On the Wild Woman:

“without her, women’s inner eyes are closed by some shadowy hand, and large parts of their days are spent in a semi-paralyzing ennui or else wishful thinking. Without her, women lose the sureness of their soulfooting. Without her, they forget why they’re here, they hold on when they would best hold out.” pg. 10 Women who run with the wolves

Naturally. Naturally, I read this in a time of confusion and automatically feel an affinity and senseless need for these words.

Naturally, we live in a society where this very genuine glimpse of what it is to be a woman is buried under God after God.

It’s so difficult to remember to fight for your own rights, because it’s so easy to forget that you, alongside everyone else, grew up in this society that doesn’t value the honest irrational female as much as it values the projection of the perfectly controlled, perfectly fantastical male figure.

It’s difficult to step out of your own ways and look at the tracks you’ve mad on the dirt.

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It takes watching 90s art films about the truthful darker side of youth, and how it’s [youth’s] a constant reproduction of all the horrible trips mom and dad raise[d] them on. Watching disgusting teenage boys aggressively corrale damaged women into sex and giving them pleasure.

Now I realize, as far as we’ve come since the 90’s, I’m still that damaged woman being corralled into the fantasy of infantile men.

Taught to feather play the egos of the attractive and masculine.

Taught to be pleasant.

Taught to be accepting.

Taught to be the moral ones.

Taught to be pretty, always pretty.

Taught to be taught.

Taught to be wrong.

Then questioned when we’re confused.

We’re being knitted, eyes wide open and screaming from lid to lid,

into this 1950’s hang-over-the-couch tapestry

with a farmer and his wife and dick and jane and a white picket fence and, hell! a dog named spot. With pearls in the ears and noosing the throat. Batting a delicately drawn cat-eye.

One hand behind his back and one on his great chest. Her man. Because that’s what makes her feel like a woman. Being his. And being impregnated by his dominant sperm and spewing out so many more copies with values and ideals just like mommy and daddy’s.

“your mom must be stupid if she doesn’t know. either that or so far under with denial.”

“she’s never questioned it, because he’s my dad”

“my dad is my dad”

Naturally I should be amused.

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