Women in Clothes, women in clothes, women in clothes
I liked it at first. At first I read it feverishly. I felt that this was somewhere I’d always wanted to be, in the heads of strange women. Feeling them feel out their relationship to clothes. Their life in clothes. So I read it almost in a trance at first, refusing to look up from the hundreds of pages I flipped, flipped, and flipped.
But then I got to the part where I noticed the pattern. I got to the part where I felt myself stretching away from the book, holding it away from myself, lightly skimming over the words I couldn’t feel. The responses like, I feel sexy after sex. I feel good when someone says I look good. I liked more when people were able to square the function of their dress with the beauty of it. The loose silk dress that made the breastfeeding mom feel comfortable but pretty. I liked the interview pieces with the garment factory employees, who relayed tales of shock at the things American women wear and discard. At the cost of adornment. But the woman getting upset at her bra fitting that she was a 38 instead of a 34; the woman who kept name dropping her dead boyfriend and his opinions and thoughts. Those tales left me feeling icky. Separate. I know the point of the book was to present, not to judge, but I want more pushback in my life after the presentation. I want someone to articulate the trouble with or the problem of or the tension when.
you don’t like feeling fat because someone told you fat was bad
The Gift is this terrible film I watched over the weekend.
So I watched it and I became intrigued but as the movie unfolded I started to get what was being done and I started to understand how it received a high rating [from men] and I felt that same icky-ness I felt when reading women in clothes, like, all the things we think are because men think them and not because they actually feel true to us.
The wife becomes the object becomes the tool to break the master’s house and I felt, wrong.
I so often need to read and need to hear the words of others because I can only feel it sometimes, and when I try to push the feeling up into my brain to turn it into words it runs dry and I feel vacant and stupid.
“using rape as a plot device is just plain lazy”
“Descends into emotional idiocy and insufficient intrigue to end in a disgusting place that presumes that a woman is an appropriate pawn in games men play.” …
The way I feel but the words I do not know how to fit together unless I see it written and then I know, yes.
Sweeping up the back patio and the godforsaken berries which live there because the neighbor is oblivious to this tree that grows on their side of the fence yet wreaks havoc on my back patio. I turned on This American Life because I am a millennial in my 30s and feel like I must be educating myself even in my leisure time. I took a walk through the neighborhood because the sun was shining and the leaves have all fallen and the sky feels incredibly close and scrubbed clean because that is how it feels in winter.
And I’m glad I wasn’t raised by people who made me interact with other people who thought I needed a bridge to God, who thought I needed a path to God, who thought there was one way and one way only to God, but also… why are women made to feel so bad about sex? What is it like to have a relationship with sex that is more like a man’s?
I am grateful for my feelings about sex and the way I’ve grown into sex. I do not know how I got here but for the most part it feels healthy.
What if I had studied philosophy or ethics and realized I was someone who liked to think about the big picture? What if I’d had someone around at an early age who could have pointed me out to myself, who had given me the words to match my feelings? That is something I find myself wondering, thinking often these days, as I try to say the words aloud to others, do you see yourself as the world sees you? Well, you should.
That’s the question women should be asked…I mean I liked reading women respond to the questions they were asked about their dressing habits, about seeing themselves yes as an object but also as an actor…, but this is what I really want to know, what it is is this, is who pointed yourself out to you? Who has asked you the question that prompted you to ask of yourself–what is it I can do and want to do?
What is the thing that I do all the time that I have not named because I did not know you could have a name for everything?