Relevant
and now for a dose of personal life-illusion meets recent feminist musings …
Simplicity is in my best interest; as a person and as an attempted writer. The attainment of simplicity is like winnowing: to sit long hours on the threshing floor separating the grain from the chaff. Ascetics eliminate distraction to attain spiritual loftiness. Such restraint doesn’t imply perspicacity. Simplicity is a personal state of internal ballast.
It is in everyone’s best interest—for themselves and for others—to reach some level of spiritual well-being. If there be any point, than I believe that to be it. And when I say spiritual, I mean how we “actualize” ourselves during our physical time alive; when I say spiritual, I mean a kind of wholeness and connectedness, some pervasive vibration of the world (and multiverse) that we can latch onto (and make use of.) How we reach “it,” well, that’s open to all sorts of interpretation.
Though, throughout the tomes of History humanity does appear to reach some consensus more-or-less. Anyone who speaks Truth is always saying the same thing as one’s truthful neighbor. Variation, when one gets down to it, is a matter of seeing. I have sought verification and likeness in literature. I believe words to be our most truthful domain.
Everyone knows that a place exists which is not economically or politicly indebted to all the vileness and compromise. That is not obliged to reproduce the system. That is writing. If there is somewhere else that can escape the infernal repetition it lies in that direction, where it writes itself, where it dreams, where it invents new worlds. —Hélène Cixous, Sorties
So be it!
I’ve been wondering lately what is the relevance of my tangent. Is it possible to decide to compromise here and concentrate there, getting stirred up and angry? Or has it just happened? Am I even able to grasp simplicity? There’s nothing wrong with the chaos that rules the world.
Tangent: I want women to oust God-the-father, I want her to claim rights to the Holy Ghost, I want mother above son for she is the bestower of life, not him who stole the womb. Where are the female prophets?
I have no other way to express how much this bothers me.
Masters of literature, so many words of men. Language is a drought. These tears I shed must reinvent. By force and by necessity. I don’t believe I am a feminist, for why should there be a name for a woman with anger and a woman that thinks. I am a person. I speak.
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