Here's a children's book that touches the concept of homosexual parenting.
Of course I enjoyed it because I'm at a point where I'm willing to devour any semblance of lesbian stories/literature. On a lighter note, what I enjoyed about this book is its light and casual way of discussing a homosexual household's primary grounds on gender roles.
Gender roles, as it is at a fault, is predominantly sexist, so yes, the book touched the topic following that sexist point of view, but I think it is notable how from the child's point of view, there is no judgment.
Come to think of it, do you remember when sexual judgments began? I myself can't. Although I try my very best to remain neutral and unbiased when it comes to prejudices, I have to admit I have my lapses, but looking back, I can't really determine which point zero is.
So if you kinda miss that dotted line, perhaps A Tale of Two Mommies will help you remember... or at least realize that once upon a time, we all were clean slates.
First of all, let me begin by saying Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins is not a lesbian novel, rather it is a story about cowgirls and a lot of whoop de yee huh. It does, however, brush against the bosoms of lesbianism, with explicitness that can make CRTs grow flat, so I shall indulge myself and accommodate this title among my lesbian books.
Second of all, to compensate whatever disappointment with what I just said, this novel was adapted into the comedy-drama-romance story that it is, through the talent and beauty of Uma Thurman as lead. Watch the 1993 movie trailer here.
Sissy and Dolores, horsing around.
Third, Heather Graham, nuff said.
So cute this womyn.
Now the book. Well, written in Tom Robbins' signature tone--wit, sarcasm and a deliberate collision of subtlety and explicitness, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues is an out there type of talk flipping the walk. With his consistent metaphors on love, life, government and technologies; reading Cowgirl style definitely brought out the arguments straight to the tip of my boring normal-sized thumbs.
This novel, which dealt with over-sized fingers and freeloading travelers, was fun, light and my kind of poetically confusing tact, perfect for woozy summer days.
Surely, this book has left me inspired to stretch moon beams to a night of cosmic yee huh.
Why? Because love is the opposing thumb. It is the reason behind pebbles thrown to dance above quiet lakes. It is the doer of all saws, and the handler of every digging top. Remember what they said about a finger on a finger, when the fingers on battleground are thumbs of colliding characters.
PS. I was at National Book Store (Bestsellers) the other day, and they confirmed that the gay and lesbian titles are no longer carried and were put on sale for discontinuation. That news deeply saddened me because now it's a step more difficult to find lesbian literature to immerse in. Fortunately, gems such as this Tom Robbins book may be found in secondhand bookstores like Book Sale! I got my copy for only P30, that's less than a $!
My mom mouthed "thank you" as I handed her over some money. I'm not made for all this maturity-responsibility shit because I've always seen myself growing up, hippie style. Before I butchered my hair as I have had my heart gang-raped, I had long semi-virgin (allow me) hair, down to my waist, with curls (and horrid tangles) casting pretty shadows on pretty shadows. I've always been the type who would wear a flower crown--still am, always will be.
Earlier today I walked from our office to this chipipay salon nearby for an out-of-nowhere mani-pedi. It was high noon. I loved the walk.
The warmth of the sun touching my skin felt like much-awaited kisses from flaming lips (of tongues on fire). There's something outlandishly lovely about soaking up the sun. I would if I could be a solar battery, be a solar battery.
Last night I was feeling blue because I was worried for our employee. Given the circumstances, I feel more concerned about her losing her job. I'm still utterly saddened by it.
Last night I saw our four puppies crawl and try to stand on their paws. One of the four, the darkest bundle of dark coat, was able to stand upright. It was magical, to see such little creature find his first drop of strength to carry himself. He also tried to shit upright that very night, although that second feat was a bit of a failure because his shit was probably too hot to handle.
Life is shit. I feel shit. But it's my shoot tomorrow so I might as well suck it up because if I don't, how the fuck will things get better. I mean, even if I can't imagine any good thing to milk just to make me feel a hint better, I am still enforcing a leave of absolution. I want to get to that point where the heaviest of sins would be absolved in my mind, so the rest of me will follow. I hate to admit, really, but I can't afford to flail.
There are things that are best left unsaid. Then things best left mouthed and read.
I always find myself entering a second-hand book store without any idea what to find. Frankly, I trust that the beauty of the visit is in that, in the unknown. The likeliness of finding a gem among abandoned, neglected, dilapidated, and sadly, untouched books shelved and stacked upon stacks of opportunities is titillating for me. It's not that mystery is sexy, but it's alluring, that's for sure.
So one dreary and dry afternoon, I visited Book Sale and found a book by Sarah Waters. If you don't remember Sarah Waters, she is the author of Fingersmith, yet another lesbian novel that I posted about earlier this year. When I read Fingersmith, and liked Waters' style, I knew I wanted to read another book by her but just don't know where to find copies. I didn't want to make a request as that would be too eager, so I released to the Universe and boy did it hear me out. I found a copy of Tipping the Velvet for a very affordable price!
Nothing like two overexposed women to get my attention, thank You for my perversion. I couldn't have found this copy if it weren't for my hawk eye attention to details that refer to women, especially when they're undressed.
First, I have to say, that compared to Fingersmith, Tipping the Velvet rolled slower down my tongue. It was however easier to translate to typical modern affairs of which I myself experience or witness unfold. Of course, there's nothing more lesbian than a story that opens up to a world of oysters. Granted, I expected a sexual anecdote about how one should eat an oyster right--the chance to apply this anecdote has yet arrived--I still found the bits of metaphors that strained and plucked the issues of finding yourself a lesbian lover, and more importantly, persona (?) believable, endearing and oddly enough, comforting.
Tipping the Velvet is hardly a coming out book but it did chronicle how the process of realizing your orientation yourself sometimes hits where it's most unexpected to strike. Although, one may even see Tipping the Velvet as an example of corruption, I see in it my own take on my path as a lesbian: how on the surface it may seem like a choice you need to make, but down to the very center of the feeling, it isn't. I never felt compelled to choose this road because my attraction to the same sex is as natural as liking music, or humming to the silence of a still night.
Speaking of music, Tipping the Velvet heavily draws mystic upon the allure of the grand and dreamy stage. As a place of worship and despair, I would expect many of you would appreciate (maybe celebrate) the part where Tipping the Velvet may be found on Youtube. As always, the book should be better than the movie, but it surely wouldn't hurt to see the halls come to life. The singing and dancing too.
(Disclaimer: I have not tried watching the entire adaptation online, so I would like to apologize in advance should the video sources on YT be insufficient somewhere down the road; but if you're eager to watch how Kitty and Nan's story turns out, you may peruse the video link below and just head on forward from that first cut)
PS. Like Nan, I helplessly fell in love with Kitty too. Odd how she affirmed how much I hope exes stay away to never reappear, even the slightest.
There are times when we set things to keep our ground solid and sturdy. And when these things we set in place quake, it is a bit more difficult to manage. I feel mad. I have grown to see the bribe behind my mom's gifts, so she hates me when I point it out; but I can't help it because that's what she does. She gives me something for something. I guess, in a tragic way of looking at things, I learned That from her. She taught me how people manipulate, etc.
I guess, in a good way, she taught me how to be street smart. But there are forms of smart that I wish I didn't have. Things I wish to unlearn, such as the sharp eye to see a hungry emotion. I wish I didn't know the difference between a need and desire. Only then can I sink into a false reality where the world is sincere, because That I know, I am.
I don't like it when people use and abuse. Most people feel grandly self-entitled and it nauseates me to imagine that the statistics are against what I want. That the likeliness to find someone you can trust and sincerely find dear is low. Sometimes I wish we're not just tiny dots, but I'll settle with wishing that at least we're sparks.
There are days when I feel flailing like an artist on speed. Well, I've never tried speed (or most drugs), but judging by the name, I assume speed makes the background fade into a transgression. This week was a drug-filled week. I was sick beginning Monday evening and until last night. I had zero chances of surviving without paracetamol and to make it worse, I had so much responsibility to attend to (considering the many shoes I strive to fit in). Today, I feel sick to my stomach because my reality is keeping me stagnated to the very dailiness which I hope to change. My parents have placed on my shoulder the responsibility to tend for the family, not directly financially, but I'd like to claim bragging rights that it is so. I don't bring home the bacon but I fucking feed the pigs--and for what? For them to nag on my face that I don't wash the dishes so I can't say if a dishwashing liquid is good or not?
I'm sorry I don't wash their dishes. I eat on my own, since the whole implosion last September. I always feel alone at home, a feeling which I wish to remedy with books. "Nauubos pera mo sa libro ha," my mom would complain. Frankly, I wish I found the guts to reply, I'd rather that than my peace of mind.
At home, I sometimes sleep on the couch because that's where I find myself forgetting my self-inflicted dreariness. I don't watch TV for there really isn't anything good to watch. I wish I could watch DVDs but I can't seem to navigate through our home theater set up for the life of me, so I find silence in books. Books about angels falling, about ghosts haunting, about books missing and people sexxxing (sorry, I just had to). At nights I sleep on the couch, I usually wake up with a hurting back because clearly, a couch is not ideal. But quite frankly, a hurting back is preferred than a heavy mind. Peace is something valuable to me and if it would require a bit (sometimes a lot) of discomfort for my distorted spine, I would still commit.
Sometimes, I sleep on the floor. We have this little carpet that feels like yarn and looks like grass. I like sitting on that carpet probably because I am a cat. I am doomed over things as such.
I'm also doomed to chase, I later realized.
Today, I feel a hurried need to just let this all out while it's raw. Sometimes, people belittle other people because they feel self-entitled to greatness or authority. Sometimes, people set standards a fish can't ever comply to. Sometimes, the world just spins madly in my mind. This post is desert storm.
My world spun or spiraled, whichever available, yesterday. The day started with a confused bang, then there was coffee, large Fries and a tedious walk under the morning sun. These were then followed by a stolen rest, a stolen time, a stolen glance and a heart stolen by default. It was a conspiracy to deal with the turn of events, but it was also a magical spectacle to have seen it close with a reunion, a gathering if I may, of souls lost in misery and conjunctions, simultaneously.
I was with my tomboy friends last night. It was an impromptu tomboy convention, I can leisurely recall. It was a promise kept and a promise made. It was a promising acquaintance and a knot made to never ever falter against the changing names of gift cards in scrapbooks, well-hidden and structured by dreams.
People may find it hard to believe, but I join the renegade feeling of "feeling friendless". I'm a very out there person, and friendship is something I am open to granting upon first second of intertwining souls; but at the end of the day, I have only a few number of people I can truly, whole-heartedly, confidently and without hesitation, call as my friends. I like it that way.
So last night I was with my friends, two of which were friends since the beginning of time, one of which was a friend made when the beginning of the now spun close. Before that, however, I was with a dear friend who unknowingly achieves the personification of my unseen moonrise. Admittedly, she is unprecedented. I can't put my finger on how she acts towards me, neither can I put my finger on who she is; but I find myself in a comforting tunnel, a faltering abyss of mixed silence and whispers, I don't need to know.
Late in the night, as my unforgiving wooziness got the best of me (thank you BioFlu for allowing me to wake up the next day a bit saner than expected), I concluded that break-ups aren't the reason why relationships end. Relationships end because they stop happening. Relationships stop happening because people cease trying. Sometimes, the causes would be circumstantial, sometimes emotional. Sometimes, the causes would be rational (if you're lucky), but often, the causes would be unspeakable (quite literally). So amidst my running (pun) nose, I decided not to believe in break-ups, as heavily as I decided not to believe in a Catholic God (until they recognize homosexuality as an equal act of love, they can keep their crosses to themselves).
I tried breaking up with her, again, and she won't let me. I don't understand how far she's willing to go every time I am willing to go--so illegal things happened, and once again we're back on square one.
