Cunt.

It's amazing how a little word can create such a big stir. As Germaine Greer duly stated, this is one of the few words in the English language that still retains its ability to shock. Why is that?

There are so many derogatory names for other anatomical parts that we have used to degrade one another. Like, "that guy is an asshole", or "what a prick". But calling someone a cunt is a jaw-dropper. One can never be at a party, and say, "Man, my boss was such a cunt today", without having everyone within hearing shot swivel their necks to size up the person who could utter such profanity. If you use the word cunt, at least in North America, there is no turning back. You've been imprinted in a way that cannot be undone. You have sunk to the lowest level of vulgarity that language has to offer.

Over in the UK, on the other hand, the word cunt is apparently used much more lightly. It's not too unusual to be called a "daft cunt" by ones boss on a bad day, or be called "a silly little cunt" by one's Scottish grandmother when being..... silly (the latter actually derives from a story I was told about someone's granny). Why, in fact, I actually called my dad a "handy little cunt" the other day after he reported to have made a fancy meal for his friend.

But down at the bottom of it all, this name-calling business is deeply rooted in patriarchy. Apparently, cunt derives from the ancient word 'kunta', which means 'female genitalia' in the Sumerian language of ancient Iraq. In some other eastern and African languages, 'kunta' means 'woman'. Another spelling is 'quna', which is a root word for 'queen'. Many priestesses in ancient times, who possessed great power and skills as scribes, were referred to as 'kunta'. But with the rise of patriarchy, women were dispossessed of their status, and the conquerers appropriated such things as language, changing the meanings of empowering words to rather imply degradation and evil.

Feminists have tried to reclaim this word for these reasons, and also the reason that a name for the female genitalia should not have degrading implications. It should be a word of power. But no matter how much I have wanted to join in this campaign, I have not been able to say this word without the expectation that the recipient will not be blatantly shocked. I have never walked into my doctor's office and said, "there is something going on with my cunt". And if you can't say it to your doctor with wholesome intentions, who can you say it to? I am up against an entire culture that views the female genitalia as a dirty little secret. And the word 'cunt' is all part of this very impolite, uncivilized, yet powerful part of women.

We all enter the world through kunta; through woman. Women are supposed to be sacred, life-giving vessels. Yet cunt, an ancient sacred word, remains to be one of the most devastating words in North American culture. I guess that really says something. But I think the word, despite its apparent savageness, is incredibly provocative and intriguing. How much you want to bet that today's blog gets the most hits?

Laws of Attraction

A friend recently shared with me that the older they get, the more they are surprised by the people they find attractive. When we are young, our criteria often tends to circumvent around superficial attributes. Nice ass. Hot body. Chiselled features. When we get older, we realize there is much more to sexy than how someone styles their hair, or, for all that matter, how much hair they have. I don't think this is a breakdown of standards. Rather, I think our standards broaden to include more intrinsic personal qualities, like charisma.

I have been plenty surprised by some of the people who have caught my eye, but I have yet to pin down what it is about them that I - and often others - find attractive. It's not always obvious, and trying to define it is like trying to capture a patch of air and name the shape of it. The picture is more pervasive than what meets the eye or, often, our rationale.

I'll never forget the first day of my second semester of Introductory Psychology when I was a university fledgeling in my mid-20's. There I was, sitting up at the front of the class like the keener I was, waiting for our new professor to walk through the door. In comes a tall, bulking man with long, white hair in a pony-tail, casual clothes, and what looked like some bone pendant hanging off of a leather necklace. He looked at us all, and said, "Sociology 360, right?", and let out a warm laugh when he saw our insecure faces. "Just kidding". He let out a big smile with bright, twinkling blue eyes. This was our professor for the semester.

I have no idea what it was about him that completely engulfed my attention for the rest of the semester, but from that moment on, I was spellbound. He was clearly older beyond my years. I had never before had a crush on anyone so much older than myself. I mean, the guy had white hair, while I was still running around in mini-skirts. Could it be his confidence? The way he carried himself? Pheromones? I sat there in every class while he lectured us, trying to find the answers to my bewilderment, becoming increasingly tangled in the self-made web of my own attraction the more I pondered what it was about him that entranced me so. When I found out he was an expert windsurfer I considered signing up for lessons. When someone told me he did his doctorate thesis on trance-dancing, I read his book. I wanted to be near him. I wanted to know more about who he was.

Then one day I decided to go to his office.

I cannot remember what I asked him about as he and I sat in his small cramped quarters across from eachother. All I can remember is that the colour of my burning cheeks were betraying me as I stumbled on each word. My legs felt like Jello. My fingers tingled, and my palms were sweaty. While I was likely bumbling incoherently and drowning in my own physiological bath of nervous rapture, he was scrunching up his face trying to decifer what it was that I was trying to say. I recall that he had quite a bit to say in response, but I can't remember what it was. My heart was pounding like a hammer and I was quickly losing voluntary motor skills. All I remember was the refreshing sensation of cool air on my skin as I walked out of his office, and the sweaty imprint of my palm on the textbook that I had been clutching during our conversation.

This experience initiated me into a world of attraction that I knew nothing about. A strange, irrational world that slices through the mental constructs we mistakenly think are so tangible and safe, plunging us into uncharted, deep, nebulous waters. Who knows what the architectural laws of attraction really are. I don't think there are any.

So when my friend recently shared bewilderment at one of her recent crushes and asked my opinion, all I could answer was, "I have no idea".

Sex, Secrecy and Scandal

Freshly back from the circus of our Legislative Assembly. As one of the MLA's duly pointed out today, this government is like a season of "All of My Children". Sex, secrecy, and scandal, compliments of our elected officials. Someone suggested during lunch today that I focus my current screenwriting experiments on some government-inspired stories. There really is no shortage of marketable material. In fact, some of the acts that have been dancing out of the Legislative Assembly could qualify for full-length feature films.

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Act One:

The Premier, while touting 'family values', was recently busted for screwing one of the Legislative Assembly clerks. He was hamstrung by MLA's due to the fact that this clerk was sitting in on Committee meetings of non-Cabinet MLA's, and allegedly leaking information from these meetings back to the Premier during some pillow talk sessions. Whether or not he informed his family of the affair before it was plastered all over the country by media is unknown. It is rumoured by those who know his 'Lewinsky' that he did dump his family (a wife and 6 kids) 2 weeks before this past Christmas, as did latter mentioned clerk - who was also married.

Act Two:

It was hard not to notice the empty seat in Cabinet today, which previously belonged to Sahtu MLA Norman Yakeleya. He now sits on the opposite side of the house after being stripped of his Cabinet portfolio last fall because of sexual assault charges of a minor. Yakeleya now wears a sticky note taped to his forehead, "Note to self: must not screw teenagers". Though he has yet to be convicted, the courts have deemed there is enough evidence to go forward with a trial.

Act Three:

The government made a highly controversial move in this budget to bail out Discovery Air with a 34 million dollar loan. Our Premier defended this action yesterday during the Budget Address, stating that in these 'uncertain economic times', we need to assist Northern businesses, such as Discovery Air. But many of us know that our finance minister, Michael Miltenberger, is tight with Chuck Parker, who was recently the Deputy Minister of Health & Social Services before moving over to Great Slave Helicopters - one of the businesses under Discovery Air. I guess having joint family vacations with a finance minister can get you a multi-million dollar bail-out. Either that, or you better have some really big boobs. MLA's were rightly angered at this covert deal, which they claim they were not properly informed of. In fact, before this budget has actually passed, one of the local reporters informed my colleagues and I that the ink was drying on the Discovery Air deal as we sat there listening to today's debates in the Assembly. Voting on a budget is just a formality.

For the sake of dramatization, I have chosen the most sensational government inspirations for my script. Sex, secrecy, and scandal sells. But besides these juicy morsels of immoral tinkerings in Cabinet, MLA's have had a long list of gripes regarding Cabinet that have to do with aspects of accountability, poor communication, and badly forged policies. And today, today, I thought we were going to see the hammer come down, as Hay River MLA Jane Groenewegen made a motion to remove Cabinet, and start from scratch.

I sat there for four hours today, some of them unpaid, like an eager bystander at the local guillotine, wondering if we would see some heads roll. After Jane made her motion for a mass beheading, those of us in the gallery listened on the edge of our seats as each MLA stated whether they were giving their support. Some of the presentations were good. My applause to Dave Ramsay and Glen Abernethy, who spoke from their gut, and really gave Cabinet a piece of their mind in no uncertain terms. Well spoken, articulate, and to the point. But things slowly started taking a turn once we ventured down the line. Yakeleya, as usual, was so incoherently disassociated from the topic that I felt like poking my eye out with an industrial sized rusty nail after 5 minutes. After his initial first sentence, he strays so far, so fast, that by the end of it he is practically talking about the colour of his boxers, and how he likes the colour pink on 13 year old girls (until someone taps the sticky note on his forehead).

By the time we got down to the dregs, we started seeing opposition to what felt like some nice momentum for support of the Motion. Beaulieau, Hawkins, and Jacobson all stated that they would not support it. All I could imagine was these little cartoon bubbles over their heads saying, "Blah blah blah, I've got no balls, blah blah blah". When they were finished, the Motion just hung dead in the stale air. Defeated. Before the actual vote, we still had to listen to the statements of Cabinet on the Motion, but it was a sure thing that none of Cabinet would vote to remove themselves, so the Motion would not be carried. Feeling let down, I was ready to start packing at that point, but my colleague wanted to hear Cabinet's response. I tried getting through it without making faces, but I was still struggling to dig myself out of the mental stupor that I had sunk into during Yakeleya's numbing monologue, and so was hanging on with two brain cells strung together like Christmas popcorn by that point. I looked around, and realized I was not alone: MLA Menicoche was inspecting his fingers carefully while Ministers gave their speeches, and after confirming that he had ten of them, resorted to colouring in his doodles. One of the clerks, visibly seated in front of the house Speaker for all to see, was poking his cheek repeatedly with a pencil while vacantly staring off into space.

After listening to the pleading promises of Cabinet to use protection next time - I mean, be better communicators - we gradually came full circle back to MLA Jane Growenewegen, for the closing remarks of her Motion. I enjoyed one last round of hits on the Premier as she called on him to resign. But we know that ain't gonna happen.

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After the vote came down, 10 to 8 against the Motion, we all let out a collective sigh of disappointment and gathered our things, spilling out into the halls with dull spirits. I felt like a kid walking out of a candy store with empty pockets. But maybe it was enough to shake me awake during my winter slumber. Maybe one of these acts will make a really good premise for my flailing screenwriting experiments.

Wrong is Right

I don't know where I acquired a sense of justice.
*
I do know that every time I got spanked as a kid, I felt that it was unjust. During the developmental era of which these spankings occured, I hadn't yet internalized the ethics and morals of my society. Maybe the rough hands of my stepfather spanked them into me. Eventually. But at the age of 5 years old, I was a bandit. With hardly any prodding from some kid at the playground, I turned into a little gremlin burgler who would run into the local Safeway to the nearest candy display, stuff candies desperately into the makeshift pouch I had made out of my t-shirt, then dash out before any adults really understood what was happening. Of course a kid with this much candy is suspect to their parents, and it wasn't long before my mother came across me and my lifted suckers, tootsie rolls, and Aero bars. Busted. Spanked.

Somewhere along the line, much later in life, (likely in my mid-20's) I internalized a sense of justice. I began to see the things that weren't right in the world, and I saw myself as a instrument of good. Many of my deeds had such variable results, that I could say neither yay or nay as to whether my interference was a good thing. But there was one instance where I began to question whether setting things to rights was actually just messing with something that should be let to run its course.

It was near Christmas time in the year 2001. I was at my cabin in Yellowpoint on Vancouver Island, up to my ears in gift baking with gold-sprayed tins, ribbons, cookies, and powdered icing sugar spread all around the kitchen. My friend Kate called. She told me about a loose dog she had found at one of our local parks, and that the dog seemed to have suffered some injuries but had no identification tag. Being the kind heart she is, she took the dog home and nursed it back to health over the course of a few days, but was wondering what to do. The dog was incredibly friendly and loving, and fit right in with her family. So the dillema was: should she keep it, or report the dog to the local shelter in the event someone was looking for it? I recall my suggestion being to report it, because likely a dog left in that condition isn't a dog that the owners cared much to claim, so likely she could do the right thing, and get to keep the dog. Justice.
*
Now let's go back in time.
*
A couple weeks before, my mother told me that a renegade relative of ours, who we will call 'Fred' for convenience sake, had kept a dog who had 'followed' his little girl home a few months ago. My mother had since seen signs posted around town for that dog by its owners, who obviously cared a lot for their dog. I asked my mom if she had let Fred know that the owners were looking for their dog, to which she replied that Fred was well aware, but wanted the dog for himself. My Spidey senses started tingling: this was clearly wrong. Well aware that pets are like family members in most households, I told my mother that we had to report to these people where their dog was. My mom got the phone number from one of the posters, and I phoned the people and gave them Fred's address.
*
A few days later, my mom phoned me to say that the people had reclaimed their dog. She had been on the phone with Fred earlier that day, she told me, and while Fred was talking to her and looking out the window of his house, he saw a red truck drive by a few times. "That's weird", he told her, "a red truck keeps driving by. Oh..... wait a minute. The truck has stopped in front of my house.... a guy is walking through my gate. I wonder what he wants?". The person walked around the house out of view. Before Fred could finish his good-bye to my mom, he said, "Holy shit. Someone just stole my fucking dog". This fellow had plucked the dog out of the yard, put it in the back of the truck, and drove off. Fred later walked to the house where he knew the dog to be originally from, and there was the red truck. Obviously he was thinking of stealing the dog back. No dog in the yard.
*
A few days later, there I am, in my kitchen, up to my ears in ribbons, tins, and baking, listening to Kate tell me about the dog she had found.
*
By the time Christmas actually came, Kate told me that someone had indeed come to claim the dog after she had reported it to the local shelter. She described a big, hulking man, not too bright but kind enough, who was apparently the owner. Kate was sad for a few days, but she eventually got over it.
*
I had Christmas dinner at my mother's place, and Fred was among our relatives there. After dinner, all stuffed and needing cigarettes, Fred and my mom's husband, Jamie, went to the local corner store. When they came back, Fred told me that someone had recently stolen his dog. Of course I knew that to be bullshit, but I smiled and nodded with interest. What he didn't know was that I was the one who reported the dog to the real owners, who snatched their dog back. What I didn't know was that the dog never actually made it back to its original household. He went on to say, "And while we were coming back from the store, I pointed out to Jamie the house where I had eventually retrieved my dog from, and he said it belonged to your friend, Kate! What a small world, eh?".

Then it hit me, as I stared at him blankly for a few moments.
I had reported the dog that Fred stole.
The owners picked her up.
She jumped out of the truck before they got her home. Dog ran around injured and confused.
Kate found her.
Fred picked her up from Kate.
The dog was back where she started before I intervened.
*
And as I stood there, momentarily dumbfounded, it seemed that the only thing that came from my decision to restore justice was the poor dog's injuries, which clearly wasn't a good result. The dog ended up back in the place where she was before I came along. With this, I pondered Fate and the need for it to run its course. It's a sticky world, this Fate stuff. Perhaps the part of the intervener is all part of Fate. But perhaps it's true that sometimes what seems wrong, is right.