The Birds

As I sit here in the middle of the sorority house living room floor in the middle of Nowhere'sville, Tennessee, watching The Birds, I am forced to ponder Alfred Hitchcock's brilliant mind. Not only is this film one of the first biomedical horror films (like 28 Days Later), but it is a beautiful display of feminist theory.



Birds have long been the bringers of omens (according to wikipedia). Much like the curse of Eve, when Eve's sin brought all the world's sin onto the shoulders of women (for lack of a better explanation because to get through this film I have been drinking a bit of wine), the omen of birds brings down humanity (as Hitchcock explains in his film).



Basically, I'm freaked the fuck out and am searching for answers to ease my psychological stress. Just go with it people, and watch The Birds, because it's lovely.



Scenes of importance:

At the school when the birds coat the jungle gym (OMG!)

The scene when the town catches fire. There is a lovely overhead view of the town. The gasoline line has caught fire (it's a huge freakin' phallic symbol) that happens to run into the heart of the bay area (which is shaped like a vagina). (Oh dear...)

The closing scene when they get in the car and drive away slowly through a sea of birds. (according to the jacket of the movie, 1,000 birds were used in that scene and I don't believe it. It must have been a typo--what had happened was...there were more like a gazillion!)

Gender Psychology

So, I should be writing a paper proposal on gender expression and identity to present in my Psychology of Gender seminar tomorrow. The argument for the paper is to disperse the concept of traditional gender by using lesbian relationships and communities as case-studies of non-traditional gender expression and identity. This would be used in conjunction with a research article review of gender theorists as they confound one another. The flow chart would look something like this in terms of the paper structure:

God, I love Paint. Anyway, I'm not exactly working on the paper because:

a. I'm watching Legally Blonde and catching up on my bend and snap procedure, due to the fact that:

b. My favorite smut television show (Rock of Love 2) got bumped to a later time slot and also because:

c. I'm shopping on Amazon for books (psychology books--that should totally count for something, right?).

I really really really hate Sunday night assignments. I'm just sayin'.

la vie boheme

Somewhere between Pink's Dear Mr. President and The Hot Chips, I began crying. I drove down Hwy 20 and sobbed the biggest sobs I think I've ever sobbed in my whole sobful life. Okay...my life isn't that bad; but lately it's been all discombobulated and distorted. It's become this lovely yet missrepresented study session of geometric arrays that are not always connected at a fixed point. A therapy session with no end. A neverending train ride without a food car. A rotating planet with no sunset. In other words, an illogical situation full of emotional turmoil and yet, I have no idea how I got here.

There is a selfish young woman, living alone in an expensive apartment full of stuff with framed credentials posted all over the walls. Spotless floors covered in Pottery Barn nothingness with not one item out of place. An accomplished young woman with no real friends, no close family, a huge salary and acne free skin and expensive linens and high fashion clothing filling her closet. A young woman full of anger and frustration, drinking and sleeping her weekends away. A young woman hardened to the need and the love in the world. A fearful, unhappy young woman.

Awakening every morning, but not. Eating healthfully, yet heartily eaten. Cutting off her soul to the passions that formerly drove it. A hard young woman.

I fear that I will become that young woman.

I want to make a life that is rich with passion. A life that is full of purpose but empty of clutter. A deliberate life; a life of whim and dreams and bubble baths and remembering to floss every day. I want to cry when I'm happy and smile when things aren't going quite right. I want to read Dr. Seuss and feel inspired and know that one day I'll own a Wilbur and he will love me and never resent me. Call my mom on the phone and know that there is trust. Have friends that do not resent me or feel that I'm unstable. Forget to shave my legs because it doesn't matter and wear overalls everyday that are dirty, but be surrounded by people that don't mind. I want to read when I want and write because it makes me happy, not because someone told me I had to. I want spontaneous appreciation and a nice girl who can be honest all the time know that she's not hurting me, because she wouldn't be. I want to wear pink and not feel like the enemy and run without it hurting. I want to stand on cafeteria tables and yell about humanity and sincerity without being ignored or begrudged.

"My vagina. My vagina. Well, it wants everything." --Eve Ensler

Over a bowl of soup

A huge thud at the window roused her from the best sleep she'd gotten in two years. This had better be good, she thought, as she stumbled to the window, peering outside to see who was throwing rocks at 1 am.

"Bertha!" he yelled. He? What the hell? She'd never had a male visitor outside her window throwing rocks, at least not since before she declared herself a lesbian.

"What?" she replied with a hint of annoyance in her voice, "What do you want?"

"We're hear to see you," he replied.

"Meet me at the door," she responded, stifling a yawn.

They came in the door at the bottom of the stairwell. They had forgotten their coats, and it was cold outside. Even Bertha, who was wearing flannel pajamas was cold. "Come inside, guys," she invited. They all climbed the quiet stairs with noisy feet.

"How was the beach?" she asked them.

"It was great. I have so many stories for you. How was the city?" he asked.

"It was great, but I'm so glad to be home," she answered.

They each opened a beer and sat down. Bertha got back into bed. The warm covers greeted her cold and swollen feet. She'd been waiting for this moment for so long; to be among friends without barriers and with a warm blanket.

How many of her new friends didn't have a warm blanket or a cold beer or loving friends to go home to each night. People and comforts to greet them inside their homes; an escape from the cold, harsh city. She thought of Julius; his long, graying ponytail, warm loving eyes, and Spanish accent were a huge comfort in the rawness of the soup kitchen she'd worked in for ten days. Even moreso, they were a comfort from the desperateness of life. The look on his face when he spoke of his twenty-three grandchildren. His sincerety, and the irritation he felt about the community outside of his own; the community that judged him and the disease that embodied his cells and thoughts and soul. Bertha was proud to be a member of his community, a community with compassion and hope and strength. She thought fondly of the last warm hug and friendly kiss on the cheek she had received from Julius two days prior, and tears welled in her eyes. "What did you do in New York?" The question broke her thoughts and caused the tears to retreat. "I learned a lot and I saw a lot. It was lovely. But I'm really tired," she managed to reply. They launched into stories about the beach and friends and drunken tirades. She didn't listen. All she wanted to do was live in the moments of love and compassion, but no one was there to understand. And the anticipated sense of acceptance in the room dissipated, leaving her alone and broken and blogging.