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.

Five Best Decisions I've Ever Made

As I whizzed past houses, barns and fields of cows that evening in my mad rush to my parents' home in north Georgia, the neural connections in my brain were busy at work. They moved in tune with the Postal Service beats that thumped through my car speakers. I thought a lot about life; where I am, where I've come from and where it is I think I'm going. Sometimes I make bad decisions, like that time I decided to start smoking. Or like the time I thought it would be a good idea to skip my curfew in high school because I took my mother to be understanding. I know what you're thinking, but don't worry, I have had some bright moments, and here they are:


1. That time I kicked Billy French in the nuts in kindergarten. But here's what happened for real before you think I'm a bitch of a man hater: I was going across the monkey bars, minding my own damn business. Billy walked up and started asking me a bunch of questions. So, I stopped moneky barring and started swining on the bars and was talking to him. He kept getting closer and closer to me as I was talking. Eventually, he got mad at something I was saying and grabbed my crotch, right up under my dress, stuck his dirty hand right up my skirt. I struggled and eventually fell off the monkey bars, landing on his arm. I stood up looked him in the face, he was laughing. I'll never forget the way he was laughing at my anger and my embarassment. My response: I kicked him directly in the nuts. He cried, I got in trouble but he never came near me again. I think that's when I subconsciously knew I did not like anti-feminist men, or at least fresh six year old boys.


2. Then in high school, before I made that decision to take up an unnecessary nictoine addiction, I was a member of an elite group of musicians. By elite, I mean, we were arrogant stringed instrument artists who thought the world was at our talented fingertips. Then our orchestra director moved to Ohio to chase her booty-chasing husband. I dropped out of chamber ensemble and began running long distance races. Despite my inability to run efficiently, as my coach told me, I got down to a size six, maintained a consistent tan throughout the year, learned to appreciate the power of spandex and weighed 120 pounds for about 3 years. I was in the best shape of my life both mentally and physically.



3. At the tender age of thirteen, I was suicidal and optimistic all at the same time. I fell in love with the mountains of Tennessee and developed aspirations of moving there some day to escape my family. My dream began to pan out as reality right before I turned eighteen, when I received an acceptance letter to Sewanee: The University of the South, a liberal arts university on the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee just north of the Alabama/Tennessee state line. I accepted the invitation to go to school there. I was the only student from my graduating class to choose to go to school out of state, and it was probably the best decision of my life, thus far.


4. While attending school at Sewanee, I met a community of individuals who were both talented, intelligent, spiritual and just plain fun. Within that community, I came to know who I am on many different levels. I traveled with them, drank and ate with them, cried with them, napped with them, joked with them, and of course, slept with them. It was through this community that I came to know myself as a lesbian, and it was through this community that I came out not only in terms of my sexual orientation but as a person. This was probably the third best decision of my life. The second best is below.


5. Breaking out of the community described in number 4 allowed me to come into myself fully. Breaking up with my girlfriend who I met in that community, breaking unhealthy ties to people who had mingled their identities with my own, and severing ties to the community that was forcing boundaries on my growth. A community that needed me, but a community for which I no longer required support, as the support had transformed into hindrance. In that breaking out, I have found a handful of people with which I choose to interact, support and grow. I am often lonely, but as one of them says, "it is within our fear that we learn to know ourselves, maintain our identities and grow exponentially." I choose myself.

a speech, just in case

There I was, knee-deep in emotional baggage and booze. She grabbed my hand. Hadn't we been through this? And besides, I was kicking the shit out of Little Miss Tight T-Shirt at beer pong. She misses me; this I know, but currently tight t-shirt looked really inviting. (And she knew it, too). But I was never going to get to explore her with this dead weight holding my hand. Women are inconvenient; wanting intently, leaving me broken, broke and blogging.

Finally Joe walks up, takes one look at me and knows the whole story. "Let's go get a beer out of my car," he says. "I'll be right back," I tell dead weight.

We get outside, my shoes are sticking in the effluvia-mud that is my life, and my armpits are sweaty and I'm tripping on self-induced illusions. Joe hands me a beer. "Thanks," I say.

"No problem," he replies, opening his beer and taking a sip.

I am irritated and pacing.

"You don't look so good," he takes another sip of his beer. I pop the tab on mine, "Dude, this week has been insane. I'm convinced that nearly half the world's population should be in therapy and that if I don't soon learn how to be rude and abrasive that I'll need two therapists. One for me and one for every else's problems that I get to hear about at all hours of the night," I explained.

He sips more beer, hardly looking at me. I try not to get angry. Whatever, at least he's listening to me and not trying to make me deal with his problems. But I am angry, and frustrated. I look down at my feet, embarassed. Joe takes a deep breath, I do the same.

Then, it occurs to me. I'm doing to him exactly that I'm complaining about other people doing to me. "Oh my God," I say.

"What?" he askes.

I say, "I'm turning into my mother." Joe begins to cackle.

I knew this day was inevitable. I've been waiting for it but I never thought it would happen this soon," I say. I take another sip. It's cold and icy and delicious, just as a beer should be. I take a deep breath. Joe is laughing at me. He tackles me and gives me a big Joe bear hug. The ones I never think I need, and sometimes reject, until they're happening, and then I'm floored. These are the moments I should enjoy, so I smile. Joe smiles back. We look up at the stars. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could live somewhere we're not supposed to. If we could move past the fear of it and be comfortable in the uncomfortable? You know, like flick off conventional society and problematic people and live in that place. You know the place where you just don't care because you can't anymore, but you're sort of okay with it?" I asked, thinking surely he couldn't have followed all that. My eyebrows are furrowed with hope.

"Dude, I wrote a speech on that very topic once," Joe spat out. "What? Who did you deliver the speech to?" I asked with excited eyebrows.

"No one. I just wrote it because I thought, I want to be prepared just in case someone ever asks me to deliver a speech," he explaind proudly.

I laughed heartily. I sipped his beer, non-chalantly.

Laundry is a big fat bummer

She sat on the middle of the floor of the living room in their quaint two bedroom home in the middle of the stix South Carolina (real place). The task of folding old tattered blue jeans and ill-fitting underpants daunting. Her mother sat on the newest chair next to the fireplace that produced heat she couldn't feel; not now, not for a long time, not forever. Her father would have sat there on the floor with her and made jokes about mother and the cats with their seizure disorders, but he was on vacation and had been for seven years.

The children had been in bed for quite some time, with dreams floating about in their amygdalas about swing sets and hopskotch. Their slumber slight and carefree. She longed to join them and be rid of this laundry; the laundry that permeated her thirteen year old life.

Mother fixed more wine for herself, sucking her teeth as her feet scooted across the stained, but clean, carpet. As the laundry finished itself, she, the thirteen year old parent, looked to her mother, tears welling in her graying eyes. She tried not to sniffle, tried not to interrupt the television program. Mother didn't notice a thing.

"Mom," she said meekly. There was no response. The tears surged down her young cheeks, and the urge to sniffle strengthened. "Mom," she said more urgently. Mother looked at her, "What?" Mother complained. "Mom, I'm really having a hard time here," she explained to the best of her ability. "But the laundry's finished, thank you," her mother responded, looking back to the television. The tears poured now, from the broken faucet of her blues singing soul. "Mom, I've been thinking a lot about killing myself," she said conversationally, to lighten the blow of the statement. "No, you haven't," her mother said matter-o-factly without looking at her. The thirteen year old got up, and took the laundry to the small dark hallway in the back of the sleepy house. Her feet were cold and she wanted to get in the bathtub to escape the awkwardness of the situation that she felt so overwhelmingly esponsible for causing.

Though it was full of her thoughts, the bathtub was her refuge. It contained no one and nothing but brightness and water and her trembling body. Mother never knocked. But it sure did feel lovely to let the water run all over her attention starved body. The body that is still inhabited by that wanting thirteen year old. Where is she now? I'd really like to talk to her, give her a hug and tell her that it's ok to eat too many cookies, smoke a little too much pot and have a beer to calm the problems of her world. That's what being an adult is all about, I suppose.