Thought Police

1.
Last night I dreamt I slept with a man I haven't seen since the early 70s. I think this is part of the selling the house series. I am to relive the freedom of life, apple blossom, turquoise waters, before the grim exigencies of sex, marriage, divorce, mortgages and housing set in. Watch this space.

2.
Apropos cyntergomes comment that the craft blogs make her feel underproductive and untidy -- the way many of the ladies' mags do me.

What if it is not the ladies' mags or the craft blogs who set these anorexic standards? What if it is actually a grass roots uprising of femme shit? What if we, and not Anna Wintour, created body dysphoria? And -- what did the crazy woman in my weaving class call them -- the Quilt Police? (I could not control myself. I guffawed and said Get. A. Life. Which was unkind. Here's an entry about Quilt Policing one's self.)

All the mean girl/mean mommy policing of standards to catch the sleekest beast in the jungle?

3.
panjanlien, in a closed entry, on the toxicity of the idea of romance and the summer camp she'd like to run for girls de-brainwashing them.

4.
Posie Gets Cozy, one of the most interesting (highly mediated, highly engineered, butch, polished, objectified, erotic food/stuff photography whose glossy abstracted surfaces are, as fj points out, mesmerizing) craft blogs, gets to the heart of the women's republic in this entry. She writes about baking a cake in a silent house; this fecund, fragrant concatenation within the nest -- as well as the butch concatenations of the house porn bloggers -- is the most attractive thing to me. There is an almost identical sentence in the notoirous Blackman's Guide to Oppression of the Blackwoman, or whatever it's called, that made me exhale and think: this notion of peace and freedom is a very simple thing, icing a cake or cutting out a dress alone at home.

It goes with the enormous pleasure I get out of thinking of somebody alone in a well-lighted room reading a book, and, perhaps, with my piercing vision of paradise in a couple of episodes of Deep Jungle. Maybe I'mm write about that. I owe this blog a lot of formal writing -- aristo femme, VW's diairies, Ulmus. Oh well.

5.
Harvard elects its first so-called woman president. Who has the bleakest drenched Lesbian hair cut I've ever seen.

Even my crazyass backwater virgin closet Lesbian auntie Idelette had a better Lesbian haircut than that. And this so-called woman is from the Shenandoah Valley too.

Great balls of fire, girl. Spike that thang out. And lose the chintzy, two-strand, poor-excuse-for-a-token, poor cousin Edna, funerary pearls.

If this is what you have to look like to be president of Harvard, I decline.


I can't define a female eunuch, but I know it when I see it.

6.
I am Anna Nicole's baby daddy.

Drew Gilpin Faust

Of all the things women have studied and written and invented since the establishment of Harvard in the 17th century, I find it almost inconceivable, yet perfectly predictable, that the first woman president of Harvard should be the foremost, prize-winning expert on the subject of.....Miss Anne.

It's being so hard to find a qualified woman for the job, don't you know.

( NYRB review of her book )