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that love ever should be sinne
Dec. 30th, 2006 09:57 pmI feel like I ought to talk about Saddam, but I have nothing to say. The f. is in the h. I am valiantly facepalming. And I don't know enough to be able to talk about the political ramifications, that's not why I have a problem with the whole thing. I oppose the death penalty; end of story
For something completely different, ( a meme )
Hmm. Spending less time on greek shouldn't be too bad, but if I am resolving to give up Winchesters then I can tell already that this is one of those "better in theory than in practice" sort of ideas. Like eating less chocolate. Or getting up in the morning.
The eating books one pings me, though, because that actually is something that I want t do more of. I've always thought of the reading that I did as a little girl as being like eating; I was driven by a need for text in the same way that I was driven by a need for nourishment. The text was my nourishment. I don't read like that anymore, or not as much. Reading that's purely for pleasure, nothing academic or highbrow in my intentions, consuming like fire and light. The sort of reading where you skip meals and maybe even classes, where you forget how to speak. Like that.
I've been thinking a lot of about the place of pleausre, of the id, in my own reading and writing. I think that half the reason I worte such funny stilted things three or four years ago was that I felt afraid of my id, that it seemed like smething sub-literary that I ought to suppress. But I've been questioning why I feel that way. Why shouldn't the soul-deep satisfaction of Anne and Gilbert's first kiss be all right, worthwhile, acceptable? I wonder if it doesn't tie in somehow to the ghettoization of women's writing, feeling subordinated to the phallus-shaped plot. But maybe that's going too far.
At any rate, I've been trying to let my id out a bit more. Fandom has always been a place for that, but in my own writing and reading and living. I don't see what I should be so ashamed of. I like stories that make me feel warm and squishy, especially via angst or hurt/comfort. That doesn't necessarily mean that nothing that makes me feel that way has no other value besides emotional masturbation.
And while I'm on the subject, what's so wrong about masturbation?
I'm very ready to go back to school. There's no snow, and everything's so very grey. At least at school I have work, have text, have thought-food.
For something completely different, ( a meme )
Hmm. Spending less time on greek shouldn't be too bad, but if I am resolving to give up Winchesters then I can tell already that this is one of those "better in theory than in practice" sort of ideas. Like eating less chocolate. Or getting up in the morning.
The eating books one pings me, though, because that actually is something that I want t do more of. I've always thought of the reading that I did as a little girl as being like eating; I was driven by a need for text in the same way that I was driven by a need for nourishment. The text was my nourishment. I don't read like that anymore, or not as much. Reading that's purely for pleasure, nothing academic or highbrow in my intentions, consuming like fire and light. The sort of reading where you skip meals and maybe even classes, where you forget how to speak. Like that.
I've been thinking a lot of about the place of pleausre, of the id, in my own reading and writing. I think that half the reason I worte such funny stilted things three or four years ago was that I felt afraid of my id, that it seemed like smething sub-literary that I ought to suppress. But I've been questioning why I feel that way. Why shouldn't the soul-deep satisfaction of Anne and Gilbert's first kiss be all right, worthwhile, acceptable? I wonder if it doesn't tie in somehow to the ghettoization of women's writing, feeling subordinated to the phallus-shaped plot. But maybe that's going too far.
At any rate, I've been trying to let my id out a bit more. Fandom has always been a place for that, but in my own writing and reading and living. I don't see what I should be so ashamed of. I like stories that make me feel warm and squishy, especially via angst or hurt/comfort. That doesn't necessarily mean that nothing that makes me feel that way has no other value besides emotional masturbation.
And while I'm on the subject, what's so wrong about masturbation?
I'm very ready to go back to school. There's no snow, and everything's so very grey. At least at school I have work, have text, have thought-food.