a.k.a., excuse yet another nonsensical rant, and, why i give a shit.

–>digression, before I have even started (is that possible?): it irks me that some people find words for natural bodily functions, like the aforementioned S-word, to be offensive, but have no qualms about using racial slurs or words like “retard” as insults.   This digression brought to you by…  a self-righteous jerk on Twitter that I’ve just unfollowed.

I am a bit embarassed about my previous post.  This feeling has me thinking that I should have kept my thoughts under wraps, and waited until I could present them in a nice, orderly fashion.  This was just like… blahhhflubbadubbawonkaboo.  I made my point, or at least, I clarified that I am not pregnant, which was my intent.  But I feel like…  I dunno, I guess it’s like when someone comes to visit your newborn baby for the first time.  You give her a bath, probably, and put her in her cutest outfit.  You at least don’t hand her over to your guest with a diaper full of meconium and a face full of breastmilk spit up.  Which brings me to…

Vomit  (regarding the rant)

So, I’m sorry.  All I did was vomit at you.  My dear friend Crumpet, who I keep around especially to listen to her speak British English in her pretty pretty accent, uses this analogy.  She will call, occasionally, to spew the random things that simply must get out: motherhood rants, frustrations, gossip news, etc.  When our conversation has ended, she will say, “thank you for letting me vomit all over you.”  Vomit sounds so much prettier with an English accent, I swear.

And now, I think I am making it worse!  Like that time when I was a kid, and I was sick, and I ran down the hall to throw up in the bathroom, except I didn’t make it to the bathroom, and puked on the tile, but kept running, so I slipped on it and fell into it and just continued to puke all over myself.  Yeah, it’s like that.

Let’s move on, shall we?

Poo  (Why I give a shit.)

In regards to my recent “motherhood and creativity” obsesssion, you’re likely wondering:  Is this just some pitiful mommy chick, feeling pathetic and noncontributive?  That should just put those offsprings in daycare and get a friggin’ job?  Or take a watercolor class at the senior center?  Is she trying to make herself feel important?  Because she knows what an f-stop is and has ink and a sketch pad?  Or is this simply an excuse?  A justification for laziness?  As if a knitted hat can cancel out a mountain of dirty laundry?  Yes you are.  (Wondering.)

And yes I am, occasionally, feeling all of those things.  But those insecurities are not the driving force behind this motherhood/creativity thing.  Really, it is its own force.  It just keeps flooding my brain.  I let it, though, because I think it’s important.  I give a shit because I think it actually matters.

However ambitious it sounds, I think it matters for my kids’ future, and not just my daughters’.  I think it matters for all of us, and not just my fellow mothers.  We are trying, as a society, to right our many wrongs.  We are scrambling to fix, save, or cover it all up.  We have laws, solutions, formulas, organizations, charities, ideas, philosophies, plans.  These are good things, though empty, many formed from good intentions and pumped with masculine power.  And, aye, there’s the rub… 

There is a significant lack of feminine power: creativity, receptivity, intuition, depth.  {And I mean feminine power, not to be confused with “girl power,” that bitter battle cry that has women yearning for equality with (or worse, victory over!) men in a man’s world, on man’s terms.  But I think that will have to be another post…}  It seems that what is absent (or at least on hiatus) in this story is feminine power, which I believe is, at it’s heart, creativity.  Perhaps I have a different definition of it (mm-hmm, yet another post), but in this culture, the word creativity seems to border on cutesy, silly, frivolous.  Really, creation is a powerful force, the essence of… well, everything.  And it’s available to us—and through us—all; especially, I think, as mothers.

 So, yeah.  It matters.

That Neighbor Chick and babe, tri-x, Mamiya 645AF (negative scan)