Meera Meera On the Wall

Like a fly, only Meera

Category: Uncategorized

what does a woman need to know?

*POW*

a bit coquettish


“For no woman is really an insider in the institutions fathered by masculine consciousness. When we allow ourselves to believe we are, we lose touch with parts of ourselves defined as unacceptable by that consciousness; with the vital toughness and visionary strength of the angry grandmothers, the shamanesses, the fierce market women of the Ibo Women’s War, the marriage-resting women of silk workers of prerevolutionary China, the millions of widows, midwives, and women healers tortured and burned as witches for three centuries in Europe, the Beguines of the twelfth century, who formed independent women’s orders outside the domination of the Church, the women of the Paris Commune who marched on Versailles, the uneducated housewives of the Women’s Cooperative Guild in England who memorized poetry over the washtub and organized against their oppression as mothers, the women thinkers discredited as “strident,” “shrill,” “crazy,” or “deviant” whose courage to be heretical, to…

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Whiling

How do we occupy our time whilst idle? Most people around me are reading – papers, books; some are on their phones or laptops; one fellow is munching and watching – not in a disturbing manner, just in one of a passive bystander.

This last is a personal favourite – I may be writing, but I’m still observing. It’s quite possible he is being unnerved by me, but he doesn’t have a channel via which to express his alarm, as I do. The thought tickles me – is it the lowest kind of schadenfreude to take pleasure in discomfiture of your causing? In that case I must be a sociopathic degenerate – and I’m quite happy in this assessment, for it’s helped me to while the time.

Now let me check that I haven’t missed my stop.

Ending.

When it finally went, it went quietly; like snuffing a candle, as if all the fireworks that came before were the pantomime-esque prelude to the real show. In the dim afterglow that was anything but warm, the cacophony of these past months seemed grotesque, a mockery of something wonderful – a gift – that had been battered like cheap papier mache until it was eviscerated of everything sweet within.

Carelessness gives way to bitterness; taking leads to losing; forever ends in finally.

No longer to strive only for strife.

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