– feeds your head
I suppose you’ve all noticed that it was christmas. It’s pretty impossible to avoid. But this year I almost managed. Or rather, it didn’t really occur to me on a conscious level that it was actually christmas. On christmas eve I found myself sitting on the tram and wondering what was up with all these dressed up people and their bags full of stuff and it took me a while to figure out that they were all on their way to some form of christmas celebration. I wasn’t. It’s been over fifteen years since I last celebrated christmas. I never liked christmas, not even as a child, and I don’t believe in jesus, so it was a very easy decision to make. My parents also took it surprisingly well. Which could have had something to do with how passionate I was about my position. Back then I really hated christmas. I still do, but not quite as passionate. I mean I still loathe the consumerism, the cultural imperialism aspects, the superficial happiness and general tackiness of it all, but I’ve become a lot more indifferent to the phenomenon of christmas over the years. What used to be burning hatred has turned into lukewarm despise. It’s like it doesn’t really concern me anymore. Christmas is something that happens to other people, not me.
I suppose this change in attitude is most likely the years of boycotting finally starting to show result. And I guess that’s also why I was actually able to completely forget that it was christmas eve. I just don’t register christmas anymore. Of course I notice the decorations appearing everywhere and the displays in the stores and all that and thus I do realize that christmas in coming up at some point, but that’s it. When people talk about all the shopping they have left I always need a second or two before I compute. “Oh, they are talking about christmas presents!” Because in my world that concept has pretty much stopped existing. Read more of this post
There are some things that I will just never be able to understand. One of these is homophobia. I really and honestly do not understand it. And I am not talking about the various cultural and psychological reasons that are generally used to explain this phenomena, or abomination if we want to be a bit more precise, I get those. I understand what they are trying to get at when religion is brought into the picture and I understand what the whole threat to established gender identities theory is about. What I don’t understand is why anyone even cares in the first place. Why does it matter? How can it be that important what gender people are attracted to? Why on earth does anyone bother to care about that? Why is that particular preference given such a determining value?
I was reading a blog post by a mother whose son dressed up in a woman’s outfit for halloween and how that caused people to express a concern that he might grow up to be gay. Say what?! Apart from the fact that I really can’t see any issue what so ever with someone being gay, why would dressing up in women’s clothing make someone gay? How the hell would that causality work? It’s just beyond stupid. You don’t become gay, you are gay. Just like you are straight. Or bisexual. And gender identity has very little to do with that. A gay man is no less male than a straight man, just like a lesbian is no less female than a straight woman. Your gender or sexuality is not tied to your level of masculinity or femininity. But this line of reasoning does put focus on the problem of gender identity itself. Why is it so important that a boy sticks to the attributes assigned to his male gender? Why does him dressing up as a girl become such an issue? And why is the immediate fear that he’ll grow up to be gay? Why is the transcending of the gender roles perceived such a big threat even when it’s a 5-year-old boy doing it? Read more of this post
In India you see a lot of people wearing so-called traditional clothes. Colorful saris, salwar kameez, dhoti, lungi and kurta. Especially in the villages, there you see very few women wearing western style clothes. Men yes, but women no. Women wearing jeans is one of the best tell-tale signs that you are in a city. I made a casual observation about this:
“I suppose now we are in a city. You see a lot more women in western clothing here.”
“Yes, but I think it’s a shame when they give up the traditional style. The saris are so much more beautiful.”
I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure I agree. Of course the saris are beautiful, but what do they really represent? Is it really a free choice? And if so, how come you see more women making the choice to stick to the traditional clothes? Not just in India, but all over the world. How come women always seem to be the ones that have to carry the traditions? I also think the traditional women’s clothes in India are beautiful but it’s not really a relevant argument or point in this context. Especially not if you follow the observation through on a more global level. A burqa isn’t beautiful. A burqa is a prison that hinders your movements and deprives you of sensory input. The sensory deprivation isn’t applicable for a sari, but it does hinder your movements. Then again, so does high heels. Read more of this post
“Just start from the beginning.”
“What beginning?”
I hate that look. That look of understanding. They all have it. Like a mixture of pity and greed. A glow in their eyes. They think they can understand. That if they understand me enough I will be cured. Fixed. That’s all they want, to fix me. I am a danger to society and a danger to myself. I’ve got that in writing. I think they are more worried about society than me though. No way they locked me up to save me from myself. That would mean they cared. That they actually gave a shit about me, and they don’t. That’s why I hate that look. Because they don’t really want to understand. They don’t even want to see.
“Well, what ever beginning you want to start with.”
“I can’t say I want to start at any beginning. Just tell me what you want to know man.”
“I want to know about you. Where you are coming from.”
“What the hell for? Just ask me what you want to know, ok? I’ll answer.” Read more of this post
We sit down on the stairs. It’s just him and me now. No one else around. And I know this will lead to something I don’t really want. I know I shouldn’t be here. I should go. But I don’t. I stay. We talk. At first. It’s like waiting for the inevitable. He asks me things about me. Things I don’t really want to tell. So many questions. As if he cared. As if he wanted to crawl under my skin. As if he really wanted to know me. This, is making me seriously uncomfortable. This, is making me want to tell him to just shut up. This, is not part of the game.
Then, when he leans closer, it almost comes as a relief. I know this. This I can do, this is familiar. Now I understand what he wants. Now it’s simple. His arm around me. His hand on my cheek. He caresses it gently. Too gently. He whispers something I can’t hear and he looks at me. I can’t meet his gaze. I close my eyes and wait. I wait for what I know will come. Step one: he kisses me. Step two: he touches my breasts. Step three: he asks me to come to his room. And from there it goes fast. Step four five and six. All part of the pattern. Beginning to end. A to Z.
Step one. I feel his breath on my cheek. It smells of alcohol. I feel his lips on mine. Surprisingly soft. Then he parts them, ever so slightly. I know what will happen next, what is expected of me. I part my lips, do what I am supposed to. His tongue in my mouth, his hand in my hair. He starts to breathe heavier, kiss harder. So I do too. Because that’s what is expected of me now. In this situation that’s what you do. Step one. Read more of this post
jc.tryps 