they say 'you know' and 'theres always one',
rebellion inside meant there was neither
now the sea extends beyond the horizon
in the waves I am the confident diver
Wednesday 8 August 2007
Thursday 2 August 2007
first days
today as i lounged back on a very cramped bus i thought about probably what is most peoples first introduction into the outside world-their first day of school. it is strange that it is just the photo albums of proud parents that add weight to this momentous occasion. every single person-bar those that are home schooled must go through this particular experience and yet we seldom articulate this almost universal experience and the emotions experienced alongside it. it is particularly strange we do not discuss it in books magazines newspapers etc-when one considers that we relive the first day experience many times over within the average life time. there is first day at secondary school, first day at college/university and first days at new jobs. as with all experiences each holds its unique points but i am certain there must be a collective experience/feeling or image we can recall that resonates itself with many-regardless of age, nationality etc.
I do not really recall my own first day-images are lost now as time has gone by. there are the photos-me standing beside the garage dwarfed by a sea of maroon and a smile that would light up the darkest of caves. i was so excited-little did i know how i would experience the education system in later years. its strange to see yourself so small, so enthusiastic-so naive. everything onour body looks so formal-unlike the usual grass stained grubby attire. my hair was blond then. i do not remember the journey-although i would be travelling the same route for the next 8 years and even now could walk it backwards after a night at the pub. i do remember the first entry-the room smelled of shoe polish, a dull detergent scent and the bland waft of fresh chalk. it was like stepping into a field of dark red flowers-almost immediately i could be mistaken for any of these strangers, we were all the same. i remember scanning the room-holding tightly onto my mother's hand, the previous excitement hiding in the car i had just exited. there were so many faces i had not seen before-and many of them much bigger than me. i did not like this-being the eldest child. as we opened the door everybody turned around to eye up the newcomer-there were people everywhere-in chairs, on top of desks, sitting rigidly cross-legged on the floor. they were too absorbed in idle childish chatter to pass remark-but they had already neatly fitted this new child into a category. usually at this age its not eligibility due to social background (although those children do exist) but rather "would she make a good playmate?". children are wonderful really-like us adults their self interest is blatantly evident.
you expect kindness on your first day any where-usually it is absent, although sometimes it braves the new soil at an unexpected moment. you expect to learn so much-you do, but not usually the kinds of things you expect to learn (like how to spell). you learn no matter where you are, there is always a unspoken frisson in the air-an energy never written about on work websites or in school brochures but exists independent of any enthusiastic claims. you learn almost immediately who you want to be your best friend-usually the person most inaccessible to you. you learn at later first days that the first to welcome you and include you will need to be watched at a future point.
these thoughts go unremarked upon in the photos hanging up in the hallways of family homes. the real whirls of emotion that pass through the body of a child are often forgotten about-other than by the parent who will always remember the response to "and how was your first day at school?". you live first days over and over-somehow time manages to alter them into a tapestry of a yesteryear where the colours aren't quite as bright and glorious.
I do not really recall my own first day-images are lost now as time has gone by. there are the photos-me standing beside the garage dwarfed by a sea of maroon and a smile that would light up the darkest of caves. i was so excited-little did i know how i would experience the education system in later years. its strange to see yourself so small, so enthusiastic-so naive. everything onour body looks so formal-unlike the usual grass stained grubby attire. my hair was blond then. i do not remember the journey-although i would be travelling the same route for the next 8 years and even now could walk it backwards after a night at the pub. i do remember the first entry-the room smelled of shoe polish, a dull detergent scent and the bland waft of fresh chalk. it was like stepping into a field of dark red flowers-almost immediately i could be mistaken for any of these strangers, we were all the same. i remember scanning the room-holding tightly onto my mother's hand, the previous excitement hiding in the car i had just exited. there were so many faces i had not seen before-and many of them much bigger than me. i did not like this-being the eldest child. as we opened the door everybody turned around to eye up the newcomer-there were people everywhere-in chairs, on top of desks, sitting rigidly cross-legged on the floor. they were too absorbed in idle childish chatter to pass remark-but they had already neatly fitted this new child into a category. usually at this age its not eligibility due to social background (although those children do exist) but rather "would she make a good playmate?". children are wonderful really-like us adults their self interest is blatantly evident.
you expect kindness on your first day any where-usually it is absent, although sometimes it braves the new soil at an unexpected moment. you expect to learn so much-you do, but not usually the kinds of things you expect to learn (like how to spell). you learn no matter where you are, there is always a unspoken frisson in the air-an energy never written about on work websites or in school brochures but exists independent of any enthusiastic claims. you learn almost immediately who you want to be your best friend-usually the person most inaccessible to you. you learn at later first days that the first to welcome you and include you will need to be watched at a future point.
these thoughts go unremarked upon in the photos hanging up in the hallways of family homes. the real whirls of emotion that pass through the body of a child are often forgotten about-other than by the parent who will always remember the response to "and how was your first day at school?". you live first days over and over-somehow time manages to alter them into a tapestry of a yesteryear where the colours aren't quite as bright and glorious.
Tuesday 19 June 2007
northern Ireland
just having reflections of late, I'm sure it has something to do with the amount of spare time on my hands. I am officially unemployed-but I'm not complaining as it is giving me time to reflect on what I'm at and where I am.
The love affair is still not over between Northern Ireland and I, I still get a giddiness every time I think of grabbing a car and going up north to the antrim coast, to listen to an accent that sounds more Scottish than the Scots themselves. (I really do hope no Scottish read this post, one national character trait that seems to permeate all is a pride of gigantic proportions.) I like to imagine the rolling hills of antrim and the Gothic gloom of the coastline. I've only visited once and it is almost as lovely as my mother's native Donegal.
I write this entry with reflection in mind as it seems to be a rather regular theme in my life these days (as stated above for those with a memory like mine). I am beginning to come to grips with the identity situation here in Northern Ireland, as it relates so closely to my own questions about identity. Like northern Ireland, I am Irish but bear the scars of time spent in England, including a very home counties come Irish accent. it lies so much deeper than this though. like Northern Ireland I posses a strong sense of needing to live by the rule book, yet hold a very rebellious streak inside. it is almost as if the calm kindness of the catholic faith mingles with a very British streak of duty and honour. Even in choice of music-i like to listen to spontaneous Irish traditional music with its outburst of furious spirit but love to listen to classical music-imagining graduation ceremonies in Ox bridge surrounded by the ruling classes.
As I walked the falls road yesterday, i behaved like a typical outsider-i stared in amazement at the militant irishness on display and gawped at the locals. I could have almost passed for a Protestant the way I was carrying myself. I felt like one anyhow-defensive, upright yet meek in my ways. I was also acutely aware of the British in my voice-i have become used to the way it repels the Irish up here like fly killer. sometimes i wish i could place a chain on my passport and wear it like a piece of bling around my neck to assure people I am not a land owning Hun. sadly even this would have them muttering phrases such as 'plastic paddy'.
Northern Ireland is definitely changing, but like all change it seems nearly impossible to quantify. up here, nobody wants to know unless you are the extreme version of anything-being moderate seems to lead to being isolated. unfortunately the situation in stormont at the moment reflects this.
but i believe, like John Ardagh comments in his book when talking of 'Irish' writers, the problem is not with politics as such or faith-but differences in culture. I am not a loyalist sympathiser in any shape or form but there was something very intimidating about the presentation of irishness on the falls road. the kind of presentation that would make you think if Ireland was 32 once more-history would repeat itself. Protestants would be burned out of their homes and the same hatred would continue as it does now. The move towards peace would probably consolidate itself so much more if there were a shared culture rather than two distinct and separate. I find it funny when northern Irish people say they identify with the English as opposed to the Irish- the English are a different breed all together and most remain highly ignorant of the situation in the north.
I actually do believe the tables have turned, especially in Queen's University where the Protestants tend to be so much more shy and retiring than the militant nationalists. it is a credit to the Irish that they have managed to preserve so much of their culture-language, songs etc even when their country has been occupied by a foreign force.
The love affair is still not over between Northern Ireland and I, I still get a giddiness every time I think of grabbing a car and going up north to the antrim coast, to listen to an accent that sounds more Scottish than the Scots themselves. (I really do hope no Scottish read this post, one national character trait that seems to permeate all is a pride of gigantic proportions.) I like to imagine the rolling hills of antrim and the Gothic gloom of the coastline. I've only visited once and it is almost as lovely as my mother's native Donegal.
I write this entry with reflection in mind as it seems to be a rather regular theme in my life these days (as stated above for those with a memory like mine). I am beginning to come to grips with the identity situation here in Northern Ireland, as it relates so closely to my own questions about identity. Like northern Ireland, I am Irish but bear the scars of time spent in England, including a very home counties come Irish accent. it lies so much deeper than this though. like Northern Ireland I posses a strong sense of needing to live by the rule book, yet hold a very rebellious streak inside. it is almost as if the calm kindness of the catholic faith mingles with a very British streak of duty and honour. Even in choice of music-i like to listen to spontaneous Irish traditional music with its outburst of furious spirit but love to listen to classical music-imagining graduation ceremonies in Ox bridge surrounded by the ruling classes.
As I walked the falls road yesterday, i behaved like a typical outsider-i stared in amazement at the militant irishness on display and gawped at the locals. I could have almost passed for a Protestant the way I was carrying myself. I felt like one anyhow-defensive, upright yet meek in my ways. I was also acutely aware of the British in my voice-i have become used to the way it repels the Irish up here like fly killer. sometimes i wish i could place a chain on my passport and wear it like a piece of bling around my neck to assure people I am not a land owning Hun. sadly even this would have them muttering phrases such as 'plastic paddy'.
Northern Ireland is definitely changing, but like all change it seems nearly impossible to quantify. up here, nobody wants to know unless you are the extreme version of anything-being moderate seems to lead to being isolated. unfortunately the situation in stormont at the moment reflects this.
but i believe, like John Ardagh comments in his book when talking of 'Irish' writers, the problem is not with politics as such or faith-but differences in culture. I am not a loyalist sympathiser in any shape or form but there was something very intimidating about the presentation of irishness on the falls road. the kind of presentation that would make you think if Ireland was 32 once more-history would repeat itself. Protestants would be burned out of their homes and the same hatred would continue as it does now. The move towards peace would probably consolidate itself so much more if there were a shared culture rather than two distinct and separate. I find it funny when northern Irish people say they identify with the English as opposed to the Irish- the English are a different breed all together and most remain highly ignorant of the situation in the north.
I actually do believe the tables have turned, especially in Queen's University where the Protestants tend to be so much more shy and retiring than the militant nationalists. it is a credit to the Irish that they have managed to preserve so much of their culture-language, songs etc even when their country has been occupied by a foreign force.
Tuesday 5 June 2007
home sweet home?
at home again, or am i wrong in now referring to the place where i have not lived full-time for three years as home? of course it begs the question of what makes a home and i certainly am well aware after moving about that simply living somewhere does not a home make. here in eire we can talk the talk about the Celtic tiger, european union and progression but it is a mistake to believe the small town complex has altered dramatically. today we might have the odd bistro/coffee shop littered here and there amongst dull streets, their Italian red offering a splash of colour-but people the people frequenting these new joints remain largely the same. they may drive their '06 motors and bleat into mobile phones about golfing on Sunday, but these same people still gallop into mass on a Sunday morning and still live in fear of what the locals might say. going out in a small Irish town is an experience to say the least. everybody carefully watches one another-gathering the seeds of a juicy story. they love to attack outsiders with the carefully coughed comment under the breath. as i am not from here i have tended to carefully choose my company-making sure to socialise with people who live the majority of their lives in Dublin and are open to change.
Friday 1 June 2007
job hunting
another day another post. Not quite, that makes it seem as if I happen to post every day. I have begun the soul destroying process of applying for work. employment. A job. I believe the general fear that most of us feel when doing this process goes very much untalked about. I'm not sure why, bar a few lucky footballers wives, aristrocrats and others, we all have to go out to 'put bread and butter on the table', so i don't know why we don't have a collective moan about it.
For anybody afraid of being judged, afraid of being scrutinised, afraid of being put on the spot-working life is simply not for you. this includes me. each time i click a button online, the "apply for this position" button, I break out into a cold sweat, comforted only by logging off from the website. there is something so derogatory about having to sell yourself to a nameless person in human resources, to have to lay your life bare, whilst they compare it to other more fruitful lives. I would love to write down what i really do in my spare time, it goes more along the lines of laying about in the house doing nothing as opposed to swimming and yoga. i love seeing other peoples CVs, it is possibly the best form of self harm you could possibly do. forget drinking to foget yourself on a saturday night, seeing another (more productive) person's CV is like dragging a broken bottle over your lazy soul. I remember sitting in a careers class with my rival from second level, and we had to give feedback on her CV. All 3 pages. forget quips about how cvs should only be two pages at most, I felt sickened at her fufilled and proactive life. it was like looking at the life of a saint. she smiled at my sullen face, as some sort of consellation prize. i read it to mean "maybe someday you will get your act together. like me."
in my world listening to kate bush and the ability to make a mean soup would count for something, but sadly in my wee world of northern ireland all this seems to attract is comments about "housewife suitability". i have to go now, and ring a potential employer to receive feedback on my cv. can somebody please pass me a towel to mop up the sweat?
For anybody afraid of being judged, afraid of being scrutinised, afraid of being put on the spot-working life is simply not for you. this includes me. each time i click a button online, the "apply for this position" button, I break out into a cold sweat, comforted only by logging off from the website. there is something so derogatory about having to sell yourself to a nameless person in human resources, to have to lay your life bare, whilst they compare it to other more fruitful lives. I would love to write down what i really do in my spare time, it goes more along the lines of laying about in the house doing nothing as opposed to swimming and yoga. i love seeing other peoples CVs, it is possibly the best form of self harm you could possibly do. forget drinking to foget yourself on a saturday night, seeing another (more productive) person's CV is like dragging a broken bottle over your lazy soul. I remember sitting in a careers class with my rival from second level, and we had to give feedback on her CV. All 3 pages. forget quips about how cvs should only be two pages at most, I felt sickened at her fufilled and proactive life. it was like looking at the life of a saint. she smiled at my sullen face, as some sort of consellation prize. i read it to mean "maybe someday you will get your act together. like me."
in my world listening to kate bush and the ability to make a mean soup would count for something, but sadly in my wee world of northern ireland all this seems to attract is comments about "housewife suitability". i have to go now, and ring a potential employer to receive feedback on my cv. can somebody please pass me a towel to mop up the sweat?
Tuesday 29 May 2007
unfinished poem for yeats
Dear Yeats
The greatest love endured
tumultuous times of war,
And Ireland was now celebrated
in ways not seen before
Your eyes coloured by ideals
told magic mystical tales-
Of grand Lissadell House,
and epic beauty beyond the pale
I have often dreamt of Ben Bulben,
smudged glossy white with snow
or imagined Glencar's waterfall,
roaring furiously as it flowed.
My eyes have fixed gaze upon
Maud Gonne's handsome face-
And since then I never question
Your passion and its place
for Diarmuid and Grainnes realm
The greatest love endured
tumultuous times of war,
And Ireland was now celebrated
in ways not seen before
Your eyes coloured by ideals
told magic mystical tales-
Of grand Lissadell House,
and epic beauty beyond the pale
I have often dreamt of Ben Bulben,
smudged glossy white with snow
or imagined Glencar's waterfall,
roaring furiously as it flowed.
My eyes have fixed gaze upon
Maud Gonne's handsome face-
And since then I never question
Your passion and its place
for Diarmuid and Grainnes realm
Friday 11 May 2007
Words of a severing nature
I haven't blogged in a while mostly due to different reasons, the majority being related to the exams coming up next week. i feel a mixture of emotion at this time, my years of university life are coming to a premature end. I feel delighted in some respects-the university poverty will not be missed by me. on the other, i miss miss the protective cocoon that uni life brings, the assumption that you are somewhat invincible and untouchable by the big, bad world. the little responsibility is worn like a crucifix by Madonna in the 1980s.
i have begun a new relationship, this time with somebody from a different cultural background. this always makes for a cacophony of excitement-you can feel like a princess about to escape her drab grey existence to a colourful new world. I'm sure that's how Victoria beckham feels at the moment with her new LA life. its strange how fraught the first few weeks of a relationship feels-its like you are on the beach, a very dry gritty beach, and no matter how you position yourself, these minuscule worries attach themselves and refuse to wash off. it is not really acknowledged-the little fears that accompany any formulated thought that becomes articulated. people only speak about "being swept off my feet" or that buzz you get when you think to yourself "this could be the one".
its not like that for me. its like I'm on a horse and I'm scared at some moment the horse is going to buck. its rather exciting though; its quite enjoyable in ways. Its rather exhilarating when you have not yet discovered some body's faults. Its like when you are eating a chocolate bar and you don't like the nuts. you eat them anyway as overall it tastes so delicious. or you simply begin to drill away at it, removing any unpleasantries. either way, the chocolate bar is still a brilliant experience.
of course that is until you begin to start hear what i like to term words of severance. the words of severance,found copiously in land law cause a party to the proceedings to become alienated. and if you are on the receiving end of the words of severance, that, my friend is you. you lose your vested interest, whatever it may be.
words of severance cause you to think/believe/see, that despite your utterances to friends about said persons perfection, that person is, well, not perfect. in fact, after words of severance you come to the realisation that they are
a) a psycho
b) have issues
c) not that into you..you are good only for a good time
d) all of the above
Then you are back where you begun, on the heap. Its rather sad to resign yourself to that, before the age of 30. I'd like to recall Brigitte Bardot's quotes as peace of mind
"I gave my beauty and my youth to men. I am going to give my wisdom and experience to animals. "
"Men are beasts and even beasts don't behave as they do"
i have begun a new relationship, this time with somebody from a different cultural background. this always makes for a cacophony of excitement-you can feel like a princess about to escape her drab grey existence to a colourful new world. I'm sure that's how Victoria beckham feels at the moment with her new LA life. its strange how fraught the first few weeks of a relationship feels-its like you are on the beach, a very dry gritty beach, and no matter how you position yourself, these minuscule worries attach themselves and refuse to wash off. it is not really acknowledged-the little fears that accompany any formulated thought that becomes articulated. people only speak about "being swept off my feet" or that buzz you get when you think to yourself "this could be the one".
its not like that for me. its like I'm on a horse and I'm scared at some moment the horse is going to buck. its rather exciting though; its quite enjoyable in ways. Its rather exhilarating when you have not yet discovered some body's faults. Its like when you are eating a chocolate bar and you don't like the nuts. you eat them anyway as overall it tastes so delicious. or you simply begin to drill away at it, removing any unpleasantries. either way, the chocolate bar is still a brilliant experience.
of course that is until you begin to start hear what i like to term words of severance. the words of severance,found copiously in land law cause a party to the proceedings to become alienated. and if you are on the receiving end of the words of severance, that, my friend is you. you lose your vested interest, whatever it may be.
words of severance cause you to think/believe/see, that despite your utterances to friends about said persons perfection, that person is, well, not perfect. in fact, after words of severance you come to the realisation that they are
a) a psycho
b) have issues
c) not that into you..you are good only for a good time
d) all of the above
Then you are back where you begun, on the heap. Its rather sad to resign yourself to that, before the age of 30. I'd like to recall Brigitte Bardot's quotes as peace of mind
"I gave my beauty and my youth to men. I am going to give my wisdom and experience to animals. "
"Men are beasts and even beasts don't behave as they do"
Tuesday 1 May 2007
the heaney poem as promised
Northern reticence, the tight gag of place
And times:yes, yes. Of the 'wee six' I sing
Where do be saved you must only save face
And whatever you say, you say nothing
Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed compared with us.
Manoeuvrings to find our name and school,
sutble discrimination by addresses
with hardly an exception to the rule
And times:yes, yes. Of the 'wee six' I sing
Where do be saved you must only save face
And whatever you say, you say nothing
Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed compared with us.
Manoeuvrings to find our name and school,
sutble discrimination by addresses
with hardly an exception to the rule
Wednesday 25 April 2007
And another one
Advice
My mother, ever brave and cautious
always warned "kisses aren't contracts".
But I, young, and not yet malicious
discarded this salacious fact.
Now I have kissed, and maybe more;
realised the value of her truth.
Some kiss to add to personal scores
Others kiss to keep barriers smooth.
My mother, ever brave and cautious
always warned "kisses aren't contracts".
But I, young, and not yet malicious
discarded this salacious fact.
Now I have kissed, and maybe more;
realised the value of her truth.
Some kiss to add to personal scores
Others kiss to keep barriers smooth.
some poems of late
In pub, Musing on the end of a Love
These drinks we drink, together
the songs I hear you hum,
the stories you tell so animated-
where go they, when I'm gone?
Our steps are now erased by the rain,
the glasses we drank from now washed,
The room where we slept sound now emptied-
and the memory of your kiss, now lost.
These drinks we drink, together
the songs I hear you hum,
the stories you tell so animated-
where go they, when I'm gone?
Our steps are now erased by the rain,
the glasses we drank from now washed,
The room where we slept sound now emptied-
and the memory of your kiss, now lost.
Tuesday 17 April 2007
whas' the story?
I managed a trip up to the big smoke yesterday, or as displaced dubs call it "town". It was refreshing to be in Dublin after a long spell away, not owing to my general resentment felt when eyes fall upon the rather grand Trinity College. On the Bus Eireann bus up (read 'hell') I noticed things had changed since my last trip on the N3. Somehow, in the last few years, people have discovered the silent control on the phone. I remember bus journeys of yest er years-crazy frog dominated my attempts at reading. People hollowed down their mobile devices "Yeah man..almost in town now. Traffic bleedin' awful" or "Mam I'm on the bus, can ya meet me in Kells?"It was enough to make you remove yourself from the highly uncomfortable chewing gum laced seat and holler "yes, you are on public transport". It was like being in the middle of a nightclub, only without the ringing ears after; scratchy polyphonic ring tones broke out every couple of minutes-updating me on what is 'hip'. Youngsters giggled as they crowded around each others mobiles and extracted the text messages sent by the opposite sex-often in pleasantly graphic detail. It was like being in Sex and the City, without all the fabulous clothes and hip New York eateries. It also had that distinctly Irish take on sexual activity-what can't be passed around is not worth doing. read that statement many ways.
Now the bus is as quiet as a monastery, with the country and western on the radio being the drivers form of gospel. of course you get the odd renegade left winger driver who insists on blasting a phone in on oral sex with angry inner city dubs mouthing off about 'young people today'. these are sadly bus drivers in the minority though. you would barely hear a cough, and, if so it would be from the local drunk on his way home from the out of town boozer. which of course begs the question "why must he drink out of town?"some things really are best kept private, unless you want to go home bleeding into your mouth and smelling of freshly distributed urine. it is as if mobile phones have degenerated into the rubbish often found stuffed into the sides of the seats. which of course, is a good thing. when one feels queasy travelling and highly sleep deprived, one does not want to know what ciara got up to with Johnny behind the parish church. even if Johnny happens to be your rogue cousin who is due a good telling off by the mammy.
Now the bus is as quiet as a monastery, with the country and western on the radio being the drivers form of gospel. of course you get the odd renegade left winger driver who insists on blasting a phone in on oral sex with angry inner city dubs mouthing off about 'young people today'. these are sadly bus drivers in the minority though. you would barely hear a cough, and, if so it would be from the local drunk on his way home from the out of town boozer. which of course begs the question "why must he drink out of town?"some things really are best kept private, unless you want to go home bleeding into your mouth and smelling of freshly distributed urine. it is as if mobile phones have degenerated into the rubbish often found stuffed into the sides of the seats. which of course, is a good thing. when one feels queasy travelling and highly sleep deprived, one does not want to know what ciara got up to with Johnny behind the parish church. even if Johnny happens to be your rogue cousin who is due a good telling off by the mammy.
Sunday 15 April 2007
the epiphany..continued
its a dull mild Sunday evening and outside the birds are indulging in whimsical conversation. it never fails me how they manage to sound so upbeat all the time, so optimistic. i came on here to detail the epiphany produced by good Friday mass, and it wasn't from the priest talk. As i looked around me at all the women in their wonderfully bright clothing, I began to feel chirpy about being back at home. not so, when I looked at their faces. everybody had that nervous cautious gaze glued on, peppered with a nasty air of cool arrogance. the people were literally twisting around to gulp in the room and work out who's who and what is what. And my, had it taken its toll. i saw girls i went to school with who were so beautiful and fine featured then, who had now become fearful and bitter. so much for the Celtic tiger. things haven't really changed in Ireland. we are still living in small towns, desperately clinging onto our reputations, fearing the institutions of power. where I live, the institution of power is not so much a building or place as such, but rather the fear that lurks inside each towns person-a fear of losing other peoples respect for the clan by any wrong move. they live, just as I did at school, like fish flung out of water-gasping for life yet resigning themselves to the terror of the wrath of others. its written in elaborate fountain pen on their faces-the tight facial expressions and loose tongues when socialising after mass. everybody has their place in this town and you are dammed if you dare reject it. its a sad existance.
Aside from a subjective glance on Ireland I believe I may have found myself a new love shape. its early days yet-do not wish to post until I know more about him and I, and us. But my fear of death has slowly subsided as I now look forward to maybe building something with somebody new. he does not come from the same cultural background, so the exploration should make for interesting blogging. i'll keep you up to date :)
Aside from a subjective glance on Ireland I believe I may have found myself a new love shape. its early days yet-do not wish to post until I know more about him and I, and us. But my fear of death has slowly subsided as I now look forward to maybe building something with somebody new. he does not come from the same cultural background, so the exploration should make for interesting blogging. i'll keep you up to date :)
Tuesday 10 April 2007
catholic church...
Easter weekend has just passed us and with it left the weather that cheered up many and caused many to lose much of their clothes. I came to the sticks on the Friday with the intention of indulging in some solitude and hitting the law books with a rare passion that is not seen in Belfast with all its distractions. like botanic gardens for example. of course, the moment I got home the sister began to ask 'favours', this time it was "come to mass with me, please". I agreed, tentatively realising that we were already twenty minutes late-this kind of thing is not down with the local peoples of where we live. these people, whilst claiming to be god fearing catholics, spend most of the mass with eyes like spiders checking out 'the turn out'. in fact I'm convinced there is some sort of mating game going on. the clans come out impeccably dressed and the mammy checks out suitable companions for her lovely children by scanning the isles pew by pew and asking "and what does that one do there?her mammy's a doctor isn't she?she'd make a right good wife for you".
as we were late we sheepishly stood at the back of the church in the porch area, shuffling our feet and straining our ears to hear the godly words of the priest. like all catholic masses, the words are not short of epic..something along the lines of "people are too selfish these days. yousua are going to hell". Yes, Father. And your fellow clergymen can meet us down there for a party seeing as they've booked a one way ticket down there with all their philandering. I positioned myself behind the door which had stained glass windows. I figured this was the best foot forward..I could see the pantomime, but the pantomime couldn't see me. therefore I could create endless yards of gossip without even actually having do anything.
As the priest droned on I had to find ways of entertaining myself, so as always I looked around me to see what metaphors I could pick up on. there was one just in front of me. The stained glass. A rather pretty stained glass window I might add. its colours were red, blue and purple. the usual stained glass window, pretty without intimidating its admirers with ostentatious skill. maybe I've become desensitised to the skills of staining glass though. I looked through the glass at the rows of people, bowing their heads in prayer as if the world was going to end tomorrow and entry into heaven was based on what you done the day before.
No matter which pane of glass I looked through, the world inside the church looked grey and pallid. which in turn, bar the brightness of womens clothing made the people look unhappy and lifeless. it was an epiphany for me, of sorts. i will continue this post later :)
as we were late we sheepishly stood at the back of the church in the porch area, shuffling our feet and straining our ears to hear the godly words of the priest. like all catholic masses, the words are not short of epic..something along the lines of "people are too selfish these days. yousua are going to hell". Yes, Father. And your fellow clergymen can meet us down there for a party seeing as they've booked a one way ticket down there with all their philandering. I positioned myself behind the door which had stained glass windows. I figured this was the best foot forward..I could see the pantomime, but the pantomime couldn't see me. therefore I could create endless yards of gossip without even actually having do anything.
As the priest droned on I had to find ways of entertaining myself, so as always I looked around me to see what metaphors I could pick up on. there was one just in front of me. The stained glass. A rather pretty stained glass window I might add. its colours were red, blue and purple. the usual stained glass window, pretty without intimidating its admirers with ostentatious skill. maybe I've become desensitised to the skills of staining glass though. I looked through the glass at the rows of people, bowing their heads in prayer as if the world was going to end tomorrow and entry into heaven was based on what you done the day before.
No matter which pane of glass I looked through, the world inside the church looked grey and pallid. which in turn, bar the brightness of womens clothing made the people look unhappy and lifeless. it was an epiphany for me, of sorts. i will continue this post later :)
Thursday 5 April 2007
why don't they teach you these things in school?
Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.La Bruyere
We make our fortunes, and we call them fate.Earl of Beaconsfield
Life's a voyage that's homeward bound.Herman Melville
It requires less character to discover the faults of others than is does to tolerate them.J. Petit Senn
We make our fortunes, and we call them fate.Earl of Beaconsfield
Life's a voyage that's homeward bound.Herman Melville
It requires less character to discover the faults of others than is does to tolerate them.J. Petit Senn
the past
i just finished a good book last night. well when I say good I mean it had a level of enjoyment and it was quite simple to read. It was called 'Protestant Boy' and is a memoir about life in North Belfast in the 1960s. I am trying to find out as much as I can about Belfast, this city is so fascinating, and memoirs from the people who know it best seem a good place to start. on the first page the book opens with a poem by Seamus heaney about the unique nature of northern Ireland. i will post some of this poem at a later date.
the book ambled along at a nice steady pace and I liked this very much after all the taxing law work that needs to be done. there seems to be, like many books set in or inspired by northern Ireland, a theme of identity weaving its way through every word, every sentence. the book, towards the final page holds one of the most poignant sentences i have ever read. it goes as follows 'at night sometimes I caught a glance at myself in the mirror and I realised I didn't need to travel to see the past'.
this particularly resonates with me. I watch my parents-now from a distance, and see how they are slowly morphing into their own parents. in the most subtle ways of course. My dad, just like his mother insists on cleaning the kitchen constantly at the weekends. early morning the sound of RTE 1 seeps through the walls of every room in the house merrily accompanied by the crash of dirty dishes as they are plunged in hot water and forcibly cleaned. just like my grandmother in England who shines her plates and irons socks, bellowing through the house in a sharp cork accent.
this tiny idiosyncrasies make up a history of people who then made me. somehow coming together through love they reproduced and blended together creating new life. when you consider what has come before you it is much easier to forget the fear of being forgotten- as i detailed in an earlier post. the past seems to be strongly present in my life at present-many conversations with friends and family center around genealogy. I undertook a little bit of research into the meaning of names and found out my mother's family have been in donegal since the 4th century A.D. Her christian name roughly translates as the 'harvester'-very apt to her personality. she reaped and sowed love in her role as a mother. When I told her her translation she informed me that she had married my father on the harvest festival. now the autumn will always have a different meaning for me.
the book ambled along at a nice steady pace and I liked this very much after all the taxing law work that needs to be done. there seems to be, like many books set in or inspired by northern Ireland, a theme of identity weaving its way through every word, every sentence. the book, towards the final page holds one of the most poignant sentences i have ever read. it goes as follows 'at night sometimes I caught a glance at myself in the mirror and I realised I didn't need to travel to see the past'.
this particularly resonates with me. I watch my parents-now from a distance, and see how they are slowly morphing into their own parents. in the most subtle ways of course. My dad, just like his mother insists on cleaning the kitchen constantly at the weekends. early morning the sound of RTE 1 seeps through the walls of every room in the house merrily accompanied by the crash of dirty dishes as they are plunged in hot water and forcibly cleaned. just like my grandmother in England who shines her plates and irons socks, bellowing through the house in a sharp cork accent.
this tiny idiosyncrasies make up a history of people who then made me. somehow coming together through love they reproduced and blended together creating new life. when you consider what has come before you it is much easier to forget the fear of being forgotten- as i detailed in an earlier post. the past seems to be strongly present in my life at present-many conversations with friends and family center around genealogy. I undertook a little bit of research into the meaning of names and found out my mother's family have been in donegal since the 4th century A.D. Her christian name roughly translates as the 'harvester'-very apt to her personality. she reaped and sowed love in her role as a mother. When I told her her translation she informed me that she had married my father on the harvest festival. now the autumn will always have a different meaning for me.
Tuesday 3 April 2007
belfast love (lust)
the sun is bellowing through the windows and blinds of the library today here in Belfast. this is the type of day that in its optimism, makes you feel thankful to be alive. today is one of those days(what a grand statement considering Belfast's usual broadcast) that you could imagine sitting by the riverbank of the lagan, dipping your toes in whilst the nearby willow branches tickle your back when the wind blows. you can complete this idyllic picture with the smooth presence of a Mr. Darcy type, gently leaning back against the trunk of an ancient, the sole of his expensive shoe placed flat upon the bottom of the steady trunk, near where the roots weave their way into the soil.
the roots could be a metaphor for your love, they twist together elegantly, exposing themselves to passers by but mostly their work and purpose is buried into the cool moist earth. they may dance and slither, erotically curved in their paths in daylight above ground; but the real substance lies unseen, hidden.
i could not fall asleep for a long time, i discovered a fact yesterday that bothers me very much. it snaked its way into my meditations before sleep and insisted on passing into whatever i dreamt about. i know this, as when i woke this morning, i had managed to smash the glass on my bedside table. the water had dribbled all over the sheets.
i undertook a little bit of research online yesterday evening (all in the name of love might I add) and I came upon the fact that somebody I fell for not so long ago has very shady connections here in northern Ireland. I despise using the word shady as it implies that everybody sees him as a dodgy character. to the contrary-he is a hero in many parts of Belfast and possibly elsewhere in the world.
when i first met him i was struck by his arrogance. I intensely disliked it, but went with it as dislike can often turn into extreme passion for women and men. I was astounded by it, but also secretly delighted. i argued with a male friend about arrogance lately, with this particular person in mind. my trail of thought or rather line of argument centred around the premise, it is the the arrogance that women love-rather the associations with it. by this i meant career success, money, confidence, sexual prowess, and masculinity. i do not mean that these were the things i liked in him, rather, i liked what possibly hinted underneath- a vulnerability and a need to impress.
he was an extremely passionate kisser, but was well aware of this particular charisma. i knew this yet enjoyed how those kisses leapt out for me. i had not been kissed like that in a long time. we did not go to bed together, and I did not see him again.
we talked many things together, among them, family. I imagined them-so proud knowing they have played a substantial role in this province. they will be written about in years to come and children will read the narratives of history and wonder who these people were. they may wonder who loved them, or who they loved. i would love a man like him, but in the end, it would be a fruitless love. we know only different things, and i do not know what it is to love a country so fiercely.
the roots could be a metaphor for your love, they twist together elegantly, exposing themselves to passers by but mostly their work and purpose is buried into the cool moist earth. they may dance and slither, erotically curved in their paths in daylight above ground; but the real substance lies unseen, hidden.
i could not fall asleep for a long time, i discovered a fact yesterday that bothers me very much. it snaked its way into my meditations before sleep and insisted on passing into whatever i dreamt about. i know this, as when i woke this morning, i had managed to smash the glass on my bedside table. the water had dribbled all over the sheets.
i undertook a little bit of research online yesterday evening (all in the name of love might I add) and I came upon the fact that somebody I fell for not so long ago has very shady connections here in northern Ireland. I despise using the word shady as it implies that everybody sees him as a dodgy character. to the contrary-he is a hero in many parts of Belfast and possibly elsewhere in the world.
when i first met him i was struck by his arrogance. I intensely disliked it, but went with it as dislike can often turn into extreme passion for women and men. I was astounded by it, but also secretly delighted. i argued with a male friend about arrogance lately, with this particular person in mind. my trail of thought or rather line of argument centred around the premise, it is the the arrogance that women love-rather the associations with it. by this i meant career success, money, confidence, sexual prowess, and masculinity. i do not mean that these were the things i liked in him, rather, i liked what possibly hinted underneath- a vulnerability and a need to impress.
he was an extremely passionate kisser, but was well aware of this particular charisma. i knew this yet enjoyed how those kisses leapt out for me. i had not been kissed like that in a long time. we did not go to bed together, and I did not see him again.
we talked many things together, among them, family. I imagined them-so proud knowing they have played a substantial role in this province. they will be written about in years to come and children will read the narratives of history and wonder who these people were. they may wonder who loved them, or who they loved. i would love a man like him, but in the end, it would be a fruitless love. we know only different things, and i do not know what it is to love a country so fiercely.
Saturday 24 March 2007
a further intro to the intro
I'm at home this weekend(this intro is very patricia williams by the way), eating pringles and perfecting my slob persona. i can't bring myself to study, so i've taken instead to surfing music channels and checking my hotmail once every half hour for updates. this would be an effective use of time if it weren't for the fact that only two people have my hotmail address and both are away from their computers this weekend.
i did begin a prayer for owen meany yesterday on my train and bus journey home so i'm not completely absolved from mind usage this weekend. the volumes of coke i am drinking might change that though. the christian references throughout the book are causing two distinct reactions. one is a guilty sensation beginning in the stomach and working its way up to the conscience, stemming from the reminder of how little scripture I've read in my short lifetime. i am still very reluctant to give up the catholic 'tag' despite the fact the pews in my 'local' have not been graced/dammed with my presence in a very long time, and i don't know where my bible is. nor do i care, unless it is 2 am and my mind is racing with the thought of actually having to go to sleep.
going to sleep means having to wake up, which seems a pointless activity to me. why do something so you can return to doing what you were doing before the act?sleep tends to make me tired. returning to the original reflection i was attempting to make, that book-like all other literature, encouraged me to think. you see, thinking really means 'confronting'. i had to confront the fact the book evoked in me a strong urge to be schmaltzy with my friends and family. schmaltzy? i don't know what that means but it is very American Bronx isn't it?you could imagine some mafia members over an Italian supper fiddling with their guns, and when one member mentions his 'chick', another snarling a heavily accented 'none of that schmaltz'. the snarl would come from a hat tipped face shrouded in darkness.
in Ireland(not that that corresponds with being more logical according to the 1970s oxford dictionary) i believe i mean closely tied to, or affectionate. literature(just some kinds) always reminds me of my own mortality(yes that again). Although literature(read widely-Ann rule is literature to me) always scares and delights me both at once. art makes me feel ecstatic, but also dreadfully scared. my mind(and often my mouth too)starts uttering fears of general incompetence, envy that i cannot write like the 'greats' and fear that unlike the 'greats' i am going to disappear into obscurity.
of course i could just watch 'it's a wonderful life' again, any fears could be brushed away into the fire ashes once more. I could console myself with thoughts of all the lives i have touched, even when it seemed insignificant to me. like the time i allowed somebody to walk through the door of castlecourt shopping centre before me, and by doing that i inadvertently saved their life. due to their further existence, they managed something spectacular and won a Nobel prize. due to my manners, i could be accredited in some small way to this greatness.
i suppose it does sound good. but deep down, the ambition in me is crying out for a task to carry out. it is the bird that Emily Dickinson calls hope, only in my soul the bird is a vulture known as ego.
speaking of ego, i am reminded of what was a life defining moment for me. like all life defining moments not involving self induced epiphanies, mine came about by interaction with another person. it was a turning point. for a couple of years i was a scared feminist, but this 'moment' made me want to be what some people call some women. 'bolshy'. I'm guessing it means fun and fearless (thanks cosmopolitan), and for the purposes of this blog this is exactly what it means. there is no subsequent female, i like my words genderless. to say bolshy female suggests two things. one is that there are no bolshy men, and the other, that female alone cannot imply fun and fearless. bolshy sounds like something a cushion would be, and i like my cushions to bounce back up when sat on.
i will detail this next blog, and will sign off with a quote taken from a 'schmaltzy' book of wisdom
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!live the life you've imagined!"
Thoreau
i did begin a prayer for owen meany yesterday on my train and bus journey home so i'm not completely absolved from mind usage this weekend. the volumes of coke i am drinking might change that though. the christian references throughout the book are causing two distinct reactions. one is a guilty sensation beginning in the stomach and working its way up to the conscience, stemming from the reminder of how little scripture I've read in my short lifetime. i am still very reluctant to give up the catholic 'tag' despite the fact the pews in my 'local' have not been graced/dammed with my presence in a very long time, and i don't know where my bible is. nor do i care, unless it is 2 am and my mind is racing with the thought of actually having to go to sleep.
going to sleep means having to wake up, which seems a pointless activity to me. why do something so you can return to doing what you were doing before the act?sleep tends to make me tired. returning to the original reflection i was attempting to make, that book-like all other literature, encouraged me to think. you see, thinking really means 'confronting'. i had to confront the fact the book evoked in me a strong urge to be schmaltzy with my friends and family. schmaltzy? i don't know what that means but it is very American Bronx isn't it?you could imagine some mafia members over an Italian supper fiddling with their guns, and when one member mentions his 'chick', another snarling a heavily accented 'none of that schmaltz'. the snarl would come from a hat tipped face shrouded in darkness.
in Ireland(not that that corresponds with being more logical according to the 1970s oxford dictionary) i believe i mean closely tied to, or affectionate. literature(just some kinds) always reminds me of my own mortality(yes that again). Although literature(read widely-Ann rule is literature to me) always scares and delights me both at once. art makes me feel ecstatic, but also dreadfully scared. my mind(and often my mouth too)starts uttering fears of general incompetence, envy that i cannot write like the 'greats' and fear that unlike the 'greats' i am going to disappear into obscurity.
of course i could just watch 'it's a wonderful life' again, any fears could be brushed away into the fire ashes once more. I could console myself with thoughts of all the lives i have touched, even when it seemed insignificant to me. like the time i allowed somebody to walk through the door of castlecourt shopping centre before me, and by doing that i inadvertently saved their life. due to their further existence, they managed something spectacular and won a Nobel prize. due to my manners, i could be accredited in some small way to this greatness.
i suppose it does sound good. but deep down, the ambition in me is crying out for a task to carry out. it is the bird that Emily Dickinson calls hope, only in my soul the bird is a vulture known as ego.
speaking of ego, i am reminded of what was a life defining moment for me. like all life defining moments not involving self induced epiphanies, mine came about by interaction with another person. it was a turning point. for a couple of years i was a scared feminist, but this 'moment' made me want to be what some people call some women. 'bolshy'. I'm guessing it means fun and fearless (thanks cosmopolitan), and for the purposes of this blog this is exactly what it means. there is no subsequent female, i like my words genderless. to say bolshy female suggests two things. one is that there are no bolshy men, and the other, that female alone cannot imply fun and fearless. bolshy sounds like something a cushion would be, and i like my cushions to bounce back up when sat on.
i will detail this next blog, and will sign off with a quote taken from a 'schmaltzy' book of wisdom
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams!live the life you've imagined!"
Thoreau
Thursday 22 March 2007
introduction (credits)
Nobody will ever win the Battle of the Sexes. There's just too much fraternizing with the enemy. ~Henry Kissinger
Its an unusually mild morning in Belfast so I got up early to enjoy the relative warmth of the student house. late last night i done my usual worrying, accompanied by christy Moore in my ears. usually I just think about all the men in my life and then the general question of "what am I doing with my life". i have vague goals, mostly revolving around my fear of disappearing forever into the ground with no mention made of me again. i keep thinking the way forward might be to start doing cave wall art, so in thousands of years time people will speculate who i was and my existence. i would quite like that they discuss what kind of clothing i was likely to have worn.not animal skins sweetie.
i suppose the world has moved on from cave wall art times and into the galleries. I'm not sure Charles Saatchi would care for my general vague comparisons, but then why should he care?he is eating Nigella Lawson- the original earthy goddess. complete with plum accent and incredibly glossy hair. the cave walls are apt because of the cave man euphemism (is that the right word?) that is often associated as the 'creator'. cave men are still ever present in my life. from the pages of my library of self help books (there they are from mars) to the nightclubs i frequent at night-they are everywhere and yes I am a lady of the night. in the nightclubs they pummel whatever piece of female body that comes their way, followed with bellows of 'yeah!' and 'biatch!'. articulate and knowledgeable, they never fail to hit the spot. precisely the polka 'spots' on my brand new shoes as they swagger around.
I stereotype, but instead of losing sleep at night I've decided to be 'constructive'. seeing as i live in a world where you always have to be doing(read openly), seeing and going, being 'bored' is simply not allowed. (i read an article about this in the zine 'the vacuum' last night-i love cutting and pasting). constructive pursuits (read night classes, sporting activity) are De rigeur is one is to be seen as having a purposeful life. therefore i create this blog with the intention of documenting my half-arsed confused feminist thoughts. emphasis on the confused please. the point of my life is something i grapple with on a daily basis (whilst completing my degree) but i am not different from any other student. this blog is a postmodern exercise (read-no intellect-its all about the experience) about finding love as a young feminist. there isn't much love, note, but there is plenty of the much stereotyped anger. laugh out loud.
i am young, but old enough to know the feminist movement cannot die on my generation. we may reap the rewards but there is still plenty more to achieve. I hate the word feminist though, socialisation helps me equate it with 'dirty'. I suppose i am a child of the noughties after all, where it's not cool to say you are (hush hush) a feminist. after all, aren't we equal?
that notion 'equality' makes me submit a wheeze and a sneer together. that is the really dirty word in this equation. but feminism, is perhaps one area of academic thought that really gets the mind going like a Ferrari. in my teenage years (i am only a baby though so no nostalgia here) it was the female voices coming out from the pages of a well thumbed book that made me feel i was not alone in my observations. originally i had thought, on inspection of 'the way things are', it was i(small town girl) with the problem. these women(hate that word) made me almost weep with the ecstatic thought that i was not 'wrong' as my peers told me.
this is all becoming slightly Americanised(that just came up with a capital in spellcheck-post modernists take note) peppered with pop psychology throughout. I've painted myself as a tortured soul seeking solace in the heavy weights of intellect. not so much as just coming to the realisation that change still has to take place. i was told 'you can't have your cake and eat it too'. that is a very annoying proverb but one that is rather relevant when talking of the women's movement in contemporary terms. i am constantly told that there is something wrong with my logic. I'm at university, world is your oyster (gritted teeth), things have changed. they have changed alright.
Ariel Levy's book 'Female chauvinist pigs' is probably the book that has resonated with my own observations most. We are living in a raunch culture and there appears to be no escape unless you are a fan of the hot wax. we are a confused generation, and i would like my personal subjective experiences here in northern Ireland to illustrate that. believe me, there are few men, who when they say they 'love women' mean they love 'women'. what they mean is they love 'what a women should represent to them'. dating sites are full of men who 'love women'. did you ever read the poem about the red light on some body's head post-sex?i will post the name of the poem in a later post. these men should come with a sign 'approach with caution'.
Men will often admit other women are oppressed but not you. ~Sheila Rowbotham
Its an unusually mild morning in Belfast so I got up early to enjoy the relative warmth of the student house. late last night i done my usual worrying, accompanied by christy Moore in my ears. usually I just think about all the men in my life and then the general question of "what am I doing with my life". i have vague goals, mostly revolving around my fear of disappearing forever into the ground with no mention made of me again. i keep thinking the way forward might be to start doing cave wall art, so in thousands of years time people will speculate who i was and my existence. i would quite like that they discuss what kind of clothing i was likely to have worn.not animal skins sweetie.
i suppose the world has moved on from cave wall art times and into the galleries. I'm not sure Charles Saatchi would care for my general vague comparisons, but then why should he care?he is eating Nigella Lawson- the original earthy goddess. complete with plum accent and incredibly glossy hair. the cave walls are apt because of the cave man euphemism (is that the right word?) that is often associated as the 'creator'. cave men are still ever present in my life. from the pages of my library of self help books (there they are from mars) to the nightclubs i frequent at night-they are everywhere and yes I am a lady of the night. in the nightclubs they pummel whatever piece of female body that comes their way, followed with bellows of 'yeah!' and 'biatch!'. articulate and knowledgeable, they never fail to hit the spot. precisely the polka 'spots' on my brand new shoes as they swagger around.
I stereotype, but instead of losing sleep at night I've decided to be 'constructive'. seeing as i live in a world where you always have to be doing(read openly), seeing and going, being 'bored' is simply not allowed. (i read an article about this in the zine 'the vacuum' last night-i love cutting and pasting). constructive pursuits (read night classes, sporting activity) are De rigeur is one is to be seen as having a purposeful life. therefore i create this blog with the intention of documenting my half-arsed confused feminist thoughts. emphasis on the confused please. the point of my life is something i grapple with on a daily basis (whilst completing my degree) but i am not different from any other student. this blog is a postmodern exercise (read-no intellect-its all about the experience) about finding love as a young feminist. there isn't much love, note, but there is plenty of the much stereotyped anger. laugh out loud.
i am young, but old enough to know the feminist movement cannot die on my generation. we may reap the rewards but there is still plenty more to achieve. I hate the word feminist though, socialisation helps me equate it with 'dirty'. I suppose i am a child of the noughties after all, where it's not cool to say you are (hush hush) a feminist. after all, aren't we equal?
that notion 'equality' makes me submit a wheeze and a sneer together. that is the really dirty word in this equation. but feminism, is perhaps one area of academic thought that really gets the mind going like a Ferrari. in my teenage years (i am only a baby though so no nostalgia here) it was the female voices coming out from the pages of a well thumbed book that made me feel i was not alone in my observations. originally i had thought, on inspection of 'the way things are', it was i(small town girl) with the problem. these women(hate that word) made me almost weep with the ecstatic thought that i was not 'wrong' as my peers told me.
this is all becoming slightly Americanised(that just came up with a capital in spellcheck-post modernists take note) peppered with pop psychology throughout. I've painted myself as a tortured soul seeking solace in the heavy weights of intellect. not so much as just coming to the realisation that change still has to take place. i was told 'you can't have your cake and eat it too'. that is a very annoying proverb but one that is rather relevant when talking of the women's movement in contemporary terms. i am constantly told that there is something wrong with my logic. I'm at university, world is your oyster (gritted teeth), things have changed. they have changed alright.
Ariel Levy's book 'Female chauvinist pigs' is probably the book that has resonated with my own observations most. We are living in a raunch culture and there appears to be no escape unless you are a fan of the hot wax. we are a confused generation, and i would like my personal subjective experiences here in northern Ireland to illustrate that. believe me, there are few men, who when they say they 'love women' mean they love 'women'. what they mean is they love 'what a women should represent to them'. dating sites are full of men who 'love women'. did you ever read the poem about the red light on some body's head post-sex?i will post the name of the poem in a later post. these men should come with a sign 'approach with caution'.
Men will often admit other women are oppressed but not you. ~Sheila Rowbotham
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