It’s six posts in one, people!
It’s a really simple thing, sleep, something really pleasurable. Sinking into warmth and stillness and dreams. It’s something I find terribly difficult, and I feel disappointed every day when I wake up to an instant headache and drowsiness and feeling like I haven’t slept at all. It’s a real struggle to get through a day feeling like that.
I don’t know if you glare and shake your head and tut because you don’t notice the disability signs/stickers on the front of the car – or if you think they’re faking their disabilities – or if you think those crummy disabled people simply don’t deserve to hog the best parking spots. I don’t know if you do this because you don’t expect to encounter disabled people out and about, so you think the parking spot user isn’t legit. I don’t know why you’re letting dominant narratives crowd out the person there in front of you.
At Feministe, I’ve started a series on differences in constructions of race and racial difference in various contexts. How is it going? Kind of badly, kind of well, but at the end of the day I’ll have to put up with less monolithic thinking about race – not to mention binaristic…! – and that’s the important thing as far as the wear on my ever-grinding teeth is concerned.
Race, ethnicity, culture and identity are made and mixed in some really complex ways, differing across cultures, among communities, and in individual experiences.
I want to have a conversation about different ways in which whiteness is figured in different contexts.
I am so happy to be writing Iconography, my series for Bitch Magazine on (and examining the place of) feminist literary icons.
Because I’m a slightly perverse creature, I’m going to start this series about feminist literary icons with a one you’ve probably never heard of. Written by a man. Featuring a woman who dies of longing when her dreamed-of lover doesn’t materialize.
I hate to do this, but I’m going to kill a lot of the wonder of James Tiptree, Jr. right from the start.
In the late ’60s and early ’70s, there emerged a man of mystery on the US feminist science fiction scene. He was painfully modest, staggeringly talented, and reclusive indeed. His love story for planet Earth, “The Last Flight of Doctor Ain,” shook everyone up, and then the beautifully wrought writing just kept coming out of that postbox in McLean, Virginia: “Love is the Plan the Plan is Death,” “Painwise” and “Houston, Houston, Do You Read?”. Stories about instinct and endurance, stories about the far future and the search for home. There were rumors flying right and left about who this guy might be. He was a spy! Henry Kissinger! A woman! And, as it turned out, though nobody could believe it, the rumous were right on the last count.
Phew! So much writing to do…