Happy in stilletos - reflections on impending womanhood

Been away sooooo long.... why? Because each time I saw the last post I said to myself: that's exactly what I want to write, nothing further to say.

But the issue today is: high heels. After a fruitful conversation with someone a while ago, I started wondered: what are high heels? Can I be happy without stilletos? Is it what I am missing to become a self-confident modern woman? I am adolescent or even childish not to have a pair? And what's up with long legs? Do I need those to be attractive, or to feel good about myself?


High heels are a leftover from the corsage. Picture a man in high heels. A manly man, a man's man, a family man in high heels. What's so strange and wrong about that picture? What's so disturbing?

High heels are the epithome of fragility, ethereal figures, floating but not walking. You have to learn how to walk with them, they are effort made invisible. High heels make you perfect, in a "natural way"- a goodess floating gracefully above the ground.

They hurt, are uncomfortable, alter dramatically your height, make you a little unrecognizable sometimes. You can't run well. But everyone says you can, "you just need to practice". They make you be tense all the time - in perfect equilibrium. That is also labelled as healthy exercice. In sum: only careless women or those with no self-esteem pass on a good pair of thin platforms.


It's what others do. They wear high heels. Of course we should do so too. Plus, they help mark special events, special garments. They give men a sign that you are desirable and are out tonight, not mopping your floor or watching a soap opera. Yes, you are a fully packaged woman. You will not be cuaght off-guard.


And your feet must be beautiful! Paint the nails, get pedicures, apply creams. You have walked in a baking sun? Hurry to the bathroom, apply creams and masks and all the other things, before someone sees how rough your feet are! God forbid anyone knows you walk and run and use your feet to stand on! That's not what they were made for! They were made for sparkling Cinderella shoes, to be displayed and approved. In a pair of beautiful high heels.


High heels today are obligatory, normative, expected in the mainstream world. Another rule, another requirement. But be careful! Do not exagerate, do not go "over the top" with some badly matched skirt and high heels. Otherwise you may end up looking like a tramp, a prostitute, a lost woman. Keep the balance, balance yourself on the high heels: a lot of make up, but not too much, short skirts, but not too shorts, colourful dresses but not too colourful, original but not too originial.


And careful with bright red lipstick.





Can't help but get tired... Of this self-warranted criticisms, that have a justification bigger than me. Being a woman is suppose to be a painful, sinful job. It involves paranoia, self-degradation, self-control and a complete lack of faith on the equal value of men (because they are all pigs you know...)

Sometimes I wonder what made me so insensitive to these societal constraints, so uncooperative? Don't we all... Then I think of litening to No Doubt on the radio with this song. Was that it?

Only Antonioni knows how it feels

When everything loses meaning, what do you? When it truly loses meaning, when the organisation of basic structures seems arbitrary: what will you do?

To cease to exist without even stopping...

Jerry Garcia and the Jellyfish

Many posts have been going through my mind, but none of them got written down. "A Manifesto against lace" and "Dirty Cold City", "Back on my Feet"... these are the titles of the posts that will remain in my mental safebox for now But today total laziness about my homework and the sunshine and my signing of a contract (I love signing important things..) aH.... It' the perfect time for a double post.

They Don't Make Men Like Jerry Garcia Anymore! A.K.A. Redefining the sex-symbol.

Today the sunshine induce me to put Wake of the Flood on, and do some reading with a Grateful Dead background. I had heard it before, but I think it just had to be heard many times before I could fully appreciate the amazingness behind it, the subtle harmonies and the poetry of teh lyrics.

My personal favourite:
Stella Blue



And then there is Jerry Garcia..... oh Jerry Garcia.


Jerry Garcia is not the epithome of sexiness in the conventional sense. But, I will argue, here is where the conventional sense reveals its futility. Jerry Garcia is truly a seductive character, a charming man. Pherhaps it is the fact that he is such a great musician, that you see him singing and playing these songs. But he is so much more than that. He is beautiful to look at, he is beautiful when he speaks, when he walks. He is not a beautiful cover page, he is a beautiful living breathing person. His face inspires confidence and friendliness, but has such special features that sticks in your mind.


Jerry Garcia is the unsung sex symbol of the hippie 1960's. He is the embodiment of real beauty, of warmth and charm, style and talent. In a way he, like David Crosby, embody an aesthetic male ideal that has disappeared. Maybe it's our society's condemnation of young beards and moustaches as ridiculous? Maybe it's the loss of the value of conversation, of knowing how to speak well and seduce others through words? Maybe a general downplay of creativity as attractive? Who knows.

One of my favourite Jerry Garcia moments: his little confession to Janis Joplin. "Janis, I love you ever since the day I saw you". DOn't know what happened later. And of course, they were all a little bit into the music... but you got to love it at 4:18.



When in doubt... knit tentacles!

And the latest knitting news: here it is: THE JELLYFISH!

This was so much fun to do, and I hope the person I made it for will like it. Used scraps of yarn I had from other things. The funky orange ones has perfect colours =)
(click on the pictures for the project page on Ravelry )

It's a Lazy Day, It's a Crazy Day

See.. I had written this whole post yesterday about a reinterpretation of Simone de Beauvoir because of some existential trouble. And then I looked it over, talked with a friend on the other side of the freakking ocean (really helped and thanks ifyou ever read this). And then realised

what the hell. Screw the reading for tomorrow and the emails I should send and the talk I shoudl have and all. Whathever.

I'm just going to put this song on and knit a jellyfish.


Cause if there is someone you can count on is the Flying Burrito Brothers...

Dark Side of the Moon Knitting Pattern

And voilá! It's done! (it was already a couple of weeks ago, but only now did I get a chance to post it here)

"I'll See You On the Dark Side of the Moon"
Wall Hanging

For the project click on the picture above

To download the pattern (which includes a great and tested colourwork scheme to follow for any project with the logo) click on :

http://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/dark-side-of-the-moon-wall-hanging

The pattern is in English and has quite a lot of explanation and tips, but do not hesitate to email me for translations for Français and Português (will make them available shortly) =)

This took me about a week to do. It's tricky with the intarsia (it was the first time I used the technique as well). But the result is very satisfactory in terms of reproducing the effect with enough nuances.

To improve/future plans:
- make a black sweater with this on the back
- try even more colours in the rainbow (need to fins exact shades - diffidcult - and manage all the yarns at the same time - extreme =) - )
- experiment with some silverish yarn around the prism


Put the record on and knit away ....

Songs for the Forgotten Girls or 3 bitter and sad songs

As I was watching a series that marked my childhood about a bright young girl in a small american town, I remembered where so many feelings of revolt and frustration have come from for me and so many others.

We were sold the story. Small bright young girls, dreaming of adventure and glory. Eager, passionate. Waiting. Waiting for Marlon Brando to stop for a coffee in a motorcycle. Waiting for the sweet and tender alien hunted down by government to take us on a world of dangerous adventures. Waiting for Danny to show us what summer rommance was all about, for Cry-Baby Walker to make us into bad girls or for some handsome stranger to teach us how to dance. Waiting to find out around the corner, by accident, or destinies.

And we waited, and we waited. And no one came around. And we realised we were sold into a cruel myth that kept us wasting our lives away for a man that would never come, for a life we would never have.

Some of us still had it in them to get up. And we went away. We bought the motorcycle and rode it ourselves, and we got what we wanted in life with a bit more hardship than predicted. We hitched-hicked West, we flew North or we took the bus South, and left our small little towns where american highschools failed to materialise and no leather-jacket ever showed up. And we are glad we did. We are proud of ourselves.

But once in a while, the little girls in us still feel the pain of being left behind, the betrayal of having been tricked into allienation. We feel revolt and an immense sadness, now rationalized and overcome, but still there.

These are some songs for us. For all the forgotten girls.

A little bit of true poetry or what is on my MP3 player these days

By the Dresden Dolls

BAD HABIT

biting keeps your words at bay
tending to the sores that stay
happiness is just a gash away
when i open a familiar scar
pain goes shooting like a star
comfort hasn't failed to follow so far...

and you might say it's self-indulgent
you might say its self-destructive
but, you see, it's more productive
than if i were to be healthy

& pens and penknives take the blame
crane my neck & scratch my name
but the ugly marks
are worth the momentary gain...
when i jab a sharpened object in
choirs of angels seem to sing
hymns of hate in memorandum

and you might say it's self-indulgent
and you might say it's self-destructive
but, you see, it's more productive
than if i were to be happy

and sappy songs about sex and cheating
bland accounts of two lovers meeting
make me want to give mankind a beating

and you might say it's self-destructive
but, you see, i'd kick the bucket
sixty times before i'd kick the habit

and as the skin rips off i cherish the revolting thought
that even if i quit
there's not a chance in hell i'd stop
and anyone can see the signs
mittens in the summertime
thank you for your pity, you are too kind

and you might say its self-inflicted
but you see that's contradictive
why on earth would anyone practice self destruction?

and pain opinions are sitcom feeding
they dont know that their minds are teething
makes me want to give mankind a beating

i'm tried bandages and sinking
i've tried gloves and even thinking
i've tried vaseline
i've tried everything
and no-one cares if your back is bleeding
they're concerned with their hair receding
looking back it was all maltreating
every thought that occurred misleading

makes me want to give myself a beating....

Being Old #3 - The Writers

Chapters 3 - The Writers

Anaïs Nin

Being Old #2 - The Musicians

Chapter 2 - The Musicians

Joan Baez



Ray Manzarek

Being Old #1 - The Feminists

I've been writing down a series of names on a mental list of people that got old in a great way. And by this I do not mean the "age gracefully" thing of popular fashion magazines or the "dress appropriately" doctrine form the hairdresser salon down the street. I mean people that when you compare them across 2 or 3 decades look as beautiful in both times.

Why? good question. It's not that they didn't get wrinkles, grey hair, that their bodies didn't chnage. They did, and you can notice. But somehow, these people look great. I guess because they, in a deeper level, look themselves. Time or convetion has not tied them down and they have not wither away. They are vibrant and look passionate as always. I think that may be the thing: they look the same in a deeper sense.

So, here are a couple of people that model the way in which I would like to age.
Chapter 1 - The Feminists

Gloria Steinem



Simone de Beauvoir

Winter - an unfinished manifesto

Many have said that there is nothing like a good snowy winter. Those temperate climates, like that of my own Mediterranean origins, are just “boring” or “not real winter”. Happy faces, “Christmas is almost here”. Ah… how good and cozy is it to be home, by the fire, in our warm house. And then to go skiing, snowboarding and to play in the snow. Who wouldn’t like snow? It’s winter: rejoice!

And this is when I conclude we are living in the end of civilization. For me, all this enthusiasm, this unconditional love of the cold days is a symptom, one more symptom, of the decadence of our society. We have become so disconnected from the world outside our cheaply-over-heated pods that we do not remember what winter is all about. I’ll tell what it is all about, what it is been all about. Winter is about struggle, fight to stay alive. Winter, the winter with snowy and negative temperatures, is the time when food is scarce, animals dig in for roots and grass under the white. Winter is about eating all you saved up, is about making it through. Winter is about stillness, death. Winter is small days, fighting for light, for breath, and long nights of quietness, of waiting. Waiting to move and live again. Wait for colour to return.

And, so what? you say. Has our society not given us great progress, art, leisure, why should we not take advantage, reap the fruit of our labour and be happy with harsh winters, insulated in our synthetic suits, warmed by cheap gas in our elaborate houses?

And this is when we should remember that not everyone has a house. That the same wonderful magical society that gave us the skiis, and the lamp and the electricity and the heath, gave some of us nothing. Gave some of us struggle for life on the streets of our cement forest. A struggle harsher than of any other medieval farmer. Because it is a lonely struggle, a fight to combat what others love.

Next time you are happy they say it will be cold. Think of them. All of them that cannot afford the lamp, the heath, the house, the insulation from the harshness of nature. Don’t dismiss it, don’t act childish. Think of what winter is all about.

And find beauty in it. There is always beauty, even in winter.

Autumnn Flowers Throw

[My first decently complex project in crochet, done without supervision (yes, I was working unsupervised with a crochet hook.... be scared...very scared... =) ]

This small throw materializes what Fall is all about for me.

Its colors remind me of the leaves turning hot-chocolate brown and into warm shades of red, of greens getting dry and of the myterious grey skies. The throw looks perfect over a bed or a sofa when the warm weather leaves and cozy evenings by the fireside arrive. The fact that it is made of leftovers and scraps from previous summer projects also means a lot to me, because Fall is about getting back home and weaving together all the bright beautiful memories from summertime. This throw is about calm, peacefulness and that sense of satisfaction with small things that I always associated with Fall.

Inspired by a Phildar model (specially the flowers) in Phildar No. 805, Mode & Crochet.

Soundtrack

Some of what I listened to when I was crocheting this - I think crochet I better done listening music. Knitting requires a movie or a tv series. Someone should find out why. Or maybe not.


In the morning:


In the evening:

I call it "Joni Mitchell psychology"

I should be in bed.

But I was just thinking.

When you are a Joni Mitchell fan, you know you are doing fine when you compulsively listen to "Song to a Seagull" instead of "Blue". The domestic bliss motif applies better than the sad break-up album: you're fine.

I' m fine.










"She was somewhere being free"

It was beautiful. It still is.

Convocation is murder

Convocation? Who came up with this? It is a most bizarre mixture of ceremonies that might just be the most uncomfortable thing to sit through ever invented.

First, there are people in silence with tears in their eyes, standing… it all reminds of church: mass or a funeral maybe? Then the gowns: somewhere between the priests’ gowns and the bad costumes you make for Carnival in school (always turn out oversized and shapeless). And then there is the pipe band…. Oh, not what you’re thinking about. It is not like the Celtic stuff I go to hear in the summer. It’s like a military pipe band, neat and appropriate, regulated and disciplined. I love bag pipes, and I hate the pipe band. It’s not music: they are marching sounds of boots hitting the floors. It makes it look like a military parade.

And then the wedding-like profusion of pictures being taken. If people could come out of their bodies and see what they’re doing…. It’s a picture that is there just to stand on a wall, and not just 1. Oh, no, tons of pictures…. Seriously.

And the congratulations. Congratulations for what? For having made it this far? Please… it is so artificial.

And why is it artificial? And here we get to what essentially is wrong with this funny procession of hats and gowns and uniforms and “everyone rise”. It minimizes the work everyone does during years. It minimizes learning. It implies the degree, the symbolic framed paper, is what everyone is working for every day. And it cannot be, it should not be. More than that, when you say congratulations to someone because they are finishing their degree, you are missing the congratulations you should have yelled each time they achieved something more, they wrote a beautiful essay, they answered an exam thoughtfully or came home exited because they just understood something.

Yes, convocation is like a wedding and a funeral. It is a wedding because it is the unnecessary celebration of what cannot be celebrated, of what must lived and valued every minute – knowledge and the pursuit of understanding. It is a funeral because, in displacing value from the ordinary achievements of everyday life to this ceremony we must be killing in ourselves all the thirst for comprehension that used to drive our daily lives as students. We are killing the student, the learner, the thirst.

Convocation is not even a funeral. It is murder.

On dancing

Everyone should dance like The Housemartins. At least that's my take on it. Imagine how much more fun life would be




(I know, this is a post about pretty much nothing other than pure enjoyment. Right now, there is nothing else to talk about. All my creativity has been exclusively redirected to my assignments which are awesome, but could come one at the time please!)

Crafty updates - Neon, Jackie O and general summeriness

Here are some of my latests creations/works/projects/crafty achievements. A duo of colour and hard work (it took a whole summer and my mother's precious help for the back of the skirt). But, here they are, a mix of a Jackie-O psychadelic menthol jacket and a practical neon coloured 80's-invoking dress.

(Click on Ravelry link to see the project page)

The 80s Summer Dress

http://ravel.me/FilipaML/1htsb


The Matching Jacket

http://ravel.me/FilipaML/eiwm9

Male Allies?

The Women's Center I volunteer at is currently developping a "male allies project". A male ally... a male ally...

A male ally to the feminist cause, be a male ally. What does this mean? For me this makes little sense. A person becomes an ally to a cause they support, but is not theirs.

How is this not a cause for men? How?

Men that feel they do not have a front-row sit in the feminist movement (as broad as it is) are exactly like white americans in the 60's who felt that the civil rights movement was not their cause. How can it not be your cause once you recognize its value?

Women constitute half of the population, roughly speaking. They are the mothers, sisters,collegues, friends and partners of these "male allies". Their issues, are men's issues. Patriarchy isn't a one way thing. It is complex and global and affects all in a society. How can defeat oppression of 50% without having the "other side" (is there sides here?) working on it too?

Men shouldn't be allies. Men should be in the central positions, by women's sides. Resognising women's first-person experience, and valuing their own experience.

The counter-position obviously goes on the line of "men will just highjack this whole operation". That is counter productive. If in the feminist movement we cannot work internally towards living ideals of equality and equal commitment, what is the point?

Main point: if men are interested in being part of this huge project (if passivity, that big obstacle is falling down) why do they have to get "ally" status? Why aren't they full members? They are people, like us. If we can all fight together, it mean the fight can be won.


"We have to free half of the human race, the women, so that they can help to free the other half"

Emmeline Pankhurst - Sufragette 100 years ago

Can we start freeing the other half too please?

All alive, all well

I'm back to blogging (still in September)

Made a few changes around here.

Things are very peaceful. Not boring, peaceful. Amazingly so. Work floods in from everywhere, but it is beautiful to do. Specially something I am studying now



Spinoza is absolutely fascinating. Complicated not blogging material. But I think this man in the 17th c, was in so many ways beyond our modern day.


I've also fallen in love with Eugen Hutz and Gogol Bordello. Why didn't nobody tell me about this before?



Instructions for use:
Listen, loud on headphones late at night and dance. Try not to make a lot of noise. Given in to complete decadence and enjoy.



"People got to get up early and she got a boyfriend and this whole thing is one big dissapointment".


So, gypsy punk and 17th century philosophy? Strange days seem to have found us.

All for now. I need to crochet a blanket. It's getting cold.

summer sun

Long time no see! Oh well, it's summer. It's time to forgive and forget.

To forget yourself, the world and everything. Walk down the beach, feel the sand and the sun, forget. Be out in the garden, paint and water the plants, forget. Eat a family lunch, dance in a French nightclub, drive through field of golden wheat, fly over to green esmerald islands and walk the dusty streets of an Indian metropolis: forgive, forget, forgive, forget. Everyone, everything, yourself. Summer is theraphy for us all. All you need is summer.

(Thinking in advance, September will bring a radical change of look, maybe a change of theme, and a new regular blog updating).

For now, Summer:

Amanda Palmer, I love you.

A brilliant one by Amanda Palmer and her man Neil Gaiman!