Atrocity

It has been true that in the past weeks I have been transient and blurry, and to the people who know me, this is rightly perceived as the static mindlessness of Sara- unable to say anything clever simply because all input stations and sensors have been temporarily shut down in some sort of connived sabbatical, rebellious against the prospect of mind-work and ceaseless slaving, brought on by the tired formality of education.

In some inane attempt to amuse the eyes of my much loved friends who have probably ceased hope of any thought provoking update, I present my latest and long due discovery: The Vagina Monologues.

Much raved about and undeniably moving, The plain blackness of the book was deceptively unalluring. Although there was something mildly attractive about the woman with the bob-cut hair on the front, I left it lying around the house (Oh, if my mother had opened it by some tragic turn) for approximately a month before, by some fortuous chance, I brought it back to the house of it's original giver, knowing I might have some time to kill. The skill of the playwright is almost a moot detail, everyone knows what these monologues are and what they stand for by now. The fad-wave is over, and as usual I am one of those people who spend my time in the junkyard of old radicals and sift over them until I find something I know I will like. By that time, no one remembers what I am talking about anymore- I am selfish- I read/think/love/wear what I please in whichever season I please.

In any honest capacity, the word vagina still turns me off. Call me conservative, jumpy, or unexciting; I see little prospect in the discussion of anatomical emotion. Dry physiology was passed in year 1 university as mild and unintrusive- latin names have a way of desensitising pre-thought. All that emerges when one speaks of these things is the faint smell of depressing formaldehyde, the sort of thing children have died from and people are having scares about with toys from China. In any case, the word makes me want to squint because the last time I was faced with a shrivelled up version of this generation's feminists' grandeur, the lab assistant who had just started forgot to keep the cadavers wet and all the formaldehyde evaporated and stung everyone's eyes. Lacrimals watering over the labelling of musculature and bony landmarks, no one's mind even ventured near the thought of vagina, and irony in a room full of women and naked cadavers.

Like every woman, quick to feel and quick to question, the book was gobbled whole in 40 minutes with two cupfuls of salt. Riveting, yes. Absorbing. I get eaten whole when I read. Dennis came home from driving and I didn't quite realise it as quickly as I should have, so I stood there in my mind, wading kneeful in salt, and trying to un-daze myself in order to normalize. But the morose art of it all has stuck with me- prospects I never thought were thought about. What people do with time on their hands and a heart full of something, anything. I might add that it's a nice read for the strong minded, and stong stomached. But somehow, I remain wary of the liberation it has brought. To women who have been the brunt of heinous crimes, the liberation is warranted and much celebrated. But as far as exploration is advocated, I cock my head in search of a better reason than "women's rights" and "men just suck". After I tire myself crossing my eyes, I take another sip of salt water and return to the artistic notions of personifying part of a person. How "personed" can one be, or want to be?

The controversies resulting from the multiple enactments of the performance worldwide have been celebrated by many women as a one-up against the world (not men, just the world). An unnecessary amount of people have been upset, fired and suspended for the play, and a necessary number of women have been relieved, restored and redressed, and a necessary minority of men have been enlightened. Who knows whether the net result is in the red or not?

But either way, it was definitely a thought provoking train of printed word. It has pushed me as far as pre-thought- perhaps it is my own pride to say that I am far too prim to want to venture past preconceptualisation (which doesn't appear on levelt's model of speech production but should).