We have to ask our school's permission to produce The Vagina Monologues and this is what I would like to say to our school:

Next year, I'm going to UofL for grad school, but before I go from this campus to that campus, I'm going to sign up for the best self-defense class I can find so that when I am attacked on UofL's campus, I will be able to defend myself.

This makes me ANGRY.

I don't even feel comfortable going to the grocery store by myself.

THIS makes me angry.

One in six women in this world will be raped or physically assaulted in her lifetime.

This makes me angry.

So, how do the women of my generation--who are trying desperately to nurture ourselves and grow in the midst of this mad, mad world--how do WE deal with all of the shit that surrounds us every day?

Bellarmine University, as an educational institution and as a Catholic institution, hasn't given us any answers for this. You have failed us.

I'm going to the University of Louisville next year to pursue a Master's Degree in Women and Gender Studies. That is how I choose to deal with it. But before I go, I would like to direct The Vagina Monologues on our campus.

Now, who's with me?

My last year as an undergrad:

This is it. My last year as an undergrad. Life is good and full. The leaves are falling and I watch them outside my window. Someday soon I will go outside to play in the leaves. Until then, I am content to sit inside and daydream about dressing up as Elizabeth I for Halloween and about how Jesus must feel when he sees puppies chasing each other through the yard.

I feel good. And tired. Good and tired. But this is good. It means that I am doing good things. Many goods things. Which makes me tired. And good.

Tomorrow, I will walk through the leaves to my class named after Shakespeare and discuss Richard II. Tomorrow will be good. I'm looking forward to it.

The Breakup, Dec. '06

It turns out there had been a crack all along,
and then the crack grew
and split (us apart)
and as we choked on our tears, our mouths filled up with salt
and the crack filled up with God
and now it's a lot stronger than it ever was before.

My response to a bogus defense for chauvinism.

I've heard one particularly feeble-minded response to feminist arguments. Some people say that because men (not women) are drafted, men (not women) deserve special rights and privileges in our society--such as better pay for the same job.

My response is to say, yes, U.S. citizens who are drafted into wars and come back alive deserve special rights and privileges, also known as Veterans Rights. Namely, they deserve an education, health coverage and social security. Under the "current administration," as it has been oh-so-tenderly referred to by critics, many veterans are denied these rights and that is why the veterans in this country should be just as angry as the feminists.

It's been too long....

Priorities. Such an ugly word, really.

I want to build a sand castle out of clay (so it will last). I want to write a poem every day. (Self-explanatory.) I want to talk on the phone and go to parties and cook Mediterranean meals for my lover while listening to Beethoven. I want to walk barefoot across acid-hot blacktop parking lots and eat ice cream out of my hands. I want to skip to the tune of punk-rock music. I want to part my hair down the middle and dye it magenta. I want to pierce my nose and wink at old ladies in grocery store aisles. I want to pray after midnight and hear God's response in my dreams.

I have a to-do list. It says:
- apply for grad school
- get a job
- move out

Yeah, yeah.... I'll get to that. Just as soon as I finish painting airplanes on my bedroom ceiling and dreaming that I wrote country music.

Ok, here's the plan:

I will be....

a freelance-magazine-writing-book-editing-and-or-reviewing-college-professor-movie-star-
artist-model-extraordinaire!

I like to see things from all perspectives. If given the choice, I'd rather not be limited to any one POV. I think this will work, but only if I can find a way to balance my ambitions.

P.S. If I were to describe how I feel today, I'd say my emotions are more orange than turquoise. Thank you.

In the Summertime....

I haven't decided yet if time moves slower or faster in the summer months, though it decidedly does move at a different pace.

Needless to say, I'm having trouble keeping up.

Going Wireless

My mom and I are going wireless--UNDERWIREless, that is. Yesterday, we cut the wires out of our bras. And guess what happened? Nothing happened, that's what. They didn't unravel or get literally bent out of shape. To the contrary, bras hold up quit nicely without metal wires sewn into them. Makes me wonder why the wire is there in the first place. What is its purpose? Wires have been linked with breast pain--if they can't be blamed for Cystic Fibrosis, then we can at least blame them for causing red marks and irritation.

I'm all for support of any kind (emotional, financial, physical....), but rigid support is not support at all. It's restrictive and harsh. It cuts deep. It doesn't feel good because it doesn't feel like support. It feels like pressure. I'm under enough pressure with school and clubs and life in general. I don't need anymore from my bra, thank you very much.

If you're a woman who's been dealing with a lot of pressure lately, you should consider going wireless. It could be the best thing you've done for yourself in a long time--emotionally, physically, or otherwise.

Acting 110

A pivotal moment of my life happened during that class. While practicing our final scene, my acting partner told me that she liked my voice. (Since then, I've received a few more compliments about it.)

I had always hated my voice. Sometimes I mumble, or I stumble over my words; and sometimes, I just can't think of what to say. I guess I've always been a kind of verbal clutz.

My First Vagina Monologue....

My vagina
is tight, yo.

My vagina
is secretive on the inside.

Did you know, that the clitoris is connected to the vagina?
Oh yes, OH yes!, the nerve endings
flow upward, like a prayer, and come together somewhere in the deep.

A touch on the arm can affect
what goes on down there. Apparently, all of the nerve endings--
from the brain to the toes-- form a giant matrix, sensations of vibrant reds and blues.

Alone, I can climax without being touched. (I can also climax while being touched.)

I consider myself to be a student of my vagina. My vagina is my teacher--the best I've ever had. One could argue that men are led by their dicks. How unfortunate for them. I much prefer to be led by my vagina; afterall, it always leads me to the same place--which is somewhere inside myself. Men probably get lost every day following their penises, but my vagina always leads me home.

2007 . . .

This is going to be a good year. I can tell.