a wild, unknown country where i could not go wrong
04.05.05 @ 4:54 p.m.
I like dichotomies. I like the conjunction of two things that are unalike. It pleases me no end when I realize that two comically different things have come together in my life, even when it's something small. Today I was late for my class on Theory and Fiction of the Women's Movement because I wanted to stay in my car, listening to < gravelly announcer voice > MAX 910 - Talk Radio for Guys < /voice >. Er, KSLM 1390 rebroadcast, anyway. Salem is far enough away that comes in like crap on every radio I have except the one in my car. Rick Emerson is the only thing I could listen to on that station, except maybe Clyde Lewis' show, supposing I could keep my innate paranoia at bay. Most of the others are too misogynistic, and syndicated national shows rather than Portland-based.
So here's a thing that you might not expect me to say: I got half-drunk last night reading Freud. I had the bottle of Bailey's I bought last week by my desk and was basically taking a swig every time Freud's lecture on Femininity made me say "Okay, what? Seriously, what the fuck." That was fun, and not really like I expected, but I still reign myself in. An adulthood's worth of repression and need for self control is not going to go away in one night, nor do I want it to. I would not have thought about it, had the teacher not expected us to get moderately infuriated and rather advised pouring a glass of wine to drink while reading. She's funny, I'll give her that.
Penis-envy. Christ. I really do not like Freud, even with a healthy appreciation for the ridiculous (and come on, how can you read some of his assertions about the Electra complex without thinking there is more than a whiff of absurdity there?). I cannot believe that the teacher gave us that much to read. With a short hiatus to go buy a new printer cartridge, I spent from 5 to 3 reading plus another hour or so of Betty Friedan this morning. It kind of surprises me, how much I am willing to talk and contribute in that class. I've realized that I keep too much of myself TO myself, and am trying to open up more.
The most interesting thing that my teacher said today (apart from "All this stuff about pee fascinates me, and I never thought I'd hear that sentence come out of my mouth,") was... how to put this? She wondered if the reason that women were cast as "the Other" in a male dominated society is that somehow, that's just the way it is. Unlike other groups put in the position of "the Other," there is no historic event that marks the beginning of female repression. It's more the way she said it than what she was saying. It was as if she had revealed a secret fear (and perhaps, as a Women's Studies prof, she did) and expected all of us to be shocked and horrified by the notion. This is not to say that my response is anything like "Damn right, barefoot and pregnant, that's the way to go," but it was, "I don't know. Maybe."
Betty Friedan (we read the first three chapters of The Feminine Mystique) makes me think of this picture, endlessly. She wrote in 1963, this is from a 1964 National Geographic.
I am trying to be so good about my reading for my classes this term, and I'm already behind. Part of it is a general impossibility to do so damn much without a) going blind b) having a nervous breakdown. I'm actually really angry about it. It makes me so frustrated that every damn teacher I have acts like I'm only taking their class, and therefore have all the time in the world to read the absurd amount of reading they assign. Part of the problem is that I slacked off this weekend, doing very little apart from my detective reading. My intent (haha, good intentions, right) was to start the slog through the feminism stuff, but I never got around to it. What I should do tonight is to read the Percy Shelley, Keats, and SparkNotes the Frankenstein to refresh me. I read it my second term of school in my science ficton class, so I'm not too worried about it, even if that was three years ago.
Two of my friends are very unhappy indeed � well, one seems to be getting on with things and throwing herself into cathartic artistic expression. I vaguely hope the other does the same. They're both talented women and I'm so glad they're my friends. It kills me a little that I can't really offer any consolation other than to listen patiently.
Despite being older, I feel a lot more naive.
The thing that bothers me more than anything else, anything else ever and at all, is that I'm feeling so full of feelings and I don't know what, and I desperately want to release it in some form of creative expression, but nothing comes. Nothing comes that isn't forced. I idly work on Madeline in my 10-12 class break, because I am damned determined to get it rewritten while I still care about Simon and Madeline and Alistair and whatever I rechristen the reincarnated Max. I can't care about Emma and Robert anymore and I almost can't care about Traveler and Celeste, either. To let a story languish is to let it die, and I need, need to finish this one. Still. I don't want to start a new story (nor am I inspired to a new plot), drawing is giving me nothing but squiggly lines because I cannot think of anything I want to draw, and I just kind of plunk away at my guitar. None of it is satisfying, and that makes me profoundly unhappy.
It's so goddamn FRUSTRATING, and frustration is maybe one of the worst feelings there is. Frustration and anger are the things that make me cry, not sadness. Not knowing how to deal with it makes me feel helpless, and even more frustrated. It's going to be really hard to be responsible about schoolwork and not give into the inclination to say "fuck you" to the world and seek whatever escape I can find, but I'll try.
Previously
fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
