3.07.2012

Kung Fu Titties.





Happy International Women’s Day!








To celebrate, I give you this artwork by Geoff Dunbar (from his 1979 animated film, Ubu) alongside a screed concerning the benefits of weaponizing titties. Enjoy!



Anyone who reads these blog posts regularly knows that I have complicated views when it comes to titties. On the one hand, I have a pair and am comfortable with them; on the other, I’m bothered by the fetishization of titties in our culture.

It disturbs me that women are harassed for breast-feeding in public, or that it’s legal for men to be topless in public, but not women. It also bothers me that teenage girls can’t wear “i heart boobies” bracelets to school in support of breast cancer awareness because it titillates the boys too much. Pun entirely intended.

(And if you’re a dude out there who is guffawing right now, saying all sarcastic-like as you leer at the screen: ‘Heh-heh-heh-SNORT! Fine by me if the ladies want to go topless in public. I’m all for it!’ then all I have to say to you is, you’re not helping. I was also going to call you an idiot, but I thought the better of it because I myself have been known to have the mentality of a twelve-year-old boy on occasion, so I don’t want to judge you. Idiot.)

This titty fetish of ours is related to our objectification of women - another complicated issue. Some people think that ANY objectification of women is bad. That reducing a woman down to the “quality” of her body parts is completely unacceptable under any circumstances, and that as a society we need to work actively against such objectification. I agree - up to a point.

I think you start running into problems when you insist that people should repress a natural behavior. The fact is, we hairless apes objectify each other. We’re visual creatures who judge one another and formulate opinions about our fellow human animals based on what we see. We do this subliminally much of the time. Often, we're not even the slightest bit aware that our brain has formulated a distinct opinion about the person in front of us based upon their appearance - usually before we’ve finished shaking hands and exchanging names. It happens in a flash, and these “first impressions” are almost irreversible.

So to insist that we completely repress our urge to notice what we can’t help but notice seems a bit unreasonable to me. Which leads me to believe that my problem is not so much THAT we objectify, but HOW we objectify - and what we choose to objectify.

This brings me back to the fetishization of titties. I’m pretty much convinced that our current obsession with surgically-achieved titties comes from Hugh Heffner, Playboy magazine, and Barbie dolls – all products of the 1950s. I’ve written before about how this absurd fake titty phase has stuck around because there’s a lot of easy money to be made by selling people on an unattainable female ideal. So what if fostering a desire for unnaturally-huge titties is horribly, horribly dangerous and causes any number of social problems? To the bank! But first, to the cosmetic surgeon!

However, when you combine this manufactured preference for an unattainable female ideal with the social mandate that “serious” or “respectable” or “professional” women don’t reveal their bodies, here’s what happens: You have images of absurd fake titties paraded in front of us, all of the time, in all manner of media, with almost no representation whatsoever of what real, normal, titties look like - in all of their wonderful incarnations.

(And in case you haven’t guessed it by now, in order to be cheeky and get attention, I’m using the word “titties” as a representative word for the entire female form - “titties” becomes the object which represents the whole. See how I did that?)

This subject becomes even more complicated when you consider the fact that these gigantic unrealistic titties that are endlessly paraded in front of us don’t come out of the blue. They’re not magic titties that fall like raindrops from the sky. These titties are attached to real, actual women (although the titties themselves are usually not real, actual titties). And there’s no shortage of women who are willing to let a surgeon alter their bodies so that they may objectify themselves in front of us. They just keep coming, decade after decade, titty after titty.

Why? Because these women figure (and they have a point) that if people are going to ogle titties anyway, it may as well be THEIR titties, and they may as well turn a buck. And before you judge these women too harshly (like I haven’t already done that for you), it’s worth pointing out that we all want to be desired and admired by the other human animals, so I imagine it would be pretty easy to talk yourself into being admired for cash.

This makes me wonder: What if a woman were to objectify herself for something other than cash? What if a woman were to exploit our cultural urge to objectify in order to promote a morally-just cause?










This is a picture of naked people protesting the widening of Highway 101 in Northern California. To widen the highway at this point, Cal Trans would have to take down those ginormous trees that the hippies are hugging. Yes, Cal Trans wants to take down dozens of redwoods that are thousands and thousands of years old because we need another lane so we can get places faster and faster. And while you may be looking at all of that T and A that’s on display, you’re also looking at those gigantic, amazing trees. And hopefully thinking, man, there’s something wrong with chopping down something so irreplaceable and magnificent. And you know what else? You wouldn’t be looking at this photo AT ALL if it weren’t for the titties. Sure there are some men in that photo, but let’s face it, most of us are looking at the titties.

Here’s my point: As a woman, if I take your urge to look at titties and use it to do good in the world, doesn’t that move me from a position of weakness (being objectified) to a position of strength (exploiting your urge in order to advance social justice)?

That’s some pretty good Kung Fu.








My friend Melinda is up there in that Richardson Grove photo somewhere, and she’s one of the bravest people I know. When she’s not in India using dance therapy to help the children of sex workers, she’s here at home teaching kids to dance. She also leads an artistic burlesque troupe called Les Filles Rouges that sells out every show and gives the proceeds to charity. (That's my gorgeous friend Samantha up there in that promo photo!). Following one recent show, the group donated all of the profits to a local animal shelter. The theme of this performance? "Titties for Kitties." How can you not love that? And how can you not appreciate the cleverness of using nudity and objectification in this context?









Or in this context? Here are some Northern California women who call themselves “Unreasonable Women Baring Witness” demonstrating for peace in Point Reyes. These are women who normally wouldn’t walk into their own kitchens without a robe. However, here they are, objectifying themselves to gain attention for the cause of peace - attention that they would have never have gotten if it weren’t for all of the nakedness. Even better, because these are not models or celebrities, viewing their bodies in this more-acceptable context exposes us all to a more realistic image of the female body. And the more realistic-looking titties we see, the more likely it is that we can begin the process of appreciating the female form in all of its phases and incarnations.







Which makes this photo of naked women protesting at a Versace fashion show in Milan that much more interesting. Here are women using the desire to see the hidden bits of the female body to protest the fashion industry’s promotion of an unhealthy image of the female body. Brilliant, if you ask me.









The recognition that women can self-objectify to advance social justice is a global one. These Nigerian women are protesting the destructive practices of a multi-national oil company that is exploiting their natural resources. In their community, there is a powerful cultural taboo against female nudity. Further, people are often killed for protesting, so these women protested topless at a great risk to themselves and their families. Yet they did so despite the risk because they knew the attention that it would garner for their cause - attention they would not receive otherwise.










One of my favorite naked protest groups is FEMEN. Here they are shown protesting corrupt elections in Russia. You know, the ones Putin just stole. Putin. The former KGB guy. The guy who poisons his dissenters with polonium 210 until they’re irradiated to death. These women regularly go to dangerous places and protest over very touchy issues. Pun, once again, completely intended. They’re arrested and sometimes beaten by the police, but their use of nudity has drawn a great deal of attention to issues that otherwise would have been ignored by the media.

All of this attention is the product of our overwhelming desire to objectify. Which leads me back to my initial point that it might not be the ACT of objectification that’s the problem.

I started thinking about this issue because I’ve recently become the contributing editor to a facebook fan page called Book Porn. (It’s a public page sponsored by Yoe! Books - go there and “like” it if you want.) It’s facebook, so nothing truly salacious goes on. We mostly post photos of art made with books, gorgeous book collections, amazing booksellers, and stunning libraries. But we also post saucy photos of men and women in various states of undress, reading books. We want to promote the idea that “smart” and “sexy” are not mutually-exclusive terms. Plus, we want to encourage people to buy books, go to libraries, and to READ, for crying out loud.

But I come from an academic background, and as an academic, I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to LIKE the idea of using female nudity to promote social consciousness. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be 100% against the objectification of women in this way - otherwise I suspect that I will never, ever, ever be taken seriously. Ever.

And yet… I find that I DO like it. I DO think it’s brilliant. And I DO think it’s very, very good Kung Fu.

Because if catching a glimpse of a woman’s body also makes you want to catch a glimpse of what she’s reading, then…



I am the Master;

You are the Grasshopper.









Feel free to look;

Then pick up a book.





2.14.2012

Evergreen.






The woman I would be
If I were the woman
My lover sees


Would be a woman
Whose smile seduces the sun
And makes a slave of the moon;


A woman who would bend the tides
To her will
And unravel the cosmos
With her mind.


But I am not this woman
My lover sees.


I am just a woman
With hair greying
And wrinkles deepening
And patience fleeting
As the years shuffle past.



Yet my lover sees
This woman he sees
Nonetheless.



And I weep for this vision of me
That my lover keeps
Evergreen.











Happy Valentine's Day.










2.07.2012

How Bravely You Seek.




Through my window
You take a peek.











Into my room
You quietly sneak.














You stroke my hair
And kiss my cheek.



You tell me living
Is not for the meek.












It's not what you get;
It's how bravely you seek.









1.31.2012

Mid-Living Crisis.






I love how people give phases of life names that supposedly relate to where you are in your allotment of existence.








Quarter-life crisis. End-of-life crisis. Mid-life crisis.










Since none of us know how much life we’ve been allotted, I think this sort of categorization is hilarious.








For instance, if you will only live to the age of fifty-six, your “mid-life” actually occurs at the age of twenty-eight - not forty, which is the age most of us stereotypically associate with mid-life. So when you reach the age of forty, the term “mid-life crisis” is meaningless because what was the middle of your life span passed more than a decade earlier, and the time that is left to you is very brief indeed.








My point being that none of us know how long we’ll live, so labeling parts of our lives like this only serves to delude us about the eventual end - and when it will occur. In fact, such labeling implies that we have some sort of control over the timeline of our existence, which as I mentioned earlier is laughable.









This is not to mention the fact that such categorization causes us to live all too frequently in the realm of “someday.” As in, “Someday I’ll get another chance. Someday I’ll try again. Someday I’ll start towards that goal.” But this is a risky way to live. Each time you see someone, that might be the last time. Each time you leave things in anger and chaos, that might be how things get left forever. Each time you postpone expressing affection until the next time, you run the risk that there will not be a next time.










And why would you want to do that?








I suggest that rather than living for someday, you instead live all of your life as if you don’t have very much of it left.









Because maybe you don't.





1.12.2012

Lifted By Light.










We are all aware of the injustices of the world, but most of us do little to correct them. We take the coward’s way out by saying that one person can’t make a difference, so why even bother trying?


I am here, now, begging you to be braver than that. I am asking you to have the courage not to be a fucking quitter, even if you believe everyone and everything is doomed.


Say you’re right. And you probably are - one person can’t make much of a difference in the universe’s overall scheme. We’re just too insignificant to have an impact on any grand scale.


But where does that fact leave you?


I’ll tell you where. With a choice.


You can shut down and quit - which most of us do.


Or you can muster up the courage to fight - even if it's a losing battle - because fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves is the only brave thing to do.








My friend, Melinda, is visiting her home in Mendocino briefly before she returns to India to continue her work as a dance therapist for the children of sex workers...



“on alternating days i will stay here in forbesganj and go to the red light district, where there is a center for girls whose mothers are in prostitution but who live at home, and i’ll do the same thing there. so that’s the plan, though it’s a bit terrifying at this point. bihar is not the safest of states, and i am wary of traveling at night, by train or rickshaw. so i’m just going to pretend it’s going to be fine.”









Every single day, Melinda swallows her own fears to help these children - who have few prospects in this world outside of eventually becoming sex workers themselves - to learn that sovereignty over their bodies comes from within.


“we start by taking deep, slow breaths. in and out, with our arms rising and falling in time with our breathing. then we start to make noise; a relatively foreign concept for most children here, who are ridiculously ‘well-behaved’ and silent. we put our hands on our chests and hum…. feeling the vibrations and hearing our voices blend. eventually we yell at the top of our lungs… something that thrills them no end. then we begin to move – wiggling our toes, feet, legs… all the way through our bodies. we affirm with each motion: ‘these are MY toes… this is MY head…’ and ultimately, ‘this is MY body.’ even though they are just mimicking me, they know what they are saying. occasionally we say it in hindi, and the laugh at my pronunciation.”




You can read more about Melinda’s work over at her blog, Live Like The Lotus. All of the gorgeous photos featured here are hers, by the way.










Melinda chooses to be brave every single day.


“i choose to drink the water… it is ‘better’ to drink what someone offers me so kindly, in a dirty metal cup, when i am in their home, than to refuse it, even though i may have an intimate relationship with the toilet later on. i choose to eat and drink everything i am offered out of hospitality, because that experience of someone finding joy in sharing their meagre pantry with me is worth any negative side effects. some may say i am, by default, choosing to be sick. but that’s okay. it’s worth it. it’s my choice.

i choose to let nisha, a sad and shy 14 year old who was prostituted by her father and sister, brush and braid my hair for hours. all the girls at kasturba have lice, and not sharing a hairbrush is cardinal rule number one, but it is worth it to risk discomfort and annoyance to bond with a girl who has few allies in the world, letting her be skilled and admired for her work.”



As you can see from these excerpts, Melinda writes with eloquence and sensitivity concerning the sacrifices (and rewards) that come with living a fearless life.









“the act of showing up is half the process. the girls here don’t care that i come to dance with them; they care that i come at all.”



Melinda is my hero - as is anyone who fights bravely on behalf of those who absolutely cannot defend themselves. You can donate to Melinda’s cause by clicking here. Or, if you’re in Mendocino this Friday evening, you can attend A Taste of India at the Helen Schoeni Theater (MTC). There will be entertainment, education, and libation with a party plan that includes traditional South Indian dancing by Nicole Fish, samosas and specialty cocktails by Sara Liner, a reading from her travels by Melinda, a screening of Joe Mickey's film India 101, and a silent auction featuring many fabulous items from generous local vendors.


Admission to the event is free and donations are graciously accepted. Melinda's goal is to raise enough money to start an educational fund so that these children may go on to secondary school, as opposed to having to return to life in the brothels.


If you won’t be in Mendocino for this lovely dinner, did I mention that you can donate securely through PayPal by clicking here and then clicking on the PayPal button?






“a friend wrote to me, after my last post, and said that i was breaking their heart. this was and is not my intention; i don’t want to hurt you, to shame you, or to scare you. i have no ulterior motive~ i tell it like i see it. but please: don’t let your hearts be broken. these girls’ hearts are not. they are battered, yes, but not broken. broken hearts can’t effect change, or reach out, or plant seeds of goodness. broken hearts are immobilized, stagnant. i write not to break your hearts but to open them. and yes, the farther and wider they open, the more likely they are to hurt now and again, and the world and i will continue to send arrows that will pierce and wound you. but this is a good thing. this lets you know you are alive, and still caring, and still hoping for better, for yourselves and those with whom you share the planet. let your heart ache, once in a while. and then count your blessings, and go about your day. fight the good fights. dream the good dreams. live like the lotus, at home in the muddy water. or in my case, like the ginormous toads, at home in the gutter of sewage.”




I beg you. Do not turn your back on the defenseless of this world, simply because you have the luxury of feeling a little helpless about how to address the injustices visited upon them.


Do not be the sort of person who hides her head in the mud instead of reaching for something brighter.









My heart is a lotus

Floating on the water’s surface

Sunk by turbulence

Lifted by light

My toes are in the mud

But my arms reach for the sky.










I love you, Sequoia RainDancer.