women

"Women are blue-black as the ocean's deepest knowledge, creamy-white `n lacy blue veined, freshly ground cinnamon brown. Women are Christian motorcycle dykes, militantly hetero Muslim theological scholars, Jewish-Chinese bisexual macrobiotic ballerinas. Chippewa shawwomen who fuck not just lovers, but Time and Silence too.

Women are drug addicts, anti-abortion activists and volunteers for Meals-On-Wheels. Women have AIDS, big fancy houses, post traumatic stress disorder and cockroach-infested hovels. Women are rockstars, Whores, mothers, lawyers, taxidermists, welders, supermodels, scientists, belly dancers, cops, filmmakers, athletes and nurses.

There are not many things which unite all women. I have found the word "cunt", the word and the anatomical jewel, to be a venerable ally in my war against my own oppression. Besides global subjugation, our cunts are the only common denominator I can think of that all women irrefutably share.

We are divided from the word.
We are divided from the anatomical jewel.
I seek reconciliation."

We have profound thoughts, good brains, dreams, fabulously intricate inner workings, the power of creation and artistic talents. We are your mother, sister, girlfriend, best friend, worst enemy. We are not merely tits and ass and pussy tight pussy, though we have these things and admit they are FUCKIN' WONDERFUL. Erections are nice and everything, but just because you get one doesn't mean it's a woman's duty to hop on. We are tired of saying, "Oh, when I mean male aggression, I don't mean you dear, you have never said a mean thing or objectified me in any way, I mean other men who raped me/hit me/made me feel like a walking fuck hole just because I have a nice place where a dick could go". The worst offenders know who they are and seem to be the most likely to ask for exemption. The guys who do not participate in objectifying women also know who they are, and are the ones most likely to get really good sex, full time friendship and fantastic conversation with women. These are the guys who make nice lovers/husbands/boyfriends, and there are many of them.

But still...

We don't sit around all damn day thinking about dicks and make-up.

Thanks moJoe, for making my point!

I saw a great comic by Michael Leunig.

It was a parade of placarded women marching.

the first cell had a woman with the placard:

All Men are Bastards

We Will Fight for equality until

and the third ....

All women are bastards too!

Incidentally, Michael Leunig has a relation (sister I think) who also writes comics.

Women by Charles Bukowski

"Many a good man has been put under the bridge by a woman" Henry Chinaski

Women follows on from Charles Bukowski's earlier, largely auto-biographical, works of American low life; Post Office and Factotum. This book however, shows a slightly different Charles Bukowski (alias Henry Chinaski) as his old age is increasing together with his notoriety, and more importantly for him, his amount of female conquests goes into overkill. The one thing that strikes the reader at first is the rawness of Bukowski; his unconventional views of women, the way he treats his women - sometimes bad, sometimes good - but always in the same style: truthful and honest.

As with Post Office and later Factotum, Chinaski lived life on the fringes of society, crawling from one menial job to another, fighting with his bosses, drinking constantly, getting underpaid and being treated like dirt. Women sees Chinaski with money, an important step in any alcoholic lifestyle. With money he can drink fine wines, sleep till noon, and generally do as he pleases. He is only ever constrained by women - their arrival and their departure. He regularly meets women fans at the airport who adore his books and poetry. Swearing and obscenities are not rare in this book, the light hearted and politically correct members of our society should take note here, as this book is not for them. One woman sent a picture of herself showing her "cunt", as Bukowski described it. Females, it seems, literally throw themselves at Chinaski who is old, ugly, and has a "disgusting penis". Although he manages to get it everywhere. Casanova would be proud of Chinaski.

This book will make the sane laugh and the insane laugh harder. At times, Chinaski comes across as very amusing, describing, for instance, a sex scene with a an under-age betty boop lookalike, although she insists she is over 18 by validating herself with her id at every alcohol beverage stop. He insists it will be "child rape" if he had sex with her, and moreover he would "split her in half" if the act took place, until finally the act does happen but it is him who gets raped (well, in a way).

Beyond the depths of Chinaski's bedroom, there does lie a deeper level of thought - a deeper meaning. You just have to find it. Throughtout the book he is having an inner struggle with himself; he cannot resist the female temptation, they adore him, he lives it like a rockstar - drinking all night, arguing and falling out with girlfriends, finding another the next day, and so on. But this life is not really for him, the world has changed around him but he is the same person. He has become an established writer with money, he's no longer working for a dog biscuit factory and the girls just love his poetry and readings. He's a fat bellied, red faced ugly old man, who can't believe his luck, and about time too according to Chinaski.

Although the writing does not match the standard traditional literary ideals, Bukowski is nevertheless a distinguished writer. His books are easy to read, the plots fairly simple, the tone almost always exciting and page turning. Women is an rollercoaster ride into a alcohol induced fairy tale of a man lost in a world he hates. Some say, he is beatnik, I disagree and say Bukowski is a one and only, he does not easily fit into any subjective, or for that matter, objective category. He is on his own. Read Bukowski, live Bukowski, drink Bukowski.

Women

The professor had been a genius in his day - that nobody could deny. All the great minds in human history were a little eccentric, I reminded myself as I puzzled over our strange interview, but something rang alarmingly true about what he had said. There were things to do. I decided I wasn't going home tonight ...

The professor had been late. We were supposed to be talking about my grant. As will become clear to you, no doubt, the subject of our conversation didn't even brush close to student grants and the consequences of their frivolous misuse.

His heavily lined eyes gave away his exhaustion. I asked if he'd slept well. He admitted, in his thick Russian accent, to several late nights, and then began rummaging through his desk. With his face in a lower drawer, and only his back visible, he asked with some concern, "You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

I was a little taken aback, as you can imagine. Before I could reply, with a little "Ah ha!" of triumph, the professor pulled a little black book out of his drawer, plonked it on the desk, ruffled his way to a point midway through, and proceeded to scribble line after line in his untidy handwriting with the pencil stub laying on his desk.

"I have to hide it from the cleaning lady, you see." He mumbled at me, clearly too absorbed in his work to form his words properly.

My mind finally finished considering his original question, and I replied quite bluntly, "As it happens, professor, I am engaged to be married."

His response was quite disturbing. It took a second for the meaning to sink in, confused as it was by competing with his scribbling. He jumped and made a startled cry.

Then he put what remained of his pencil down and glared at me.
"You're quite sure?"

"Why yes, professor." I couldn't see where this was heading.

"And do you do the laundry or does she?"

And it dawned on me that I was dealing with one of those people.
"Now Professor, look here! I don't see what this has to do with ..."

He cut me off.
"It has everything to do with everything. Now listen, this is important." And then came the most fantastic tale I have ever heard.

"You know my department. We teach basic physics and a little electronics. Nothing exciting, nothing dangerous, and nothing important. Until now." I noted the weight he'd put on the word dangerous with curiosity. I didn't get a chance to ask him about it. He plunged on.

"We've got a few of those GPS things knocking around the lab for the first year electronics to play around with."

What the professor was referring to was the Global Positioning System. Very handy it was too. By the miracle of satellite technology, one of the little handhelds could tell you your longitude and latitude accurate to about 10m. This is all very well, but I was having trouble linking any of this to what he was saying before. He changed course again.

"I'm married, you know."

I nodded politely, wondering whether of not he was going to share some deadly pearls of wisdom with me. Instead, he told me more of his marriage.

"It's quite a nice arrangement." He said. "Or, well, it was ... she would do the housework, and encourage me in my research; I would go out every day and work for her - for us. Or so I thought. But now things have changed, and I can never go back."

At that precise moment, his secretary knocked on the frosted glass of the door, and opened it enough to push her pretty face around it.

"Professor, your wife's on the phone."

"I'm in an interview, can't you see that?" the professor snapped.

"Sorry professor." She popped her head back and closed the door. He began to tremble.

"That's the third time she's called. I think she suspects." He confided with a glance at the door; implying, I assumed correctly, his wife.

That just about convinced me. "Professor, if you're having an affair, I don't want to hear about it. I'm not a shrink or a councillor, you know."

He looked at me.

"Perhaps you do not understand me. I adore my wife. This is the problem. I shall pull myself together, and explain." He did just that.

"You see, as do most of my comrades in my field, I suffer from a lack of mindfullness. On one particular afternoon, I had placed my GPS in my trouser pocket during a lecture so that students might observe my motions around the building later. Of course, I quite forgot about it."

"That night, when I arrived home, I decided it was time my poor trousers took a washing, and I placed them in the wash basket."

"The next day at work I noted with concern that I could not find the aforementioned GPS unit. I ransacked the department and, if I remember correctly, made some very serious allegations. Of course it didn't make an appearance until a good week later, when I came across my trousers again."

This, I decided, had to some kind of eccentric joke. The story seemed to be going nowhere, and taking forever doing so.

"It came to work with me, and I decided to make the best of it, and use the data it had accumulated, cutting out the boring bit where, for a week, it did nothing."

"I had a scan through the results, and I can tell you I was very suprised with what I found."

He raised his eyebrows, as if challenging me to ask him what he found. I opened my mouth to form the question, and he cut across me, excitedly.

"It had disappeared!"

"I beg your pardon professor?"

"It had disppeared! For about three minutes around eleven o'clock that night, while I was in bed, the GPS receiver noted that it could not locate itself by any known Earth satellite. Previously it had been in the wash basket; but after the blip, it relocated itself ... in my wardrobe! I was so concerned I called the military to see if they'd had a hiccough. Of course, they handed me from department to department, and they all seemed to think it was some kind of joke - but there had been no problems."

I considered this for a moment, and we sat in silence. "So where was it professor?"

"I have no idea. But consider the problem. My wife most certainly did not take my trousers and put them in the washing machine, yet they were fresh and clean when I put them on."

The chilling implications of his hitherto odd behaviour began, slowly, to dawn on me. And then my imagination decided it would assist me.

"Professor ... " I aksed, "is your case an exception?"

His face was drawn into a frown.
"I sincerely hope so."

"And what if it's not?"

"Then we are dealing with the single greatest unknown quantity mankind has ever faced."

"So what do we do professor?"

"We need more information. We need to know who they are, what they're up to, and ..." this chilled me the most "... where they come from. All of them."

Wom"en (?), n.,

pl. of Woman.

© Webster 1913.