Burning down the house of asshole men

The Piano Teacher is one of my favourite movies. Strange perhaps, if you’ve seen it. But it is just so awesomelly great! I’ve seen it two times. The second time was in the early days of me and my husbands relationships. We had one of our biggest fights ever about this movie. I got so angry I had to take a walk in the middle of the winter night. This was three years ago and it is still up there in the top ten of fights.

The movie has such an eerie atmosphere. The main character is a masochist and I sat the whole movie tense in anticipation. You never knew when she was gonna hurt herself or how. The movie is about Erika, who is a failed concert pianist who has to degrade herself to the position of teaching. Her mother smothers her and controls every aspect of her life. She has no freedom, no privacy. She even sleeps in the same bed as her mother. She works at a conservatory in Vienna and the only love she has in her life is the one for music.

One of her young students, a conquerer of women, makes it his mission to untame her. He figures that under all that artistry and knowledge there must be a woman waiting to be shown her place by a man and his penis. She is the opposite of every sexual object around that he has to prove to himself that he can make her into one by his sheer manliness.

I didn’t understand all this while I watched the movie. I was young and a hopeless romantic. In the movie I saw a young student falling in love with a masochist who tells him to hurt her, he eventual does but it doesn’t play out as she expected. This I thought was because the young student was inexperienced in the rules of masochism but also in despair because he was actually in love with her and she turns out to be a tragic hostage of her mother who needs violence to feel alive. For my Literature class I had to read the book, written by Elfriede Jelinek who is a complete master I worship her! I just finished it yesterday and can conclude that my husband was right, he was just a violent asshole. But not any violent asshole, a very deliberate one at that.

I was to compare this book to a book by Joyce Carol Oates called “Beasts”. It’s the same deal only now a little doll like girl named Gillian in a girl college falls, like all her fellow students, in love with the poetry professor. He urges them in their writings, tell them to expose themselves and leave nothing out. He makes them write journals were they express their sexual desires or tell stories of their sexual encounters or fantasies. These girls are all twenty, he’s about 35. Inappropriate? Nah…..The girls read from their journals, several of them have been sexually abused in their childhood. This consumes the professor, he wants it all. And he takes it all. He himself, along with his artist wife abuses these girls in their house. They drug them and then do as they please. The wife was in it too, but it is clear that the professor uses his wifes artistry as a pretens for having girls at their house as “trainees”. He makes it look like she choses them for their interesting and artistic personality when it’s his dick that chooses. Maybe he uses the same tactic on his wife as on the girls. The girls seem to think nothing of it, they are being noticed. They are being “loved” by this professor who cares so much about them. Two of the girls try to commit suicide, but no one will mention the abuse conducted by their beloved professor who uses DH Lawrence as a means of seduction.

Both these books portray men as the savage beasts they may potentially be. As men who want to conquer. And the women are the lesser, constantly seeking love and confirmation. They don’t mind being conquered, put in their place, as long it is done out of love. This is the scary part. Think of all the women living under abuse who believe their men when they say it’s because they love them.

In the Piano Teacher the man get the final word. But in Beasts, Gillian burns her tormentor and his idiot wife alive. Touché asshole men.

I’m a little teapot short and stout…

this is my handle this is my sprout? Spout? I have heard a few times that I have witch like qualities, in the very best sense of the word witch. (Don’t burn me!) I am starting to wonder if I actually do. Well starting is an understatement, I’ve been trying to prove to myself that I in fact AM a witch on several occasions. But witchcraft doesn’t seem to work that way. But recently I had a spooky revelation of my powers. After having had a dream about a long lost friend and thereby contacted him, as I have learned from previous experiences one must do when dreaming about a long lost friend. A few days after my dream, that was very, very strong and made absolutely no sense (I have noticed alot of my dreams play out on industrial areas lately, weird) I got up in the morning (as you do…) and started talking to my brother in law about dreams. I had asked him a few days earlier if he remembered his dreams and he said that he never did. But this morning he had so he told me about them, and then my husband came and he, who never remembers his dreams either, had remembered his. Then I checked my email and had an email from my long lost friend who I had contacted due to a dream, and he, who never remembers dreams either, had written down his whole dream from the previous night. And it was about me.

How does that prove I’m a witch? It doesn’t, but it proves something about something that isn’t quite natural….

I have also just very recently bought a dream dictionary, so I could decipher my long lost friends dream, and it was really very fascinating. Almost like an answer to my dream. Maybe we do step out of our bodies and go to another place when we sleep. When I dream sometimes I can’t wake up because I have to finish what I started in the dream. Or I don’t want to leave. Appearantly you can control your dreams if you want. Don’t know if I want, or need to take it to that level but I know that I need my dreams. They give me great insight and when life is boring great adventures! Like this morning, I dreamt I was transporting a bunch of black children in blue shirts from one place to the other. I was a black man in the seventies and I had a small yellow car. Two of the children had orange shirts and it said “increible” (incredible in spanish) on the back. The children were walking in an old industrial area with train tracks and suddenly I took one of them and put him in my car, I tried to get the other one but I couldn’t. I was going for a blaxplotaion escape when a white man in a hat and a trench coat came and open the back door where the kid in the orange shirt was sitting and said “incroyable” (incredible in french) at the child. What he meant was that I had stolen, I meant it as a rescue, the child that was reserved to some sort of boss. What does that mean?

THIS means gas! Stay away from these! (I made those myself!)

Todays lesson: remember your dreams, they give you great insights about feelings you never knew you had. And cinnamon rolls give you gas.

Good night. And good luck.

Sad world of acedemic opression

Today my mood is at a low, not only due to the winter dark sky and the fact that I’m having my period (tooo much information, but hey, I’m losing blood here!) but also because I watched a very disturbing documentary about anthropologists. It’s called Secrets of the Tribe and is about field research in the amazonian jungle and how rich, asshole anthropologists took advantage of their material excess and their position in the tribes to sexually abuse, perform medical experiments on and make money of the tribe of Yanomamö. It is so fucking sad and disturbing. I study (studied) human ecology and most of my professors are anthropologists. One of whom has on several different occasions married women of different pacific islands, where he did his field work. I’ve always been allured by anthropology yet I have never studied it. Something has always turned me off the idea and maybe it’s my womenly instinct telling me to stay away from this line of academic perversion. Seriously, men go to far away “savage” places, where naked women are thrown around like merchandise and they have the most dough, it’s only natural that they take part in the local market. And you know, when in rome you rape little children.

One of the interviewed in the documentary had himself married a girl when she was about 11. He seemed to have no problem with that. He seemed to just sit there going “hey it was the 60’s!” But the most disturbing fact is the case of Jacques Lizot, a pedophile sent, encouraged and sponsored by the Elvis of anthropology, Claude Levi-Strauss. He had a sanctuary of little boys in the jungle, that he paid with whatever he brought in his second plane full of goods. Members of the Yanomamö tribe tells us all about it in the end of the documentary, how they had been promised machetes and other useful tools if they went and worked for Lizot. They had no idea what kind of work he had in mind. But the rest of the expeditions members did, Levi-Strauss knew, even the missionaries knew but they didn’t think that his personal life concerned them!                             !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Excuse me? You are a person of god you say? You have read the bible and it says “when children are sold cheaply to rich frenchmen, turn the other cheek”?

All this makes me think of that professor, referring to his different pacific islands wives and a feeling of disgust rise when I think of the classroom and the innocent beginner texts idolizing Levi-Strauss. I am so sick of powerful rich men using the world as their playground. So tired of them hiding behind titles and theory. So tired of their useless academic bickering because that’s what this all boiled down to. Anthropologists at war with one another about data, about ethics, about who did what when and in what field, cultural biology or childrapeology. The fact that they, by their mere presens ruined hundreds of lives and the future of the tribe was not discussed of course, only if they pointed the finger saying “well yeah HE did, but I didn’t!”. I want to go to the university in Lund and just have a good old school shooting in the institution of anthropolgy. Not a good idea since my landlady and friend works there….but at least I will insult that disgusting professor when, IF, I go back to the human ecology lecture. In the mean time I’ll just shake my head in contempt.

Lesson of today, don’t become an anthropologist, mind your own business and marry women over 18. With their consent.

Weight of the world

Hello everybody and welcome to another Slevertina production, a blog that will give great insight in to my cloudy mind. So lock your doors (why? why not, there might be a scary man outside your window just waiting for you to be consumed by my fantabulous blog and then take the opportunity to sneak in to your room and….and….disturb you!)

First of all I want to get one thing clear: I officially hate Beyoncé, Lady Gaga and the likes of all other female prostitutes that “use” their body to make a shit load of money and make all the rest of us go: why am I so fat and poor? Beyoncé especially gets the larger part of my big ass boot, she is just such a fucking hypocrite. She claims she is all religious and righteous (yes I got all this information from a mormon blog, it is not justifiable) and yet she has to fuck the air every chance she gets. I can just see her now, in an everyday situation, picking up the rythm of key’s jingeling in a pocket, how she thrusts herself to the nearest pole and starts humping it while looking as if she has never seen a pole that big before. If no pole is available, there’s always the ground, or if she’s lucky a puddle. And then she’s all like “yey independent girls run the world while checks come at they neck please yo man sista pay my bills girl power alright! I use my pussy to get paid aint I the entrepeneur!”. No Beyoncé, you’re not. It’s been done for thousands of years. And Lady Gaga, you’re just the white version. Toma ya! (Thats spanish for BOOM! Snap! And other outdated expressions)

So anyway back to the real issue here: me. I am getting faaaat. In reality I’m not getting fat at all (or am I?) but I feel so damn fat. Of course this is due to me having gone to try on garments in the outside world. It is weird, back in the day, about four years ago, the salvation army second hand store was a sad place with boring clothes that never fit and weird attendents watching you with either a creepy “Do you also want to be saved? Buy this pee-stained sofa, or perhaps an electric organ” – smile, or no smile but huge thick glasses and a soul grey of a life time of frigid living. You know which ones I’m talking about. Salvation army style. Uhuhuhu. In this day in age, it is the hippest place around. It has speakers! With music! Cool music. And young people. Working there. Shopping there. It’s crazy. Today I got served by a plank of a young fellow that seriously not once moved the corners of his mouth the entire time I was there. He spoke and all but as stiffly as…well a plank would if it could speak. The other attendant was a chick who always wear kind of a trucker/rocker style and then bright red lipstick and a beanie. Looking goood in the midst of green haired, fur wearing freaks and alternative kids with colorful tights and jeans shirts and guess what, salvation army glasses! Yes they are so in style here in the south of Sweden. That says alot about our mental ability around these parts.

Oh yes I was obsessing about my blob of fat of a body. Well not anymore, bitching about other peoples appearences made that go away. So listen up kids, don’t judge yourself. Judge other people.

Good night, and good luck.