Ys

​​                                                             Doesn’t look like much, does it?

                                                                                                                       journal 6.27.22

“Anger” has ceased to be a sufficient word for my feelings. A meager word, a vague word, a still-compliant word. What is the word for when you want the entire male population to be forcibly castrated?

One knife, one person with no medical training: only fair, right? I mean how would that be any different than like circumcision? Since circumcision must be brought up at least once — and ideally incessantly — in every discussion, let’s just get that out of the way right now.

The niceness of women is not working out so well for us. What are we going to do: draw on cardboard, walk around a few buildings, write new songs, and maybe even knit some more hats?

I read that a “pro-life” outreach building was burned down in Colorado and I hope it’s true.

I also hope that no one was hurt.

I’m a woman, you see. We like to build things. Make things. Babies. Peace. Knitting circles. Bread.

But it is not working out for us, no. Men were not content to receive these things as gifts. They would like to control them, order them, turn our bodies into factory parts.

Between the wonderful, universal nature of women and the spoiled, violent nature of patriarchal men it seems we will always end up on the bottom. This is the kind of language men like: tops, bottoms, fucking, banging, screwing, jerking, jizzing, cuming, dumping. They luxuriate in the ugliness of their chosen and infantile reality, then tell us we couldn’t possibly understand the consequences of our decisions, of our own bodies, of the lives we still somehow deign to give them.

It’s insecurity, I know, but turns out insecurity has sharp edges. Laws. Institutions. Guns even. 6,000 years of precedent and many millions of men habituated to orgasm from women’s pain.

Then they say: I didn’t know. Okay I did know but not really. I’m not so bad. I try. I didn’t mean it. It was a joke. I’m sorry.

And we believe them. Or enough of us. Since I stopped dating men over a decade ago now I am increasingly confused on the point of their purported charms.

Or maybe I’m fundamentally no different: I still feel sorry for them. I don’t like them; I cannot understand how we are of the same species; I avoid them to the greatest extent possible. But I pity them, as I do any life form that appears to be suffering.

Whatever they say, men do not suffer in silence. After all of the talking, they find a way to take it out on us. And that is why they are never completely gone. Separatism has its limits.

That evasive age at which sexual harassment ends has not yet appeared with invisibility in her hands. I don’t want to wish away life. I don’t want to wish away fertility; it is so endlessly interesting. But every astonishing thing about us just becomes another way for them to hurt us. Another porn genre.

If we knew what was good for us we would have eradicated them long ago. As it is, this endless push-and-pull of giving the ladies some small things, then taking them away, is overshadowed by the larger question of planetary limits. How this weird little story of human existence ends is anyone’s guess, but it will be with much male violence and gnashing of teeth.

The end was written into the beginning in seems, somewhere in the Y chromosome. Never say nature lacks a sense of humor.