Advice from your Spinster Auntie, "The National Enquirer"

If you want to smell divine, open a bag of Bengal Spice tea (Super Powerful Sublime and Subliminal Spice Tea!) and rub it all over your unclothed body. Let the chaffing begin! This method might also be effective if you want to have an allergic reaction (to the cinnamon) - at least you will smell good when you arrive at the hospital.

If you want to get rid of your smelly waxy deposits and clumps of cradle cap, then rub baby oil all over your waxy, clumpy body.

And if you want to solve all of your worldly problems, rub five thousand dollars cash all over your completely naked body, focusing especially on your ass-region, and send it in the mail, without a return address, to any psychic listed in the back of "The National Enquirer." You should see the miraculous results in a matter of weeks.

If my Spinster status and your faith in the moral authority of "The National Enquirer" aren't enough to convince you of the ABSOLUTE EFFECTIVENESS of this simple and easy SOLUTION to ALL of your life's problems, then let me cite (SIGHT) my sources (my one sourcE -). She (The Source) is a POWERFUL wolfman who will LIVE FOREVER and who may or may not leave you in her will.

A FORCE of Nay-ture by the name of Biddy Bel, the Fork-licking Crone of Paradise Road, one day did these very things. Why, yes, she became one with her Spiritual Guide (Goddess CHA-CHING $*$*$). Biddy Bel CONNECTED with one of the very psychics I mentioned (one of the LIFEsav-iors in the Holy Pages of the Ultimate Guide to the Universe, "The National Enquirer") over the All Powerful Tele-Phony. Biddy Bel spoke to Her Guide from Beyond and Her Guide told Bel Bazzaglia to rub five thousand dollars cash on and around her PURE and EXPOSED loins, legs and leftovers.

Biddy Bel's Guide instructed her to send the CLEAN (?!) cash in the mail (to her). Believing Biddy Bel did as the Psychic Medium, Goddess Cha-Ching, asked and sent the money TO Her. The G-Cha-Ching GUARANTEED that all of Bel's family and health problems would be SOLVED. Can you guess what happened to Bel after she completed her co-urse? Biddy Bel met Baul. AND ALL OF HER PROBLEMS were Solve(nt). Just ask Bel, and Bel will tell you how Baul was sent to her from Gethsemane. Baul LOVES to CASH-IT-IN at the casino, and he cashes in all of Biddy Bell's Sexy Money. Do-ho-hon't ask ANY of Biddy Bel's family members, for they DON'T KNOW Baul the way Bel knows Baul. And no one knows Bel and Baul the way "The National Enquirer" knows them...

However, we all have Biddy Bel on our hands because we're all big spenders. Credit cannot protect you from the powers of Goddess Cha-Ching and her Assy-cash.

As for you, my Believing friend, I would not be surprised if you are undressing right now in anticipation of the rites of cashage. Go to the bank first, of course! Five thousand, it must be. For cabbage leaves will NOT do for this. Cabbage leaves will only bring you crucifixion...I mean, cruciferous vegetation. You must know by now that CASH, hand-counted, skin-coated, cold hard cash, is the key to conservation (salvation with a C).

The moral of the story: Do NOT wash your hands after you handle cash. You do not want to wash off the MAGICAL BODILY JUICES and GREASE that might have been pressed into that greenback by Bitty Bel herself. You don't want to disappoint G-Cha-Ching. Take the cash you carry in your hand(!)bag home and rub it where it matters most. Put your money where your mouth is, if you must.

This is a TRUE story. Bel is real. As real as "The National Enquirer." Do not doubt the power of the Goddess C-C.

Get thee to a supermarket aisle. Pronto.

Our Dearly Depleted Mother Earth

First, an F.Y.I. Gender Focus published a feminist response review I wrote about the docu-film, Vegucated. Read the article, here: http://www.gender-focus.com/2012/05/30/watching-vegucated-with-a-feminist-eye/

And, if you're so inclined, check out some of the Outtakes (Edit-outs) from the original, much lengthier, version of the article.

My one major "flaw" as a writer: writing too much. It still stands as true as ever. I like that about myself, but it threatens to push me and my work further into obscurity. Luckily, an editor can cut me down to size and make me (i.e., my work) more suitable for the masses.

But for you, my intimate audience (and those of you who ended up here because you were searching for "she stomped on his penis"), I will -pretty much- allow myself to be at liberty. At liberty, to write and write to my heart's content when its content is to write!

The Edittakes, not necessarily in order:

Whew, MotherofGod.

And I mean, a lot.  

A plant doesn’t have a brain, and therefore does not possess a form of consciousness similar to animal consciousness.  

Their shoes? Oh, well, it does require a little suspension of disbelief to relate to the chicken but not much.

It’s all just growth and decay.  While I look upon the human relationship with the earth through a dimly lit lens, I'm not afraid to preach about human rights.  I think humans, some of them at least, have the ability to seek a more advanced way of living.    

As a feminist, I will be the first to proclaim that the ways of the hunter are not for me.  I am a gatherer, and I think the way of the gatherer is the way of the future.  Ursula LeGuin, with your carrier-bag-of-fiction and your futuristic feminism, by all means, lead the way. 

But to Hell with my thanks, the only reason I get to survive is because I am bigger and smarter.  The animal doesn't want my thanks; it only wants its life. How I dream of the day when the deer and ducks rise up against the hunters, and say, "FUCK YOU, STARVE YOU MOTHER FUCKER."
What a shame it is that humanity is the parasitical adult baby that just won't GROW (!) UP.  

We inhabit a style of living based in service and community rather than in materialism and individualism.  We plant good seeds to replace what we take from the earth (for our consumption).    

There is logic and purpose in this: Mother Earth has given birth to us much in the way that the lemon tree gives birth to her lemons.  For our growth, let’s just say.   

She doesn’t walk up to us and offer us her teat; she has to be imprisoned and coerced into providing milk for millions of humans.    

But my hairy mammal sister, The Cow, is an abused mother.  As a mother with a dried up teat of my own, I want to help her out.  

Privilege and hierarchy are huge contributors to the disease of consumption that is plaguing Mother Earth, but that’s an issue for another article.   “Vegucated” might not effectively speak to a wide enough audience and I predict that those who are not the products of privilege and affluence might not find it all that charming.    

I identify with all prey –all potential victims, all non-violent beings, all peaceful creatures who have the capacity to coexist in harmony.  

Another Poem (Informally but Emphatically) Published: I Met a Basic Me and I Adhered to Her Form

I am thrilled and honored to share with you the Daily News (not Snooze!) that a poem of mine is included in The Countess of Flatbroke's Treasury of Poems. Mary Meriam's Treasury! Wow! I wrote my first formal poem in the form of Basic Me. I wrote a sestina, which was quite challenging and fun, but it has yet to see the light of print-day. Mary Meriam, whose chapbook, The Countess of Flatbroke, was published by Modern Metrics, invented the Basic Me form. Meriam, graciously, has included my Basic Me, "Startle and Scram," in her Treasury of (Basic Me) Poems. Please check it out, and learn about the form as well as about Meriam's work at http://home.earthlink.net/~marymeriam/Countess/basic.html.

Meriam is the editor of Lavender Review and Filled with Breath. She is a blogger at Ms. Magazine and her poems have received much-deserved attention from both the Poetry Foundation and the New York Times (http://home.earthlink.net/~marymeriam/vita/).

Where is an MFA program when ya need one? No wait, sometimes communication with One Person can be like an MFA program, or at least like an MFA course. I know from previous experience because my wife has acted as the chair of several degree programs that I have either passed or excelled in with honors and flying maniac colors.

I like learning, what can I say. I did marry a professor, a scientist and a psychologist. I didn't marry for the purpose of learning. Wait. Yes, oh yes, I did.

I cannot say people don't come to those types of weddings. I can say sometimes people aren't invited, though.
 

International Live Readers' Society Update (It's been a while, I know, but we've grown): Self-Therapy, by Jay Earley

Dear Kindred,

It has been a delightful day. I've showered, shaken my hair dry, cleaned out the closets (!), baked oat bran muffins with the girls, laughed with my therapist and learned that one of my poems has been accepted for publication by a feminist literary journal. I received a rejection from the journal last week, but I guess it changed its mind because one of my poems is slated to appear in the summer edition of the journal. I will send more info. along as it presents itself. The best part about the ACCEPTANCE is that I actually felt it. I did not minimize its significance, I did not act as though I am not thrilled about it. I jumped up and down and squealed about the news to my wife-partner - who was happy and joyful WITH me.

I am joyful now, but I was rather joyful before I received the e-news. I was rather joyful because I am rather content. I am on a Joylightenment path. I am reading a book as part of the IFS (Internal Family Systems) therapy that I am in the midst of exploring. I am seeing a really lovely counselor and am discovering all sorts of things about myself. For instance, it is possible for me to lie on the deck, under a tree filled with birds and surrounded by traveling wasps, and to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the cool of the breeze. It is possible for me to just BE and be okay just being. Not producing. Not rushing around in a cloud of stress. Not thinking frantically of the next creative project on my list. It's fine for me to just BE sometimes - and not only is it fine, but I also enjoy it. I always THOUGHT having to sit still and "do nothing" was torture, but turns out my TRUE self likes it quite a bit.

As I was resting alone on the deck yesterday, I thought about a time when I was younger and I used to visit Chautauqua Lake with my family (grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, the guy my grandma just met at the pool). I remember being at Chautauqua Lake (Estates...before the tornado hit) in the summer, reading a Jane Austen novel and writing in my journal out on one of the plastic Adirondack chairs or on top of the nautical-striped down comforter in the twin bedroom. I was not worrying about anything, I was just enjoying being there...by myself...reading and writing. Joy! EnJOYing. I felt like I used to feel in Chautauqua when I was on the deck yesterday. I have been so bogged down in my own inner chaos and misery that I did not think such a thing could be possible. In fact, I forgot all about the days when I could enjoy MY SELF. Something is helping me to remember: Jay Earley's Self-Therapy: A Step-By-Step Guide to Creating Wholeness and Healing Your Inner Child Using IFS, A New Cutting-Edge Psychotherapy (2009).

Whoa, long title. Don't let that deter you. And don't let the whole Inner Child thing deter you, either. I was uncomfortable with it, too. If you're anything like me (a GUARDED analytic and intellectualizing person who resists with all her psychological might the idea of feel-good, oooeygooey, pop psychology vulnerability and inner child fluff), you might be a little skeptical about IFS. If you are stuck in a rut, like I have been, then consider opening the book despite yourself. Actually, not despite yourself - despite your parts. Even if you feel humiliated at times, you'll be able to love yourself and your humiliated part right through the humiliation. And then all you will be left with is your graceful, confident self. IFS is one way of approaching HEALING. Try it on, try it out, try it in - and see if it helps you in some way. It's helping me.

I believe your self will love the fact that you are reading this book. Your self desperately wants you to read this book and do the inner work so you can connect with her, find her, let her be the wonderful leader of your parts that she is. I want you to read this and get in touch with your self. I am at the beginning stages of learning about my self, and I feel so good. I want that for you. I want you to read this book WITH me. You don't have to tell me you're reading it, you don't have to sit and talk over tea with me about it. But, my precious friend, please read it in your own time and in your own way. I am happy for me, and I am so glad for you if you read this. It does require that you set some of your judgments aside in order to access your self, but it's worth it. I cannot tell you how EMPOWERED I feel by this. My self is a joyful self. Sometimes I feel sorrowful and I hide from it and fight it, but I believe my center self is joyful and at peace. I am so relieved. I was starting to think my center was a center of sorrow.

All of my exiles have brought me down and my protectors are trying to protect me. But what about myself? It's there, waiting for me to access it and be led by it. I am totally buying into this, for the moment. I don't care what anyone thinks, right now I'm a believer! My therapist shares in my joy, it's great. I haven't yet begun Chapter 3, I plan to take some time on the first two chapters - thinking about, writing about and exploring my exiles, protectors and (best of all) self. So you still have time to get your book and start reading if you want to read alongside me. Read at your own pace, I stress this. It's not your average book. It's not really reading material, in fact. It's emotional-spiritual work. If you buy this book, think of the process of reading AS therapy. Don't think of it as summer reading, think of it as nutrition (soup, if ya like soup - and I do) for your soul.

I love you and I have every expectation that this will help you bring out your joyful self and improve your life. THIS is the ripple effect. I am passing along a gift that I have been passed. Let's find our selves together. Let's read and find joy. Let's. I will share some of my journey with you on here. Most of it will happen with me, my SELF and I. Most of what I am experiencing during this summer journey will happen privately. I have started journaling. It's been hugely healing just to start. I LOVED writing love letters and journaling in high school but two exiling experiences happened that interrupted that joy - my mother read my journals and punished me severely for what I wrote AND someone I love (someone I am currently in exile from) destroyed my journals. It's been ten years since I have journaled from a place of love, romance, joy, freedom and self-acceptance. 2012 is the year of return.

I just wanted to share with you my good news because you and I are so very good and deserving of joyfulness and joyfulnews. This, whatever this is, is life-transforming. I have hope. I thought it was impossible for me to feel joy even in the midst of terrible circumstances. But now I have hope that it might be possible for me to be okay, for me to maintain my loving and stable self regardless of the circumstances I am in or the circumstances surrounding me. Happy almost-summer! I am not awaiting return, I am returning. EnJOY your night, and talk to you soon.

Love,
Jess

In the Garden with Eve Ensler: A Grrrrrl Revolution

Here is the unabridged introduction to my review of Eve Ensler's "I Am an Emotional Creature." You can find the abridged full review of the Call to Revolution on the Canadian Feminist blog, Gender Focus, at: http://www.gender-focus.com/2012/05/18/my-father-met-eve-ensler-and-they-both-wanted-to-tell-me-that-i-am-an-emotional-creature/

Eve Ensler, meet my father.

Father, meet Eve.

 

That’s the way I would have introduced them if I were present when they met.  But they met on their own, without me.  Yes, as you might guess, my father’s emotions ran high.  He saw Eve standing by a lovely tree.  She wasn’t afraid of the snake slithering around the tree’s branch.  She lifted her hand, slowly.  So slowly.  She placed her palm beneath the ripe fruit and waited for it to fall into her hand.  She looked the sir-pent directly in the eye and bit into the flesh of the fruit.  She let it run pink down her chin and she did not look down or wipe away the juice.  The snake didn’t speak because he knew his words did not have any power over her.  He watched, in awe. And so did my father.  My father and the serpent watched Eve eat the fruit on her own, at her own will, at her own pace.  They were her voyeurs, longing to be so bold and unafraid.  Then, he felt a wave of courage come over him so he went to Eve’s side, hoping he could pick and eat his own fruit the way she did.  With sensual and emotional power.  Without a second thought, without wiping his mouth with a leaf.  But he was too afraid to say anything at all to her.  The serpent scared the death out of him.  My father did not want to look into the serpent’s eyes so he ran up beside Eve, grabbed a piece of fruit from the tree and took off.  He took the fruit home, calling it an apple, and gave it to me, his daughter.

Oh.  Wait.  Different story.  So sorry.  That must have been ANOTHER father.  My father didn’t even tell me about his encounter with Eve; I only know about it because I received a copy of Ensler’s Best-Selling book, I Am an Emotional Creature: The Secret Life of Girls Around the World in the mail (from him, my father).  That was back when the book first came out, in 2010.  I was shocked that my father would send me the book, and I wondered if he was being sarcastic.  As I studied the front and back covers, I figured out that he was serious.  I paged through the book and knew it would take me an hour or so to read it, but I didn’t read it at that time.  I put the book in my nightstand drawer and left it there until yesterday.  I’m sure many of you have books in your drawers or on your shelves that are waiting for you to come to them and spend a little quality time with them.  This is one book that should come out of its hiding place.  Right about now.  If you have any inkling, even a remote one, that you are an emotional creature, do something rash and get ahold of this work.  Then read it.  Give an hour of your time, that’s all you will need, to develop your emotional intelligence and remember your inner girl and all her superpowers.  I want that for you, I want you to be a tour de force in the world.  Maybe my father wants that for me, too.  I credit Eve.

It was Eve Ensler’s intuitive sense, after all, that led her to giving the Vagina a voice (multiple voices, in fact) in The Vagina Monologues.  Likewise, it was her fierce, unapologetic anger and delight that fueled “I Am an Emotional Creature.”  Eve, of the Garden of Eden, and Eve Ensler, of the Garden of Girlhood, have a lot in common.  They are both intense emotional beings.  They both share a powerful ability to change the course of the world in one single juicy act.  They both share an unstoppable hunger for what they already possess: insight.  And they are both like you and me.  Ensler’s latest work is defiant and self-fulfilling.  It’s self-indulgence that benefits all of humanity.  The Voices of Girlhood in her book are the modern Eves of the world: daughters seeking pleasure, fire, freedom, independence and agency, even if it requires willful disobedience.  Eve (Ensler) wants us to stand up, pick our fruit and enjoy eating it.  She wants the international daughters of the world to realize that they possess something that threatens the current state of affairs in the world – something so powerful it could turn patriarchy on its head.  We possess the power of emotional intelligence and spirituality.  If we come together and share our intelligence and agency, we can and we will revolutionize gender, sexuality, and emotional existence.  If one girl, say one named Eve, can stand alone and disobey the patriarchal order of things; imagine how transforming it would be for a group of girls and women to stand together in their disobedience.  Imagine the power of our disobedience, our intuitive knowledge, our sensuality and our pleasure.  Ensler’s book will light a fire under your ass if one is not already lit.  She, and the voice(s) of girls everywhere, will call for your participation in the Girl Revolution.

Out of the Box Teas

This morning, I came up with an idea for a tea shop. If I ever have a tea shop/house, maybe one in the corner of my classroom or maybe a retirement project, it will be called: "Out the Box."

Out of the Box Teas
Out of the Box Tea House

You know you wanna drink Out of the Box.
You know you wanna Drink Out.

I already have a vision for the design of the building. There are three boxes. An inner box, an outer box, and an outdoor box. Picture three squares, one inside the other inside the other. The innermost box is the space in which the teas are brewed and from which they are served (the brewery/kitchen/cash register). The teas come out of a box, literally. Not a cardboard box, a box in the wall of the innermost box of the shop. The inner box will be open so that brewers and sippers can do so in communal harmony. The outer box is the indoor drinking space. There are square windows around the square outer box. Each wall of the square will be painted with a unique design concept relating to the TEAS (or to the regions in which the base authentic teas -black, green, white and oolong- are derived). The walls of the outer box will be educational - they will reflect the cultures of different teas in a variety of ways. On the outer side of the inner box there will be a tea bar - to encourage communication between the inner and outer boxes. Tea condiments will be available on one side of the inner box tea bar.

Also in the outer box will be out of the box tea-related products (for purchase in the box window of the inner box). The seating in the outer box will be out of the box, but all tea served in the shop will be served out of the box. Mini glass and ceramic cartons of tea that can be poured into square tea cups. The outdoor box of the three box tea house will provide outdoor seating options on all four sides. There will most definitely be a hammock and/or a swing hanging in the outdoor box deck for those of you who want to drink and swing. The outer limits of the outdoor box will be another bar - facing you directly out of the box. Those drinking tea on the outer limits bar of the outdoor box at Out of the Box will drink over a glass counter beneath which plants and flowers will be living. Kind of like a greenhouse right beneath your tea-holding hands. You, guests at Out of the Box, will help us care for the plants in our greenbox bar by dumping any teas (without cream or sugar) into the tea hole (watering hole) of the greenbox. We will try to grow herbs (such as mint and lavender) and chamomile in the box garden so that you can drink teas with additional ingredients that you helped grow in our Out of the Box community garden.

We will do our part to take care of the earth (and you) by asking that you purchase a reusable mug to bring in and out of the box so that we can keep the use of recycled paper products to a minimum. While we will bring you the latest Out of the Box teas, we will always have your favorites on hand. Out of the Box teas will be healthful, challenging, growth-spurting/sprouting, trans formative teas. Never your average loose leaf teas, that's for sure. At Out of the Box we will confuse your concepts of traditional and herbal teas. Some day that herbal teas are not teas, but we like to think of them as postmodernist teas. You will want to study and memorize the Out of the Box sky menu (a tea-rific Genesis of Tea, a very simple story of the birth of tea via a Sistine Chapel-inspired ceiling menu). If you want to drink Out of the Box, you have to look up for guidance first! Or, you can just ask me about my favorites and I will offer you my Out of the Box opinion. If you are like me, you might be interested in Sinnerman Cider Spice (WHITE tea with cinnamon, allspice and orange dominating overtones), Burning Man Ginger Chai (a chai tea in which ginger and chai are equals), Mooncake (a macadamia nut and amaretto dessert tea), Runaway Bride (a blue lavender herbal tea), Peacepowder (a mix of traditional gunpowder green tea and night-blooming jasime pearls), or one of our Seasonal Blooms.

Sound like a place you want to sip and steep? Me, too. There are probably already tea shops with this name, but I don't know about them so for now I will delude myself into thinking I coined the out-of-the-box tea house concept. If you want this concept, please take it. Just give me a little bit of credit and invite me to the grand opening! Come on, make my dreams come true. I wanna be the creator behind the business. I just want to do the creative aspect - be the Out of the Box Think Tank.

I'll be your Think Tank, you be the Builder. Each of us does her part.

Pinkies (and thumbs) up!

Come Out of the Closet and Come Check Out : My Open Closet

Welcome! Come on in, Dearest. Come on in. Come a little closer. Or sit over there, in the corner. Sit or stand, still or in-dance wherever you like. I just want to feel you near. I just want to perform for you. You're here, in front of My Open Closet and I want you to know, before you know anything else, that I love that you're here.

Now, I feel I should say something, relatively brief, about the name change. Mason is most definitely my middle name, but I often debate over the use (the over-use and under-use) of the concept as my blog title. While it does represent my feminist ideologies, I worry that it is not universal enough and that it will not make enough of an impression in the world of the Search Engine. I don't know and I don't have a lot of feedback to work off of (my network is quite limited), so I am working with my own devices (mainly vices) to try to come up with a concept that accurately and creatively describes what happens on this blog. So what happens? I think what happens is Consciousness Theatre. Theatre of the Mind. A Mind Theatre is very much like a closet - the doors of the m-theatre are like the curtain. Curtain up, curtain down. Curtain in, curtain out. Up, down. Open, close. Here, though, the doors never close.

A closet door will remain open for good if you chop it down with an ax (that's what my aunt's neighbor did to my grandparents' door in order to "save" her when my mother played a practical joke on her and pretended to be a be a serial killer breaking into the house...yeah, that joke went well. It tore the -door- off the place!). If the closet door is closed, no one gets to see, know, feel, or love what's inside. I find that the most interesting of stages, of closet stages, are the ones that are, first and foremost, OPEN and the ones that have a lot of curtains. Curtains of every texture, thickness and color. I bet you can guess what kind of drapery I prefer for my closet-stage. If you guessed sheers, you would not be incorrect. My Closet is OPEN to the public. I have an open closet, I try to have an open mind. The doors (of my mind) have, at the very least, unlatched and swung open. My Open Closet, the STAGE and mind of me, has its fair share of colorful backdrops, legs, borders, teasers, austrians (yes, apparently!), contours, tableaus, scrims, travelers, and grand drapes. Of all of those, it is the color-changing scrim that I fancy most! I'm considering taking the doors to my Open Mind/Closet/Theatre off altogether. It could happen, you never know.

For now, I'll just anchor the doors down to the sides of the closet and leave My Closet Open. For you to witness, learn from, unlearn from, curse, loathe, love, whateveryoulike. And that's because I like me and I like you and I like us in this arena. What makes this blog different than other blogs? Well, for one, it's mine and it reflects my creativity and life experiences. So the name should reflect me. I am not my blog, but who I am directly influences what goes on here. I am Jess, and Mason is my middle name. My blog is a space in which I express myself, critique and speak about my life experiences, art, popular media, anything and everything. What is it that makes what I have to say different than what all of the other people in the world, writing about similar things and sharing themselves, have to say? That's a very good question. One that I don't have an adequate answer to - my understanding and concept of myself is evolving. I think my gimmick, forgive me, is that I am forthcoming and open about my sometimes out-of-the-box/sometimes in-the-box thoughts. This blog is like an open window, or an open door, into my mind, into my thoughts, into my heart, into my life and my being. Or at least into parts of all of those.

My Open Closet is a safe space for you because when you come here you're the audience. I'll do all of the acrobatics. I'll do all of the lifting and levitating. I'll even do the digging and the drowning. I'll fly and I'll burrow to and for you. Sit back and relax, you. You don't have to do a thing. You don't have to be on stage. You don't have to be seen or on display. The choice of whether or not and how to participate is yours. You are a welcome guest at my free-for-all show. YOU are an audience member at my (peep?) show. Yes, "Come to my window, I'll be home soon." Come to my window, come to my open closet. And, please, look inside. I'm here. I want to be seen, I want to be watched, I want to be witnessed. You can sit in the dark and watch the show. No one has to know who you are. Or you can come in the back of the chakra house, and slip in and out (almost) unnoticed. I know a perpetual stage show is a little daunting. Ibsen pushed the limits with Emperor and Galilean. I will push them further here. You really have it good, though. You can come whenever you please, you can excuse or recuse yourself, you can remain in the shadows or come into my light, you can stay away for years and return again, you can stay for years and then never return, you can witness a train wreck and then feel safe again in your home, you can witness a train wreck in your home and then feel safe again in my (our) theater, you can go eat a burger and come back smelling like salt, you can pull out your hummus and eat it right there in the dark, you can spill your crumbs on my floor, you can spill your heart, you can slurp through the best part, you can light the sparks. By the way, sometimes rhyming gets out of hand in My Open Closet. I'll try to keep it to sinimum. You have all the power. I have all the power. We're separate, powerful, entities, free to be what Marlo Thomas calls "you and me." I'll probably be you sometimes, but never completely.

My Open Closet is an open closet of emotion. Every and any emotion. I feel it here, you are free to feel it here in the shadows or in the light. You are most welcome on my stage, though I have no problem being on the stage alone. On the wall of my open closet stage there is a motto (or two dozen). I think one goes something like, "Coming out of the closet, so you don't have to!" Or is it: "Keeping the Closet Open, so you don't have to." It's definitely right above, "You don't have to come out of the closet, you can just cut down the doors." I'll do and say some of the things that you could only (and might not ever) dream of saying, and I'll do and say some of the things that you wish you could say. Sometimes I'll cross your line and you'll send a rotten tomato my way. I don't mind, really, I'll take it right in the kisser if you send it. And then I'll dish it right back out to/at you, because I have audience-vision (like night vision) that allows me to know exactly where that tomato came from and from whom. If you can't stand the seat, get out of the opera house! There is a diva on hand in My Open Closet. There is also a clinician. And every other necessary role you should imagine. I know every nook and cranny in this godforsaken theater. I know every phantom and ghost. Let's just say: I have a lot of friends in high (and low and sometimes small) places.

Back to your experience. I want it to be a good one, for the most part. If any heinous acts (axes) are committed (thrown) during any of the ACTs -or during the length of the whole life-long production- please stay seated and remain calm until further instruction is given. In the case of an emergency, the exits are all in the rear! However, don't expect the Fall of Rome. No, Rome wasn't built in a day and it isn't likely that Rome fell in a day either. If, Satan forbid, this House of Her-err should fall in a day, at least you will know that YOU will survive. I feel good knowing that you will survive. As for me, many of my friends are ghosts so I'm accustomed to and unafraid of death. I only hope to die in the spotlight!!!

Everything I do, I do in my open closet - for you and anyone who wants to attend. When I do my homework, I do it on stage. When I take a crap and comment on how it looks like a demented squirrel before I flush, I do it on stage. When I fuck up as only I can fuck up, I do it on stage. I don't want to do it in the dark. I don't want to do it back stage. "Curtain up, light the lights," I'm about to menstruate and you don't want to miss this. Oh, oh, it's coming. Now dim the lights (i.e., I say dim the lights and then run back stage to dim the lights and then run back on stage to say 'thank you' to myself for dimming the lights). I say "Dim the lights" because I want to be able to make menstrual and other dark arts for you - and I want you to see me in my shadows. If you stick around My Open Closet, I'm pretty sure you'll see it all here.The Universe in me (in My Open Closet).

A word on the look of the theater: I know it's a little hard to look at. It, like the work on the scrolling stage/page, is a work in progress. I kind of wish I had this blog set up at/on Wordpress, but I started it here on Blogger so I don't want to leave what I have started. I'm not one to start all over again, I'm one to keep on truckin' (Subaru-wagonin'). That said, I also want to make it known that I am not a technology-savvy person. I neither have the funds to hire nor the connections to enlist a "blog crew" (stage crew) for my scrolling theater. I could really make this place shine and sparkle if I knew what I was doing. It's more complicated than sweeping and mopping the floors. You're bound to get a bit of dirt and dust in the face. My in-sin(cerest) apologies! I want My Open Closet to be a personal space, I do not want it to look like other theaters. Yet I have no idea, technically, how to make that happen. I have to use my own photos for background art because I own them (and because I want them to be original)- but that isn't working to my benefit at this juncture in time. If you want to help or you know someone who might help, then by all means please help. If not, then sit back down and zip it. I would like to build this Ship of Fool (no "s") up enough to be happy with the way it moves and operates. I would also like it to be attractive because I like attractive houses.

So, no, My Open Closet does not possess the funds or resources. My Open Closet is a whore house and a poor house, but "If I were a rich man / Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum / All day long I'd biddy biddy bum..." All day long I'd make things creative and attractive (they'd be attractive to me, like exposed pine beams). I want to look professional-enough and unprofessional-enough to give you the Opera of the Open Closet Mad Tea/She Party you deserve. This is a one-woman theater, this is one-woman closet. I have to be my own producer, director, stage manager, costume designer, set builder, props master, choreographer, tech crew, sound manager and performer. I'm used to handling ONLY the performing portion. I'm a player. All the stage's a world. Unfortunately, player that I am, right now I'm an awful clutz when it comes to managing and carrying out all of the other duties. But I'm all this blog's got. I'm all I've got. And, apparently since you're here for the show, I'm all you've got. (Insert sound from the sound machine in your imagination: wah-waaaah). I'll try to improve my modus operandi as time goes by.

The first person to open my closet was the First Lady of the School of (Closet-Opening) Language Arts. She, bold sorceress that she was, cracked open the door with her hands tied behind her back. Meaning: she did not crack open my door intentionally; Sheer Coincidence (i.e., God) put us both in the right place at the right time so that as we were walking along, long long, we bumped into each other, head first, and cracked our closet-mind doors open on one another. I can't say what happened to the doors of her theatrical mind after that; I can only say I thought about chopping down my doors ever since the incident. The second person who got ahold of my doors was my mother. She tried to shut them. Close them, bolt them, put a large boulder against them to keep them shut. It didn't work. What was inside my theatrical closet-mind was more powerful than her bolts and boulders. Thus, the doors never closed again. THANK SHEER COINCIDENCE.

And, once again, welcome to My Open Closet. 

The Wives of Madame English: My English Graduate Program Application Personal Statement

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Jessica Mason McFadden

All Rights Reserved (YEAH, that's right, *?*?*?*)

WIU Department of English, Graduate Program

Spring 2012

Part I: The Parable of Paths

One day you wake up and decide to take a hike in the woods.  So you grab what you need, probably a pair of walking shoes, and you make your way to the woods.  You notice the humidity and the bird calls, but you don’t think about the hike you’re about to take. You’re on your way.  That’s what matters.  When you arrive at the edge of the woods, you see a slip of paper under a rock.  On the paper are the words, “If you want to hike, you first must choose the path.”  You look up and see that there are four hiking trails with distinct arrow markings directing you toward the entrance of each footpath.  You start to wonder, “Do I have everything I need to make this decision?  Should I go talk to someone first?”  You go to the first path and look into it.  The sun is direct, and there are several varieties of cactuses and a band of thorny devil lizards crossing the path several feet in front of you.  You want to get away so you move your feet– toward the next path.  This path is lush.  Wildflowers are spread across the vast fields in the distance.  The rolling hills are green, the skies are blue and untainted.  You look twice and laugh.  This path is picturesque, you think, but it is not the path for me.

You walk over to the next path’s entrance.  You are captivated, instantly.  Mountains.  High peaks.  Waterfalls, high drops.  Summits, cliffs, gorges.  You can hardly take it all in, it’s so foreign to you.  Your mouth gapes open.  The contrasts: astounding.  The white peaks tower and loom over the green and grey tors.  This place looks good, objectively.  Then, unexpectedly, you feel a wave of doubt come over you.  You’re unsure.  You think this could be the path for you, but you’re ambivalent.  You ruminate to no avail.  “This must be the path,” you tell yourself.  You start walking down it and immediately trip over a skull-size chunk of orange garnet.  Your ankle throbs but you’re so consumed by the slatted shades of amber light over the surface of the garnet that you don’t notice.  You think about what everyone else will think when you show them the garnet and tell them about this path of contrasts.  You hobble on a little further, but as you walk, the sun begins to set.  The unfamiliar now seems terrifying.  You’re overwhelmed by the shadows falling on you.  You start to feel chilled as you think about the uphill climb ahead.  Turn around or keep going?  I’ve gone so far, you think; what if I go back and then regret it?  What if there’s something ahead that I can’t see that I need?  You cannot decide for yourself so you think of what others would decide for you.  Something tells you they would tell you to climb, so you start to climb.

Your muscles ache so you climb harder.  You start to curse and say terrible things about all of it.  And as you climb and curse, you lose your footing and skid downward until your foot lands in a pocket of sediment.  You cling to the rock, kneeling down, and you start to cry.  You don’t know why you’re crying. You have no answers so you do what feels right: you make your way down the mountain and back onto the path.  You have one more look around.  You think, Yes, I could do this. I could stay here.  But do I want to?  You now realize that the choice is yours.  You feel free and you begin to run.  You run as fast as you can out the way you came.  You’ve doubled in speed and momentum.  Your feet know more than your mind.  You trust them.  Then you start to imagine what it is that you want to find on the fourth and final path.  You imagine a variety of deciduous trees.  You imagine a variety of climate changes: mild summers and incredible winters.  You imagine hollows and hills, lakes and tiered waterfalls.  A contained but roaring fire, books, bungalows.  Community gardens and orchards.  And people.  People sharing.  Giving and receiving.  Laughter and life.  You imagine life.  You imagine your Eden.  You imagine home.  You long for it.  Before you know it, you are on the threshold of your path.  You see it.  You know it.  You love it.  It is your path.  Your feet knew, your feet were right.  It was the path that was with you, in your heart and mind, before you set foot on it.  You do not hesitate; you dance onto your path without reservation.  Your wonder and your ease are one and the same: you’ve been here before.  You fall into place.  When you finally notice that your feet are tired, you find a place to rest them.  And then you continue your dance-walk down the path for the rest of your days, because your path is your destination.

Part II: The Extra-Personal Statement

My sixteenth birthday was not a sweet one.  I did not have a Sweet Sixteen.  It was not entirely sour, though, either.  It did not fit into any one of the taste sensation categories, not even umami.  On my sixteenth birthday, I tasted it all and I tasted it all at once.  I had a Sensational Sixteen.  An Explosive Sixteen.  The effect of Pop Rocks in the mouth but with an entirely different, more dynamic and savory flavor.  The taste of my sixteenth year of life was like curry.  Thai curry. The best Thai curry you’ve ever had.  It was naturally rich, coconut-rich; but its richness was balanced by a hell of a lot of acidity and its acidity was balanced by a hell of a lot of sweetness and its sweetness was elevated by its full-bodied spiciness.  When I was sixteen, I fell in love with English Language Arts.  And I mean in love.  Head over heels, Never the same again, “Sanity be damned, I’ll sell my soul to the devil” in love.
The story of how the love affair played out, and how my parents disapproved and tried to have me admitted into a Psych ward in order to separate English and me, is irrelevant. I’ll spare you the scandalous details.  English was my first love.  It was for the love of English that I broke my vows of chastity and signed away my soul.  English removed my Venetian belt and made me a woman.  I broke the rules of my father’s house, snuck out in the night and met my great romancer, English, to commit unforgivable indiscretions.  It was with my forbidden lover, English, that I began learning about myself for the first time.  I learned that I was a stranger to myself before I met English.  I learned about the things that stir my immense passion and proliferation: language, song, melody, aesthetics, art, analysis, communication, intimacy, disclosure, interpretation, and all of the nuances within and horizons beyond those things.  In the omnipotent arms of English, I finally found home.  I loved being there, being me.

But a Sweet Sixteen, even a Spectacular Sixteen, cannot last forever.  It didn’t.  English broke up with me and I thought that meant it was over.  So I grew up and told myself I would have to find new loves and deny my love for English.  Seventeen came, and the rest is history.  I’m twenty-seven, now, and I’ve been around the block a few times – in love as well as toward and away from home a few times.  I’ve seen other paths and even traveled down some of them.  Somehow, though, I’ve made my way back to English and I love her now more than ever – out in the open, no longer in the shadows.  I’m ready to kiss adolescent games goodbye and play house with English.  I’m ready to sign the papers, and then to sacrifice them to the gods, to make a lifetime commitment to English. I’m ready to take her in sickness or in health for as long as we both shall live.  I am ready.  I know the path that leads to the House of English is my home path.  I cannot tell you how right it feels to write this essay as I run and leap toward English.  My upcoming marriage with English is a non-traditional marriage.  Others will disapprove and cut us out of their lives, but we are both older and wiser now so we can handle the exile.  If you, the Department of English, will give us your approval in support of our matrimony; we vow to hold a very colorful ceremony, to make the most of our marriage, to do right by the family name and to yield a bountiful harvest of English-McFadden.

While away from English, I have worked as a stay at home mother (yes, I am already married – English and I have an understanding that this is a plural marriage).  I have considered other disciplines, other paths.  On my way out of the mountainous regions of one path, the path of Clinical Psychology, I imagined what it was I wanted to find on the next and final path.  I didn’t know where I was going, and then I bumped into English (not hard to do, she’s been lingering around here all along) and remembered all the love we shared when I was younger.  I remembered all of the things that brought me passion when I was sixteen.  I added to those former passions the ones I have since discovered and developed – feminist theory, queer theory, women’s literature, poetry, minority narrative, feminist and lesbian psychology, and philosophy.  And then I imagined discovering more and developing further, with English.  Through my remembering, without the opinions of others clouding my perception, I knew that my path would include a decision to pursue a graduate degree in English and to be certified as a teacher so that I could spend my days spreading the love that has so infiltrated my being.
I have considered many of the logistics of my academic path.  It is my goal and expectation to work toward a Master of Arts in English.  It is also my goal to concurrently work toward being certified as a teacher of 7-12^th grade English Language Arts.  My reasons for wanting to seek both English Education certification and an MA in English are twofold.  My reason for wanting to be certified in English Education is so that I will be able to teach in a secondary educational setting.  I hope to seek employment in New York State after graduation, and I will adjust my plan of study to fit and fulfill the NYS teacher education requirements.  I don’t have formal teaching experience, although I have informally been a teacher and mentor to others throughout my life.  I am thrilled at the idea of being a teacher in a formal classroom, not just in the Classroom of Life.  During my odd and extraordinary adolescence, my teachers were everything to me.  They shared their love of English with me.  They let me love her.  Their love for her inspired me.  They loved her more because of my love for her.  We all loved each other; it was one big Love Parade without a fatal stampede.  My English teachers enlightened and empowered me in the best ways possible.  They spoke about oppression, and I listened.  Then I began to speak about oppression, and others (my peers) listened.  My teachers saw me stand up for myself and for others, and in turn they were inspired to stand up.  They taught me how to stand up and speak up, and I also taught them how to do the same in other ways.  They gave me a place to develop my interpersonal and intellectual skills, and more than that they shared with me mutual respect and acceptance.  The Lovers of English have many individual loves of their own.  The Lovers of English are peaceful and inclusive lovers.  The Lovers of English love on a Commune of Coexistence.

I cannot talk about English without feeling love.  My reason for wanting a master's degree in English is because I love literature and composition, some of the facets of English, and want a higher education in each.  I want to be well prepared, well rounded, and to experience as much literature and poetry as possible before I begin teaching.  My love of literature and writing began when I was in high school and has continued and grown since then.  I tried and succeeded in other areas of study (Musical Theatre, for instance, which I studied for almost two years).  In the end, I returned to the combination of Women’s Studies and English that I began with at Hampshire College in 2002.  During my three semesters at Western, I maintained a 4.0 GPA, wrote invigorating papers, was named the Fall 2006 Departmental Scholar, and received numerous awards and distinctions.  After a few years as a stay-at-home parent, I began thinking about going somewhere.  For a hike.  An academic hike, a higher educational hike.  I began exploring my options, the various paths in my midst.  I looked into a number of possibilities before I came upon Clinical Psychology.  When I did, it stopped me in my tracks and I thought that maybe counseling would be a suitable career path for me.  I thought I could love Clinical Psychology.

I decided to start walking down the path of Clinical Psychology, and I saw quite a bit while I was walking.  I faced a longtime fear, and took a Statistics course.  I surprised myself and received the highest grade in my class.  I enjoyed the poetry I wrote in the margins of my notes.  I enjoyed the language of the material, but not the material for the material’s sake.  I completed two online Psychology courses.  I took the GREs on short notice and scored in the 86^th percentile in the Qualitative Reasoning portion and in the 96^th percentile in the Analytical Writing portion.  I applied to the Clinical Psychology program.  All the while, during my walk, I wondered if I was on the right path.  I experienced doubt and ambivalence.  I experienced resistance to the nature of the field and the style of the content.  I clung to the language for dear life and tried to fit it into a literary and humanistic context.  I felt scared.  And then I had a defining moment.  I was not accepted into the program because my application arrived late but I had the option of remaining in the program as a graduate student-at-large.  I felt rejected, yes, but also relieved.  Did I really want to wed Clinical Psychology, a Social Science?  I began thinking it might have been a tumultuous marriage.  I began envisioning another path.  The path in the margins of my Psychology notes: language, literature.  As I imagined the fourth and final path, I felt confident, comfortable and excited.  The path of my imagining was the path that was emerging in my notes, my papers and my mind-the path to which studying and teaching about language arts is central.  When I made the decision to apply to the Department of English’s graduate program, I immediately felt a sense of calmness and relief.  I felt a sense of knowing that this is the path for me right now.  So here I am, knowing I am in the right place.  This is the path I choose.  I am with one of my true loves.

My academic interests are centered in women’s literature, women in literature, feminist theory, feminist fiction, Shakespeare from a feminist and queer perspective, cross-genre narrative, hybrid works of poetry and prose, poetry by and about lesbians, language, philosophy, theory and rhetoric.  I am interested in ideas, language and art (as well as the intersections of the three), and I am interested in analyzing all three through a queer-feminist lens.  I am an out-of-the-box thinker.  I enjoy being challenged by others’ ideas and by course material.  Though I am sacrilegious, I feel very spiritual about language and art.  I have copious amounts of energy for writing and other creative projects that involve intellectual subjects that interest me.  I am thrilled to be writing this personal statement and I am excited at the thought of joining once again the Department of English at Western.  Although I know this application is arriving late in the game and is a little too long; it is true to my life and to my heart.  It is overflowing with love.  If it is at all possible for me to be considered for a graduate or teaching assistantship, I am interested in doing so at the earliest available moment.  I am committed to dedicating my time and energy, however long it takes and whatever it requires, to pursuing the goals I have described.  I believe them to be the next natural and supernatural steps down the path of my life with my long-time love, English.  Thank you for the opportunity to travel with the Department of English on this wild and strange romance.


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Now, read this (Parts 1 & 2): http://chronicle.com/article/Just-Dont-Go-Part-2/44786/

Feminist Flair for Fathers: How to Turn Any Holiday into Mother's Day

Hello My Loves,

You're right in assuming that over here in the Masonismymiddlename Home, we love(r) us some Mother's Day. Mother's Day is where it's at. We've got double the motherly trouble in dis house. Since one of the two mothers here possesses a sp(l)it personality (I don't have to tell you which one...) and an affinity for the many great forces of Motherly/Earthly/Womanly spirituality, we've got a hell of a lot of mother-love and motherly love. The house is aglow with motherliness. And just when you thought you couldn't get any more mothers on the Mothership McFadden (house/hold, house/boat), you must take into consideration the mothers of the mothers and the mothers of the mothers of the mothers - as well as the spiritual mothers (i.e., goddess mothers) and the little mothers (i.e., motherly daughters).

Welcome to the House of Motherly Love, where all things motherly and loving (including motherly and loving, and sometimes plain old witchy, things) come into being. Won't you come in (to being)? I really love being a mother, thanks to my daughters. I'm really glad I had daughters, even though I'm quite sure I could, should the situation arise, be a very loving mother to a very motherly s(u)n. And, boy(!) do I love my daughters. Not only do I love them, but I'm happy for them. I think they are most fortunate to have two mothers. Some of you worry that we won't have anything to do on Father's Day. Don't trouble yourselves. We have plenty of anti-patriarchal activities and projects to pursue on Father's Day. For us, Father's Day is just another excuse to celebrate...mothers.

We do have one living father in our family - he is related to me. Bill Mason. We celebrate Bill Mason Day (otherwise known, by two motherly daughters, as Dimpy Day. Kinda like Dingus Day, in fact the comparison could not be more spot on. The man loves his dingus...). We, the Meerkats of the Mo Mo Motherhood, celebrate my dad by trying to get him to embrace his emotional and nurturing side on Father's Day by sending him dozens of long-stem roses, chocolate heart truffles and cherry cordials from the Parkside Candy store, fair trade certified organic loose leaf teas in chamomile and flowery orange pekoe varieties, fake diamond studded gold rings from gumball vending machines and certificates to spas for facials and waxes to take care of his five o'clock shadow and to help him maintain his public status as a high ranking suburban soccer dad. We can throw a Father's Day celebration with the best of 'em.

In fact, in 2020 we'll be opening up a little store on Main Street in Snyder, New York called "Feminist Flair" in which there will be several racks devoted to the unyielding art of gender-bending, womanizing, woman-made, masculinity-challenging and authority-undermining Feminist Favors for Fathers. We anticipate a fast turnover on our very own original Douche Bags - miniature satchels, crafted locally from catttails dyed in Weber's mustard, filled with triple-power juniper-scented emasculating douches. Feminist daughters, we know, have the good sense to know what Dad really needs. We know that Feminist Favors, such as the highly anticipated Power Pops (all-natural cinna-mint candy brains on sticks) and the dream-maker gossamer and lace She-Man boxers and jock-straps in either red or pink (the choice is YOURS...we know you value CHOICE, as do we), will be a hit on golf courses, at dining room tables and in bedrooms all over America. Picture the man in your life licking the Lady Brain to his manly heart's content and coming away with fresh breath. They will sell out fast, kind of like a popular call girl. You might want to place your orders in advance. Send me a PM, and we'll add your name to the long, lonnnng list because YOUR order counts ($$$)!

We're very loyal to our local customers, that's why we're offering you this deal: if you place your order NOW, you can get your very own edible arrangement of white-chocolate golf balls. What is special about our golf balls, you wonder? Well, I'll tell you. Our g-balls are life-like. Indents, grass stains, and all. Oh, and they will not melt in the sun, so Dad (or Hubby) can take them out on the course with him and keep them in his pockets without having to worry about making a mess. We think of ALL of the potential disasters so you don't have to! Speaking of balls (someone has to, though it's never fun for a rock hard feminist who was once one hell of a lipstick-wearing hitter and first-base-feminist), the Racks for Daddy will include an entire shelf devoted (un)just to them (yes, devoted to Balls for Baba). Balls are very important to the long-held, deeply disturbing history of traditional fatherhood, and we're committed to being the daughters to redefine balls for a new age of feminist fathers. You will only hear about this here: we're in the process of testing the explosive golf balls - cracker snap filled golf balls made from recycled plant materials that can be composted in your gardens after they explode (and after Daddy sweeps up the mess and transports it to your doorstep - one that we assume will be decorated in the finest and most up-to-date Feminist Flair available).

If you want one of our exploding balls (not to be confused with Mozart balls from Salzburg, Austria - those are confectionery and will definitely melt and drip all over your father's pristine laser treated legs!), you need to know two things. One, that you must place your order at this VERY moment. And, two, that when you come to pick up your balls in 2020 you will need to come to the front desk to retrieve the key to the Explosive Ball Vault. In order to get to the EBV, you will need a sense of wit and a fierce feminist demeanor that overshadows your wit. You will also need the key, which is kept behind the counter of plagioclase feldspar (moon rock: you'll want to keep that under wraps but just know that we have already invested in an eternal progressive maximum home security system that sends any unwanted intruders, particularly homophobes, straight to the moon...).

If you're still too intimidated to visit the counter or too afraid to purchase an exploding ball from the EB Vault, you still have many other options. We will be housing an assortment of books for borrowing in the basement used book library. The types of books in the Lower Regions of Her Highness will be quite random and many will include Wiccan spells; however, I can almost guarantee there will be a Guide to Ball Exploding - er, um, I mean a Guide to Explosive Balls - somewhere in the collection. Introduce yourself, get familiar with the balls before you make your purchase. We want you to be informed customers because we are committed providing you with the tools for your every experimental and educational whim. We know you like to try new things, even those of you who would never approach one of our balls with a ten-foot pole. If balls scare you, then consider one of our other powerful products. I should also mention that Feminist Flair will also provide services. One of the co-owners, the likely store manager (a-hem, Queen Moi, to reference Miss. Piggy), will be available, behind the mooncounter, to offer you dramatic readings of everything and anything.

Our SM will also provide commentary and editorial remarks on anything you might carry in with you. If what you want is silence, that will cost you a pretty penny. The service of her silence (we call it the Silent Treatment, you've probably never heard of that before...) is a service that costs more than any other service she can provide. Queen Moi's Silent Treatment requires a lot of mental, emotional and physical time and energy (on her part), in fact so much that the One-in-need-of-silence must go through an elaborate interview before the treatment commences, and so it will cost you. How much are you willing to pay? That's up to you, really. We, at FF, don't like to bargain so we'll set up a very clear and accessible pricing guide for you.

To give you an idea: if you want a wee bit of silence, you'll have to trade in a small secret for it. If you want a good deal of silence, you'll have to trade in a weighty secret as well as an honest act of kindness. If you want a whole lot of silence, you'll have to trade in a mother of a secret, a superior act of kindness and tangible moment of vulnerability. If you want complete silence,  you will have to trade in your deepest secret, an act of unfathomable kindness, an astounding moment of vulnerability AND you'll have to bow down and kiss the moon stone with your lips. Silence is worth a lot at Feminist Flair, we won't be giving it away for free. You must also consider that at FF we trade. Black-mailing has never been and will never be our policy. Fair-trade only. Under the table and over the table are both allowable. On the books is a must, though, at least until both parties feel that a sense of trust has been established. Because trust matters to us. You can trust us to put feminism first and patriotism last. We play fair in trade, and in other dealings, because we uphold feminist and humanitarian ideals.

It's up to you what you are willing to trade in - we respect you, so we give you the right to choose what's best for you. We want what's best for you, we care about you. Our motto is: Browse First, Buy (or Trade in) Later. We want you to come in and browse. We won't bother you while you're browsing, we'll let you browse on your own. That is, of course, unless you want guidance. We are always happy to help in any way we can. We thrive on helping. We want to make your lives better and more feministastic! We want you to go home with something that will make your life seem less mundane - something that will transform your existence and your relationships in a zany, wicked fashion. So sign your name to the list today, or wait until the store opens up in your neighborhood. Check your failings and bad intentions at the door. If you make it past the sensors (censors) then you know you're good as gold (or Gertrude Stein...). Feminist Flair will be there for you when you need it. Feminist Flair Cares (in Glares and Flares).

At Feminist Flair, we care about the needs of your whole, spiritlogical, biological, zoological or illogical, family - not simply The Patriarch. We care about what YOU, the daughters (and sons) of Patriarchy, think. And, for the benefit of the community, we will have a bulletin board up in the front entrance of the store, The Whore Board, on which your Dark Market Daughter feminist thoughts, findings and ideas will be on display. You will never be disappointed by the Dark Daughter thoughts, scents and sounds in the air at Feminist Flair. Expect that a lot of Flares will go up when Feminist Flair opens her doors.

Until 2020, you'll just have to wait with great anticipation (or trepidation?!). For now, we're a House of Motherly Love celebrating what we do every day - mother. Today we honor ourselves and every mother we've ever known, loved and been loved by - especially Mother Earth, that resilient creature who still, incredibly, withstands the force of man.

Happy Mother's Day, to all of the Earth-mirroring and Earth-made motherly forces in the world. I'd invite you all over for dinner, but we're all out of milk (ba dum bum!). And don't you dare send over the milkMAN or I'll shoo(t) you with my witch's titty of slime green dried milk pellets.

The Dark Daughter. Dark Daughter Thoughts. Perhaps the name of the blog attached to Feminist Flair. If you want in on the Dark Market, become a shareholder NOW.

Yours in Darkness,
Co-operatively Yours,

Mother Mason McFadden

Slam Time (Magazine): Yes, I am (Mom Enough), but I Don't Have to Be.

And not because Time Magazine says so. The question is outrageous, really, but it's just a question. The fact that Time asks the question in THIS way is irrelevant. You may feel outraged and want to discredit their undignified question by not responding to it. Or, you might feel indifferent. You might want to say "YES, for this-this-and-this reason." You might want to say "NO, for this-this-and-this reason." Clearly, though, you will feel something - and that is what Time wants. Who cares. It doesn't matter. If speaking up and talking about the article is what Time wants, then give Time what it wants. Slam Time, if you want to. Praise Time, if you want to. Your view is YOUR view, no matter what it is.

There will be those who will criticize the article for asking a divisive question and there will be those who overlook the essential issues. The responses to the image, or to the question, will run the gamut. All of our responses or silences are valid. Regardless of Time's intent, this cover has provided us with an opportunity to engage in a dialogue on an array of issues important to women. What is it to be Mom Enough? That's like asking, "Are you Human Enough?" Am I human enough? Well, sure. Well, I don't know. Well, nah. Well, well. There are those moments when I don't feel human, but usually then I feel extra-human or extra-terrestrial (as opposed to sub-human). Are there sub-moms, extra-moms and enough moms - or are there just moms? In my extra-terrestrial view, there are moms of every variety - do we need to use the evaluative language of hierarchy to categorize them? Will we ever move beyond this?

I don't think it's a matter of being MOM Enough, though I admire the in-your-face, bold nature of the photograph. I don't know what Time Magazine is trying to do with this, but I appreciate the ART attached to the ARTicle. I love subversive art that gets people talking and thinking. Bravo to Time for the subversive art alone! Way to be bold. Now, be bolder and do it more intelligently (yes, those were my fleeting thoughts...).

Time surely has received the attention it sought, but something reactionary has occurred that is more significant than the shock-factor of the cover page itself. As time goes on, I'm increasingly interested in the types of responses that are arising from this article. In fact, I'm actually glad this happened because it got people talking - especially feminists. It's okay to disagree, it's okay to be divided. It's more than okay to coexist peacefully. 

Please check out the article I wrote for Gender Focus, a Canadian feminist blog. The article just went up today, and feel free to share you FIRST thought about the image. Then wait a while, and consider (and maybe even share) your second thought. I wrote the article last night. And today I have second thoughts. Tomorrow, maybe thirds. That's how it goes over here in the Masonismymiddlename Brain. We have seventh, seventieth, and seven hundredth thoughts. The thoughts never stop. Check the first ones out by clicking on the link below. And enjoy looking in on your OWN thoughts, whatever they might be.

The Two Faces of Time: Answering “Are You Mom Enough?”

Sharing the Love: A Letter from My Sister

This is a letter that my sister gave me in 2002. I rediscovered it, and am sharing it because I want to keep it on file someplace other than in my heart. Is this blog like a scrapbook? Is it a form of record-keeping? I'm just sharing the love!!

I’ll like you forever

I’ll love you for always

As long as I’m living

My sister you’ll be.

Dear Jessy,

            I can not tell you how proud of you I am.  You are the best performer out there, I cried watching you on that cross.  You bring so much life to that stage its unbelievable.  You really do have a gift.  But I would just like to apologize for not making tonight’s performance, and let you know how much I care about you.  Ever since we were little kids, I have always looked up to you.  Remember when I used to want to go wherever you were going, and you would always try and get away from me? Ha,ha. Well I still have that annoying desire to be close to you, believe it or not.  I quote Our Lady Peace, “No matter what you say, No matter what you do, No matter what I’m always right there behind you.”  At many times I have been a horrible sister and friend to you, but you have never given up on me and I thank you so much for that.  I haven’t tried my best to be there for you, but I would like another chance.  I will always support who you are and what you do, and I will never turn my back on you.  The truth is, I admire you more than anyone in the whole world, your strength.  You can get through anything, always remember that, and you will always have me beside you.  Congratulations on an outstanding imprint you have left on our school with your talents, you are amazing.  Thank you so much for ALWAYS being the best sister, and friend, anyone could ask for, and for never failing to give me another chance. I quote you when I say, “I love you more than myself.”

                                                                                    Love always,

                                                                                                Missy

Teacher Appreciation Day: We're Getting Married Soon

 

I'm a little late with this, but I cannot miss the chance to wish you all a very special and happy Teacher Appreciation Day. It's a very important day of the year, especially for me. Since there ain't no (!!!) Teacher Worship Day, I deck the halls for Teacher Appreciation Day instead! It sure beats Easter in my book. For what is fertility and resurrection without a teacher! The Bible, make of it what you will, involves teachings and promotes teaching. People go to churches and synagogues all over the world to be taught, or retaught, the Bible's teachings. Pastors, ministers, and priests are all translators, interpreters, and teachers. What makes a great teacher? Why it's simple: a great teacher is someone who loves learning.


A great teacher will learn from you, and better yet - learn with you. A great teacher will love the learning process. Not all aspects of it, but many aspects of it. I have known many, many fabulous teachers throughout my life. In and out of the classroom, teachers have deeply, deeply affected my life. To be in the company of true teachers, teachers who love what they do, is to be in the best company. To be in the company of true teachers is to be in the company of true learners - those who are open to learning and those who love the process of learning. This is a special blog post for me, because I realized recently something that I am thrilled to share with you. I am a teacher. I have been a teacher since I was a young child. Sure, not everyone listened to my lectures or engaged in group discussions when I was six years old. Not everyone listens or engages now. That doesn't mean I'm not a teacher. I am. I have been, and I am. It's a great revelation, and it's empowering.


For the past couple of years, I have felt a bit like I am searching in the dark for something unobtainable. It occurred to me today that maybe when I find myself in the right place, doing something that is right for me, that I will not feel so much as though something were missing from my life. That may or may not pan out, but it feels good to delude myself into thinking that I might find fulfillment. And since I am feeling oh-so-right about being an English teacher, I'm tempted to believe! I am a pleasure-seeker, but I often feel guilty about it. The other day, I was talking to my counselor about how I feel like it will be so much fun to be in an English graduate program. Fun? As soon as I said the word, I felt a tinge of guilt. Nooooo, not funnnnnn. Graduate school should be terrifying and grueling and barely survivable, right? Wait a minute. That doesn't sound right either. I realized that the Critical Voice in my head was equating pleasure with sin. I realized how often I feel guilty for doing the things I love. Yet I almost always do the things I love anyway. I just let the guilt seep into that not-so-nice place within myself where it festers and bubbles up every so often to remind me that I'm a terrible, impulsive, selfish, gluttonous animal.


Today, while I was at the playground with my wife and our girls, I was sitting in the wood chips, taking photos of mushrooms. I was zoning out. I was with my family, but focused on the mushrooms. A voice inside my head was saying things about how I came here with my family but am instead spending time with myself doing something selfish - taking photos of mushrooms. I didn't stop taking the photos until I was done. Then I rejoined my family. Another thing I have realized about myself: I like to day dream and I spend a lot of alone time doing it. I never realized how much of a loner I am until now. I love being around people and I love talking with people, but I also love equally being alone with my thoughts. My thoughts and I have one innnnnnteresting relationship. Only one or two people have ever come between us. Really, though, this is a part of myself that I am just starting to recognize and accept. I still feel guilty about daydreaming.


If I'm flighty, I'm flighty in the best sense. If I am an air head, I am an air head full of intellectualism and romanticism and creativity. My thoughts are very interesting TO ME. Unfortunately, even though they are private and safe from outside criticism, the outside criticism is already inside me and now has a permanent place in my air head. Somehow and somewhere along the line, I have internalized all of the criticisms of others I have ever encountered. They are not floating free-form around the constellation of my mind; they are secluded to one part of my mind. The stern and unloving puritan in my mind should keep quiet more often than he does. He's not my conscience, after all. My conscience, unlike my puritan, feels anxious, sick and scared. My puritan feels painful, he's always picking a fight with me. I'm on the defense against my inner puritan, but somehow he finds a way to get a word or two in before I can thoroughly enjoy anything. He's been pretty quiet these past few days, and I'm enjoying his silence. I don't know what it means, but I like it.


These past few days, I have been delighting in my decision to forgo the Clinical Psychology plan in order to follow my great pleasure. English. I have decided to go to school to be an English teacher. No more denying it to myself, this is what I want. This is where it's at (my heart, that is). I think I denied it to myself for so long because I wanted to be my own person and I thought that in order to do so I had to separate myself from my history with English. When I was in high school, the talents I possessed that were recognized by others were all in the realm of drama and theatre. But, if you could have known how I felt inside, once I was acquainted with the subject of English for the first time during my Junior year of high school, you would know that I felt like English was my calling. I lacked confidence because it was such a new revelation. I didn't have any skills in the area of my calling, and it was hard on my pride for me to recognize that (it took years...). It didn't matter that I didn't have skills. It was the calling that mattered. I felt my calling. The skills did not need to be there then. The calling did need to be there.


Okay, one more dirty little secret - I not only realized in high school that I am a lesbian witch, I also realized that I am an English teacher. In high school, I KNEW that being an English teacher was a major part of what/who(?) I wanted to be. Just like I knew that being a lesbian was a major part of who I wanted to be. I was never at home academically in ANY other subject. It was English, only English. Theatre allowed me to use my talents. English allowed me to use my passions. I think a marriage between the two is best (I don't know why the theme of marriage keeps coming up whenever I talk about English, but I guess it just emphasizes my level of commitment). I always knew about the two and their prominence in my life, but I never realized that I have another talent-passion. Teaching. I'm not a technical teacher. I'm more of a spiritual and emotional teacher. But I happen to have a talent in theatrical pursuits and a passion for language arts pursuits, and if I can bring all of the forces together I might just be one mother-loving English teacher. I am inspired and creative, too, did I mention that? Sorry, I have been taking all of these career and personality tests that have been helping marginally.


Why did it take me this long to figure out my core Web of Passions? Oh well, I eventually had to figure it out - I am, after all, attached to the web I am building. Don't worry, my students aren't my flies. This little analogy stops here. The best realization I have had this week is one that I will share with my students on our first day of classes: that knowledge is not the core requirement for a teacher OR a student. I don't have to know everything there is to know about grammar or literature (eek, slap my wrist and hand me a dunce cap NOW). It's not the grammar that makes a great English teacher. It's not knowledge that makes a wise person. Knowledge is like God, it's unattainable and illusive. Openness is what fuels learning. Openness to new ideas. Willingness is what eases us into learning. Willingness to communicate.


My goal, as a teacher, is not to cram information into someone's head or down someone's throat- it's to open parts of OUR minds to information. This takes the pressure off of student and teacher: we are there to learn and discover and enjoy together. In imperfect harmony. I cannot think of anything I would like to do more. I shared in learning with my high school English teachers, I share in learning with my wife and kids, I share in learning with you. I'm not scared. I'm not scared anymore about what I don't know. I guess I finally know what it's like to have a Fearless Love, thanks for the lesson, Melissa Etheridge (insert the emoticon of your liking). I'll be there, I'll do the work, I'll love the work, I'll love being there. I will be honest. I will be myself. It will be okay. I will listen to them and be open to them and share with them. The relationship and the work happen together, in sync. If I am present and they are present, what could stop us from learning? We're learning every moment we're alive and open. So, yes, I am learning. About myself. I am still open.


That is why I am here, that is why I still love, that is why I am accepting who I am. I could have been a Broadway star, if only I wanted to. I could have been a Clinical Psychologist, if only I wanted to. I could have been a rock star or a folk singer, if only I wanted to. I can be an English teacher -a Folk-Rock-Clinical Psycho/logist-Broadway-Actress-English Teacher Star- because I want to. I am good enough for English, and English is good enough for me. We love each other, we really do. No papers necessary, the proof is in the English pudding. And I don't have to be more. I am enough. This, my friends, is self-acceptance. Do you know why I love English teachers so much? Because I wanna be like them. Because I AM like them. We're getting married soon, and you're all invited to the wedding.

Everyday is Teacher Appreciation Day when you are married to English. The Brides of English know that English, herself, is a bride - the Bride of English.


A(n academic) Personal Announcement of this Marriage will arrive by way of Wrecking Blog in the near future. Check your mailblogxes and look for the name: McFadden-English on the address label.


Do you like the name Wrecking Blog better than Mason is my Middle Name? I'm open to change.