Postcards from the Imagination

Well, I'm home, but an illness has been keeping me away from the computer. A few more days, hopefully, and I'll be back up to speed.

Posted by Ginger at 06:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Visiting family for the Easter holiday.  Harrowing. I probably have about 60 seconds of blog time before I'll have to go.  Haven't heard the sweet sound of silence for three days now.

My eBay auction of the painting entitled "Riposte" (below) ends today, and no bids. :-(  It was more an experiment than a serious attempt to sell the painting, though it would have been nice to generate even a little extra income. On the other hand, I won't have to part with it for less than I really wanted. :-)

Time's up!

Posted by Ginger at 04:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

C. Dale Young posted his frustration with the cynicism and bitterness rampant in the world of poetry these days. I can't help but thing that both stem, perhaps indirectly, from the 21st century American poet's relation to mass culture.

On that subject, I'd like to meander through a portion of Czeslaw Milosz's essay "Notes on Exile" from his book To Begin Where I Am. I think it might be possible to draw some analogies between a poet in exile from his homeland, and one who is alienated from the dominant culture of his or her time and place.

Censorship may be tolerant of various avant-garde antics, since they keep writers busy and make literature an innocent pastime for a very restricted elite.

What is poetry in contemporary America but an innocent pastime for a very restricted elite? Today's poets are hardly Shelley's "unacknowledged legislators of the world" (if, in fact, that was ever an appropriate designation).

But as soon as a writer shows signs of being attentive to reality, censorship clamps down.

I'm not sure how or if this applies in our case. There are certainly vast differences between our culture and that of Soviet-era eastern Europe. On the other hand, I don't know that anyone has ever made a proper study of the question of censorship in modern America. There have been a few high-profile instances of artists losing government grants upon being deemed "offensive" by the powers that be, but can one make an intellectually honest argument for their being unusually "attentive to reality" as compared to other artists? I think the answer is probably no.

In any case, the federal government is only a minor player in the funding and dissemination of the arts, as are most local government agencies. The real power is concentrated in the private sector, which is not constitutionally (or some would say even ethically) bound to respect free speech. So, publishing houses are free to print and promote whichever books they choose. Newspaper owners are free to disseminate whatever they deem newsworthy. The only constraint imposed on corporate television and radio networks is the stockholders' demand for profit.

So perhaps government censorship has simply become unnecessary. What threat could the dissenting artist possibly pose to the status quo when he is so easily drowned out by consenting voices with the megaphones of financial support at their mouths.

Perhaps our artists begin in exile, and are only brought into the fold when and if they can prove they are not a risk.

If that sounds overblown, consider whether you've ever seen a penis on television or in a Hollywood film. Is it simply the case that no director has ever wanted to film one? no actor reveal one? no audience see one? Surely not.

If, as a result of banishment or his own decision, he finds himself in exile, he blurts out his dammed-up feelings of anger, his observations and reflections, considering this as his duty and mission.

Back to the case of the poet, isn't this exactly what he or she does. Though the anger has fallen quite out of fashion, the observing and reflecting has not. Neither has the subversion, though that subversion has been labeled "literary" and thus been neatly quarantined from reality. How many writers, for instance, tow the line by day and only dream by night--no matter how fervently they believe in their dreams?

Yet that which in his country is regarded with seriousness as a matter of life or death is nobody's concern abroad or provokes interest for incidental reasons.

That which our contemporary poets regard with great seriousness is, I think most will agree, of little interest to the general population. Where poetry reinforces the status quo and/or can be packaged as entertainment--for instance, Maya Angelou, Def Poetry Jam, all those little theme anthologies, books written by celebrity musicians--it sells. Otherwise, poets are mostly talking to other poets.

Thus a writer notices that he is unable to address those who care and is able to address only those who do not care. In our case I would amend this to: Thus a poet notices that he is only able to address those who are as voiceless as himself in relation to the dominant culture.

He himself gradually becomes used to the society in which he lives, and his knowledge of everyday life in the country of his origin changes from tangible to theoretical. If he continues to deal with the same problems as before, his work will lose the directness of captured experience. Therefore he must either condemn himself to sterility or undergo a total transformation.

And so poets become "literary." They regard current events and the majority culture as something distant, something outside the scope of their lives as poets. They are no longer generalists in the realm of human affairs, but specialists in the world of poetry.

Those are my initial thoughts on the essay, and I imagine they will become more refined with time and additional grappling.

Posted by Ginger at 02:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Have a number of mostly disconnected things on my mind today.

S. on the Radio

As I type this S. is in the other room doing a radio appearance by phone regarding the Terri Schiavo case. It's liberal talk radio show out in Minnesota, and this is the third or fourth time they've had him on as a guest in connection with his political blog. This is the first time they've invited him to talk about a national news story. I wish I could listen in, but the live stream is only available to Minnesotans.

For the record, I'd never want to live that way myself. Here's an interesting article by a bioethicist who mixes medicine and literature to talk about the inhumanity of a number of modern life-prolonging procedures. He also makes the interesting point that persistent vegetative state, or PSV, is a doctor-created disease, introduced into the medical community in the 1970s.

Postscript: The show's producer just called to thank S. for the interview and let him know they had an overwhelming positive response from their listeners afterward.

On Poetry

The April issue arrived in the mail yesterday. Cheers to them on the updated design. Jeers on the absolutely moronic review of Jack Gilbert's Refusing Heaven. The perpetrator of the nonsense, Dan Chiasson, sounds as though he's playing at criticism, but has no idea what he's talking about. For those of you who don't subscribe, he quotes the following portion of "Trying to Sleep"

I got my genius brother a summer job in the mills
and he stayed all his life. I lived with a woman four
years who went crazy later, escaped from the hospital,
hitchhiked across America terrified and in the snow
without a coat, and was raped by most men who gave her
a ride. I crank my heart even so and it turns over.

Chiasson willfully misreads these lines--or at least one hopes it was will and not mere stupidity which led him to formulate his analysis. "The litany won't slow to rank or sort old wickedness: "without a coat" runs right up against "she was raped," as though the two were comparable, or a coat might have protected her," he writes. That reeks of invention to me--like something penned by a college freshman in love with his own superior intellect.

Later Chiasson dismisses Gilbert's ability to speak "beguilingly, in paradoxes and figures," saying, "The primary hazard of this sort of thing is that, well, it's bound to attract the ladies. And so we meet Gilbert the cruiser..." What the---? Is he freakin' serious? That's what he took away from this book? Then again, I'm just a lady and you might as well ignore my criticism. For all you know I've simply fallen under the spell of Gilbert's irresistible charisma.

It is not to Poetry's credit to keep running these meaninglessly provocative reviews. Were they intellectually rigorous criticism one could forgive their being controversial. But as it is they're nothing more than deeply esoteric tabloid trash.

On Blogging

I started this blog on a whim and didn't give much thought to things like style, scope, audience, etc. Lately, however, I've been inclined to use it as a quasi-personal journal, which is not the direction I would have guessed it would take. I've never had much success with journaling and part of me regrets it. Had I taken the trouble to document my experiences, the last ten years of my life probably would have made for some interesting reading, but I lack/ed the requisite discipline. That being said, a blog is not the ideal forum for keeping a diary--not if one feels, as I do, that some aspects of one's life are not for public consumption. On the other hand, I find myself inexplicably motivated by the public nature of this endeavor, even if the audience is limited to a handful of strangers and a few friends. Much of what I write here differs from other blogs I've read in that it's not sufficiently audience-oriented to invite dialogue (as evidenced by the dearth of comments). I'm not naturally inclined toward the telling of witty anecdotes, striving to entertain would probably produce little more than long silences.

On Sleep

I need eight hours, and I've only gotten 6-6 1/2 the past two nights. I know some people consider it a badge of honor to be able to get by on five hours, but I'm not one of them. It took me years to realize how counter-productive shaving an hour or three off my nightly rest was. My motivation, concentration, and mental acuity all decline dramatically when I've not slept enough or well. Therefore, I accomplish twice as much on full sleep as I do otherwise. And this is one of those areas in which I feel our culture gets it all wrong. I suspect most people would be happier and more productive were they allowed to schedule their days according to their body rhythms--but the persistently popular notion of mind over body as an essential good discourages and disallows that possibility. Instead we're sold high-tech pillows and mattresses, white noise machines, prescription sleeping pills and the like to 'help' force our bodies into a group flow. Raise your hand if you'd rather say, no thank you.

On Biking

I took Graywolf out for her first ride yesterday. It wouldn't have been my first choice for a name, but I couldn't ignore the fact that she's gray, her purchase was inspired by reading Virginia Woolf, and the last collection of poems I read was published by Graywolf Press. So, there you go. The ride was quite a pleasant adventure. So pleasant that I was out for two hours without realizing how much time had passed. The route I chose featured at various points mud, snow, slush, ice, wet leaves, gravel--but I surprised myself by making it through unscathed. It was slow-going, like cross-country vs. downhill skiing, but no less fun for that. The bike handled beautifully. Another surprise: after two non-stop hours of aerobic exercise, the only things troubling me today are a slightly stiff right ankle and tender buttocks. In order to avoid enfeebling myself for a week, I rode until I got jello-legged, got off and walked the bike (briskly) until I recovered my legs, then rode some more and switched back and forth like that for the duration. That strategy seems to have worked well for me, and I feel up to another, albeit shorter, ride later today. I purchased and installed a wider, softer seat and can't wait to try it out.

On Entertaining

It looks like we'll be having guests from across the Pond in early April. A poetry acquaintance and his new bride will honeymooning in New York and would like to come up to New England to see us while they're here. How cool!

On a Final (Silly) Note

Czeslaw Milosz's collection of essays, To Begin Where I Am, arrived yesterday. Originally $30, I found it used online for $6 and couldn't resist. The dust jacket features a portrait of Milsoz as a young man, which bears an uncanny resemblance to Leonardo DiCaprio as Howard Hughs. See for yourself here.

Posted by Ginger at 04:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Over the winter I noticed that I'd been putting on some extra weight, but I wasn't as concerned about it as perhaps I ought to have been. As long as my size 10 jeans kept fitting, I figured it wasn't a big deal. They still fit, but so snug lately that I prefer something looser around the house. Still not a terribly big deal, since I'm bound to drop a few pounds once the weather warms up, right. At least that's what I thought before I went to the DMV for a new driver's license. My face in the new mug shot looks downright chubby(!), especially as compared to the passport photo I had taken in July.

So, this evening I tried on the riding outfit I bought, and popped on the dusty bathroom scale to get a sense of where I'm starting from and how far I have to go--and the damn thing read 162.5...pounds!! Holy crap! Not good. Not good at all, particularly because I have a family history of serious obesity.

I'm 5'6" with a medium build, so I figure I have about 32.5 lbs. to lose. It's probably unrealistic to think I'll get there before my 30th birthday, which is just three months hence. But maybe I can do half of it by then. Dieting is not on my agenda--being constitutionally incapable of dedicating the required time and mental energy to the effort, any diet would be bound to fail. I will, however, be cutting down on the butter, sugar, oil, and cheese whenever possible.

Exercise is going to have to be the primary means by which I get myself in shape. That should be much less difficult, since this long, austere winter has left me with a hankering for the outdoors. And though the snow hasn't melted yet, temps this week are supposed to be in the mid-40's. Warm enough finally to go out and do something!

Posted by Ginger at 05:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

From an interest sparked no doubt by reading other people's blogs--and by my reading Orlando as well as re-reading passages from To the Lighthouse--I went to library yesterday and borrowed some of Virginia Woolf's diaries and letters. What an altogether different world--writing in the morning, walks in the afternoon, dinners with friends, then reading by the fire. I'd like to take up walking, but where to? This small city is neither urban enough to provide interesting sights nor rural enough to allow for solitude. A bicycle might be the solution. There are some nice parks, which are probably more accessible by bike rather than on foot. Hmmn? I'll have to ask S. if we can afford an inexpensive model. I saw one for under $100 at an online shop that has a nearby location. Unfortunately, I also need new glasses. Broke mine last night for the umpteenth time, but this time crazy glue won't do to fix them, as the left lens is in three pieces. I have a back-up pair, but they are ludicrously large with bronzish frames. Who decided that corrective lenses ought to span everything from one's eyebrows to the apples of one's cheeks? If high fashion is ridiculous, the bourgeois version is worse. Aesthetically I prefer contacts over glasses, but the former cause me eye strain, fatigue and headaches. Probably my own fault. I've been using the same seven or eight-year old prescription to re-order lenses online, and I should probably be re-fitted. How profoundly stupid of me. My vision is the one thing I'm sure I couldn't live without.

Posted by Ginger at 09:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

A brief genealogy: Barrie unleashed the stick on 3/7/05 - Amanda - scooterdeb - Brian - Karma Police - Evelio - Ivy - Suzanne - Jeff - Patricia Lockwood - Frank - Amy - Steve - me.

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be:

Sean Hannity's Let Freedom Ring: Winning the War of Liberty over Liberalism.

Available for about what it's worth ($1.89) from Amazon.com. Condition: Acceptable. Comments: Library stickers, stamps, and plastic cover - scuffs/shelfwear - watermarks - other marks. I'm tempted to buy it, stomp on it, then resell it for $1.50.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Do I have to answer this? *Sigh* Yes. Darcy, esp. as played by Colin Firth.

The last book you bought is:

Goethe's Faust.

The last book you read:

Albert Goldbarth, Budget Travel Through Time and Space. (An amazing collection of poems, beautifully printed, a real book lover's book, and at only $11.20 through Amazon, a steal!)

What are you currently reading?

Virginia Woolf, Orlando
David Wagoner, Good Morning and Good Night
Randall Mann, Complaint in the Garden
Goethe, Faust

Five books you would take to a deserted island:

1. One very fat and very expensive anthology of World Poetry (in English translation)
2. One very fat and very expensive anthology of Contemporary British & American Poetry
3. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
4. Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse
5. For the last I'd glue together the covers of Milan Kundera's books and call it his Complete Works

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons)? And Why?

Scoplaw, because he's managed to avoid it so far.
Anne Haines, because she seems very nice and has also not yet been sticked.
Glenn, because he commented on my blog.

Posted by Ginger at 11:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[I plan to get around to what was up with the painting, but first...a rant.]

CYNICS BEWARE. I am so (lovingly) done with your attitudes.

Beauty.
There, I said it.

Love.
Ha!

Truth.
Just try 'n stop me.

Despite their Hallmarkification, these things do exist, and they are worth striving for.

Oh, and here's one to raise your hackles: Art. Art, Art, Art, Art!!!

I douse you with my earnestness and watch you melt, you wicked little things, you.

Ever seen the best minds of your generation destroyed by madness? Ever seen them butcher the absolute heart of the poem out of their own bodies? Would you admit it if you had? Would you care? I mean, that's so 19th-20th century, right?

Posted by Ginger at 02:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Inspired partly by a captivating photograph of Scoplaw's friend Riposte, and partly by a recent trip to the National Gallery of Art where, much to my surprise, I enjoyed a Mark Rothko exhibit, I painted this last night.

If I have time later today I'll amend this post to qualify what I mean by inspired, as the canvas above bears no resemblance to the aforementioned photograph. Note: I am not a painter. Just someone who enjoys fiddling around with paint occassionally. The original is 18" x 24" acrylic on canvas. My camera's flash produced a lot of distortion in the upper part of the black band. In the actual painting, the top is as neat as the bottom.

Posted by Ginger at 01:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Listening to Motifs by Paris Combo. French cabaret meets gypsy, jazz, flamenco, folk. Hear it for yourself at: allmusic (((Motifs > Overview)))

Posted by Ginger at 04:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Down below I wrote a little bit--or ran at the mouth, rather--about my writer's block. And again, I'm not sure the term "writer's block" is an accurate way of describing my particular difficulty. As I understand it, most blocked writers struggle with having something to say, and that's not been my case. I've had plenty to say, but enormous difficulty saying it.

It was so bad at one point that I'd feel physically ill at the prospect of having to write a single sentence, and sitting down at the keyboard produced nothing more than complete mental paralysis. I was able to talk about the things I was interested in writing--and for required expository writing I was able to speak in fairly decent prose, which S. transcribed for me. But I could not perform the physical act of writing myself.

I've analyzed the problem from a hundred different angles, both alone and with the help of professionals from whom I'd hoped to gain some insight. But we never did get at the root of the problem. Though things are obviously not as bad now as they were, I still have a lot of ground to cover.

One of the issues I keep coming back to is early praise. From a very young age I was told that I was a very good writer. And my parents, being creative hippy types, encouraged me. At five or six I remember writing plays that my sister and I performed. Sometimes they were alternative episodes of the televisions show "Little House on the Prairie," a family favorite. In third grade my best friend and I each wrote "books." We filled the pages of our own separate composition notebooks (the kind with black & white speckled hardcovers) with an original story in chapters. My memory is fuzzy on the details, but I remember that for some time we carried those notebooks with us everywhere and were terribly excited about the project.

This, coupled with my nearly perfect grades, met with strong approval from my teachers. My only flaw, as far as they were concerned, was my awkwardness. (I wasn't the cutest little duckling in my class, and I was painfully shy.) Therefore, being a good writer and reader became an essential part of my identity.

In high school I took a major detour through much wildness (the transition from a small, Catholic grade school to a large, public high school didn't go exactly smoothly), and my grades fell sharply. I kept writing though--graduating from fiction to poetry, inspired by song lyrics, the Beats, and my bohemian friends. We'd get plenty drunk and plenty stoned and hold candlelit readings wherever adult-unsupervised space was available. Afterwards I was usually approached by at least one person lavishing praise on my work. (Those notebooks are still in my possession, and one of these days I'll post up a poem or two so you can have a nice, long laugh with me.) Needless to say, I came to think pretty well of myself as a poet.

Then I got married. Way too young, but when one's life is a crazy ass mess and one's parents are crazy ass hippie stoners, one craves stability. I dropped the writing like a bad habit, and chased the American Dream--hard. I actually remember thinking to myself that all my creative endeavors were the whimsy of youth and it was time to grow up. Because I'd dropped out of high school, I hadn't the formal education to correct my misinformed belief that most artists were reckless junkies.

Always a hard worker, even in jobs that didn't warrant the effort, by twenty-one I'd gotten pre-approval for a mortgage and very nearly bought a house. Had I gone through with it, I'd probably still be living there today, leading one of those lives of quiet desperation. But my gut backed out before we made a serious offer.

By twenty-four, my early mid-life crisis was in full-swing and I was back in school looking for a way out of the ultra-conformist box I’d built up around me. My English Comp I professor was so impressed with my skills as a writer that she recommended me for the college honors program, and my ambitions as a creative type were reborn.

Once again I was an academic success. A history professor asked my permission to use one of my papers as a model for future honors classes. An English professor told me I’d found something in a Robert Frost poem that three Nobel laureates had missed. Enter: the poetry workshops—and more praise.

So what could possibly be wrong with all that?

My guess is this. I think the years I spent not writing stunted my creative growth—by at least seven years. In contrast, I think my maturity and sophistication as a reader has proceeded normally. Therefore, Ginger the Reader is painfully aware of Ginger the Writer’s deficiencies, and whereas I was blissfully incapable of objectivity as a teenager, I am counter-productively self-critical these days.

I think I may be afraid to fail, even privately, because all that early praise had me convinced of my enormous potential. There’s a popular expression that’s to the point. Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt. Better to be ignorant of the limits of one’s talent, than to become intimately acquainted with them through failure. And the more I’ve felt as though excellence is expected of me, the more inhibited I’ve become.

So, part of my mission with this blog is to open myself up to the prospect of failure. I don’t know if anyone’s actually reading it, or what, if anything, they/you think of the writing—but I’m getting the words down and putting them out there. I’m practicing vulnerability. I’m willing to be the fool.

Posted by Ginger at 03:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Review copies of Richard Siken's "Crush," winner of the 2004 Yale Series of Younger Poets competition. Powerful work. Disturbing. Original. I sat up late last night reading the first half, and finished the second half this morning. I couldn't put it down.

Something about it reminds me of Dave Eggers's "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius," which oddly enough, I didn't like.  Siken's voice is similar to Eggers's when Eggers sounds darkly frantic.  Siken, however, is relentless. There is less irony, and much less levity to soften the hurt. Not the soul analyzing itself from a distance, but body, heart, and mind in the moment.

We definately need someone to review this for us.

Actually, I have to confess that I didn't read AHWOSG past the scene on the beach where he's having that absurd conversation with some girl about destroying the world anew each each day. It gave me the same kind of sick feeling I got trying to listen to Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy philosophize on the train in "Before Sunrise."  Was I ever that stupid? Probably, but that's why I've no desire to resurrect my teenaged acid trips for use in a memoire or film. It doesn't strike me as brave, just dumb.

Posted by Ginger at 12:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I am not happy with myself right now. I'm a creative person, goddamnit, but it's been a loooong time since I've finished any piece of creative writing. I have fragment upon fragment upon fragment sitting on my hard drive, but absolutely nothing to show for my time and struggle. This isn't some short-lived, "nothing to worry about" lull, but a hyper-extended bout of...I'm not sure you'd even call it writer's block. I don't know what you'd call it.

On one hand, I couldn't possibly get by in life without some creative outlet--but on the other, this continual failure to produce anything worthwhile is driving me up a wall. I've run through all the obvious and not-so-obvious remedies, but so far nothing's helped. I've thought and soul-searched and agonized over it, but I still can't put my finger on what the essential problem is. Arrgh.

I'm particularly frustrated tonight, because once again I felt the urge to write, and once again I ended up with the gods know what. Witness...

Were Your Heart Worth the Price of Admission

Sadly, I say
and sadly and sadly you know it's true.

This is the scene, in a bluish light:
aaaaaa a narrow street between tall buildings--
aaaaaaaaaa flimsy stubs fluttering down from
aaaaaaaaaaaaaa high windows like ticker-tape, sticking
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa to the asphalt, wet.

This canyon is no canyon of heroes, I say.

But how did we get here? you ask.

And because it is unusual to be standing anywhere
while the mementos of yesterday's disasters
aaaaaaa drizzle fanfare, I explain:

Now, what the hell is that!? Damned if I know. And what's the point? Damned there too. This has nothing whatsoever to do with my personal life, at least on any conscious level. Where it came from is a mystery (though one I can see rather clearly in mind's vivid eye), and where it might go is equally mysterious. I'm not even sure it's worth finding out. Or rather, I'm pretty sure it's going nowhere, and am deeply frustrated by that.

I've written better than this in the past. And somewhere deep within my soul's core there exists, I believe, the potential write better than this in the future.

Another example--this one untitled:

4B made the most of their white walls,
But for the couple in 5C that was out
of the question. They glamoured over the place
in a midnight glaze that clashed perfectly with the linoleum;

and the tall, white flower with the thick, pale stem
waiting to die in its dry vase
made some accidental sense, though neither of them
thought about it sitting there in the center of the kitchen table.

Kate, he began.

but Kate had a thing about sound, and would only hear
what pleased her.

Just now, she thought, the sound of my name on those lips
doesn't please me at all.

She had a thing about a lot of things...

Many of these fragments begin as scenes that are almost cinematic. When I see them it's much like remembering a scene from a film, except the movie I'm watching only exists in my mind. Typically I struggle to describe what I'm seeing, and it almost never comes out on paper the way I imagine it.

Other times it's language, not visuals, that occurs to me. Usually in the form of random lines with which I don't know what to do. Some excavations from my notebook:

Your soul can't match my own for trouble.

And what if the wind got fat on (blank)

That deeply-furrowed, forgetful brow
aaaaa that settles into wiry tufts
above water glass eyes. That large, lumpy
aaaaa nose. Those meaty lips. That face!
(this, I think, is some sort of ode to individual beauty)

there you are, naked as Adam before
nakedness was invented, mouthing
pomegranate, willow, sluice.

I can barely keep the light on for myself.
The porch bulb's gone recklessly
in love with the dark...

the dull march of February in the north

and so on...

*Sigh* If not for these frequent intrusions of random crap into my consciousness I'd give up writing altogether and do something else.

Posted by Ginger at 04:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If frank though impersonal discussions of sex make you squeamish, maybe you should skip this post.

Several years ago I read Natalie Angier's Woman: An Intimate Geography. In it Angier talks about the evolutionary function of the female orgasm. Apparently scientists have determined that it serves no purpose in reproduction, but feel it must have some utility according to the principles of natural selection. Feminists have their own reasons for wanting an answer to this scientific mystery. On some level I disagree with the line of inquiry, because it's predicated on the notion that in order to have value, the female orgasm must serve some function. As far as I'm concerned, that's not much different than saying sex is only appropriate for the purpose of reproduction, and is less healthy/moral/necessary otherwise. On the other hand, it's a question I haven't been entirely able to set aside, and every now and then it pops into my consciousness again. (See, for instance, my God & Sex post regarding the mating raccoons.)

Today, two possible explanations occurred to me. The first is that since the advent of tools women haven't been quite as helpless our sisters in the animal kingdom. Therefore, man might risk death trying to mate if we weren't interested.

A second, more likely hypothesis has to do with hormones. While I hate the idea that our behavior is driven by biological chemicals we don't control, I have to accept it as fact. Not the whole truth of why we do what we do, but part of it. Like men, we have hormones that influence our level of sexual desire, and our sexual urgency tends to abate temporarily after an orgasm or three. Were we incapable of achieving that release, we would be entirely different creatures.

Of course, among women our level of desire and ability to achieve orgasm differs, but I've never heard of any woman with high desire/low ability who wasn't made unhappy by it. My mother told me that before she got married her grandmother gave her some advice about sex. Great-grandma said it wasn't entirely unpleasant if one could focus on something else during the act. To get by, she did her grocery shopping list in her head while Great-grandpa took advantage of his marital privilege. Thank the gods times have changed!

Posted by Ginger at 06:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)