and trying to will it back into my fingers for one last shot?

There's a blog for that...

FUCK ROMAN POLANSKI AND ANYONE WHO THINKS HE DOESN'T DESERVE WHAT HE'S HAD COMING TO HIM (and which he committed yet another crime to avoid) FOR 30 FUCKING YEARS.

Unfortunately, this includes some of my favorite artists in the film industry, including Natalie Portman and Martin Scorsese. Awesome. Maybe they'd all like to rape a child too, if it's worth forgiving when the perpetrator lived a celebrated career showered with praise, wealth, and admiration?

No wonder people don't "get" rape. Polanski got one thing right, though: “If I had killed somebody, it wouldn’t have had so much appeal to the press, you see? But… fucking, you see, and the young girls. Judges want to fuck young girls. Juries want to fuck young girls. Everyone wants to fuck young girls!”

The guy even compares his gross assault to murder. Yet masses of ignorant celebrities are jumping on the bandwagon to advocate for his release. Do they really think a child is capable of consenting, let ALONE when intoxicated by the man by whom she's employed.

Seriously, fuck you, Hollywood. I only WISH I was surprised.