So here is my completely irrelevant commentary about my new home.

Shit is expensive. I make a great salary for Michigan but I’m going to be constantly broke. I nearly doubled my rent to move here! I’ll include a donation link later.

Until then, I’m easing myself back into the land of the living. My soul had the reset button hit, and I’m still rebooting.

I might even blog again, who knows! I let my domain expire earlier this year, and a handbag retailer is now parked on my old stomping grounds which irritated me enough to move to action: I now live virtually at tiffany10.net, which I like better anyways.

And now, a song. “Shine” from Pharoahe Monch’s still to be released new album.
Pharoahe Monch – Shine ft. Mela Machinko by BiggerThanBlogging

But what’s wonderful about Lovella is that I knew I didn’t need to pretend I was okay or paint a fake smile on my face that, sure, everything’s great in my life. Lovella is many things–former roommate, artist, long-time friend–but she’s also a wounded healer: fiercely loving people and herself even when it’s rough, teaching writing and relaxation techniques to PTSD-affected veterans of war, the economy, injustice.

I stuttered–”I haven’t been to war.”

She said that she realized in listening to vets talk about war that there were parallels to how she reacted to trauma in her own life. Having read or seen some of the art coming out of this community, I nodded. Trauma is trauma.

Lovella read some of her recent writing and listened to me ramble a bit. I said, “I know I have to do something creative.” She gave me homework that she gives vets in her workshops – “write a list of things that comfort you.”

I couldn’t think of a single thing. And for awhile, that made it worse. To live even a few minutes in this life and not recognize comfort is a truly painful place.

But a few days later I sat down to write a few things that I could remember as “comforting.” I’m adding to the list as things come to me–the process of pushing my mind to dwell on comfort is helping me feel it. Going in for round two tonight I remembered ‘cedar’ – the smell of cedar wood is divine.

Things that comfort me: the sound and smell of rain; trees rustling in the wind; the smell of cut grass; really good coffee; hugs; sleeping in; clean sheets; incense and candles; pretty, dangly hand-crafted earrings; backrubs and intimacy; sunshine; watching cats sleep, stretch, lounge; being near any body of water; the ‘awkward turtle’ gesture; organizing that creates community while confronting power; being verbally affirmed; laughter; short walks in good weather; art-filled brightly colored living spaces; teacups; holding hands; making someone else laugh; crossing off everything on a to-do list; doing chores with someone else and getting help; certain shades of teal, red, orange; feeling sexy or desired; Prince and Michael Jackson; having my hair played with; people who remind me of happy times; dancing to bass beats; talking to wise people; not wearing socks; Son Jaracho and other forms of political and collective art; doing the dishes for a really great cook; clean laundry; clean spaces; being freshly showered/clean; vibe-checkers and others who make sure others are alright; working-class folks; strong women; gentle, softspoken men; sunsets; blue skies; fluffy, white clouds; mutual aid; warm showers in the winter, cool showers in the summer; stretching; feeling accomplished; getting letters and gifts in the mail; funny text messages; ceiling fans!; good-fitting jeans; the IT Crowd; hazelnut; sandalwood; woodgrain; cedar; orange blossoms; flowers; pine trees; the sound of leaves crunching; hot tubs; sparkling water; creeks; morning dew…

This is probably against the rules, but for the sake of processing, a few of the things that often make me feel uncomfortable: the three big “F”s–fear, failure, fighting. Also notable: loud noises, voices, and arguments; being off the ground or at any height; gray skies and dim lighting; ice/snow; being cold; being too hot; being around too many other white people; being yelled at or talked to sharply, particularly by men; being around my mother; conflict and miscommunication; upper crust engagements; public speaking.

Comfort gets the last word: Liz Lemon, cupcakes, lavender.

The art betrays the conclusion. Erotic eating is just a huge, feminist mess, right?

For those of us in the scene, or following the scene, women with politics or a sense of feminism, we’ve had so many debates about the implications of feederism that we’re knock-down drag-out tired of the debate and the half-assed way it gets dealt with my the mainstream AND the alternative media. When we hear that it’s getting written up by Bitch, a alt feminist mag I got mad respect for, we get ready for the bruising, cause we know this shit’s not gonna get done right.

The article made me roll my eyes, get angry, tired. I feel burnt out trying to defend this little community. Oh, the feminists in the fat and fat-porn and feeder-porn communities (don’t confuse them, they are separate and not all agree) are just tired of trying to explain it to everyone.

I wrote a critique of the article, which I’ll post below. It’s not fully-edited, but neither is my blog.

I didn’t get into this in my comment, as it was already dealt with by others, but the model in question, Ivy, is by far one of the most female-oriented women in the biz. Her and her pals (other models) dream up their sets. While men play a HUGE role as clients, she ain’t got a manager, a feeder, or a dude tellin’ her what to do. She is the real-deal, and as such, an incredible resource for the feminist community, should they want to really understand fat women and feedee women.

Her site is www.hotfattygirl.com but note that this site does include suggestive imagery and toplessness. NSFW.

What’s most disturbing about Hester’s article is that it’s one of those poorly-done incendiary political pieces that causes a stir of trouble and controversy, but does nothing to heighten or renew a feminist debate about feeder porn. Many fat- and not-fat-feminist women have been talking about the implications of the “scene” for many years. I’m not sure Hester, in her freshman attempt for Bitch, was the best situated to bring the debate to the next level.

We could go on for hours about whether or not an article about fat porn needs to contact a model used as an example. I tend to think, out-of-context, no. Models are well aware that they have commercialized identities, separate from themselves, that will be critiqued.

However, Hester failed to do enough work, and was a lazy academic writer, sourcing only literature that upheld her feminism, not informed by any conversations with the women involved. I am not a by-the-books feminist. I do not think we can have thesis that are unproven, and I trust women’s lived experiences to create a road map for our theory. As such, I’m not an academic, and would’ve trusted Hester’s voice and authenticity if she had approached this as a journalist – rather than a academic. Even for opinion pieces, we have to make sure we’ve asked the right questions.

Why didn’t Hester do a survey of the industry and get a sense of how many models manage their own sites and how many have active male managers or feeders? Certainly she was curious enough?

As I type, I know that I’m being too unfair to academia. No good academician makes statements without interviewing subjects.

As a fat feminist, I hear some of Hester’s points, and I believe that we can, and need, to critique this industry from a feminist viewpoint. We HAVE to analyze how selling sex to men impacts women.

However, many fat feminists before me have noted, as I will now, that the way fat is sensationalized, dissected, and hated by thin feminists never makes us feel welcome to the conversation. And, ladies, you need us. You need us to understand this phenomenon that at quick-glance looks like a worst nightmare. You need us to help navigate this rocky and emotional terrain. Feederism is hard to swallow, and I would never ask that anyone just accept it. There’s a lot to fear, and a lot of women to fear for.

However, it’s a lot more complicated than Hester and other contemporaries have made it.

My friend Liz and I talked earlier this weekend about the “narcissim of depression.” That’s part of my mother’s narrative, I’d like it not to be my own.

I’m coming to to conclusion that the only thing that has ever saved me is loving other people. Not to be altruistic, rather for my own peace. Family is probably the most important ideology I have right now-given and chosen.

I think the next few years of my life will be more about developing mutual support structures with this “family,” though who knows where and what that’ll be. I’m having a really good time exploring what it means to honor a family outside the constructs of whiteness, wealth, ownership, monagamy.

What’s up in the air is whether I’ll get to a stage where I’ll have more answers than questions-but is that even a worthy goal?

Being around my mom in this rehab facility is making me ask more questions, which is good, I think. How to be healthy? How to take care of our elders? Who gets access to health, and care? And the never ending question of my activist friends also raised in this rural county-what is community?

Fuck white people, but some of them are real hot. Cooking food communally, making big messes and putting the crumbs away (or not). The sounds and smells of vegan cooking (“that was so wet”). To the Midwest, rural and urban and trying to put the pieces together. How is it that all these activists are depressed, is that why we’re activists? Child’s laughter, our laughter. Raucus ruckus. Discussing putting down roots instead of going where it’s sexy (“these white kids…”). Being grumpy around people who love you enough to wait until the sky breaks. Skunky beer, gotta drink the beer the people drink. Skipping classes to learn other things, learning things in classes. PYT and dancing even if you feel awkward.”I don’t give a FUCK!” (and how good it feels to say that). Crushing hard on strong women. Loving your crew and validating your strengths, and big weaknesses, together. Fighting to stay out of soul train lines, stepping back. STEPPING BACK! Listening a little bit more. “I’ve never been so unhappy,” but realizing that’s not true and being thankful. Wishing you could sing, blessed by those that can. “In spite of your racial handicap, you handle Detroit really well.” Crimethink still exists? Not knowing where the queer makeout party was, though y’all weren’t gonna go. Putting your head down, because you don’t know if you’re able to find the words. The Detroit disaster and rebirth narrative. Realizing that as a child, I trusted my creativity. Laughing until it hurts at the playground, putting shoes back on tiny feet. Luna negra, el color de tu madre–mine is pale and oh, so sick and it hurts. Almost crying over hummous and oh, these boys and their emotions faintly disguised as rationality, trust women in what is observable. Men you trust sharing your space. Women who trust you. Feeling safe (and not). Loving white girlfriends and those struggling to reconcile. “You all talk about language too much.” Hiding erotica purchases from bible-buyers. Buying large print bibles. Honoring sleep (or not).

This weekend knocked out a few of these goodtime to-dos, like grilling along the water at Belle Isle, swimming at the Kensington Metro Park, and drinking coffee while watching ducks, a heron, and geese chill on a man-made lake in suburbia (okay, this wasn’t really a dream, persay).

And god, if I can eat sushi once a week, how can I be so freaking sad sometimes? It really defies explanation.

Today, however, was partially spent deboweling a computer, which I am neither good at or enjoy. Current irritation level is 110% percent.

I’ve been all Michael Jackson’s “Pretty Young Thing” and trying to get enough sleep and crappy TV and connecting with old friends lately. Nothing particularly smart, I suppose.

I spent a long weekend at home with my parents, which is a long story. I feel too stressed out about their situation to articulate much. However, the photo I shot of them is wonderful. My dad, pretending he could figure out an IV with my mom surprising me and suddenly opening her eyes as I clicked the camera.

I spent a lot of time in the country, again, feeling generally in awe of it. It’s beautiful, yet so isolating to me. I struggled, again, more, about how to pitch in without getting trapped in my own personal hell.

My mother’s hospitalization afforded my father, and the family dog, a trip up to my sister’s house and her excited puppy Bo. How sad when tragedy gives way to an otherwise impossible and cherished moment.

When I got on the road to Detroit, I hit a traffic jam, took a 45 minute emergency nap, and then forgot the code to my friend’s apartment alarm that I’m cat-sitting for.

Throughout it all, I had a horrible toothache and scheduled an emergency extraction of a wisdom tooth which was either actually really horrible or I’m the biggest pansy on earth. Oh, how I cried and blubbered! I had several moments this week of just feeling…in over my head.

This is random. I feel random. I feel like I’m on the cusp of a breakthrough, a necessary time of frustration and stress needed to rough out my edges, make me open to a new reality. That’s some new-age bullshit, to be sure, but gosh, I’m as “pre-modern”* as they come. Let the phoenix rise, full of feathers, from the smoking ashes.

*Thanks to that one guy on that one really bad date years ago for telling me what’s up. It’s true.