nBlog

OK, when I said no more Bush-bashing… I lied.

A friend of mine, an American Citizen from Rhode Island, wrote this article concerning the president’s opinion on war “casualties”.

“I stared at the newspaper headline for several long seconds. I could not believe what I was reading. The headline and the story that ran beneath it attempted to summarize President Bush’s address to the American people the night before. That address was aimed at winning more support for the ongoing U.S. military action in Iraq.

Three words from the headline gripped me by the throat: “Worth the Sacrifice…” Worth the sacrifice, huh? It was a strong statement, and so I gave it serious thought. This led me to wonder how someone who had NOT lost a close relative in the fighting could make such a bold determination. Shouldn’t this rather have been a determination rendered by the families of those who were lost in this conflict? By that I mean the mothers and fathers and wives and husbands and sons and daughters of our brave fallen soldiers.

Then I tried to put a more personal spin on the situation by asking myself a simple question. Would I as a parent be willing to trade the life of my son or daughter for the mere possibility of attaining democracy in Iraq? The answer was a profound NO! Okay. How about a guarantee of attaining democracy in Iraq? Again a profound NO!

I subsequently decided to take the Q & A session a bit further…much further, actually. Would I as a parent be willing to trade the life of my son or daughter even if it meant world peace for all of eternity? In other words, some divine being comes down from the heavens and makes an offer that would result in a devastating personal loss for me in exchange for an idyllic existence for everyone else on the planet. This may sound a bit selfish on my part, but the answer again would be a profound NO!

In each instance my answer came quickly and easily, and with good reason. For what are any of these supposedly great end-results worth in the absence of our most cherished prizes of all – our loved ones? To my way of thinking, not a whole lot. And, in the case of Iraq, we’re not exactly talking about sacrificing ONE person to satisfy our President’s seemingly blind ambition. At last count, America’s price tag for this endeavor had exceeded 2,000 of our finest young men and women. And what of the more than 100,000 estimated dead among Iraq’s women, children and other “casualties” of war?

The President is constantly mentioning how most Iraqi people are supportive of the actions he has undertaken in that country. This information may or may not be true (I’ve learned to be a little skeptical of the President’s “sources”). Be that as it may, I find myself wondering whether the families of those 100,000+ local innocents killed are truly looking forward to the possibility of attaining democracy in their country.
Do they care anymore? Have they ever cared? Should they care? How can they think kindly about this so-called democracy without also thinking long and hard about the price that has been paid in blood? Was it indeed “worth the sacrifice” to them as well?

This brings me to the subject of value. What sort of value should one place on a human life? How about 2,000 human lives? Or 100,000? Is there any outcome that makes sacrificing “X” amount of human lives acceptable…even if the mission that contributed to their deaths appears on the surface to be right and just by some?

Perhaps if I sat a throne and possessed the power to shape the world in accordance with my wishes I would be more understanding of those who proclaim such actions are “worth the sacrifice.” But I don’t sit a throne…and I have not lost a loved one in this conflict. I am but a proud citizen of this country, like so many Americans. I do not have the right to decide whether the end has justified the means in Iraq.

And neither does the President.”

“Mrs Spears will be ready in two minutes.” I re-checked my catalogue of questions. I knew I’d have exactly seven minutes to conduct the interview.

“You have exactly seven minutes,” a suave, monotonic voice echoed my thoughts. “You are to ask questions about the movie only. No questions about maidenhood, plastic surgery or Mr. Timberlake. If any of those topics are broached, the interview will be ended immediately.”

I was ushered into the room, brushing my predecessor’s shoulders as he left. The concept of an assembly line came to my mind.

The room was lit by spotlights, the camera was already buzzing.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I said. The perfectly rouged and illuminated girl switched on her smile, but said nothing. No time for niceties. I pushed the lights, the camera, the cinematographer, sound assistants, bodyguards and personal gofers from my mind.

“Miss Spears, your debut on the silver screen tells the charming story about an innocent young girl breaking away to seek adventure on the road. How much of the young Britney went into the role of Lucy Wagner?”

Yeah, charming story, sure. Her flick is incredibly boring crap, I thought while pretending to listen to the girl’s well-rehearsed and recited answer. (more…)

15 years now since he went.

Freddie Mercury, one of the greatest singers of our time.

Few people even know how much I loved the man – and still do. I admire his music and all that he stood for.? He was one of the few people who really gave their whole existance into their performance.

And though there always have been bands and singers I heard more often, music I cherished more than that of Queen, there is no other singer whose death still brings tears to my eyes whenever I think of him or hear his songs on the radio. Man, I miss you. I so much wish you’d still be here, sharing your talent and music with us.

I’m just the pieces of the man I used to be
Too many bitter tears are raining down on me
I’m far away from home
And I’ve been facing this alone
For much too long
Oh, I feel like no-one ever told the truth to me
About growing up and what a struggle it would be
In my tangled state of mind
I’ve been looking back to find
Where I went wrongToo much love will kill you
If you can’t make up your mind
Torn between the lover
And the love you leave behind
You’re headed for disaster
‘Cos you never read the signs
Too much love will kill you – every timeI’m just the shadow of the man I used to be
And it seems like there’s no way out of this for me
I used to bring you sunshine
Now all I ever do is bring you down
Ooh, how would it be if you were standing in my shoes
Can’t you see that it’s impossible to choose
No there’s no making sense of it
Every way I go I’m bound to lose
Oh yes,Too much love will kill you
Just as sure as none at all
It’ll drain the power that’s in you
Make you plead and scream and crawl
And the pain will make you crazy
You’re the victim of your crime
Too much love will kill you – every timeYes, too much love will kill you
It’ll make your life a lie
Yes, too much love will kill you
And you won’t understand why
You’d give your life, you’d sell your soul
But here it comes again
Too much love will kill you
In the end
In the end

Written by Brian May, Frank Musker, Elizabeth Lamers.
Sung by Freddie Mercury.
Released 26th February, 1996. Reached number 15.

I found this gimmick on Fleshbot, and it is like an expression of my innermost feelings gone silicone. Here it is, and that is exactly where he belongs:

The George W. Bush butt plug. These are the days when I believe that life is good.

This is a thing I thought about often. More, of course, when I was pregnant and facing this very obstacle on my way to having a baby. But still today, three years after having had the privilege to do this in teamwork with the baby in question, it is a thing I muse about. I think I will share these musings with you.

As a first of probably several posts about this, I’d like to talk about Britney’s vagina. Well, not too much, as Chrome already did this quite efficiently: Chrome about Brit’s pussy

No, I do not want to rant about the “the seriously braindead [american] bigot front”, as my friend so eloquently calls it. At least not now – you know I usually love doing that.

Imho, the sculpture is quite ok – as an expression of a male phantasy concerning female birth-giving. Not as an expression of female birth-giving.

As I pointed out in Chrome’s Blog: No female in labour would chose exactly this position. It defys gravity, and gravity is the only friend you have when you deliver, believe me. OK, the midwife might be the exception. Of course, Britney would not know that, as she did not give birth naturally, but had a section.

Here is the core of my musings: How did it happen that women let themselves be told how they should deliver their babies? How – and when – did we give all of this out of our hands so completely that most first mums-to-be do not know how to handle themselves? When did we give this topic over to the docs?

Don’t get me wrong. I admire doctors. More than one woman I know would have died in childbed without them. More than one child I know would not be alive without them. I am glad that they’re there.

But still, giving birth is primarily a thing a woman should decide about.

As we started with birth in art, I ask you to join me on a little circuit through history.

A prehistoric painting. Look at her position…

And here: An Attic relief showing woman giving birth on birthing stool, with midwife and kinswomen in attendance. Birthing stools are older than Christianity, and yet, they disappeared from the hospitals completely. Only recently did some very modern hospitals start to think about this possibility again… And here, in Classic Athens, we see the most common position I found in old sculptures, paintings, carvings, whatever: Women are squatting. And usually, there are some other women to support them and hold them upright (remember: gravity!)

Who the heck told women that lying on their backs would be a good idea???

Ancient Egypt: Other time and place, similar position. A squatting woman giving birth, assisted by two goddesses (Hathor and Taweret),? from the Temple of Hathor at Dendera.

India, 15th century, a carving in a temple. And the identical position…

This lovely lady is an aztec goddess going by the unpronouncable name of Tlazolteotl, the goddess of earth, sex, childbirth and mothers. Guys, she KNEW what she was doing. And this is how the birthes the sun: squatting!

Yes, talking about goddesses: Kali, giving birth to the universe itself. And what position did she chose? Yes, you seem to get it.

A Costa Rican sculpture of a woman giving birth. She is kneeling, and she seems to pull the baby with both her hands, too.

Woman giving birth, Lotus Sutra (Chinese), 9th to 10th century

This is an image about a woman giving birth, assisted by her midwife and friends. Published in 1580. Oh, and? the title of the publication was? “Kunnst und Lehrbüchlein für die anfahenden Jungen. Daraus reissen und Malen zu lernen”. One of the very few pictures featuring men, btw: In the background. Looking at the stars.

Gustave Witkowski, Pioneer Birth Scene, 1877. And, interrestingly: The same position, again. So, as you see, even in the inhibited pioneer times, women weren’t prissy about birthing. That seemed to come only with the last half of the 20th century.

And as we are talking about art, here is an artwork about female birth-giving (not about an expression of a male phantasy concerning female birth-giving):

Just absorb it and think about it for a while.

Subtitle: Sometimes I just cannot believe how uptight and stupid some people really are…

What comes to mind when you read the title of this entry? Hardcore porn? Wrong! Read on, and you’ll learn about the depths of idiocy.

Here is the story: A little magazine, a freebie giveaway you can find at Baby’s supply stores, features a cover photo with a baby suckling on its mother’s breast. This is according to the title story, “why women don’t nurse longer”. Have a look at the picture:

Look at it real hard.

What you can see on the picture is a really cute little baby’s head. What you also can see on the picture is the curve of its mother’s breast, as the wee one is currently being fed. What you can NOT see is anything even remotely reminding us of porn. Why, there’s not even a nipple! At least none to be seen.

But what happened in the US of A, the land of the brave and free, when they saw the title of this little magazine? An uproar! Shocked and hurt phonecalls and emails!

“I was shocked to see a huge breast on the cover of a magazine”, a woman from Kansas writes, “I feel offended by it, and my husband felt very awkward when he saw the magazine in our livingroom”. (more…)

What is it that makes us burn?

Desire is a feeling that rises from nowhere. Whence does it approach, unbidden when you least expect it, and yet to stubbornly deprecating when you want to invite it? In what region of our body or soul is it hatched?

Go back in your memories and try to find moments of purest desire. Are they not strange, unmasked moments? Desire, in the moment of its initial, inflaming glory,? strips us from every other sentiment. Or have you ever felt desire along with something else? Yes? You had it wrong, then. Need proof of that? I have proof, the purest there is: Grammatical proof.

Desire exists as a noun and a verb. We do not have the adverb “desiredly”. You can do something passionately, with passion. But not with desire. Nothing really works along with desire. Desire always is alone. If you need an adverb here, you need to make it desirable –> desirably. You see?

Did you ever read the Sandman series by Neil Gaiman? No? Poor, deprived soul! Begone to the nearest comic shop!

If you did, though, do you remember Desire?

“Desire smells almost subliminally of summer peaches, and casts two shadows: one black and sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze. [...] Desire smiles in brief flashes, like sunlight glinting from a knife-edge. And there is much else that is knife-like about Desire. [...] Never a possession, always the possessor, with skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you have ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever you are. Everything.”
From SANDMAN: “Season of Mists”, episode 0

When you search for quotations about desire, most of them agree that desire is dangerous, serving the baser human instincts, an enemy to be faced, fought and vanquished. Desire is seen as a cruel master shackling us to our earthly chains.

Only few seem to think that desire is a source of creativity, of strength, of power, giving us wings to outgrow ourselves.

So which is true?

I admit it: I don’t have an answer. Never said I had one, did I? If I made you think, it was worth it.

I read the Lord of the Rings when I was a girl (well, who did not? Apart from those who were boys, of course, and who read it when they were b… argh! *senseless babble slap*).

Where was I? Oh, yes, the Lord of the Rings. Needless to say that I loved it, and that Aragorn, Legolas and Frodo became permanent childhood companions. Aragorn and Sam were my favourites, by the way.

But that wasn’t the topic today. What I wanted to talk about is that I read Tolkien’s bio some years after, and I was very impressed to read that before he reached adulthood, he spoke no less than nine languages! Old ones like Latin and Greek included. And yes, she actually really spoke Latin – he was in a Latin debating club at university.? Jeez – what do they teach us at school nowadays?

Having gathered this information as a child, I decided that I would do the same and learn nine languages before I finished school.? I even knew which ones:? English, French, Spanish, Latin and Greek, of course, Italian and modern Greek (which can be counted as independent languages as they are very different from the old ones), Turkish and Japanese. And if there was time, I wanted to add Arabic and Swedish.

Oh well … modern school systems just do not work that way. The whole educational system doesn’t work that way anymore. *shrugs* I learned English and Latin at school, and did fairly well in both, and I started at French and went a year to France after school so that I could perfect it, and I learned Ancient Greek at the University (and loved it), but: I did not learn all those languages, and seriously: Though my life is full of losses and failures, I do not regret many of them – but I really regret that I never managed to get these nine languages into my head. *sighs*

Sometimes, I get out my old Greek books and revise a bit. I do it secretly and tell nobody (except you guys, now), because I think it’s kinda silly and I’ll never need ancient Greek anyway, I just love it so much and it’s a pity that I have forgotten so much of it.

Hey, does anybody feel inclined to teach me Japanese? Swedish? Arab? No? Dayum.

When I was a little girl, I was able to read thoughts. Not that I really cared. I wasn’t even aware that reading thoughts might me extraordinary. It took me a while to find out that not everybody could do it.

They weren’t very clear. It was not that I would look at someone and suddenly know the wording of what he was thinking, as in “oh, I need to buy broccoli and cheese for diner”. It was a strong transmission of the feelings this person had, together with some random snatches of thought, like paper shavings of a torn up piece of newspaper. And before you ask: Yes, I did a check more than once. I was permanently bugging people by asking them “What were you thinking right now?” Even strangers.

During adolescence, it got stronger, confusing and intensive as all things during adolescence are. At times I wished I would know how to keep them out. At other times, it was beautiful. I remember a sun-floated classroom after school, a classmate and me. We had sneaked in there because he had promised to play the piano for me. He played, and I sat there and felt his feelings, clear and true, along with the music. After a while, I even began to send … and his music changed, reflecting my thoughts and feelings as well, now. The guy wasn’t even a good friend, we were not that close and weren’t after the experience, either. But something was shared, there, some wonder, and I never forgot. Don’t know what the guy is doing these days, I hope he makes a living with his music – though I suppose he doesn’t.

It got lost somewhere along the way. I couldn’t do it anymore, at least not willingly. Perhaps all the big and little requirement’s of an adult’s life numbed the sensing devices (whatever they were). Perhaps I learned to build safeguards against it. Perhaps the antennae were nudged once or twice too often, like those of a snail that shrink back and pull? back into its very flesh. Perhaps it was a bit of everything.

No, I am not sad about losing it. I’ve got enough left to last me a lifetime of feelings and empathy. And sometimes, it flows back to me. Not all of it, but a memory, a reminiscence, a sudden knowledge, like the last spume of a great wave rolling onto the shore.

It reminds me that nothing is ever lost.

… and what now?

ok, here is the picture of the day:

And the book of the day is Carol Berg, the “D’Arnath’s Bridge” series. Just finished the fourth (and last) book. Great stuff.

Song of the Day is Evanescence, Bring Me to Life.

What else do you want to know?