Archivo del Autor: LLVT

Cryos Crazy

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At 45; for the first time ever, I had enough economic stability to not be kept up nightly by the thought of how I would pay rent if I lost my job. I had finally reached a level at which I believed my job was reliable, in a company that could see me through until retirement age. Now was finally the time to consider all the things that had been unthinkable when I was doing a daily balance sheet to see whether I could afford to go for a beer after work or buy the good meat at the supermarket. I bought myself the car I had wanted for many years, and it was satisfying. I loved the freedom and comfort of that car with all its frufy luxurious extras.

A few months later a report ran on the news about the rise in numbers of women using Cryos to circumvent the NHS artificial insemination restrictions. It was an interesting conundrum. The report was clearly conveying that foreign sperm were not desirable for the UK public because it eluded controls, but; the UK national sperm bank after two years of existence had only seven (yes 7) donors. Also, the few donors there were in the UK had apparently each fathered hundreds of kids. Danish sperm seemed a better option just on that basis. However; I would never have been considered at my age and suddenly it seemed like there was a loophole that I hadn’t been aware of. I could do it myself at home following instructions (something I am very good at) and for a third of the cost of using a clinic. On the website you can choose from an extensive catalogue same as when you customise shoes or configure a car: you choose height, eye colour, educational background, hair colour, etc. I suppose this isn’t surprising to someone of a younger generation that might be used to doing that on dating apps, but; for me it was like choosing candy from a shop that had all the variants on display behind the counter. I settled my mind on a John Taylor looking type that purported to have a PHD.

I made some calls; explained my circumstances and was given a green light to go ahead. I tried timing the optimum week of the month. Selections made and paid; a week later I received a dry ice container by express courier from a delivery guy that looked at me like I was a drug dealer or maybe terminally ill. Despite having lived alone for over 20 years I felt the need to draw the curtains and close the doors in the house as I hid in the bedroom to take the syringe out. Outside it was a sunny warm day. Opening the container that released a small cloud of vapour reminded me of high school science experiments where roses were shattered. The sensation of inserting the payload was a bit surreal but rolling into an inverted position was what made me feel a genuine idiot. Upside down on my bed feeling movement inside me I had the sense of covert shame that comes from transgressing the expected. Who was I to think I might make this work? But why not me? Loads of people with no education or prospects – or decidedly less desirable genes, -had children they mistreated or couldn’t properly care for, so why shouldn’t I have a chance? Not predictably for me; as I genuinely had my hopes up and thought I should have good chances given all the articles I consumed about women in menopause getting pregnant accidentally and fifty-year-old celebrities having babies, I did not get pregnant. I returned the dry ice container with remorse for having been so naïve as to hope I might achieve it on my own in a one off.

Then came the Create clinic. I did my research and found the ostensibly best private clinic (the one reporting the highest success rate). I made many trips to this clinic in the lead up to putting myself in hock to credit card debts that I rationalised could be paid off over a year. Coincidentally the clinic was near St Pauls, so I also made many trips to the cathedral to light candles and contemplate before or after visits to the clinic. The first doctor I spoke with; a Greek expatriate, made me feel cozy about his competence and that he actually cared about my case. I explained I could afford to do this once only and he advised me to put myself in his hands, so I did. I understood that their success rate was substantially due to them not advising to proceed if the prospects of success were not good. I was made to do a psych evaluation with a person who didn’t really listen to my answers but charged for rubber stamping my green light. Then came weeks of injections, an extraction, the declaration that I had quality and prospects that were good, an embryo an implantation and a failure. An upsetting and disappointing failure.

Incidentally, the Greek doctor that convinced me it was a good idea didn’t appear again after the initial visits; or after the failure. Who I did get after the failure expressed to me that I should not have expected anything given my age; it had been a longshot, and I needed to get on with life. She seemed to think spending 3,700 GBP was an exercise to purge or release feelings rather than actually because I had thought I might get pregnant out of it. I couldn’t reconcile the earlier message that my prospects were good with the later message that I was a sucker for having spent money on this process. I was angry and frustrated but mostly miserable. Looking back, I know I was taken advantage of. Not by Cryos; that sell a product same as a mail order for any purchasable good, but by the clinic in the heart of London. I suppose the desperation of women pushed past their viable breeding age by economic constraint or other circumstance is simply a cash cow to a lot of interested professionals. I wonder how many of the other private clinics operate by the same profit driven rules. But mostly I curse an economic model that punishes women for seeking economic independence; where women have to work 20 to 30% of the year for free compared to their male counterparts and / or work hours so long for such an extended period of their lives that when they come up for air their chances for certain things in life are long gone (even if the people selling them services wont own up to that).

Cinco observaciones de mi agosto en Madrid en 2024: un ensayo

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Mientras padecía las secuelas de los 42ºC diarios – que durante un periodo interminable no dieron tregua – y muchas otras cosas incontables por no reseñables, me di cuenta de que la sociedad madrileña ha desarrollado unas excentricidades que antes desconocía.

Los viejos van de uniforme: No sé si hay una sociedad secreta que los con menos de 60 desconocen, o si es que hay algún proyecto secreto que hipnotice a ese demográfico, pero todos los viejos llevan (1) zapatillas medio deportivas medio ortopédicas con (2) pantalones huérfanos del resto de un traje (3) una camisa de botones y mangas cortas bien a cuadros o a rayas, pero con fondo claro y (4) una gorra de béisbol con palabras bordadas. Luego las mujeres de esa edad visten lo que sea siempre que venga de la tienda china de ropa del barrio o bien del híper.  Que no parezca que le costó más 20 euros la prenda sino se arriesga a la condenación de sus conocidas cuando se crucen.   A lo mejor es que hay una pareja trendsetter que estableció esta moda pero para mí es un misterio que nadie desmarcara del estilo aparte de los turistas.

Quejarse del calor es de paletos: aunque la temperatura a las 22:00 siguiera sin bajar de los 35ºC cualquier comentario sobre lo incómodo que era recibía miradas de incredulidad. Gente se extrañaba cuando declaraba no soportar el calor, o no poder aguantar esperando al bus, o explicaba que pasear a los perros tenía que hacerlo a medianoche para evitar que sufrieran. 

Calumniar es Gratis (las opiniones gilipollescas también): Todas las cadenas de televisión mantienen tertulias ¨noticieras¨ diarias en las que sale un sinfín de tertulianos profesionales que a veces son periodistas o políticos o abogados y a veces es una incógnita si tienen formación alguna.  En estos programas el tema de conversación jamás impide que nadie de una opinión desinformada o francamente ignorante pues la cosa va de seguir la línea sesgada del público de la cadena, hacer ruido e interrumpirse hasta que salgan los anuncios. Este hábito de decir lo que sea, aunque no se tenga ni puta idea de lo que se habla ya permea toda las sociedad hasta el punto de que extraños te pueden propinar sus opiniones sobre tu vida por la calle sin ningún detonante aviso o razón.  Por ejemplo: un día cruzando la calle con mi perro me llamó la atención un hombre para decirme que claro los perros son un sustituto de niños pero no crecen así que yo no sé lo que es realmente ser una madre…  Perpleja me quedé de que uno que jamás en la vida había visto me dijera tal cosa sin conocerme en absoluto de nada hasta la próxima opinión gratuita y la próxima hasta saber que si los holandeses tienen fama de groseros por directos los habitantes de Madrid hoy por hoy no tienen nada que envidiarles a los de países bajos.

Las sandalias son para putas y viejas que se creen veinteañeros: Vamos, que con el calor que hacía era llamativísimo que las únicas mujeres que llevaran sandalias bien eran de cincuenta para arriba, o bien eran féminas andando por la calle en poco más que un sujetador y mostrando las nalgas y acaso bragas a la vez.  A lo mejor la gente no tiene dinero para comprar calzado que solo les valga la mitad del año. A lo mejor el rechazo al calzado abierto es por el peligro que se corre al andar sobre los adoquines cada vez más comunes en el centro de Madrid. Supongo que la tasa de un centro más atractivo para el turismo es poner calles inseguros para gente que vaya sin una suela segura, y también que siempre habrá mujeres que sacrificarían su bienestar e integridad física para vestir lo que creen es moda.

Limpiar tu propia basura es de palurdos:  Porque todos los días todas las calles están llenas de botellas rotas, vómitos, envoltorios de comida rápida y multitud de otras basuras que permanecen a veces una semana entera hasta que pase la limpieza del ayuntamiento. En la puerta del edificio un tampón usado y un condón roto, en el Madrid rio cristales rotos y ropa suelta, en la casa de campo papel higiénico, etc. etc. etc.  Sin duda el ayuntamiento tendrá sus razones para quitar fondos de limpieza, pero los puercos que dejan atrás esa suciedad pensando que otra persona debería limpiar tras ellos no tienen perdón.  Me encontré añorando los años en que se lavaban las calles cada noche…  Menos mal se ha gastado tantísimo en poner esos adoquines en todas partes ya que su superficie irregular facilita el encrustamiento de porquerías para que los trabajadores tengan algo que hacer el día que les toque pasar.

Perro de Acero, Perro Zamorano, Perro de Mi Corazón, Mi Perro Bestia, My Hell Hound, Mi Perriño, Mi Cachorrín, Mi Nani

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Nanuk era el nombre que le puso la mujer quien le encontró abandonado en la cuneta de una carretera.  Vi un post en Facebook el 8 de julio de 2016 y en el momento de verlo pensé <<ése es mi perro>>.

Nabu fue el nombre que yo había pensado; por ser el dios mesopotámico de la escritura, filosofía y sabiduría, pero que nunca pegó porque mi madre quiso Nani para el registro. 

Nani: A saber por qué mi madre eligió eso, pero la mayoría de gente entendía Nanny y eso valía.  El perro era quien se aseguraba de que me levantara de la cama por la mañana (por supuesto para sacarle y darle de comer), y también quien se ocupaba de que saliera a andar y el quien me motivaba a canturrear por casa después de años de guardar silencio.  Jamás antes había conocido un perro tan vocal.  Hacía saber con la voz si tenía una queja, si tenía hambre, si se aburría o se impacientaba; no ladrando sino usando el murmullo típico de husky.  Cuando comencé con el piano se subía a escuchar mis ejercicios y después cantaba conmigo el trocito del día.  Le encantaba cantar y si escuchaba algo venia corriendo para no perderse la serenata. Si veía una opera en la tele cantaba su parte en cuanto saliera la soprano.  También aullaba de dolor cuando pasaban coches patrulla u ambulancias, y cada primer lunes del mes en Holanda cuando comprueban el sistema de sirenas.

Le hice un test de ADN y resultó ser Husky, Pastor Alemán, Pointer Inglés y Galgo Español todo a la vez.  Un verdadero cazador con un corazón indomable y a la vez cariñoso y alegre.  Verle era apreciar la alegría que experimentaba por estar vivo, corriendo, olfateando, explorando, cuidando de mí y de Goku y también persiguiendo patos, conejos, liebres, faisanes, gansos, muntjac, etc.  Era el entrenador de las aves acuáticas pues le encantaba correr por la orilla para verlas entrar en masa al agua.  Conocía bien el río Manzanares, el Támesis, el Lea y el Lek; las costas y bosques de casi toda Inglaterra y los bosques y parques de toda Francia. Viajó por el distrito de los lagos, las llanuras del sur, por Wildeshauser Geest en Alemania y Sønderborg y Rømø en Dinamarca y por supuesto España.  Recuerdo en nuestro primer puente me entró pánico porque se escapó en una zona desconocida y hubo que atraerle de vuelta con una pata de pollo obsequiado por el dueño de la casa rural (quien se sintió culpable debido a la verja abierta). Recuerdo también la primera vez que corrió a sus anchas en Ashridge estate y cuando vino de vuelta la plena satisfacción y júbilo de estar en el bosque.

Me sentí mal por los perros al venir a los Países Bajos porque no hay gran cosa en este país en cuanto a parques naturales ni bosques de envergadura como en otros lugares.  Todas las zonas donde se pueden soltar a perros o bien son pequeños o se comparten con bicis, canales, ovejas o energúmenos que gritan que no le sueltes – a pesar de ser una zona dedicada – porque no comprenden que un perro pueda ser bueno educado y amigable si es negro y de 30 kg. Francamente lo pasé mal debido a tanto gilipollas y también por la gente que soltaba sus perros agresivos sin remordimiento (claramente cosas enlazadas, pero ninguna de las dos era culpa de mi Nani).  Sin embargo; él nunca se acordaba de la gente mala y seguía contento por estar al aire libre y disfrutando de cualquier tiempo que hubiera.  Por muy pequeña que fuera el lugar lo gozaba.

Y siendo un perro tan energético y alegre y tan fuerte y vigoroso; cuando comenzó a apaciguarse pensé que era porque con la edad estaría suavizando su carácter, pero nunca pensé que estuviera enfermo.  Tan pronto como me di cuenta de que padecía algo me decían que tenía un cáncer extendido e inoperable.  Tenía que haberme dado cuenta antes de que algo le pasaba pues había dejado de subir para saludar por las mañanas. Tenía que haber notado que estaba muy calmado por las tardes.  Pensaba que era solo que se hizo mas mayor.

Han pasado dos meses y sigo sintiendo el derribo de mi alma.  Durante semanas tuve que evitar contactos con gente porque me encontré llorando el la clase de yoga o incapaz de hablar en las conferencias del trabajo.  Me despertaba pensando en si sería mejor sumergir mi cuchillo de cocina en mi estomago o tirarme de un puente.  Claro que no puedo hacerlo porque Goku sigue aquí.  Aun después de dos meses me siguen entrando ganas de llorar cuando pienso que mi pobre perriño solo tuvo ocho años, y que padecía dolor sin que me diera cuenta. Yo pensaba 12-15 años dado su ADN pero no ha sido así.  Pensaba que era tan fuertísimo que una enfermedad semejante no podría pasarle.  Recuerdo con tristeza la confusión de sus últimos momentos; la confianza plena al estar a mi lado de que nada malo le pasaría a pesar de estar en un veterinario extraño y sin Goku. 

Sigo llorando cuando pienso en él.  No está acaparando espacio en la cama, no viene a saludar y distraer cuando estoy con el ordenador, no ladra a los que andan delante de mi casa ni exige que le entretenga. El perro que me iba a salvaguardar del abismo de la esperada perdida de mi perro mayor (cinco años mayor que Nani) murió primero; dejándome sumergida en una tristeza sin fondo cayendo cada vez más profundamente.

Goku – el perro mayor – también está triste.  Come menos y – a pesar de darle chuches de alto contenido calorífico a conciencia – ha perdido peso. Y no me malinterpretéis por favor; que a todo esto Goku me ha salvado la vida de manera absolutamente literal en más de una ocasión (mucha responsabilidad para los hombros de un Parsons). Goku es tan parte de mi como mi brazo pero es también tan perro mío que me deja tranquila si me levanto tarde y a menudo pasa de pasear. Pobrecillo Goku tiene 13 años, cataratas y artrosis; y el año pasado hubo que extraerle varios dientes que le causaban daño. 

De manera muy egoísta pienso que he de rellenar el hueco que tengo.  Ningún perro jamás será ni de lejos como mi NaniNanukNabu.  Pero no sobreviviré sin quien me exija y me causa preocupación como lo hacía mi querido Nani. Mi Nani que ahora está en el alféizar interior de la ventana del dormitorio; al lado del gato Apolo. Aunque sé que después de esta vida no hay nada me gusta pensar que si lo hubiera Nani estaría corriendo y cazando a sus anchas por bellos prados y bosques.

New Year’s Cards

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I used to enjoy reading tarot cards for friends and acquaintances but stopped some years ago; exhausted by people taking it for granted.  It is a double-edged blade admitting you know how to read tarot.  Either people categorise you as looney and credulous – making no bones they think you probably believe you are a witch – or they immediately manifest as needy and demanding of having the cards read.  The latter are often worse.  Over the years many tried to figure out what trick I was playing or catch me out or blame me when they didn’t like what the reading said.  All this for taking the time to do a favour to someone who purported friendship or was a friend of a friend.  I have never charged for it; although invariably when I do a reading I am told by the beneficiary they pay significant sums to others for such readings.  The needy disdain of demanding ungrateful people I read for tainted my enjoyment of something that I used to consider myself pretty good at.

A lot of reading cards has to do with introspection; self-knowledge; awareness of human nature; and knowing how to weave the connections between loose threads of ideas.  It is telling a story from a few indicators.  After time away from it I figured now is as good a time as any to see if it can help me out of a philosophical impasse I have been stuck in for quite some time.  For over a decade before I stopped I would often get cards indicating my life would turn around through the influence of the King of Pentacles (whoever or wherever the King may be).  And while my cards for the year 2023 seem to tell me clearly to leave drudgery behind and write write write; I should be done with long days of worker ant like repetitive tasks and move to greater expression; the bloody King of Pentacles popped out again just to muddy the water and say if I win I lose.  If I advance I fall. 

The cards really are very pretty though.  Don’t you think?

Shadowscapes Deck – Barbara Moore’s Wrap Up Spread
cards that pop out of the deck any time I shuffle

Dutch people seem to be broken inside

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For starters; if any Dutch person whatsoever were to read the above statement, I would soon be inundated with shouts to go back where I came from as even the slightest criticism of Dutch culture or society elicits a defensive and seemingly autonomic response from deep in the Dutch psyche.  Even criticisms from within Dutch society are often discounted as anti-Dutch pandering to non-Dutch interests; like the complaints about black-Piet that only after decades of protests have led to a reduction in the amount of black face worn seasonally but not an elimination as ¨true¨ Dutchies refuse to see any ties to their country´s slave trading past or colonialism and insist it is important for children to experience the belief that Saint Nick has a black manservant as opposed to an elf.  The lack of empathy for the people that have been protesting and the refusal to listen to why blackface is racist is truly typically Dutch.  Is it exclusively Dutch though? I don’t think so.  There was a very marked lack of empathy for Black Lives Matter when I lived in the UK – and I remember quite a few LBC morning shows where Kaepernick´s knee taking was vociferously denounced as anti-patriotic by slavering British people with zero empathy for USA Black history or understanding of current USA social structures.

But there are many examples of the broken Dutch soul in Christmas advertising:

  1. Jumbo: a supermarket chain locks dad outside in the garden and the family has a peaceful dinner as no one thinks to look where he´s got to;
  2. BOL: a girl spends a year pretending a soccer ball is a doll because her parents didn’t get her the doll she wanted; then when they do give her a doll, she trashes the ball without any remorse.  Aside from feeling overtly sexist, I find the advert disturbing.  Either it was a year long psychotic manipulation of her parents, or she truly has zero feelings of attachment to the thing she visibly played with yearlong.  Either way what to Dutch people apparently must be amusing is truly disturbing in the portrayal of heartless detachment the child exhibits.; and this year
  3. HEMA: a kid loses her toy dog at the beach (the irresponsible baggage handlers of a foreign country didn’t load her bag on the plane) so to get back to her the toy dog has to swim the Mediterranean then run past angry guards in what looks like an eastern European border control to drag itself back to holland; where luckily the girl is buying a replacement dog and can pick it out at the shop.  This one is disturbing on so many levels.  An off the cuff down the nose look at the countries where Dutchies spend their luxury cash; then a journey reminiscent of Syrian or African refugees followed by the thoughtless replaceability of items left behind… and despite the fact that the bloody toy dog had a hell of a struggle to get to the town where he was looking for his owner, she´s out shopping for a new one.  Lucky toy dog that she buys him back.

Well; that´s a highlight of Christmas advertising, that in other cultures is meant to pull at heartstrings and inspire a longing for togetherness.  The closest I saw on Dutch TV was an over-the-top number where a 20-year-old boy living with his mother is put out that his mother is dating; but breaks into tears when mom´s new boyfriend repairs a framed picture of the 20-year-old and his dad.  Really…  It takes a critical mass of advertisers and consumers to reach a point where all of this is considered normal for the purportedly most emotionally or religiously important holiday of the year. I don’t think even most atheists would think portraying the plight of refugees in toy dog form is particularly relevant to Christmas or positive in any way; unless the aim is to fictionalise such experiences so that Dutch children don’t think to hard about real life in other parts of the world?  But it is probably fair to say that it isn’t too far off from some of the crass right-wing comedy on USA television networks; where charity is ridiculed and people in need are blamed for their situation (Last Man Standing).  And of course; there was the incident where seasonal Dutch culture themed porcelain sold at the AH supermarket chain featured a carefree smiley Anne Frank.  There was an apology for that; but I suppose this again falls under fictionalising the past so people don’t have to think hard about the role of the Dutch in Anne´s plight?  People all over Europe were responsible for the plight of millions like Anne through omission or silence; but the key to it never happening again is making sure the truth is remembered not glossed over.  Don’t you think?

There was also the other advert for the world cup football that featured happy construction workers doing a conga despite the reports of slavery conditions for the world cup construction workers over the past years and in the months leading up to the period when the Jumbo advert was launched.  So, is all of this just a crass nature? Is it representative of a people that just don’t want to have to think too hard about the part they play in the hardship of others?  Or is it just a bunch of stupid Douglas Adams worthy marketeers that are oblivious to the world around them?  To be fair; most of the world glossed over the world cup construction workers and chose to put it to one side in their minds so they could enjoy the footie.  Or maybe no one in the world who really loves football cares about anything but the game…

But there are the occasional beacons of light that can make you think there is intelligence in the Netherlands – it just hasn’t reached critical mass yet to pull the rest of the Dutchies along.  Example NYE fireworks: every year a vast number of people are maimed; quite a lot of them children, or otherwise injured by the use of uncontrolled massive fireworks displays on every town corner.  It starts in late november with nightly bangs; leading up to a warzone like frenzy on December 31st. The first year I was here for NYE – after a night worrying my dogs literally might die from their fright as the noise was continual for over ten hours and myself, I was afraid to go outside lest I be targeted – when I opened my front door in the morning there was a wake in a two-inch-high blanket of ash.  My back garden was actually carpeted in spent cartridges despite the fact that I had not set off a single firework.  Every year since then has been worse than the last.  Despite what the authorities say about bans during corona – where I live the ban inspired larger and larger fireworks brought in from abroad.  Putting a sign in the window that I had animals who are afraid of fireworks made the house a target for more. A national charity that cares for abandoned animals published photos of animals harmed by fireworks and reported children had shoved them up cats’ bums before lighting.  Is that particularly Dutch?  Psychopaths exist in all nations I am sure; but in other countries such behaviour is criminal or would at least lead to a ban on owning animals. 

Last year the house actually shook on its foundations and then the neighbourhood electricity was cut for several hours after something was blown up. Blowing up bins, post boxes, bus stops, and anything else blow-uppable is part of their fun. So this year I spent NYE in another country as is apparently a common custom for many.  And this despite calls from emergency services and hospitals to control the fireworks; despite police arresting people who bring in ¨banned¨ too large charges.  Maybe the critical mass will be achieved in coming years; but in the meantime, children continue to lose their eyes, fingers, hands…  I suppose at least this isn’t the USA – I mean at least this isn’t an argument about banning deadly firearms or in some way controlling the use of them.  The entire globe knows that the USA is a lost cause when it comes to common sense about guns.  But in the Netherlands there is at least a possibility that at some point fireworks may be controlled.  Exhibit A for the initiation of the move toward building the required critical mass:

I resolve not to overeat again. No really; no more ever.

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In immense physical pain from blisters in my brain, throat, ear and nose. Headache, tired, stretched stomach from pouring things down my throat to try and numb the pain as paracetamols aren’t doing anything…  I´ve just rifled through a load of old idea notes and realised that the most important ones from this last year have gone missing.  There was one about the expulsion of three massive spiders from the back garden; that could have been a short story, and several other brilliant woken in the middle of the night from a deep sleep quality ideas that are apparently now lost to eternity or the ether or swallowed back by the muse that must resent my having ignored them for such a long time before getting around to doing anything about them.

Is it my fault I have to work to pay bills? If I could afford to just drop everything and write for the sake of writing, I wouldn’t have a day job at all.  It is immensely disappointing to live in a world where even professional working adults don’t seem to grasp that not everyone has the luxury to do what they want in life.  My boss thinks if I don’t move home, it is because I choose one country or culture over another; whereas, in reality I am simply proactively grifting to stay employed (and thus able to pay for my living space month to month).  Grifting because I swindle my own soul working in environments where no one seems to grasp sarcasm or care to discuss philosophy or cinema or art or literature or even common societal issues or current events.  My cousins think I don’t love my country anymore; but don’t seem to listen when I say in over ten years of applying for jobs there I have not had one single offer while I get spontaneous calls and offers in a foreign country whose language I can barely speak that pay me three times what anyone back home would make doing the same.  My frustrated life goals and ambitions mean that watching Oprah Master Classes just depresses me because all those other people´s stories turned around after they hit a bottom but mine seems to be snagged on the jagged edge of a below bottom crevice and won´t ever come lose no matter how many times its swept over, scraped, brushed or pulled at.

I was trying to think what would I wish for if I could wish one thing and it come true.  World peace, ecological recovery and educated discussions in politics are obviously all impossibilities even for fairies to grant as they would involve the cooperation of masses of truculent humans.  Reshaping humanity in the blink of an eye seems a bit much to ask.  I mean we´ve been talking about the environmental impact of fossil fuels at least since the 1970´s and we´re all still putting petrol in our motors…  So, thinking in the most purely selfish of terms… I am still stuck.  Ideally it would be to make a living from writing; but I tried that and was on the brink of starvation until I gave in and took a full-time job with responsibilities.  I tried doing it as a side-line and ended up having a stroke from working 60 to 80 hour weeks.  So, my dreams are no longer my dreams as those died a long time ago.  Wishing a publisher will take you seriously only gets a person so far.  It actually is more likely to make you the target of small-time frauds that sell promotion to nowhere or contacts to no one or inclusion in inexistant respected circulars.

I said wish.  At this time of year, I should be talking about new year´s resolutions but; they are really just wishes, aren’t they?  Whether they come true or not depends on your own impetus because fairies don’t actually exist but if they did, they would not care what happens to humans.  They´d sit and eat popcorn watching the psyches of people taught to aspire to more ripped apart by nepotism, glass ceilings, sexism, circumstance and exhaustion. In my case exhaustion is starting to have quite a bit to do with old age; but it is also the intellectual exhaustion of speaking into the void knowing that no one listens.

On Feminism – thoughts from today

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Many people say it should not matter to me if it doesn’t hurt me.  What they don’t understand is that this is actually quite damaging to women´s rights, the women´s movement, feminism or however you like to think about the idea that women are beings of equal value to men and deserve to be treated as such.

At a time when women in Iran are fighting to be allowed to speak their own minds and not be randomly murdered for showing cranial hair in public; when girls in Afghanistan are being sold by their fathers as brides for the Taliban or beaten for smiling in public; when women in Saudi can still be accused of adultery if they report a rape (which still has a possible stoning offence); when girls in Nepal are still ostracised from their homes during their monthly cycle; when in China the son-bias still drives a ratio of 8 girls to every 10 boys; when women in Europe, Africa and Asia continue to be enslaved by the sex trade; when women in Qatar cannot enjoy basic freedoms without the permission of their male guardian; when lesbian women in South Africa are still subjected to  ¨corrective¨ rape, when female genital mutilation is still common in some African countries and honour killing still exists as a concept in some Eastern ones; and while globally women are still getting paid less while performing the same work as a man despite what is still (generally speaking) a greater burden of responsibility at home and with offspring: I feel there is still a very long way to go before anyone can seriously say we have reached a point where women have enough privilege or should move over to stop pulling focus from other causes.  If another cause means taking away from the fight for women’s genuine equality, then it damages women’s rights.  People in the USA make it all about having a choice to have an abortion; but it is about so much more than that choice or women being the decisionmakers of their own health care. 

It is about men worldwide interiorising that women have equal value to men; intrinsically as human beings.  It is about relationships with women being based in respect for a person with vital value rather than a hole, other, mystery, image for gratification, servant, cook or punching bag for venting frustrations.  I recently saw Elisabeth Banks in an interview express eloquently that people still see women as second-class citizens and that is why they continue to diminish women´s achievements as lucky rather than deserved or the result of work and talent.  In my own work life, I once had a boss tell me I had an uncanny knack for <<stumbling on>> the best solutions to issues that needed fixing; rather than acknowledge my capability for doing my job or my MBA or decade plus of experience.  I´m quite sure I am not the only woman to have had their ideas dismissed in meetings only to hear them praised when they were parroted out of a male mouth minutes later as though they were a new take. 

Men don’t generally think about any of the aforementioned unless you bring it up in a discussion.  I once commented to a colleague at work I did not want to have to travel to Saudi Arabia and he was perplexed as to why.  I spelled out women´s rights in Saudi and he said ¨oh yeah, I didn’t even think about that¨.  I´m quite sure no woman on earth that hadn’t been living under a rock or that was otherwise completely ignorant of the existence of Middle Eastern cultures could ever discuss potential travel to Saudi without having the treatment of women in mind. It makes me angry when I see paid advertising on international news networks that showcase business opportunities in Dubai, Qatar, and Saudi with no thought to the fact that they are ostensibly indicating a return on investment is more important than the values of the country you might sink your money into.  I despair that climate conferences have not driven more tangible actions from western civilizations that are happy to criticise the practices of China as violating human rights while simultaneously they kowtow to Saudi Arabia.  But of course, these governments are still mostly driven and run by patriarchal groups that don’t truly believe that women’s rights are human rights.  If they did then they would have invested more in alternative energy sources decades ago whether or not they believed in the imminence of the climate crisis; simply in order to advance human rights.  But of course, women’s rights take a back seat whenever decision makers don’t have them front and centre in their minds or written objectives.  So, when a man comes to Europe and ignores the female leader in a meeting with the EU no one in the room calls it out.  So when Sweden drops equality from foreign policy requirements people say it wasn’t getting anywhere anyway. So the world cup was awarded to a country where women are treated like possesions or children; but it isn’t until years and numerous migrant worker deaths later that anyone thinks really it was not a good idea to award the cup to Qatar, and even then women’s rights seem to be an afterthought behind freedoms for gay men. By the way; I am not in any way intending to diminish the importance of LGBT rights. I mean only to say that women’s right are not less important and should not be considered less (or an afterthought) because of a patriarchal worldview. I mean, did you see the Australian team’s video? No mention of women at all… Which is my point.

Feminism has not achieved its aims; indeed, has had to fight not just against the patriarchy but in recent years also against European women and men claiming feminazis want too much.  In my personal experience that idea generally comes from a place of ignorance regarding the definition of feminism: the advocacy of women’s rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.

But it is true many women don’t want to be equal.  Many women don’t want to be subject to any potential draft in any form whatsoever.  I am sure quite a lot of men would rather never be subject to any draft either. It is not about women vs men it’s more a question of conscientious objection to my mind; and incorporating non-front-line services for those who prefer not to hold a gun.  Although Ukraine and Israel show quite well; if history wasn’t enough, that women are quite capable soldiers if needed.  Many women don’t want to lose preferential consideration in child custody hearings; which personally isn’t thinking about the best for the child but just being selfish.

Many women don’t want to hear that having your period isn’t a valid reason for calling in sick to work in the age of over-the-counter pain relief and other freely available treatments.  But equality is the goal and to achieve it means benefits as well as responsibilities.  Can you imagine any argument justifying equal pay at the same time as government approved menstruation days?  It´s absurd.  No one is saying that there aren’t some women with heavy flows that require extra care.  I myself had to take the pill to reduce my 15-day long periods to a manageable 3 and still had cramps and other symptoms but dragged my ass to work. When I was studying for my MBA, another woman once said in a group exercise that she didn’t feel capable of decision making while having her period because she got hormonal mood swings.  I asked her; do you realise you’ve just said in front of a class of men that women should not hold managerial positions and that made her angry for sure but not as much as the pusillanimous idea that periods make women inadequate for leadership positions.  Did she think men aren’t hormonal and distracted most of most days? Some of the male MBA students actively watched porn while we were in work groups; and judging by how often an average man fails to look a woman in the face until after he´s looked at the rest of her I am fairly convinced their hormonal impairments are month long every month of the year not merely coming to the surface cyclically.

So given that women are divided on how much equality is needed or wanted and a lot of women vote against their own interests; like trees voting for an axe because the axe has a wooden handle, it is easy for other groups to demand women move aside or shut up because they feel more important than women´s liberation or equality.  But truly we are considering 49,5% of the global population. How can any other group be more important than the interests of basically one of every two people on earth? And if we fight for women’s rights isn’t this defacto fighting for all the other equalities of all the demographics that those women belong to?

Obras preocupadas con la maternidad invaden mi entorno.

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Primero fue La Hija Oscura en Netflix: una película que para mi fue algo aburrida de ver a pesar de la presencia de Olivia Coleman.  Trataba de una mujer que había elegido para ella misma vivir su propia vida; por encima de dedicarla a cuidar o criar a su hija. Ese tabú le aísla del resto de la sociedad, exige que la reflejen en pantalla de la manera más egoísta y emocionalmente analfabeta viable y al final juegan con la idea de que sea una mujer al borde del suicidio hasta que oiga la voz de esa hija abandonada. La curiosidad para mí al ver la película no tuvo en absoluto que ver con la trama; sino con la presunción que a esta mujer hay que juzgarla de alguna manera como mujer, a pesar de que en la vida real haya millones de hombres pululando por el mundo ajenos a sus hijos y nadie clama al cielo que son hombres malos sino como mucho malos padres. ¿Es tan inconcebible para el mundo que una mujer quiera algo más allá de la maternidad? ¿De veras?  ¿Aún en 2022? En mi propia vida no tuve la oportunidad de elegir, pero no pienso que me toque juzgar a otra persona por no querer ser madre.  Además, pienso que si un personaje tiene tan poco interés en criar un/a nin@ seguramente ese/a nin@ tendrá mejor vida con otra persona de guardián. Alguien que de veras quiera sacrificar su carrera o amor o lo que sea porque formar a una mente joven y hacer de guardián le importa más.

Luego en el club de lectura al que me apunté hace poco, el primer libro que me tocó fue La Escuela de Las Buenas Madres; que trata de una mujer que me cayó mal y lo que le sucede después de abandonar a su hija de apenas un año durante horas. En esta historia de ciencia ficción; que no dejó a nadie indiferente, la protagonista acaba en una cárcel a medio camino entre 1984 y el Cuento de la Criada.  A la mujer le lavan el cerebro hasta que no conciba otro porvenir que ser madre; pero no simplemente una madre sino una madre programada a elegir y comportarse siempre de acuerdo con un canon dictado por asistentas sociales sin hijos. Algunas del grupo de lectura lloraban al hablar de los temas tratados y la auto examinación que provocó.  No porque recriminaran su propia maternidad; sino porque agradecían el cuidado recibido por sus propios guardianes más al considerar en profundidad lo que pudiese conducir sus actitudes y comportamientos. La cultura, la formación, las circunstancias económicas y sociales, la red de soporte que tuvieran o no tuvieron, etc.  Aunque se podría echarle mucha leña de análisis socio cultural y de clases y prejuicios; y de veras la discusión del grupo para mi gusto fue iluminada, el libro en sí no me gustó. En el fondo, a mí modo de ver, el núcleo de la historia sigue basándose en el rechazo de la sociedad hacía una mujer que no tenga instinto maternal. ¿Quién le da a la sociedad el derecho a decidir si el instinto maternal es suficiente o se ejerce de la manera correcta? Fuera de casos de abuso grave; con que vara se mide lo que es bueno o malo para un ser humano pequeño e indefenso.  Lo cierto es que en la sociedad no hay consenso sobre esto.  Sólo hace falta mirar hacia el hemiciclo político para recordar que nuestra sociedad es incapaz de ponerse de acuerdo siquiera para los asuntos más pusilánimes. Además; aún en sociedades que, si obran con bastante más harmonía política, los servicios de asistencia social no dan abasto para proteger a críos vulnerables (ejemplos espeluznantes abundaban en los periódicos del Reino Unido en la última década, y en los Países Bajos recientemente se emitió un informe dictaminando que l@s nin@s bajo protección social en muchos casos hubiesen sido menos perjudicados si hubiesen quedado con sus padres).

No por último menos importante; y hubo más ejemplos recientes en la tele, pero con tres me basta para esta exposición: Cinco Lobitos.  Esta película española entrañable y lograda trata de los altibajos de una nueva madre y lo sola que se siente al criar a su hija con la pareja siempre de viaje. El sub-contexto de la película parece ser que un@ no puede comprender a sus padres hasta que tenga su propi@ hij@.  En eso no estoy de acuerdo para nada.  No hace falta procrear para madurar y no hace falta quemarse para poder apreciar el impacto que tiene ser quemado…  Pero me sorprendió que en la charla post película del festival de cine obviaron una línea de dialogo muy significante.  La hija/madre le pregunta a su madre porque no fue con su amante si no era feliz y la madre le responde que la niña tenía solo cuatro años y era muy pequeña para dejarla.  Allí volvemos a reflejar lo que nadie quiere reconocer: que una mujer puede no tener instinto maternal y puede contemplar abandonar.  Mismamente la hija en la peli al escuchar estas palabras de la boca de su propia madre no las comprende; y responde que podría haberla llevado con ella y solo haber abandonado al padre. Esa representación – ese cacho de dialogo – representa algo que sigue siendo muy difícil de reconocer como sociedad.  Las mujeres son personas completas con deseos, gustos, filosofías de vida y trayectorias y no siempre procrear significa descerebrase por el bebe. 

¿Por qué será que aun en el 2022 cuesta tantísimo aceptar que mujer no es necesariamente sinónimo con madre?  Y ¿Por qué será que la sociedad sigue creyendo que la que no quiera ser madre es mala mujer?

BUF

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Después de 16 meses viviendo sola en casa y teletrabajando; el año pasado bajé a Madrid para ver a mi madre enferma de cáncer metastásico y con la espalda rota. Seguí teletrabajando, pero volví a bajar en noviembre y comprobé que de la espalda iba mejorando. Volví a bajar en febrero para verla cumplir 76, y volví a bajar el pasado mes de julio para pasar tres olas de calor en compañía de mi madre bastante mejorada en salud, aunque; eso sí, aun con un cáncer metastásico y dopada hasta las cejas de morfina. En ésta última visita mis padres me pegaron el COVID que tanto había intentado evitar. Eso sí, agradezco que me lo pegaran después de tres vacunas porque con lo mal que lo pasé estoy convencida de si me hubiera tocado antes de vacunarme yo había muerto antes de mi madre. Pasar el COVID en Madrid supongo que ha sido la mejor forma de pasarlo; ya que cada ocho horas mi padre entraba para ver si seguía con vida y comprobar mi saturación de oxígeno. Gracias a los antihistamínicos, dos inhaladores, gotas y esteroides; seguí respirando durante los cuatro días que me duró la fiebre de 39ºC. Me alegré de estar en Madrid y poder reponer fuerzas a base de horchatas y flanes; que en otras partes no existen. Claro, gracias al COVID y las fechas; no pude ver a casi nadie aparte de mis padres sedentarios. A pesar de eso simplemente poder pasear por el río a diario fue un gran alivio; aunque significara sudar y sufrir bajadas de tensión por los grados de temperatura. Los perros vieron necesario bañarse en cada fuente o beber del mismo río en cada oportunidad que se presentara y la gente les admiró y los elogió por ser tán buenísimos (algo diametralmente opuesta a la actitud de los holandeses que a diario me gruñen que mis perros no deben socializarse con los suyos). Y ahora de vuelta en los países bajos me encuentro con un jardín salvaje en el que todo ha crecido de una manera tan exagerada en unas semanas de sequía que asusta pensar en lo que podría llegar a pasar si me ausentara más tiempo. y bueno, no tenía pensado escribir nada especial sino simplemente dejar algo aquí como muestra de mi existencia continuada a pesar de las ausencias largas. un abrazo a cualquier persona que se interese en leer esto.

Back on line!!

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After two months of staring at the ceiling in the wee hours wondering if my blog would be lost in the server transfer I can FINALLY relax seeing that the extremely helpful and VERY patient technical support people have done their magic and I am back on line!

I can at last get back to recriminating myself every week that goes by without a new post ?