Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts.
There are some really creative folks out there.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Friday, December 19, 2014
On top of his inability/refusal to observe my boundary, Chesley was what we called a goober: someone considered funny-looking and funny-acting. He giggled too much, over nothing, and his facial features were not conventionally attractive. Thus, the teasing that I got from other kids about him being my "boyfriend" was a slam at me and how I did not fit the standards of attractiveness, either (I was anorexic, ill-looking, and dressed like the poor kid I was.)
I have not thought of him since we left that town, but today I ran across his unusual surname in another setting and I did a google search for him. Turns out, he is dead, died last year after a long battle with cancer. He was a Master Sergeant in the Air Force, had married and had a daughter, and that is all I could glean from his online obituary except a long list of in-laws and a photo of him. He still looked like a goober.
I have some empathy for him now. His preacher father was a dick, and Chesley was uprooted often as the family moved to new church jobs. He had neither charm nor looks to fall back on, and was not especially bright. I have no earthly idea why he fixated on me, but did not trust it then and I think my radar was likely right. I was actively being molested at the time, and I believe that shows on children if anyone bothers to look.
I thank all that is glorious and good for bringing feminism to my generation, for giving me language and theory to sidestep hopeless heterosexuality and submission to males. I have had a hard row to hoe, but I have been loved well by women and some self-examined men. I have made a difference, I have expressed my soul, and in four days I will have survived my second Saturn return in Scorpio, something my mother, grandmother and great-grandmother did not manage to do.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Saturday, December 13, 2014
A brindle cat both broad of beam
and bright of eye accosted me
while I was on my morning walk,
demanding in her high clear voice
a wedge of cheese, and gramarye.
I had no victuals to hand
but spells I knew like alphabet.
I taught her how to see the dead
and when to flee a dooméd home.
I showed her flowers she could eat
to let her hear the breath of mice.
She left me then, her hunger strong
and I strolled on, ignoring all
the outraged curses aimed at me
from tiny voices in the grass.
copyright Maggie Jochild, written 13 Dec 2014, 8:56 am