Putting On Your Face

Classes have been eating my head and my time; the blog doesn't need dusting, it needs a run through a car wash with the windows down. Prolly twice. Will try to rescue any spiders first ;0)

Here I am, waiting on two phone calls and an email and a frackking math homework module to load, and I run across something I want to plug because it needs to be plugged, and right this minute I can. I only have a list of articles half a page long in the "get to these when the semester is over" pile, but this one won't take much because someone else already did all the work.

Seba O'Kiley of Southern Fried Witch added to the back and forth over Steubenville and America's problems with sexual abuse's ridiculous position in our culture (and India and all over the world) with a blog post that is beyond excellent. A large part of the clusterfrack of it all is that people can keep their neat, tidy distance from  rape and sexual assault, and pretend that it's only a matter of faceless Bad Guy criminals who aren't really people and faceless Bad Girl sluts who deserve it, and of course, truly nice people wouldn't know any of those, would they?

Seba, like a small few other people I'll look up and add later, opted to out-balls the Clinical Commenters and Statistic Shooters and put her own face up for people to see. She's being a face for all the guys and girls who can't stand up behind their own. Yet.

“In a Bang, with the Gang”: A Victim’s Letter

Well done, Sempai-sama (bows)

Thank you for not candy-coating. Thank you for not wrapping ugly in a nice white fog to avoid offending "delicate sensibilities" or the triflingly nauseating gits who'll watch rape with morbid fascination or even glee if it's by a hawt guy on screen but whine and flap if people talk about it in real life. Thank you for not letting people hide behind a convenient caricature. If every person that has been treated as if they were a mere vehicle for someone else's patheticness (it's about sex, MY ASS) could have this voice, and every poor specimen of the "we don't say things like that" species could have their nose rubbed in what they don't want to look at, a hundred thousand Steubenvilles or Delhis or Your Town Heres might not happen. And the ones that have or do would have victims with a working bullshit meter to hang on to.

Your Beer & Cookies are onna way.

Occupy Wall Street - It Gets Better

NPR is finally stepping up and reporting on Occupy Wall Street. FAUX News, predictably, has their own spin to offer. That's a link to a PoliticusUSA blog, not the original news source, but Hrafnkell lists the links I'd include all in one convenient place anyway and I don't have a problem with his take on it. Since the BBC and other foreign news have been reporting on it all along, I suppose they decided to stop waiting for some disgruntled  Tea Baggers or WBC to show up to make it "real news" (if that's already happened and been covered and I missed it, somebody lemme know, eh?).

I'm not going to get into a thinger about what OWS should and shouldn't be doing here; I agree with most of Betsy Reed's article. What I am going to do is offer a thunk on a couple of the observations various people have made about why they think OWS is a bunch of ignorant, angry welfare hippies that should all be maced and arrested.


Comments from an article by Daniel W. Drezner:

"Just as it lacks a single message, the "Occupy Wall Street" movement has been defined by the absence of a clear leader. Participants say that is by design, and point to the committees that have sprung up to tend to the daily needs of those camped in Zuccotti Park. It isn't clear that they want a single leader, and many think the movement is better off without one."


"Without clear and coherent demands, there will be little to inspire ordinary citizens to take to the streets. Articulating clear and coherent demands, however, will destroy the very gestalt that the people currently on the streets seem to like some much."

Just for comparison, these are largely the same reasons given as to why the general public, much of mainstream media, and government and civil entities refuse to accept PHA belief systems as legitimate. We don't have a centralized leadership, a single codified doctrine or creed we all follow, or a recognizable hierarchical structure that applies to all of us.

Does that mean PHA faiths, folkways, and paths aren't valid, and shouldn't be given any credibility? Hell no. It means we're a lifeform that the modern western world isn't accustomed to seeing and finds puzzling by because we don't fit neatly into an existing cultural taxonomic niche. Other than categorizing us as "new religious movements", which isn't accurate for everyone either. I see Occupy Wall Street the same way.

Instead of insisting that all things must shape themselves to recognizable, existing models, many of which right now aren't much more than barely functional clusterfracks, I'd rather allow for evolution and reinvention. 

Gone Away, Gone Ahead

Charles Lee Dennis

November 20 1947

June 10 2011

Well, that fight's done. At 12:28 am on the 10^th of June, my Dad/Stepdad/Paternal Unit/recipient of ugly birthday ties Charles slipped off into the ether and left his diabetes and neuropathy wrecked body behind. Except for the pain and annoyance that body was causing him, he wasn't ready to go, and the trip out wasn't altogether easy. Several mini-strokes had made him only partially lucid. Once Mom figured out that he kept asking what date it was, she went ahead and told him he'd made it to their anniversary like he'd wanted, and he relaxed and drifted off. The fact that the anniversary is still a couple weeks away doesn’t really matter, some goals are too much to keep.

I’ve known this was coming for six years; if you’d told me two years ago he’d make it this long I’d’ve said you were nuts. I said my goodbyes and thank yous awhile ago, the last time I was sure he was on-board with the moment. We’ve done this gig before, and Mom did a good job again in spite of all the peripheral health issues, bureaucracy, and stupid drama that cropped up.

Major serious props to everyone who sent him cards and letters and so on from all over; it made him happy, and he really looked forward to getting stuff in the mail. When the postmarks were from places he’d been during his truck driving years, he’d remember them and talk about them; when they were from someplace he hadn’t been, out came the road atlas and we hunted them up. Later on as the strokes made things muddier, in his mind you all became fellow truckers, out there somewhere riding the road for him. It was like he was able to climb into the driver’s seat again through all of you, and see the landscapes and places he missed.

One of my obligations is almost over, and a chapter is closing. That probably sounds oddish, but that’s about the most accurate way to think of it. We’ll go back down a few more times to get Mom moved, and I’ll be done with Brunswick County except for a few friends who are too good to not keep up with. Charles and I weren’t each other’s kind of people; I’m actually sort of the epitome of almost everything he thinks is wrong with the world. He never really quit hoping that one day I’d straighten out and be the kind of girl he “always knew I was deep down under all that women’s libber mess”, but he did decide I wasn’t quite as “not right” as things went on. He did try to deal with me on as fair terms as his upbringing and blood sugar driven moods let him. He told Miles he considered him his third son, proving he’s mellowed a lot over the years and decided that what he thought he knew might be a bit off. He was the best man he knew how to be, and a lot of people with more wherewithal than he had can’t claim that.

Charles’ memorial services (one here, one there) will be for his Southern Baptist leanings, and I’ll probably behave for the most part and not even wear any jewelry that would send anyone reasonable into a tizzy. Unless someone just asks for it – I never carry the demeanor I’m expected to and the older I get the less patience I have for people who feel the need to address it. I did get the prod to step into my psychopomp shoes, so I had my memorial for him Saturday afternoon. I left two of his favorite things in the world, a bottle of Mt. Dew and a honey bun, out on the swing in the backyard. He can have them again now, even if the stupid things are part of what killed him to start with.

The swing was one of his favorite places. It looks out over the back of the house, the yard, the pond, and his workshop, his personal kingdom that he worked most of his life for. You can just see what’s left of the greenhouse and garden to the side where he planted crabapple trees to make jelly from, and the willow tree I got him for Father’s Day not long after they moved to the coast. That would be the one that got knocked half out of the ground when Hurricane Fran came through, the one he told me I couldn’t fix and would have to cut down. A lot of strategically placed rope, a Geo metro with a good bumper, and some unfortunately ground up turf was all it took to prove him wrong, and it’s twice the size now that it was then. I’ll cut a limb to make something from before Mom leaves for the last time.

He was doing the usual thing people do right after they separate out, drifting around the yard a bit, looking at things he hasn’t seen in more than a year since he became completely bedridden. I sat on the swing with him and told him he did a good job here, even if it didn’t work out quite like he wanted, and reminded him that he can make another trip to see the mountains now if he wants. He’ll hang around for a little while, and say goodbye to his house and his shop and his fishing pier, and make sure Mom’s going to be all right, and he’ll move on well enough. There are people he’s missed for years, like his father and sisters Martha, Shirley, and Mary Frances, and his aunt Thelma who partly raised him, waiting for him to show up.

There are plenty of us here to tell the story about you catching the flounder with your shoe, or the mullet joke, or why all your circular saws have cords that are mostly duct tape. Good journeying, Dad.