The Blogger of the Baskervilles

I don’t read Althouse, because I value my brain cells.

I had to pop over and have a look, though, when Ms. Althouse accused a prominent feminist blogger of… what exactly?

Oh, of having breasts.

As a feminist blogger who also happens to be a fan of nude painting I was, naturally, pissed off.

Of course, this issue is political, and the real problem has to do with the fact that said prominent feminist blogger attended a luncheon with Bill Clinton. I’m not necessarily a huge fan of Clinton’s character myself. Like most people, I know him by reputation and television appearances (a good friend and former track coach of mine used to work as a journalist and met Clinton on several occasions. Her exact verdict, now that I actually dug it up: “He’s extremely charming, he lights up the room, which is why he may be a danger to a young woman.”), but I did like his politics. I think discussing the current feminist issues in this country and whether or not Clinton is an asset is a good thing. Let’s get serious, meeting an ex-president is an honour for most people, myself included.

Ann Althouse isn’t interested in discussion. She wants to berate Jessica of Feministing in a manner that attacks her gender and her body, not her politics. Notice that she says nothing about the guy whose hands a slightly over his crotch in the picture. And even if she did, so bloody what? Short of wearing a burkha (which most Western women, including hypocrite Althouse, do not usually wear), a person’s shape is bound to come be visible in one way or another. Why aren’t we berating Ann Coulter for this little black dresses of hers again?

Not to mention the fact that one of Ann Althouse’s gems include the following bizarre line:

Look closely at that picture and try to adopt the posture Jessica’s in. I did. It’s not natural…

Wow, she actually went through all that trouble? And I thought I had no life… Seriously, people do actually pose in pictures. Posing does not imply “natural.” I never thought I would have to explain that to anyone, but you live and learn.

I read the comments on the Althouse blog, and realized that casting pearls before swine and trying to respond to this in a serious manner would be a waste of my time and hers. Ann did post a hilarious “retort” to my trolling:

“…that’s completely incoherent. What the hell are you trying to say? Ever heard of proofreading… and, uh, like, thinking? And that reading thing too. I kinda like you know recommend it.”

Shortly afterward, she closed her comments. The truth hurts.

Dear Ann, “saying” anything to you is beneath me at this point. Do tell me how that job-interview with the Taliban goes. And for God’s sake, irony is not your strong-point.

I Want to Go Home

When I was leaving Kiev in August of 2005, I told my family and my friends that I had no idea when I was coming back. I said it flippantly, because I was tired of my parents’ bickering.

A month after I left, my cousin, Yaroslava, died in a terrible car accident. I’ve wanted to come home ever since, and I couldn’t. Money was always in the way. Money, perhaps, or something else, something greater. The idea that someone up there was tugging on the strings in such a way as to make me realize just home much I need that place, it’s cracked sidewalks, the stone courtyards filled with echoes, beer tinged with honey, happiness tinged with regret. The pear-trees in the yard, the desperately long lines at government offices and foreign embassies, the crosses leaning sideways on abandoned graves, all of that is a life-line, a slightly poisoned umbilical chord between myself and the greater world.

I’m very tired of being poor, mostly because I just want to go home for a bit.

Sticky Stupids

Despite (or maybe because) of the financial turmoil and general aimlessness and desperation that have characterized these post-collegiate months, some days, I just have to fall down in hysterics.

A woman in a speeding minivan nearly mowed me down in a parking lot today. As I watched her drive away, sans apology, I noticed a peculiar sticker on the back of her car.

“Thank GOD Your Mother Was Pro-Life.”

The irony was palpable.

Of course, there was also something mind-bogglingly moronic about the statement being expressed. I wanted to run after the woman’s car and yell, “MY MOTHER IS PRO-CHOICE AND SHE HAD TWO KIDS INCLUDING ME!” I don’t know what would that have achieved, but the look on her face may have been worth it.

This is the sort of shallow rhetoric that most of us pro-choicers have to put with on a regular basis. It assumes that every single woman who has ever carried a child to term is automatically going to want to join their camp. It attempts to speak for all mothers indicriminately, hence implying that a womb and a brain are mutually exclusive. It’s politics disguised as piety.

Well, bugger that, I say. What the hell does “pro-life” mean to a person who drives around parking lots at well over 50 mph anyway?

The good thing about Durham, of course, is that there are probably a lot of people giving her the finger as she drives by. Durham is awesome like that.

As for me, I stood in the parking lot and laughed, and laughed.

Now I want to go out for some drinkies and drown out the sorrow of being poor and over-taxed, all the while watching money flow into wingut organizations, at least one of which that awful woman is likely to be part of.

“…I’m very protective of my body. I do not want it violated or killed.”

An awful incident occured just a few minutes away from campus, in an apartment complex where I’ve often partied through the years, and where a lot of my friends have lived/are living.

The story made me think about a sociology/criminology class I took the summer after my sophmore year at Duke. We focused mainly on violent crime, and the professor, an old veteran of the discipline, related many grisly stories of women mutilated and killed in their apartments and home around the Triangle area. This was the class that made me start locking my door the minute I got inside my aparment.

Of course, you can try to minimize risk, but nothing is 100% perventable. This is why I so hate the gabbing that begins whenever a woman is sexually assaulted: “Oh, she should have done this.” “She should have stayed home.” “She should have worn her burkha.” And so on.

Locking your door at night is important, but sometimes, especially if you plan on going out again, you can easily forget. There is no foolproof plan to avoid being attacked.

Just last week, I took the dog out for an evening stroll on one of the forest trails. Le Boyfriend had a late class, and I felt sorry for puppy, since she was cooped up in her crate for most of the day. She’s now at that age where she can handle that sort of thing, but she is clearly a working breed mix, and needs all the exercise and play she can get. Off we went.

It was early, very early, according to the clock on my mobile phone (can’t afford a new watch. Would someone please donate?), but the weather was souring. The clouds meant that it was getting darker quicker. By the time puppy and I were making our way out of the forest, I could hardly see the path.

The trails are usually full of joggers, dog-walkers, and other assorted non-threatening folk. But that evening, the forest was empty. I did not encounter a single soul as I made my way back. I was frightened. I kept thinking that if something happened to me now, people would blame and shame me.

Puppy was her usual jolly self, and sensed no malice in the darkening woods around us, which gave me hope. Although she’s still pretty small, she is a good guardian. I doubted very much, however, that she would be in any position to protect me if someone jumped out of the undergrowth. Dogs can be a deterrent simply based on how loud they are, but I didn’t want to find this out the hard way.

I made it home safe, but I was still afraid. I double-checked the lock on my door. I turned on all the lights and made myself a cup of tea. My little spoon was clanking around in its cup. Puppy sat on the balcony and kept watch on the neighbourhood, and I sat next to her, and all the while, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had been someone watching me in the woods, and that I got lucky.

Chalk it up to a rabid imaginaiton. Or common sense. Or both.

Monday Afternoon Poetry Club

It’s a bit early, but I will be busy later in the day.

On September the 11th, I have for you my own translation of the virst two stanzas Boris Pasternak’s “I dreamed of autumn…” I believe they’re relevant for today. The Russian original can be found here.

An old professor once told me “it’s a good start, but it’s not poetry. Not yet, anyway.” Well, it’s the best I can come up with today. I have improved over time, and will hopefully continue improving. Please don’t steal this translation, it’s an original (and it’s not that great, OK?).

I dreamed of autumn in the half-light of glass windows,
Our friends, and you within their clownish band,
And, like a sated falcon from above,
My heart descended to your hand.

But time went on, and it grew old, and muffled,
And, crusting the window-panes with silver embers,
The sunset from the garden bathed the windows
With bloody tears of September.

There is more to this wonderful poem, two more stanzas, to be exact, but they have proved to be more difficult, and my efforts with them have resulted in something even more chaotic than what you have just read. I am working on the revision though.

Thanks for reading.