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Another lift from lolaj. This time with a new remark?

Urban Dictionary:

Ancient Greeks were mostly G0ys…

Really? No. I think NOT really.  I am pretty sure G0ys can only exist after inception of G0y taxonomy and certainly not into the antiquity. I am pretty sure saying ancient greeks were mostly g0ys (in addition to maybe being totally a load of hooey) is like saying that sappho was bipolar. Except worse. And except also not about a lesbian.*

*A geographical lesbian.

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muppet

It seems everyone I know is blogging. Even myself in the past. I was innocently preparing my dinner (yes, of course it was cheese!) when it occurred to me that my blogger blog wasn’t my first one. Before that I had a ***** account. I tracked myself down as diligently as I have my exes and high school mistakes, even had to re-register a lapsed email address just to get my password back. I think I stopped writing it about the time I started visiting Nell in NY (c. 2005?) but it chronicles my whole relationship with Drew.

after the murder

Fittingly enough reading those entries feels like being trapped in a soft-black construction paper room, walls shodily scotch taped together at the translucent seams. I remember other things about Drew now: being papered into his dorm room in the middle of a fight, lying on the lawn at Tufts, the red carpet of my room during the summer I was so completely alone with one album (Thought for Food) and rice, sitting at Radcliffe once we were really over, the beach with Gregnon. Once we spent hours wedged between a coffee table and a low bench in the campus center and now the whole thing’s been remodeled out of existence. He was telling me about the possibility of going to London for the summer. His roommate would never let me sleep over because he thought it would be disrespectful to his own girlfriend and Jesus Christ. I would wait until 2 and then sleep on my friend’s futon instead. I never anticipated what memory would feel like (heartbreak, but lower.)

I need to stop writing this. Reading old me has begun to degrade my new me writing. I’ll leave you with an age-old joke courtesy Ken Kitchin.

Monday, March 14, 2005
  my friend is so funny:The hypothetical title “Britain’s colonial aspirations: South America to India” is Colonial.

The Hypothetical title “Britain’s colonial aspirations; South America to India” is semicolonial.

I implore you to stop thoughtlessly using expressions like:

“…which is exactly what the Judeo-Christian faith, at least, promotes…”(names have been changed to protect the person in my Lit Theory class)

What do you mean by Judeo-Christian faith? In this case she actually means the major monotheistic theological beliefs which she feels comfortable talking about. But how about using “religion” instead of faith. Or how about saying Jewish and Christian instead of Judeo-Christian. Judeo-Christian has become nothing but a handy hyphenation to throw around when we want to swiftly reference the moral and legal structures that we feel are implicated in something mysteriously related to religion.

While we’re at it can we please refrain from referencing the following TERMS as if they are the PRINCIPLES ON WHICH PRACTICE IS FOUNDED:

Virgin/Whore Dichotomy – your way of referencing why life is hard for women

Honor/Shame Society – your way of explaining why MENA has those familial                                     structures. Oh! Those!

I should be thanking you. All of you. You make me a happy blagger.

You see, when you stumble upon my blag by keyword searching through Google WordPress kicks back the term you used. Then I read them and sometimes nurture deep, romantic, cyber attachments to you. Except when I’m mocking you mercilessly.

Sometimes I notice disturbing trends… like when for three weeks people were finding my page by searching for derivatives of “how to BLOW SKIRTS UPP” or “video of skirts blown up.” I know you are just after a panty-shot but I was wondering if you could rephrase the search to make it a little less violent. How about, perhaps, “I am a voyeur, skirts in wind” or “I think this doesn’t count as pornographic, women surprised by wind.” In either case, I’m sure you didn’t find what you were looking for here. I don’t have a video or a how-to or, even, a how-to-video. But my friends Scout and Susannah learned to swing dance on youtube so you might look into that.

Sometimes I notice you’re trying to figure out what my blag title means by searching such inconspicuous phrases as “what does femmephane mean.” It’s a good question and I go into that in my FAQ post which you might want to Google while you’re at it.

Best of all are those of you who come to my blag in really innocent ways that leave me with new completely unprecedented questions. Yesterday it was “santa cruz county topless ordinace.” Leading me to wonder 1. what is the Santa Cruz topless ordinance and what rumors might this person be trying get to the bottom of and 2. how deep into the search must one person browse in order to find my blag (a: 4 pages) and 3. Google has an auto-spelling correct function that gives you the option of linking to the right spelling of the word— why go 4 pages into the search instead of correcting it right away?

Runners recent up include: fake cat allergies, psychosomatic cat allergies, bloc 11, babyfeelings1, and anxiety symptoms.*

11.16.2007 Update new search term: PUT HER * THE STURRIPS.  11.18.2008: cure for the middle child syndrome

*Perceived correlations are, I swear, coincidental.

An excerpt from my 7th grade diary:

January

Dear Diary,

Today was Friday. The week was so long it seemed like three weeks.

On Sunday I am acolyting and then going to the symphony in Denver. A soloist cellist will be there and we don’t have to pay because we will be ushering. We have a four-day weekend. I do at least. Jessica and Cody have a three day weekend.

I got a C on my math mid-term and I’m so happy about it, I thought I failed.

I wore a dress today, too.

Yesterday we did a string quartet for the open house. I was so angry when Em and Emily just left. Mr. Jewell and Ms. Fiori played with us. Ms. Fiori was so GOOD!

I babysat for them  [wonders now: who?] today. They were so mean to me. And it was not fun.

Kelly drinks! Adam told us and I believe him, too.

Anyway on to more important things. I can’t believe Jessica will be in 6th grade next year. There to tarnish the sparkling reputation f the Novacks. Lots of my old teachers already call her Novack. She already got Allen in trouble and Russel. What a year it will be!.

2nd semester starts Wednesday. I hope I don’t get Snowden. I am so afraid of him. But, of course, no one knows that.

I was going through an old diary when I liked Hotani last year, about how he got mad at me [sic]. He looks a lot better with his hair cut.

It is 11:30, I’d better go to bed so I can wake up early.

Until Tomorrow,

Love,

It’s been weeks and, believe me, I’ve barely stopped to tie my boot.

Time passes and passes and “[the] infernal beings in those lands are constantly subject to inauspicious colouring, poor metabolism, ugly bodies, horrible experiences and awful shapes, all of which multiply their miseries.”

I have become flooded and unrecognizable. The extant recognition now being programmatically nipped in bud by strangers and siblings.

My nicknames are being slowly encroached upon by people who are mad at me, by people who aren’t mad at me but have other things at stake. And new nicknames are cropping up from unapproved sources or for unapproved reasons.

That and– I’ve spent 9 days now, emailing the dean every single day, trying to get a grade moved from someone else’s transcript onto mine. How fitting that they would put my grade for an independent study on freakishness, monstrosity, and memoir onto someone else’s transcript. After five years of work with the same administrators day after day, they cannot remember my name, cannot remember I need their help to fix the mistake, and consequently cannot help but prevent me from involving myself in the next officious University. So much for confessing in service to something hegemonically corrupt but specially efficient.

I repeat myself over and over. I am periodically acknowledged– which is even more confusing. I feel like I’m trying to shout to people on the beach with my head well underwater.

This has been a shudder and leak-filled week. Yesterday, while diligently at work on my midterm papers, I periodically fell into dampness, tears pouring down my cheeks. There was no sobbing, just a little too much straightforward moisture for a cafe.

Last week I dreamt of a lesion 3 inches in diameter below my right breast. It was 1 inch raised, soft and discolored like an elephantine burn. I thought it was a grave illness but then my mother said there was piece of glass in my side. Of course! A piece of glass! An infection. She removed the triangular shard with her fingers like she would a splinter and the fluid drained onto my clothing. I sopped it up and she closed the wound with safety pins.

Forgive the water from my side.

As illustration I offer the uncannily apt: mbc in very large chair

(mbc in very large chair, reflected. San Diego.)

Studying for the GRE using the Barron guide continues to enlighten.

I’ve now learned that the antonym to carnal is spiritual. Predictable, if annoying, perhaps. At least something I can figure out and select from the multiple choices, given the fact that we are thoroughly imbued in a Judeo-Christian (whatever that means) U.S. of A.

But I was a little baffled to learn that the GRE-certified synonym to buxom is plump. We’re really not going for precision of language here, are we? My book suggests “Once you read the definition, use the word in a sentence to help you remember it.” Okay…. eh-ehm: “My, what a healthy-looking baby boy you have. He is so pink and buxom! Does it sleep through the night?”

But what I could not have anticipated. The antonym to celibate is:

a. investing

b. retired

c. commodious

d. dubious

e. married

The answer is e. married.

By extorting “the personal” out of me and into public forum, my final women’s studies seminar is going to exhaust me. I arrived at the three-hour block last week expecting we might be talking about … well… Doing the Feminist Research that the class entitled “Doing Feminist Research” vaguely alluded to. Honestly, I expected a 3-hour weekly waste of time which would leave me a little angry about privilege at University. Boy, was I wrong. The real effect: I am exponentially more frustrated with class than poverty. I take WS and America Studies classes despite the people in them because I want the information. And usually the information is as personally rewarding as– say– talking to someone who understands poverty, hegemony, sex, and sex work.Within the first hour, I was regaled with the story of one of my classmates who was so poor this summer that she had to “go online and buy a bike and then drive all the way out to Natick to pick it up because [she] really couldn’t afford gas to get to her job.” Everyone nods, almost excited to be frowning, and then next horrible tale-teller picks up while I calculate: a car, a computer, internet-access, gas to get to Natick, money for a bike, a steady job? Yes. You definitely know what dire means.

Meanwhile, we’re all supposed to be sharing anecdotes in response to an article about how traveling is easier for couples. “This article acts as if gender isn’t an issue, what about traveling as a woman?” the class asks. Bike R Car pipes in again to tell us how once, in Spain, her parents wouldn’t even let her go out salsa dancing. THAT’S how hard it is to travel as a woman. OHHH. That’s how hard. And what I want to know: In what fucked universe is it acceptable to start a WS course by asking everyone to recount their tales of international travel?

Because I was silent through that one (go fucking figure), the professor called on me first to respond to an article about the pay gap. Yes, folks. After four years, it’s come to this. Statistics about pay gaps and completely disjointed analysis of newspaper articles on luxury lifestyles. “Isn’t it terrible,” I began, abstracting my reflection as far the fuck I could from my own reality, “that people who have the power to give you raises base the raise-amount on what they feel you need. Women are considered second-incomes and men, sole breadwinners.” But that wasn’t enough. They needed me to expand. “It happens with age too, like, if they think you don’t need the money or assume you’re subsidized by your parents or something, they’re less like to give it to you.” Read the rest of this entry »

The Atharva Veda is a composite text, closed about 1500 years ago, which forms 1/4 of the classical Hindu texts. Unlike the other three vedas, the Atharva Veda contains mostly personal prayers and spells, medical and alchemical writings, and coronation rituals. It probably survived on that last one– just another clever way people insinuate religion into wealth and power. Without an accompanying history lesson, however, the spells might be the most interesting.

Love spells for het men to say for het women: May her house sleep. May her horses sleep. May her dog sleep. May her siblings sleep. May her garden sleep. May her in-laws sleep. May [everything except my lover] sleep…

Love spell for het women to say for het men: [First she makes a clay effigy of the man. Then she heats up arrowheads in the fire. She throws the arrowheads at the effigy and says] May he burn for my voice. May he burn for my hair. May he burn for my face. May he burn for my lips. May he burn for my breasts. May he burn for my body… And may I never burn for him!

If all of the rituals for the king were put in to make the text more important and to secure its proliferation, I wonder about this. In contemporary google time, how do people know who to entrust to ensure a tryst? Is it the charming misspelling in the url that will make this page eternal? I found it by searching “ancient love spells” and I know it’s the real deal because it calls for pink paper and everyone knows the “ancients” had pink paper out their ears.