Something is changing

The South doesn’t understand how to commit to the seasons. Right when I dig my winter jackets out of the tubs underneath my bed, it gets warm enough to go out in a T-shirt, as if Thanksgiving isn’t this week. It’s absolutely bizarre. In all my years of living here, I don’t know that I will ever get used to it.

In other news, the semester is winding up neatly, as I anticipated. There’s a certain feeling of helplessness that comes along with this…a good deal of idle worrying that accompanies the lack of things to do. It almost feels wrong, seeing my friends, my lover, my sisters and my brothers fretting over their work and I’m lying on the couch wondering if I should take another nap before dinner.

I guess this is just one of those things to get over. There’s no point in feeling helpless, so I guess I might as well go do something productive, like work on my applications for research internships (which aren’t even due until February. Hmmph!)

I guess that’s what I’m going to do.

I hope everyone’s Thanksgiving week is shaping up nicely!

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Rediscovering Butoh

A few years back I was at an international bazaar at a nearby university. There were all sorts of things going on – people having their names written in katakana, girls giving and getting henna tattoos, volunteers painting the Korean flag on attendees’ cheeks. There was also a stage, where folk dance demonstrations occurred throughout the event. Somewhere between the katakana and the god-awful paisley henna tattoos (I was younger then!) I ended up at that stage just as an exhibition was beginning.

 

Even now I can’t remember if the person was man or woman. At the time I wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a person at all. Each movement was terrifying, tiny jerks and bobs the way a marionette would move. Eyes, blank. Mouth, wide open. Skin, bone white. It terrified me in a way that I didn’t know I could be terrified.

 

Around me, the people kept moving on.

It was bizarre.

Anyhow, I just happened upon the style of dance and it’s as uncanny and horrifying as I remembered it.

Here, enjoy.

The thrift store sweaters

are in a trash bag in the furthest corner of the room. I’ll take it as a recommendation to do laundry, but there’s still that question of whether I’ll be able to make it with the clothes I have clean until we get out for Thanksgiving. Basically, it’s not getting done.

The month of November is shining brightly, what with a brand new prescription of Klonopin to give me sleepy eyes for that mid-day haul, weekly counseling sessions where we talk about my dog and why I hate vegetables so much, what with my mother learning how to Skype and me learning that the dog has no idea when I’m talking to her through the computer.

It’s lovely. Furthermore, cranberry-flavored everything is in vogue, meaning I can ingest the stuff day in and day out in the form of cranberry covered turkey sandwiches, cranberry-infused rotisserie chickens, cranberry cocktails, cran-brr-itas. If we buy enough of them perhaps we can make it through winter and pretend that Thanksgiving never happened in the familial sense. Mother asked if I would like her to pick me up at the start of Thanksgiving break so I could get more time with the family and I said sure but my gut’s not all there with me. Being a guest at home is great, but I’ve found that the time frame on that lasts anywhere from 6 hours to about 36 hours and then everyone’s back to being awful around you as if you weren’t there to hear all of it.

It’s awful hard to keep up a habit of gender-related academic research when your family is solidly in support of the homemaker model of things. Maybe this will be the year I give up and just read my lesbian erotica in front of everybody.

Now I think it’s time to head to the shower so I can get all of the grime out of my pores. I slept much too long today (until two in the afternoon!) and the stench of sleep is upon me still.