“Yes, I was infatuated with you; I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.” –Sylvia Plath

via merricat.tumblr

by celeb photog terry richardson via terrysdiary.com

I’m trying to think of what sexuality  means to people my age, in the “contemporary” sense. Sex is “just” sex; I think the weight of the “just” is more evaluated at the individual level rather than a general/provincial consensus (i.e. sinful vs. meaningless physical act, etc.); but what of the mind and body? Some separate it– certainly, Don Draper does (ahem, a quote that endlessly amuses me– “fuck the pain away”) in a conventional way, but he’s still trying to fuck the pain of Dick Whitman away. So perhaps they aren’t so separate, in his case. He is who he is when he orgasms– just some man on top of a well-dressed broad.

Unless when I say “separate”, it really means deviate from emotional reflection. As in, denying that there is this “pain” (or whatever emotion) and pronouncing sexuality (at my age) to be predominately controlled by lust and some good dirty fun. I think most of us can agree that males are more successful from that angle/ it is socially acceptable and admirable to “have more fun” (see: Angelina’s situation versus The Situation in the last season of Jersey Shore) where lovemaking and sex are easily two different things.

"Wanna smush?"

For women? It’s a bit harder. Starting from the physical: we don’t have a “third limb”; perhaps this is symbolic as to why we can’t externalize “meanings” of sex as easily and without regret. Socially, you’re a whore if you try, and ironically, you are condemned on both sides of the gender spectrum. But everyone knows this, and continues to perpetuate it (this most definitely includes me. I’ll, uh, work on it).

So to echo Sylvia’s words without the stereotypical English major angst (O phony World!), I can’t stand being one out of ten– much less twenty, thirty, etc.. Maybe I have too much time to think about it, or not enough (good) experiences. Those who know me probably understand that I have no fantastical delusion of making love to my future husband or whatever dreams of happy endings that may not come. I have often wished I were more easily amused, and could embrace more lustful frippery; but alas, my body cannot soak in the alcohol. My attention span is lacking; often, I find myself spacing out or thinking to myself when I’m in some sort of social interaction.

This is not an “O Woe Is Me” sort of conclusion. This is also not meant to be a confession that I, prudish lurker, muted wallflower, awkward girl in her sober corner who won’t dance with you, am in love with personalities (although, I think I am. This doesn’t mean I don’t lust for fantastic bods, or Johnny Depp, or even Marion Cotillard for that matter– not to say that it is or isn’t gay, but she cannot help but evoke lust. Methinks). It would be wonderfully fun to make-out. I daydream about it. Hypocritically, I’m also equally if not more terrified of being in love with the person whose face I’m sucking.

What gives? It’s not a conclusion at all; perhaps it’s slowly spelling out the foundations of my sexuality. Or it’s a really good sign that I need to get out more often. Blog less and live more?

Chyeah right.

Graceee

]]> http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/my-body-is-a-jungle-in-a-temple/feed/ 1 http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/truthz/ http://www.hearandsay.com/angstlifeangst/truthz/#comments Sat, 12 Jun 2010 18:35:25 +0000 admin http://www.hearandsay.com/?p=815

via somethingintellectual.tumblr

What are these for, besides keeping Beauty + Beasts' magical rose alive??

I spent all morning reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar– no, I haven’t read it before, and before you let those dead jaws drop (I mean you, elitist name-dropping hipster majoring in *hand to forehead* English– good grief, I don’t give a rat’s scabies-ridden hindquarters how many books you’ve purchased or read), let me just say that I am a neurotic reader.

Into books... not this way

As in: I believe I have a problem with reading. This is a self-initiated intervention on the behalf of me: Grace, you are way too into books.

Let me clarify: this is not a brag on how nerdy I am. I think I have this escapist mind-set when I get into a book, and I invest much emotion and thought into a plot that’s merely been exposed to me through the letters burnt black on a page. So the protagonists’ realities and constraints pervade my own, and the plot’s roots entwine their small tendrils and crucial moments into my private sphere of life.

Which explains why I was so obsessed with the sci-fi-/fantasy genre. I couldn’t go out like a normal adolescent and go through certain rites of passage (strict, over-bearing parents of high school years) so I buried myself in my own imagination. Maybe that’s why I’m also so indecisive and particular. I imagine the possibilities to death, instead of freely living through the possibilities. I used to have this insane habit of narrating, in my head, what I was doing at every moment. It drove me crazy. Constant meta-analysis is a destructive amount of self-awareness, to the point where everything you do seems so unnatural to yourself… you question motives instead of inherently following intuition.

Sylvia Plath makes Crazy Look Good

That said, reading Plath’s The Bell Jar makes me feel insane. Is this the product of her quality of writing? Perhaps. Yet while i was reading it, I found it ironically comical that Esther would try and fail suicide so many times, her madness seeking and rejecting help almost simultaneously. Too much drama backlashes into incredulity.

This contradiction lives within … a lot of us. The issue of masculinity, for example– the camaraderie of males holding beers while juggling the homophobic distance of a ten-foot pole (no, not pole; god forbid any phallic symbols). Or, the seeming split between being “cool” and “being yourself” (do people strive to be truly original or are the characteristics of their personality built upon their nurturing environment?), eventually being merged as you age with senility and experience. Am I stretching these parallels?

What am I getting at? Books make me think too much. Even the narrative style, the language flow, seeps into my brain until I’m soaked as an oversaturated sponge. I need to stop freaking out and pay attention to COM 371′s Problem Managing Sequence. Four steps for excellent small-group-decision making awaits me.

GUH’Bye

Graceee