Saturday, February 26, 2011

Watching "The Amanda Knox Story"

Trying to decide whether I think she's guilty.  The Italian law enforcement supposedly based a lot of their case on her computer data such as photos, postings and short stories.  All I can think about is how if I were ever accused of a crime all my text messages and internet shenanigans being exposed would be punishment enough.

Pick Your Battles

The other day while out to lunch with my homegirls from work, we somehow got onto the subject of boys playing with dolls which lead into a discussion about gender norms, where the heat got really turned up. I was completely calm making my point about arbitrary designations for things as "for boys" or "for girls" but one of my homegirls was resistant to even hearing such ideas and it just depresses me more than anything. I just shut up about it but the other girl kept going on because she knew it was working her nerves. Then they wanted to know if someone is born gay which is completely irrelevant to the point. The irony is the one girl loves sports but would probably withhold that from a daughter.

Then, later, in a small meeting with my boss, my boss completely LOST IT. She wanted to discuss a certain procedure and two of us were offering our insight and questions as to what makes sense, and why certain calculations are wrong. She saw this as a challenge to her authority -- not uncommon for her to become defensive when you're not attacking -- and exploded. She emphasized how much time she had spent on it. To me, it doesn't matter if you spent years on it if it's wrong. We are instructed to do this a certain dubiously accurate way and shut up about it. She's on vacation this week so maybe she'll chill the fuck out. It hurt my feelings more than anything that I was more or less accused of just trying to confuse her.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Happy Valentine's Day

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator
BY ANNE SEXTON

The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a woman takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.