enabling myself

I have a twitter. Oh dear cod, what have I done? It'll annoy Rory though. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go catch the rabbit before she destroys the house.

a thinking of thoughts

So there's this article on the Daily Fail. You know I like to bitch about them. But anyway, a series of thoughts have since occured since I read it.

I do sometimes think that my depression has made me stronger and more inclined to reflect on my behaviours (when I'm ok; when I'm in a bad phase, I find it next to impossible to be rational), but I think the meds help, and the therapy does a lot towards making me able to recognise destructive behaviour (and even differentiate between when a behaviour is good or not). Definitely, otherwise I'd never be able to cope, and I honestly don't know if I'd have made it to see 2009. But then again, I wouldn't wish it on anyone....

I see the argument of depression producing creativity a lot of the time. It doesn't, not really. What creates depression, to me, either seems to be phases of mania (I thank the deity of your choice or genetic luck of the draw that I am not bi-polar, my mood swings are bad enough as it is, thankyouverymuch) or an attempt to stave off depression. I know it is with me; when I'm really low I'm not interested in creating, not motivated to wash my face and eat something that doesn't come out the freezer section at lidl, let alone make something. When I'm not depressed, creating things is a distraction method - it gives me something to think about when I'd otherwise just dwell on things, or give me a way to relax and reflect when I'm really busy (one of my triggers being stress).

Not all depressive people create. Not all depressive people see their depressive phases as a positive thing, although some do, and I can see how it might help them deal (in much the same way that having the label "depressed" has helped me). Sometime, if all they have suffered is a one-off occurance, then it may be easier to see it as a positive thing, eventually. But when it happens again, and again, and I learn to see it coming, to know what will happen to me - then I can't see it as a positive thing.

putting the L in...

I should probably admit to being woefully bad at the whole 365 thing. Sometimes its a matter of forgetting my camera, but usually its because I'm just plain shite at remembering. That and I'm crazy busy with work...

So, yes. Pictures:

Today I went to see the lovely Kirsty Hall's Pin Ritual at Prick Your Finger, which was wonderful to watch as well as beautiful to look at. As per usual, I forgot to take any pictures (especially as Kirsty is a fellow LSGer)... Although I did remember to take a picture of the Stormtroopers posing about by Longacre (apparently something to do with Orbital Comics opening another shop) when I went to get my hair cut. Mm, hair cut. As usual, my request to not have my hair razor-cut was ignored - I'm wondering if I should get a new hairdresser, but this place is cheap, which is probably top of my priority list right now. And it's not a bad cut...

I should be writing my Society, Culture and Space essay about now; I think it's starting to get to me as its all I can really think about.

Oh, and The Whitest Boy Alive told G that he liked G's scarf. Which I made for him. I feel slightly proud now...

Day Three

I fucking love mulled wine.

LSG 365...

So... yeah. I'm going to do the LSG version of Project 365 - and 'cos I'm L, it's going to be just regular pictures, not necessarily self-portraits.

This is the first one:

feminism vs domesticity

I read this in the Guardian the other day, and felt the need to write some thoughts.

Baking, sewing, knitting - all of these things are "female", they are done by women, by housewives. Or is that simply a gender role ascribed to women in their idealized role as mother and housewife? I do think these acts can be feminist - but they can also be distinctly unfeminist as well. The key to them being feminist acts is one of choice;

"what makes this modern domesticity very different to the old-fashioned kind is that it is done out of choice"

women do not need to sew, to bake, to make and mend clothes in this day and age. It is much, much easier to go down to the shops and buy your clothes and your cakes and your ready meals. I think because cookery has now been associated with craft, we have the question about the "feminist-friendliness" (for want of a better word) of modern domesticity. When we still have the Daily hateMail spewing its message that women belong in the kitchen and that we are failing if we don't cook all our meals from scratch every day we can see that the housewifely ideal has never gone away.

That said, unlike the image we feminists have of the 1950s housewife - baking and sewing because she is expected to, out of duty, not love - the modern, mildly subversive domesticity of websites The AntiCraft, Craftermath and Cut Out + Keep shows that people (not just women) use their hands and minds to create beauty and usefulness and whimsy out of joy and pleasure - because they enjoy it, because they can, because they have the time to.

Yes, I enjoy my domesticity. I choose my hobbies; I know that nobody requires, nobody expects me to make a fresh cake for tea, to darn socks or make my own curtains. I do it because I want to, and because if I don't feel like it, I can head to the supermarket and buy some cake, or a skirt, or a cardigan. Yes, I enjoy cooking for others; for me it is something I do out of love, the same as when I make Gareth socks, or my grandfather a hat, or my mother a cushion, or myself a jumper. It's something I do out of choice, and that, ultimately, is feminist.

it's been a week

I love how the BBC's latest round of nature programmes are all "the most dangerous expedition ever" to "unexplored lands". But I can't really mock them, they're fucking brilliant, mostly.


It's been a week. Or it will have been a week, tomorrow. I still miss him horribly, look for his grumpy face when I head downstairs in the morning and find myself collecting loo-rolls for his amusement (Dorris was never as interested as he was in knocking things over). The house isn't empty without him, but it does feel... less full. There's a Pete-shaped gap that I know won't be filled, but will merely become less sharp.

I hope he went happy, and I hope that he and Daphne are back together - there is a strange consolation in him leaving almost two years to the day after she did.

preserved for... thingumy

Yes, a lot of (magazine) porn portrays women as sexual objects - more so than as willing participants - but perhaps a part of staking a claim in women as sexual participants with their own ideas about sex is porn for women, through which women can say "yes, I like to look at naked men". Women have always been seen as objects and property, I think trying to give women a voice in their own sexuality is a step to reversing this.

On women's porn, when playboy did a female version (playgirl, I believe, I don't know if it still sells) the main readership was gay men. However, there have been some good women's porn out there (Sweet Action was brilliant, although I believe it's no longer in circulation); the problem seems to be that "porn for women" aims to emulate "porn for men" - the waxed-chest brigade doesn't sell for most women. I know it's interpreted as "women are just as bad", but there is a lot to be said for being more open about sexuality - and that includes porn.

yarn and landlords

So, yes, I did some crochet.

First up, and finished a fair while ago, is Angela Best's Short and Sweet which was nice and easy to make (although a few parts of the pattern seemed a little off) and I think it turned out ok:


(more pictures here)

Then, Megan Nieve's Luna Lovegood Crocheted Cardigan:





















This one was really easy to do, and I'm really happy how it worked out.


In further landlord fun... the house I wrote about a few weeks ago fell through, but now I've found somewhere else, close to rowing and with a garden - which I'm really happy about. I got home today though to find that my current landlord has been served notice because he failed to get planning permission to convert this place from a house to flats, and apparently I have to supply all sorts of information that I don't know the answer too. Oh, the roffles I have.

wot i rote, innit

I got overexcited in class and wrote a poem. I'm sad like that.

Words words words
Falling from my lips
Hanging on my tongue
Dancing from my fingers
A thousand stuttering
sibilant sarcastic
free-falling utterances
Making nonsense
Signifying nothing
Describing everything
A cascade of sounds
Tripping of tongue
Across chattering teeth
And the whisper of pen on paper.

landlords

My landlord* is an arsehole and won't be contacted. Jesus fuck, if he expects people to pay the rent he demands, he ought to make it possible for his fucking tenants to contact him so we can make sure everything is ok. What if this was a fucking emergency?

Actually, it is an emergency. He's got £600 of mine that I want back. Fucker. Anyone know how best to go about contacting him other than ringing up every Singh in London?

*The old landlord, not the one as of next weekend.

I just put the deposit down on a new flat - a very nice, big, quiet place, next to a park and with a communal garden. It's a decent walk to the shops, but I'd rather walk the dog somewhere green instead. I'm crazy like that.

Well, anyway. I'm moving next weekend. Probably the saturday, although it might be the sunday. or maybe the monday. We just don't know... because my dad's incapable of making a decision. But yes, my minions - who will help me move?

In further news, me and him and Kev and Al went to the Alternative Village Fete on the southbank, and it was good. I petted a duck and G won a book in the tombola. We drank apple juice and listened to the Bollywood Brass Band. And then we went to a wine bar and chilled out. Naturally I didn't charge my camera.

lookit, a book review.

Shere Hite - Oedipus Revisited: Sexual Behaviour in the Human Male Today

I think the first - and possibly most important thing - is that this book is basically a much shorter, slightly discursive summary of The Hite Report on Male Sexuality (Hite does these batshit huge "reports" on sexuality, building on and refuting parts of Kinsey's work, and as such is quite the Name). So... it can feel a little skim-y, like there are huge chunks missing even though it's a decent-sized book (although if the female sexuality version is anything to go by, the actual Report is a fucking tome, and not the fun kind). It is, however, readable enough; it's a bit disappointing in parts. Excuse me while I go academic, but it falls into the trap of being heteronormative and perhaps a little masculinist - Hite doesn't delve into gay sexuality or kink, nor does she consider reflections of race or class on sexuality, so her portrait can appear a little two-dimensional and limited (which leads to a criticism of generalities, although I'll kick myself in the foot by acknowledging that you have to generalise a little, and it's easy to generalise too much when you've only got so much space to deal with).

Oedipus Revisited is an interesting book, that deserves a bit of time - thankfully it's written in such a way that it is easy enough to pick up and put down, giving the reader time to reflect. I don't think it aims to be definitive; it presents a simplified version of the findings and then extrapolates a few theories. Hite's approach to the intertwining "normal" male sexuality (the myth she's spent the first 250-odd pages systematically trashing) and politics is compelling although not a particularly new one; politics is power, power is identity, and identity is sexuality, gender, race and class, to simplify things. It can appear a little jarring, the first time you're confronted with the idea, but Hite takes a little time to explore the idea (although I think she assumes her readers are familiar with the idea to begin with)

Hite is clearly more familiar with female sexuality (The Hite Report on Female Sexuality was first published in the mid-70s), and a lot of Oedipus Revisited is concerned with male reactions to female sexuality, which is mildly irritating, although equally interesting; I'd have liked more on the societal junctions and less on the clitoris, but at the same time the presentation of the myth vs reality is illuminating. My biggest criticism is that Hite assumes her readers are familiar, not just with her earlier work, but with the basics of gender theory, but Oedipus Revisited is still an interesting and informative read - if you want to take the time to digest it.

And now, back to the hook.

awsum smoothieness

Apparently I'm going through a food-fixation. Fuck you, crochet. Hello tasty snacks. I blame G and his passive-aggressive cupcakes yesterday - I now want to make food and feed people. I started with a casserole, which is simmering gently on the stove - it's middle-eastern influenced (with added sausagey goodness) and I intend to eat it with couscous later.

But my inspiration, my drive, was to make my own breakfast smoothie, a la marks and sparks. It fucking well worked too. Here goes:

• punnet of rasperries
• handful of blueberries (or more, if you want)
• pint of yogurt. I used this organic vanilla-flavoured nonsense, but according to the daily fail all women are snobs, so I'm only doing what my nature forces me to do
• bit of milk, to make it runny
  
• handful of oats

Shove the whole lot in a blender, whizz until the noise ceases to be entertaining and grates instead. Consume with relish.

Then blog about it.

further to that...

My uni appear to be actually helpful. I have an appointment tomorrow, only an initial one, but as I sent the email just after writing that post there... oooh, positivity. Proactiveness. Other good things beginning with "P".

G and I are making passive-aggressive cupcakes for his work later. yay.

all hail the nhs

So, last week, in my continued search to not go fucking mental, I went to the doctor to ask if he'd be so kind as to give me more prozac (and also make it easier for me to get said prozac, as getting an appointment is more or less impossible). He gives me a four-week supply and a single repeat prescription. Now, considering I was previously getting six months at a time... is he not being a little, well, irritating? I did explain that getting an appointment was difficult and monthly prescriptions were expensive (several times) but he's selectively deaf. Actually, I think he's just deaf.

I also asked if he could refer me to see a shrink on the nhs, as I'm too broke to pay for one myself. He asked if I'd seen a therapist before; yes, but my last uni only provided short-term therapy, I was recommended something long-term but couldn't afford it. Hence me asking again... and he looked at me like I'd grown another head. He demanded to know why I wasn't in therapy already (I thought "I've not been able to afford it" answered that) and variations on the same question several times.

Persistence paid off. I got a letter from the therapist at the local large clinic. Apparently, I can have an appointment between 10 and 1 on a Wednesday. If I ask nicely and promise to not be too much trouble (and, obviously, if my job doesn't mind me taking two hours off in the middle of the day to go sit in a room and be told "you have issues").

Can anyone else say: *head/desk*

So, I locked myself out today. Fuckin' geniarse that I am. My Brother the Boy Wonder had the spare key, but would he hand it over? Would he fuck. He's in a rehersal - fair enough. Can I come over about six? (I'm due to meet Caz and Pav in town). He might not be in. When will he be in? He doesn't know. I'm locked out, you little toad!

Dad to the rescue. He was near Boy Wonder anyway, so he picked up the key and drove it up to me. Yay Dad, you have your uses. And I still got to have a very nice natter with Caz and Pav, at the ever-wonderful CCK and now I'm home, inside, and Indigo is still asleep.


Monique is going back to Holland on Tuesday (boo) so on Wednesday we had a pre-rowing lunch in Neal's Yard, a wander about, and hit the docks about four - it was still perfect weather and glass-like water. We took photos of the boys afterwards:


Then yesterday Rory and I went shopping for G's birthday presents at Forbidden Planet (after teaching, natch) and I ended up in CCK... and bought books. I'm going to try and write reviews for their forum, and Alan very kindly gave me his wife's email address, as I'm going to ask about doing my dissertation on Spaces of Kink. Naturally.

Currently on the hook:
the skully scarf/shawl, and the second stripey sock. I'm off to watch atlantis and drink soup, because G has gone to see the Foo Fighters, and will bring me back Dave Grohl as a souvenir.

little nubbin of emmenthal

G wants his own blog post, apparently I don't talk about him enough (not that he ever reads this, he's got better things to do).

Here ya go, petal. It's half yours, there's even a photo...




















The rest of the time, I'm going to bitch about English grammar. I just want to scream "why so difficult?!?" and then burn the fucking textbooks. All those parts of speech! Who really, honestly, gives a monkeys about it?

Oh, yeah, EFL teachers. Like me.

today in news

G is back. Yay for sex and cuddles and being brought tea in bed.

I have my first exam in exactly a week. I'm worrying just enough to want to go hide under the duvet and not come out.

I'm on the heel on the second sock. So self-impressed.

Mouse infestation: day whatever, but my landlord is an arse, so I'm moving. After I find a housemate.

I've had a haircut. It's been termed the "post-cancer kylie" look. My hair is now officially brown, so I might have to dye it again.

neighbours...

This blog post is addressed to the old bat who lives round the corner from me.

Last week you had a go at me for not picking up a tiny bit of dog poo from the gutter, when my bloody greyhound had the shits and I'd run out of plastic bags. I apologised profusely, and asked if you had a plastic bag I could use. You gave me a dirty look instead, and those aren't much use, so I couldn't do anything but walk on.

Today, you see me walking Indigo, and watch me from halfway down the street (in the rain) while I pick up his poop. Yes, see, I pick up after my dog. And then I put the securely tied bag in the nearest bin. Which happens to be a wheelie bin, and not a dog-poo bin, because guess what - there are no fucking dog poo bins. The lady who lives in this house has a dog, she's seen me use her bin before, and she doesn't have a problem. You, old bat, do not need to wait until I'm walking past and shout at me. Would you like me to leave it in the street? Would you? I'd rather put his shit in a poo bin, but there isn't one. Nor do I have a wheelie bin of my own to put it in. Any bin will do at this point. It's a rubbish bin. No-one is going to be eating their dinner out of it. Now fuck off. Before I train Indigo to shit on your doorstep.