A lovely compilation of whatever floats my boat. May include copious amounts of privilege-questioning and social justice reblogging, random ballet photos, and things I think are pretty. Or funny. Or cool.
Also, here is a general Trigger Warning. I try to make sure I tag posts, but proceed with caution in case. :)
If only there were clear lines! But, of course, there aren’t.
In one of my workshops, I have people fill out an anonymous one-page questionnaire. People are asked, among other things, to place themselves on a sexuality continuum from zero to six according to their overall score, and according to their behavior, fantasies, sexual and romantic attractions during different time periods—in the past month, before age 16, and overall. They are also asked what word or words they use to describe their sexual orientation. Once completed, the questionnaires are collected, shuffled, and redistributed, so that everyone in the room is now representing someone else in the room.
We then look at the data. It becomes clear that many people’s location on the scale varies depending on what period of time, and on whether you are referring to their behavior, their fantasies, etc.
Another consistent finding is that the terms “straight” or “heterosexual” are used by people standing not only on zero, but on zero, one, and two. The term “bisexual” is used by folks not only on three, but also on two and four—and sometimes also on one and five. The words “lesbian,” “gay,” and “homosexual” are used by folks not only on six, but also on four and five. There’s an overlap between categories, so someone standing on four, for instance, might identify as lesbian or gay, or as bisexual.
In no way am I saying that there are not people on the ends of the scale—there are indeed many. Rather, the categories of heterosexual, homosexual, and bisexual are broad, and encompass a wide range of experience.
Robyn Ochs answers “Where does heterosexuality become bisexuality, and where does bisexuality become homosexuality?” - Bisexuality and the Space Between Binary Categories- Lavender Magazine
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose
persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
all of it, to the heart.
Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
I teach her Chinese.
Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.
Naked: I’ve forgotten.
Ni, wo: you and me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
Fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.
Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat
but watched the other faces.
My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.
Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang, The sun, the sun.
he was going blind,
my father sat up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons,
swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.
This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.
He’s so happy that I’ve come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.
Under some blankets, I find a box.
Inside the box I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.
He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?
This is persimmons, Father.
Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.
If I was a famous author I would publish a book with ten different endings which all went to print with varying degrees of rarity, but not tell the fans about it so that I could watch their confusion as they disagree over how the story ended. Then when they figured it out I would ‘come clean’, telling them that I had released eleven alternate endings and watch them panic again as they all try to find the last ending.
This is perfect.