I've been tagged by Riot Kitty, so here goes. One word answers are required for all these questions. I hereby tag Hannah, Bunbury, Don Alhambra, Michael and anyone else who can be bothered.
Where is your cell phone? AWOL
Your hair? overlong
Your mother? Traveling
Your father? *shudder*
Your favorite food? steak
Your dream last night? lateness
Your favorite drink? Tea
Your dream/goal? Published
What room are you in? bedroom
Your hobby? performing
Your Fear? hatred
Where do you want to be in 6 years? Berlin
Where were you last night? bed
Something that you aren’t? conventional
Muffins? blueberry
Wish list item? wisdom
Where did you grow up? keighley
Last thing you did? breakfast
What are you wearing? vest
Your TV? Scrubs!
Your pets? Pets?
Friends? varied
Your life? disorganised
Your mood? Alert
Missing someone? many
Vehicle? no
Something you’re not wearing? basque
Your favorite store? Lush
Your favorite color? purple
When was the last time you laughed? this morning
Last time you cried? last night
Your best friend? inspiring!
One place that I go to over and over? Berlin
One person who emails me regularly? John
Favorite place to eat? Wasabisabi
Friday, 16 October 2009
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Homophobia: what exactly are you afraid of?
Homo, as in homosexual, means 'same'. Same-sex is a more politically correct term than 'homosexual' beacause putting things in Latin makes them look medical and medical = problem. 'Queer' means 'different', but 'homo' means 'same'. Isn't it funny that we read 'queer' as a less offensive term, and 'homo' raises more hackles, I think, on both sides of the Atlantic?
Following this kinda-logic, the word 'homophobia' means fear of sameness. Again, weird. You'd think the one thing homophobes were afraid of was anything different. They'd like nothing better than everything and everyone being the same. Unless... same = well, equal. Maybe homophobes fear equality for all people. They feel more comfortable with the feudal system that places straight white males at the top and crushes disabled genderqueer pansexuals of colour at the bottom and then laughs at them as a symbol of 'political correctness gone mad' (note. if political correctness really went mad, the world would be a far more interesting place...).
Or maybe homophobes fear the idea that homosexual, same-sex people HAVE the same sex, ARE the same sex, and are....the same as them.
As my colleague Gary likes to say to straight people who say the only difference between straight and gay people is the kind of sex we enjoy, "My dear, that's the one thing we've got in common!" I think he's actually quoting someone there, but I couldn't tell you whom.
Maybe it's the fact that heterosexuals (or "different-sex people", but then, no-one seems worried that anyone is going to get offended about THAT little piece of Latin medi-speak)are the ones who are, well, queer.
Maybe it's just jealousy.
In case you're wondering, I commuted by rickety bus through the Peak District for 3 hours and spent a further 6 sitting in health and safety lectures in Buxton today. Your mind starts to wander.
WG
Following this kinda-logic, the word 'homophobia' means fear of sameness. Again, weird. You'd think the one thing homophobes were afraid of was anything different. They'd like nothing better than everything and everyone being the same. Unless... same = well, equal. Maybe homophobes fear equality for all people. They feel more comfortable with the feudal system that places straight white males at the top and crushes disabled genderqueer pansexuals of colour at the bottom and then laughs at them as a symbol of 'political correctness gone mad' (note. if political correctness really went mad, the world would be a far more interesting place...).
Or maybe homophobes fear the idea that homosexual, same-sex people HAVE the same sex, ARE the same sex, and are....the same as them.
As my colleague Gary likes to say to straight people who say the only difference between straight and gay people is the kind of sex we enjoy, "My dear, that's the one thing we've got in common!" I think he's actually quoting someone there, but I couldn't tell you whom.
Maybe it's the fact that heterosexuals (or "different-sex people", but then, no-one seems worried that anyone is going to get offended about THAT little piece of Latin medi-speak)are the ones who are, well, queer.
Maybe it's just jealousy.
In case you're wondering, I commuted by rickety bus through the Peak District for 3 hours and spent a further 6 sitting in health and safety lectures in Buxton today. Your mind starts to wander.
WG
Thursday, 8 October 2009
New Blog
I will be continuing with the wordly wibblings, but for a bit of light relief (yes folks, THIS is the heavy, intellectual blog. Sorry), please check out my other blog, Cute Overheard. Unless someone tells me it's illegal, I am going to do daily mash-ups of submissions to Cute Overload and Overheard in New York.
Silly, silly fun.
Silly, silly fun.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Speechless
I dried up on stage yessterday. Like, completely dried.
I was compering a spoken word night, and it was going really well, I had the audience laughing, heckling, doing spontaneous (not forced and awkward) audience participation, and I was riding high on it.
Then I read out the next name on the list 'And now, next up, we have "Sarah"!' Silence. Then, from the back of the room my friend and the night's founder John shouts 'I think it's thee, lass!'
John's great. He organises the open mic running order and, usually I'm on it, except this time I'd specifically said I would compere. I have a big poetry gig on the 12th, and figured it would be greedy to take up an open mic spot. John had flipped into autopilot and stuck me in there as usual. I'd seen it, but sometimes it seems like every fifth person I meet shares my name, so I'd thought nothing of it.
Now, normally I have a good memory for my own work, I don't like reading from a sheet of paper, when actors, singers etc are expected to memorise, so I try to leave the paper offstage. However, when I KNOW I'm performing I'll run through the poems in my head a few times before i go up there. It's not that I worry about forgetting my lines, more that running through the rhythms of my pems in my head calms me, like a mantra. However, last night I hadn't done this, and for the first time I learned the value of it. I couldn't remember a line.
I managed in the end to blurt out the first stanza of one of my poems, and then I lost it again. I spluttered and gabbled and made a few jokes about John dropping me in it aaaaaand....
Nothing.
In the end I managed to whip the last stanza out of the air - omitting the middle two - which, given that there is a narrative to the poem, made no sense at all. Then I finished on one of my much earlier poems - one that's ingrained on my synapses, and got off the stage with dignity.
Then I remembered that I was the compere and awkwardly shuffled back up to the mic to introduce the next, slightly more together, poet.
John SO owes me a pint.
WG
I was compering a spoken word night, and it was going really well, I had the audience laughing, heckling, doing spontaneous (not forced and awkward) audience participation, and I was riding high on it.
Then I read out the next name on the list 'And now, next up, we have "Sarah"!' Silence. Then, from the back of the room my friend and the night's founder John shouts 'I think it's thee, lass!'
John's great. He organises the open mic running order and, usually I'm on it, except this time I'd specifically said I would compere. I have a big poetry gig on the 12th, and figured it would be greedy to take up an open mic spot. John had flipped into autopilot and stuck me in there as usual. I'd seen it, but sometimes it seems like every fifth person I meet shares my name, so I'd thought nothing of it.
Now, normally I have a good memory for my own work, I don't like reading from a sheet of paper, when actors, singers etc are expected to memorise, so I try to leave the paper offstage. However, when I KNOW I'm performing I'll run through the poems in my head a few times before i go up there. It's not that I worry about forgetting my lines, more that running through the rhythms of my pems in my head calms me, like a mantra. However, last night I hadn't done this, and for the first time I learned the value of it. I couldn't remember a line.
I managed in the end to blurt out the first stanza of one of my poems, and then I lost it again. I spluttered and gabbled and made a few jokes about John dropping me in it aaaaaand....
Nothing.
In the end I managed to whip the last stanza out of the air - omitting the middle two - which, given that there is a narrative to the poem, made no sense at all. Then I finished on one of my much earlier poems - one that's ingrained on my synapses, and got off the stage with dignity.
Then I remembered that I was the compere and awkwardly shuffled back up to the mic to introduce the next, slightly more together, poet.
John SO owes me a pint.
WG
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