Guests, Wedding blues, and Recovery

I woke up feeling good today. Bright, energetic, and optimistic.

This is exciting largely because the last few months have been a combination of periodic highs in a sea of drudging through a constant psychological low. The highs were more than worth it, of course. I was married on December fourteenth, and it was marvelous.

The wedding planning wasn’t what caused the stress- that was actually pretty low key. We married at the somewhat old-fashioned hour of 11am, and the ceremony was followed by brunch and champagne. The music was a chamber group of ladies from the Symphony called Women in Black, and they played christmas carols and classical music in the background. It was lovely, and the Bridegroom and I retired by 3pm to two days in a hotel for our honeymoon. The reason for the short time was due to my having two exams immediately before and after the weekend, and having an unusually long-term series of out of town guests to entertain. That was more the trial. I had envisioned a wee tiny family wedding. I had been planning my elopement for years, but the groom has a very large family-oriented family, and some sort of ceremony was important to him. So we planned for something small and easy, and it was astonishing how many people seemed to conspire to make it so much more than it needed to be. The day itself went by fairly smoothly, the only hiccup being needing to combat an enthusiastic relation bent on being the M.C. Every wedding has these minor social jousts, I’ve since heard.

The following four weeks of almost constant social events, dinners, and one hellish road trip beat me into a hollow shell of niceties, small talk, and nigh on constant drinking. Christmas and new years were a handy background. At any given moment, I likely wasn’t the only one starting in on the sauce by noon to get me through the day.
Every moment I had by myself or with my Husband was usually spent either over-sleeping, re-reading old familiar novels that wouldn’t tax my mental or emotional processes, and crying, crying, crying. I didn’t feel so much as unhappy, as just worn thin to the mental bone and having a good rant and weep usually left me pleasantly tired and a little emptier feeling. Bear in mind this was also taking place in the 3 week space between University semesters, over Christmas, and during what is commonly referred to as the honeymoon period.

Once all had left and gone, and the world returned to normal, we had already been back at school for two weeks. In the week and a half since, we’ve probably been sleeping close to 15 hours a day, watching movies, playing video games, working out, and have both gotten massively ill, as though it all finally caught up and landed once we were allowed to slow down enough. This is the first morning I’ve woken up feeling truly good in about two months. We listened to music, made waffles and bacon, and have been both sitting at our respective laptops at the dining room table, occasionally sharing glances and tidbits and reminding each other that we’re done! We’re here! We made it!

I feel like I’m back.

Suffragettical

My friends and I have discussed the possibility of running a multi-author blog, to "come out" as feminists in a time and place where being a feminist may be seen as being old-fashioned, negative, misinformed, or unnecessary. Where we can discuss issues that matter to us, why they matter to us, and why we, as women, students, citizens, and persons feel comfortable doing so. Unfortunately, we never got around to it. 

Thankfully, someone has. A local woman began this page in order to discuss, showcase, and share positive feminism in an immediate way.

I'll be doing an article for the Walleye in October (Women’s History Month, after all) where I'll get to speak with the author and perhaps some admin (Who so far sound like some seriously cool Ladies) about their motivation and goals in opening this dialogue. Why?

This is why.

Among my friends and peers there’s been increased discussion regarding how we see the current media and pop-culture of North America as depressing and alarming in regard to the portrayal of women, relationships, and feminism. 

It’s not difficult to see (or feel) the further backlash against feminism which seems to be gaining only strength, and there are far too many political backslides to show for it, particularly in the United States; Our nearest neighbor, and the so-called pillar of moral authority and democracy in the world. These increasing atrocities include limiting access to birth control, persecution of victims, and even criminalizing abortion and miscarriage.

Feminism is increasingly sneered at as being where our society went wrong. At it’s worst, many young women and girls are seeing the word as unattractive, and as something synonymous with hating men, being ugly, and thinking that women just want more money and power. At it’s best, people still quibble about the word and it’s ‘true’ meaning. Why not 'equalist' or 'personist'. These qualms still spread the negative connotation, but with a rational brush.

The fact that this is happening in my country as well makes me sad. The fact that it's happening while, in the majority of the world, women do not have the rights and freedoms we rightly see as our privilege is a slap to the face of every person who fought so we could have them, and for the millions worldwide who are fighting for those who have yet to have them. 

I firmly believe that saying feminism is unnecessary or misguided in a world where girls still have acid thrown in their faces for going to school; where girls may still be forced to marry their rapist; where there are countries where simply being born female automatically classes you at the bottom of the social heap, is a sickening lack of awareness for both how lucky we are, and how little we seem to care about it. 

People are taking things for granted almost as fast as it takes to lose them, and it's something I want to address.

We do have social problems in this country, for people as a whole, not just men and women. I don't see feminism as being anti-man, or even exclusively pro-woman.  

The fact is: When women and girls have autonomy in their social, political, and financial lives, societies flourish. They develop economically, their children are healthier, and rates of poverty and disease decrease. 

The social problems in North America are, I believe, a product of a massively egotistical and consumerist culture that needs to change, and I further believe that blaming feminism is a mismatched, patriarchal conclusion. 

Go and like Thunder Bay Needs Feminism. Everyone, everywhere does. 

Think. Why do you?

Mind Your Own Business

What exactly is "your own business" anyway?

Mind your own business. Take care of your own business.

I am currently enjoying a wonderfully readable interpretation of the philosophy of Epictetus, "The Art of Living". It's written in chunks of a paragraph to a page or two at a time, outlining the important ideas, a la 'don't sweat the small stuff' . Except, its largely bigger stuff, and in a particularly stoic (literally) vein.

One of the segments was titled "Stick with your own Business", in the sense of not allowing others or external circumstances to cause you unneeded pain or stress, in that reconciling yourself to the things you can control (your responses to people and events, the way you see the world, and your actions in it) will make your decisions worthier and more effective. I initially balked, and my instinct was to think but sometimes if you interfere- you help.

This thought was immediately followed by if you're helping, then it's not interfering.
It's become, in a measure, your business.

To illustrate, I'll use a question common in contemporary moral theorizing about just what ones business is. It handily appears on a card in my old version of "A Game of Scruples" (The dinner-party conversation game of relative morals. You see what goes on in my head, eh?).

The situation is this:  You live in an apartment building, and you suspect one of your neighbors of abusing their partner. Do you call the police?

Think about it, for a moment. What would you really do? Act at once? Or doubt, question, and feel knotted with unease?
It would be lovely if everyone's immediate response was "Of course!" and tip-of-the-tongue it can be. But more often people hesitate, if guiltily.  Not from any place of thinking that the situation is right- only what the extent of themselves really is. What if they're just watching a movie and I misheard? What if they like rough sex? Is it any of my business? Or, the equally hesitant but more generous, what if I just make it worse?

I mulled over these considerations, and came to the conclusion:

Yes, that is my business. I strongly believe that a good basis for behaviour is "Do Unto Others" and if I were having the shit beaten out of me in the apartment across the hall, I would want someone to call the police. Or break the door down. Where there is violence or pain that is within my power to stop, I will do so, and feel I've done good by both another and myself doing so.

When people look the other way, or miscalculate what their business might be, or allow violence, pain, and advantage taking to happen to others, its all too miserably easy to believe we deserve it when it happens to us. No one ever does deserve it, to my mind.

If you clean a mess you did not leave, you have done nothing less than leave a place better than when you found it, and every day another person does that the whole damn World gets a little bit better.

What is your own business? The decisions you are faced with, and what you decide to do. There is not enough business-minding going on in our part of the the world. We're too busy trying to pin responsibility, blame, hope, success, and failure on other people or institutions. You can never control what other people have done. You cannot control what other people will do, nor should you. You can control only what you will do, and the clearer ideas you have of what you want to do and what you want to be will define just what your business is. Leaving the world better than you found it- for yourself and everyone.

Memento Mori

(Latin- “Remember that you will die.”)

 I learned recently from a colleague about the concept of Memento Mori in art.

It is a term for a work (literature, music, visual, or otherwise) which has within it a theme or icon of death. Not as a ghastly or morbid spectre, but a token meant as a spiritual reminder, a daily acknowledgment of mortality. A reminder to focus sharply on the moment, the gift, that we are alive today.

It has appeared as old as roman art and architecture, wound its way through the paintings of Christianity (which already had a strong  scent of fatality) and existed popularly through the early Victorian era, where newly invented photographs were often used to take death portraits of the newly passed. Those indeed are a bit ghastly, but the reason is the same. A little bit of appreciation, a little bit of acknowledging the fear and doubt that is present in the shadow of every forward thinking human mind, a little bit of hope.

It may be an old fashioned idea, but I realized, after this conversation we had, that I have one- my own Memento Mori, in my home.

It's in the best possible place for contemplation of general human temporariness. The loo. Precisely opposite the mirror, above the throne.

Each day during the course of various business I see, in all her mortally Arthurian gloom, Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shalott.

The Lady of Shalott, Waterhouse, 1888

The story is equally as fitting for Memento Mori as is the image. The Lady of Shallot was in the tower, and the tower was life eternal and safe, but also a dark prison. She could stay and live, or leave and die. So she leaves, and floats down the river to what she knows is her death  and experiences every moment of beauty and fear as she waits for the inevitable.

The image of course complements it perfectly- the Lily Maid herself like a stricken doe, looking as contemplative as she does frightened, but still and forward facing- not looking back like a curious Persephone, not twitching away from the fear like the woman under the nightmare.

The Nightmare, Henry Fuseli, 1781

Hades and Persephone

She faces it- sadly, and afraid, with acceptance, courage, and knowing she has made her choice, and, to her mind, chosen well, and that is what matters. This is my daily reminder- though I didn't know it for what it was. Why I hung it where I did, and why it mattered. Why I knew the story so well, and felt the image, and why it sprung to mind instantly as the idea and cultural significance of  Memento Mori was explained to me. It is something I paid unconscious homage to.

Would our current culture of instant gratification, selfishness, and grandiose indulgence benefit from a periodic gentle reminder that we are all human, will all die, and what we need concern ourselves with is living well, and with appreciation?

Do you have a Memento Mori in your home or bookshelf or playlist? What is it? Why does it matter to you? What devotions, if unconscious, does it inspire?

Wine, Val Kilmer, and Female Comradeship

A few weeks back, I had a thoroughly estrogen-fueled gathering of fellow women.

It began as a boozegames night (Booze and Boardgames- Tcha) and spiraled gradually into discussions of video games, books, politics, common neuroses, media, and our perceptions of femininity, which was drunkenly and happily canvassed without the usual assumption that any feelings somehow had to extend to all of us to be valid. We debated moral issues without the heat of defending a right or opposing a wrong opinion. By the time the third bottle of bubbly was gone, we were reading a Jane Austen Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book aloud, and deciding by vote which routes to take. (Right or left? Blue or Red Bonnet? To Dance, or Not to Dance?)

It was marvelous.

I have long been disturbed at the prevailing idea of friendship between women that is offered in movies, television shows and... Well, I was going to add books, but the books I read very often have easy and natural relationships between women, as well as between men, and men and women, so I don't have too much poor experience of books in that regard.

A friend of mine, during the above mentioned discussion, brought up the "Bechdel test". The Bechdel test is a scale that measures the roundedness of female characters in media, and the chief questions are these:

1) Are there more than two named female Characters in movie/show?

2) Do these Characters talk to one another? (And how?)

3) Do they talk to one another about anything apart from men or relationships?

It's surprising how often you'll notice the "No"s piling up, especially towards the last question. When you add, "their Children" or "Shopping" to question the last, that also knocks off significant volumes.

While I think of this as an already poor indicator, a darker side is the frequently portrayed Frenemies relationship, which implies that no matter how apparently strong and mutually respectful a friendship between women is, a (man/wedding date/other woman) can not only impede it, but cause them to cruelly sabotage one another mercilessly and publicly... Even if they are adults.

I won't pretend that there aren't people who thrive on negative drama, men and women both. But that the image has somehow become the model against which female friendships are gauged depresses me. Maleness or femaleness aside, I value friendship very highly, and with it comes a commitment of loyalty, respect for another, separate human being, and openness with another person. It is also highly individual. Not often is enough credence given to the fact that friendships, like romantic relationships, are entirely a creation of the sum of their parts. No one is like another, and each is a unique reflection of the interaction and dynamics of the people involved, not only with one, but in groups and parties as well. That's why there is no model. I have girlfriends with whom I play video games. I have girlfriends with whom I exchange witty repartee and verbal barbs over tea. I have girlfriends with whom I invent wicked cocktails, eat baked brie, and rant about our mutual experiences with career/relationship/book/cats/anything. Often, the same girlfriend will make appearances in all the above fields.

Yes, we discuss relationships, and men. We have also had stirring and evocative canvassing of early Val Kilmer movies, the overall decline of manners, and the worlds worst music mash ups (First runner-up: Bjork Petty. Winner: Axl Rose-Hansen). On one memorable occasion, we were completely loaded and watching animated pornography while playing Munchkin Cthulu.

Women, just as (astonishingly) men, have such a diverse range of interests, opinions, experiences, and engaging qualities that seeing the tired, hackneyed "luv u bitch" culture makes me deeply sad. Not that the level of relationship on view exists- only that apparently, that is what others expect of us, what we are assumed to expect of ourselves, and that shallow concerns, petty jealousies, and cat fights will always resonate with the crowd more than respect, loyalty, and love.

I'd say fight it, but that is exhausting, and depressing. Do something more sneaky, match it with insidiousness of our own. Mock it. Snicker at it. If someone makes a tasteless and frivolous remark about the nature of women, laugh politely, and say something to the effect of "Thank heavens life isn't like insipid movies. Wouldn't that be a simply absurd way for adults to behave?"

Most of all, value friendship. Value discussion, connection, eating, sharing, drinking, laughing, arguing. It's worth it's weight in gold.

Go forth, make a martini, and (gender notwithstanding) chill with your crew.

A Load of Selfish and Honest Bollocks

 I sometimes find myself wishing (forgive me)
that I could be really, truly ill, for just a little while.
Sometimes, sickness of the body can be a blessing,
designed to take us out of our own actions for a little while,
as a child given a nap.
A good old fashioned bout of fever or flu
or even a really awful, lingering, bronchial sort of thing 
before the reign of penicillan, tylenol, and thwarting fate.

A few weeks spent pale and half unconscious
to let the soup come to boil properly
when it's been lukewarm too long.
It not only bolsters a healthy sense of humility-
not necessarily to any deities, though that is acceptable,
but even the simple wary respect that we are creatures
susceptible to weakness, pain, and possibly death
outside of our own whim.

 It also allows reason for wallowing in self awareness
and ranking emotional priorities.
To be able to gauge exactly how, (or how not),
ones heartstring plucks has its blessings and curses.
Keen appreciation lies with shrewd calculation,
and true gratitude next to casual granted.

I wish this because I want an excuse
 to lapse into nothing more
 than thought and feeling for a little while,
 taking the respite from engagement
 and offering the payment of time and comfort.

Between medicine and artificial neural stimulation,
I wouldn't be ill more than a few days
unless I had something truly heinous,
which would be unwelcome,
but do the job with a heavier hand than I'm hoping for.



The above happened in Africa. I was in the midst of full blown mental dehydration, scraped thin to the nerve and barely holding together but for adrenaline and skype calls, and for the first time in several years I suddenly came down with Strep Throat- in the middle of summer, at that.

I was down for the count for nearly five days, doing nothing but sleep, eat, drink tea, read, and think. I couldn't do anything else. I was too weak, my throat hurt, and I was exhausted to the root. It was just the thing for jet lag, emotional fragility, and mental filing. While I ranted at the Gods, mentally, I was a little bit grateful, too. I had every excuse in the world, perfectly and completely and even publicly justified, to do nothing but recuperate, and it was as much for my mind and soul as my body, which, fittingly enough, embodied the necessary healing.

I feel I am still mentally recuperating, but I feel as though I don't have a "reason". Emotionally speaking, I have many, many reasons. My past summer, and their attendant changes, are at least equivalent to a mental bout of cholera, or at least an emotional broken leg. While at the time I know I enjoyed the cushion of new experience and distraction, I'm still recuperating. I will have days of blissful honeymooning, followed by a week of apathy, guilt, and wanting nothing more than to lay my head down, or hide it in some past favorite book or game or movie, and then feeling further shame for not bearing it more gracefully.

 Depression isn't always mental cancer. It may be a mental cold, or even a mental hangover. Is my depression of the body, with chemicals out of whack? Or is it perhaps depression of the heart, an emotional ailment which will heal with time and comfort? Depression of the nerves, to due with changes and adjustments, and added financial squeezing? Or is is a darker depression of the soul or character, which will never be put right? I want to find out, and I know there are some things I'm nervous of. Enough to wish for that bout of illness that may put my head on straight, and remind me of what I am, all with allowing me some length of reflection and a good, solid reason to lie in bed and feel what I need to feel.

Recipe for a Bath

One Tub
Hot Water
Two enthusiastic squeezes of some wholly unnecessary and scented foaming soap
One gentler semi-squeeze of jojoba or similar luxurious skin and hair oil
One casually tossed fizzing bath bomb
One well-thumbed paperback of questionable taste
Minimum one glass wine and/or similar intoxicant which can be rationalized as healthful      indulgence
Minimum one hour of time better spent elsewhere, but not.



There is no point in presuming that, in this age of showers, a bath can be made any way efficient or sensible. It can't, and it oughtn't be. It is one hundred percent pure luxury, and has no pretensions otherwise. I advocate a full all or nothing approach. Bubbles, oils, scents, music, candles, whatever your preferred items of a pampering nature are, bring them out and assemble them whimsically, close to hand. I recommend a robe of some sort- terry for the cozies, and silk or similar for pure decadence.

Whilst in robe, prepare bath, intoxicant, and enjoy the pleasantness of your own reflection in the bathroom mirror as you bring your hair up in a Helen-esque twist held back with a fetching band. You will be softly lit and lovely, anticipating warmth.

When the bath is prepared, assemble any necessities for the bathing process. Loofah or cloth, pumice stone, razors, et al ought to be ready to use and assembled in order of preferred progression. Any ghastly black-lagoon face cream may be applied now, so that any intrigued lovers who contrive to catch you unawares will see a mysterious, painted creature; flushed to the bosom but made decent by a fig-leaf like blanket of wafting bubbles. Luxurious bathing is now a thing of mystique and quaint history, and this a wonderful thing. Don't make it commonplace.

Do what needs be done in the bath- that is to say, bathe, and while doing so reflect upon your person and place in life. For much of human history, baths have been deeply connected with ritual, and the act of cleansing. This is a spiritual act made tangible. Your very soul is warmed and scented, and your rational self should likewise be up to snuff in an attitude of ponderous thought and self-improvement.

When you have finished the necessaries, use your remaining time before lukewarmness sets in to skip to the dog-earred passages of your well-thumbed paperback, finish any remaining intoxicant, and, once finished, to float your hair under the water, feeling it stream around, mermaid like. This last bit isn't necessary, but it is delightful, and I highly endorse it as a means to inexplicable self satisfaction.

A minute long quick rinse should follow, followed by a thorough patting down with a soft towel. The robe may now be reapplied, and the moisturizing of the face may follow at your leisure.

With the ability to do so many things at once all the time, activities that are are time consuming and independent have fallen largely out of public favour. Taking time purely for oneself is indulgent, unnecessary, and splendid. Not only the physical pleasure of the act, but the time and space for uninterrupted thought and feeling, to soothe what is constantly overstimulated by continuous mental intake.

Take one hour, and enjoy it.

Any of the main ingredients can be substituted. Yes, even the bath. It might be a chair, with tea, a journal, and slippers. It might be a mirror, with clothes and music and lights and a closed door. It may be a garage, with a car leaking suspicious fluid, waiting to be stripped down and made up again, possibly with no change in the suspicious fluid.

 Just one hour, to be alone, and not watching anything, or talking to anyone, or focusing on a thousand different processes. Just for your body, mind, and soul.