the first time

Hello.

I'm breaking this blogs virginal page. I suppose it makes sense since I'm the only person who can post on this here thing at the moment.

For people who don't know our little "homo book club" is now reading Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. I'm not going to give you a summery of the book, that's what wikipedia is for or even amazon if you're looking for an even shorter description.

Warning do not read on if you haven't already gotten to book three at least. I don't give much away but I will talk about subjects that you might not know about if you haven't read this far.

On incest. I actually don't like referring to the situation between Desdemona and Lefty as incest. It leaves a weird taste in my mouth. Sort of like describing myself as a lesbian instead of queer or a dyke. It fits sometimes but not quite. At first it sort of creeped me out that they were/are brother and sister. After a while though it seemed okay because they both loved each other. It reminded me of a conversation I had once. I'm not sure how we got on the subject by my friend eventually said, "If you think about it what is truly wrong with having a sexual relationship with a family member besides the fact that if you have babies they might have birth defects?" And I thought about it and I couldn't think of any logical reason (besides the baby thing) that it would be wrong. Except in the situation of adults having sexual relations with children (ex: father and daughter or mother and son). That is definitely someone in power taking advantage of a child. Look up The Children of God also known as the Family of Love. Creepy shit.

I think in general the subject of "incest" is quite taboo in our culture. I guess that's obvious, but it's almost like no one ever wants to talk about it. Not that I've tried exclusively to have conversations about it.


On words. I have a quote that I really like from page 217:
"Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in 'sadness,' 'joy,' or 'regret.' Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic traincar constructions like, say, 'the happiness that attends disaster.' Or: 'the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy.' I'd like to show how 'intimations of morality brought on by aging family members' connects with 'the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.' I'd like to have a word for 'the sadness inspired by failing restaurants' as well as for 'the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.' I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever. I can't just sit back and watch from a distance anymore. From here on in, everything I'll tell you is colored by the subjective experience of being part of events. Here's where my story splits, divides, undergoes meiosis. Already the world feels heavier, now I'm a part of it. I'm talking about bandages and sopped cotton, the smell of mildew in movie theaters, and of the lousy cats and their stinking litter boxes, of rain on city streets when the dust comes up and the old Italian men take their folding chairs inside. Up until now it hasn't been my world, Not my America. But here we are, at last."

"Oversimplifies feeling," so true. Words, they're awful wonderful.

I think that's all I have to say for now.