The Aging Paradox - scene from Waking Life
(Two women are having lunch - English professor Lisa Moore and author Carole Dawson)

Time just dissolves into quick-moving particles that are swirling away. Either I’m moving fast or time is.
Never both simultaneously.

It’s such a strange paradox. I mean, while, technically, I’m closer to the end of my life than I’ve ever been, I
actually feel more than ever that I have all the time in the world. When I was younger, there was a
desperation, a desire for certainty, like there was an end to the path, and I had to get there.

I know what you mean, because I can remember thinking, “Oh, someday, like in my mid-thirties maybe,
everything’s going to just somehow gel and settle, just end.” It was like there was this plateau, and it
was waiting for me, and I was climbing up it, and when I got to the top, all growth and change would
stop. Even exhilaration. But that hasn’t happened like that, thank goodness. I think that what we don’t
take into account when we’re young is our endless curiosity. That’s what’s so great about being human.

Yeah, yeah. Well do you know that thing Benedict Anderson says about identity?

No.

Well, he’s talking about like, say, a baby picture. So you pick up this picture, this two-dimensional image,
and you say, “That’s me.” Well, to connect this baby in this weird little image with yourself living and
breathing in the present, you have to make up a story like, “This was me when I was a year old, and
then later I had long hair, and then we moved to Riverdale, and now here I am.” So it takes a story
that’s actually a fiction to make you and the baby in the picture identical to create your identity.

And the funny thing is, our cells are completely regenerating every seven years. We’ve already become
completely different people several times over, and yet we always remain quintessentially
ourselves.

Because almost three decades.
Because the first sweetheart has a wife and a kid.
Because my father’s hair is now gray.
Because now both knees crack when I bend them a certain way, and ache when I work them too hard.
Because the poetry turned, folded over like a wave, dissipated and created a new one.
Because I no longer romanticize bars.
Because I’ve learned to describe things with more care.
Because the old favorites are weathered, yellow, or deliver less of an impact. From bowling ball in the gut to
featherbed shove.
Because everything is different. The stack of still frames in my head. Because I am full of things like water,
blood, history.
Because I’m on a new seven. And my hands are mine but still commencing introduction. Because everything
held is touching now. Because gone because here because between.
Because “that is what’s so great about being human.”

There are moments in your life that you can’t forget, because they’re everything you wake up for. You start another
day for them, you connect for them, you create for them. They cover your heart like a layer of fat.

So what of these things: being anxious and nervous as you walk to the first day of your first college class in 9 years.
Worried about what turning 29 will bring. Standing on an overcrowded bus barely hanging on. The days and
activities you have to pardon yourself from because the head pain is too much and rules the world(changes the
world). A messy house, a skinny bank account.

Nothing of those things. They are nothing. There’s no room in the picture for them. The things that matter sit at a
table with other amazing women. It’s talking about the words as much as you write the words, as much as you
say the words and live the words. Poems for miles for days for seasons, for centuries.

Give me that photo booth from years ago and the gigs I can’t remember. Give me paper and pen and leave me alone,
go away. Give me a world that does not make sense so I can talk about it.

Let’s have more of the moments that define us, that work our lungs. Breath deserves us.

The snakes will have to be torched. Scales, venom and all. There will be no donating the fangs to science. We will not
wear them round our necks like drilled victories. We will cover our mouths with the necks of our shirts when the
smoke rises. Try to breathe a little less.

“Come home, to end and start.” Year of the flame. Year of the little bruised blue being born and growing–growing
feet a back and wings, growing cracking nerve ends that outstretch to none. A burial would not be enough. The dirt
can’t cover it–the dirt is an ingredient; there isn’t time to sift. Arms stand in a doorway carrying a knot of things to
the throat, skin against the shade of bent letters and brief triggers. What does gone mean? A wind you thought
about, shattered through with walking. There’s a time to be ready.

What is late if just right? Another year won’t come without the parting. No rotting net promising to catch, no womb to woo
you back. I’ll burn the snakes, the roots, the tubers, my fingerprinted backspaces. I’ll burn the stacks and box fillers,
the rusted boats filled with paper. The clicks, the twigs–the twine that binds them. Spit dries. Burn it all.

December 17th(today) is the international day to end violence against sex workers.

To check out gatherings today in/near your city, click here

Stopping the Terror: A Day to End Violence Against Prostitutes
by Annie Sprinkle

In 2003 “Green River Killer” Gary Ridgeway confessed to having strangled ninety women to death and having “sex” with
their dead bodies.

He stated, “I picked prostitutes as victims because they were easy to pick up without being noticed. I knew they would
not be reported missing right away and might never be reported missing. I picked prostitutes because I thought
I could kill as many of them as I wanted without getting caught.”

Sadly, some Seattle area prostitutes, their boyfriends or pimps, knew the Green River Killer was Gary Ridgeway for years.
But they were either afraid to come forward for fear of being arrested themselves, or when they did come forward the
police didn’t believe them over the “upstanding family man” Gary Ridageway. It seemed as though the police weren’t
working very hard to find the Green River Killer. If the victims had been teachers, nurses or secretaries or other
women, I suspect–as Ridgeway did– that the killer would have been caught much sooner. Ridgeway remained at
large for twenty years.

From working as a prostitute myself for two decades I know that violent crimes against sex workers often go unreported,
unaddressed and unpunished. There are people who really don’t care when prostitutes are victims of hate crimes, beaten,
raped and murdered. They will say:

“They got what they deserved.”
“They were trash.”
“They asked for it”
“What do they expect?”
“The world is better off without those whores.”

No matter how people feel about sex workers and the politics surrounding them, sex workers are a part of our
neighborhoods, communities and our families and always will be. Sex workers are women, trans people and men of all shapes,
sizes, colors, ages, classes and backgrounds who are working in the sex industry for a wide range of reasons.
Many of us are out and proud, and spend a lot of time trying to explain to the public that we freely choose our
work and we are not “victims.” But the truth is, some of us have been, or will become, real victims of rape, robbery and horrendous crimes.

When Ridgeway got a plea bargain in 2003, he received a life sentence in exchange for revealing where his victims’
bodies were thrown or buried. As the names of the (mostly 17- to 19-year old) victims, were disclosed, I felt a need to
remember and honor them. I cared, and I knew other people cared, too.

So I contacted Robyn Few, the founder of the Sex Worker Outreach Project (SWOP) based in San Francisco and we
made December 17th as the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers. We invited people everywhere to
conduct memorials and vigils in their countries and cities. Robyn co-produced an open-mike vigil on the lawn of San Francisco’s City Hall.

Since 2003, each year hundreds of people in dozens of cities around the world have participated in this day to end
violence– from Montreal where people marched with red umbrellas, to protests against police brutaility in Hong Kong,
a candlelight vigil in Vancouver, a memorial ritual in Sydney, a dance to overcome pain and traum in East Godavery,
India. More events are planned for 2008, the sixth year of the event.

The concept for the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers is simple. Anyone can choose a place and
time to gather, invite others to gather and share their stories, writings, thoughts, poems, and memories of victims,
related news and performances. Or people can do something personal, alone at home, such as lighting a candle or
taking a ritual memorial bath. We encourage discussions among friends, by email, on blogs. People are encouraged to
list their events at the SWOP website so others can attend them, and to share the power of their actions. People can
also participate by making a donation to a group that helps sex workers by teaching them about dangers and how to best
survive. Two such non-profits are St. James Infirmary and AIM Healthcare.

A video from a public meeting on Maine’s marriage equality bill on April 22, 2009, via boinboing.net:

Found via feministing.com & mediaed.com

War Zone

What does it feel like to be a woman on the street in a cultural environment that does nothing to discourage men from heckling, following, touching or disparaging women in public spaces?

Filmmaker Maggie Hadleigh-West believes that the streets are a War Zone for women. Armed with only a video-camera, she both demonstrates this experience and, by turning and confronting her abusers, reclaims space that was stolen from her.

War Zone is an excellent discussion starter for both men and women. It gives voice and expression to a disturbing daily aspect of being a woman in this society. It also gives men a direct personal feeling for what harassing behavior looks and feels like to a woman. Young men who may think such behavior is cool or funny will be forced to rethink their assumptions.

War Zone is a classroom, documentary edition of Maggie Hadleigh-West’s first film by the same title. Her film has been screened and applauded at scores of festivals in the U.S. and abroad. She has appeared to discuss the film on the Today Show, CBS News, 20/20, BBC, NPR, CNN, and Eye to Eye with Connie Chung.

Last night, my friend Joe hosted the second official “Classic Wrestling Night.” Highlights included the Jumping Bomb Angels vs. The Glamour Girls(January, 1988), “My Breakfast with Blassie”(Andy Kaufman has breakfast with his hero Fred Blassie and it is a mindblowing 68 minutes), and Ric Flair razoring himself during a fight with Macho Man Randy Savage(including some Elizabeth drama…oh Elizabeth and her drama). A good, good time.

Would it be false information to proclaim myself a pro wrestling fan? Probably. I’m not up to date with any current wrasslers nor do I watch a weekly program of any sort. However, I do enjoy the classic matches–watching old Ric Flair or long ago lady wrestling matches taps into a part of my brain adjacent to my childhood. Wrestling is an archived flavor of nostalgia that I tend to forget about.

Thank goodness I know Joe, who one could consider a professional appreciator of professional wrestling. His brain is a rolodex of matches, strategies, heels and losses. His ocean of knowledge is impressive and somewhat frightening. Part of the fun in Classic Wrestling Night is knowing how much Joe adores the “genre,” and it’s his night to talk shop and shoot the shit about new storylines and wrestler developments with other people who enjoy it as much as he does. Of course I can’t participate in a lot of these conversations, but it’s nice to know any/all of my questions about wrestling can and will be answered. It’s always fun to see a friend in their element. Yes, I would refer to wrestling night as “Joe’s element.”

This is the best part about humans and/or being human: the gray area of likes and dislikes we all dance in. Some would probably scoff at me for admitting that I harbor this funny little affection for classic pro wrestling. But you know what? People aren’t black and white. True, people are generally picky about their preferences–even MORE picky with OTHER PEOPLE’S preferences, which is just downright hilarious to me. Especially in the world of the infamous internet. To narrow it down even more: especially in the world of blogging. Perhaps my thoughts are scattered here, but it’s something I’ve thought about for quite some time, and pro wrestling really brought it out for some reason. Watching Ric Flair yell WOOOOOOOOO! to a crowd of screaming fans in the ’80’s does not make me any less of a female, or artist, or poet(I mean come on, the theatrics! The plots!). It doesn’t brand me a misogynist. It doesn’t make me any less of an athletic person. And liking something doesn’t put me in or out of a box.

I like motivational sport montages, going to the ballet, the Family Ties tv series, the city as much as the farms back in Ohio. I like Hank Williams, De La Soul, Carol King, The Pointer Sisters, and Two Man Advantage. I like demolition derbys and symphony in the park. See? It’s the modge podge that makes us.

via feministing.com:

A socially-conscious video-production class in Chicago created a video on rape culture “to spread awareness and get people thinking about how and why rape happens.”

Here is the video:

I think this is awesome and courageous for youth to be involved in. Definitely.

I went to the Pittsburgh peace vigil for Iran tonight. As the announcement stated:
As concerned Americans (and other nationalities involved with the planning) who acknowledge that Western governments must not overstep their boundaries in this matter, it is simply the intention of this
grassroots vigil to show support for the human right to peaceful assembly and to protest election
fraud worldwide.

People gathered in Market Square and handed out candles to light, green ribbons and bands to wear in support. Others brought signs, poetry, words. Some people sang the Iran national anthem, and I stood there holding my candle quietly, watching generations bring their voices together. At the end, one young man stepped forward and started singing again. Sometimes the peaceful things, our subtleties, are most intense. I want to write more, but I’m still wrapping my head around it. I know how helpless one can feel at times like this. I think it’s important that we find ways to show support, to be present, to acknowledge and listen to the people around us. Not just the people we see every day, and not just the people in our cities, our country. But people; humanity as a whole.

Amsterdam

Knowing their March 20, 1969 marriage would be a huge press event, John and Yoko decided to use the publicity to promote world peace. They spent their honeymoon in the presidential suite (Room #702) at the Amsterdam Hilton Hotel for a week between March 25 and 31, inviting the world’s press into their hotel room every day between 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. After their other stunts, such as the nude cover of the Two Virgins album, the press were expecting them to be having sex, but instead the couple were sitting in bed—in John’s words “like Angels”—talking about peace with signs over their bed reading “Hair Peace” and “Bed Peace”. After seven days, they flew to Vienna, Austria, where they held a Bagism press conference.

Montreal

Eventually, they flew to Montreal on May 26 where they stayed in Room 1738 and 1742 at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. During their seven day stay, they invited Timothy Leary, Tommy Smothers, Dick Gregory, and Al Capp and all but Capp sang on the peace anthem Give Peace a Chance, recorded in the hotel room on June 1. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation conducted interviews from the hotel room.