“Ok, if it’s a boy we’re gonna call it: Sodomy!”

How often are we aware of the laws which define our bodies, and subdivide our sex? What are the legal ramifications, and who do I become, as a result of putting this body part in contact with that body part?

When activists discuss “sodomy laws,” and the repealing thereof, they generally refer specifically to a legal situation in which the actual acts of non-procreative sex are themselves criminalized. These laws could be and were used, basically, to “legislate against being gay,” in a very material way. It is worthy of note that in Oregon legislation (2005) the word “sodomy” continues to be used to indicate a variety of proscribed sexual contact, in spite of the fact that its meaning in this context has otherwise shifted profoundly over the past forty years.

 In 1971, according to SodomyLaws.org and the glorious Wikipedia, laws prohibiting consensual anal and oral sex between adults were repealed in Oregon. Today, the word “sodomy” continues to carry a general, colloquial meaning synonymous with “anal sex,” and is regularly and uncritically associated with male homosexuality. The Oregon Revised Statutes define the word differently, however, and as defined within the ORS, “sodomy” is illegal in the state of Oregon. 

SEX CRIMES!! (repost)

(originally posted on MySpace on Thursday, July 26th, 2007)

I know that the local news is vile. I know this. Nothing should surprise me at this point, when it comes to the ridiculous inadequacies of the local news. Smacking my forehead in consternation is an inevitable consequence of allowing the spackle-coated morons to invade my consciousness.

 Here, background from Salem, OR’s Statesman Journal:‘Sex crimes prompt temporary closure of park west of Salem’ & ‘Holman Wayside park to close Thursday’

Apparently, letting the Oregon public know that this roadside park has been closed due to “sex crimes” is extremely important – it was one of KOIN’s stories tonight on the air (although their website offers nothing supplementary). Because sex crimes are important! They’re newsworthy! Any kind of sex crime, you don’t have to tell me what it is, but you’d best be telling me about it, because it’s a sex crime and that’s news I need to know.

“Woeful psychological scars resulting from American pedagogy at it’s most foully dogmatic” (repost)

(originally posted on My Space, Tuesday, July 24th, 2007)

I embarked on this tale not to bemoan woeful psychological scars resulting from American pedagogy at it’s most foully dogmatic. That said, it was a useful digression for my own purposes, and I don’t regret it. Blogs being what they are, I see no need to defend my vagaries.

I started this particular bit of writing to tell The Story of How I Fell in the Hole, which is why it begins and ends with reminiscence of a particular hike I took in 2002. Which was the hike during which I fell into the hole in question.

The Story of How I Fell in the Hole (much like The Tale of How We Lost the Keys in the Desert) are fables drawn from very simple events in my life, from which I drew some sort of insight. I enjoy telling them semi-ironically to others when discussing various aspects of the general difficulty of navigating existence.

Perhaps I will, after all, tell The Story of How I Fell in the Hole at some point, and also The Tale of How We Lost the Keys in the Desert, for that matter. (Although my history of making good on promised “part deuxs” is not particularly sound, see the “Interpretation of Tears” below.) But for now, this monstrosity of self-absorption will have to stand alone as some sort of tangential prelude.

More Porn Stuff: Race/Class, Documentary/Narrative, & the Interpretation of Tears (Part 1) (repost)

(originally posted on MySpace on Thursday, June 14, 2007)

Oh, the things you stumble upon when you’re cheap and still somewhat uncommitted to your project, due to shame or laziness or the residues of some sense of appropriate action for your allotted sex and age and class. Or perhaps its the thrill of cobbling together your erotic kaleidoscope from stolen moments, scraps of media, things that you can find and appropriate for your purposes. As though your erotic life is just another side of your regular life as a consumer – dishes from the Goodwill, utensils from the Dollar Tree, furniture off the side of the street, porn in free snippets and stories online.

                                                *          *          *          *         

There were no more than thirty seconds in this clip, no way to ascertain what precipitated the documented moments. She is on a sofa, leaned up against it, her knees drawn up to either side, cunt spread wide, and he is largely invisible, but for his large and rhythmically mobile cock. It is a standard set-up for framing the action in porn, a familiar and pragmatic arrangement. Thus curved, with knees up, most of the woman’s body is within the frame and at relative proximity to the camera. In this case, she is white, dark haired, with what appears to be mascara run-off coating her cheekbones, and is talking loudly, aggressively, appreciatively. He is black, though relatively pale on the spectrum, and is, to the best of our limited knowledge, simply committed to his task.

Clearly, I don’t know what I’m doing.

The development of some kind of actual blog has seemed inevitable for quite a while. Once I got started in with the habit of regularly writing, and all of the concomitant paying-attention-to-the-world … well, I can’t stop now. Words are far too fun, and the fleeting expectation that rendering one’s thoughts to the public will automatically yield some kind of audience is … seductive. MySpace isn’t really the proper platform for all of this stuff, is it? I should grow up, shouldn’t I? Join a “more adult” conversation?

I know not a damned thing about the “blogosphere,” and this cultural illiteracy is a slight cause for concern. I don’t actually much like entering into conversations in which I am so alienated from my interlocutors. Apparently I’m supposed to be paying attention to the blogs of others? Commenting on their posts? Participating in some vast, meta-referential, much hyperlinked, and often contentious conversation? The prospect makes me anxious.

I like the idea of posting, of slapping a chunk of worked-over writing up onto the virtual corkboard, and leaving it there for others to find. Perhaps I will quickly proceed from wading in blog-waters to being totally submerged, but at this point such future developments remain … contingent.