>From: "cute revolutionary"
>Date: Wed, 08 May 2002 06:47:20 +0000 >
I've seen men who were good friends fight over a woman they both liked but rarely have I seen male best friends split over a woman they barely knew. But I have witnessed close female friends clawing over a man they barely knew. I don't understand it. I'm generalizing of course but men to me, seem to be more competitive overall and yet women seem to me to be competitive over lesser things (thats my estimation anyway). There's a paradox at work, women can grow closer to eachother because there's less of a tabu on same-sex emotional intimacy but men are more mutually loyal. Again, a generalization, but from my experience and observation. The book sounds bitchy and the "Demetrian" proposal seems to contradict the former proposition of father-envy which I find rather flimsy (although apparently the -last- time I was ever allowed to sleep with my parents was when I ordered my dad away rather arrogantly decreeing "this bed is for mommy and me, you get out!" Needless to say Debbie's dad was not amused. Men and their need for male dominance, you understand) I do think some of the uglier ways in which women interact with eachother can be analyzed in the context of "patriarchy." I will not compete with a woman over frivolous things (again this defaults to my estimation of what is frivolous) Although I think if a female I admired told me I was an 'imitation of them', I'd reply "yes, except that I'm smarter, cuter, and kinder, and your ass is fatter, ok so I'm not kinder." At an impressionable age, I lost my best female friend because we could not get past competing even when we identified the problem and cried over how it was unraveling us, it hurt my heart. There were many jealousies and yet the one that was always at the forefront was who was more attractive and which one would be liked by more guys. What an awful place to invest a sense of self-worth. There was this tall lanky geek who sat behind me in my 10th grade science. He intimidated me, he would profess inane proclamations of love on an almost daily basis and sometimes he'd touch my back forcing me to slide my seat up. I didnt know a soul in this one class and I couldnt rat him out to the teacher because she didnt like me. The only makeup I wore in high school was lip gloss, and an overabundance of it at that, frosted pink or fuschia, 80's colors, it was a gaudy decadent decade. Its amazing my lips didnt slide right off my face. For some reason unknown to me, I felt my lip gloss was in constant need of replenishing, even when I could taste it on my tongue and my loose hair would get stuck in it. I was sly about primping, I tried to retouch my lips while the teacher's back was turned but she had some kind of sixth sense for my beauty regimen and by the end of the year she had returned to me no less than 10 lbs of confiscated contraban lip gloss. My irritating admirer graduated to asking me sex questions, I thought i knew it all but he readily illustrated that I knew nothing. In fact one time he asked me if a woman could get pregnant doing X and Y (I guess it's a boy), I had no idea so I asked the teacher, it was a bio class after all. I was trying to embarass her because we constantly locked horns, not just over lip gloss sessions but index cards (I dont like index cards. I have enough paper mess. Index cards, being smaller, means more paper mess) and the fact that I starved my hydra to death (It was an accident AND if hydra were at all ingenious, they would grow extra heads and eat those) One day my best friend came inside this class before it started. My science teacher was horrified as if the evils of cloning had been confirmed by the existence of another frosted pink lip gloss creature. After my clone exited, my pest neighbor made a remark about how closely I resembled her. I shrugged it off telling him everyone said that. Then I added with a surprising measure of disappointment "you like her too don't you?" and he replied unhesitantly "No way. I like you. You're smart. She's stupid." My friend wasn't stupid, shallow, but not stupid. And I can't say I was much 'deeper' at that time, my lips were layered but not the rest of me. I wasnt happy because he preferred me, I was happy that he even tried to notice something different, most people didn't. I was never standoffish to him after that, although he remained awkward, vexing, and pornographically precocious. Well, all I ever needed to know I learned in kindergarden through high school. Women seem to me to be more threatened by eachother's appearance and eachother's weight, than they are by each other's intellects and eachother's "weight" as people and that's disturbing to me. Clearly the only solution is to feed all the men to the hydra. And is it me or are there a handful of prominent feminists named Phyllis? Sounds an awful lot like Phallus ;-) but what's in a name? I'm sorry I'm slow on email M. Too many index cards. Love Deb
----- Original Message -----
Sent: Wednesday, May 15, 2002 11:48 PM
Nixon for all his ungood jude love was a supporter of Israel although he didnt have the lions share of confidence in its perserverance. Even today, any Jewish bookie wouldnt give good odds to anyone betting on Israel.
I like this article not for the slightly alarmist tone but for taking on the Jewish-dominated media myth which unfortunately is not widely perceived as a myth. Sometimes I think about converting before I write something and then converting back when its done but then Id be "conspiring." In all fairness, I am a conspiring Jew. I acknowledge this every time I go shopping and I hide away some sale item Im not sure i want to buy, just in case I change my mind later. Closer to the truth Im a conspiring -woman- but
Id rather not awaken the menfolk to their astounding naivete over who exactly wore the fig leaf in Eden. If Eve had allowed me to represent her, Im confident I couldve had the whole thing pinned on the serpent. And then the entirety of humankind would still be frolicking around naked, eating free sweets and being stupid. As it stands now, one out of three aint bad.
Paranoid as I am, Im not concerned about blood libel allegations in America. No one dare accuse my ass of that. I barely rarely eat meat and when I do, it has to be cooked medium. Certain meats taste better rare* and I have a problem eating them because of this. This is an actual exchange between my mom and me
Debbie's Mom: here's your dinner
Debbie: thank you slave mommy. Wait...this is pink.
Debbie's Mom: That's the juices, that's what makes it delicious.
Debbie: No, it's blood. gross. Put it back in the oven.
Debbie's Mom: You can't, it'll dry out, it won't taste good.
Debbie: You eat blood barbarian woman. I prefer aesthetic denial of my carnivoriness.
Debbie's mom still refuses to properly roast roast-beef so I have to pass on that.
*call my philosophy fishy but I dont count sushi. My dad does.
Debbie's dad: how could you eat that??? Its not cooked
Debbie: Why dont you try it before you bash it?
Debbie's dad: It's not cooked. I don't want trichinosis. Youre gonna get trichinosis!
Debbie: That's pork dad.
My dad always has to tease me about something trendy he doesn't see fit to see, hear, taste, smell or touch...for a year he kept heckling me about futons, he couldnt understand how anyone could sleep on a futon; he derided them as "fruitons"...of course I have no idea what that means but I learned that futons were hyped up as swiss army knife bedding, its a bed and a couch, a floor polish and a dessert topping...and theyre not any more comfortable or durable than sleeper sofas although they are probably lighter on average. I could never be anti-futon because my futon of three years was the breeding ground for many a fruit-on. in this case, think bananas. (apples are more trouble than they're worth)
I meant to post the two emails above a few weeks ago. I've since begun writing a bunch of posts but I'm constantly distracted & painfully disorganized. Posting random letters is my lazy solution. And lately I've dug myself into a hole with email. I'm reminded of my once favorite Calvin & Hobbes tee shirt which read "G-d put me on this earth to do so many things, I'm so far behind, I'll never die." That top was doubly cool because I accidentally tie dyed it when I washed it with a new green shirt that was made in India. Made in India means it'll shrink and run (but never from Pakistanis)
Through a series of links I found this old poem that I recited when I was in grade school. I recited the first translation. The only poem I remember writing when I was a kid was about rolling around in the grass. It probably ended with my mother yelling at me for staining my clothing. What she calls staining I call tie dying. This poem (below) meant something to me so I really hammed it up during the audition. I think what won it for me were the hands. In the movie "Europa Europa" there's a scene that takes place in Nazi youth school where an instructor explains how you can spot a Jew and then he cycles through various anti-semitic myths. But he did mention the furious hand waving and to be fair, if you cut off a Jew's arms you'd never hear from him again.
“Butterfly” Written by Pavel Friedman, while he was residing in Theresienstadt, an extermination camp famous for killing children. This is the only surviving document by a child from that camp.
The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing against a white stone
Such, such a yellow Is carried lightly ‘way up high.
It went away I’m sure because it wished to kiss the world goodbye.
For seven weeks I’ve lived in here, penned up inside this ghetto
But I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me and the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here, In the ghetto.
He was the last.
Truly the last.
Such yellowness was bitter and blinding
Like the sun's tears shattered on stone
That was his true color.
And how easily he climbed, and how high,
Certainly, climbing, he wanted
To kiss the last of my world.
I have been here for seven weeks,
Who loved me have found me,
Daisies call to me,
And the branches also of the white chestnut In the yard.
But I haven't seen a butterfly here.
The last one was the last one.
There are no butterflies, here, in the Ghetto
Below is a simple but substantial song that cuts right to the soul of human endurance and the heart of faith.
This poem was found on the wall of a cellar in Cologne, Germany, where Jews had been hiding from the Nazis.
I believe, I believe in the sun, even when it is not shining.
I believe in love even when feeling it not.
I believe in God even when God is silent.
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Home is where the heart is (all my other junk's there too)