Nothing Gets Crossed Out

Ancient moon priestesses were called virgins. ‘Virgin’ meant not married, not belonging to a man - a woman who was ‘one-in-herself’. The very word derives from a Latin root meaning strength, force, skill; and was later applied to men: virle. Ishtar, Diana, Astarte, Isis were all all called virgin, which did not refer to sexual chastity, but sexual independence. And all great culture heroes of the past, mythic or historic, were said to be born of virgin mothers: Marduk, Gilgamesh, Buddha, Osiris, Dionysus, Genghis Khan, Jesus - they were all affirmed as sons of the Great Mother, of the Original One, their worldly power deriving from her. When the Hebrews used the word, and in the original Aramaic, it meant ‘maiden’ or ‘young woman’, with no connotations to sexual chastity. But later Christian translators could not conceive of the ‘Virgin Mary’ as a woman of independent sexuality, needless to say; they distorted the meaning into sexually pure, chaste, never touched.

Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.

But here we are, stuck in traffic, radio on, our laughter slung out like confetti across the dashboard. Here we are in the rain, at the museum, in the basement at a party, lungs full of smoke and belly-drunk. Here we are taking pictures of our food, smiling so hard through the pain that no one would know. Here we are in your bed, backs pressed together, an occasional comment or a soft sigh all that breaks the steady silence. Here we are passed out at New Year’s, lips swollen from kissing everyone but each other, our hands clasped tightly together in the velvet dark. Here we are at our favorite diners, on our birthdays, trying on clothes. Here we are at the end of the summer, fireworks blazing over our heads, shoulders touching. Here we are, patiently explaining ourselves to our mothers. Here we are, singing our favorite song, sharing the same cup, making lists of everything we’ve ever wanted to do. Here we are together. Here we are, on our way to something better.

100 Best Fonts of 2014 To close the big feature I made to the best fonts of 2014 here I bring you a big wall post of the 100 fonts in a form of a logotype, just as the designers have decided to display and promote their own typefaces. 

and i said to my body. softly. ‘i want to be your friend.’ it took a long breath. and replied, ‘i have been waiting my whole life for this.’

I want this one moment. It’s what I want in a relationship. It’s that thing when you’re with someone and you love them and they know it and they love you and you know it, but it’s a party and you’re both talking to other people and you’re laughing and shining and you look across the room and catch each other’s eyes, but not because you’re possessive or it’s precisely sexual, but because that is your person in this life and it’s funny and sad, but only because this life will end, and it’s this secret world that exists right there. In public, unnoticed. That no one else knows about. It’s sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us, but we don’t have the ability to perceive them. That’s what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess.

I practice kissing other boys and do not tell you. I do not wash my hair sometimes for three or four days. You are probably so tired of all the cigarette smoke, the mugs full of tea setting cold on the counter, my inability to put my clothes away after wearing them, how I am so heavy-footed that you can’t make cakes when I am home. If you asked me I would tell you that yes, I am faking it, but you never do so we continue living as we live. Dancing around each other but never close enough to touch. We are a fire-hazard, the little pieces that come with toy sets, not for swallowing. My hands do not smell like my own. I try on wedding dresses and then cry in the changing room. The truth is I love you. What I am trying to say is that I never want to see you again.