Another 100 Awesome Things piece from 2013...
~~~~2013~~~
Showing posts with label existing while female. Show all posts
Showing posts with label existing while female. Show all posts
Tuesday, 21 November 2017
Thursday, 21 September 2017
100 Awesome Things - Part 36 - Brand New And Hot Off the Press
OK, I know that as far as the New Blog is concerned, the next part of 100 Awesome Things should be numbered Six, not Thirty-Six.
Except, of course, parts Six-Thirty-Five already exist and they're scheduled to post over the next couple of months.
This couldn't wait. Why?
Today, there's a new soul in the world to whom a part of my heart belongs. Today, one of my dearest friends was delivered of a healthy baby girl. Anyway, I'll get back to that...
*
In the 1970s, when rock music, private golf clubs and the Church had similar admissions criteria for membership (must be a dude, even if you're a total arsehole), there were a few women who made a place for themselves in the world of rock music.
Most of those women made it by getting up on stage, and you know them already. There weren't many women who were able to take positions of power or influence behind the scenes.
One woman who did was Rosalie Trombley, of whom I do not know a great deal, but I do know that her work as music director for one of Canada's most important radio stations influenced the content of radio across Canada and the US, and from there the charts and music itself.
Power and influence? She's the reason "Bennie and the Jets" became a hit, and so she's the reason for that bit in 27 Dresses.
Bob Seger wrote a song about her, which a little band from Ireland then covered live...
When I started writing the story that would become Walking in the Shadowlands, the main female character was immediately named Rosalie Cochran. Rosalie, for the song; Cochran for Eddie.
In time, I discovered that I had named a fictional rock music pioneer after a real one, which was the kind of awesome universe glue that I enjoy.
The lyrics wot Seger wrote can be taken super-literally - Rosalie Trombley did have 'the tower', hence the stations' broadcast power. On the other hand, it's a story about a girl who loves music.
The Rosalie I wrote was devoted to the power of music, for better or worse. She was a bit imperious and bossy, but she had a heart the size of Jupiter. She was smart and empathetic. She was defiantly independent, unapologetic for who she was and endlessly, but not unquestioningly loyal.
The Rosalie I wrote lived an extraordinary life.
So, I hope you'll forgive me hijacking the 100 Awesome Things, because today, there's a new soul in the world. Shiny, new and full of potential...
Every so often, something so marvellous happens that the scars upon one's heart are eased a little. Today is such a day.
There is a new Rosalie in the world today, and I hope her life will be as extraordinary as that fictional Rosalie's... and then far surpass it. I will do what's in my power to help make that happen.
Except, of course, parts Six-Thirty-Five already exist and they're scheduled to post over the next couple of months.
This couldn't wait. Why?
Today, there's a new soul in the world to whom a part of my heart belongs. Today, one of my dearest friends was delivered of a healthy baby girl. Anyway, I'll get back to that...
*
In the 1970s, when rock music, private golf clubs and the Church had similar admissions criteria for membership (must be a dude, even if you're a total arsehole), there were a few women who made a place for themselves in the world of rock music.
Most of those women made it by getting up on stage, and you know them already. There weren't many women who were able to take positions of power or influence behind the scenes.
One woman who did was Rosalie Trombley, of whom I do not know a great deal, but I do know that her work as music director for one of Canada's most important radio stations influenced the content of radio across Canada and the US, and from there the charts and music itself.
Power and influence? She's the reason "Bennie and the Jets" became a hit, and so she's the reason for that bit in 27 Dresses.
Bob Seger wrote a song about her, which a little band from Ireland then covered live...
When I started writing the story that would become Walking in the Shadowlands, the main female character was immediately named Rosalie Cochran. Rosalie, for the song; Cochran for Eddie.
In time, I discovered that I had named a fictional rock music pioneer after a real one, which was the kind of awesome universe glue that I enjoy.
The lyrics wot Seger wrote can be taken super-literally - Rosalie Trombley did have 'the tower', hence the stations' broadcast power. On the other hand, it's a story about a girl who loves music.
The Rosalie I wrote was devoted to the power of music, for better or worse. She was a bit imperious and bossy, but she had a heart the size of Jupiter. She was smart and empathetic. She was defiantly independent, unapologetic for who she was and endlessly, but not unquestioningly loyal.
The Rosalie I wrote lived an extraordinary life.
So, I hope you'll forgive me hijacking the 100 Awesome Things, because today, there's a new soul in the world. Shiny, new and full of potential...
Every so often, something so marvellous happens that the scars upon one's heart are eased a little. Today is such a day.
There is a new Rosalie in the world today, and I hope her life will be as extraordinary as that fictional Rosalie's... and then far surpass it. I will do what's in my power to help make that happen.
Friday, 15 September 2017
Real Men Wear Silk Stockings - From the Vault 2010
Another day, another piece from the archive, another piece about misogyny, the patriarchy and this time, it's more about
As ever, I've tried to keep the editing to a minimum, but do forgive me for the need to improve at least a little bit... Toxic masculinity has gained more prominence as a concept since 2010, so this might seem rather quaint.
Onward... backwards...?
~~~2017~~~2016~~~2015~~~2014~~~2013~~~2012~~~2011~~~2010~~~
Several things recently have turned my mind to the notion of The Real Man. One of these was a conversation with someone at work which basically went along these lines:
Tuesday, 12 September 2017
Rock Music: Enduring the Double Standard, Part 2423707d - From the Archive 2009
Clarenote 2017: This was written in one raging blast at around the time I was finally beginning to understand feminism beyond 'I believe in equal rights therefore I am a feminist'. I was honoured when Melissa at Shakesville read it and posted there as a follow up.
I'm not as angry I am differently angry now. I might not write exactly as I did in 2009, in no small part because of the brilliant conversations this sparked on my blog and at Shakesville...
I was on stage sometimes in 2009. Since then, I've learnt to just seize the fraking stage, make it my own and care about nobody else's opinion. That matters.
To my friends certain relief, I've gotten better at spacing out my Facebook shares. And no, the person who made the comment is no longer a friend.
So, have some timey-wimey wavey lines as we head back in time, to when I was merely beginning to understand that Rory Gallagher had taken residence in my soul and wasn't going anywhere...
As always, I've tried to keep edits to a minimum... and I'm sorta sorrynotsorry for some of the language. If that's what you really take offence to, you may not be paying attention, but fair warning, it's there.
I have a habit. An irritating habit. I like to share YouTube videos on Facebook on even the smallest pretext. This leads to me basically spamming my own FB profile with videos each time I stop there. So far, I've managed to refrain from sharing The Late Late Show With Craig Ferguson every time I burst out laughing.
Lately, I've been profile-spamming with Rory Gallagher videos every so often. Or rather, every time I go to YouTube in search of a Rory video. I'm in the mid-period stage of New Obsession, and it's just as well that YouTube wasn't around when I went through the same with The Beatles, or with Led Zeppelin or with Thin Lizzy or with The Doors, or with Dean Martin.
Amongst the videos I posted the other day was this:
I was on stage sometimes in 2009. Since then, I've learnt to just seize the fraking stage, make it my own and care about nobody else's opinion. That matters.
To my friends certain relief, I've gotten better at spacing out my Facebook shares. And no, the person who made the comment is no longer a friend.
So, have some timey-wimey wavey lines as we head back in time, to when I was merely beginning to understand that Rory Gallagher had taken residence in my soul and wasn't going anywhere...
As always, I've tried to keep edits to a minimum... and I'm sorta sorrynotsorry for some of the language. If that's what you really take offence to, you may not be paying attention, but fair warning, it's there.
~~~2017~~~2016~~~2015~~~2014~~~2013~~~2012~~~2011~~~2010~~~2009~~~
I have a habit. An irritating habit. I like to share YouTube videos on Facebook on even the smallest pretext. This leads to me basically spamming my own FB profile with videos each time I stop there. So far, I've managed to refrain from sharing The Late Late Show With Craig Ferguson every time I burst out laughing.
Lately, I've been profile-spamming with Rory Gallagher videos every so often. Or rather, every time I go to YouTube in search of a Rory video. I'm in the mid-period stage of New Obsession, and it's just as well that YouTube wasn't around when I went through the same with The Beatles, or with Led Zeppelin or with Thin Lizzy or with The Doors, or with Dean Martin.
Amongst the videos I posted the other day was this:
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
The Spinster
This started as something for a character in my soon-to-be-published-online novel Tbe Bright Side O' Life but I think it became something broader. I don't think it really reflects my own personal opinion of spinsterdom, although perhaps some of its fears. It is perhaps a worst-case scenario with a slice of light.
What say you?
*
Spinning, not moving
It comes on gradually until it hits you like a train. Sitting quietly at a family event, watching your loved ones grow and develop, watching them change. Yet you are the same as you always were. You are the same; you are treated as you were five years ago, or ten, or twenty.
To your parents you remain a child; to your contemporaries you are an anomaly - at least until you finally settle down.
Your single income household cannot afford mortgages or flashy foreign holidays, so you listen to the minutiae of property deals and tropical islands with a smile frozen between interest and frustration. You fall behind in ways big and small, obvious and subtle.
You are excluded from topics because you wouldn't understand. Much experience is kept from you, and you have to remind yourself that it's not the 19th Century anymore. Even if it was, you know that Mr Darcy isn't coming for you. The Mr Darcys look through you to prettier girls, to sweeter girls, to girls that know how the game is played.
You are not the romantic lead in the film, after all. An extra, perhaps. Odd, given that this was supposed to be your life. Perhaps the genre is wrong...
People who love you will soon give up asking about finally settling down. Maybe they already have. Curiosity will sour into pity.
'But are you happy?' you are asked repeatedly, but the only acceptable answer is "of course not". Any variety of 'yes' is met with disbelief or suspicion. Nobody believes you can be happy alone.
You are mostly happy. Sometimes you wonder what is 'wrong' with you to have had this life thrust upon you. Can you pinpoint a single moment that sent you into the lonely direction? Was there a missed opportunity or was fate just that capricious?
Your friends say they envy you the single life, but they are never quite sincere. They mean that their own lives are not quite 100% satisfactory, but nobody's life ever is. They would like a break from their responsibilities from time to time; often it is you who provides the opportunity for that break, and you love how those adored younglings light up at sight of their fun auntie/godmother.
People move away. It is the way of the world now: seemingly casual migration. Life gets in the way. Bonds break, as they sometimes do, and nobody is to blame. Those babies you welcomed into the world have lives of their own and Auntie is low down on the list of priorities. It is as it should be, but the world spins with you still in the middle unchanging.
All is as it should be within the order of life as commonly accepted. Milestones only touch you to make you older. One day, you are essentially invisible.
Strangers address you as 'Mrs', not considering that a woman your age would be anything else. Corrections invite pity.
Despite the effort, you are ever more alone. Everyone has their lives. You take joy from their successes and you are there with comfort in their sorrows, but you are still alone at the end of it.
You are depended on: the universal donor. You have the time, don't you?
You wake up one day and you are eighty-two years old. Your limbs don't work like they ought; your brain is slow and quick to tire. When did you become the old crone you once pitied, when you were a pretty girl with the whole wide world for the taking?
When did life unfold without you? When did you replace one set of dreams with another?
Perhaps those were never really your dreams?
What say you?
*
Spinning, not moving
It comes on gradually until it hits you like a train. Sitting quietly at a family event, watching your loved ones grow and develop, watching them change. Yet you are the same as you always were. You are the same; you are treated as you were five years ago, or ten, or twenty.
To your parents you remain a child; to your contemporaries you are an anomaly - at least until you finally settle down.
Your single income household cannot afford mortgages or flashy foreign holidays, so you listen to the minutiae of property deals and tropical islands with a smile frozen between interest and frustration. You fall behind in ways big and small, obvious and subtle.
You are excluded from topics because you wouldn't understand. Much experience is kept from you, and you have to remind yourself that it's not the 19th Century anymore. Even if it was, you know that Mr Darcy isn't coming for you. The Mr Darcys look through you to prettier girls, to sweeter girls, to girls that know how the game is played.
You are not the romantic lead in the film, after all. An extra, perhaps. Odd, given that this was supposed to be your life. Perhaps the genre is wrong...
People who love you will soon give up asking about finally settling down. Maybe they already have. Curiosity will sour into pity.
'But are you happy?' you are asked repeatedly, but the only acceptable answer is "of course not". Any variety of 'yes' is met with disbelief or suspicion. Nobody believes you can be happy alone.
You are mostly happy. Sometimes you wonder what is 'wrong' with you to have had this life thrust upon you. Can you pinpoint a single moment that sent you into the lonely direction? Was there a missed opportunity or was fate just that capricious?
Your friends say they envy you the single life, but they are never quite sincere. They mean that their own lives are not quite 100% satisfactory, but nobody's life ever is. They would like a break from their responsibilities from time to time; often it is you who provides the opportunity for that break, and you love how those adored younglings light up at sight of their fun auntie/godmother.
People move away. It is the way of the world now: seemingly casual migration. Life gets in the way. Bonds break, as they sometimes do, and nobody is to blame. Those babies you welcomed into the world have lives of their own and Auntie is low down on the list of priorities. It is as it should be, but the world spins with you still in the middle unchanging.
All is as it should be within the order of life as commonly accepted. Milestones only touch you to make you older. One day, you are essentially invisible.
Strangers address you as 'Mrs', not considering that a woman your age would be anything else. Corrections invite pity.
Despite the effort, you are ever more alone. Everyone has their lives. You take joy from their successes and you are there with comfort in their sorrows, but you are still alone at the end of it.
You are depended on: the universal donor. You have the time, don't you?
You wake up one day and you are eighty-two years old. Your limbs don't work like they ought; your brain is slow and quick to tire. When did you become the old crone you once pitied, when you were a pretty girl with the whole wide world for the taking?
When did life unfold without you? When did you replace one set of dreams with another?
Perhaps those were never really your dreams?
Sunday, 17 April 2016
On Phantoms, Morrison & The Would've Been Question - From the Vault 2005
Another archive bit, this time from Jan 2005. I went to see The Phantom of the Opera in a rare family trip to the cinema. It was an excruciating outing in some respects: I don't love seeing movies with other people in general, and the rest of the party seemed determined to irritate the frak out of me throughout...
Of course, The Phantom of the Opera is not a great movie. It's not as bad as some folks would make out, and I don't think it's aged well but it's not awful.
This is another post that feels like it's from 'before'. Before the real darkness set in; before I pulled myself out of the hole; before, before... I've edited somewhat, partly to make my meaning absolutely clear, but the content remains essentially the same... and in places I've noted where my younger self was basically starry-eyed, naive and wrong. We live, we learn. What a naïf I was...
This stayed with me for a long time after I posted it, opening with a single, simple question:
Would I love Jim Morrison if he were ugly?
Monday, 7 September 2015
Women & Rock Music
I like to think we live in enlightened times. Times where Germaine Greer can muck about on reality TV because she no longer needs to spout feminist stuff. She doesn't need to because we're sorted, more or less. There's still an economic and professional glass ceiling, but it's getting weaker. Chauvinism has no place in Britain anymore, hurrah hurrah...
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