My commute to work normally involves driving to a Park and Ride lot (15 minutes), catching the bus (half hour ride), then walking a mile to my office. Although time consuming, I don’t mind this manner of commuting as it’s relaxing and much more cost effective than driving the entire way.
I should say that I don’t mind the commute when it works well. Today, however, the bus arrived to pick me up and the driver informed the dozen of us waiting that he was having mechanical trouble. I watched as a handful of folks returned to their parked cars and, without a word, drove away. Their actions didn’t sit well with me. I kept thinking, “Aren’t we in this together?” Perhaps a better way to say it: “Shouldn’t we be helping each other out?”
I turned to the remaining four folks sitting at the bus stop. I knew they all needed a ride, so I asked if anyone wanted a ride. They all declined, saying they would wait for another bus. I started walking towards my car and met two more folks. I asked them if they’d like to ride with me and they happily accepted.
We passed the next half hour in relaxed conversation. One of my passengers was an accountant on her way to work and didn’t want to be late. The other passenger was a veteran on his way to a physical therapy appointment. I dropped them off at a bus terminal convenient to them both, and they offerred me gas money (which I declined, as I’d be paying it anyway). They graciously thanked me and promised to say hi if I saw them on the bus again.
I was pleased that an irritating travel setback ended up being not too burdensome for any of us. I was happy to hear some stories and perspectives which might’ve otherwise remained unknown to me. I was struck by one particular impression: the two folks who traveled with me were black. The folks who turned me down were white. This seems to be a repeated pattern I experience while using public transport: white folks keep to themselves, barely looking at anyone else. Black folks talk to each other, ask questions, and help each other out.
Why this pattern? Perhaps it’s just a small biased sample and doesn’t really mean anything. Then there are the stereotypical socioeconomic reasons: white folks have more flexible schedules and can wait, or can afford the luxury of driving themselves on a whim. But then why not offer to share with someone else? I’m more inclined to think it’s a cultural phenomenon: white folks often seem to lack a uniting sense of community, and dealing with other people seems to be more of a bother than anything. I saw someone mention on twitter the other day a stereotype that “white people are stuck up.” Yeah, maybe…
The moral of the story for me is that I should keep pushing myself, a little at a time, to keep remembering that we are all in this together. I felt a bit more justified in driving myself since I knew I was carpooling, and it felt nice that I helped out a few other folks in the process. Sometimes strangers are really fucking nice.
The day actually did improve, and quite quickly. I loaded myself up on pharmaceuticals and went back to bed. The boyfriend stepped into caretaker mode, closing the window blinds to relieve the throbbing in my skull, and removing himself (and his laptop for work) to the living room so I could try to nap off the discomfort. I awoke a few hours later to breakfast in bed (he knew exactly what I would’ve ordered had I been conscious), snuggles, and the self assurance I could make the drive to work without passing out or vomiting.
It’s been quite the rocky week for me. I spent most of yesterday cleaning out the room which will now be my office/craft space, and I’m afraid the dust and filth were more than my poor sinuses could manage. The upside is having space of my own now, a concept about which I could write several posts. I will continue to develop this space, though, and am looking forward to having a nice introvert area (with throw pillows! and blankets!) during the kinky sexy party we’re throwing this weekend, featuring black lights, UV-reactive body paint, and naked people.
The point of this rambling is that sometimes I feel shitty, sometimes I caused the circumstances leading to said crappiness, but I am working really hard to not get bogged down in the mire. My happiness quotient is increased by attempting to process, learn, and move forward…hopefully without puking.
- Him: What are you knitting?
- Me: A sock.
- Him: That doesn't look like a sock.
- Me: Your face doesn't look like a sock but I'd still stick my foot in it!
People think of you often. They think of you fondly. They think the world of you. There are office managers and baristsas that think about you. There are Facebook friends you haven’t seen in 15 years and weirdos in your building that think about you. There are dentists and high school lab partners that think about you. They would be devastated to hear the news of your death. They would mourn you. They are people that would be uncomfortable ever telling you how highly or how often they thought of you and vice versa because we live in a world that eschews intimacy and affection in favor of the allegedly “comfortable” distance we choose to keep that is actually making a large portion of the population feel cripplingly lonely.” —
Can we just take a minute to think about how, if I were to put up an identifiable nude picture of myself, on my own blog, taken in my own bathroom, it could come back around an ruin my life?
let’s just think about how, no matter what I do with my life - become a teacher, a lawyer, a scientist, a professor - a photograph of my naked body could render largely null and void the value that others would be willing to give to me.
It would not matter if I were a virgin - it would not matter if I meant them for a lover’s eyes only - it would not matter whether or not I did it for money - my own naked body could actually ruin my life and my work.
Can we just think about that? That is powerful, and not in a good way.” —
It’s so bizarre to think that the human body causes such a stir
It’s ridiculous really.
psa: intent literally never matters when it comes to oppressive behaviour sorry to break it to you (◡‿◡✿)
the reason why people are so hard to read is because they are composed of the letters a, t, c, and g in random sequences and as im sure you know, that doesn’t spell anything
About a year ago, I wrote about the cats I lost in a divorce. I recently feared I’d lost my remaining cat in another breakup. Today I finally worked up the gumption to go visit him.
He was upstairs, being the same fat little fuck as always. I laid down on the floor next to him and snuggled his huge cat body up next to mine, the same way we’d spooned in the intervening years since my divorce. I risked sneezes and a clogged nose from allergies by nuzzling my face into his thick white fur. I was gratified when he started purring and burying his face in my hand. He didn’t even flinch when teardrops fell from my face onto his back.
I miss him. I hated the uncertainty of knowing if I’d see him again. He’s a good cat, and let me have my kitty love fest for quite awhile before finally starting to gnaw and claw at my hand.
I don’t get to see him as often now, but I’ll go visit every once in awhile. I won’t get to sleep with him curved gently in my arm or behind my legs, but I will get to pet him and play with him every once in awhile.
He is a handy target for redirecting emotional turmoil, though.
There needs to be a code word or something that means “my brain is fighting me every step of the way today and I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin, so I need you to forgive everything and go slowly and speak softly and lower your expectations.” And then we could all just be like, “I know I said we could go to a movie tonight but… tangerines.” And the other person would nod and squeeze your elbow or rub your head and you wouldn’t feel like a failure.
I just reminded the boyfriend that my code word for this is “pineapple.” He can also say it to me if I’m freaking out, just to let me know he’s there, and we’re fine.
Laurie Penny’s Saudade
There are more of us than you think, kicking off our high-heeled shoes to run and being told not so fast
The best minds of my generation consumed by craving, furious half naked starving-
Who ripped tights and dripping make up smoked alone in bedsits bare mattresses waiting for transfiguration.
Who ran half dressed out of department stores yelling that we didn’t want to be good and beautiful
Who glowing high and hopeful were the last to leave the gig our skin crackling with lust and sweat and pure music
Who wrote poetry on each other’s arms and cared more about fucking than being fuckable
Who worked until our backs stiffened and our limbs sang with the memory of misbehaviour that was what it was to be a woman
Who dared to dance until dawn and were drugged and raped by men in clean T-shirts and woke up scared and sore to be told it was our fault
Who swallowed bosses’ patronizing side-eyes stole away from violent broken boys in the middle of the night and vowed never again to try to fix the world one man at a time
Who slammed down the tray of drinks and tore off our aprons and aching smiles and went scowling out into the streets looking for change
Who stripped in dark rooms for strangers’ anodyne dollars because we wanted education and were told we were traitors
Who sat faces upturned to the glow of the network searching searching for strangers who would call us pretty
Who bared our breasts to hidden cameras and fought and fought and fought to be human
Who waited in grim hallways with synth-pop crackling over the speaker system for the doctor to call us clutching fistfuls of pamphlets calling us sluts whores murderers
Who crossed continents alone with knapsacks full of books bare limbs clear-eyed vision running running from the homes that held our mothers down
Who filled notebooks with gibberish philosophy and scraps of stories and cameras to prove we were there keeping our novels and the name of out children close to our hearts
Who were told all our lives that we were too loud too tisky too fat too ugly too scruffy too selfish too much too and refused to take up less space refused to be still refused refused refused to be tame
Who would never be still. Who would never shut up. Who were punished for it and spat and snarled and they shook the bars of our cages until they snapped and they called us wild and crazy and we laughed with mouths open hearts open hands open and would never not ever be tame.
Sara, I’m with you in hospital, in the narroe rooms where you have put off your veil to count your ribs through your T-shirt, short hair and secrets and quiet defiance crying together that we don’t know how to be perfect-
Lara, I’m with you in mandatory art therapy, where we draw pictures of weeping cocks and are told we are not making progress-
Lila, I’m with you in a north London bathdroom, watchhing unreal maggots crawl in the cuts in your arms and listening to your girlfriend drunk and raging through the wall-
Andy, I’m with you in Bethnal Green where you love ambitious angry women with heart brain pen fingers tongue and you have a line from Nietzche tattooed over your cunt-
Adele, I’m with you in the student occupation, with your lipstick and cloche hat and teenage lisp drawling that there’s not enough fucking in this revolution and we must take action-
Kay, I’m with you on the night bus, half drunk and high dragging bright-eyed boys home to our bed, where we watch them worn out sleeping and whisper that we will never be married-
Katie, I’m with you in Zuccotti Park, where a broken heart is less important than a broken laptop is less important than a broken future and we watch the cops beating kids bloody on the pavement for daring to ask for more-
Tara, I’m with you in Islington where you have thrown all your pretty dresses out of the window and flushed your medication so you can write and write-
Alex, I’m with you and a bottle of Scotch at two in the morning when you tell me that no man will make us live for ever and we must seduce the city the country the world-
We are always hungry.
There are more of us than you think.” —
Laurie Penny’s Saudade, from Fifty Shades of Feminism (via mollycrabapple)