This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. It is a place where I can be honest and I appreciate that. Here, I splurge. No one comes out looking good. It is a selfish place written by a pretty selfish person. It is a place of ranting and I am, ultimately, an unreliable narrator. Bear that in mind. I attempt to be honest, but things are very much from my point of view.
Highly subjective views of people in my life proliferate. It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the "Story So Far" Page above. I can also heartily recommend that Dysphoria link if you're questioning or interested. Thank you!
We did go to Conkers where they have a barefoot walk and I actually did it!
Did I ever mention that I like going barefoot?
There have been lots of thoughts. First of all: it is now clear (if it wasn't already abundantly obvious) that both of my children are on the spectrum. The Girlie, though it was perhaps shielded a little, is most definitely Aspergic and, quelle suprise, so am I. Now, bear in mind, none of this is official. Yet. But it is rather clear that these things are pretty much able to be taken as truths from here on in. No more wandering around that point and musing on it - I'm pretty confident that I have a big aspie family.
This is largely, I feel, the result of my genes and this probably comes from my mother. That doesn't mean much, but it's a chain of causation.
Okay, she has shoes on, but let's face it: that's the ideal right there.
This has repercussions for the central theme of this here blog about my feelings, and my children's likely feelings, on gender being something that is hard to define. It's why I am mostly happy with the concept of gender being fluid and individual. Because, as far as I know, it is. There is the physical sex, true enough, and that may not tally with what's going on elsewhere in the brain chemistry or the psychology. And I am fine with that, in case that wasn't obvious either. It brings to mind an article that a friend of mine shared quite a while back now, on which they were asking for discussion - discussion that I feel is necessary. Certainly this article (link here) brought many things that I think I think already to the fore and made them plain. It is why I am glad that there are people out there who can write so that I'm not left flopping on the shore of basic thought like some fish left behind by retreating tides.
And this has very much been my teaching desk. Right down to the abandoned food receptacles piling up in my professional space.
I tidied it in the first few weeks of the holidays. And my room. We have desks in the office too. It was quite the revelation.
What else? It was a frenetically busy year that has just been, my academia-focus knows no bounds, even in my dating systems, and it's only recently that I've had time to fill out and just... well, be. We moved the Girlie into the bigger room quite recently, which took much huffing and puffing, and has resulted (for the moment, at least) with my 'dressing' wardrobe in a less accessible position. But, then, I haven't been dressing much lately anyway. Indeed, not since the last post on here in, what, June? The bout of depression, and that is what it was, that started about this time last year seems to have finally lifted - in that I can no longer imagine what it was like living under it, so that seems like a good sign. Now all I have to do is do some actual work to prepare for the new school year and I'm dandy. To that end I spent £65 on a pair of shoes for work today. This from someone who had spent £40 last year and thought that excessive - and then suffered because the shoes were slightly the wrong size and squeaked when I walked for the whole dang year. I'm looking forward to some comfortable brown shoes, the right brown mind you, that won't squeak when I walk. We'll see.
Needless to say, I bloody loved it.
I even ended up dancing to Go West which is one of my least favourite tracks (due to it being over-played). It works better live I think.
I went to see the Pet Shop Boys at the Opera House in Covent Garden with my father, that was a good night, and even got to sample some ales. Though my father remained his usual self - apparently he hated the last time we saw the Pet Shop Boys live at the Proms, which was something I did not know. Also, he wanted to know how I chose the ales I wished to try, my answer that I simply went with what I liked the look of was not well received. He's planning to retire, more at is wife's suggestion than his own idea, and worried about what he will be if and when he does. My father has been a workaholic for as long as I've known him but his present worries about identity are, again, more like his wife than him. I'm not sure that bodes well for him, if I'm honest.
Beer for illustrative purposes
We've also had a new fireplace put in. Tilly's writing work has taken off, she now is a freelance writer for reals. So we can save for a wood-burning stove and we've had a fireplace put in. It looks rather spiffy, actually, and is quite exciting. And yes, we seem to be getting on as a couple and things are mostly fine since the last post. Whatever that means I don't know, but things are better than they have been and certainly beyond the nadir of the events leading up to this time last year. She even bought me flowers for our anniversary so no complaints from me. I've been drinking rather a lot of ale and reviewing it, hence leaving this place fallow for so long, and now I seem to be getting back on an even keel on the internets.
So much so that I'm back posting on here and that can't be a bad thing, right? All that is mostly good stuff and augurs better for the coming year than I think I can report at any other time toward the end of August (no, I'm not going to check).
So, that's it for this entry and I look forward to getting back in touch with people, I feel like I've been away too long.
Not a curtsey becasuse, fuck yeah, this is summer!
The internet is awash with reviews and thoughts about this film from many people better qualified and more thoughtful than I, but it is a film that I have seen and so I felt that I had to at least show willing and offer a review of it. After all, this is the sort of film that I usually avoid - I have seen The Road Warrior and enjoyed it (it used to form part of a unit I taught on the Cold War, of all things) but was never one to recommend it to others and, despite the humour of Lord Humongous, it was never something that touched me the same way as, say, Star Wars.
However, reading some of the reviews online and some of the thoughts about this film made me reassess my thoughts and convinced me that it was worth seeing. I refer, of course, to the oddity that is Mad Max: Fury Road. I was not disappointed. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, far from "MEDIOCRE!" and very likely to ride into Valhalla, shiny and chrome.
I have now seen it twice, once on my own and once with friends where I even blew off work to do so, which is so unlike me it actually hurts.
So, what can I say that you haven't already seen and read elsewhere? Answer: probably nothing. However, I went to our local cinema to see it and I have to say I didn't really know what to expect. Before I went I knew all about the potential issues with Feminism and disabilities and how this film was apparently being boycotted by MRAs. I have to be honest here, up until that point I wasn't going to see it. On hearing the arguments levelled against the film by various people online, and the rebuttals, I decided to watch the trailers a little and listen to some of the music. Over the course of a week I became hooked on the music and began to wonder about actually going to see the film as well. Then, once I decided that seeing the film was a possibility, I read everything I could find on it.
And yet, on sitting down in the local cinema having paid the sort of prices that even in my youth I would have been happy paying, I just settled and waited for it to begin. I knew, academically, that the style would be intensely visual and that the main character was disabled and that the director would trust the audience. I knew about the use of real stunts and less CGI than most blockbusters use. I knew about the soundtrack. I knew about the themes being played on. I'd spoken to people at length about The Road Warrior and remembered sections that I had thought long forgotten.
And for the next two hours I did not check my watch, lose interest or do more than blink. The film was very well edited so that there was never a dull moment. Plenty of pace, plenty of breaks in which to breathe and plenty of wide shots so that the whole thing never became overwhelming. The soundtrack sounded, well, natural and despite having a repeating theme it never got old. The plot hammered away, being much simpler than I thought it was going to be, but at the same time it was a decent plot. The characters were well drawn, the feeling of dread and pursuit felt real and, throughout it all, it felt like the film I remembered using to teach students about the Cold War and the ever-present paranoia about nuclear Armageddon. It felt right.
None of the pundits were lying because, after I'd finished watching the film (and checking the credits to see where to buy the soundtrack), I suddenly remembered that the main character was missing an arm for the entire film. Oh yeah, I'd forgotten that. This means we had a disabled character whose disability was not a character arc or plot point and whose inclusion seemed perfectly natural. Indeed, there were scenes with the arm both on and off and at no point did that feel forced or preachy. We'd had a female character take over from a male without it being a plot point or particularly notable besides having differing skill-sets in combat. I'd missed it, but noted it after the fact. Hell, we passed the Bechdel test so many times I lost count and there wasn't even a great deal of dialogue in the film. We'd had three bad-guys, all with their own well-choreographed fight and death scenes, that had been introduced, given stories and killed without ever feeling that it was rushed. Max himself was set up, played out and wrapped up as much as he ever was as well as seven other major characters. It was a film that really went to town on the characters and it was only two hours long and most of that was spent in a car chase or shooting things or big explosions.
And the action... I remembered being slightly repulsed by the rawness of the death and the wounds in Road Warrior and that was what had given me pause initially about seeing this film. I needn't have worried. Miller was able to put most of the truly awful stuff off-screen while maintaining just enough that you knew it was happening and didn't feel like you were being talked down to or spared something terrible. It was very cleverly done. The fight scenes were carefully staged so that you never lost track of the characters or the reason for the fights happening. At the same time, the fights felt real and raw and messy - the moves made by characters went wrong, they meshed and nobody got what they wanted ("eugh, MEDIOCRE!") and yet it all flowed beautifully.
And the issues: climate change, nuclear disarmament, social commentary - poverty, objectification, toxic masculinity, Feminism, water wars... they were all there. All of them. And during the film I didn't notice them at all. It was only afterward, thinking about the film, that any of it came out. It was done so well that I'm still thinking about it now, almost two weeks later, and I want to watch Road Warrior again to see what I missed all that time ago.
But that isn't the end, oh no, and the main reason I loved this film is probably down to the following comment that put it better than I ever could:
"Here is why I have lost all sense of proportion over this film and am fully obsessed. I sit here in a 'We Are Not Things' tshirt having given my understanding husband a lecture on fire stunts involving The Gigahorse over breakfast this morning. "I do love Joss Whedon, but the lack of Strong Female Characters™ was just wonderful. I really like the Lego Movie, for example, but the choice of female characters I can be is Wyldstyle or UniKitty, one of whom isn't even a human, and the other gets to be cool until she is Exceptionally-Yellow-Duded out of the picture and has her narrative explanations 'blah blah blah blahed' out because she has the temerity to have #distractinglysexy hair.
"I was lost to MM:FR where, right at the beginning, Furiosa turns East and one of the warboys turns up at the window and says something like 'What are we doing?'. She responds 'We're going East', to which he replies "I'll relay the orders down the line" as if this is completely normal. There's no 'what for? Why are we doing this? What are the orders?' he just gets on with it like this is his job, like this is what they do every day, and I suddenly realised how little this happens in mass media. Compare that with things like, say, Disney's Hercules (watched recently with The Chap) in which a young lady is asked if she needs help, she says no and then a male character wades in anyway. Hercules, mate, she said she doesn't need any help - relay the fucking orders down the line and go about your business. To have a woman be an actual leader and not be questioned was just... wonderful.
"Considering last year the character I most wanted to identify with was a male, computer generated raccoon, to have an actual CHOICE of grown human females that I might want to be at different stages of my life is both fantastic and depressing at how little these opportunities arise for me, how excluded I do feel by the representation of my gender in mass media. No one has to bang anyone to express their gratitude, Furiosa doesn't have to die in punishment for being independent."
Well, quite. I did notice, on the second viewing, that bit at the beginning where Furiosa is clearly seen as the one in charge and gets away with not lying simply because she is in charge. And I did notice how it was different to a great deal of stuff in the media about femininity and in contrast to the vision put forth about Ms Jenner recently.
I was re-reading that article by Ann Tagonist and the comments that spawned from it. And, in looking for it, I happened across this little video:
Soviet TV. It's a lost art, you know, and I know you've all seen this before, I know.
But the thing is that there's something lurking in this video, something wonderfully optimistic and potentially life-changing. The USSR was a hole and, in 1976, it was an increasingly belligerent hole that cynically used its revolutionary credentials to do not a lot for ordinary people. But there were still occasional sparks of something else, windows to the original idea that the USSR would be different and positive and seek to improve the lot of humanity. Okay, no, maybe not the USSR, but the vision of the original revolution and all that they brought with them. I may not agree with much of Marxism (and I don't, as it happens) but I have to admire those Bolsheviks and their ability and willingness to do exactly as they said they were going to do with War and Land (and I realise the latter of those was an unmitigated disaster). Thing is, there was something about what they wanted to do about the human condition and the way art could be harnessed, freed and used all at the same time. That utopian vision was worth something.
A vision that is strikingly clear in the aftermath of the October Revolution and the actions of SovNarKom, subsumed in the horrors of the Civil War and distorted by X Party Congress but still there a little in pockets, almost brought out into the light by Khrushchev (though he would be the first to warn you against seeing too much good in what he did) and then slowly killed by dreary drudgery and stagnation. And yes, even here I am over-selling it, I know. But there's something, a kernel if no more, of something greater, something almost beautiful.
This video, this singing of a feeling without words, is part of that original vision. It's poorly made, poorly conceived and ridiculous, but the concept of TV as a cultural and educative force at prime time like this... if that's not naked optimism I don't know what is. Furthermore, to use it as a form of art for people to watch, well, imagine that today. Even the series I like tend to appeal to the lowest-common denominator (well, you could say that's why I like them) in order to do well.
No, this is a happy little video and I think I may have a soft spot for it. I have also acquired a copy of Die Weller that I intend to watch at some point, so, you know, there's that.
Around Christmas I received a gift from my family's favourite Belgian and a challenge, which I think was part of the gift, and it's had me thinking ever since. If this goes well I suspect I shan't be long in trying a second bash at this sort of thing as it was an interesting exercise and, to my knowledge, it's not been done by anyone I have contact with before. What is this? Well, I was sent the album Sonic Highways by the Foo Fighters - this album is a concept album in which they take eight US cities and using their experiences there they created a song to match that inspiration.
The challenge was to listen to the album and then find an ale that was inspired by the music. That is, each of the tracks would be linked to an ale that would match their style and their rhythm and beat. Now, it goes without saying (I hope) that drinking an ale to each track (them being between four and seven minutes long) would result in rapid loss of use of one's body and is not to be recommended.
Would you like to see what this challenge has called forth from the dark recesses of my mind? You would? Excellent, click on the finely hand-crafted 'read more' link below!
I ended up having to put her in the recovery position.
Delirious and babbling slightly, luckily first aid people arrived and I could get on with sorting the students, clearing the room and fetching lucozade at her request. I can fetch lucozade.
It's all gone Pete Tong. My new newb collapsed today and needed to be taken home, this is down to stress. Heavy handed knee-jerk reactions from my bosses (not my immediate boss) undermined what little confidence she had left and it got to her. But this is far from a clear-cut thing. The current moves, over my head and without my blessing, have done no more than hasten the inevitable or, perhaps, ruin the attempt to forestall it and rebuild my newb's confidence. Marking hasn't been done properly since starting, no planning was done in the run up to the new year (as in, September) and thus she found herself three months behind with no help. Assurances that she was catching up from her are lies and she refused any and all help from the rest of the Department. Today revealed the extent of the avoidance in the basics, but her lessons remain top-notch. She'd even started using the lessons on file to help her and prevent running herself ragged making everything new. It would have taken more work yet, but we could have done it for her. Now...
She looks like she's on top of her marking.
I'd trade.
I inadvertantly walked in on her husband and her getting ready to go. The pent-up anger and hatred of the school emanating from her husband was palpable. He blames the school for her ill-health. And, given my nobbish bursting in, I have become the avatar on which he will focus that hatred. I am, after all, her immediate boss.
It meant a rushed and harried afternoon and then an evening rallying support troops to ask advice, confirm my suspicions and create the atmosphere I need to support my newb whilst surreptitiously lessening her workload - doing so in such a way that she won't feel undermined and shit. That's hard work, and I'm just barely treading water at the moment as it is (two exam classes will do that at mock examination time and with two papers to mark). Don't get me wrong, regular readers know that I thrive on adrenaline in situations like these, but it is hard work. With the senior leaders jumping at shadows for unknown reasons this could be an interesting few days. I hope my newb follows advice and stays off tomorrow...
Or her, I'd trade with her.
In other news, relevant to our interests, there was this article.
Apart from being part of the grotesque lengths of mistranslation of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air's theme tune (see the video below) this is also the title of a track from Plumb, a Christian band/solo artist who gets a bit punk-y, and an accurate depiction of what I have in my head for posting here.
A good dark ale this one. Stout? Alas, I had but a half of Coach and Horses from Tetley as we were in the Coach and Horses so it seemed logical.
Three hours later I was designated driver, so safe.
Why? No real reason. I was out on Friday with a very male group of people what play football for a curry and a bevvy of drinks. It was a good night, there were good conversations that left me flattered (no, really) about teaching, our craft, and teaching, the political football, and teaching, the school at which we work. I was able to offer two of my colleagues a lift home and that went well too. I was also, subtly, put in my place. There are weekends away for members of this very masculine group and I have never been inculcated into that inner-sanctum but a new member was on that evening. I am, thus, the only member of the group so far not invited to these. Make of that what you will, you can imagine how I have interpreted it - I'm not offended but nor am I particularly surprised. Perhaps a little disappointed. Oh, and there were teams to be chosen on the Friday. Yes, I was left until last.
Ha ha ha. I wish.
Saturday we processed north to see my mother and some friends for the exchanging of Christmas gifts. It was a long, but generally good, day. Lots of travelling (I live in the UK, our distances are laughably short - less than 200 miles here - but every bit as tiring as US distances - in Michigan we managed more than this per day but with cruise control and no corners). I had two ales round my Mother's that evening and it was good. But the Boy did not get to sleep until 11pm. Cue much grizzling today. It does not bode well for my Father's mad birthday meal at 7pm on Christmas Eve round a place with nowhere to go for children and an expectation of smart clothes, quiet and refinement (I mean, seriously? Seriously?). Still, after a little mucus-invoked vomit in the car and a mega-tantrum, the Boy settled to sleep easily enough.
Yes. This sums it up - that's pretty much how the hugging looked when trying to calm the Boy.
I looked less nice.
This latter point deserves some unpacking if only because I am quite proud of how I handled it. I stayed with him, telling him that I understood his feelings and how much he hated feeling them but that they were fine to be feeling and that, even though I couldn't help, I would be with him. I told him that his Daddy loves him and that his Daddy understood his anger, his disappointment and his sadness but that his Daddy would not leave him as long as he wanted me there. And it worked. It's not the first time I've done this nor the first time it's worked, but it is the first time that a weekend of travel left me tired enough to shed tears of solidarity whilst doing it.
Then, online, there were the following things:
This article made me cry and I want to do something.
This article made me angry and I want to do something.
This video (below) is beautiful and I cannot accurately explain why - you just have to watch it.
This blog (look at the links too) gave me pause and made me want to do something.
And, as I get older, I get more radical. I'm beginning to wonder if riots, direct action and anger may be the way to actually enact change. Maybe. Maybe not. I am less and less attached to property the more I live with my family.
So, tonight this would be my jam. Why? I rather find myself drawn, but only in a virtual sense, to areas like this (Chernobyl) and I do like the concept of being 'off-grid'. Not in a survivalist sense, I don't fear the collapse of civilisation or anything like that (though part of me believes it's inevitable, maybe just not in my lifetime).
No, I remember camping in the Upper Peninsula in Michigan. I remember being somewhere with no permanent residents for 50 miles in any given direction. I remember thinking that this was brilliant. Just the quiet, some people to talk to, and a tent. I liked it. I would do that again. I would enjoy that again. It's not brilliant, but I've often tried to design a life that is sealed. Sure, it can interact if it wants, but I like the idea of being small and out of the way. Self-contained. No need for a 'job' but enough income to take part in the world if necessary. Something to contribute tax. No benefits if possible and... well, a life that's pretty neutral overall in terms of impact. Videos like this remind me of that... dream? Aspiration? I don't know. One day, I suspect if I ever finish a novel, it shall be a novel that has this sort of thing at its heart. Truth be told though, I'm never writing a novel, let's be serious, it just isn't going to happen. Okay, that escalated quickly.
It will come as no surprise that this piece of music has been playing whilst I composed the last post on this here place...
There's something about this artist that keeps me coming back for more. I was introduced to him by Dee and I dabbled a bit, enjoying the track called 'Introdiction'. But then I finally went to listen to the rest of the album for which that serves as an introduction and I realised that the artist, Scroobius Pip, is more than bottled and clever anger. There's a depth there. There's something on which to hang.
It brings to mind the concept of travelling, on foot and possibly without shoes, across a vast and lonely landscape. Maybe the brooding hills of the Cumbrian Lakes or the dense forest of the Upper Peninsula in the States. Perhaps it is the quiet lowlands of the Norfolk Broads on a wild summer night in the dark. It is music that serves for introspection. It is an escape from everything that makes up my own life, bounded beneficiently by the boundaries placed by work and life that I have chosen. A breaking free.
Of course, I wax lyrical in the way only an educated fool on the internet avoiding real work and real life can. I miss writing, can you tell? But I'm lazy, and one should never underestimate just how lazy I can be.
And I am as bad as the interviewer at the Grauniad by using an image of a cross-dressing Grayson Perry to start my own thoughts on the article.
It's as though all I see Grayson Perry as is a transvestite too. So much for me being progressive. Mind you, I love the fact that the family are together here.
I think I've mentioned the artist, Grayson Perry, before. My teaching friend regards Perry as one of the most down-to-earth people around in the UK today and I'm not sure that I can easily disagree. I saw a link to an article in the Grauniad, the newspaper for people in the UK who are lefty-liberal and consider themselves intellectual, about this artist and took a read. It was worth it, you can find it here, and it spoke much about the interviewer and, with that, about the society in which I feel part in the UK. The interviewer seems a tad confused about transvestism, in that the view is put forward subtly that transvestism is something that can be picked up, an identity that is much like clothing. It was Perry's response that, in these circles, although common still had me paying attention: "you don't stop being a transvestite because you're not wearing a dress". And that, arguably, is the best explanation I've read about how I feel about myself that I've read in a long time.
This is a long diatribe. I'll put a line break in.
Someone asked me what my top ten books were recently.
I know, it's a click-bait list article thing, and I can't really rank the books that I like easily. However, I think I can give you ten books that have stayed with me for "some reason" and briefly explain why. I can't promise any order to the list, any rhyme or reason to the inclusion of books or any great themes that I shall be exploring. Equally, there will be books that are missing simply by dint of me having read them too recently for them to have stayed with me yet, like How to be a Woman by Caitlin Moran and Kazuo Ishiguro's Remains of the Day, which are both brilliant books in their own rights and will no doubt make me think for a long while yet but, having only been read in the last few weeks, can't really qualify for the list.
Then there's the influential books that shaped who I am today: Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe series, Tom Clancy's books, Colin Dann's Animals of Farthing Wood series or pretty much anything by John Wyndham (his short story Consider Her Ways was very much part of making me who I am, as was The Trouble with Lichen and, of course, Chocky). Obviously not all of those can make a list of ten books that have stayed with me, so the list will be culled and will be pretty random. Without any further ado then, the list continues after the line break. But only the first 7, top three will have to wait for another day.
I have a longer post about recent days planned, but a long journey (5 hours in the heat on UK motorways) and some dodgy fish (belching ahoy) have conspired to render me incapable of long winded typing tonight. No, it's an early night after some interesting dreams and thoughts. And, on the note of interesting things, this article came to light, it may be of interest to the people that stop by here.
I find it fascinating because it confirms my thoughts (and online experience having 'Joanna-time on social media) with actual statistical analysis. And, also, seems to explain why most people view transgender issues through the lens of social panic - because men change to women! But this is actually less likely than women changing to men. MTFs get more publicity, and much of it negative, because of the institutionalised prejudice toward women in society - why would a man deliberately give up power and privilege? That must be suspicious and scary.
I'm going to start with a curtsey this time (as well as finish) because that's how I feel right now.
And there we have where I identify in a nifty image.
It's not with the one sleeping.
Rabbit holes, I follow them. And, at some point last night, I remembered that I had an account over at the Experience Project. I forget when I made it, or why, but it would appear to have been made before starting this blog - if I can assert that. I actually found it when looking for images for my last post. One of the pictures I found was called "sexless-marriage4.jpg" and I followed the term.
It turns out it's a term from the USA Census and refers specifically to a marriage where the couple admits to having sex less than ten times in any given year. Also, it's a well known term in the literature of marriage counselling and has an apparently long and illustrious history. Overall, this affects a small minority of couples, by the by, but from here on in I'll focus on that minority. It also masks things. It would appear that this covers couples that mutually don't have sex (and these would appear to be in the majority if not the vast majority), as in those with both partners having the same low libido and being happy with that. I think I even had the image in my last post: sex is an important 10% of any long-term relationship but it's still just 10%. In the UK, the average (mean) times a married couple has sex is down to three times (ish) a month from once a week. However, a minority of cases are involuntary. Sometimes it is both partners who reach out at different times and get rebuffed and that is heartbreaking to hear about - but there are plenty of areas to help if one can swallow one's ridiculous pride enough to find them and use them. Then there are cases where it isn't like that.
Yes.
Reading the commentary on many of these cases is by turns saddening and angering. No one seems to behave particularly well in these cases. Invariably the men end up sounding like PUAs and MRAs (and some of them, quite clearly, are) in that they seem to feel that coins of kindness or favours will go in the woman machine and sex will come out like a vending machine. I find their situation distressing but I find their entitled reaction distressing also. It may help explain why their spouses feel the way that they do and are using sex as a weapon (not that this excuses their behaviour in weaponising sex). I am saddened that seemingly many people on the internets have this problem but I am angered by much of the advice (marriage entitles one to sex; men should demand it [demand!] of their spouses; etc) given too. However, the eye-opener was that it was 50/50. Most of the vocal complaints, the most vocal and well-written, were from women. Women who did not understand as they assumed men were just sex-obsessed (which is saddening and angering all at once) or simply did not know what happened to the man they met. Or there were those women who found too late that they had not been well-prepared and discovered their sex-drive was much higher than their spouse's and were simply unable to fix that. I am sorry to say, as a male, that males in general do not come off well in these stories...
Reality.
First some new terms connected to this one that I learned. Refuser - refers to the one in the relationship who, for whatever reason, is not up for sex very often (or at all). Needer - the refused who end up begging and debasing themselves and find themselves controlled or else abused. Also 'Refusee' the one who is refused (I wonder what is wrong with just 'Refused').
Where males were the Refuser the complaints were often erudite and well-considered. The soul-searching heart-rending but also complete and sympathetic. This went for homosexual and lesbian relationships too, interestingly. These complaints were more saddening because, in the main (and I mean vast majority like over 95%), the complainants were honest and broken and reflective. I found sympathy for these complainants not only easy but natural. Their suffering was plain and their devotion to sorting everything out was clear. Their reluctance to leave or take the 'easy way out' was heartening. Not all ended happily (where they ended) and not all ended badly, but the common thread was decency and politeness. Where females were the Refusers and males the Refused (my blog, my term) this was less universal. Here maybe 67% (i.e. two-thirds) were polite and erudite, about 33% were sympathetic and understanding of their spouse. But at least 50% had feelings that I found difficult to support. Their anger and bitterness was all-consuming. 33% were horribly and obviously misogynistic and 25% were the most vocal and vociferous.
Hold on, another point, by this point I was following the rabbit hole on the Experience Project, having discovered my log in details again.
Well, obviously!
No, seriously. It's true.
On this community the 25% misogynistic and bitter males were joined by the 2% bitter and male-hating females to form about 40% of the conversations and comments. I was stunned. Mind you, I recently actually saw death threats and rape threats made to a woman who dared to post that, as a gun owner in Texas, she supported tighter controls on who could buy guns (and did not quibble open-carry laws). That was perhaps more legitimately shocking (I knew it happened, but never to people I actually know). Hell, I was threatened as a "sand-nigger" with severe bodily harm and rape for being British and correcting some erroneous information about the UK in the 'debate'. I digress.
I posted a precis of my own situation (imagine my grim humour seeing a male post "I haven't had any sex since February and I can't take it any more") and, in short order, got some actually rather helpful replies. One of them was... a little bitter. I'm not sure I was entirely happy with the presumption that the poster could insult Tilly the way he did (or how) - he went beyond the situation and started using ominous terms like "they", as in "if they [he referred to all women] could see what they do to us men". Hmm.
Anyway, it would appear that we, Tilly and I, fit the definition of sexless marriage and have done since we were wed in 2008. We even got a bigger bed so that Tilly wouldn't have to sleep so close to me and have two duvets so we don't share bedclothes. I do wonder what the point of sharing a bedroom is apart from a space saver. We've been in a sexless relationship since August of 2007. Seven years makes me a bit of a whelp and a wimp compared to some of the stoicism I've seen (most of the people I read about can claim upwards of ten years) but it is a long time I suppose. And I found, bizarrely enough, that the naivety I had about my own libido and potential issues with sex in a relationship are shared much more by females than males. Or else the males are less willing to admit that part of their lives. I don't know. Even the behaviour of the male refusers was described as being more similar to Tilly than not. Female refusers were, however, generally spoken of with less affection and more loathing, so perhaps that has something to do with it.
I have also managed to mark some books. Go me. To this track:
And here I was complaining that I had nothing to blog about recently.
It's been an intense, but positive, couple of days. I have been observed at work, run an interview where I have increased my empire whilst remaining loyal to a colleague who I have grown to really value at work and now I have read two, count 'em, two articles on Cracked (of all places) that I find incredibly challenging. In short, despite not getting all my marking done, it has been a big few days. Oh, and I did my foot in and couldn't walk all Saturday or Sunday. Friends were round, it went well, and despite a lack of bar-crawl a good time was had with Gary and family and also Phillip, the Gary stand-in friend I had at University. They really are very alike. Though Phillip remains single and profligate while Gary is married, with a small child.
So, in short, I can say, with confidence, that I am feeling less shitty than I have been too. It has been a productive few days even if I haven't got all my work done. I mean, I managed to do my lesson that stresses me out (in a good way) to the best of my ability, even if it meant getting bailed out by a sympathetic observer over my shitty marking (I'm crap at making it regular). It was nice. The students really enjoyed it in a way that I've not seen students engage with since... oooh, about 2005. I think it shall be a day long remembered, which, given the nature of it, is good. Then, today, we had interviews which were relaxed, and professional, throughout. At the end of the day I was able to fight the corner of my colleague and gain a really enthusiastic excellent new teacher on my staff at the same time. Yay! It was a very positive experience and I feel no guilt nor regret at any of it. Yay! And my colleague is happy and gets to stay! Yay! Okay, I remain a very selfish person.
And, like I said, there are a bunch of articles that you need to read:
A blog relevant to our interests. Politically astute and socially powerful.
A Cracked article: why men hate women.
Glasgow, Socialism and modern gentrification. Emo-porn.
Apparently one long rambling post on the experience wasn't enough. So, I'm going to pick up where I left off (on the way to Birkenau/Auschwitz II) and see where it takes me. I wouldn't blame you if you don't read past this introduction.
In other news, I am avoiding marking and may or may not manage to get round to writing this evening, because I know you care. Oh, have you checked out the 1066 Game? You ought to.
Most of my blog-posts where I babble about what I did on any given day have a pun-tastic title. I... well, I didn't think that this was a pun worthy thing. Yes, I did go on a day trip to the area we know as the concentration camp of Auschwitz. I know that I spoke about it already in my review of the Wake and I know that most people don't come here to listen to me spout.
Nevertheless, this is part of my experience and, to be honest, this is part of how I cope with things. I record them and that is part of my processing. I'm not sure that what follows will be coherent, let alone interesting, and I'm absolutely certain that it will be less amusing and uplifting than my other posts. It will also be accompanied by some of the pictures that I took on the trip. If this ain't your bag or you don't really wish to face the camps then don't click below.
I'm so used to it these days I'm not even sure what it's about this time.
It's quite something when you score an own goal. On Friday I went along to football, as has become my custom, and played along. I can't claim to really do sport very well. On Thursday I had had an energy drink and then had unguarded conversation with some students about marking standards (my ultimate boss marks considerably more leniently than anyone else, sometimes up to three grades more positive - however, as examiners, myself and another member of staff know that we are accurate, realistic and supportive. Understandably, my students want me to up my grades to match my boss's, even though his are unrealistic and won't match the standardised results). Naturally, in my current mood, I ended up guilty and feeling scared. Given my past, I also ended up with the familiar stress/fear loop all Thursday night and Friday morning.
See, this should be just as normal as any other image of people doing sports. Here, in the community that reads this blog, it probably is.
Alas, not so in the world.
Anyway, in the game my immediate boss (as opposed to my ultimate boss) was also playing and, at one point when I was in goal, passed back to me. I wasn't expecting the move and hadn't actually got to the middle of the goal yet. I dived but arrived just too late to do anything more than have the ball bounce over my hand and into the net. It was amusing, and in my autistic way I shrugged it off and thought no more about it. However, my boss mentioned it again, and then again at the end of the evening, adding (as he thought I was out of earshot) "why wasn't he back in goal by then anyway?" I suspect that this will bite me on the ass quicker and more violently than the other situation but, in both cases, I feel very guilty.
I have Linda to thank for this next one and it gave me food for thought given the developments in my life over the last few days.
This is of Brian and Debbie. It is a great picture. For many
many reasons. None of them are related to physical
appearance.
You can find the article here. I find it fascinating on a number of levels, especially as, increasingly, I was finding almost no reference to that idea that one could simply be a man that liked wearing women's clothes and had no real desire to be a female full time. Indeed, Brian's acceptance that he could never pass, and not even wanting to try, I find refreshing and empowering in a way that I'll confess makes no sense. I also totally get why he sees Debbie as the hero of the story - in many ways, she is. Perhaps she shouldn't be but she totally is. Much respect and props to her for accepting Brian and loving him. In that order.
This resonates particularly at the moment because of this post (and the subsequent comments section, well worth a read!) and the videos contained there (I still haven't watched the second part as of this writing). It also hits home because of the discussions I've had with Tilly about Valentine's recently.
This is not a post that will lend itself to mys usual image-accompanied style. So I apologise for the wall of text.
I am a very lucky individual.
My sexuality as I currently understand it in
visual form.
As yet, my sexuality has not been considered to be so abhorrent that there are laws passed against it, let's leave aside the fact that most of my circle do not know the fullest extents of my sexuality and that my wife struggles to even talk about it, I am nevertheless incredibly lucky. As part of a majority, being middle class, white, male and outwardly heterosexual (in the sense that there would no point anyone questioning it) I get to bask (and I'm not being sarcastic) in the anonymity and positive judgement that is assumed in everyday life. No one questions my preferences, I am married to a wonderful woman, and no one ever challenges my worldviews or my opinions about who I am. In short, I am left to create and to nurture my own identity in the privacy that I can dictate without too many feelings of shame or pressure.
Then I watched this. And I realised that luckiness that I spoke of in the above paragraph. I began to get a sense of just how much my life is different from others whose sexuality is actively and publicly legislated against. It is so feared and misunderstood that, frankly, bizarre descriptions of made up enemies are enough to convince people of the justness of their hatred and fear. As a Bible believing Christian who knows the two verses (in a book of thousands) that prohibit homosexuality (well, actually, neither of them talk of love, they talk specifically of sexual practice and Leviticus is even more specific "to lie with a man as with a woman" which is not terribly encompassing - Paul speaks specifically to the Greek practice of teacher and student having sex with one another to deepen the pedagogic bond rather than more generally, otherwise we'd have to accept that women cover their head and that any Christian with long hair is breaking an equally serious part of Christian dogma, not something I see much of about) I also believe that God creates human beings.
In other words, it is not for me or anyone else to try and legislate sexuality until we can scientifically prove that these things are entirely choice. Not, by the way, something I feel that science will ever prove. Indeed, whilst it is looking far more complex than a gay (or otherwise) gene or set of genetic encoding it is nevertheless looking less and less likely that sexuality is entirely down to choice. I do believe that there are, and have met, those who claim that they have modified or changed their sexuality through choice and force of will (though, interestingly, my anecdotal evidence of 'people I have met' [all three of them] who claim this did so to become bisexual rather than straight and started from heterosexual baseline assumptions rather than homosexual ones - that is, men who decided they were attracted to men as well as women rather than men who decided they were attracted to women as well as men). But I do not believe, anecdotally or otherwise, that they would constitute a majority or even a sizable minority.
Which brings me to this snippet. I need to watch the whole damn' thing. I need to in order to educate myself further as there is little in the mainstream, that I have seen at least, that takes the assumption that something that is not considered normative is normal. Like I say, being considered normative in my sexuality means that I am free to make my own challenges and not challenged on a day-to-day basis about my preferences. Few heterosexual people are. I consider myself lucky to be challenged occasionally about my sexuality and blessed that I spent a good deal of time as a teenager dealing with self-imposed challenges to my internal perception that helped iron out a lot of the big sexual issues. Of course, I'm still very much on a journey, I recognise that, but my journey is at my own pace in many ways - which is a luxury not afforded to many people whose sexuality differs more openly and obviously with what is considered normal. And, like I say, to my knowledge my sexuality has never been legislated against or feared to the point of unthinking and unreasoning violent reaction by others. I am lucky.
The whole damn' thing:
I mean, I don't venerate Fry like many seem to - he was a top comedian in the 1990s and a decent enough host of QI but I very much disagree with much of his fluffy-liberal and fuzzy-logic worldview - but I have to respect what he's done here. I have to.
.jpg)
.jpg)
