I was sent a link to a tequila ad by Lessie Brown who asked my opinion on it. She sent it in the context of a page I’ll link to below, because I think it deserves to be watched on its own merit first:

For Harriet has the following to say about it:

The scenario presented here is absolutely rape. No, it’s not forcible rape by a big (black or brown) man in an alley, but most rape isn’t.

Lessie said this:

I feel like we’ve on the one hand reached a place we need to be: A place where we can acknowledge that a woman can be raped even if she isn’t beaten or forced. A woman shouldn’t have to risk her life first to prevent a rape. It’s completely horrible for society to expect that. On the other hand, I worry that we’ve reached a point where we’re infantilizing women by telling them that they don’t have to take responsibility for who they have sex with and how.

(She added, and I feel bad that she felt she had to, but I would like to also say, “I hope it’s clear that I’m not trying to be a rape apologist.”)

My response? It’s funny. I chuckled. It’s indicative of a sexist culture, yes, but I also think—knowing a few pairs of twins personally—that she bears some responsibility for being able to tell the difference between her significant other and his twin.

A similar question came up during the time that allegations of Assange raping a woman in Sweden were big news (what ever happened to that?). My understanding of the situation was this: there was consensual sex between Assange and a woman; she asked him to wear a condom but he did not. In various American media outlets, this was called “rape”—which may be the closest translation of the Swedish crime he was accused of, but it is not rape in the sense we think of it in the United States. I can well imagine a spectrum of sex crimes in an enlightened country such as Sweden that includes forcible rape on one end and other sex-that-is-not-desired on the other end.

In English, we call all of this “rape”. But I think that it is a disservice to those who experience forcible rape to put them in the same camp with those who were drunk or who were never explicitly asked if they wanted to have sex. I think it is appropriate to call them all crimes but I do not think it is appropriate for the punishment to be the same.

When it comes to killing, we have many shades: first degree murder, second degree murder, voluntary manslaughter, involuntary manslaughter, and justifiable homicide. Each crime has a different degree of culpability, violence, and punishment associated with it. I think it should be the same for rape. Or at the very least, suggesting this should not result in me needing to turn in my Feminist Card.

I think this ad is indicative of a culture that does not value women. I do not think it is indicative of a culture that values rape. I think it is additionally a valuable moment to have this discussion. The ad depicts coerced-sex-that-is-not-desired which—let me be clear here—is wrong. But it is a disservice to both men and women to lump it in with the kind of rape that happens as a war crime, the kind of rape that happens at gun/knife point, the kind of rape that happens at parties, or the kind of rape that happens within marriages.

We need a better vocabulary. [Read more →]

I literally just discovered Ms. Maura (but was too tired to write this last night). I love her jazzy sound—it’s almost steampunky to me.

I like this as a ballad between a time traveler and someone encountered during those travels. It’s likely a much more traditional relationship, but “Peace for a Place” feels like a cabaret piece that’s both modern and vintage; perhaps a better description of steampunk than I’ve ever come across. The background instrumentals also put me in mind of Abney Park.

Finally, “You Never Know Where You’re Going” might be a secondary definition of steampunk. It’s a bit more Dr. Whoish (which time travel I’m beginning to have difficulty distinguishing from steampunk…), although the repeated “you dance & scream” coupled with the background music reminds me of clockwork. In any case, she’s worth a looksee.

My sister used to live in New York and my mother had decided that we would visit her to see Broadway shows. She would be there for longer than I, and I longer than dad, so she’d see a total of 3—we each got to choose one. Dad chose Les Misérables. In preparation and, I suspect, yet another attempt to Build Character, I had to read the [abridged] novel in advance.

I remember nothing of that tome. But I remember well the musical opera. I even bought one of the soundtracks. I have many favorite pieces from it, but one of them is “the Bishop”: the moment when Jean Valjean experiences redemption. It brings tears to my eyes whenever I hear it—this, I think to myself each time, this is the whole of religion, morality, lovingkindness, whathaveyou: this is true love of fellow man.

I just finished reading How the Goddess Came to Spring Flowering Alley, by Andrew Penn Romine, who I know through John. Peng is the Bishop.

Enjoy:

Come in sir for you are weary
And the night is cold out there
Though our lives are very humble
What we have we have to share

There is wine here to revive you
There is bread to make you strong
There’s a bed to rest till morning
Rest from pain and rest from wrong

I know I’m the militaristic of the two of us here at MoF, but I find myself ambivalent at the recent news that Al Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden has been killed by US forces (a week ago, whereupon they “took custody” of his body to make sure it was him).

I have been told that there were Americans celebrating this event, a thought that sickens me, but I think the broader point here is getting lost: so what? Anyone who thinks this will change anything is deluded.

Immediately after the events of September 11, 2001, when Americans were forced to realize—if only for the briefest of moments—that our foreign policy might just make us not everyone’s friend, the structure of Al Qaeda was discussed as being “hydra-like”. Now—10 years, 900 000 deaths, and a number of freedoms later—we’ve cut off one of the heads. How many will grow in its place? Hamas, a different but similar group, has already issued a press-release condemning the killing. Extremists (or perhaps moderates made extreme by our insensitivity) have already used the desecration of their holy book as an excuse to kill—how much more of an excuse do they have now?

Am I glad that bin Laden is dead? Yes—I think that one fewer religious extremist leading people to violence is a good thing.

Am I glad that American forces killed him? I’m on the fence. I don’t know that this proves anything (10 years later) or that it will solve any problems.

Some people who can say it better than I: [Read more →]

Tonight, the day before the First of May, is Walpurgisnacht, a quasi-pagan Germanic holiday celebrating a English missionary/saint/abbess’ canonization. Of course, no one can tell you what she had to do with bonfires, so it seems that the name is just an excuse to keep doing what the pre-Christians wanted to do.

I’ve never—to my knowledge—celebrated Walpurgisnacht, but when I think of bonfires, I remember a night I spent with my classmates in the Alpine forests of Austria. I am almost certain this was in the fall, so it was definitely not Walpurgisnacht. And it was part of a long weekend intended as a community-building exercise.

Before the sun set, we hiked into the forest and, as the sun was going down, we built a bonfire between a hill and a small lake. I don’t remember eating anything, although it seemed we’d been hiking for awhile. (The adults who were with us had walked us in a circle earlier in the day, and the hostel we were staying at was just a short walk away.) And then the magic of the fire took over: someone started drumming with sticks and clapping; someone else started jumping over the bonfire.

I don’t know if I’d do it today, given the chance, but it was exhilarating then. The hill was situated just so as to give the jumper a good run up to the bonfire and the lake was just far enough that there was no danger of ending up in it (unless you managed to catch fire and had to). In fact, the hill was such that, if you started running, you had to jump. There was no way around the fire but over it and the hill was steep enough that you’d never stop if you tried.

I think I only went over it twice—I had to watch braver souls do it a few times, first—but it’s a feeling I’ll never forget. A feeling of one-ness with myself (rare for a young teen) and of camaraderie with my classmates, with the night, with the fire, and with the land. The magic that only popping logs in the silence and sparks in the darkness can convey.

When I see pictures of Walpurgisnacht celebrations, I’m reminded of that night in the woods and I get why, on nights like this, people believe in magic.

I’m rediscovering my love affair with Natalie Merchant. And either she sings a lot about the Devil or I interpret a lot of her songs about being about Him (okay…two that’s still a greater-than-normal number the kind of music she sings). These two songs are so soulful—almost longing—that it almost doesn’t match the subject. Or perhaps it does; perhaps she is expressing dissatisfaction with the traditional relegation of the Devil to some kind of evil God instead of the Other which must exist. And perhaps I’m reading too much into it.

Maestro (Maestra?), the music!

You must click the picture because her vids are not embeddable

This song reminds me of the myth of the Frauenkirche in Munich: the Devil challenged the architect to build a church that had no windows yet still shone with the glory of God. The church was cleverly constructed so that, when you stand at the entrance, the columns obstruct the view of the windows that line the sides of the nave, but you can still see the sunlight streaming in (even on cloudy days it’s pretty bright). The Devil, unable to enter a church, stood in the foyer and, enraged that He had been bested, stamped his foot, whereupon the earth opened up and He descended back to His domain (never to return to Bavaria again, yay!). His footprint can still be seen at the perfect spot to stand and marvel at the architect’s skill.*

This song is off her album Leave Your Sleep, which is a collection of the creepiest children’s lullabies you will ever hear. It’s totally worth a listen.

*If you think this story sounds an awful lot like Rumpelstilskin, you would be forgiven. I think folk tales have a way of getting caught up in one another.

In one (perhaps many) of Terry Prachett’s books, he opines that the strength of a god is dependent upon the number and strength of the belief in that god. But of course, gods don’t dies, so there are a number of ghost-gods whisping their way around reality, seeking believers.

While practice has shown this is not the case off the Discworld, it still can be said that belief shapes the world. “If you think you can’t do something, you’re right,” and other quasi-inspirational platitudes. If enough people believe that [women/darker-skinned people/other denigrated minority] are worthless, then they are. But once people stop believing that—or start believing the opposite—reality changes and it suddenly becomes inconceivable that what society used to think was taken as gospel.

Two recent developments have impressed this upon me.

The first, a blog called No Unsacred Place was begun to remind its readers (and its creators) that all is sacred—and we need to be reminded of that. Along the lines of “my body is a temple,” if we can remember that everything is sacred and everyone is holy, perhaps we can make the world a better place. Our beliefs are borne out in our actions—whatever the beliefs are. I would like my beliefs to bear joy, beauty, and holiness.

The second was linked to me by the first, the Law of the Rights of Mother Earth [English amateur translation] was recently passed by the Bolivian government. The commentary about it that I found on No Unsacred Place was “It Matters What We Believe“. This theory is also present in Our Mother’s Keeper, a new Mormon blog.

It has always baffled me that Christians do not pay more attention to the rape of their planet. But then, I suppose the differing translations of Genesis 1:28 are proof that more people believe they need to “subdue” the earth than “govern” it. That belief has certainly shaped this reality.

Holiday spirit is in the air and I’ll be spending the day with friends, family, and more friends—the best way to do a holiday, in my opinion. But as the earth springs back to life (yes, it’s visible, even Where There Are No Seasons), I find myself gazing out of windows and breathing more deeply when I’m outside, enjoying the subtle changes and beauty that surround me.

So I’m going to share that beauty. (Hit full screen for best results.)

The Mountain from Terje Sorgjerd on Vimeo.

By Terje Sorgjerd, via Our Mother’s Keeper.

The Washington Post has an online discussion forum called On Faith. Periodically (once a week?), they submit a question/topic to a panel of writers from various religions. This week’s is

What is religion’s role in gender discrimination?

I highly recommend the answers.
[Read more →]

I love Poe because she’s dark and soft, like black silk; she’s always softer than I expect and darker than that softness prepares me for. I always expect her to be a hard metal kind of sound—like an Evanescence—but find a ballad or soft rock instead. And once hearing that, I expect her lyrics to be ballad-like and soft.

I ought to know better.

This may be the least wild song you will ever hear and yet it speaks to the wildness in me. Like a cat whose claws are hidden, so they are soft fur above and soft leather beneath, Poe reminds me that there’s a sharpness hidden that can cause much pain.

[There was no embeddable version, so you'll have to click here.]

I go wild
Wild because the chips are down
Wild because there isn’t anybody else around
[…]
Wild ’cause it doesn’t make sense
For me to cry out in my own defense
[…]
You’re not the only one who can smell fear
[…]
You’re not the only one who lives on instincts
No I’ve got instincts of my own
[…]
You wrote the rules to try to contain me
You broke ‘em—Now you have untamed me
And I’m wild.

These are the kinds of thoughts I have when my feminist hackles are raised: I live in your world and I play by your rules but when you hit my sister, when you cut my sister, when you deny my sister basic rights and healthcare, I go wild. My instincts take over and I go wild—because crying out for help doesn’t work. You’ve untamed me.

And that’s one of the major reasons I’m always surprised by her darkness—Poe passes as a proper ballad singer who doesn’t make waves until I pay attention and realize that she’s just like me: Wild.

See also, Haunted, the title track from the album she wrote to accompany her brother’s House of Leaves, an awesome, distressing horror novel about a house that eats people. (This is a description which does not do it justice. Check it out if you think you can deal with having that in your head.)

What is it you adore?
Won’t you tell me what would you go wild for?