I have...a WonderWoman doll.If I was a better comic-book-geek I guess I'd call her an ACTION FIGURE.Or better yet,a "collector's item of the D.C comics super-heroes, WonderWoman,also known as Diana,Amazon Princess,ambassador of Truth and fighter for Justice".But I'm not,so...
...I have a WonderWoman doll.How did this come about?Why,you ask?And why now?
BECAUSE.WONDERWOMAN DOESN'T SMOKE.
I went to the local comic book shop with my excellent friend,and he bought her for me,because he understands the need,so to speak,to identify.There were three to choose from--one petite-type who looks real pretty;one less petite but more on the sex-pot side.But this one..this doll has muscles you only see on t.v.,on female bodybuilders (minus of course the unsettling newly sprouted adam's apple they get and inch thick makeup they wear to cover the acne that comes with "being on the juice").She's gorgeous,stacked,fierce,and makes no apologies for her bulging womanly muscles.And she doesn't smoke.
Barbie could have smoked.You don't look at Glam Barbie and think:wow she looks REALLY healthy,I bet she takes care of herself.No.If you're informed,you look at Barbie and think:that wench couldn't keep herself upright on any planet where there is gravity.You think:how in the name of all that's holy did my mother the feminist make peace with giving me THAT for Christmas?You think (you may not admit it but you do ) : I wish Barbie would die.Cause I'm never gonna look like her right?Right.WonderWoman on the other hand...I could look like that.I kinda do look like that.Ok maybe not the rack and the long ebony hair,but the well-placed bulk..I have some of that.
What I'm talking about here are role-models,people.I RECLAIM THE RIGHT AT AGE (whatever) TO HAVE A MADE UP ROLE MODEL.She's cool,she has integrity,she's natural,and yes,she can kick your ass.She is the captain of her own soul!She is responsible for herself--and she seems to have well-placed ideas of her status in the totality of things ;between earth and heaven - or whatever the Greeks called heaven.Of course that might be simpler for her since she's like,heard Zeus speak and all that,but I digress.
Been looking around the world,lately.No animal on earth so far as I can tell ,willingly pollutes itself,or its environment.Don't s**t where you eat,right?...only humans would need a saying for that.Anyway,I've been taking note of the things we (I) do that are totally unnatural,based on the need for strategies for coping with (my) our lives.And some of us cope better than others,but mostly it seems to me we juggle our "strategies" just so we don't get caught in a pattern by somebody who may call us on it.I am not terribly clever with the juggling bit,so my strategies are fairly apparent.And seem to only really get my attention when it starts to look as though they might kill me.And it looks that way to me now.Six months ago I could sweep it under the "later on when things aren't so stressful" rug,but I can't anymore,and I don't want to.
Someone I love said to me once that she would never again do anything to herself that would harm her.Though this may seem obvious,if you think about it,chances are you may be able to come up with at least one thing that you do that knowingly harms you.Food,cigarettes,coffee,booze,drugs (these are the obvious ones ) ,relationships,dishonesty,worrying,controlling,manipulating,womanizing,man-izing..the list goes on.It's damage.To the heart,and to the spirit.And to the covenant I made with this Higher Power of mine.And it's making a liar out of me.And I'm done.Quote me on it.Hold me to it.Don't ask me about it,ha,just put me in your prayers if you would.
Because I am (though what I want to say is that I WANT TO BE) 'capitaine' of my own soul.And I've done a crappy job,in a lot of places, of navigating this deal.The Higher Intelligence is ,let's say,Admiral or President,but I am captain.In training.And WonderWoman?I guess I can say it:she is my ambassador.In the realm of the physical.On top of my t.v.,one fist in the air,rooting for me.For courage,and for care,for peace,faith--for justice done,and justice--to my Self--that still needs doing.
Seriously man--check out the pipes on her.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
to experience some real art and some real work,go here:
http://kreddibletrout.blogspot.com/2010/02/news-have-art-will-travel.html#links
Saturday, January 30, 2010
permission permission permission
Gonna make a pennant.A banner.Hell,a flag --that says PERMISSION.
Permission.What a word.
A yielding.Of yourself,to yourself.To nothing.And then,to everything.
On the phone this morning,she says:"rest,today",I said :"how??tell me what to do,give me an itinerary,a definition,how do you do this rest thing?"She said it's taking care of yourself.Eat.Shower.Spend time with a friend,don't leave the house,eat cookies.Do nothing.
I try.It doesn't work.I said I just feel like I need permission...
Permission is what you ask for when you can't give something to yourself.Something you feel you're not allowed to have.Something as simple as quiet,as rest.And some things as great,too,as acknowledgment of who you are and what you do,what's inherent in you and the value of that.
I know some people--many people--who seem entitled,who appropriate,who try on others,steal what works and throw away what doesn't,who amalgamate--and I am envious.The envy lives in the place that tells me to own something,that I could have this walk and this flash and this show too,if only I would take on an identity that fits.But I am left with a hollow feeling,a "goddamn phonies" feeling (RIP J.D.) ,and this seems less appealing even than having no identity at all.
This is where permission comes in.What is appropriate to appropriate is my own self.What I do or can do is not who I am,but who I am is the spark of what I do.To give myself permission to be a natural born ANYTHING AT ALL--because I was naturally born with all kinds of special.Of perfect for me.Of purpose in life,I was brought into life with sparks that lit occurrences,like a poem at 11 years old,like where did that come from?
You're afraid to say you've honed it,afraid to say you've crafted,because you may just be told you're not that good.
So be it.Instead,acknowledge.Instead,value.Instead love as though you never had a doubt in your mind that you were created,all flesh and heart and artery to pump it,and that inherent too is the art and the desire and the commune-ication that pumps your soul.A soul that throbs not only for meaning in the world,but to express the coursing heated relentless inner life.And the irony is that what we emanate is the inner,that the sleeve is just an article,that the tattoo of appropriation is ink--and that the paint on my permission flag is written in my own blood and tears and song on the inside,that the wall it is to be written on is my spirit house,and all I have to do is look there,inside, to paint it.Myself.And yield .To the truth.Which is not a photograph,but a mirror.
Permission.What a word.
A yielding.Of yourself,to yourself.To nothing.And then,to everything.
On the phone this morning,she says:"rest,today",I said :"how??tell me what to do,give me an itinerary,a definition,how do you do this rest thing?"She said it's taking care of yourself.Eat.Shower.Spend time with a friend,don't leave the house,eat cookies.Do nothing.
I try.It doesn't work.I said I just feel like I need permission...
Permission is what you ask for when you can't give something to yourself.Something you feel you're not allowed to have.Something as simple as quiet,as rest.And some things as great,too,as acknowledgment of who you are and what you do,what's inherent in you and the value of that.
I know some people--many people--who seem entitled,who appropriate,who try on others,steal what works and throw away what doesn't,who amalgamate--and I am envious.The envy lives in the place that tells me to own something,that I could have this walk and this flash and this show too,if only I would take on an identity that fits.But I am left with a hollow feeling,a "goddamn phonies" feeling (RIP J.D.) ,and this seems less appealing even than having no identity at all.
This is where permission comes in.What is appropriate to appropriate is my own self.What I do or can do is not who I am,but who I am is the spark of what I do.To give myself permission to be a natural born ANYTHING AT ALL--because I was naturally born with all kinds of special.Of perfect for me.Of purpose in life,I was brought into life with sparks that lit occurrences,like a poem at 11 years old,like where did that come from?
You're afraid to say you've honed it,afraid to say you've crafted,because you may just be told you're not that good.
So be it.Instead,acknowledge.Instead,value.Instead love as though you never had a doubt in your mind that you were created,all flesh and heart and artery to pump it,and that inherent too is the art and the desire and the commune-ication that pumps your soul.A soul that throbs not only for meaning in the world,but to express the coursing heated relentless inner life.And the irony is that what we emanate is the inner,that the sleeve is just an article,that the tattoo of appropriation is ink--and that the paint on my permission flag is written in my own blood and tears and song on the inside,that the wall it is to be written on is my spirit house,and all I have to do is look there,inside, to paint it.Myself.And yield .To the truth.Which is not a photograph,but a mirror.
Evie
Evie
She declares,she shouts it out I LOVE BEIN' A GIRL!LOVE,LOVE,LOVE BEING A GIRL!
Criticisms masked as compliments( did you lose some weight?!),suppression doled out as advice..
no one telling you that the plush of your body,the place
between your legs, is of VALUE and IS connected to your soul,to your spirit and your connection to
this magic,this realm this Universe of love and possibility.That your womb,in fact is this.Not to carelessly give it away
or hate its look or mask its smell and bleeding.I was taught not to cry (stop crying,now) I was taught my self and my music
were too intense,my feelings mistaken,I was taught the more you can carry the stronger you are the better you are.And I could carry a lot--until I couldn't.
My middle name is Eve and for a woman like my mother who had a reason for everything,who hated religion,when I asked her as
an adult:why that name?She didn't know.The FIRST woman,they say.And she couldn't say why.
I love my name and will not be implanted with self-hatred.I can carry a 200 lb man with the strength of my legs and I can lift
again and I am strong again,and I will not equate muscle with masculinity.I will source not the male energy to push
myself,but the Boudicca,who can carry both a sword and a child ;I see now that I have been mistaken in this.I will not equate the bulk of my
strength with the heft and weight of mistaken self perception,of world perception that bulk is unwomanly that it is
male,that paradoxically is WEAKNESS and weakness of character.MY STRENGTH AND THE BODY IT MANIFESTS may be judged as this
infirmity of SIZE and I say f@8@k you,cuz I can lift it,cuz I can take it,cuz I can HEAL it and I can love,still,above
all.THIS is strength and this is fierce and this is brave and this is the essence--of life,of breath,of truly giving within
the danger of not receiving and the truth that I can love you and I can risk it because the SPIRIT that originates in the "girl ness" is a POWER.I am strong because I am vulnerable,because I choose to be,because compassion is the great winner over
brutality,and love is not pushing through it,but seeing,and pausing,and giving rest and credit where it's due..And "I" can hear this now because you had the strength before me to
cry
it
out.
(for Eve Ensler)
http://www.ted.com/talks/eve_ensler_embrace_your_inner_girl.html
Criticisms masked as compliments( did you lose some weight?!),suppression doled out as advice..
no one telling you that the plush of your body,the place
between your legs, is of VALUE and IS connected to your soul,to your spirit and your connection to
this magic,this realm this Universe of love and possibility.That your womb,in fact is this.Not to carelessly give it away
or hate its look or mask its smell and bleeding.I was taught not to cry (stop crying,now) I was taught my self and my music
were too intense,my feelings mistaken,I was taught the more you can carry the stronger you are the better you are.And I could carry a lot--until I couldn't.
My middle name is Eve and for a woman like my mother who had a reason for everything,who hated religion,when I asked her as
an adult:why that name?She didn't know.The FIRST woman,they say.And she couldn't say why.
I love my name and will not be implanted with self-hatred.I can carry a 200 lb man with the strength of my legs and I can lift
again and I am strong again,and I will not equate muscle with masculinity.I will source not the male energy to push
myself,but the Boudicca,who can carry both a sword and a child ;I see now that I have been mistaken in this.I will not equate the bulk of my
strength with the heft and weight of mistaken self perception,of world perception that bulk is unwomanly that it is
male,that paradoxically is WEAKNESS and weakness of character.MY STRENGTH AND THE BODY IT MANIFESTS may be judged as this
infirmity of SIZE and I say f@8@k you,cuz I can lift it,cuz I can take it,cuz I can HEAL it and I can love,still,above
all.THIS is strength and this is fierce and this is brave and this is the essence--of life,of breath,of truly giving within
the danger of not receiving and the truth that I can love you and I can risk it because the SPIRIT that originates in the "girl ness" is a POWER.I am strong because I am vulnerable,because I choose to be,because compassion is the great winner over
brutality,and love is not pushing through it,but seeing,and pausing,and giving rest and credit where it's due..And "I" can hear this now because you had the strength before me to
cry
it
out.
(for Eve Ensler)
http://www.ted.com/talks/e
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