Tag Archives: Poetry
Poetry: Advice
To every new parent who’s been on the receiving end of unsolicited advice, which is everyone, let’s be honest.
Raising Feminists #3
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Submitted today, so posting here for posterity. A weirdly ‘meh’ feeling, and all I can think of at the moment are all the things that are wrong with it , and things I have forgotten to say. I’m sure that’s normal ( that’s normal , right ?). But anyway I wrote circa 22,000 words on being a mam and being a feminist ; on the value , or lack thereof , that we give to care provided in the home, as well as liberal feminisms failure to support that as a ‘choice.’ ( I also wrote about the problematic notion of choice of course.) ANYWAY before I reproduce the whole thing here. THAT IS IT.
This year’s holiday reads. Not a bumper year for me reading wise. I gave up on Jog On as it was too ‘statisticcy’ about the benefits of running, rather than the author’s personal story. I liked Daisy Jones, Ariel Levy and Middle England. If I had to pick a fave it would be Swan Song or Middle England I think , but none of them were ‘ oh my god that’s amazing I have to keep reading’ kind of books.
The whole world in their hands. OK , it’s the moon, but whatever.
A little bit taller. A little bit scruffier. One a little bit calmer. One a little bit stronger willed. A few more bruises. Some changes that you only notice when you stop for a minute and look back. Some things you miss, others not. The only option is to look forward to what comes next. #lastdayofschool
** Here’s a post. If righteous feminist anger is not your thing, move on.** Sometimes I think it’s like a tap, not tightly enough wound, dripping in the next room. Sometimes you notice it, sometimes you don’t, but you know it’s still dripping because no-one has turned it. Sometimes it makes you really mad, but still you wait for someone else to turn it.
But that’s a ridiculous analogy. It’s not like a dripping tap. It’s more aggressive. Louder. It takes more than one person to stop it.
Last night I was catching up on the BBC drama Luther which is now available on Netflix , but first aired on the BBC around nine years ago. I was aware of a creeping sense of rage crawling inside my skin, travelling through my veins until my heart was pounding. A creepy looking man enters the house of a mother alone with her child. He sticks his tongue out lasciviously, begins to lick her face. She urinates in terror. He threatens to kill her child along with her unless she leaves with him. He ties her up and locks her in a box.
Last week, two fourteen year old boys were found guilty of murdering Ana Kriegel. She had also been violently and sexually assaulted. One of the boys had tens of thousands of pornographic images on his phone. We entered into collective media discussions about the danger of porn, and the ease with which it can be accessed by young people today. But Luther is broadcast on the BBC at 9 o’clock at night. It’s easily accessible to anyone with a Netflix account. It’s not porn. But it uses the torture of women for entertainment purposes. And we all watch. And we love Idris Elba, our hero, who smashes doors and windows and walls when his wife tells him she doesn’t love him anymore.
The trouble is when you react in this way to a BBC drama, people think you’re being melodramatic. They roll their eyes and tell you not to overreact, it’s just a TV show. But sometimes that drippy tap sounds like a fucking waterfall, and you just want to scream to make yourself heard above it. ( ⬇️⬇️ more below )
The dudes out for an evening stroll.
40 year old woman enjoys her ( prolonged ) birthday celebrations : a photo series. #ibetyouthinkthissongisaboutyou #blessed #thisis40 #itsovernow
Evolved man - then, woman.
