…misogyny is the belief that “femaleness and femininity are inferior to, and exist primarily for the benefit of, maleness and masculinity,” and that’s an attitude that works to police both men and women. It expresses itself in the bullying of insufficiently masculine boys, in the pervasiveness of homophobic slurs, in the suppression of open emotional expression among men, and in overwhelming violence against trans women, who are especially stigmatized for appearing to reject what some consider as their God-given male bodies.
— From Amanda Hess at Slate, thoughtfully considering the impacts of misogyny on men, in addition to women, in the wake of Elliot Rodger. Read it in full here: http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2014/05/29/elliot_rodger_hated_men_because_he_hated_women.html
This. Is. So funny. Thanks The Hairpin. Thanks Sarah Miller.
Easter Waxes (The Rest Of It Wanes)
Lent, in its pale hearse, has rattled
almost by and I remain unchanged.
Closer to death
but no wiser for it.
When I was a child, my mother
once told me the world was good
and offered as proof
maggots and buzzards
and their unquenchable mouths.
“Better than a world full of dead things,” she told me.
Except this is
a world full of dead things.
What started with ashes and snow—
that seamless wind like one long cruel word
hissed for weeks from between the dried lips of a witch,
that pallid gray sky like an aged smoker’s lungs
giving up and given up on,
those heating bills that would not dip, though
we could see our breath as we lay shivering
beneath piles of quilts—
What started it all has turned
preeningly into a baker’s dozen of warms and greens.
Now, the crocuses and daffodils
stand along fence rows and mailboxes
like young, pert, pre-sexual-revolution secretaries,
armed to the teeth in delightfulness.
Beauty’s but a low-slung sandbag in these parts, ladies,
tossed and tossed again along the banks of
Time’s ever-rising river—
the only cup we have that runneth over when running out.
Next? The tulips, I suppose. Cherry blossoms
and the ditches full of wildflowers whose names
I still don’t know.
Do you remember how,
when the old lady next door fell
her last time to the pink
her orange cat
took up with another neighborhood retiree?
He’d become attached, it seemed, to
loud television sets and early rising,
the smell of Bengay and slow-moving feet.
He may have to move on again
unless his own burial befalls him first
in the short, unruffled row of hemlock out back,
where he suns and courts birds.
We are time bombs ticking toward eventual bloom
— Another poem that I feel I still haven’t sanded down properly, but Lent’s days are numbered, so…
My friend, Dave Vicini—aka Dave Cave—is one of my favorite artists in Lexington and the whole, wide world. He’s a co-frontman for Boston-based rockers Viva Viva. He plays drums for Idiot Glee, and he has some really solid solo projects, too. He just put out some more music under the moniker Beat Awfuls, which is where he plays the part of an overly self-conscious, genius, possibly alcoholic and unassuming Rock-And-Roller-Save-Your-Souler. Hands down one of the most compelling live performers I’ve ever seen, Dave also writes great songs—so good in fact that you can just enjoy them without having to notice how well-structured, thoughtful and singable they are.
This glowing review is just to say that you should take a gander at his latest Beat Awfuls offering, Party Slip. It’s real, real good.
Advice to the Players
There is something missing in our definition, vision, of a human being:
the need to make.
We are creatures who need to make.
Because existence is willy-nilly thrust into our hands, our fate is to
make something— if nothing else, the shape cut by the arc…