Autumnal Ramblings

Greetings, O my dear tutelae!  (That means objects of my protection and patronage).  It is a lovely day where I am.  I never noticed before how beautiful the Spokane area is, and I don't know why.  My attic commands a view of the surrounding hills  and rooftops and they look very remote, enforcing the impression of a sheltered valley beyond which There Be Dragons (in the very best sense; dragons one can desire passionately, just not in one's front yard, to paraphrase the good JRR.)

This is very pleasing.  And we are all about the pleasure here.

Classes proceed apace.  There is something very satisfying about fall, but also something tormenting in its depths of restlessness and melancholy.  For one thing, to be proceding from class to class, getting one's days into a rhythm that one manages effortlessly, as one manages one's breath, feeling the pleasant exhaustion of a full day well spent and good work done skillfully are all necessary elements of a good, happy, and productive life and autumn seems to be their season -- whether by nature or by use or both, dead leaves and crisp mornings cry out for industry.  Also, jackets.  These are important.

However, the weather does odd things to me.  Fog, rain, twilights and grey dawns, foreign winds, the slant of the sun through the clouds, the smell of the air just after sundown before it gets really cold -- it engenders a terrible wanderlust.  Fortasse (that's 'perhaps') this has something to do with Halloween, particularly black and white horror movies, the aesthetic of which I'm afraid I never quite recovered from.  Fall to me says that hey, maybe your next-door neighbor really is a werewolf after all, maybe there is something in the music building watching you, maybe your lights keep going out because demon badgers are in your basement trying to lure you down to the breaker box so they can pounce on you.  Maybe the whole world is illuminated with terrifying but splendid things.

For some reason, thoughts of terror are more pleasing to me in fall than in winter.  I propose that there is a reason -- a complicated one -- for this.  For one thing, fall is melancholy.  It is the moment where summer turns, as it must, to decay, and it is the knowledge of this incipiant mortality that makes the whole three months beautifully sad.  However, winter is not melancholy; it is despair.  I suspect that I must have a little SAD, because sometimes it's all I can do to get through the winter months.  They seem to me not sad but bitterly ugly and mundane.  They inspire not reflection or restlessness of spirit but anger laid over a core of apathy.  Winter says this is your life; it is miserable and changeless and terribly trivial.

Fall is, in essence, a Danish or an Icelandic warrior.  It says: we are ending, we are dying, and this is a great sorrow because life is glorious, but it is also an honor and a pleasure because life is most glorious in proximity to death.  The sun is most beautiful breaking through clouds; the trees are most beautiful when their leaves die.  For this reason, horror as genre thrives in fall, where death is close but beauty closer.  Winter is not a time to engage in horror as genre.  It is horror as life, the ninth circle of hell.  (Can you tell I really don't like winter?)

To sum up, contemplating fallish things, I am filled with a visceral longing for something (though I'm blessed if I know what).  CS Lewis defines joy as a painful sensation that we crave; fall, then, is very joyful.

Now for a more serious matter, which I call The Snarling Id is a Misogynist Bastard Take Two.

It involves sartorial considerations and the frequent abuses of the words Modesty, Chastity, and Humility.  As before, this issue seems to divide the world into two camps, both of which are, in their extremer forms, intolerably smug.  I hereby attempt to hash out a via media (that's 'middle way') that, to my mind, more accurately represents what most people on both sides of the issue actually feel and do in relation to what they choose to put on in the morning.

The first camp (the 'traditional' camp) says that one should dress like a lady and/or gentleman (but mostly like a lady).  It basically says that since men are pigs, women are under an obligation to cover up...and cover up... and cover up some more.  There is a problem with this: in today's world (yeah, yeah, I know, modernity is bunk, but unfortunately we inhabit it, or something close thereto) the women who wear very plain-Jane clothes (invariably long skirts, shirts that are not merely reasonable but cocoon-like) run the risk of calling attention to themselves as "very definitively NOT sexual objects."  I feel like this is something akin to telling all the men of the world not to think of pink...elephants.  They're going to be thinking about the ...elephants -- maybe not with regards to the ubermodest one who walks by them, but all of a sudden the ...elephant of women and how they look in their clothes has been brought to mind, and the next five leggings-and-UGGs girls who walk by are going to be seen in relation to ...elephants.

Additionally, and now this is just amoral ranting and personal aesthetic preference (which is what the Snarling Id is about), there's something very off-puttingly... pious about the obviously modest girls.  I don't mean pious as in having an understandable fear of and reverence for things regarded as sacred; not in the sense of "pietas Aeneas" or whathaveyou.  I mean it in the worst sense, the sense that gets used most nowadays, that of holier-than-thou snobbery or smiling brainwashed obedience to arbitrary authority.

I think I've probably offended the first half of my reader base by now, so I'll clarify: I admire the girls willing to stick it to the culture that says women are only valued in relation to their boobage and do not mean to suggest that all of them are passive-aggressive snobs.  But sometimes it can seem that way, and I think sometimes a "false dichotomy" is introduced (I quotesmark that phrase because someone used it near me recently and that's why it comes to mind, not because of any native genius) between the culturally prescribed clothing norms and respect of oneself and one's body.

The final issue with this is its inescapable sexism.  Yes, guys are a more visual species (term used loosely) and more easily led to objectify women, so yes, chicks have more sartorial power than guys.  BUT.  You honestly cannot tell me that women are not... more than academically interested when guys in rather brief shorts and no shirts at all are diving and flailing upon the field of battle... or, okay, of soccer.  The existence of male strippers proves that men and their clothing can be just as provocative as women.  And I don't think you're going to be able to convince men to worry about their virtue.  Further, what of the material goods that science says function in much the same way for women as physical, um, goods do for men?  Are we going to decry Lamborghinis as immodest and unchaste?  How about eye contact and romantic poetry?  The color red?

On the other hand (and, again, more insidiously) there is the "modern" world which says in essence, "Hey, I dress how I feel comfortable, and that's my decision, so you have no right to judge me."

There are problems with this.

First of all, I do have the right to judge you, as a person, by the choices you make and actions you perform.  I can't judge you as subhuman but I can judge you as acting idiotically.  And your decision to wear bondage gear (or a sports bra and unnecessarily tiny running shorts) to statistics class today is (I'm sorry) fair grounds upon which I may judge your mental state, the message you wish to send, and your overall classiness. 

So there's that out of the way.

Secondly, I'd like to discuss class, a word often tossed cavalierly about but having a variety of shades of meaning.  First of all, there is the unclassiness of sluttery.  This is its own special category, because most of the girls who wear the teeny tiny stuff -- you know, the egregious stuff, the stuff that makes other women go "Really?" and men... either pigs, or very sad gentlemen -- right, these girls deserve our...I don't want to say "pity" because for me that's really close to "scorn"... perhaps sympathy?  I mean, they're looking for attention.  We all know it's not a kind of attention we'd want, but maybe it's the only thing they can think of.  I don't think they get up in the mornings and think, "Wow, I'd like some shallow offensive meaningless interaction today!"  It's probably closer to what most of us are thinking: "Sweet Cheesecake, I'm so inadequate.  What happens if today they find out how much I suck?  Why does no one quite get me?"  And I humbly suggest that the reason we're so infuriated by this kind of cry for attention is because a) it works and b) somewhere deep down inside we're all terribly jealous.

I don't know if any guys even bother reading this, but I can't speak for you.  Men trying to be decent human beings will probably try to resist the urge to blatantly ogle the unfortunate, just as girls trying to be decent resist the temptation to enslave you all with our cleavage.  The INdecent of both genders are more to be pitied (there, I said it!) than cast into the outer darkness.

No, the true, deep, and insidious threat to class is in the laziness to which this kind of "whatever screw you it's my choice" paradigm has led us.  The problem I have with girls in Uggs and leggings is the same problem I have with guys in basketball shorts and stained tees.  I mean, who are they trying to impress? 

No one.

And they don't care who knows it.

The true issue for me is not whether or not one dresses in such a way as to conceal or highlight one's sexual beauty.  The issue here is modesty, chastity, and humility -- in their purest sense.  People seem to think that modest dressing equals blatantly prudish.  For me, modesty most closely means humility.  Say two people are going to be introduced to the president.  One decides to be classy and dresses in a nice suit and does his hair.  The other rolls out of bed and shows up in (I don't want to belabor the point) basketball shorts and a stained tee.  Who has more respect for the president? 

Furthermore: it's one thing to dress crappy because that's all you can afford.  But I feel like next to no one in the First World has this problem.  In many cases, a cheap but decent suit can be had for infinitely less than we spend on designer jeans and tee shirts or (heaven forfend) Juicy Couture velveteen sweat suits. It's like we spend more money showing how casual we are, how we don't seem to be impressed enough by anyone or anything to make an effort to neaten up.

That's why I think we should be bothered by the cult of just "letting it all hang loose": not because it will drag us down the slippery slope into moral and sexual turpitude, but because it shows how self-absorbed, lazy, and undisciplined we are; how much our self-esteem outweighs our self-respect; how numb we are to the distinctions of attitude we should have when approaching different activities.  You cannot go through all of life with the same amount of concern and engagement you have on a trip to the gym or a Saturday morning hanging with your peeps in front of the TV.

A final note in defense of baring tasteful amounts of skin.  As much as I want to be appreciated for my mind and heart, I also NEED to be appreciated as beautiful in the aesthetic/sexual sphere.  As an incarnate person (or, to state it another way, a highly developed neurotic ape) I possess a body which itself possesses sexual traits, and these are good and beautiful.  Not to be squandered in some futile plea for attention, not to be diligently concealed, but to be appreciated.  It's possible I'm simply very insecure and desperately trying to justify my scandalous ways.  But I'm gonna say it: I try to dress so that a) all the important bits are given their due respect and b) when I walk down the street, guys look up and maybe think, "Hm.  Not bad."

So, yeah.  Everyone dress up a little tomorrow.  Jackets are good. 

I leave you with a song that expresses the frustrations of many chicks (and maybe some guys?), a chance for P!nk to redeem herself.

Valete.

Gettin' Schooled

Today marks my survival of the third week of my junior year.  And for a while there, it wasn't a sure thing that I'd make it through sanity intact.

My schedule has been tampered with (by myself), leading to a most irresponsible abandonment of social science credit for the pure pleasure that is Greek.  (Divide those double consonants, my fellow Hellenist brethren!)  My gluttony for punishment has led to much lunchtime and nighttime meeting for discussion with friends and club officers.  My brain is overstimulated.  My wallet grows ever thinner.  And I have picked up a pesky tendency towards insomnia.

Despite all this I find myself radiantly happy.

I have a room all to myself this year, which is helpful when you're a privacy-craving and self-embarrassing shy creature like myself.  The house on Sinto has been called a social experiment, and so far it is proving a successful one.  Food is good.  Classes are, for the most part, scintillating (though workload is a wee bit intense).  I have...a few jobs, actually, which is good, though none of them have actually started paying me yet.  That should start soon, though, and then I shall have great rejoicing and more than my currently ridiculously meagre balance to purchase Jackhammers with.

Additionally, I keep falling in love.  Like a ridiculous amount.  Like five times a week with different people.  So far I have done nothing about this; defense of reasons below.  Love is a terrible thing; never do it.  But the male gender is beautiful and worshipful, especially when you catch them eyeing you with a certain dumb reverence, or when you startle them into smiling, or when you find yourself having conversations about megaphones with ones you've never (or only just) met.  You know, I used to think that there were just not any good (moderately intelligent good-looking good-hearted) boys in the world.  Now I begin to suspect that there are many who meet at least the minimal criteria. 

To any who suffer for what seems to be a dearth of male attention I prescribe the following program:
1) Become convinced that you are a catch.  It is not enough to think of yourself as tolerable, or even " better than the airhead bimbos who go through beaus like I go through Baudelaire."  You are witty, smart, sensible, capable, confident, drop-dead gorgeous, and decent, and any guy with the self-awareness of a turnip would be flabbergasted by his good fortune should he land you.
2) However long you spend getting ready in the morning, take another three minutes.
3) Keep your head up and smile at everyone you make eye contact with.  Smile deeply into the eyes of (and perhaps wave slightly at) anyone you think particularly interesting.

Now sit back and be astonished at the many random encounters with decent people, at least half of which should be of your gender of attraction, you have. 

Not that I am saying this is a surefire way of finding one's soulmate on the first time round.  In fact, being a single gal with pretensions to a wedded vocation, this idea has preyed upon my mind somewhat of late, and therefore we come to the first tentative proposition of this post.

I call it, "The Snarling Id is a misogynist bastard."

Now, ladies: the world is wretchedly unfair.  Women achieve emotional maturity at around age 11, and as far as I can tell, men never do.  (Poop.  See, if you're a guy and you read that, you're laughing now.)  Women are obliged to spend half an hour minimum every day touching up their appearances before entering the marketplace of commodified bodies, like Lady Gaga and the creepy Rape Auction in the "Bad Romance" music video, whereas men get kudos if they've showered in the past week.  And added to this, women on the dating scene operate in some sort of weird limbo between different paradigms.  One says women must allow men to make the decisions, because...well, to be honest, I have a hard time getting a straight answer on the "because." 

However, the other is more nefarious.  It tells us that we should reclaim our power when it comes to dating.  It tells us men appreciate confident women who make the first move, that we can be sexy if we do that.  It tells us that in addition to being fiscally independent, we should make a big deal out of this by paying our way.  It, in sum, tells us that since men are so mind-bogglingly incompetent/underconfident/selfish/insensitive/ what-have-you, we should just take over dating from their sad chocolate-stained little-boy hands, like we're in the process of taking over money, the arts, higher education, ethics, and general personal development.

And all this sounds really convenient.  Except now what do the men have to do except shrug off responsibility in yet another sphere?

This is where I probably start alienating the readers.  And I don't want to do that, because I am extremely sympathetic to this urge.  I've seen enough male incompetence in the social scene (lord, come up to my ROOM, we can TALK about male incompetence) to be extremely tempted to just say "screw it" and orchestrate a romance -- ensnare a victim.  But here's the crux: I can't do it.  While I'm busy showing boys how to fix their essays and arguing theology with them and writing better fiction than  them and dressing far snazzier than them, I don't also have time to effect a seduction.  It makes me feel all tight and sick and miserable inside when I try.  I love admiring boys, but when I add "convince one to ask me out and make him think it was all his idea" to my list of "things I do with men," (minds out of the gutter) it melts my day.  It turns me into an insecure and shallow person of about age 12, analyzing every twitch of the face instead of composing my epic poem about the Missoula Floods.  In sum, when I try to take over from boys in the dating sphere, I just end up resubjugating myself.

(Is 'resubjugating' a word?  It should be.  So too should 'scagwad,' as in, 'Eat plaster, you scagwads!'  I hope one of these catches on.)

Speaking of scagwads -- has anyone thought that maybe, what with all the vital societal work that women do silently, efficiently, as easily as breathing, for millenia, maybe it's not entirely too much to expect a young man, even a confused and immature young man (because is there really any other kind?) to put on real clothes, risk vulnerability and rejection, approach a nice young lady, and offer to buy her coffee?  Is it SO much to ask that boys do their fair share and engage in some courtship rituals?  I don't think so.  And I've realized that I don't want to be in a relationship dependant on my own clever engineering and mind control.  I want a boy so devastated by my grasp of literary theory (or perhaps simply my liquid eyes and slammin' bod) that he is willing and eager to make a bit of effort so he might, quote, "get with this."

So as part of my personal women's lib, I have decided to engage in a social experiment.  For one year, I shall confine my boyhunting to the general 3-step program outlined above.  And in terms of initiating encounters, I shall restrain myself to that.  Want to talk after class?  Walk fast and catch up, cause I ain't lingering.  Want to go somewhere, drink something?  Great, you're paying/driving/deciding what and where.  I refuse to keep mooning about.  I am too damn busy to chase you.  I am ready to be wooed.  My motives here are purely selfish and mostly worldly, so I don't want this to read like some fluffy soft prairie-skirt Christian pseudo-chivalry code. I'd just like some class, and for some reason I don't think I'm particularly out of touch on this issue.

Savvy?

And if, after one year, this has failed to get me a decent date with a guy I actually don't hate/feel super-awkward around, then, come next September, I will get schmammered and slizzared at the Honors Program retreat and make it to first base with the first freshman male who's taller than me.

As a parting shot, I offer TLC and their thoughts on the male-female dynamic and power differential.  Take it away, ladies.

Good night, good luck, and everyone remember to use the word scagwad in conversation.