My hallowed Halloween tradition involves watching “28 Days Later”

Or some other classic. Which is predictable, but whatever. Too much upheaval in the world already. Do you have a hallowed Halloween tradition too?

Last year, my cousin Solomia and I were at an all-night showing of Swedish shorts at the Molodst Film Festival for Halloween. We learned phrases such as “a turned-on pine tree” (in a movie about dendrophiliacs).

Solomia also came up with a rap song:

Скажи нет жестяку!
Забей на тоску!
Иди домой спать –
Завтра будешь летать!

An instant hit.

Last night, I think I must have spent at least an hour babbling about horror movie tropes in modern RPG games, while The Man looked on indulgently. We will tempt him to the dark side yet. Just call this one a work in progress for now. To that end, enjoy (although the phrase “sofa-soiling” is sorely overused here).

Oh, and speaking of:

I’m for restoring sanity, I think. More pictures here.

I was in Auchan the other day, and picked up a copy of Vanity Fair

It had Lindsay Lohan on the cover – so you know right away just how dangerously bored I was.

And then I just became dangerously irritated.

Which is sort of unfair, when you think about it. I am not part of the magazine’s target audience anymore. There was a time when I was capable of taking a dude seriously if he compared himself to Loki in an interview. Then the 9th grade ended.

This isn’t to say that there’s bad writing at VF. Let’s face it, as far as American industry standards go, I certainly hope that the nation’s 9th-graders are reading this magazine, as opposed to tabloids discussing things like cellulite (sometimes, I miss the days when cellulite-prevention was an actual issue I had time and energy to discuss). It’s just that so many of VF’s subjects tend to be so freaking despicable. Not war-criminal-style despicable. More like, why-does-anyone-think-I-should-pay-attention-to-your-goddamn-egocentric-rambling-Oh-My-God-I-could-have-been-playing-a-decent-RPG-instead-of-reading-this-unholy-tripe despicable.

I admire journalists who valiantly attempt to salvage a particularly blah interview – but I also see through the tricks. For some reason, many of the articles I browse at VF nowadays have a distinct subtext of “I hate my goddamn work” running through them. It’s not fair to lash out at one’s colleagues about this – there financial crisis sort of ruined things for everyone, working in the media is fraught with peril (comparable to the peril one’s hero faces in aforementioned decent RPGs), and freaking Lindsay Lohan still freaking sells. And you can’t accuse Vanity Fair of anything, really – because it’s all in the title.

Perhaps I got irritated upon reading, because there’s something about 9th grade that I miss. I miss the kind of reader I was back then – and I read everything from VF to Shakespeare to Sandra Cisneros. I was both voracious and sympathetic as far as readers go. I was only dimly aware of post-modernism. I was certainly not aware of Russia’s new drama movement.

More importantly, subject matter discussed in VF felt like it actually related to my life – which was calmer and broader somehow. I was able to take a lot in. The hours passed slowly. Phrases like “the new establishment” filled me with inspiration that went towards my own ambitions.

Goddamit, but I am getting old. 😉

This isn’t autumn anymore

My new (ridiculously priced) coat is black, and all of the (somewhat) affordable accessories this season have been black – black leather gloves, black wool hat, black platform boots, black patent leather bag. I dress up for the weather, but always try to remember to put on a pair of heart-patterned socks underneath, or maybe a necklace with a silver spoon on it, or underwear with a funny print, or all three options at once. That way, I have an amusing secret to keep from the wind that keeps trying to get underneath my clothes.

I was crossing Novokuznetskaya Street in the evening the other day, right before it got dark. I could see where the cloud cover stretched toward the east, toward my house, and I could see where it ended. The sky beyond was the colour of warm milk, vanilla and forgetting. In the heart hidden away underneath my black coat and white skin, I knew that I could no longer call this season autumn. The chemical reactions happening in the October sky make it impossible to do so. This is a season in-between seasons. It’s pre-winter.

Whenever I go up to my building entrance after dark, I always make a point of looking over my shoulder, even when I am with my boyfriend. On most nights, I don’t see much: cars, trees, and, in these months, a particular star trembling between bare branches.

“I like that star,” I say in the voice of a spoiled socialite. “Buy it for me.”

“What if we move?”

“It’s a quality star – we’ll be able to see it from anywhere in Moscow. Buy it for me.”

“If you behave well.”

We never seem to have any money, but we’re always carrying packages in our hands: bags of spices, bottles of wine, chunks of feta cheese in protective plastic. We talked about bringing home a bag of frozen pelmeni recently.

“We won’t make it home on time,” he said.

But the wind outside argued otherwise.

The first cab we hailed took us across the bridge and to our embankment for a mere 150 roubles. People haggle less in this weather, in the dark. The voices of the DJ’s at night on the car radio are a little sleepier, and you can picture yourself dreaming away in the backseat, awakening far outside of Moscow, in some fairy forest under the snow, where you can hold hands and leave footprints, and talk to no one but each other and, perhaps, a grey wolf – the spit on his wizened muzzle long since turned to crystals of ice.

You know what? Being a dominant dude is not ZOMG HORRIBLE

I’ve read this post on BDSM and the ensuing discussion of it on Feministe, and I am crestfallen (“crestfallen” – I like that word. It is underused and underrepresented, like many good things in life).

It’s not the issue affecting the BDSM community – not to mention people’s weird reactions to BDSM – that trouble me per se. I’m not part of that community, so anything I say is just a comment going out from the sidelines – not particularly interesting or insightful. It does bother me whenever people casually dismiss BDSMers as “those freaky people over there – let’s stay away, they might have freaky people germs”. The false dichotomy of kinkster vs. vanilla chaps my hide as well.

But. BUT! I’m not here to talk about all of that right now. I’m here to talk about whether or not dominant tendencies in dudes are de-facto a Very Bad Thing. Because I was reading the comments of a blogger named Pepper, and saw this:

Here’s some concrete examples of the kind of self-policing I do:

1) I’m very aware of the dominant streak in my personality. In social or group situations, I purposefully stay quiet, tone down my language, make sure others are heard, apologize for interrupting, and so on. I know that others listen to me more than they should, both because of my gender and this dominance aspect, and I try to counteract this…. [etc.]

Now, the way Pepper conducts himself is Pepper’s business. This is in no way a comment on Pepper himself. Whenever I’m in a feminist-oriented discussion, I instantly bristle at people who tell other people that This Is How You Should Act In All Circumstances and This Is How You Should Feel About This And That and Check Out This Excellent Feminist Apple-Peeling Technique I Invented, Bitch, Or Suffer The Consequences. So if I fall into the same trap, I apologize in advance.

The thing is, there are dominant people and there are dominant people. As a collective feminist movement, we often argue against general male dominance – but I feel that if I am with a man who’s got a dominant streak, I wouldn’t want him to feel permanently conflicted about it. If I choose to be with someone, then I choose to handle certain aspects of their personality.

Who I date or don’t date doesn’t really matter in the context of the larger conversation, of course, except for the fact that I recently had a conversation with someone that went along the lines of, “and you know, [dude I’m seeing] has SUCH a dominant streak” with the other person responding with a “wait, what? Aren’t you a feminist?” Well, yes, I am a feminist. This doesn’t mean I’ll automatically reject someone because they’re loud, or because they’ll go “you know what, you need to listen to THE MAN, i.e. me, right now” every once in a while.

“Dominant” does not necessarily mean “controlling” or “abusive.” It can mean a lot of things. Not all dominant guys are jerks, or bad listeners, or ego-tripping bastards, or male chauvinists. If a guy’s got a dominant streak, but happens to be secure with himself, he won’t mind if you challenge him. If you say, “actually, I’m not going to listen to THE MAN, i.e. you, right now – and here’s why.” And if you trust a guy – then you trust him to make certain decisions, without necessarily compromising your own integrity. Two adults can negotiate and renegotiate their roles as they see fit. It doesn’t mean they won’t fight – but then again, who doesn’t fight?

I suppose I’m bringing all of this up, because I am tired of the notion that there is just one “correct” way to pursue a romantic relationship in particular, and that if you don’t embrace certain social norms that (mostly) middle-class Western progressives follow, then you’re getting raped and abused every night, even though you’re too uncivilized and stupid to actually realize it – or whatever.

I mean, while the Not Encouraging the Weirdos policy is still very on around here, I can’t help but want to share when I go into my moderation queue and find gems such as:

“I see you published and commented favorably on a cartoon in which the man you are dating is depicted with clenched fists. It’s not doing a lot for your feminist image. I’m worried for you. Or I would be worried – if you were worth it.”

OMG I’M NOT WORTH IT?!?!?!?!

OK, but seriously now…

The dude I love clenched his fists – and ruined my public image…?

OK then!

When we speak of institutionalized male dominance and the way that individuals conduct their relationships, we must obviously admit that there is no crowbar separation between the two. I mean, that’s kind of a GIVEN (I hate it when people remind me of the fact – as if I’m five years old and just learning that people and ideas don’t exist in individually sealed vacuums). But, as trite as it’s going to sound, part of respecting a person’s agency is trusting their lived experience, and trusting how they feel about said lived experience.

Otherwise, the purpose is defeated. Squarely. In the jaw.