Thoughts on Gender

Accounts of prison rape, for example, provide independent confirmation of...assertions about gender, power [and], rape...One of the most descriptive of these accounts appears in Haywood Patterson's autobiographical Scottsboro Boy..."I learned that men were having men," Patterson wrote shortly after he arrived at Atmore prison. "Old guys, they called them wolves." Patterson's description of the process that defined and distinguished who was a "wolf" and who was not dramatically reveals our underlying assumptions of gender.

"Soon after I got [to Atmore] I saw how a wolf would trick a young boy. They all worked the same way. First the wolf, he gave the new guy some money and bought him what he wanted from the commissary. He told him that he was a friend. He would protect him from the tough guys. He would fight for him. He didn't tell him right off what he was leading to. After he spent
four or five dollars on the boy, he propositioned him."

In the end, however, this courtship inevitably failed to win the young prisoner over, and matters were resolved violently: "The old wolf beat him up unmerciful," initiating the boy into a new identity. "The other prisoners just looked on," writes Patterson. "They knew a young girl was being born."
-- From Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale,
by Catherine Orenstein.


...most of the dominant mainstreams of our world will only admit to one construction on gender-an inseparable conflation of "penis=male=masculine" and breasts/vagina=female=feminine." Those mainstreams insist that you like "woman (feminine)" or "male (masculine)." A few of them allow for the possibility of liking both, though they cast it as a suspect state of affairs best avoided or outgrown.
--From Genderquerulous, by Nalo Hopkinson


So I'm...involved, lets say, with a transsexual. At first, I did it for the novelty factor. I mean, come on! How many times have I wished I could sleep with a hermaphrodite? I'm attracted to gender-queer. Get over it.
Anyhow, since he is a genuinely sweet, cheerful, kind person who loves animals, nature, cooking, gardening, and is totally willing to sneak me into bars, I actually really like the guy. Which I wasn't exactly counting on. So the scene I'm building up to looks like this: the two of us are in the smoking room of a bar in the Castro. And I've gotta say, he dresses up well (cool leather shoes, nice pants, crisp shirt). But then, so do I (button down shirt that matches my teal glasses, straight jeans, strappy heels). We're waiting for his friend to bring us our drinks (whiskey sour/gin and tonic), chatting, lounging, smoking. We're talking about my height (he's short and I'm in heels), his upcoming trip to LA, where his friend was with the drinks, my friends in Miami, and suddenly "what do you see me as?" And I froze. "I see what you show me," I managed to spit out. Oh how diplomatic you idiot, I shrieked in my head. But how can I see anything else? How can I say anything else? And how could I? That's such an odd question. The energy, the person that I talk with, enjoy the company of, that presence is male. But the body? It's now neither male nor female. How can I say that I see a man, when that's what I feel, not see? But I don't see a woman either. It begs the question of why we have such rigid gender roles. Why do we have to be one or the other? Why is it only one or the other? Why aren't there three, four, five genders? And why is genitalia synonymous with gender?

It's that last question that interests me the most these days. Fourteen hours after we met, as we settled into a warm, happy, tipsy, awkward, post-sex cuddle, that question occurred to me. Resting my head on his chest, I traced his mastectomy scars (now isn't that an odd sentence!). "You seem so, I dunno, calm," I muttered. "How? I mean, why?" He made a quizzical face. "I mean," I continued, "I think I'd be angry, you know? I guess I have no idea how I'd feel, really. I just get the impression that I'd be a lot angrier about being all jumbled up. You know?" He kind of laughed and then tried to explain that the body's genitalia shouldn't determine gender. And I'm lying there going "Whaaaat? Come again?" I didn't understand that night, or even the next few. All I could think was that I was talking to a guy, and sleeping with a girl. But the more time we spend together, the more I've begun to understand. We do tend to define gender by genitalia. It's easy to do. Can you define what a woman is, or what a man is without those markers? It's so very hard to describe what makes a man a man, or a woman a woman. But its becoming increasingly obvious that it shouldn't be based on what body you live in. It just so happens that most men have a pair of testes and a penis. Just as most women have breasts, vaginae and birth babies. Getting to know this boy I've had to realize that he is a boy. Not a boi, not simply butch, but Male.

On Work

Then a ploughman said, Speak to us of Work.

And he answered, saying:
You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.
For to be idle is the become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life's procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.
When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.
Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?

Always have you been told that work is a curse and labour a misfourtune.
But I say to you that when you work you fulfill a part of the earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,
And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,
And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret.
But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, the I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written.
You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.
And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,
And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,
And all knowledge is in vain save when there is work,
And all work is empty save when there is love;
And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another.
And what is it to work with love?
It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching.
Often I have heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, "He who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs the soil.
And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet."
But I say, not in sleep but in the over-wakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;
And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.
Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love, but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distills a poison in the wine.
And if you sing as though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.

--Kahlil Gibran

The Fountainhead; Section Three, Chapter 14, Pages 660 through 670*

[Peter] Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp that gave poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle...
"Hello Ellsworth," he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway...The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory.
"Hello Ellsworth," he repeated helplessly.
[Ellsworth] Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.
"Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?"
"I wanted to see you Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you."
Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.
"Well, that's what I came here for," he said. "To hear you talk."
Keating said nothing.
"Well?"
"I'm so tired Ellsworth...I'm glad you came."
"Think you can get away with it? ...The hermit act? The great penance?"
"What do you want?"
"...I'll just tell you the truth...You make me sick. Can't you take the truth? No, you want your sugar-coating...You're a complete success, Peter, as far as I am concerned. But at times I want to turn away from the sight of my successes."
Keating stood by the dresser, his shoulders slumped, his eyes empty.
"You make me sick," said Toohey. "God, how you make me sick, all you hypocritical sentimentalists! You go along with me , you spout what I teach you, you profit by it-but you haven't the grace to admit to yourself what you're doing. You turn green when you see the truth. I suppose that's in the nature of your natures and that's precisely my chief weapon-but God! I get tired of it."
"What do you...want...Ellsworth?"
"Power, Petey."
Toohey was smiling, almost indifferently.
"You...always said..." Keating began thickly, and stopped.
"I've always said that. Clearly, precisely and openly. It's not my fault if you couldn't hear. You could, of course. You didn't want to. Which was safer than deafness-for me. I said I intended to rule...I shall rule."
"Whom...?"
"You. The world. It's only a matter of discovering the lever. If you learn how to rule a single man's soul, you can get to the rest of mankind...The soul, Peter, is that which can't be ruled. It must be broken. Drive a wedge in, get your fingers on it-and the man is yours. You won't need a whip-he'll bring it to you and ask to be whipped. Set him in reverse-and his own mechanism will do the work for you. Use him against himself. Want to know how it's done? See if I ever lied to you. See if you haven't heard all this for years, but didn't want to hear, and the fault is yours, not mine. There are many ways. Here's one. Make man feel small. Make him feel guilty. Kill his aspiration and integrity. That's difficult. The worst among you gropes for an ideal in his own twisted way. Kill integrity by internal corruption...To preserve one's integrity is a hard battle. Why preserve that which one knows to be corrupt already? His soul gives up it's self-respect. You've got him. He'll obey. He'll be glad to obey-because he can't trust himself, he feels uncertain, he feels unclean. That's one way...Here's another way. This is most important. Don't allow men to be happy. Happiness is self-contained and self-sufficient. Happy men have no time and no use for you. Happy men are free men. So kill their joy in living. Take away from them what is dear or important to them. Never let them have what they want. Make them feel that the mere fact of a personal desire is evil. Bring them to a state where saying 'I want' is no longer a natural right, but a shameful admission...Unhappy men will come to you. They'll need you. They'll come for consolation, for support, for escape...Empty man's soul-and the space is yours to fill. I don't see why you should look so shocked, Peter. This is the oldest one of all. Look back at history. Look at any great system of ethics...Didn't they all preach the sacrifice of personal joy? Haven't you been able to catch their theme song-'Give up, give up, give up'?...We've tied happiness to guilt...Of course, you must dress it up. You must tell people that they'll achieve a superior kind of happiness by giving up everything that makes them happy. You don't have to be too clear about it. Use big words...Internal corruption, Peter. That's the oldest one of all. The farce has been going on for centuries and men still fall for it. Yet the test should be so simple: just listen to any prophet and if you hear him speak of sacrifice-run...It stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting sacrificial offerings...The man who speaks of sacrifice speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master."
...Keating had sat down on the floor, by the side of the dresser; he had felt tired and simply folded his legs.
"Peter, you've heard all this. You've seen me practicing it...You have no right to sit there and stare at me with the virtuous superiority of being shocked. You're in on it."
"Ellsworth...you're..."
"Insane? Afraid to say it? There you sit and the word's written all over you, your last hope. Insane?...Can't you see past the guff?...Give up your soul...give it up, give it up, give it up...My technique, Peter. Offer poison as food and poison as antidote. Go fancy on the trimmings, but hang on to the main objective...Kill the individual. Kill man's soul. The rest will follow automatically."
Keating sat on the floor, his legs spread out. He listed one hand and studied his finger tips, then put it to his mouth and bit off a hangnail. But the movement was deceptive; the man was reduced to a single sense, the sense of hearing, and Toohey knew that no answer could be expected.
Keating waited obediently; it seemed to make no difference...
Toohey put his hands on the arms of the chair, then lifted his palms, from the wrists, and clasped the wood again, a little slap of resigned finality. He pushed himself to his feet.
Keating lifted his head. His voice had the quality of a down payment on terror; it was not frightened, but held the advance echoes of the next hour to come:
"Don't go Ellsworth."
Toohey stood over him, and laughed softly.
"That's the answer, Peter. That's my proof. You know me for what I am, you know what I've done to you, you have no illusions of virtue left. But you can't leave me and you'll never be able to leave me. You've obeyed me in the name of ideals. You'll go on obeying me without ideals. Because that's all you're good for now....Good night, Peter."

*vastly edited.

Mmm, Carrot Cake Muffins!

I passed a construction site on my way home a few minutes ago, and as I watched sparks fall from a few stories above I couldn't help but think of Kira Argounova.
"Jagged walls of red brick, new and raw, checkered by a net of fresh, white cement, rose to a gray sky darkening slowly in an early twilight. High against the clouds, workers knelt on the walls and iron hammers knocked, ringing sonorously over the street, and engines roared hoarsely, and steam whistled somewhere in a tangled forest of planks, beams, scaffoldings splattered with lime. She stood watching, her eyes wide, her lips smiling."

Anyway, I didn't start this post to discuss Ayn Rand. The real point is to share a recipe for Carrot Cake Muffins. I had a urge to cook last night, but there was nothing in the fridge to bake with aside from some carrots, applesauce and yogurt. I borrowed some flour from my roommate and found some walnuts in the cabinet, and with a bit of thinking came up with the following recipe.

Carrot Cake Muffins
Makes 12-ish

1 1/2 cups flour
1 (slightly heaping) tsp baking soda
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 heaping tsp cinnamon
1 heaping tsp allspice
1/2 tsp ground ginger
2 grated carrots
1 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/2 cup yogurt
1/2 cup walnuts (I think I used something closer to 2/3 cup, but I'm not sure.)

Preheat oven to 350 (I found that 400 worked better on my gas oven)
Mix applesauce, yogurt and carrots.
Mix flour, sugar, salt, spices and baking soda, and add slowly to applesauce mix.
Stir in walnuts, and rasins, if you happen to have some.
Spoon into greased muffin tins and bake for 15-20 minutes.

That's it! These were super good, and my roommates and I ate them all, still fresh and warm from the oven with chai spiced whipped cream on top.

Perspective

"I seen some shit in my life, but I ain't never seen shit like that!" says the bum after close examination of my arms.
"Really? Thanks," I smile. "That's the point."

You Had Not Always Been...You First Had To Grow To Be.

“Your figures are not what men are, but what men could be—and should be. You have gone beyond the probable and made us see what is possible, but possible only through you. Because your figures are more devoid of contempt for humanity than any work I’ve ever seen. Because you have a magnificent respect for the human being. Because your figures are the heroic in man."
-Howard Roark speaking to Steven Mallory in The Fountainhead

I've started to speak more about my work in the last few days, trying to verbalize to those around me. I've always known what it was about on a gut level. You know how you can understand something, and know all the nuances of it, but never have to actually think about it or explain it to yourself? Well, its been like that. What I keep coming back to is the above quote about Mallory's work. Its not that I feel like my figures are the heroic in man, or that I want them to express that. But if I was given the chance to create mankind in my own image of what is ideal I would create them as I draw them. My work captures the two most beautiful forms that I've found in the world around me. I form the essential, sacred elements of both into something that is, in my view, perfect. To have a human form, rooted into the ground, in perfect synergy with everything around it, melting and becoming part of the earth...no, its not heroic, but it is my ideal.

Last night I was looking through my sketchbook and I found a drawing that I did while I was tripping. I compared it to the sketch I'm working on now and realized that there is no difference. If anything, the work I do sober is more trippy than any work I do high. Max proceeded to ask what the difference really was. "What is the difference between tripping and not tripping?" he wanted to know. In terms of my art I have discovered that there isn't really a line. The experiences I have while on acid have influenced my work more than anything. The connection that I feel to the earth around me; the melding and mixing of my consciousness with the soul of the world; these are the experiences that I pull on when I draw. Plants have always fascinated me, so I tend to spend a lot of time communicating with them. I connect with them and become them, especially grass. When I come down I miss being a plant, and I feel that this contributes a lot to my morphing of the human figure into plants.

I feel like my work is evolving to a different level, as art is prone to do at times. It has become very illustrative. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, but it seems to be working. People around me are beginning to get the point very fast. So maybe this is the tangent I need to continue upon: illustrating a perfect world for those around me.

Oh, and the title is from one of the pages of my sketchbook, which is actually a very old 'how you were made' book for little kids.