#my moots and all the artists I knew!! being able to open comments under posts to see other people excited abt it!!

[tobyneedssleep]

It’s “feeling homesick over old fandoms” time

[parahpraxis-blog]

2/8/19

I did magic mushrooms with Jimmy one night. We listened to music, and talked, and had vigorous, sensual, connected sex on the couch, and talked, and smoked, and listened to music. I remember going to the bathroom after this other-worldly sexual experience, after the post-coital cigarette and the staring at each other like “wow”. I did what I needed to and stood at the sink, washing my hands. I looked up at the mirror and saw myself: dishevelled hair, boobs free and swinging under a green shirt absently tucked into the side of my purple underwear. I was still big and long: shoulder span, tummy, legs, teeth, thighs. I was still taller than Jimmy, and wider. I had not physically diminished in any way. 

But I was beautiful. I was a sexual being, a woman. My lips curved in a half-smile as I took it in for the first time. I was curved and soft. My cheeks took on less of a ruddy, tomboy-ish look and more of a rosy glow – a hue worthy of George Costanza. I stood tall, my shoulders back, opening my chest to sweet, confident air. I ran my hand over my rounded hip and turned sideways. My stomach was a 

* I have just looked briefly online for information about the Venus (or Woman) of Willendorf, and I am angry, angry, angry. The few essays discussing the artistic aspect of the sculpture are but previews, requesting an account to access the rest. The freely available information covers Wikipedia-type background information, and specifically mentions (and often goes into detail about) the fact that she is “obese”. Like THAT is as important as the artistic merit, or the age of the piece, or the time in which it was created – WHICH, by the way, was SO LONG AGO that to compare body sizes between then and now is utterly moot. * I became aware of the size of my body in grade six. We had a ‘Science Day���, where a bunch of easy data collection points were set up. The idea was for everyone in the class to participate in every aspect, then we would collate the data and together our teacher took us through different ways we could analyse, or “read”, the data and what each method could tell us about our class group. There was a height measurement station, eye colour station, a table where we were timed in how long it took us to read a page in a book, feet and limb measuring stations, things of that ilk. When my teacher mentioned the weight-measuring station, my stomach dropped through my bum to my knees. I knew I was chubby. I had always been so, despite being the sportiest of sporty kids. I played netball, tennis and softball competitively, took swimming lessons, and wouldn’t walk if I could roller-skate or ride my bike. I won the long-jump, 100m hurdles and 100m sprint at the Interschool Sports, played cricket with my cousins and kicked the footy with Dad whenever he had time. ***The above paragraph is so defensive. I do not have to defend shit. This amount of detail is not needed. I feel like I need to defend my little self for being chubby and not being able to help it. I am thinking back to eleven-year-old Sarah, and the time Mum took her to her Weight Watchers meetings because that Sarah was too big for an eleven-year-old, and “it couldn’t hurt”. It couldn’t hurt for an eleven-year-old girl, who has just become aware of her body in space, to be in a room with 30-something and 40-something women for an hour, all of various heights and weights, watching them get weighed in front of everyone by a tall, thin, blonde woman in designer tracksuit and runners. Listening to a woman explain, with a sob, that there was a fancy dinner for her husband she’d had to attend, and it had felt rude not to eat the dessert part and that’s why she’d gained 600 grams that week. Hearing the group leader encourage her to push the dessert around on the plate next time, to make it look like she’d eaten some, or to give the host a plausible excuse, such as her doctor had advised her to avoid dairy, or carbs, or sugar. Being introduced as Kath’s daughter, who was struggling a little with her weight, and the leader’s grinning mouth, too full of teeth, telling her “it’s never too early to start looking after yourself”, and the round of women’s murmurs of approval prompting her to look at the mirrored walls to see what was so wrong. Seeing the little stomach poking out under her school dress. A little wobble to the underside of the upper arms, though the muscles were hard and defined when flexed. Big, red, chubby cheeks and an extra bit of chin cuddled under the neck that Mum pinched out to show everyone. Her legs are terrific, someone commented. Long and slim. Yeah, Mum replied, but the thighs chafe during netball games. Suddenly seeing herself in bits. Parts. ***“I remember�� piece from last semester – form*** * Form – fragmented essay: - No need for chronology if the theme is as strong as it is, but chronology could be cool too - Idea for common thread: start each fragment with the same words/same essence

Fragments: - First awareness of body as wrong (eleven, grade six weight measurement; being taken to weight watchers - First awareness of body as sexual (mushroom sex with jimmy) - First awareness of body as female (unprotected sex with jimmy - holy shit i could grow a baby) - First awareness of misjudgement of body (the Deb: swifty’s reaction, showing Dave the official photos; revisiting photo of self from John and Margarets wedding)