“
One of the (sub)-themes running through Woolf's [A Room of One's Own] is the "convention... that publicity in women is detestable." As a result, "anonymity run's in [women's] blood. The desire to be veiled still possesses them."
”

~Kofi Owusu

remember once.. i had asked you.. if were alright for me to cover myself (as i often do, when going to the market, when stepping into public spaces) and we agreed, that yes, i can and i may...
but you must detest it. as much as they detest your presence in their public. and by THEM yes, i mean men, and women who agree to live by Man's religion and Man's economy and Man's rules... made by that Man-God, the Tyrant...

[ opp. sector u, dha, lhr. ]

And the women tug their hair
Like they’re trying to prove it won’t fall out
And all the men are gargoyles
Dipped long in irish stout

The whole place is pickled
The people are pickles for sure
And no-one knows if they’ve done more here
Than they ever would do in a jar

This could be rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or rome
’cause rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone
Anywhere alone

And everyone is blonde
And everyone is beautiful
And when blondes and beautiful are multiple
They become so dull and dutiful

And when faced with dull and dutiful
They fire red warning flares
Battle-khaki personality
With red underwear

This could be rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or rome
’cause rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone
Anywhere alone

The whole place is pickled
The people are pickles for sure
And no-one knows if they’ve done more here
Than they ever would do in a jar

This could be rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or rome
’cause rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone

This could be rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or rome
’cause rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone

~beautiful south

the bullet hit the back of her at the exact instant the coffee cup touched her lips. in all honesty it was absolutely fascinating, the way it seared through her skull so that you could almost hear it straining against the metal, bone and flesh and carving another door at the end, smashing straight into the unsipped-first-sip of gently steaming coffee.

and i do believe she heard the explosion as it happened. and that if you reassembled her face, stuck it back with elfy you'd see that her lips were twisted into the first smile in a long, long time. and if you'd known her for many, many years before, you'd realise that the only way you could possibly know whats inside her mind was by putting a bullet through her head. i peered inside, half expecting to see the hard, heavy locks and bolts she used to keep everything to herself. half expecting to see a mind undergoing metamorphosis, struggling to become more resiliant, more insensitive, more... 'male'.

i dont think she ever realised that there was a paradox in her ardent misogynism. she wasnt the profound sort. she probably didnt even realise that she was battling aganst her femininty to get ahead, snapping out ideas, flaring at the slightest provocation. rage is a wonderful thing. only the truly violent can understand the rush of irrational anger, the exquisite, trembling fear of having gone too far- it feels like running off a cliff. it feels like the air would, if there were only air around you. then you fall, of course, but you'll be surprised at how thick skinned some professional violents can be. she found herself addicted to this game; her addiction grew with the number of people who began to fear her moods, respect her dedication... loathe her acerbic tongue. and because we still live in the real, un-politically-correct world and prejdices are woven into the fabric of our skin, these traits were seen as, if not completely male, then definately less female. ruthless. thats the word. thats what she was going for- ruthless. minimum family, spartan living conditions, no husband-kids-and-a-dog, and yet people in movies always handled it so much better. the charred fragments of her brain revealed nothing of the hunger and fatigue every day, every night. they told nothing of the fact that no matter how far you went in this world, you would always only be second-best. and that you could never possibly excel at a game in which they tailor to their own suiting, and make their own rules. and if there was a fuel to this fire, it would be the rage she felt evertime someone felt sorry for her. or helped her. or said "dont push yourself so hard"... they might as well have said "you cant handle it".

but, she reflected, none of this would be revealed by a bullet. or an axe. or anyother weapon designed by man to spilt her head into half. gentler, subtler, much more powerful forces of love, compassion, friendship were left undiscovered by her and those around her.

the coffee cup left her lips and was set carefully on the table. two strong arms folded firmly before her as she leaned closer, fixing the man in front of her with a peircing, cool glare.

".... i refuse to compromise on this..."