Posts Tagged ‘Julia Kristeva’

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

One of my all time favorite movies is Midnight Cowboy, for reasons that go beyond being a mere devotee of the acting of Dustin Hoffman, or  the music of Henry Nilsson, a fan of the young Jon Voight, or practitioner of  deconstructionism. Or the fact that  it only got a showing at the seedy theaters in my town when it came out.

It is one of the best, most insightful scripts I have ever read too, and in fact the background guys–like song writer Fred Neil, and script writer Waldo Salt, who survived and thrived after being blacklisted during the red scare of McCarthy–are more incredible than the actors .

Here’s the intro clip:

Midnight Cowboy is the only X rated film in history to ever receive an Oscar. Maybe it was the “gay theme” or maybe it was because it was one of the rare films in all of history to examine the issue of women who sexually abuse young boys; and how women are complicit, if not instrumental  in shaping the sexuality of children (no pun intended–but you will see what I mean). Here is a bit of Joe Bucks nightmare:

Zoom close-up -- Anastasia screaming soundlessly...
... thermometer under Little Joe's tongue... 
... Sally Buck shoves chocolate in her mouth... 
... bewigged poodle licks her fingers... 
... Sally Buck hangs enema can on bedpost... 
... Ratso leads ratpack chasing naked Anastasia... 
... corona of flashlights...

I still remember the run-down, dirty white theater fronts that had it up on the marquee in blue letters, or red; and everything about cowboys fascinated me in that era.Certainly everything about the forbidden letter X fascinated me too.

Being stoic, self reliant, silently suffering  cowboys was what they taught boys to be back then, and to think about being when we got older–little men running around with guns that go *BANG!*,  fighting the bad Indians, and the ‘bad men’ who were-apparently-everywhere. And certainly, we were taught to always tip our hats for the ladies–even if they were sticking enemas in our asses.

But by the time I was old enough to watch it myself, some fifteen or years later, it showed me some things about cowboys that John Wayne and the other cowboy as uber-man posturing of that era never did, and I liked that too.

But I like Midnight Cowboy because it’s just plain old, incredibly good film, full of stunningly complex images that are explained to us with remarkable simplicity.

Midnight Cowboy

Original Movie Poster

Very few films address sex and gender imbalances in ways that are inclusive of the recognition that men are engendered in certain ways that women cannot, or will not understand, even when they see it in action. Women as a rule are either not equipped to understand the male experience, or because of the nature of woman is equipped only to stare at herself, and issues that reflect herself constantly–or something like that…;-)

In the case of Joe Buck, the intrepid male prostitute, our character learns that the world is not equal, and we, as an audience, learn a bit about what creates false constructs of sexuality in the mind of a young boy. And how those constructs lead to poor choices.

In one scene we have the gang rape of a woman who could aptly be called “the town pump”, and Joe Bucks inability to stop that rape–of the woman who he thinks he loves; in another scene, aptly a nightmare, we have Joe Buck being anally raped by his grandmother; and the all too obvious conclusion that male sexuality is undervalued, or disposable to women.

It’s a film about the awakening of America to issues of  the human body as a commodious object, and the reality of under-valued male love. It’s a gay film in as much as it has a theme of men, loving each other, or men who are used by other men, but it’s a human story beyond that.

If you haven’t seen it, rent it, and if you have seen it, rent it again. Or just have a good read tonight--here’s the script.

 

Trollet som grunner på hvor gammelt det er, 19...

Image via Wikipedia

When bessie got back to the resting place, the moon was dropping just below the  rise of the first  hill. In herder time, it was probably 4:30 a.m.

Bessie was met by an angry faced, udderly humorless billy goat named Bully. And Bully was in no mood to hear anything about what she had been doing. Bully lowered its head, and butted her back to bed.

Because that’s what bullies do to little goats who break the rules of goats. And in every herd, there are lots of bessies and billies named Bully.

To this day, she cannot remember for sure which bully it was that butted her to bed that night, because in a herd, they are always butting heads, and seeking each others attention to prove which one is more hard headed than the other one. And of course, she wouldn’t tell them what she was doing, because she could lose her place in the herd.

They would lecture her about the troll, or shame her for taking such risks–or worse, talk about her like she had put them all at risk, by being a late night goat. But somehow, that made her feel comfortable, in an odd way. She felt protected by big bullies and by the herd.

Well, anyways, the next day was like any other: the sun was shining, the herd was bleating, and the journey across the bridge was the same as any other day, which always went like this:

After pulling all the milk from the teats of the she-goats, and soundly beating and shaming the he-goats for their horn headed rancid odors,  the old drunken farmer opened the gate and pushed the herd towards the bridge; his fat, old wife sat on her bicycle at the edge of the herd saying
“excercise does a body good,” in the general direction of all the goats, with a big smile on her face; but aimed at, and waiting for, just one look in her direction from the farmer.

But every morn’, just as the farmer got past the feeding trough, the old farmers wife turned back, saying “Oh dear! I left the coffee pot boiling! Would you like some?”

The farmer always rolled his eyes, and without looking back, told her ” I will be making cheese the rest of the afternoon, and I had coffee before you were awake,” and pushed the herd over the first hill towards the bridge–where he would then pull a flask out of his overhauls and take a big sip, and recline in the shade underneath a big oak tree, where, most days, he slept till nightfall.

Even the goats knew that the farmers wife was having a second breakfast--that’s what any good goat would do if they could–and although some of them wanted to tell this to the farmer, they had no words–while others would always turn back, and try to run outside the herd to tell the farmers wife that he was drinking!

Such is the nature of farmers; husbands, wives and herds. But they always made it across the bridge, and ate all day long till their bellies were bulging, their horns and hooves were honed,  and their teats were nearly sagging and full again.

Well, about our young goat? She noticed something odd. Something was missing this day on her journey across the bridge, and even though she looked left and right and left again? She could not put her goat finger on it.

What could it be? She was a goat, so she could only, really, think about her hunger! No matter, she bleated out loud, as she stomped across the bridge with the herd. No matter at all–if they move forward, I move forward!

Have YOU ever followed a herd? I have, said the narrator to himself. And following a herd leaves a trail of POOP behind it. And that trail is even more poopy when it rains! But that’s another story, for other herds…

The billies would spend their days trying to mount the bessies, the bessies would rub their rumps on the other bessies, and the older bessies would marvel at how they were always able to butt the young bessies out of position in line, and rub their rumps against the younger AND the older billies; and the billies would butt heads all day long and put on a show for the whole herd–as if they were the main attraction!

Then, they would all lie down around noon each day to chew the cud. The old goats would regale the young goats with bleatings about the big bad wolf, and how that wolf killed some piggies several farms down the county–or how that wolf chased a poor little white haired red hatted herder around in the woods, until she outwitted the old wolf–and the wolf had not been seen since then, and so forth.

They would marvel at the little happenings of nature: the singing cats that wandered by; the mother goose and her goslings gandering at the stream beneath the bridge–it was said that “they lived in a shoe!” And that was always controversial, because some would say they got the story wrong, or that there is no way you can raise goslings in a shoe, without a gander at government assistance, and so forth!

Still others would always bleat out “no, geese live in the water! The sky! While others would maintain Nope: “definitely a shoe–here is proof” and then they would whip out some old comic books to prove their point–which, of course, is futile–because the instant you whip out comic books in front of goats? They eat them! Because anyone who has spent any time around goats knows they eat EVERYTHING up!

On very rare occasions, some dumb billy would mention the old witch who eats children–and all the bessie goats would grow silent, and look at each other with ‘the knowing, silently bleating  eye’ of goats. Then they would change the topic–and if that wasn’t possible? They would bleat quite loudly in fact:

“There is no such thing as witches!”

And then of course, inevitably, one she-goat or another would mention the troll!! The troll lives under the bridge!! Stay away from the troll!! The troll is dangerous!!!

This effectively, ALWAYS took the little herds mind off of witches, which were waaaaay too scary to think about–especially when it was close to Halloween and the fallen red leaves were so tasty!

And, predictably, of course, the tone and pitch of their bleating made it quite possible that every goat was suitably nervous, and they would all begin bleating loudly, but together. Which had the net effect of causing them all to get restless,hungry, and then, to stand up and begin grazing again ’till night fall–with the thought of the evil troll lurking in the back of their minds!

What is important in a herd–and most of the old goats–was that they agreed that the troll was dangerous–and that he would eat them. Occasional hushed bleating could be heard breaking out, with the youngest goats wondering if such a thing exists, because no one had actually seen one; no one would admit to having known It, even if they did, and so forth.

But the old goats would lower their horns, and the bleating would stop–there is comfort for some, in being bullied by those they know. Well, where do you think this left our hungry little night wandering bessie?? Of course, in the midst of such a view of trolls–from ALL of the ‘older, wiser, and experienced’ goats in the herd, she could not even imagine bleating out “His name is Boogie!”

Because, if only because that would get her soundly head butted, and silenced; but also because it would infer that she had done something that not a single one of them had EVER done!

What did she do? Says the narrator in clipped tones, rapidly recounting the wrongs of the right little bessie:

She had asked the name of the troll, instead of giving the troll a name, or the name that others had given it–and in that sense, learned things that went beyond the narrative…which, in any herd, threatens every other member of a herd! It would mean that she had violated herd behavior, and
a)not trampled the troll

b) not hated the troll

c) actually talked to the troll, and said her own words to it’s face!

d) taken a risk that was hers alone!

e) challenged the voyeuristic impulses of an entire generation of voyeurs who demand that trolls be exposed and defamed–( far from the herder paradigm of trolls as flashers, perverts and rapists….but I digress! said the narrator)

AND:
She humanized the troll in her own mind!…..which is always waaaaaay worse than re-imagining a narrative, a witch, or warlocks—but we digress….*

*she had actually broken the narrative of fear that is always directed primarily at young female goats!

And of course, in a herd full of ungodfully painful head butts, who could possibly imagine that  type of “heresy” ? Sure–after the wolf was chased away, and everyone was happy, what then!? What could possibly guide a narrative….er…a herd, without an evil wolf, troll or…anything at all to be fearful of?

Such was the life, and intellect of the herd! What is important to a herd is that they all agree that the troll belongs under the bridge; that if the troll were ever to come out from under the bridge, they would all butt their horns at it; maul it with their cloven hooves, and soundly send it back where it belongs, humiliated, and soundly disenfranchised!

Narrator, with cheezburger in hand: No, we do not mean Ben and Jerry’s, Taco Bell, and certainly not McDonalds Corporation franchises!

Well, either way, when nightfall came, the herd was largely, always, too tired by then to even worry about the troll, and they clattered, and splattered their way across the bridge, which usually woke the farmer, who began to hurry about in an authoritative manner, and walk the herd back to the first field, over the big hill.

But every night they made it across. And every night they crossed the bridge, was like any other to the goats.

Clatter, plitter, plit plit, clank; a splash here, a splash there. More clattering; splattering ( depending on diet) and lot’s more plittering.

Just another end of the day in the life of goats! There is indeed, great comfort in the baaahHHaaaing, the plitter and the plop–the warmth of a herd. And you know what? Not one single goat ever gave any thought to who might have built that bridge?

Or who really lived under it?

Strange; but then again, scientists building bridges is even more strange to think about for goats–after all, bridges are marvels of science. Big beams, tall timbers, creatively resilient cross members, alchemy and algebra, luscious loads, spiffy spans,and so forth.

But who did the heavy lifting? Who put beam for beam, and timber end to timber end? And who guided the goats to it in the first place?

Why, such questions seldom even cross the mind of goats, or scientists…and even then, to goats, mythical creatures still live in the woods and the sky, and probably made it all happen. Either that, or their nursing mothers, and their milk filled aunts, sisters, cousins…well, you get the idea–such is the mind of a goat to whom all things are relative!

Who can remember anything bigger, or more important than the generation we live in? Goats memories are not equipped for remembering anything but nibbling time and again at the flowers you told them not to eat!

But that very night, the troll was hard at work, with curled, aching fingers.Now one thing you must understand about trolls: there IS A REASON they are trolls–and I am not saying all trolls are created equal–certainly not. In fact, I would wager one breakfast, and a flask of vodka that not all trolls are alike.

That’s a standing bet.

But one thing IS for certain about trolls: they are deformed in some way; they are not average, or ordinary, or even superficially like any of the goats in the herd; or like the drunken farmer and his fat wife, or the great engineers who built the bridge.

And each troll is something OTHER than a troll as well. Each troll is, for whatever reason, living under a bridge somewhere; a bridge that spans a stream, a river, or even an ocean!

And all water is connected, and supervised by the air, the wind, and the clouds, the sun, the…well you get the picture. It might be convenient; expedient; and even possibly well intentioned–but it really is not a good idea to preach that all trolls are alike, because in doing so, you deny yourself the opportunity to understand why water is important to trolls, and why they are never far from it.

In fact, if any of the goats had ever even actually known one troll? they might have noticed the broken fingers; the hunched backs; and certainly, the odd manners and looks of those who build real, actual, and often times, sustainable bridges without timber, tangible math, or even tall tales of power relationships.

But not all goats are created equal either, and that’s a fact! Anyone who has ever spent time herding goats knows that.

So, in-as-much as our young goat had that feeling that something was missing? She was not able to identify it, nor voice it to herself, much less voice it to the larger herd, which is always so extremely hungry, competitive, hierarchical, and bullying.

But Boogie was getting busy on that , that very night, filling in the blank spots that were left after one goat in the last several thousand years actually had asked his name–which of of course even he didn’t know fully well, because he was learning new parts of it every day!

Now, though she sensed it; and though she wished to voice it, our poor young goat was not able to put her goat-finger on what caused her to wake up at night–at least not THAT night. And she was usually good at putting her goat finger on what bothered her, despite admonishments from the kin in her clan.

And also, despite her hunger in her belly–there was indeed something else that was hungry as well. But she slept on this, after remembering the head butts she had received from a bully in her herd.

Yet Boogie clutched his pencil. He carved out words. He hammered at his brain like a mad man, with tortured knuckles to find what it is he needed to write.

And his mind was an empty page–thousands of years under bridges had taught him only one thing: no one really reads between the lines. Ever–even if they say they do. Readers are just not equipped for blank spaces. They can cross over a bridge a million times, and still not know what is missing.

And he hammered at the sign in his hands, which he had removed from the bridge just the night before, and it read

” Cross at your own peril.”

Which wasn’t actually an empty sign at all. In fact, it was ominously full. Too full, of something he knew quite well. But full of what? He had slept the night as best he could, and revised the sign two or three times already!

At one point, he wrote: “The kingdom is not your personal cash cow!”

And then quickly realized he was talking to goats, and how eerily unaware the herd is of what kingdoms are or, were. So he scribbled that over, and wrote: “This bridge does not go to Russia”--and then quickly rethinking it, realizes that it well might go there, or to its next door neighbor, and relatively soon.

He was truly stumped. He wrote “It takes a bridge to raise nations of goats” and then decided that was decidedly Hitlerish. Frustrated, he scribbled over all of it, and wrote

” I came across a child by a raging river, that was balling its eyes out. I soon realized that his parents had likely drowned in the torrents. I looked up at the coming frost, the blowing leaves, and looked back down at the child. I gave him what food I had, and left him as I had found him.”

Which seemed entirely appropriate, considering the life expectancy, and sometimes, the abiogenesis of trolls, and the fact that many trolls are river rats anyways with nowhere else to go–that the river is often the birthplace of civilizations.

Which led the troll to a remarkable realization– that most goats don’t read Zen poetry! So, he furtively erased and then wrote over that sign,:

It was then that the troll had an awakening–a catharsis, if you can imagine such. But Boogie realized something important.
Most goats only read at a fifth grade reading level; and that disappointed him greatly.

He wrote: “Goats beware! this bridge is built to last; you are not!”

He threw down his sign, and felt very old, and very tired. His sign sounded so preachy, or pedantic.

But he could not sleep–in fact, the next day came and went, and Boogie heard the clatter and splatter of the goats across the bridge; the bumping and humping of it all; to him, was what he suffered from the most–it was all so redundant, so repetitive, and made him feel like he was thousands of years old–which, in fact, he was.

The sun came, the sun went, the moon waxed over the fields like rice paper filtering a shadow show, the moon waned like a dog past heat, and tired.

And finally sleep set in like a floating rock. Boogie was exhausted. His last waking memory was what felt like a goats nuzzle on his cheek, and a vague remembrance of hammering poetry to the town pillory in an odd, Puritan place of bad waking dreams.

It could have been a thousand years; or maybe the next day when he awoke, to the sound of something other than plitters, plotters, and splatters. But the sounds in Boogies ears were like magical things–ear pancakes with eyeball sauce! Glitter and sparkles, broken by sunlight, rippling downstream, and not at all like ringtones, circumscribed on his inner thoughts .

It was the sound of an Ooooh and then an aaAAah, broken by a whoo–ooo, and a wheee, oh! every now and again.

In fact, he could not at that moment remember his days covered in the rain soaked shit of goats; the torrential rains that made him despise the task of being a living sponge, cleansing scientifically structured structures; but in fact, he awoke refreshed, regardless.

He rolled over, and ‘splash!” discovered he was next to a river. Yes, it was still his river. He looked out from underneath the bridge. Yes, it was still his bridge–or at least, it was his bridge, much older, and slightly less structured. His bridge in so much as he remembered the shit that fell off of it onto his head, when others just used it, or thoughtlessly clattered along it.

And climbing the embankment, he looked upon something he had never seen before: the farmer was holding his wife, from behind, like a goat, mounting a goat or baby ridng piggy back on the warm shoulders of it’s mother; the wife was smiling at the farmer, and he, at her.

Either way, her dress was up past her thighs, and she was nowhere near as fat as she once was–the farmer, far from drunken, far from rolling his eyes, was kissing at her from around her pink cheek, and meeewling like a singing cat, and she, playful at his lips, and giggling like a clucking spring chicken.

And the sunlight was brutal–magnificent, AND chandelier sparkling, but brutal none the less. After his eyes adjusted, he found himself face to face with a sign, well hung, but crooked, and written upon that sign? Were the words:

“She who asks receives; He who looks AND listens, gets’” and one particularly bright red rose was hung at the bridgepost, and it said “Hey drunken farmer, Pick me and give me to the hungry lady with the big eyes.”

“Goats who ask my name, may  well be surprised to learn that I not what your mother told you.”

And “I am not your mothers troll–but I AM often in need of sleep, and a good bath.”

And every where else you looked? There were more signs! Lots of them, nailed to trees, and posts, and flowers; missives smeared with strange slogans, and bad poetry.

Like:  “To the man who will choose strong drink, choose also strong companions.”

And “To the Girl who cried wolf–knock it off. You scare me into action too often so that I don’t believe you when it’s real.”

And “There are armies of war dogs with all of our names on their collars, and you can practice your voice in other ways.”

“To everyone and everyone–being kind first is the kindest of all kindnesses.”

“To the boy in blue? Try red today, or something else. To the boy in pink–you go girl [snap]” Oddly, someone had already written over that one and said ” That’s so passe'”

And, most absurdly, there was this:

“The man in the Bound Worm suit probably has hands. They’re just tied up at the moment.”

Juxtaposed next to this was written:

“B.S.is an actual college degree”.

Then there were really perplexing messages–stunning, complex, inhumane, and odd ones like:

“Eye contact can lead to interesting encounters.”

“Love one another, but without the Holy Joe.”

“Laugh, it won’t kill you.”

“Die for something? Let it be speech. But then shut up.”

“Learn to listen between the lines.”

“Listen and Learn. But, also, Laugh, often, at the humorless.”

Then–out of nowhere– a breeze rustled forth a leaflet past his feet that said

“Butterfly wings have a larger purpose to serve than being venerated as glorified pincushions.”

And worst of all? Most profanely? A sign that said

“There comes a time when you drop duty, and grab sleep.That time hasn’t come yet.”

And then, there was more perversity! Despicable, strange and alienating prose! Most oddly performed and deranged–revealing of the deviance of whatever troll had written such hateful missives.

Even for fifth graders, such things are thought wrong, and immature in the least–deviance, untamed, corrupts the minds of children! But I will tell you one of the worst:

There was an arrow painted on the side of the bridge, and next to it the words:

“Shit rolls downhill. Period.”

Well! How smug.

No matter where he looked, there were signs, which he interpreted as symbols of some kind, but he didn’t know what those symbols were.

Several of the tree leaves had bright yellow smiley faces painted on them, with big hands attached to the sides of the head instead of ears–so that every time the breeze blew, they all waved at you!

And nearly every single, silly flower had a little fuzzy necklace, made of yarn, tied to little notes that hung gently on their stems, and over their leaves like ribbons,  which read things like:
=========================
” Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder,” and “Not every flower knows how to beheld…”
=========================

A daisy said: “Some are more tragically beholden than others”

and a  lily spoke  “Often, the tragically beholden do not hold you back. But it’s the herd mentality you need to be careful of”

And hung at the foot of the bridge was a sign that said “Please don’t pick the flowers–pick your nose instead!”

Other flowers said ” I may be beautiful, but I really actually don’t smell that good, and make you burp if you eat me.”

and

“I attract bees.”

There was a huge, almost obnoxiously large sunflower that had managed to escape the cud swaddled nips of the herd too–and around it’s neck was a larger sign, that said “I may be huge and obnoxious, but I promise you something good to eat if you don’t nibble at me quite yet.”

He was pretty obvious.

And then, in the place of the sign that used to say “Proceed at your own peril” was one crafted from a found object–an old faded flag! It said:

“Not everyone is equipped, knows how to be picked, or be held, while some  are tragically beholden, yet others smell more fragile than flowers; and still others have way too many noses in their butts. Most of all, some are scared, and scarred, but still deserve our patience, not our judgement–because judgement should begin in yourself.”

Which was the strangest sign of all, considering that the troll was several thousand years old, bent over, yolk-backed, and saddled next to a herd of constantly bleating creatures that were always somewhere off in the distance, bleating and pooping, sleeping and wandering; muttering under their breath about witches, wolves, and scary, oddly formed creatures under bridges.

And this other little yarn yolked sign was draped everywhere there was a bent up flower! He should have known better than to have noticed. Still, he looked towards the farmer and his wife, the milling, pooping herd; he looked at his crumpled hands, and he read the sign which asked

“Who could possibly sleep next to that?”

But it was spring yet again, and one little goat pranced just above the hill, paused, and made a motion for the bridge. There was the slightest hesitation, as if the little goat had encountered one of the many signs left for it, draped around the neck of a flower–goats only eat the flowers that you like–but the hesitation was at the sign, at the flower, rather than a hesitant fear of trolls.

No doubt, Boogie thought, the whole herd will follow this time, if only to the bridge to see what their shepherds are up to. And that, all in all, isn’t a bad thing.

Anyone who has ever been around goats knows that…

Cover of "I AND THOU (Scribner Classic)"

Cover of I AND THOU (Scribner Classic)

Ich-Du: I and it; I and Thou by Austrian philosopher Martin  “Mordechai” Buber, is a book about object relations. I think he was talking about objectification more profoundly than Freud, and more clearly and intuitively than any feminist, ever, with the possible exception of Julia Kristeva–who also ‘get’s it,” when she manages to extricate herself from the word mangler.

The major theme of Buber is that humans find meaning in relationships. As a religious person, he felt that all relations could be understood from an object, subject perspective, “I’ and “It”, whatever that it may be to the one defining or discerning the relation,  and that the final unknowable, infinitely incomprehensible relationship was one with G-d, or “I” and “Thou.”

His G-d was a patriarchal G-d, one that could easily be understood by anyone; his paradigm a simple paradigm: I understand what I can understand, and once named or understood, the I becomes an it. In I to thou, however, thou can never be understood fully, and thus never fully objectified.

The last several decades have us wondering about the ‘objectification of women’ due in large part to feminist theory. My personal illusion of their ‘objectives’ was once that I envisioned feminists as human rights advocates, and companions in a struggle for equality, rather than as cold blooded murderers, collaborators with International banksters, and imprisoners of male bodies.

I was wrong, but not their fault–my own, for I trusted their cause, blindly.

Like it or not, want it or not, we have all been ‘subjected’ to the feminist ‘object’ paradigm by women who “object” to what they see as a patriarchal society. Yet their objection is/was notably silent about kyriarchal relations, and the paradigm I was presented of patriarchy is inherently–deceptively flawed.

Or, in simple terms, by co-opting, and ‘naming’ patriarchs and patriarchal concepts, feminism renders patriarchy as an “it” rather than as a “thou”, while rendering the world in reverse.

In simpler terms, objectifying men.

And in this generation, the kyriarchs were marching on your perceptions before you even knew what hit your father–your patriarchal Saint Not-Present-Enough (so they tell you-ever-wonder-why?), dearest Dad. They were all sleeping with your mother while he was away. But  patriarchs like Martin Buber, und Sigmund had been busy not long before– busy defining object relations, rather than being merely subjected to them.

And if feminism got one thing right about waging brutality, it was in that co-option of the power of naming, and in thus ‘taming’ of what they felt ‘objectified them’ and rendered them as “it’s” instead of “thou’s”. And it gave them the basis to wage war as women. And no century, ever, has seen more war or death than the last one.

So, no matter how smarmy, mid-to-late-month funky, or how finally fragrant or chastened that paradigm is to you, it is a paradigm that you have been face to face with, whether you know it, wanted it, or not. Think “Oprah Winfrey,” and discussions about the privilege of excess fatness; or the View, and the letter V, on “V-Day”. They are the matriarchy TO the patriarchy, the other half of war and death–that other V-Day.

Men as subjects to objectified women; subjective reality versus objective reality. Objectified realities, subjecting subjects to objectification. Subjectively, I object…

Shit–even I am confused. Maybe I, too, schlepped[sic] with my mother too long??

It’s in your face one way or another, and not because you asked for it. It’s there because you have been subjected to it, beyond your powers to just “turn it off,” because it’s everywhere.

It is an object lesson gone wild.

Having the big V in your face is not necessarily a bad thing, if that’s what you go in for, and Oprah–even with her billions–is kind of-?- vagiriffic- except the part where she and they all conveniently left out any mention of kyriarchy, and consent–yours; for your child’s future or present. And all that before you even know what hit you.

Now there’s a paradigm that has some teeth–and not just the kind of tooth that craves fresh chomped testicle, either, because after all, they are using your kids in wars all over the world ( I don’t have stats, or facts and figures about Oprah’s money–if anyone has that I would kiss your belly button for them).

Kyriarchy suggests that all people have relative power–some women have more power than some men; some men with massive cash have less power than women with big…big…umm, ideas, for instance.

Throw out patriarchy! Throw out oppression! Throw out…morality( a construction of patriarchy…)?!

Big ideas like waging illegal war in Libya under the foreign policy of single mother raised Barak Obama, and his foreign policy wonk, Hillary Clinton–after all, the patriarchs do it too! Never mind higher ground, or silly morals. Kyriarchy demands that we get to the top of the pyramid, using whatever tools are required to get there–power is not centered at the top.

Jennifer Lopez, and her war against sperm donor Mark Anthony, for instance, is an object lesson in kyriarchy, as the two are divorcing.  Who couldn’t have predicted that preying mantis to mantis outcome? After all, any man worth his beans wouldn’t have knocked her up except for the money–she’s worth twice as much as he is, and her sexuality is inherently more marketable.

The paradigm of patriarchy does notapply, as she likely has more power in one phone call to her sugar daddy than Anthony could ever have in a Mexican disco.

A crippled person from any American suburb on television talking about the disabled has more power than a legless boy on a push scooter who sells Chicles’ in Juarez, Mexico,or Oaxaca for example.

A woman–a white housewife in the suburbs of America has more security than say a little Latino boy whose sole caregiver is a crack-head mom.

In kyriarchy, power is flexible and situational.

Some illicit channels of communication have more direct access or control over power than other, traditional, accepted forms of communication; think Gloria Steinem licking Henry Kissinger‘s balls in her posh town-home in New York, as she prepares for another CIA-feminism funded blitzkrieg of the airwaves to convince all the young girls that she is some sort of Che Guevara, rather than a CIA operative who has lived a posh life-with Henry Kissinger as a consort.

Matriarchy in bed with patriarchy is not feminism.It is kyriarchy.

Think male drug crime convict, or prisoner has less power to speak out than any white female at a drug addicts shelter who he once ‘dated’, or anyt creature with a vagina having more credibility in a court-room in a domestic violence hearing.

She, and object of pity, and achieved victim status–an addict, an understandable “it.” But the prisonewho once dated her? A double and unspeakable “it.” Worse than an it–in fact, an “other than it.” because ‘we don’t know what he is capable of’. And certainly not a thou.

I personally give the credit to Martin Buber in this dialogue, because he was the first who ever explained to me the importance of object relations.

And I think feminists have selfishly inserted their object reality into the reality of others. They are like big dicks, raping dialogues.

“I and Thou,” he told me.* You’re an “it” they told me.

I–conceivable self-object–product of the nearly inconceivable, but approachable all powerful subject. That, pendant only upon my disbelief, or the needle in my own hand at the ballocks.

But here below are some notes attempting to point out the shifting sands of the heirarchy of kyriarchy, messed up even by Mazlows standards of order, and certainly in the feminist paradigm, it seems they missed a few details, or just skipped to the front of the line when it comes to the rank order of objects.
1)non-objects, yet to be realized.
2)manifestation of object, percieved through abject  (as per Kristeva for instance) into recognition of physical object
3)gendered/classed/racialized/sexualized object
sex object: does ex come before the staus of sex? or for that metter, the violence inherent in sex? Violence, a pendulum from genetic material/entrapment of men to rape of women?
4)status object: status can be from multiple sources, and symbolized in multiple ways
5)ritual object: objects given meaning or ascribed meaning by the hoi polloi, those objects sacred, sometimes above indivdual objects or individual relations.
6) violence object: male bodies and tools used against life
music/art/object; status symbols or internal devices mad external? Or, are these objects
7) object object [first? reverse the order?]

8)?????

=====================================================

FROM WIKIPEDIA:
Buber’s main proposition is that we may address existence in two ways:
that of the “I” towards an “It”
, towards an object that is separate in itself, which we either use or experience;
and that of the “I” towards “Thou”, in which we move into existence in a relationship without bounds.

From 1910 to 1914, Buber studied myths and published editions of mythic texts. In 1916 he moved from Berlin to Heppenheim. During World War I he helped establish the Jewish National Commission in order to improve the condition of Eastern European Jews. During that period he became the editor of Der Jude (German for “The Jew“), a Jewish monthly (until 1924). In 1921 Buber began his close relationship with Franz Rosenzweig. In 1922 Buber and Rosenzweig co-operated in Rosenzweig’s House of Jewish Learning, known in Germany as Lehrhaus.[6]

In 1923 Buber wrote his famous essay on existence, Ich und Du (later translated into English as I and Thou). Though he edited the work later in his life, he refused to make substantial changes. In 1925 he began, in conjunction with Franz Rosenzweig, translating the Hebrew Bible into German. He himself called this translation Verdeutschung (“Germanification”), since it does not always use literary German language but attempts to find new dynamic (often newly invented) equivalent phrasing in order to respect the multivalent Hebrew original. Between 1926 and 1930 Buber co-edited the quarterly Die Kreatur (“The Creature”).[7]

Beyond dildo‘s and rubber duckies: women fucking themselves–with sex robots!

Considering the level of rhetorical and  verbal violence that feminists direct at men, it is always tempting to be as crass and cruel as they are. But I won’t stoop to that–I will go one better: some women are so self involved that they want to fuck themselves, literally.

Woman has sex doll made in her own image: “I was thinking of her as this object upon which to act.” Oh, do tell me what you really think of yourself…

I love it. Now if she could only get a personalized dick made in her size, too. But we know how equity feminism has let women down in that battle! Equity Feminism gave the white middle class entire ‘other’ classes of men to have sex with–and they’re still not happy…

Blue silicone dildo

I don't care if a person is white, black, brown, red,, blue or green...they're still people...!!

The world really is hard for the middle class white American female, isn’t it?

cropped from :Image:Races2.jpg 1820 drawing of...

Race Paradigms are Dialectic Power--until they backfire.

Women Like Dead Men Best–according to evolutionary theories–and possibly, Roland Barthes.

“I call the discourse of power any discourse that engenders blame, hence guilt, in its recipient. ”
Roland Barthes

For every dead male of every skin color, there are more resources for privileged females, and the males that females choose as alpha’s. Which of course, leaves millions and millions of men dead every century due to wars that privilege seekers and privilege holders wage on the non-privileged.

In western society, for now, white females have chosen white males, and man, do those females devote a lot of time and attention to dethroning their own choices, and pushing for policies that lead to death–while overlooking their own precarious perch on that precipice of rhetoric.

I remember sitting in a university class room many years ago as the instructor–a white woman–was going on and on about how men objectify women, blacks, minorities ( you know, the usual schtick). Then, one click of her powerpoint clicker later, up comes a photo of a shirtless black man, some sports hero in some sport ( I don’t watch sports).

She looks at the class and says ” Black men are soooo hot. Ooooh. isn’t he hooooot!?”

That was kind of game-over for me–I mean, yakking about how white men this and that–and in her next breath objectifying a black man?

How sexist, and racist is that? I can only imagine that not being called on racism is a white female privilege.

Racialicious calls that discussion “one of the most taboo—yet most needed—conversations.”

The problem with having that conversation is best embodied by this statement: There are too many white women in conversations about white female privilege. And nobody can out talk, side-rail, deflate, or out manipulate a dialogue more than white women.

Here is one example of how difficult it is to discuss that privilege. ERV, a science blog ,written by molecular-biologist and blogger Abbie Smith, has so-far been part social experiment, and also been a rare outpost of free thought and anti-censorship by white femlae standards.

I weighed in at comment 199. If you have excess time ( a sign of privilege, I must warn you!) and lots of patience, this dialogue has me arguing for recognition of white female privilege–with white women.

[SPLASH!!!….the sound of a male victim of the Titanic rolling in his watery grave]

This particular dialogue is now a flame war between misandrist blogs and  blogs written by white men,  over privileged statements by a white female scandal engineer Rebecca Watson.

Here is a link for context in the wider discussion:  http://scienceblogs.com/gregladen/rebeccapocalypse/

But the irony of all these privileged discussions and those who have them is that they mostly lead to death of non-white men, women and children all around the world. Death, and the death of men,  is actually the most non-discussed taboo of all body discussions; it is the ground at the pedestal of white female privilege. I will be writing more about that soon.

Just don’t tell that to those who discuss the rhetoric of the body–because most of them are white women, who are riddled with anxiety that their bodies might pale by comparison to other bodies.

Although the larger diaologue seldom mentions the physical body, or the much larger body politic,  it is EMBODIED white, and female, in peculiar positions of power, or with privileged viewpoints.

Roland Barthes must be rolling in his grave right now, too, -of course, likely beneath a decent upper middle class tombstone.

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Here is an extreme example of how “lookism” affects men.

How does one begin to explain what has been done to men in America? The war on men is never ending. I watch in abject horror as one man after another: one son, of one mother after another; is swept, like garbage, into a bin at the rape factory.

And, sadly, I know why they become what they become.Being subjected to rape and torture can make you angry. Being denied justice, or even remaining silent can cause you to want to pay it back.

Imagine a world where mothers cared about sons, before it’s too late. Imagine a world where children, especially the boys, are protected from the police—before they feel that they have to kill the police.

It isn’t the fathers that aren’t there: IT IS THE MOTHERS WHO ARE.

et, al: Inspiring White Female Privilege.

A critique of an introduction, which functions as a rationalization of late-term post-partum white female privilege, abjection,* separatism cloaked in rape anxiety,and feminist cowardice.

This article is written for academic, “school educated” people, but I think it is important to write for non-academic people who should come first. For anyone reading this, who has never been to college, go here ** below the second line down.

For Nell, from Brooklyn–and feminist men: here below, is Nikki Crafts phallic totem.

———————————————————————————————————

Nikki Craft deserves more of the ear than most of her white female, feminist peers.

Why? Because Nikki Craft has ovaries ( I just thought I would see how that sounds–like if I said, “she has balls”-doesn’t carry the same ooomph, does it?).

No: Nikki Craft had balls–no, the gonads, in the sense of the phallus as a metaphorical and transferable human-family totem to actually take on the system. That is, before she located, and centered herself squarely, and interestingly in the middle of groups of naked children–but then changed her course– in order to argue against pedophilic sexual voyeurism of males, a curious position to be in indeed.

Nikki Craft was a warrior, not a whiner.

And Nikki Craft wasn’t a coward in her early activism, sniping from academic turrets of police and state mechanisms of pure power, like Russell[.], or from behind fire-walled, lap-dog guarded pseudo-feminist blogs like Skepchick.com which has recently had quite a discussion about Richard Dawkins, atheist, and sexism.

Most feminist men and women can’t help themselves, stuck as they are in Julia Kristeva‘s “borderline,” structured over a ‘lack’ of something rather than a possession of something, or cowering in the binary disconnect of self and other, like most modern entitled, privileged white feminists who lack the gonads to truly protest, or risk shattering the prolonged period of privileged female abjection.

Ms. Craft once took REAL risks–the same kind of risks that men face every day, and in doing so, was inherently believable, understandable, and respectable in her protests, unlike those who employ themselves merely as female ‘minds’ but inhabiting primarily, female bodies enmeshed in post-structural feminist narratology; and she transcended fear, and ‘her’ self.

She literally risked going to jail ( with all of it’s implied, potential, egalitarianism enhancing potential violence, and potential rape), and was actually jailed 17 times during her protests against misogyny.

You definitely can’t say that about any of the modern, entitled white women who talk, blog, and march in SlutWalks, and cry wolf at the mere possibility of male attention–who equate being spoken to in an elevator with rape , like white young feminist and religious skeptic Rebecca Watson, or joust at penises who have heretical gametes instead of right wing or power structure males.

However, the history of women’s protest in modern times is the history of differential and lesser-charged treatment by authorities in comparison to criminal offenses charged against men, and women of color.

The slap on the wrist is the norm in prosecuting white female criminal acts, and has been throughout the millennium–not the exception–which is not to minimize the effect of not being taken seriously by authority, but to point out the nature of second, third, and 17 th chances for those embodied white and female.

Craft was mad about men looking at pictures of naked women, which took their attention off of her, and other women she knew. She marauded in book and magazine stores, destroying magazines which portrayed naked women, which she felt threatened women’s safety–she took actual as opposed to imagined risks:

Unprivileged men don’t get 17th chances,stomping into stores and shops and wreaking havoc on merchandise; non-white women do not get second guesses, and second chances are rare, even for privileged men.

Black and brown or non-privileged white women are being locked in American prisons at an increasing rate[..], and all of them have historically faced harm that white women have NEVER faced.

However, white women have never faced prison, or the primary violation of their bodies as mere orthographic descriptions denoting criminality, unfathomably above and beyond the cold descriptors of ordinary humanity.

Further: imagine the absolutely unimaginable: that any man who acts in the agency of male, protesting the violence against the male body not just from authority, but from its constant companion of white female privilege that negotiates each male and other identity against racial and sexual pardigms of white female engendered or upholding power–should ever be nominated for an award by his arresting officer!

It could NEVER happen. Male protest, and other bodies for whom male protest attempts to speak, has been co-opted, essentially, at the site of a white woman’s womb.

To even attempt to create a list of men who have been imprisoned, beaten, jailed, and ruined by criminal records compiled by cops would be an exhausting project that would require a multi-billion dollar endowment, because the male body–regardless of race– is and has always been the center of the primary battles of discrimination between privileged men, and privileged women who compete for a voice in their ranks ( those ranks birthed, and upheld by mothers who birthed such men).

The use, control and abuse of male bodies is an agreement between the privileged of both genders; and male embodiment for most men is in and of itself ‘potentially harmful’ to society–men are punished merely for being male, because definitions of crime itself is proscribed male.

The male body that the privileged woman reaches into for phallic energy, and sperm donations is not the same male body that privileged females squeal to, or appeal to in their quest for justice.

In Russel’s introduction, she goes on to state what has become the driving mantra and the essential position of white female privilege-and by using the term white female, I by no means preclude brown, or black contenders for the white female influenced voice of privilege.

Russell admits her cowardice to some degree when says:

And likely, the lesson she speaks of brings her closer to comprehending what it is that keeps white female privilege arguing up the asses of male politicians, police, professors, and feminist lap-dog men, while purporting to care about brown and black women around the world– because jail is a very real possibility for all men, every day, and actual rape, death and harm a fact of life for non-white women.

But white women? C’mon…they are way too scared to take risks like talking to someone in an elevator, much less go to jail for insurrection.Fear of crossing from ‘abject’ reality to “actual reality”*** is what motivates the modern white feminist–fear of losing their entitlement, not fear of actual rape.

Unlike Craft, a primary cowardice that stops white women at the door of actual risk, and perpetuates their privilege, while minimizing the effects of their abject fear projections on men, and leaning on the backs of ‘other and othered’ men and women for actual stories of suffering and inequality.

Or, in the words of Russell:

This dialectic of “fancy” preemptive dialogue is “limned with the abject loss” of white female privilege–a murderous impulse against growing up, being truly equal, or at least facing the violence of ‘reality’ that most men, and non-white women face. It eludes reality, and eludes the presumptions of ‘othered’ male innocence in every discussion, and merely tokenizes actual violence that non-white women face.

Unimaginable, utopian, unavailable, and unattainable as white female perceptions of abject reality is, it is seductive in the least, for privileged, and compliant males, but it borders no reality known by the rest of men, or non white women.

White female abjection is so fetishized, and so normalized that egalitarian options are demonized and co-opted by the collaboration of cowards; the white female abject is a tool to diffuse and disorganize ‘other’ and ‘othered’ male protest, diminished as much by the actual arrests and subsequent brutality that non-white women and othered men face, without letters of recommendation, or commendation from police authorities.

* abjection in Julia Kristeva’s conception: “On the level of archaic memory, refers to the primitive effort to separate ourselves from the animal: “by way of abjection, primitive societies have marked out a precise area of their culture in order to remove it from the threatening world of animals or animalism, which were imagined as representatives of sex and murder” (Powers 12-13). On the level of our individual psycho sexual development, the abject marks the moment when we separated ourselves from the mother, when we began to recognize a boundary between “me” and other, between “me” and “(m)other.”[ needs citation]

But instead of art, or literature, white feminism gives us regurgitation’s of Plato, a structuralist, and Socrates, a pedophile, and always posits her place as an innocent, vulnerable, and unaware of conflict, holding her place at the mirror image abject, never quite seeing, or admitting to seeing, but always looking at herself, and projecting upon others whatthey, not she, sees there, in HER unbroken mirror.

____________________________________________________________

**What I am saying up there above the line where the book-smart but street-dumb paper-people live.

But for everybody else: Don’t white women act like they are a threatened species, and claim they have not enjoyed freedom because white men were in the way? White women have imprisoned white men and black men for generations, with social morality campaigns, and social scares, claiming black men “looked at them, ” assaulted them, ” raped them,” etc., while making black women nurse, and watch their babies while they ran around.

White women negotiate from a perspective of entitlement, but once, some white women, who kicked ass, did cool things that helped all women, like what Nikki Craft did, before she became incredibly fascinated and obsessed being near nudist children.

Yet sadly, modern white women are cowards,who want you to keep them in the position of power that they are used to (listen to them, pay for them, enable them, believe in them, and at all times spoil them like little girls, but never talk about it): and, unlike most people, and most women, especially black, brown, or non-white women, they want you to think that they have a hard time in life, despite the fact that white women have been the primary living, breathing, financial beneficiaries of all of histories wealth, all of histories dead men, and all of histories power.

In fact, white women want you to help ensure their breeding success, against your own, and want you to believe that mixing with them will help protect your childrens future–it won’t. The problem is, you cannot protect your children from them–look at American laws, look at ‘modern’ history–everywhere there is a white woman, there is child rape, slavery, death of fathers, subservience of ‘colored women’, and kidnapping or “adoption” of your non-white children]

*** actual reality is what non-white women, and unprivileged men everywhere face due to the un-modulated voice of white women and their fears, as opposed to the rest of people and their realities.