There's No Armpit Hair Over or Under Here

Blondie of Transatlantic Blonde fame has issued a Call to Arms, as it were, for Feminist Friday. To shave or not to shave? THAT is quite a question. I started shaving under my arms many, many years ago when I had virtually no hair there anyway. I did it because, well, that's what my Mom did, and her sisters did, and most of the women and girls I knew or saw on TV or in magazines did. It seemed to me that it separated the women from the girls, and I was definitely aiming to be one of the women. I've never been very hairy, so it isn't very noticeable if I don't shave, but *I* notice. And I don't like the little black hair stubble-- reminds me of fly legs. Ugh. Just na-zasty.

Do I think shaving and the new Venus razor blades with 5 blades and 27 gel layers are part of some sort of patriarchal plot? Not really; marketing hype, certainly, and preying on our fear of ever being demonized as unfeminine. It is also an artificial de-naturalisation in the name of 'Beauty,' whoever she is. I don't see what purpose the hair serves in the first place-- it should be obvious to everyone that I've been through puberty, no? So any potential 'come hither, Caveman, I am now fertile and of age' signalling it might have done is pretty pointless. Will I carry on shaving? Yep. Will I defend the right of women Over There or Over Here or Anywhere to NOT shave? Yep.


(ten minutes later)
I can't resist adding a (revolting) visual, because I am stubbly and proud of it! Weak of stomach, look away now:

Process of Poetry

I am still editing. And it is difficult. I am still working on the critical component of my M Res, and compared to that, editing is a doddle. I don't know how to 'justify,' critically speaking, what I've written, or the ways in which I have written it. I am struggling to define my own personal ethic, in terms of writing, so that someone else can understand it, or at least have some sense of my process. But how can I explain something that I am only just beginning to trust and rely on myself? I know when I draft is 'done,' when I can't do any more to a piece of writing for the moment,  and I know when I am ready to work on it again, because my brain itches. Right now, my brain is so tired that the itching ain't happening. I have successfully titrated myself off of Pregabalin, which didn't work its promised magic on the pain, but I am not sleeping well, in part because I need to get writing done and I can't relax. I'll try to have a nap, and see if I can feel the itching in my head a bit more clearly after that.

Still No End, But Plenty of Gloom

Finishing off the critical component of my M Res is proving pretty challenging. I've put myself under pressure to complete it well ahead of time, and this simply isn't going to happen. I need sleep. My CRPS is screaming for more sleep, as is my arthritis, and I need a less chaotic household; we've been pretty full of musicians all weekend (see @martynclark's Twitter feed for more info.), and I feel like I've been a nanny, but without Mary Poppin's semi-magical powers, umbrella, and carpet bag. I'm going to London in a few days, and wanted this done before then, but my body and brain are simply not cooperating. Like a poem, an essay isn't something that can be forced out of my head onto a screen. I should know better.