North Country

I haven't written anything on my blog in a long time, but I'm going to try to get it going, and to publish stuff I think of, and to just, you know, publish some writings, and in general give my point of view on the "state of things." At present, I'm pretty disillusioned at the state of our country at the moment, and I'm very disconcerted about the state of reproductive rights and women's rights at the moment. What spurred this on you might ask? Well, it was a little movie called "North Country." Partner and I bought the movie off movies on demand, and well, it was a helluva ride. It made me angry above all, and I'm just sort of pondering the movie now, letting it linger on me like the smell of my shampoo after a shower. I smell it everywhere. I'm sort of melancholic right now, (is that a word even? Reminds of cholic, which is something babies have, but since I'm no baby fan, I have no idea. Quick sidenote: I made one cry the other day). Anyway, it's about a woman who was raped at 16 by a teacher, had the baby, married an abusive dick, left, got a job at a Minnesota mine, and had to deal with her father treating her like a whore for getting pregnant (he didn't know she was raped) and then her having to deal with severe, and I mean severe sexual harrassment by other miners, who thought she had "stolen" their jobs. As far as I can see, any woman has a right to a job, a living, money, and security. Unless you know, this isn't, like, America.
I read on imdb that a user posted that what is depicted in the movie could not have happened "anywhere in America." Um, really? *SLAP* It could be Anywhere, USA buddy. Are you kidding? Have you been living under a rock? Well, as a man, I suppose they don't see those sorts of things or experience them, but as a woman, they are everywhere, everyday, in every piece of clothing put on and taken off, in every book, under every bed, in every room, on every nighttime star, on the end of my keys when I'm walking to my car at night, or I pass by a man on the street, or I'm passing construction workers as I go to class. Tell me if any man feels that way, every day, almost every moment, as if there were nothing else.
Anyway, it really got to me. I would highly recommend the film. It definitely got me thinking, but to tell the truth, I'm thinking enough for an army of angry women.

Anyhoo. I definitely think I'm going to use this blog to just write everyday, since I've seriously gotten out of the habit. I need to practice more, especially if I'm going to entertain illusions of re-writing my thesis this summer. Sidenote 2: I just got in to the Ph.D. program at UNCG in Educational Leadership and Cultural Foundations. What is that you ask? Go to uncg.edu and search ELCF and read up. It's a totally awesome program, and then you'll have to call me "Dr." Yes!

Something I was thinking on my way home from the G'boro Public Library where Partner works in the bookshop: my father. He was an avid reader, and I would often buy him books. He always trusted me to pick out books he liked: Louis L'Amour, mystery novels, he was a fan of Dean Koontz, war books, history books (he should've been a history teacher; he knew everything about anything relating to history) etc. Every day I enter into the bookshop where used books are sold cheaply (one dollar, 25c, 50c, etc) I wish I could find some for him, ship them home so he could open up a weekly box of wonder from me: the book sender, his daughter, me. But I cannot, alas, because he is no longer here. But I wonder about him. I wonder what he would think of me now. I wonder if he would hate what he'd see, or if he'd be okay with me. See, I'm a lot different than he wished, more of a feminist, liberal, political type; he would've liked the political, a little less of the liberal. On one of the many occassions we thought he was gonna die, he asked me to become a member of the FSU Republicans. I agreed at the time. I was only 18, what the hell did I know about politics? He was my dad. Anyway, on the way home, as I was getting ready to turn left onto Wendover to head on home, I thought of kids; of having kids in the world where there is no longer you, and you are a piece of them. I am a piece of him, but I no longer recognize that piece anymore. What happens then?

I suppose this weighs on me b/c his birthday is coming up April 3 and his 3 yr anniversary of his death is April 13th. Three years. I am flabbergasted by this; it feels like a hundred and only a day. Is this normal? What's normal anyway. All I know is he's not here, and I wish like hell he was. But in my dreams when he's there, I'm always surprised, and a little disappointed to see him. I don't know what that's about. I can only hope it's nothing bad that I need to feel guilty over. I shoudl publish a poem I've written about him, as there are many. But like anything else in the world, when it's not used it spoils. I think some of my poems have spoiled, as they have spores and mildew on them. I will need to yank them out, brush them off, and begin anew. And that's what this blog is for. I hope.