“Have you forgotten that we invented time? That clocks did not exist in any real way until the 14th century? That hours and minutes and seconds, to the ancients, were measured in breaths and blinks, sunlight and moonlight, soil fecundity and menstrual cycles, the howls of the coyotes and the migrations of the birds? Of course you have. This is the magic of time. It swallows collective memory.”—
This is a fucking amazing little piece. My favorite part:
I’m more with Rumi, the hardcore, love-drunk Persian mystic, who has a terrific, rather intense bit of poetic instruct about not wasting your true calling in the world, about finding your gift and not squandering it because he says that would be like taking a precious Indian sword and using it merely to slice rotten meat, or nailing it to the wall and hanging rusty pots from it.
I’ll be the first in line to say it: I’m a slut.* No, really, I am, and that’s OK. It’s taken me a while to eschew the icky feelings associated with the word, but I embrace it. As posed by The Ethical Slut, a slut is “a person of any gender who has the courage to lead life according to the radical proposition that sex is nice and pleasure is good for you.” Sex is not all of who I am, but it is a pretty important part (the part that gets to have all the fun!).
A couple of weeks ago, an ex of mine who was clearly very angry at me decided to unleash a diatribe of words intended to hurt and intimidate me (which they didn’t). Among them were some choice words about my sexual choices. I am sorry for hurting this person (and have apologized to him several times), and I hope he can find some peace eventually.
I am not sorry for being being open, kind, respectful, non-judgmental, sensual, sex-positive, and most importantly—being true to myself. Attacking my sexuality and my eagerness to live a life that follows my own standards and morals is laughable. It may have hurt me in the past, but it doesn’t anymore. I recognize it as a hollow and cheap insult that clings to aging notions of female purity, male privilege, and quick-and-easy (and lame) attempts at hurting someone who hurt you.
One of these days, I’ll write my own sluthood manifesto. Until then, the author’s essay serves as a pretty close parallel to mine, especially this:
“Even now, with more time passed, now, when I am actually ready for and wanting a more emotional connection, sluthood keeps me centered. It keeps me from confusing desire and affection with something deeper. It means I have another choice besides celibacy and settling. It means I won’t enter another committed relationship just to satisfy my basic need for sex and affection. It gives me more choices, it makes room for relationships to evolve organically, to take the shape they will before anyone defines them.”
I’m happy to have a stronger center of self than ever before. If you’re going to try to hurt me** by calling me a slut, you may as well level your aim elsewhere.
* Sorry for shocking you, potential family members reading this! But it shouldn’t be much of a surprise to you.
** Actually, if you’re going to try to hurt me, I suggest you learn to let go and move on with your life rather than waste energy on something you can’t change.
“Locals speak with a mixture of awe and scorn about [DeCoster,] who built an empire from scratch in their backyards—and who has also shown, as one resident told me, a willingness to ‘screw even his best friend to the wall for a buck.’”—
Joe Fassler, Timeline of Shame: Decades of DeCoster Egg Factory Violations, The Atlantic, September 16, 2010
It looks like DeCoster Egg Farm put $2,500 dollars into the fight against Same Day Voter Registration. Why yes, the same DeCoster Egg Farm that is notorious for worker rights abuses. Why yes, the same DeCoster notorious for putting America’s food supply at catastrophic risk.
I am flattered to know that such a well-accomplished criminal cares about “preserving the integrity” of the ballot.
Get off your asses and preserve your voting rights. Vote Yes on 1.
I don’t reblog things very often, but Rosemary is a wonderful and thoughtful writer, and I find it useful to be reminded that any real conversation about food in the U.S. probably needs to include stories like this.
I remember sitting in the back seat of Mom’s Chevette, squeezed between Josh and Leon because they always made me sit between them, shivering because the heater in the car didn’t work well.
I remember Josh wondering what toy he’d be getting and Dad saying he was going to eat as many cheeseburgers…
It’s remarkable how similar people’s stories are about growing up, especially when it was a financially strained childhood. My Mom never splurged on fast food until I was in high school (and the last child left in the house). We never went out to restaurants unless it was a special occasion—birthday, graduation, mother’s day—and even then, it was mostly financed by my grandmother.
I still carry around a lot of guilt when I purchase things I don’t need. I’m able to justify splurges on food and items that will have multiple uses (clothes, kitchen items), but a youth of poverty will forever nip at my ankles.
My mother loves it when I take her out to eat. She’s so grateful for the luxury after years of hardship, that she’ll praise and rave about a dinner that I consider to be lackluster and tasteless. It reminds me to be thankful, and to not take things like eating out for granted.
"Among animals, a remarkable gesture of interest wins a mate. In humans, our most useful allure is resistance."
From the piece:
“Dating sites are like virtual zoos, but for humans. You can learn about the various creatures by reading their panels and observe them without any real danger, but you should think carefully before squeezing through the bars to meet what is lurking on the other side. At least that is what I should have done.”
GAH. I love reading articles that resonate so much with my own personal experience.
“Portland police are looking for the person who threw a chemical bomb at the Occupy Maine encampment in Portland during the early morning hours today. Sgt. Glen McGary said police responded around 4 a.m. today to an explosion in Lincoln Park at Congress and Pearl streets. Though no one was injured, McGary said the homemade bomb, which consisted of chemicals poured into a plastic Gatorade container could have caused serious injury. Occupy Maine, which is protesting corporate greed, has erected about three dozen tents in the 2.5-acre park. McGary said the bomb was thrown into the camp’s kitchen, a tarped area where food is cooked and served.”—Dennis Hoey, Chemical bomb tossed into Occupy Maine encampment, Portland Press Herald, October 23, 2011 (via finalgirldom)
“If you take sexual advantage of her, you’re going to burn in a very special level of Hell. A level they reserve for child molesters and people who talk at the theater.”—Book, from Firefly (Ep. 6: “Our Mrs. Reynolds”)