I ran into some lovely and gorgeous ladies at the museum, and let me tell you, they were some of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. They have curves.
Canova Reclining Naiad
They are regal.
They are the very epitome of beauty.
All pictures from the National Gallery of Art. I wish that every time I start seeing too many Victoria Secret catalogues and commercials, when I and too inundated with clothes that don’t fit, that I feel like all the world feels that I’m too much, too big, not beautiful and seductive and enthralling, that I could visit these ladies. They make a woman feel very well and comfortable in her body. One might almost say proud. Yes, it was a wonderful thing to visit women with curves who are classic beautiful, so much so that they don’t merely rest in catalogues and magazines but in buildings entirely devoted to art and beauty. I really needed that.
On the other hand, K, DC was a bit disillusioning for me. I mean, you wander around impeded by security at every point, every turn. You can’t even bring water into the National Aquarium. Which is not a good place to visit, trust me on that one. It’s an embarrassment to this country. You’ll see only slightly more there than you do at your local pet store. But really, what I mean to say is that it’s no wonder our politicians are freaking out about national security, because the mall and DC are just generally paranoid about everything. But once in the buildings, like visiting the capitol or the air and space museum, such wonderful history abounded. There is such dedication to freedom, responsibility, work, liberty, and justice; it makes you love the country. It makes you think, “Maybe we really are doing something good somewhere. How can people who work here not realize what has gone on before them, such hard battles fought for civil liberties of all sorts, and not be inclined to make the best choices for our nation?”
And then, on the way home, I caught a glimpse of a news headline in the Chicago Tribune. A district court said it’s okay for the government to wire-tap any of the public, anywhere, anytime, whenever it deems it necessary. Perfectly legal. Perfectly fine for them to sneak into my apartment and do it right now. The ACLU is fighting this and trying to take it to the supreme court. They seem like good people to me.
I’m all for safety. I like to drive safely, to fly safely, and, yes, it’s very true, I’m not on the forefront fighting the good fight to keep our country safe. Well, actually, I am, I’m just doing it in a much more public manner without all the violence. In any case, I’m very disturbed that I have no guarantee of my privacy. None whatsoever. Do I think the government wants to wire-tap me? No! Why would they? I knit. And spin. The inherent qualities within these two arts, while perhaps inviting scathing language and provoking thought, render violence completely unnecessary. However, I’m guaranteed in the Bill o’ Rights that I’ve got privacy. I remember sitting in class in 7th grade, pondering why I needed privacy. Who cared? I mean, yeah, the press, right to gather, freedom of religion, that all makes sense. Freedom of speech, everyone loves that one. But privacy? It wasn’t an issue back then. And now, as I gather my thoughts, as I view my life…I want privacy. I want to know that there are still secrets, still hidden things in this world beyond the mysteries of science and love. I want things that I can hide. I want espionage to be an art form, not a technological business. I want to be alone, when I am alone. I don’t want people to hear me sing in the shower. But most of all, I want to know beyond a doubt that, sometimes when I have a conversation with Kris, that only he and I are the ones who have heard it. That it is ours, and no one else’s. Yet, every time we converse, as much as we are likely fine, there is the possibility, that horrible possibility, that there are others. People, networks, worlds of others. Listening in. Evaluating. Picking apart. Knowing. I don’t like it. I like my freedoms. I feel like we’re entering 1984, where as the characters go anywhere Big Brother may be watching at any time, even in the forest as they go for a walk, even where they think they are alone. Or entering into Margaret Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale. I mean, the book was a great commentary and warned about religious fanaticism and fundamentalism sneaking into the government, probably based on her experiences in the Near East. But I truly think there was a lot more lurking there. Taking away the religious overtones, there lurks the quiet acknowledgement of what fear can do. That people can be sculpted, molded, and coerced by fear into not only taking away the freedoms and rights of others, but also of themselves. That they can change from “freedom to” into the dangerous “freedom from.” I feel like this, and many other aspects of the Patriot Act, are an obvious barrage against reason and logic and faith in this country to be able to protect itself. I mean, the Patriot act’s name, in my view, is one of the most bitterly sarcastic I’ve ever heard, since the actual patriots, our founding fathers, would probably have vomited if they learned of all this being done in their name.
Anyway. I’m done with that. We’ll let that rest and stew for awhile while I try and get off of this high horse. So tall. And I’m so not used to riding horses.
There is one more big piece of information that I did not include yesterday that needs to be known. K, I found some ladies. Some wonderful, amazing, fun, talkative ladies. And I’m just enamored with them. And one rented me a spinning wheel. I went to a local organic farm that sells free range chickens, eggs, and beautifully blended wool which unfortunately all has mohair in it. Which I can’t wear. The ladies don’t believe I can’t wear mohair. I don’t think they understand the true nature of how it makes me about to have seizures when it touches any sensitive part of my skin. In any case, the woman who runs the farm invites ladies over to knit around on Saturdays from 11-5, and as soon as I hopped off the plane from DC, I went over to her farm. I had such a good time being amongst knitters again. They liked my yarn. They liked my knitting. They liked my skirt. I hope they liked me, too. And one of them rented spinning wheels, too! So I’m learning how to spin on a wheel, which an entirely different animal that spinning on a drop spindle. I mean, similar, but you really have to work with the machine on a wheel, which my spindle works with me and does whatever I tell it. Usually. I’ll get you some pictures soon! It’s an Ashford Kiwi, which is difficult if only because I like to spin thin yarn, and it doesn’t have a very high ratio, which one would usually like for spinning thin yarn.
I might go see Harry Potter tonight. I hope it’s good. Stay out of the heat!