cheap (well, thats an insult) old fashioned sci fi novels, i laugh at during the day, and at midnight, scramble to the end of the bed to quickly shut my window because the strange sound outside is making me feel six again and frightened and if i'm not quick then it might catch hold of me, and whats that shadow by my head? oh, its my hair, wait, whats that shadow out of the corner of my eye? oh its just my hair... in the morning i can't understand myself... wait... whats that...?
today i was saved by a big shivering saw, quivering and shaking and biting in my hand, light and long and sharp, as i crawled into green dens and (a little less conversation a little more action, please) big plasticky leaves stroked my face before i heartlessly cut the easily fleshy limbs, and threw them into a mass grave on the grass. small reprove from the pink rose desperately budding, a few well placed stratches (deep marbled pink now budding on my arm - xenogenesis).
should really give this strange mass of blood and flesh, heat and softness, hair and water, pink orange brown black green, more thanks for its ability to ache and move and sweat and contort and walk and run and pound and... prune.
i wonder, if i don't take so kindly to simone de beauvoir's arguements because its just easier to be the underdog? but i feel some sort of truth in it, of feeling rather... kidnapped by your own body. held hostage by the womb? of being female and feeling like you are looking at the world through a glass window, and not that your body is actually yourself at all. its hard to think of the body as possibly "yourself" when it works so much against your will. hard to feel at home when your home is constantly under threat of invasion (men and babies, however pleasurable they might be, still invade). it is a block to true transcendance to feel like a conciousness locked inside flesh. hard to "like" this body when it insists on bringing regular pain and constantly lets you down. hard to feel it is yours to do with as you like, when it has a "purpose" (reproduction) which is not one of your own choosing, and which seems "above" your own personal wishes. hard to use it as a means to fully jump and laugh and smell and see and run and listen and touch and experience the world, when it is full of curves and glands and fat and not so slick and fast and hard as the other sex...... hard not to feel desperately let down.
the palest blue just breaking through outside my window, and i'm feeling pleasingly grown up these last few days. funny how quickly a year goes. i think i'm different from last summer. better. which is good, because this headache is reminding me of the mayfly falling down as the water beneath it was sucked into the open infinite trouts mouth.