on and on and on it came
So I'm eating a box of cut peaches at the moment and wondering about the sexual symbolism of this fruit.
Why exactly? Is it just cos it's slightly stubbly on the outside and all succulent on the inside, leaking fluid? Cos that seems pretty weak and it's nothing at all like the reality of female genitalia. Or is it just the spreading of blushing reddish pink from the centre out, a colour thing?
I mean, I was eating a chocolate dipped fig yesterday and that was really disturbingly accurate. With the texture of the flesh and the space in the centre. Although I did squint at those many creepy looking seed/pod things enclosing the central space and think of the monstrous feminine and all those neurotic men terrified of the vagina dentata snapping off their precious parts. *snort*
Don't look at me like that, I'm still re-reading The Madwoman In The Attic so naturally my mind's full of the way men have written women for centuries. And one day I totally have to use the fig thing in a story or novel, really explore all the creepiness and rightness of it.
As it is, the opening essay has me convinced all over again that rather than male or female, the best analogy for a writer is that of a hermaphrodite. A fully functional hermaphrodite. Because we spurt wildly onto the page just as much as we hold and develop and nurture a set of characters and plot within ourselves before releasing it to the world.
I'm sure I'm not the first person to think this ... so why the hell haven't I seen it out there? Maybe I'm just not reading the right books. :p
... how does it feel?
Why exactly? Is it just cos it's slightly stubbly on the outside and all succulent on the inside, leaking fluid? Cos that seems pretty weak and it's nothing at all like the reality of female genitalia. Or is it just the spreading of blushing reddish pink from the centre out, a colour thing?
I mean, I was eating a chocolate dipped fig yesterday and that was really disturbingly accurate. With the texture of the flesh and the space in the centre. Although I did squint at those many creepy looking seed/pod things enclosing the central space and think of the monstrous feminine and all those neurotic men terrified of the vagina dentata snapping off their precious parts. *snort*
Don't look at me like that, I'm still re-reading The Madwoman In The Attic so naturally my mind's full of the way men have written women for centuries. And one day I totally have to use the fig thing in a story or novel, really explore all the creepiness and rightness of it.
As it is, the opening essay has me convinced all over again that rather than male or female, the best analogy for a writer is that of a hermaphrodite. A fully functional hermaphrodite. Because we spurt wildly onto the page just as much as we hold and develop and nurture a set of characters and plot within ourselves before releasing it to the world.
I'm sure I'm not the first person to think this ... so why the hell haven't I seen it out there? Maybe I'm just not reading the right books. :p
... how does it feel?