Pretty

Skiadaimonos asked me recently what "pretty" meant to me, as it comes up quite often, usually as an absence I see in myself, particularly in comparison to others. I was surprised, not so much at the question (I've come to expect the unexpected from that source; Dahl would be pleased), but that I hadn't considered it, that I can remember. I didn't have much of an answer then, and I'm not sure I do now, but it's like a wound I can't help myself from messing with; I've got to poke at it.

"Pretty" means a lot to me, obviously. It's a particular flavor of beauty that I think I assign to people, though at times it has the feeling of being an inherent trait that I recognize, not assign. It may be defined, at least in part, by its perceived absence in me; I'm not sure. I really don't have answers, which suggests to me that it's time to start working on it. Consider this my thesis statement, sort of.

Update

(inspired by Out Radio's "special" on gender)

Sex doesn't equal gender, which doesn't equal orientation. Each of the above nouns very suspect and chock full of unexamined bias, and to insist on any degree of necessary linkage only creates new boundaries. It's also pretty counterproductive and inconsistent for anyone who feels the sting of punishment for singular transgression to restrict others through enforced connection. People are an ass, indeed.

(no subject)

The bad mood lingers. I shouldn't be surprised that I get this way when people who promise to speak for/to me don't, and quite often work at cross purposes to what I'd take on for myself, but I still do. Not only do they not speak to/for me, they make matters worse for those who might be positively inclined; "Oh, so that's what it's all about; cool, I get it now", when in fact, they've gotten something quite different. There is a voice in my head that berates me for even thinking for a moment that those concerned with sub cultural identitiy politics would be concerned about me; the same voice tells me that if they were, and were paying attention, they'd be concerned about doing someting about/to me, instead. I'm chock full of righteous indignation, with no effective or useful outlet for it. I know that it's not just being pissed at others for being stupid/inconsistent/presumptuous/what have you; it's also triggering the fear/certainty that I am, or have become, so far afield of what most people ever consider that there is no common language, no common territory, and I can't be anything other than other.

Grr, indeed. Grr.