CULTIVATING LIBERALISM
FOR ALL CLIMATES
SINCE 1759
 
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Daily Bloggerback
Sunday, January 15, 2006

From the left, the right, the in-between: we include the political,
the social, the cultural and the undefinable.

Featured Blog I: Internal Affairs
Talking Sex With Mom

So the other day, my mother and I got to talking about sex. Now, this might seem weird to a lot of people, or you might be wondering "Wait, Saf is just now getting the birds-and-bees talk, wha-what?!?" But I assure you. My mother and I talk about everything from Beyonce to butt plugs, and I have been in the sex game about as long as LL has been in the rap game. What can I say, I was an early bloomer. Which is probably what led to my very open attitude about sex and sexuality, and my never-ending quest to improve my sex life. I don't know about anybody else, but I found teenage sex to be some of the most disappointing, anticlimatic shit EVER. As I moved into my twenties, shed my stupid MCMW (middle class midwestern) sensibilities about that shit i.e. baptist, black girl, bullshit repression, I began seeking the thing that should always come after foreplay and before afterglow. Begins with an O, and I ain't talking about Omarion or Oprah. Believe it or not, I had not encountered any O's at 20 (Ummm...apologies to any exes that read this shit). So being the Type A that I am, I got armed with info from books and articles and went on an expedition. And here are some of the things that I've learned... Read the rest at Safire...

 

Featured Blogger II: Reading Derrida in Teheran
A Modest Proposal: Total Torture Salvation Management

[We don't pretend to understand every word we read, let alone every word we write. Nor, thankfully, do most bloggers worth their saltines. Genius is in the eye of the indulgent. With that in mind, we found this post from the Brooding Persian more irresistible, and certainly more valuable, than most of the foghorned prose dribbling out of the Council on Foreign Relations these days.]

Here at the BP, we strive not only to express our disenchantment with the state of our war ravaged planet, but also to offer some sensible solutions every now and again. “Neither whines nor dissimulations,” our motto here. To that end, our humble abode hosted a conference last night attended by many of our more mischievous, perverted inner children best kept out of sight most of the time. The subject was to be aporia. That, of course, immediately raised the ire of the more Americanized BP so enamored of the good old fashioned American common sense, ingenuity and straightforwardness. Oh, how we yearn for its reappearance. Any how, he shouted, “To hell with the pompous elitist Greco-French cow dung. You mean Clusterfuck.” The more bureaucratically inclined wheeler dealer with a propensity to overindulge in the asinine practice of offering meaningless acronyms then suggested a compromise which was developed to serve as the title of this post. An observer of the seedier aspects of the global life started the proceedings with a report on the developments in the Middle East of the omnipresent Western S/M scene.The flourishing of sites such as the Saudi Mistress, and the BDSM Haifa, and the Iranian Mistress and Slave among others are clear indications, he argued, of a new phase of enlightenment, progress, and a much welcomed sign of cultural renaissance in the region all thanks to American presence. Read the rest at the Brooding Persian...

 


 


THE DAILY JOURNAL VANPOEM
 

As One Put Naked Into a Cigarette Boat

Continue chiding, since it's part of the new aesthetic,
and parcel to our coming home, as if
we'd disappeared into the burning bush
that calls to those who sit vacantly in parlors
awaiting a fate freighted with song and dance.
I stroll while staring and raging
with difficulty at the stubborn sky.

On my honor I step a little distance
from behind the curtain, only to disappear
the moment no birds sing, which occurs frequently.
Leaves dustier than furniture, the sound
of sleeping grating through the cosmos,
my footstool, my only talisman.
It's been real, arguing on your behalf.
Gray cobweb shadow, falling, floundering,
finding a place to not be shy and think
boldly about the oldness of beauty, a place
to rest its weary insubstantial head.

It may be that I stand on the threshold
of the checkout line, unsure of what
to be impulsive about, which momentous emptiness
to spontaneously identify my alienation with,
what kind of languor to slide into

before being reduced to grubbing for credentials,
locked in that tumid late-afternoon skin,
effervescing in its sea of dreams.
And all the things hearkening back to it,
the boat ride to breaker beach
there at the end of one world
where it paid to rage at the stammering waves
that kicked and screamed solely for my benefit,
staged objections to the inexorable fact of me.

Look: I've installed a turnstile in my kitchen,
so your picture-postcard of desolation has no power over me.
In this doggy-dog world land is made motionless
and the broads are standing on the wharves
with some of that sipping whisky on those silver trays,
which we'd be a bear to pass up. You speak
of the old gods who've washed up on shore,
but I don't see them, don't hear their hue and cry,
though their maze awaits us, will amaze us.
Here, let me get this little rock out of my damn shoe.
Then we can talk about paddling off to parts unknown.

 
Van Foreman
 
 

 


 

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