Feminism doesn't have to be a dirty word, does it?

A couple more things I stumbled across while Google-ing "sexual self-sovereignty" that I'd like to read later:

Women's Autonomy/Sexual Sovereignty
http://the-goddess.org/wam/

Sexuality and Sovereignty: The Global Limits and Possibilities of Lawrence by Sonja K. Katyal.
http://scholarship.law.wm.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1146&context=wmborj

A blog article about love and dependence:
http://ozconservative.blogspot.com/2006/12/love-dependence.html

And again, Elizabeth Cady Stanton's Sovereignty speech:
https://finallyfeminism101.wordpress.com/2007/06/21/elizabeth-cady-stanton-the-solitude-of-self-1892/

Really, let's do.

I realized today that, even though I've gotten to a point in my life where I'm more comfortable with my own sexuality, there was no way I could bring home a potential lover. I can barely stand to have really, really good friends over. My place is a mess. And it's the usual suspects. Clutter, dirty laundry, etc.

And for the first time in a while I was truly moved to do something about it.  It's good to have a goal. Nothing huge, well, nothing impossible anyway. I just want to have a space I can seduce some one in. I don't wanna have to worry about kicking dirty clothes into the closet. Or have them tripping over yesterday's shoes. Or have them figure out just how much I eat out by all the receipts laying around.

That and I realized that I was in no state to go home with some one either. I've come to realize over the years that my personal anxieties require a certain amount of grooming beyond the everyday before I feel relaxed while being naked in front of someone I'm trying to impress. And let's be honest, most people are pretty heavy into a relationship before they stop trying to impress the other person.

So I've decided to try adding some new personal rituals into my week. Friday's will now be 'Freyja Fridays', after the Norse goddess of love, fertility and beauty (and also magic, battle, and death). Pretty awesome stuff right? From what I've read of Her in current work as well as in the old myths, etc, I feel like she could also be expressed as a proponent of sexual self-sovereignty*.  So, for Freyja Fridays, I'm gonna take some extra time to do the things that make me feel not just pretty and put together, but down right sexy.  For me, that means fancy perfume, a little bit more make up, playing with my hair more. Mostly stuff that takes that extra hour in the morning I usually take for sleeping in.

This also means that Thursday nights are going to involve more prep time. Like making sure laundry is done, taking a bath instead of a shower, painting my nails, or maybe doing some sort of facial or pedicure. Laying out my clothes for the next day.

And the thing is, even if the impetus was someone else (and I'll do a lot of things for others that I wouldn't take the time to do for myself), I'm the one who'll be benefiting.





*So I love to do random Google searches, just to make sure I haven't made stuff up randomly, and was pleasantly surprised to find this speech by Elizabeth Cady Stanton regarding self-sovereignty. I'm going to have to read it in full later.

4 Things I Did Today

Or rather accomplished today.

1) Braved the cold and snow to pick up the brushes I needed for the next part of The House.

2) Finally processed my Halloween pumpkin. Baked it in two halves and roasted the seeds. Yum.

3) Baked two dozen Double Chocolate Chip Cookies, with a container of dough also in the fridge. Double Yum.

4) Got the dead pheasant bits off the drying set-up and hung the wings and tail spread where they wouldn't get crushed. Because I'm and Artist and I like to re-purpose stuff that would other wise get thrown away. And dead bird bits deserve it more than most.


No laundry. *pout* But there's always tomorrow.

Hello, Floor!

Sometimes space scares me.  Maybe I'm the Universe, 'cause when I find a flat surface, I start throwing things at the 'vacuum'. It gets worse when I'm working the store and a show, since all I do when I get home is sleep and go on the internet. (You'd think there'd be some cooking involved in there somewhere, but mostly you'd be wrong. I should fix that.)

One thing you ought to know about me right from the beginning - I sort of... collect things. Not little bunny statues or stuffed fish or anything, just things I think could be made into something else. Things with... potential. 

I like to think I've created a room for an artist. A room for my artist-self. There are photos and pictures clipped from magazines all over. Jewelry and scarves hanging from hooks on the wall. Bare tree branches tied, growing, on my head board - a little forest for my dreams.  Stacks of folded fabric on shelves, next to books. More books. Houseplants serving as bookends on the window sills.

My artist-self like my collection. Now if only my artist-self had the space to do any thing with my collection. Neither my artist-self or I are any good when it comes to "Don't put it down, put it away!" Hair ties mingle with mixed change and beads under my computer screen.  Half my bed is taken up with laundry at any given time.  Flotsam and Jetsam I've stuffed into the vacuum to fill the hole where I should be creating. 

Huh. Well that last statement was certainly profound. Makes sense though. The last bit of the puzzle is how much of a perfectionist I can be.

So. I fear that what I wish to create can never be good enough and instead fill my personal space with Things-that-must-first-be-done,  ie. the desk, floor, etc that must first be cleaned off etc, so that I can never start what I fear is a failed project to begin with. 

Oh, don't look at me like that. It wasn't that much of a revelation, come all at once. These themes have been percolating in my head for a while. I know I've often had the thought that if I could just get my personal space "in order" then everything in my life would just fall into place. Of course it likely wouldn't. I'd just be all out of excuses.

I wonder what all I could do, if I didn't feel the need to clean first, as an excuse.

Maybe it's time to find out.

PS. Three glasses of wine seems to be the magical amount that makes me not-yet-tipsy-but-with-far-less-inhibitions tonight. I think I may even get the dishes done.

Now, tell me what you really think of me...

I dreamt, last night, that I had made it on Project Runway. Not entirely surprising, since I love the show, and would love to compete on it. But not only had I made it on the show, I dreamed that I had gotten half way through the season!

Great right? Riiiiiiiight.

Up until they some how managed to forget me at the apartment, and none of the other contestants said anything. I panicked a bit, but somehow managed to get over to Parson's - only to find them already under way on the challenge! Which was to work on a collection, in two teams.

Apparently, most of the contestants had decided they didn't like me, and my team was not that happy that I had turned up. There was some comments of how I wasn't much of a designer, and they didn't know how'd I'd lasted that long. They were afraid I'd make them lose the challenge so I'd better make exactly what they said, and so on.

Looking back, I'm actually rather proud of how I handled my self in this dream. You see, I didn't cry or feel sorry for myself one bit. I just got pissed off. And told them so. I don't remember just what I said, but I believe it was basically a "go f--k yourselves, I will sew what ever the hell I want to sew, and it will be glorious, you a--holes. See you at Fashion Week."  Then one of the other girls made some comment under her breath at the next table over. So, with out looking up my sewing, I yelled back, "I heard that, a--hole." Very loudly.

Even if dreams are only extensions of your consciousness, I'm rather glad I told myself off. Only I wish I really could meet Tim Gunn.

Burn it to the ground...

...at least, that's what it feels like some days.

Let's just burn it all down and start over. There are bits and pieces of my life all over the floor, so that I can hardly walk. Each piece is a bitter memory or a blinding flash of joy.

Literally.

A half dozen pairs of shoes strewn in a path from the door to my bed. A dozen books, half read - half realized, stacked on the window sill. A snowfall of white paper - bills, reciepts, articles, ticket stubs - covers every flat surface. We won't even mention the laundry, or the empty tea cups.

Each piece of flotsam that washes up sticks for a time, most stays. And after years of telling myself it's time to let go, I think I've reached a breaking point. I am twenty-nine years old, and only now feeling a bit like an adult. The nest is getting crowded.

Or is it a fort? A book fort, a blanket fort, a hide-under-the-furniture-with-your-favorite-bear-and-snacks fort. A safe place to hide.

There's a phrase now, for those who feel death's edge and decide not to wait to let go of things. Casser maison. Breaking home. Taking apart the physical things that have constituted your everyday life, in anticipation of a (final) transition.

I feel like doing that now. I'm not going to wait for death (though, as Emily might say, he may kindly wait for me). I want BIG things. I want adventure.

And as in the fairy tales, first you must walk out the garden gate.