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News 4 A 1
Reich 4.0


What's the difference between a woman and a sad clown?Ah, bittersweet music: reggae, dub reggae. I am lonely. I lie in bed at night listening to my heartbeat. I try to meditate. I try to focus on my breathing.

I try not to be excited that I’m getting up at 6 am to go to a yoga class. I try not to let this keep me up.

But nothing can stop the constant buzzing in my head. The buzzing in my head that is meant to fill my cold, hard little heart. The buzzing that is meant to keep my heart hard and safe: a hard heart cannot be bruised, unless of course, it is clenched so hard it bruises itself. Internal injuries. Trauma of some sort. It’s the fabric of my character. Ha! No wonder “Who am I?” bothered me so much as a teenager and young adult. Who wants to acknowledge that they are sad and lonely – not that they feel sad and lonely, but that they ARE sad and lonely. More than “Janet”. More than “Malcolm”. Ms. Sad & Lonely. (Ms. Lonely & Sad?)

Hey, Ingmar Bergman, how did you get through life, you miserable artist? Movie Director? Ah! Writer, too, I see from the IMDB, and son of a priest, a Lutheran priest (and a nurse) who went on to be chaplain to the King of Sweden. (Woohoo, bet that helped with the artist career – my farmer dad didn’t have much to offer me in terms of dealing with my “creativity”. I guess it helps to be male, no? The boys must do something with their lives. Girls, well, who cares? Baby factories with housecleaning appendages attached. Useful.)

But I will not lament my gender. No expectations, either. No need to Be Come. No need for achievement or action. Fuck me. I don’t fuck.

Nor do I love. Don’t need to, do I?

All I need to know is how to Obey – the rest comes naturally. Pop out the kid, love the kid – who can’t love a kid? Tidy a house. Enjoy cooking.

Ah, Ingmar, you’re Swedish too. I’m Canadian. Something about the cold climate, isn’t there?

Think of the depressed, drunken Russians, the Poles, the Checkoslovakians - the Austrians, even. The Scandinavians and the Canadians. The cold, unhappy people of the world, unless you count the Africans. But who knows if they’re unhappy? They’re too busy not getting raped, killed, maimed or dying from lack of food. And the Muslims and the East Indians – too busy hiding in a burka, not getting raped, molested or falling in love – desiring someone who is not buying you – someone unattractive and old who will beat you if you don’t lie well enough with your body, making him think you really desire his old, hanging skin and dentured mouth. Penis, so Dustin Hoffman tells me, that points down when it’s hard, instead of up. But you wouldn’t really know about that unless you happened to catch Dustin Hoffman on some talk show. The bodies of men are a mystery to the women of the world, for the most part. Though I hear Levi Johnston is attempting to change that, selfless soul that he is.

Ah, Ingmar, Ingmar, Ingmar – son of a priest. That explains so much.

My mother’s mother was raised by an Archbishop. Not sure what happened to her mom and dad – World War I? Was there a plague or something in Holland, in the early 1900’s? Food shortages, according to Wikipedia, because of the war. Could that have taken them, leaving 9 children with an unwilling Archbishop who nonetheless, took them in? It was kind of him, no doubt. Raising kids was probably not what he planned to do with his life.

But the doctrine and “no touching” rules got passed down. Love as the taboo that will take you from Jesus; from Jesus, Mary and the contemplation of the Father – the Father who wasn’t there so a big old fictional Dad was created and called God. Ha! Who says imaginary friends are a thing of childhood? Who says a man ever grows up, mentally, spiritually, emotionally? Fuck growing up, let’s kill!

Let’s kill the children we are incapable of producing with our own bodies. Let’s fight for the biggest, roundest, softest set of tits and a fine mouth. Let’s make ourselves more handsome through the fine art of breeding. Let’s breed out the big noses, dark hair and freckles. Give me a white woman with child-bearing hips!

Ah, Ingmar. Woody Allen says you were the greatest “film artist” “since the invention of the motion picture camera”, and me, I am just a woman.

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