My top and/or most fucked up searches of all time.
–I coined this term right?
“not anti-sex anti-sexy”
–Love it or hate it this one doesn’t miss a day without a click.
–Yes, an online “pimp” school. I think you can earn an M.P.A. (had to. don’t laugh. don’t encourage it)
“feminists religion bloggers”
“buried alive can you escape the coffin”
–Very good question! People are very curious/worried about being buried alive.
“alex tchekmeian feminist“
–Those don’t belong in the same phrase (you all remember that fiasco right?)
“looks are everything”
–Absolutely not. (I hope you stuck around)
“tasha torture clamp”
–Have not/Will not look this one up.
“fantasy rape images“
— I’m making this face :< !!!
“hot sexually sexy“
— This one is dumb stupidly moronic
“buried alive bdsm stories”
–Okay I’m sure I just *don’t get it* but are people now:::ahem!::: “Choosing/Consenting/Exercising all that Fucking Agency” to bury each other alive for orgasm? (pssst–I’m sure the “tasha torture clamp” gets the same effect without all the trouble of having to secure a grave)
“wife watching men ejaculate”
–I got nothing.
“girls humping each other“
–Does Federal Prison have Wifi?
“sexy pics preteen girls bums”
–Because if it doesn’t
“preteen pedo sex models”
I’ve got some people
“preteen girls being fucked”
who need to turn themselves in
And that’s all folks! Hope some of these searches have thoroughly pissed you off as that is Buried Alive’s sole objective.
“… my “no” needs to be heard. My “yes” is taken for granted already.”
And that is what I call a preciselyism–poignantly pointed. Prickly prick!
Using that I will clarify a little about this blog:
I blog for the “no.”
I cry for the “no.”
I want the “no.”
I take quite seriously the “no.”
My “no” is often ignored, often not heard or, at most, watered down into maybe/possibly/probably/she is just lying or kidding or prudish or a bitch or too [insert typical insult].
The “no” is commonly the cry unheard round the world.
The “no” is mocked.
The “no” is sexualized.
The”no” is muted in the daily lives of millions and millions and millions (…) of women.
In a patriarchy the “yes” sounds louder, the “yes” has more reverb, lasts longer. The “yes” is reinforced at every turn by media, by advertising, by men, by personal exchanges, by orgasms/smiles/serotonin, by nearly all public appearances. And at the fault of no woman: one woman’s “yes” counters twenty women’s “no.”
No is not in the forefront. No is the shadow, the two sentence blurp in the news right before the cut to commercials where Revlon or a sitcom vignette tells us yes. No is the painful memory we must only tell in secret, in special meetings, in therapy groups, with psychiatrists who can provide enough forget-me-pills to drown out “no.”
“No” has no place.
“Yes” medicates the “no” away from itself. “Yes” blurs lines, blows smoke, masquerades, silences.
“Yes” is part of the entitlement infrastructure of patriarchy. Men are entitled to my “yes.” Women are entitled to my yes. Much of my life has been structured around the “yes.” I am lost in “yes” and smothered and beaten down and forced by “yes.”
I cannot count how many times I’ve been in a situation where I am three “yes’s” in by default, before I knew what was going on–before “no” was even presented as an option. I cannot count how many times my “no” never occurred to me, or how faintly it cried.
Now years later my memories speak louder the “no” I had all along, the “no” that now only baits pain in its own hindsight.
I want to yell “NO” louder with more blog posts.
I want to yell “NO” louder in my own life (and often that strength comes from this online community).
I want to listen closer so I can hear the “NO!” that shames itself into a whisper in the voices of the women around me.
I want “NO!” to startle and affect.
I want with everything I have to compensate for the everywhere-allthetime-everywoman “yes”–not a balance, not a crowd pleasing 50/50 but unapologetically, not even beginning to teeter on evenness, NO.
In this space, on this blog, under my moderation, NO gets the mic. NO is assumed, is admitted, is discovered, is the obvious, is the default. NO is shameless and forthright and annoyed and understanding and scared.
NO is loud. Listen.
Yes, it was on this fine morning _____ years ago that I left the Mother Ship and began a lifelong journey of pissing people off.
Seeing as how I’m doing a fine job of that, let us address something that doesn’t exactly fulfill its own mantra: Individualism.
Individualism, I propose, works really really well when everyone lives in a cave unexposed to mass concepts like: language, norms, business, *society*.
Individualim, instead of meaning “I am my own person” should really be fleshed out as: “I am my own random-variable-accumulation of mass concepts.”
This would be why, when people challenge mass concepts, certain parts of people get called out. Happens to *everyone* because we are not the individuals we are brought up to believe we are.
Until we begin woking toward cave dwelling lifestyles all I see comig from individualism is protection of mass concepts.
I shudder to think what the world would look like had Susan B. Anthony, Audre Lorde, or Betty Friedan thought everyone was just some *individual* and believed every women they saw smiling, and nodding their heads.
Fuck off individualism.
BTW, Pisaquari= My birth chart mix of Piscean, Aquarius and Aries placements. (cool site for placement mapping: http://www.alabe.com).
Here’s to another year of blahhgular *BooYA’s*!!
Filed under: anek-doting, gender pimps, Grab a shovel, Interconnected!, WhatAboutMEEEE
According to the phobia list, my mom has “Gephyrophobia,” or, fear of bridges.
This is from, what she recalls, an eerie telepathic (or something? parasensory?) experience when her twin sister’s car was nearly thrown off a bridge during an accident. My mother claims to have those *twin feelings* where experiences are shared. When her twin sister’s car threatened to brim a high coastal bridge, instilled in my mother was the fear her life would be taken by a bridge some day.
My mother drives over very few bridges, if any, no matter the added distance or time to her trip. For over 30 years now she’s had recurring nightmares wherein she cannot make it over a steep bridge and reaches the top only to be staring down a hundred foot drop to the sea–one of those right-before-you-die’ers.
I have claustrophobia. Elevators are not my friend, or closed small rooms or crowded buses or concerts. I avoid them at all costs as well. Staircases are wonderful and businesses with enough decency to not sound a fire alarm if I use the stairwell make me a repeat customer.
When I was 4 it was darkness and under-the-bed phantoms.
I still freak out about heights.
But, you know, transpersons?
And phobia? Are you serious?
Listen I’m writing a pseudo book that I am going to post on this blog called “Radical Feminist Mis-characterizations.” I anticipate it will have endless contributions and I cannot wait to find out who, in whatever respect, I offend by laying out the mis-characterizations of radical feminists.
Are you calling *me* a MIScharacterizer pisaquari??? Have you forgotten I’m a PERSON!?”
Transphobia— it didn’t even make the phobia list and I can’t imagine why not. As much as it is thrown around you’d expect the Medical Association to have a book out on it by now–Janice Raymond on the cover or something, with doodled devil horns and a strap on.
“Transphobia,” just to give you a taste of the pseudo book’s brilliance, will cover radical feminists and all their “transphobia” for about 9 chapters. There will be account after account of radical feminists recoiling at the sight and presence of transpersons, Dworkinites melting at the touch of lipstick and lash curlers, separatists throwing bombs at “transition” surgeons.
(Forgive me! You will need boots to walk through this snark)
I, for one, am a big ole transphober. Why, just last week, an exciting suggestion was made by Deb about organizing some sort of Radical Feminist Conference. The conference, as laid out in the post, would be woman only, of the female born and raised variety. All but a few seemed down with it. I’m down with it. And since I cannot speak for all radfems let me give my account for wanting to make this trans exclusive.
I am not comfortable being my radical feminist self amongst transpersons. Reading transperson accounts online and in books does not help it either–in fact, it heightens my inability to speak freely. How can I, a gender abolitionist, feel comfortable speaking out against gender and its manifestations in the company of a transperson? How can I, a gender abolitionist, feel comfortable talking about my frustrations and hardships with the idea that what our bodies are born has anything to do with how we should express ourselves, in the company of a transperson? I think gender is woefully destructive and I put it to blame for so much of what pits us against our bodies. But what I am arguing for and about smacks against what transpersons feel is their reality and experience. In recognizing their daily trauma and very real oppression they receive I don’t have the *guts* to sit in a room and speak the truths I feel about gender with a transperson.
And why would I? What have radical feminists ever gotten by speaking their minds about gender as it applies to transitioning besides a stinking diagnosis? Add “transphobia” to the list of reasons why I am not down with trans at a radical feminist conference. (Perhaps we could come to some bull shit truce yes? Wherein you agree to label the problem accurately and we let you keep your silly name call: “genderphobia.” Because I wouldn’t dare ask anyone to part with “phobia.” How would you get through your day without vilifying radical feminists as hateful panicbots?)
I should have you know there is a P word I give to instances wherein a group of dissenting women are “diagnosed”–hysteria of some sort usually does the trick–and then told their paranoia can/must be solved by forcing the very thing/person they “fear” around them (5 homemade brownies in the next life to the person who gets it). Even if I did believe such a condition as transphobia existed amongst radfems, I certainly would not be cool with the triggering persons persistent imposing of themselves on the fearing (out of kindness, my loved ones take the stairs with me–they don’t push me onto elevators).
I cannot think of any other time in my life, besides a radical feminist conference here and there (the one proposed by Debs would be my first), where I would want to be in a trans exclusive environment. It took me years to find like-minded individuals on the internet–it would mean the world to me to meet them in person and speak openly about my ideas. Even the city I live in has a pretty thriving underground trans scene, places for trans to meet up and share their experiences and I think that’s great. But I have never heard of such a place for radfems. As it is, I would have to shell out some serious dough to make it to the place where I could be with such a like-minded group.
And I’m guessing, looking into this further, me and the radfems I run around with, are super cruel–I mean, have you considered this is also radfem only? I seriously doubt Phyllis Schlafly is invited. I wouldn’t invite my mother. Is this event also Nonradfemsphobic?
I have said elsewhere on my blog, in comments, that I agree radical feminists need to take more time to address the oppression transpersons receive and I hold to it.
But I can’t lie that it becomes hard to take that position when so much of what radfems do on this front (as with others, like the sex positive ordeal) is damage control. People spend more time being offended by radical feminists than engaged. Reasonable, productive discourse is shot at the outset.
And I don’t have a solution, as much as I wish I did. I also can’t lie that I am thoroughly irritated with the micro-management of radical feminist ideas and events as if WE are the fucking enemy!
As it stands, the Conservatives don’t like us, the Liberals resent us, the “alterntiave”communities make fun of us–trust me, we’re not getting any coverage, or making a lot of friends with all our “hateful” ideas. ( patriarchy and everything will stay intact after such a conference, much to our own disappointment and, many times, depression).
So you know, if a group of radfems (and I do mean group) want to get together and make a day of it exclusively then what the hell is the problem with it? What life shattering thing could possibly result that would have us labeled transphobic and the Grand Haters of transpersons?
Should we start slinging the same shit?
I mean..are you RadfemPHOBIC or something????
About two weeks ago my father asked me, “[Pisaquari], have you ever heard the phrase ‘too bold for her beauty’?”
“No” I said, though smelling a patriarchal infestation immediately.
“The DJ’s were talking about it this morning on the radio. It was something their girlfriends [wives?] brought up.”
Since I can no longer remember his version word for word I will summarize:Essentially, the significant others of these DJ’s had become cruel to a young woman who had newly begun hanging out with their “group”—group being those persons who made up the social gathering of friends and girlfriends to the DJ’s.
When the significant others were asked why they had become mean they responded “She is too bold for her beauty.”
This was then explained as: this woman, being “beautiful” as she was (patriarchal standards mind us!), was too outspoken, too forthright for her looks. For her beauty she would have to wait her turn to be accepted and to know what behavior was allowed—her embodiment of males’ physical desires to be balanced with blankness in mind and personality. As well, this woman was further alienated by the other women for not having known this Truth and for not having exercised it in the company of other women.
Dad asked me and my mom if this rule was true.
Without a beat: “Yep!” said mom. And then, bragging, “I was one of those girls too bold for her beauty.” (:::sigh:::)
My first thought was what great a clusterfuck of stupid, sadness, and oh-boy-patriarchy this was.
My own little self-esteem bubbles fizzled and I sort of snapped.
I said “Well were the DJ’s talking about her looks?!”
“Not that I can remember,” said dad. “They were just stunned some rule like this even existed.”
I told him I felt for all the women. I felt for the woman who was born into looks-privilege, for her entire life she would be the center of a scam on hu-Man sexuality and her own self worth–that the “beautiful” women were owned at birth, forced into the sexualized and romanticized lens of males without a choice (anti-sexy anybody?). Her genetic predisposition to patriarchy-approved face and body was an empty cause with no intrinsic value except to pit her against other women’s self esteem and appropriate more ladeez in the name of male entitlement to women’s physicalities and, you know, boners. (and yes—I recognize *many* women indulge and exploit this).
And, of course, I said I felt for the girlfriends/wives who knew too well their *place* amongst the Looks Hierarchy. For how could they not? How much of all our lives have we been forced to pick out amongst the crowd who the lucky lady is—who gets the attention of the masses. Perhaps, sometimes, it’s us with the focus and we gladly welcome it. Other times maybe we are second rate and note it quickly as the long-legged, long-lashed, high cheek-boned (or whatever) specimen walks in, much to the adoring googly-eyes of the men. The DJ’s significant others probably used some much sharpened instincts to spot Patriarchy’s trophy wife when she came in. And to counter this artificial Looks Hierarchy they had to create an artificial control mechanism—thus, “too bold for her beauty” was born.
too bold for her beauty
I was surprised such a perfect phrase, such a stunning summation of Universal woman-on woman hating had passed me by. But really, it had’t.
For I too have hated myself for my looks. I’ve hated other women for their looks. I’ve gone hungry for a jeans size. I had a shit relationship with my mirror for most of my adolescent years (now I would call it “decent”). I’ve crapped multiple meals-laxatives-to feel empty (<irony there). I’ve wished girlfriends would gain weight. I’ve dressed in a way to deliberately pry attention from other women’s significant others to show those other women I had something over them. I’ve visited make up counters to get pointers on how to better look like a *humble clown*. I’ve made fun of people’s looks. I’ve wanted someone for their looks. And everything I’ve listed here has been done to me or been self-inflicted by those I have called friends or loved ones.
Absolutely there is a continuum that we all fall on and sure it shifts by person but let’s GET REAL. There is a *reason* commercials sound like they are coming from an echo chamber. There is a *reason* most women want to lose weight, look younger, have smooth skin, a tighter butt, perkier breasts, and wear make up. There is a *reason* wrinkles are undesirable. There is a *reason* women in other countries, where Westernization is occurring, are getting plastic surgery to look like women in America. There is a *reason* ALL women, at some point in their life, suffer the bowels of low self-esteem from something so innocuous as “looks.” And there is a *reason* men continue to reinforce this with their behavior.
It comes with the territory: if you artificially pump value into the value-less (looks–as in, physical features) the loop holes will be large and the area/room for “error”, desperation, artificial goals and lotsa industries will be endless.
Our physical features are an empty (involuntary for the most part) facet of us with no inherent connection to sharing meaningful experiences with each other. Yet they dictate so much. They are used to facilitate and control our interactions at such a heightened level with such a broad scope. (yep, even seen/read radfems engaged in this nonsense–so no one is safe!)
So it is with sadness and no great surprise that I drearily end this “too bold for her beauty” post in hopelessness: Looks Hierarchy goes on. Self-hate goes on. Tummy tucks go on. Revlon goes on. Woman-on-woman hating goes on. “Beauty” goes on.
ALL of it–and not a bit of it worth our time.
for Allen Ginsberg
“I saw the best minds of my generation” turn to bark and run from the heads of the necks of the bodies divvied and owned by the
pharma-suit reps of the Neon Elixir Age, sold by boob-baring pez-dispensing lovelies, porn and pills,
who fed on toxin pudding till they glowed smelling the nut and berry diet of hippy parents funding child-death
who scattered into the pockets of sweet old order to make cleaning product rat poison cocktails, to burn their lungs, to outshine those Beatniks (who get all the credit)
who watched their parents marry strangers for the 3rd and 4th time, on TV
who signed up for MTV’s taped pigeon shit eating contest to be among many in the Age of Attention-Starved pigeon shit eaters
who shoveled angel food cake by the fistful with a page from Atkin’s while reading Star while crying for doomed modeling careers
who carried the tired torch of the Hefner 80th Wives Club liberation movement of girl cock-spit money shots (and beat off to so much porn they had to fetishize potted plants to get off)
who loaned their education to The Big Golden Bank of Eternity while Mexicans pissed on babysitter wages and hopped the white van back to Me-hi-co
who carried the profiteering thong into the ass-crack of the mega-corporacracy target markets: addiction, stupidity, patriarchal slime
who married young on free love internet hookup profile pics and personal blog buddy lists
who deafened their own cries with nihilistic Cobain sexy suicide, we-got-issues grunge guitar rifts, rehab and rainbows, return to God, Christian Music, college campus fellowship group sign-up sheets
who were not beaten with telephone receivers and branches, did not walk to school, start revolutions, grow their hair out and write a song about it
who bit the bullet: joined the military
who were thankful that they too, finally, got to wreak the stain of war, so those who came before would look upon their fallen and not dock them their grievances
There is nothing more indicative of Uncle Pat than a bunch of oppositional nuclear family units getting together to swap judgment over each others’ income bracket (gifts) and make underhanded remarks about the other’s age, failing (patriarchally constructed) looks, and weight (meet my family!) for Christmas.
On Christmas Day this year I was called an asshole. I was called an asshole by a really really big asshole (creepy perverted uncle to ice that cake) so I am still waiting to be insulted but, nevertheless, it is the reason for being called an asshole that I am interested in addressing.
Somehow, and I don’t recall how because I don’t go advertising my opinions during BullshitTehHappiness Holidays, the topic of children and Christmas was brought up. I was asked at what age I would tell my children Santa is not real.
If and when I decide to have/adopt children there will be no lies about a white Capitalist Dewd who runs a sizeist servant factory for lead-laden child-killer-toys.
I said it like this: “I don’t want my children ever thinking Santa is real.”
Family Chorus: WHAT?
“I don’t believe in Christmas,” I say “and I’ve never been a follower of Christ, so why would I?” I add: “You people don’t follow Christianity by any stretch of the imagination either” for extra bite.
“No Christmas? No presents? That’s cruel to kids!” says my aunt. “How mean.” My aunt is a rather flamboyant yankee who loves shitstuffandshit.
“What about their imaginations and fantasy—you’re gonna take that away too?” asks my mom.
Immediately I am reminded of the way the pornstitution works: construct a lie, indulge the lie in fantasy form, market it as porn—then feel so entitled to it that the lie becomes a “right” should any evil feminist question it.
“Yeah!” Chimes Auntie. “Kids need to use their imaginations.”
Assuming children need lies to exalt their creative capacities is an insult to the mind. Fantasy by way of lies is escapism. Fantasy by way of truths is invention and advancement.
I try not to be peeved.
I really hope, I tell them, my children’s imaginations are not considered compromised for never having drummed up all the ways a fictional creature delivers them materials. More so, I should think they’d feel quite flattered mom credited them with enough selflessness and brains to know this roving pink-cheeked (high blood pressure to be sure!) madman with bags of crap doesn’t exist!
I don’t want them thinking, I say, that giving is simply the reciprocal of receiving.
To this my mom waves me off like a puff in her face. My aunt is still chewing on the word “reciprocal” when my Uncle blurts:
“You’re an asshole! Don’t have kids!”
(Perspective time! My Uncle came over to the United States some 20 odd years ago leaving growing children and an ex wife in Europe to be with my aunt. As he tells it, he was an amazing parent having given his children all the tools they’d need to survive in the world thanks to his “discipline” techniques: a 2×4 and a fist…I should add his only daughter won’t speak to him and his son tried to swing dead from a noose last year…)
But, nevertheless, the Family Chorus agrees. “[Pisaquari] is an asshole!”/rahrahrahrah
Minutes later my younger sis walks in and immediately they are on her with their lassos, ready to reel in another for the Good Side*.
“[Pisaquari’s sister],” they ask, “are you gonna tell your kids there is a Santa?”“
No,” says (radfemmy) little sister. “That’s stupid.”
Now matter how much I try explaining, to the point of going blue/teary-eyed in the face, I am shut down, shut out, called names, black-listed, accused of needing meds, or a variety of other defense tactics spewed from very closed, very scared minds. But, you know, this is not for affect, not for attention–the things I say, the often radical philosophies I hold dearly to are BIG COMPLIMENTS to the capacities of people.
Sometimes I am hopeful enough to think others will catch on.