It’s a late-sleeping good morning here, and time to head out into the world with an anxious puppy. But I am slowly (so as to make it last) reading Jeanette Winterson’s memoir, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal, and I have these lines of hers to share with you all today:
…when people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn’t be read at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language — and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers — a language powerful enough to say how it is.
It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place. (p. 40)
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Good morning! There was a small crescent moon out my kitchen window when I went up to fill the tea kettle earlier today … waning, heading toward dark. Time for casting off old habits, no?
After wrangling with a specifically internalized-femme-phobic kind of shame yesterday (yes, and maybe it’s still trickling through me), I want to say that reading the essays in Julia Serano‘s Whipping Girl is an amazing antidote! I finally got my own copy at Charis Books in Atlanta (this was exactly the book I wanted to buy at a feminist collective) when we were there for a workshop and our final performance last weekend. Julia’s writing is just filling me up, reminding me of the solidarity, in particular, between/among transwomen and femme dykes. Julia takes on transmisogyny, hostility toward femininity as a powerful part of sexism (one that, unfortunately, much of mainstream feminism has bought into), and so so very much more. Check out the Introduction, then go get your copy.
More soon. I’m grateful for you.
"take your dreams for reality"
in my dream I was trying to describe the book Special Topics in Calamity Physics to someone, but I couldn’t remember the title, and I turned into something very long, that ended in, “the Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.” Someone was trying to remember along with me, someone else, and we said that second title at the same time, delighted that we’d been able to remember — then I said, but it isn’t that book, the Oscar Wao, it’s a different story.
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