Subtle Variations in Pitch and Duration

Hello unique, interesting, important people–

you are either getting this email as a follow-up to my last announcement, or you have since been added for any number of reasons, probably having to do with your uniqueness, interest, or importance (not mutually exclusive, of course!).

Anyhow, to cut to the point, I am about to throw my heart into a project that means a lot to me. It has to do with SEX and being CREATIVE. It also has to do with using WRITING as a means of imparting INFORMATION, both PHYSICAL and EMOTIONAL.

I am creating a journal tentatively entitled, Milk: reflective writings on the sexual politics of bodily fluids. My aim is not to “tow the PC line,” so to speak, but rather to create a space for essays, articles, accounts, creative writing, and illustrations that contribute to a discussion about our bodies: how they work and don’t work, how we have sex and don’t have sex, how we protect ourselves or not, how we express intimacy, how our bodies’ natural releases add to a dynamic form of discourse that is simultaneously political and gendered. By ‘releases’ I refer to menstruation, ejaculation, perspiration, crying, etc. Issues that have enjoyed larger degrees of public attention may also be looked at: childbirth, contraception, orgasms, sexual orientation, exoticization, etc. The idea is to explore issues that might contribute to the over-arching sexual-political reality, and discuss information that may previously have been ignored or thwarted, burn the myths, find the facts, and be creative. Any or all of these is acceptable. The forum is wide open, and I encourage any line of questioning or feedback that anybody has to offer.

I aim to put together the 1st ISSUE in September. The issue will have a double focus: CHILDBIRTH and MOMENTS OF CONCEPTION. I am looking for the perspectives of women, men, and children. Any well-written, explorative piece regardless of the angle it takes will be considered. Have any memories of your own birth? Were you aware of the moment that your child was conceived? Any thoughts on the importance of that moment of conception in your life? What about giving birth? Contraception and/or abortion may come into the picture. Natural births, hospital births, doctors, midwifes, doulas, and the legislation that currently dictates their respective brands of power all come into the picture. Simple birth stories are also important. There is a lot I am not mentioning, and that is unavoidable. Both FACT and FICTION in written or illustrated forms alike will be accepted, so long as they are truth-based. The deadline is August 20th.

PERSONALLY, I am looking to conduct an anecdotal study of moments of conception. This means that I am looking for people, male or female, (though women who have given birth will be prioritized) who are willing to take part in a short to medium-length interview about their experiences of conceiving a child and/or the birth experience. Anybody interested may respond to this email or call me at 514-831-6902. Taking part in the interview is definitely a contribution to the journal in itself but should not discourage you from contributing in other ways.

I think that’s it for now. If you’ve read this far, you are interested, and should think more about it. Even if you wish to submit something about a different topic that might not be covered in the 1st issue, feel free to send along any ideas you wish to share/ future topic ideas. Anyone who thinks they might be into helping with the production process is welcome to get a hold of me, and anyone else wishing to inquire or submit may do the same.

with much affection,

MAYA

Hello lovelies,

I’m sending out this call for submissions way ahead of time because I know people are busy rabbits and I want everyone to have time to think, and to write.

I’m going to be starting an independent Journal of Sexual Politics (title-in-progress) sometime in October; it will primarily be a collection of essays, (both creative and non), but short stories, poems, accounts, illustrations, and photos will also be considered. There will likely be a theme to each issue, centering on the gender and sexual political configurations that come into play as a response to a plethora of bodily functions and fluids: i.e. sweat, (menstrual) blood, tears, ejaculation (both male and female), the psychology/ attitudes surrounding STDs, pregnancy, contraception, the possibilities are endless, and limitations are few. For the first issue, I will likely waive the theme requirement, unless submissions are overwhelmingly focused in one area. If nobody responds within the next month and a half or so with enthusiasm, ideas, or actual submissions, and a theme has started to take shape in my noggin, then I may send out a second email proposing one.

For now, all I want is feedback. If any of the above ideas (which are all quite broad) excites a passion in you, or makes you want to write something, or draw something, let me know. Even if you haven’t commenced writing yet, maybe we can discuss it a bit, and figure out how it would fit into the grand scheme of the inaugural issue of the future of progressive sexual expression. Ok, a bit heady, I’ll admit. Just kind of excited about it, I am.

I hope to hear back from you all soon! The general deadline is September 15th, but I’ll definitely be in touch before then.

Love,

Maya

**Please Forward widely**

Urgent Call for Support! Algonquins of Barriere Lake

The federal government has just deposed Barriere Lake’s Customary Chief and Council – with the Sureté du Quebec helping to impose a minority faction as the new leadership – in order to get out of signed agreements with the community!

Public Assembly & Mobilization Meeting
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“Mohawk princess,” “Indian Poetess,” controversial mixed-blood, mixed-message traveling performer of the late 19th, early 20th century.

http://www.polonialife.ca/kobiety_tekahionwake.htm

(look her up, if you don’t understand this language).

1. “If you don’t eat dirt as a child, you’re fucked.” (Lucy)

2. “‘Vegetarian is just another word for ‘bad hunter.'” (Gary)

i suspect that if the leaders of warring nations would only engage in one hour per day of emailing each other horrifiyngly cute pictures of baby animals, change wouldn’t seem as hard as it does sometimes.

last night I dreamt

that yesterday got confused

with tomorrow

the man that made this mistake

horrified me wholly

because he would not stand corrected

Last night I dreamt that I was in a building resembling my old high school, but there were books everywhere; it was a library, with books on every floor, and there were many floors.

I was searching for specific books. I had a list of them, somewhere in my head, and I needed to find them all. I felt mildly frantic about the search; with so many floors and staircases the prospect of finding the books efficiently seemed grim.

What ensued was a one-woman race from this floor to that one, from this shelf to the one all the way at the end of a mile-long corridor, and then all the way back to the staircase again, to the next book.

My vision seemed somehow boxed in; I seemed only to be able to see straight ahead, making my search harder. I raced from floor to floor on pure intuition; I had only my whims to go on–no library call numbers.

The running back and forth was beginning to make me anxious–until I suddenly realized–I hadn’t seen it, or noticed before–that there were staircases everywhere, not just in the allocated spots. I could retrieve a book on any floor, at any distance from the stair-route I had taken to get there, and there would be another set of stairs, looming directly beside me whenever I needed it, ready to take me up, or down.

I found myself collecting the books. I looked down at one point and saw that my arms were full of them.

The variety and the possibility of routes I could take was astoundingly exciting. I suddenly felt as though I could do anything, go anywhere, and find any book I pleased.

Hi great internet world. Our relationship is about to evolve from amicable-enough-acquaintance to possibility-infested-personal-encounter.

Today I should have woken up earlier, so I would’ve had time to properly invoke the slick, grey bubble of miscommunicated emotional duress that would engulf my brain for the remainder of the day.

Like most of us, I like to think of myself as generally progressive, although the term itself makes me have to restrain myself from mocking our entire species sometimes. To be progressive is to be…what? Energy-saving? Politically correct? Gay, gay-friendly? Open to pre-marital threesomes? Do you have to be “educated” to be called progressive? Do some of us simply stop progressing? Are there varying degrees of progressivism? If so, can you rate yourself, on a scale of 1 to 2000, dependent upon how much or how little your continued existence contributes to abuse in its myriad permutations? I’ve never been the kind to assume that two parents were better than one, that men like sex more, or that a woman’s extreme negative emotion might be attributable to her hormone levels; besides, even if the latter was true, men that associate a woman’s perfectly justified, non-menstrual emotional expression with the so-called “curse,” have annulled some of the legitimacy that might otherwise accompany true red-river sorrow and alienation. But today. Oh today. Yes, today, I found profound reality in the (clearly) chauvinist-configured stereotype. Which made me feel about as progressive as the pope.

Today, grey, pedophilic bubble, all over my thoughts. Yuck. I had work to do–reading things, and writing them too. But I woke up feeling rushed. Morning, always a time of intellectual and emotional density–a build-up caused by resting long enough to dream. If I could brush it away like plaque on my teeth, I’m not sure if I would. Curious, that hesitance. I had chosen to go and meet somebody instead of building myself a tower from the ruins of cardboard boxes that are squelched into a corner of our kitchen. In my ten-minute hurry I put on my “quick boots,” the ones that are cracked, with no laces, the five-dollar score. The tiny tampon wasn’t quite stemming my heavy flow of emotive material, my tights were too thin for the frozen air, and I should have washed my hair, because in so doing, I would have been somebody more confident, better-looking, friendlier, and ever more compassionate. I also should have put on my slightly better boots, with the zippers, worn pants instead of peter pan-colored leotards, and using my brand new Keeper instead of an oppressive wad of cotton would have been wiser too, in theory. I bought the Keeper a week ago to be more progressive. All in vain though, sadly, because the rubber cup makes me feel as though urination is forever imminent, and relief, elusive as a tadpole.

I progressed into the world outside my door nonetheless, and marched through my day, complaining with every step in the snow as it seeped through my boots, socks and feet.

Not surprisingly, I was no fun to be around today. I’ll give the world that. Because it’s true.

I like to have a point, and my point is this: today I felt as though my blood, if used to transfuse others, would make them about as sad and disgusted with everything as me; if an old lady budded in front of them in line, they would want to pull her hair back while kicking her in the bum, just like me; if they had dashed across the city to splurge on unleaky boots at a store that was about to close, they too would want to leave the city permanently, move to a forest, and learn to make boots from the skin of animals they had killed with their bare hands. Now that would be motherfucking progressive: violence against those who do not stay in line (i.e. the elderly) and the renunciation of urbanity. Consistent with one another? Maybe. Both useful to society? Indeed.