Straight up.  Rapists rape.  They do it.  It is their action.  It is their violence and fucked up perspective on sex.

Praise, praise the lady for Clementine Ford and her writing.



Well, if we are going to get all sweeping and interpretative, we may as well read about Generation X men and what that’s all about here.

Kind of makes me want to value my own ways of talking in umbrella ways.  They have their place.

‘Course, what isn’t in the umbrella?  Race?  Do indigenous X men feel like this, have they lived this?  Immigrant X Men?  Queer fellas?  What is masculinity theory doing about the whole gender/biological sex distinction?  Is it still right to talk about ‘masculinities’ as meaning men?  (Ok, this has probably been thrashed out already and my reading needs to catch up).

Look.  The generational cliches are limiting and kind of overdone, and useful.  I know I feel the resentment towards Boomers big time, and like the conversation between Y and Boomies is going on over my head.  So there is some resonance here with my lived experience.



“Suck it up, Princess”.

A slogan of the No Fear masculine bullshit pussy as insult variety. Slam bam swipe of the overly precious feminine or, horror, those fellas who might be.

Push on, we’ve all got to deal, Just Do It.

How many girls are called and coaxed and reassured to be princesses? I was one. A name from my Mum, still feels like real love and affection. Being the girl. A specialness. Awesome.

The world doesn’t like special. Workplaces and industries and star systems don’t like those invested with the special belief. Another thing to be knocked out. Special? Fuck you. Talented? Eat this shit job. Intelligent? See how stupid you are to work for nothing. Creative? You’re the jester for hire for team building. Princess? No time, no time, no time for princesses.

‘Course, yes. Entitlement and privilege also drive me freaking berserk (hmmm mostly in middle class boys …. another story!) 7 billion. Finite, fucked up planet. Why should you have it easy?

The special aura bestowed from a time where it may translate into a job, a career. A Clive James, a Germaine Greer, do a thing, leap to the UK, hey presto.

The middle class special dream has so many special ones. Try to freaking be a Clive now. Ultimate Fighting Creatives, see you on the other side.

And so this princess has sucked it up. Ground down. Felt the physical day and day and day of low income, Centrelink waiting rooms, still, the pain, painkillers, the study, ground down, the working, pumping out the love, another day and day and day of Centrelink, waiting for the invoice to be paid, the expressing interest. Yes, world, funnily enough, I am interested in working. Using my skills and being paid for it. Fancy. Call me princess. Call me President of the entrepreneurial self made to bullshit juggle a life. Call me a privileged Westerner.

Princesses can also say fuck you. They can also say: you know what? Yes, I have some beauty. Yes, I have some talent. Aptitude, skills, burning creative fucking ideas. Yes, I see your fucked working conditions. Fuck you. Obviously I am going to keep juggling and carving and looking to sculpt my freaking living. It is a way. It’s not the only way.

Because I am so. Not. Alone.

All the motherfucking princesses.

Say fuck you.

The anti-judgement vow

It’s the 16th of June, 2013.

Here we go, a year-long vow.  

To ease back from judging women.  Within the particular storm of hate around Julia Gillard at the moment, living in a porn-saturated world, a confusing world: I vow.  To ease my thoughts back from judging women.  As often as I can, again and again.  For being skinny.  Liking clothes.  For their looks.  For what they do to their looks.  For what they don’t do.  Their waxing, their botox.  Their feral edges, tracksuit days.  For selfies, for their status updates.  Substance abuse, for their current partner.  For being alone.  Their work, lack of work; education, and lack of it.  Motherhood or no.  Contraception or no.  Drinking or inhaling.  Porn or Christianity.  Worldliness or naivety.  

Really.  The judgements can be so instantaneous and sly.  Hard to catch.  But they are there, subtle, sneaking around as I have been taught to do.  Snipey comments, those hips are from her grandmother.  My side of the family doesn’t have that.  I don’t think you should wear that.  Burrowing mindworms.  

So, a year, at least, of applying my own consciousness to my own.  

Let’s see.

I am Woman Mind

I wrote this as a part of a collaborative chant in the style of Maria Sabina:

I am a woman who holds her experience
I am a woman who lets the experience wash through
I am a woman who heals Universes
I am a woman who comes through pain
I am strong woman.  Whole woman.
I am woman, light, who moves with the fluids.
I have woman mind which knows the unknowable.
I can heal without knowing how.
I am woman mind which knows the unknowable.
I heal without knowing how.