Sunday, January 6, 2013

at risk

  Have you been paying attention to this Stuebenville rape case going on?  Well I'm behind the times 'cause I just found out about it today and it's been going on for months.  I'll leave it for you to google on your own and make your own conclusions, of course, but what the hell is going on in our culture in general here?  All the conjecture, taking things out of context and snarly opinions aside, this story is terrifying.
  Beyond the small town mentalities, the antiquated cry wolf theories and the general fucked-up-ness of the situation, what might bother me the most is the term "at risk behavior" that's being bandied about.   I'm sure this isn't the only time the term has been used, it's just that this is the first time I've ever noticed it.  What blows my mind isn't the suggestion that she might have been making the wrong choices (we're all guilty of making them) but the implication that in making those choices she should have expected whatever horrible treatment was given her.  That by putting up suggestive tweets in the past, by having a healthy sex drive, and then getting intoxicated at a party she put herself at risk of being abused sexually. 
  And they made a term for it.  To authenticate the fucked up idea behind it. 
  How do I even live in a time when this is possible? 

this cartoon life

  So here I am, trying to to write three (possibly four if there's outcry) books, right?  All three main characters are based on different aspects of myself (what? Sush- write what you know) and I'm having issues pulling sentence after painful sentence out of my head and today it finally dawned on me why.  With all the upheaval going on recently I have little to no idea who I am.
  For the past few months I've been in stasis-  I'm here in this tiny house too afraid to leave unless I'm in desperate need of food (a little agoraphobic with heavy anthropophobic overtones) or paying a bill.  I might dash out to get the mail some days if I'm feeling particularly brave.  I sleep in, I stay up, I read horrid books that I'm ashamed to even own, I wear a lot of comfy clothes and I make bargains with myself in order to shower daily.  I really like video games.  Sometimes I trick myself into working out but most of the time I'm far too wily for that old trap and see it coming a mile away. 
  There's no way I'd answer the door if someone knocked. 
  These aren't at all new developments and, in fact, I've been struggling most of my life with these issues and it's just recently that I've allowed myself to give in.  After mom died everything seemed to get harder to deal with.  The move, homelessness, my flaky roommate, this whole vegan thing I just started but mostly my continued disuse of my talents- it's killing me that I'm still not happily ensconced in a career that uses my abilities as an artist to their fullest while simultaneously failing to suck my soul dry.
  These issues I have... well I know they'll always be part of who I am and I used to float on top of it all.  But now I'm drowning in it and I feel like I've reached the point where I either go full fledged hermit or slap myself out of it.  Possibly with heavy doses of drug and/or alcohol therapy. 
  I'll keep you posted.  Unless I turn hermit.  Then I'll send you scrawled messages on bark.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

magically thought-provoking internets #1

I recently submitted one of my tattoos to fuckyeahtattoos on tumblr and today it was posted. No big deal, just sharing my skin with the world. Gulp.
Out of the hundreds of likes and reblogs there's this:

(CENSORED) said: good job covering your hand like a ~*~*~badass~*~*~ when from what i can see you don’t have any visible coverage close to your hand. you look like a dumbass, have fun regretting that later on in life trying to catch up on your~*sleevez*~ ugh 

Luckily I don't take this kind of trolling serious but it did cause a few threads of thought including but not limited to- why would I scramble to cover my skin? I've only made it half way through this life and part of that was spent shitting in my pants- how could I imagine that I know with absolute certainty what I want on my skin for the rest of my life without living it all? 
I plan on getting tattooed regularly throughout my life, not all at once. To do otherwise is akin to assuming I know everything, have felt everything. That I'll never change my views, likes or dislikes. My body would be locked in a sort of color book stasis. Arrested tattoo development.
How closed minded. How small.
 Thanks, internet, for reminding me why I'm not in any hurry to sleeve myself up. You're the best.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Uhm, sorry to bother...maybe this is a bad time but...

Yes. Absolutely. Rape is horrible and vile. Yes, absolutely, victims of near all-consuming hate such as that have every right to abort a child produced from it. I'll back you up completely on that one- I'll wave signs, walk parades, wear buttons, reblog repost retweet- anything to fight for a woman's right to govern her own body in any way she sees fit.

 Anything... but think outside your pain and outrage for just a few minutes.

  Before you start carelessly throwing around words like "monster spawn" or "rape baby" I want you to consider another angle. Because these children are worth your consideration.
  I'm not saying that, if raped, you should keep the child. That's a decision that should always be up to the woman faced with it, no one else. But I am saying that sometimes, if you can look past the horrific conception, you might see your daughter or son, worthy of your love. Not just a product of "damaged DNA".
  If we truly are to be in control of our own bodies then we need to acknowledge that the child, any child, growing inside belongs to us- or would you allow the man who raped you take that as well?
  I didn't used to feel this way. After I found out about my conception I went through a long period of self loathing. For years (long, gothy years full of black eyeliner and -possibly- too much Morrissey) I wished my mother had decided to have an abortion. Sometimes I wondered if I might turn out like him; twisted, broken, hurtful. I knew I looked like him because I didn't look like my mother. I hated the very idea.
  Mother never allowed it to color how she felt about me. She was strong enough to love me unconditionally. When she looked at me she saw her daughter- even when I was a horrible, selfish, spiteful teenager I was her horrible, selfish, spiteful teenager. Behaving like a teenager, not a teenager going through early warning rapist personality issues. I wasn't a constant reminder of a terrible act but a source of love and joy as are all children, no matter the origin.

  In time I learned to share her views on the matter...mostly.

  But it's still a sensitive issue for me. I understand that some people can't get past the ugliness of rape, that it's something you carry with you for the rest of your life and that they feel a child born of such is a nightmarish souvenir. That the casual way some politicians bandy back and forth rape labeling and women's rights is atrocious, insensitive, caustic to our nation's basic freedom. I can't argue with that. I wouldn't.
  But as you rage your defiance against the violations our government tries to lay upon your body please remember that there are those of us out here that feel the bite of your words.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

so far so mediocre

So how have I been since mom died? I'm going through the motions. Making up daily/sometimes hourly reasons to keep busy, to keep moving. At first it was the after death details- what to do with her remains, planning out her potluck farewell, dealing with her possessions, her bills, her friends. Most of that is all past me now so I come up with new reasons, new plans to keep motivated. Moved into a new place after two months of searching now I need to unpack, buy household items, nest. I'm running out of boxes to unpack which worries me. I also quit the soul-sucking job so that also takes away from my schedule considerably. Maybe I could take up jogging...But surely that would be a sign of losing myself entirely. Bruce Campbell (in his infinite chin-y wisdom) once told me to make stuff and never stop. Once you stop creating, once you lose momentum, you fail... Of course I'm paraphrasing here; like I'm going to remember what ANYONE said to me in the 90s? So then the next step is creation...

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

not waiting anymore

On the eleventh of May, 2012, around a month and a half after she was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer, Mary Peters (otherwise known as my momma) died. I'll probably go into detail after I pick up a few more pieces.