You Mean, Coitus?



Take this quiz to find out which character you are from the film.

MAUDE

Does the female form make you uncomfortable, Mr. Lebowski?

DUDE

Is that what that's a picture of?

MAUDE

In a sense, yes...My art has been commended as being strongly vaginal. Which bothers some men. The word itself makes some men uncomfortable.

Vagina...

Yes, they don't like hearing it and find it difficult to say. Whereas without batting an eye a man will refer to his "dick" or his "rod" or his "Johnson".

DUDE

Johnson?

~From The Big Lebowski

This Beautiful Loser







Now, much of the time when I bring up L. Cohen, even to English majors, they don't know him. This is because he is more well known as a musician than as a poet. I had known L. Cohen as a poet for many years before I ever heard his voice (a fact I am still somewhat, strangely, proud of).

Had my youngest child been a boy, I still insist that her name would have been Cohen.


A Kite is a Victim

A kite is a victim you are sure of.
You love it because it pulls
gently enough to call you master,
strong enough to call you fool;
because it lives
like a trained falcon
in the high sweet air,
and you can always haul it down
to tame it in your drawer.

A kite is a fish you have already caught
in a pool where no fish come,
so you play him carefully and long,
and hope he won't give up,
or the wind die down.

A kite is the last poem you've written,
so you give it to the wind,
but you don't let it go
until someone finds you
something else to do.

A kite is a contract of glory
that must be made with the sun,
so you make friends with the field
the river and the wind,
then you pray the whole cold night before,
under the travelling cordless moon,
to make you worthy and lyric and pure.

~Leonard Cohen

Not Just a Holiday For the Lush in You:
O Ruairc of Breifne


[The Family Crest]

When I was little I had this huge green and white button that read, “Kiss Me I’m Irish.” I loved this button and would wear it whenever possible, regardless of whether or not it was St. Patrick’s Day. My mother’s father used to tell stories about all these different ancestors we supposedly had and their various amazing feats. Between the Cherokee chief’s daughter and the Irish warriors, I never really believed any one of them completely. But I had decided that it wasn't really important whether or not the story had actually happened; just listening to him tell it was purpose enough. So, imagine my surprise when I go to Ireland and find a book about the family that bred my mother.

O’Roark is our family name. I am going to sum up our story, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day:
Tighernan (pronounced tear-nann) O’Ruairc was the chieftan / king of Breifne, a small part of Ireland. It’s 1122. He woos and marries the daughter, Dervorgil, of the High King of Ireland. They are both strong-willed and fiery-tempered. There is a lot of fighting among the chieftans (though no one argues the position of the High King). One chieftan, Dermot MacMurrough, joins forces with some others to fight O’Ruairc and “kidnap” his wife. Somehow the little lady finds time to pack her furniture and livestock (wink wink, nudge nudge). Turns out O’Ruairc could be a little heavy-handed. So Dervorgil saw her opportunity and left him. Well, maybe old MacMurrough wasn’t all she had hoped (know what I mean?) and she goes back to O’Ruairc. The boys continue sparring back and forth, time after time. MacMurrough just can’t seem to whip O’Ruairc, and he is running out of people to help him fight. He has been beaten AND humiliated by this one clan. He is desperate. So he goes to England, then Wales, to find warriors to help him fight O’Ruairc. The Brits are plenty anxious to conquer new lands and achieve new riches. Thus begins the British Invasion of Ireland in 1167, to be followed by the conqueror “Strongbow” in 1170, who slaughtered so many sons and daughters of Ireland. O’Ruairc was betrayed and murdered; beheaded at what he thought was going to be a parley. The British gained control of the country, and to this day... well, you know the rest.
Grandpa couldn’t have made this stuff up! O Ruairc of Breifne by Betty Mac Dremot is the book it came out of.
Thomas Moore, the 19th century poet, even wrote a (rather tedious) poem about them, called “The Song of O Ruark, Prince of Breffni.” I hope you enjoy the three generations of modern Irish (and German, Native American, British mutt) princesses in the pictures. That’s our story - an entire line of stunning women, worthy of invading small countries over.

"...I am all at once what Christ is, / since he was what I am, and
This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, / patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,
Is immortal diamond." ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

Spring Fever



So several of us have been discussing libido for a few days now. It is Spring after all, and a Bacchanalian revelry would be mighty appreciated right about now. Again. Hold on...

"The flesh yearns to converse with other flesh."

Ok, I’m back. As I was saying. Libido. It has been argued on various blogs around here that men are taught to be ashamed of their desire. That men in general exert MORE self control on a regular basis than women. Some people (who shall remain nameless) have even gone so far as to say that it is almost excuseable behavior when men cheat on their wives, because the male libido is so much stronger. “It’s biology!” they cry. And I’ll agree, most men are horn dogs. But the point so many of you are missing is WOMEN ARE HORN DOGS, TOO.

“What. The. Fuck. Ever!” I hear you men shaking the rocks in your heads. The reason this is such a well kept secret is this: If men are truly taught to be ashamed of and hide their desire, women are taught not to have any desire at all. It just isn’t ladylike. We aren’t supposed to be really hungry, really drunk, or really horny. Follow along...
As a child, I began – er – pleasuring myself at an early age (probably too early). As I got older, I did not know any other girls who did this. If they did, they sure never talked about it. Neither did anyone else talk about or portray adolescent girls masturbating.



I knew that boys did this regularly. You couldn’t be a bus-rider in jr. high without realizing that boys really liked to whack off. But the subject of girls doing it never came up. Never. In sex-ed class, they never mentioned the hormonal dreams I was having. In the media I never saw a movie that implied girls masturbated too. My father never said, “You have to watch out for your own hormones. The boys are all going to be trying to get one thing. And you’ll want to get some too.” My mother never suggested regular masturbation as a method of keeping my likelihood of pregnancy and disease to a minimum. I never saw (or knew existed) a single porn magazine for women (and frankly, there still aren’t any good ones for us – let me know if I’m wrong about this). I felt like a freak my whole life before college when I finally met another girl who talked about masturbation and sex and how that was all we thought about most of the time (M, Berea just wouldn’t have been the same without you).



When I finally got old enough (and brave enough) to buy porn, I bought men’s porn. Just for the record, I don’t even like porn in general. It sort of turns me off sometimes – the un-reality of it all. It’s just so unlikely that my refrigerator repairman will come over at the exact moment I am getting in the shower – AND that he will be remotely attractive (and have a fully loaded – pistol). The one time I bought Playgirl, not only did I have to go to the huge, chain bookstore down the street to even find it, I felt like a complete weirdo as the fat middle-aged woman at the check-out frowned at me over her bifocals. It was more embarrassing buying Playgirl than it had been buying Playboy! WTF?! I’m sure the lady at the counter thought I was a nympho. Which brings me to my next point.

Do any of you know the word for a man that is addicted to sex? Nymphomaniac only applies to women. So what is the male version? Nobody? I didn’t think so. It’s called satyriasis or Don Juanism. No really, that’s what it’s called. Now somebody tell me the word for a guy who is slutty. No takers? There just aren’t as many derogatory words for horny men because it is assumed that is the natural state of being for men. The only one I could find in my Oxford Dictionary of Slang was “tom-cat” which dates back to 1927, which is probably the last time it was uttered.

So here’s my question: Do you all honestly believe that men have it harder (she said “harder”) than women when it comes to controlling themselves? We know they cheat more. Is that because they want to cheat more, they are biologically programmed to cheat more, or society is more permissive about their horniness and sexuality? Is it really that unusual, ladies, to be ravenous about sex? I’m putting it to you. I already know what I think.

“I like it too. It's a male myth about feminists that we hate sex. It can be a natural, zesty enterprise.” - Maud in The Big Lebowski

Reinstilling My Faith in Childhood


Today while I was suffering through the practice run of my state - wide standardized tests, I was using a bitch's zonk board to complain that my students had finished their tests early and were driving me crazy. The harpie suggested that I hold a drawing contest for my seventh graders to pass the time (at least for a few minutes). The competition asked them to draw a scene from their wierdest dream. The prize: Winner could choose any item from the snack machine and I would buy it for them (hey, it's a teacher's salary). I figured that it would be a popularity contest, and it very nearly was. There was a three-way tie between the two most popular boys (N and A) and one average girl (B). The girl's drawing and explanaition were funnier - she had the whole class laughing - but I still thought one of the boys would win. At the very last minute, B's drawing had two more votes than the others. I told Voldemort's wife and company that I would post the winning picture, and I am proud to do so, because the kids proved they were more committed to art (of a fashion) than to popularity. Sometimes they actually make me proud.
The above dream scene portrays B making a lettuce and cheese sandwich, which then comes to life and runs up the stairs.
The drawing below is my personal favorite, not only because D's dream of a hand rising up out of her filling bathtub is creepy, but also because of the Ebony and Jet magazines on the back of the toilet.

So, here's to my inner-city seventh graders spending time creating instead of destroying. Proving (no surprise) even the project kids like to make art and need their Fine Arts funding (don't even get me started).

"...to paint a picture or to write a story or to compose a song is an incarnational activity. The artist is a servant who is willing to be a birthgiver." ~ Madeliene L'Engle Walking on Water (one of my favorite books)

In the Beginning



In keeping with this week's theme, an article about the birth of our very own solar system. Turns out we're even more special than we thought. It may also explain why we seem to be so prone to violence in this here planetary system.

"Every beginning is a consequence. Every beginning ends something."

Awakenings



I thought as my inceptive post that something beautiful and reminiscent of birth would be appropriate. Hopefully this will be an outlet where I can "put something in" on a regular basis. I intend for this blog to be not only a cathartic haven where I can vent or exalt over whatever moves me; but also a happy list of sorts, wherein at least once in each posting a beauteous moment will be offered up to you, revered reader... well that's the gist of it anyway.

"In the beginning, it is always dark."

"Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon." Dave Sim