i thought that phyllis schlafly was dead...

apparently not because she just received an honorary doctorate from

the washington university of st. louis

this is controversial in that phyllis is/was a major voice in the

conservative movement...she fought against the equal rights amendment in the 70s

in a most eloquent way, she also told a reporter that the marriage contract is also consent for sex....

so if a woman claims that her husband raped her...according to phyllis

this would be inaccurate and, in most cases, a lie

she also stated that the pictures of pows taken at abu ghraib

showing our military personnel committing crimes against humanity

was a fantasy of feminists because that's how they (or i should say we)

want to treat men....

whatever

the justification for bestowing this honor on her by wash. u. basically came down

to this:

she is an important voice in the conservative movement

she is a "good" and "vigorous" debater

and she has contributed to the political discourse of the united states

to which i say: really? really? REALLY?

i would love to shake the idiot's hand who thought that this was

a good idea...

seriously there was NO ONE else that they could have honored? and again i say

really?

oh did i mention that phyllis is twice an alum of wash. U.?

did i mention that phyllis has a lot of $$$$$$$?

a major voice in political discourse...yeah, sure.

who are they going to honor next with a doctorate?

fred phelps of the westboro baptist church?

i mean he certainly fits the above criteria

it was nice to see a lot of the faculty and students

protesting this batshittery

if isu ever did anything that stupid...my head would explode

i tried to give my bk a hard time about it because he teaches there

but to no avail...i love how he puts up with me...

i don't know how he does it

poem for the week

My Mother Would Be a Falconress
by Robert Duncan



My mother would be a falconress,
And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,
would fly to bring back
from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,
where I dream in my little hood with many bells
jangling when I'd turn my head.

My mother would be a falconress,
and she sends me as far as her will goes.
She lets me ride to the end of her curb
where I fall back in anguish.
I dread that she will cast me away,
for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission.

She would bring down the little birds.
And I would bring down the little birds.
When will she let me bring down the little birds,
pierced from their flight with their necks broken,
their heads like flowers limp from the stem?

I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood.
Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded.
I have gone back into my hooded silence,
talking to myself and dropping off to sleep.

For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me,
sewn round with bells, jangling when I move.
She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist.
She uses a barb that brings me to cower.
She sends me abroad to try my wings
and I come back to her. I would bring down
the little birds to her
I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly.

I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood,
and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying.
She draws a limit to my flight.
Never beyond my sight, she says.
She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching.
She rewards me with meat for my dinner.
But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her.

Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me,
always, in a little hood with the bells ringing,
at her wrist, and her riding
to the great falcon hunt, and me
flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart
to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet,
straining, and then released for the flight.

My mother would be a falconress,
and I her gerfalcon raised at her will,
from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own
pride, as if her pride
knew no limits, as if her mind
sought in me flight beyond the horizon.

Ah, but high, high in the air I flew.
And far, far beyond the curb of her will,
were the blue hills where the falcons nest.
And then I saw west to the dying sun--
it seemd my human soul went down in flames.

I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me,
until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out,
far, far beyond the curb of her will

to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where
the falcons nest
I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak.
I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight,
sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist,
striking out from the blood to be free of her.

My mother would be a falconress,
and even now, years after this,
when the wounds I left her had surely heald,
and the woman is dead,
her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart
were broken, it is stilld

I would be a falcon and go free.
I tread her wrist and wear the hood,
talking to myself, and would draw blood.





From Bending the Bow, published by New Directions, 1968. Copyright © 1968 by Robert Duncan.

note to self

3rd comp turned in

time to sleep

note to self

two comps down

one in hand

this is killing me...

note to self

one comp down

two to go

and keep in mind that

even if you don't pass

at least you're taking them before

"delores umbridge" aka "the blooming onion" does...

which is, indeed, gratifying

in and of itself

your revolution

i was teaching my women's and gender studies class today

and one of my students was giving an oral presentation on

women in the music industry

this student's presentation lead to a general class discussion

over what it means to be a woman in an industry that is

insidiously white, male, and (big surprise here: heteronormative)

then the converstation shifted to not just issues of gender but

also race...what are the terms for women artists who are not white?

as my class was productively mulling over the issues related to race,

gender and the music industry i couldn't help but think of audre lorde

and the speech that she gave at medgar evers college in 1980 and the kind

of critique she was developing through her experience as an activist within

the civil rights movement...the struggles of being a woman, african american, feminist, womanist,

and lesbian that made her participation and even her subject negotiation within

the political formation of civil rights groups difficult and highly complex...

she spoke up to a heteronormative, male dominated paradigm that required her particpation

while at the same time demanding that she remain silent...to espouse as best she could

the violent restraints associated with that of an image of "straight woman, african american

woman"

she fought against this pressure

she established place within a third space territory

she was unapologetic for it as well

lorde was not concerned with just interested rights

she was concerned with the flow of power and the assignment of value

she wanted to change the ways in which we all consume otherness

she demanded oppression be addressed at all levels...not selectively

she demanded that perception change not just laws because laws are always

"interested"

this brings me to sarah jones

in the clip below you can hear her perform a spoken word piece entitled

"your revolution" from hbo's def poetry series...

fast forward through moss def's intro and cedric the entertainer's piece (although

his piece is worth a listen as is the interpetation of gwendolyn brooks' "we real cool" at the very

begining) and you will encounter the goddess that is sarah jones...



Sarah Jones “Your Revolution” lyrics


[Intro]

Yeah yeah, yeah this goes out to all the women and men from New York to

London to LA to Tokyo struggling to keep their self-respect in this climate

of misogyny, money worship and mass production of hip-hop's illegitimate child,

Hip-Pop.And this especially goes out to Gil Scott-Heron, friend, living legend

and proto-rapper who wrote "The Revolution will not be Televised." Much Respect.



[Verse]

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Not happen between these thighs

Not happen between these thighs

The real revolution ain't about booty size

The Versaces you buys, or the Lexus you drives

And though we've lost Biggie Smalls

Baby your notorious revolution

Will never allow you to lace no lyrical douche, in my bush

Your revolution will not be killing me softly, with Fugees

Your revolution ain't gonna knock me up without no ring

And produce little future emcees

Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not find me in the backseat of a jeep

With LL, hard as hell, you know doin it and doin it and doin it well

doin it and doin it and doin it well, nah come on now

Your revolution will not be you smacking it up, flipping it, or rubbing it down

Nor will it take you downtown or humpin around

Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not have me singing, ain't no nigga like the one I got

And your revolution will not be sending me for no drip, drip VD shot

And your revolution will not involve me, feelin your nature rise

Or helping you fantasize

Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs

No no, not between these thighs

Oh, my Jamican brother, your revolution will not make you feel bombastic

And really fantastic

And have you groping in the dark for that rubber wrapped in plastic

You will not be touching your lips to my triple dip of french vanilla,

butter pecan, chocolate delux

Or having Akinyele's dream, m-hmm a 6-foot blowjob machine m-hmm

You want to subjugate your queen? uh-huh

Think I'm a put it in my mouth, just cuz you made a few bucks?

Please brother please

Your revolution will not be me tossing my weave

And making me believe I'm some caviar-eating ghetto mafia clown

Or me giving up my behind, just so I can get signed

And maybe having somebody else write my rhymes

I'm Sarah Jones, not Foxy Brown

You know I'm Sarah Jones, not Foxy Brown

Your revolution makes me wonder, where could we go

If we could drop the empty pursuit of props and ego

We'd revolt back to our Roots, use a little Common Sense

On a quest to make love De La Soul, no pretense

But your revolution will not be you flexing your little sex and status

To express what you feel

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Will not happen between these thighs

Will not be you shaking and me *yawn* faking

Between these thighs

Because the real revolution, that's right I said the real revolution

You know I'm talking about the revolution

When it comes, it's gonna be real

It's gonna be real

It's gonna be real

When it finally comes

When it finally comes

It's gonna be real, yeah yeah

note to self

if you continue to freak out

over the start of comps on thursday

your head will explode

please for the love of all that is sane

stop and

remember that if you touch the ground

now and then

the world around you will stop spinning

it hardly seems possible

that a year ago today i made an early morning sunday

trip to stl and met my baby kangaroo

for the first time

we spent the day together and we talked

and now it's a year later

and i still breathe easier when he's around

poem for the week

Forgetfulness

by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

delays

comps had to be rescheduled for thursday

the person in charge of scheduling double booked the room

will i ever be done with this?!?

moon

april snow...

it snowed today....

blah!

april has been really

disappointing me this year

poem for the week

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

by Sherman Alexie

The morning air is all awash with angels . . .
- Richard Wilbur

The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because

He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,

I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,
And then I remember that my father

Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"
I say. "I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee

This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

And I didn't realize my mistake
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

comps

well, the comps have been set

they start on the 22nd of the month

and end on the 6th of may

the final leg of this ph.d. journey has begun...

i hope that i have the strength

to follow through and finish

annoying teenagers, going to bookstores these are a few of my favorite things....

well, i must say that i woke up feeling a tad bit sorry for myself



i was feeling weighed down



walking underwater



slow and labored



but only me



everything and everyone around me was moving



normally which appeared to be fast to me...



however as i was walking across the quad to teach my 10 a.m. class



i was surrounded by teenage joggers



yep...some intellectually gifted track coach must have thought that it



would be a good idea to set a bunch of teenage joggers loose on the



quad during peak time...



and these kids would hardly move out of the way



hogging up the sidewalk and expecting people to move



for them



i didn't move though because



1) i was annoyed



2) i was still feeling heavy



3) i was annoyed



although it did give me some kind of sadistic pleasure to make them



move...and i think some of them even pouted....nothing says

have a bright and sunny day than

a tennager's distain...



after class i was talking to a student



and i spilled an almost full dunkin donuts coffee



on a desk and consequently the floor...



fyi: that stuff is a bitch to clean up



after i finished up with that fiasco i decided to go to borders



bookstores always give me a sense of peace...i like them



i like to be surrounded by words...potential stories....



there is always a sense of discovery whenever i go into a bookstore



and discover i did



i found a memoir/illustrated book by chip kidd (the famous book designer)




while i was leafing through...taking in the images i saw this....


wendy brown's book!!! i love wendy brown and this book is not only an important piece

of scholarship it is also a book that changes lives

well mine anyways...

if i ever get published or better yet become the kind of scholar that

would get me chip kidd to design the cover of my book

i would be overwhelmed by the sheer awesomeness of it

seriously...it wouldn't have to be that great of a text

because good or terrible, boring or pithy...

chip kidd would certainly make your text sound better

after i was finished browsing that book i meandered over to

the psychology...actually the death and dying section...

i know grief but i still feel lost...so i picked up this book:





and i read a little...

very practical and lois ackner's writing is quite good

but something in me was not interested in getting it or reading any further

dissatisfied...slow...labored

maybe another book will call to me

or maybe a poem...

i just don't know

comps

well it looks like my third and final comp synthesis will

be approved by tomorrow

and my comps will be scheduled by the end of this week

note to self

redefine my purpose

amidst the feelings of

pointlessness that now seem

to be weighing on my mind

i would like to be thankful that revisions for

the third synthesis have been sent and

a meeting tomorrow to work out the kinks has

been scheduled

i must be patient with my

self

because this i

has changed and

the grammar of which to organize

this rhetorical chaos so that this i can surface

is up

for negotiation

spring

i saw my first robin yesterday

i smiled and

then started crying

note to self

think of spring and try to smile

appreciate the love that surrounds you

find peace in a really good song

this is grief

how do you narrate grief?

do you start with the object...the material...the flesh and bone

and then follow its progress into the abstract and

disembodied? while crying?

where are the words for that kind of story?

what metaphor could you possibly construct?

derrida was right to critique

sassure...

language is more than just arbitrariness

it is inadequate and yet

there is nothing more adequate or less arbitrary

nor heart breaking

than this erosion

i will start to write this grief

but in the very act of my writing it

it is being rewritten