Today’s roundup brought to you by oh look a feather toy!

The mess in my apartment never goes away. We get this room clean, and that room clean, and the other, but rarely all at the same time. Even when we push to get everything in order, there is always something neglected — usually my mess in the second bedroom where I keep all my art supplies, strewn about, which I always promise to myself to organize but never get around to doing.

I’ll organize this, and organize that, and it will help me keep my life together for a time — organizing my closet or my deskspace or the living room — but as soon as a stressful time comes, and they come with regularity, the organization goes out the window — I throw my clothes on the floor and never pick them up, food kept on my desk with nail polish and sewing thread and sticky notes — it’s always the concept of, do what is necessary now and put everything in place later, when you’ve returned to “normal” energy state and can handle it.

But life seems to move at a faster pace than my body can keep up with. Maybe could keep up if I had a normal amount of energy, then I’d have the space and drive to get that make-up work done regularly, if I still weren’t able to just maintain everything as I went along (that being the idealized perfect state to which we aspire, right?). Maybe if I had the energy that I have when I’m at my best — but all the time — things would be great. And when I’m at my best energy level, I feel like I could continue things like that, if only I did this and changed that and kept things this way. And I try those things as they come to me, I am constantly reorganizing my entire life, never stop fine-tuning, trying to make things more efficient. But it’s never enough, I just don’t have enough in me to keep up with it all.

So maybe we get the junk off the floor and vacuum and swiffer everything, and tidy up around the edges of things, but there’s still that mess within those edges, still always something just sitting in a jumbled pile that I’m supposed to get to later. No matter how well I am — and even with an able-bodied husband doing more than his share of the work — we never get it all.

I have trouble thinking when I can see clutter. What it is about it, I don’t know, surely some gender considerations there, my insecurity about my disability always looming, and my personal idiosyncracies. But when there is visual clutter, my brain locks up and it is so much harder to process very basic things. And if only it were as easy as getting up and taking care of the clutter, then the energy I would be using on thought processing goes to the physical labor of cleaning, and I’m back to blank square one anyway, and a day later the clutter is back again.

And that’s the cycle I find myself in.

One day, a couple months ago, I sat in this chair trying to comprehend what I was reading, with a mess on the floor in my peripheral vision, and I spun around and thought to myself, why can’t this be beautiful?

This mess, this disorder, everything that comes with a life well-lived? The clothing on the floor, the half-filled mug of tea, the unmade bed, the shoes in the entryway, papers scattered about? Why do I feel like it weighs me down? Why can’t it be like the wrinkles and mottled skin and greying hair acquired with age: a reminder of everything you’ve done to earn them, a window into the life you’ve lived to get them?

Why can’t it be an indicator of richness? Why can’t it be something positive?

That one moment, I felt it deep inside. And it hasn’t come back. I just can’t look around and not feel weighed down by everything being so disordered, feel it reflects poorly on me, look at it and see nothing more than “something I should be doing but can’t do.” Something that is my responsibility, but I haven’t the capability. That is what pulls at me when I look at my mess, my beautiful mess. All I can see is everything I can’t do, while simultaneously feeling, in the back of my head, that I can do it but choose not to and that I am just of poor character, lazy, unmotivated, irresponsible, inconsiderate, slothful and selfish…

Maybe my physical mess, then, is a manifestation of my mental mess.

I just want to know. Why can’t I be beautiful too? If this is all I can do? Why do I feel lesser than the middle class folks who have these lovely tidy homes, not perfect and still full of personality, but tidy? They get to be beautiful, they get to be responsible and considerate. Why can’t I be too, if this is all I can do?

What will it take for me to look at that mess again, and see something grand? Will I ever see it again?

Disabled sex, folks. It’s time.

This is an official request for your anonymous contribution.

I am working on a post about ableism in “liberated” sexual culture (including feminism, but not limited to it). And I really think there is no better way to illustrate this than with real words, real experience.

Do you have, or have you had, a disability (or, if you do not identify as disabled, do you have a condition which results in some sort of mental or physical impairment)? If so: Tell me about your experience in the bedroom.

Specifically, I am looking for ways your sex life differs from the “liberated” construct. I want to hear how your disability affects your sex life, in negative ways, in positive ways, and in ways that go beyond that dichotomy.

I want to make clear that “sex,” here, should be interpreted in the broadest possible way. Sex with or without partner(s). Het or queer. Any sexual bits included, any sexual act, no matter how long, short, light, heavy, simple or complex. If you think of it as sexual, then yes, it “counts.”

Some questions to start your thought process:

• What difficulties do you face?
  Is there anything you are prevented from doing, or prevented from doing “normally”?
• And how do you adapt?
• What do you do to make sex enjoyable?
  How do you change things, modify things to make them work for you?
• How do you create new ways to find sexual pleasure?
  What do you do that you’ve never seen anywhere else?
• Do you feel like you’re the only one who does (a certain something/a certain way)?
• What do you do? What do your partner(s) do?
• And how does it feel?
  What do you experience, what is going on in your body and mind, from start to finish?
• Do you orgasm? How easy or hard is it to reach it? Is it important to you to orgasm?
• What is it about sex that you enjoy? What is it that makes it worthwhile?
• How important is sex to your life?
  How much do you want it? have it?
• Has media portrayal of sex affected you? Societal attitudes?
  What have you seen or heard, been told, been treated like?
• What have you gone through in seeking health care for sex-related issues?
• Do you have any other stories or experiences?

I do prefer that entries not simply be answers to the above questions survey-style; I want to hear your experience in your words. Tell me a story — write me a poem — paint me a picture — however your experiences are best expressed.

Again: All answers will be anonymous. I will not attach any names, even pseudonyms, to these entries; they will simply be presented as they are.

To contribute, click here.

The link should take you to a page with one text box and one line for your email (which is optional).

If you need to contact me:
My email is amndaw (skip the second “a” in my name) AT gmail DOT com.
Alternatively, just use the form above to say “Hey, email me back!” making sure to provide your email address.

A few more notes:

If your contribution is anything other than unformatted text, contact me (see above) and I will work things out with you. For example:
If text formatting is important to your piece, you can send me an Office/OpenOffice document.
If you wish to express yourself in visual media, you can send me a still image of any file type — I will do any conversion necessary to display in a web browser.
If you prefer to create a video, you can send me the video file (I can point you to services for sending large files if need be, or I can help you upload it to an anonymous account for this purpose).

If there is anything in your piece that can potentially identify you (especially recorded image, video and audio), and you are absolutely comfortable with that, that is fine — but I prefer that anonymity to remain the default, so that more people feel safe and comfortable in contributing.

A tentative due date for submission will be Saturday, June 13, 2009. That gives you roughly two weeks. If you want to contribute, but that time frame does not work for you, contact me and I will see what we can do to make things work.

[shameless] Link around!! The more entries, the better. [/shameless] :-)

Thanks so much to everyone!

Oooooh boy, Dove, you have no idea what you’re getting into here, do you?

The subcontext here is incredible. Jess uses a wheelchair. She’s happy and perky and having fun. Katie is visibly healthy. She has low self-esteem and her self-hatred keeps her from even being able to greet Jess when she comes to the door. Instead, she slouches to the ground in despair.

There is a reason they put Jess in a wheelchair. In doing this, Dove sets up a contrast: the physically disabled girl who feels good enough about herself to go about her life; the able-bodied girl who hates herself so much she can’t even go out with the people least likely to judge her at all.

The only way this contrast is meaningful is if it rests on the assumption that the physically disabled girl has reason to think less of herself.

Dove, here, is deliberately driving home the message: It’s such a shame that the “normal” girl thinks less of herself than does the girl in a wheelchair!

The shame conveyed here is that each girl does not recognize her true place in the social order. The normal-bodied girl is pretty, but can’t see her prettiness in the mirror. The girl in the wheelchair does feel good about herself. This is out of order, backwards. The girl in the wheelchair should be the one who sees herself one step lower; the normal-bodied girl should recognize her innate goodness in being able-bodied and conventionally attractive.

The dissonance Dove deliberately draws here relies on the recognition that Jess is diminished by her disability, but Katie is so dragged down by her poor self-esteem that she ends up in an even lower place than Jess. This is not right! This is not how things should be!

How should they be, then?

Of course, the commercial is also contemptible for the simple reason that it uses the girl in the wheelchair as an object to develop the human character of the able-bodied girl. In this setup, Jess is not a character; she is a tool. We don’t see Jess’ character explored, developed, reflected upon. She is introduced for only one reason: to act as a foil to Katie. To demonstrate just how low Katie has sunk.

Because you know it’s a fucking shame when she falls even lower than the cripple.

DIsability, here, is set up as an awful tragedy, the lowest a person can sink in life. This is what the title communicates. Disability is a reason to be sad, upset, mournful, pitied. This is what Dove purports to save young women from — a life of suffering. This is the reason Katie is to be pitied: she has fallen into the state Jess should be in.

Finally, the issue of appropriation. I’ll make it simple. Never, ever, ever, ever appropriate another group’s cause. White folk, you are simply not allowed to flip a situation to make it on a black person to try to communicate how outrageous it should be. Abled folk, you are simply not allowed to purport yourself disabled to communicate how tragic something against you is. Period. (The comparisons are slightly different in effect and implication, but my point applies to both.)

This assumes that to be disabled (black, gay, female, etc.) should always be understood to be a bad thing. It assumes that discrimination against disabled/etc. folk, or other forms of oppresion against them, are always taken seriously. And the subtext in these comparisons just screams out: How dare *I* be treated like those people!

Like it or not, whether you were thinking it or not, when you use these tropes, you imply that wrongs against you are worse than wrongs against the other group, that people should be outraged that you have been lowered to their level. What you are protesting, like it or not, is that your privilege over them has been violated.

Seriously, there is never a good reason to use the comparison trope. So just don’t do it. Ever. Period. End of story.

Via Wheelchair Dancer

Sissie quit taking her Insulin and went into almost a coma, she is so stupid, she said the Insulin was making her fat, so she quit.

Sigh.

behold:

Our focus is often (and should be) on the women targeted by this hate, the women who suffer under this stream of threat and this actuality of violence. It should be focused on the actors and co-conspirators as well. Aside from those who take direct part in that hate or violence, another important piece of this is the effects of this misogyny upon the male in general. What misogyny does to the male identity and psyche and sense of peace and self-love. After all, the Female is not hated in a vacuum. So, too, is the Feminine, entire. And that cannot be walled off to one gender. This loathing, this hatred points back to what we know to be part of our natural being.

Men (as boys) are “asked” to join the oppression (under great threat of both social humiliation and physical violence and over and over, too) and to do this of course, we must snuff out/suppress the Feminine in ourselves. This is, of course, a great pain and loss to a human. And as this loss cannot be mourned by implied decree, this pain becomes a bitter, perverse mess that is blind to itself. And so men not only join the hate against women, but they then envy women for their freedom (to still be allowed) to be expressive, emotive, beautiful, affectionate, relaxed, vulnerable. And the loathing to self-loathing ties to envy ties to sorrow and loss and is given ground, and men are emotionally insane when modeled as instructed. And they act out this insanity even when they don’t know why. It is because they have too often been prevented from even knowing who they are to begin with.

…

For if a man cannot love the feminine aspect of himself, nor can he love a woman. And if he is hiding from that half of himself, he cannot fully see a woman. And if he would abdicate half his power, he is weak to the point of failing.

…

Because Colonization (and Patriarchy, too) are about control. And thus, Prop H8. And thus stiff collars and the Western Modes of acceptable and authoritative dress. And thus stark unforgivable lines. And thus dichotomized stances and laws that no person lives under comfortably and organically, unless they crave unnatural and aggravating wires strapping them down to the earth, making up for all the strength they have abdicated and would have used to guide and know themselves otherwise….