Darwin's Theory

Darwin Bodero explains the history and Brazilian martial art known as Capoeira.

Sugar & Spice

In this video I interview four male-to-female transwomen, confronting the critiques of radical feminists Janice Raymond and Sheila Jeffreys: Essentially a discussion over the proprietorship of womanhood and the oppressiveness of femininity.

The original criticism was popularized by Raymond's public attack on transwoman Sandy Stone in her 1979 book, 'The Transsexual Empire: The making of the she-male'.

Raymond boldly claims that "All transsexuals rape women's bodies by reducing the real female form to an artifact, appropriating this body for themselves . . . ."

Stone responded with her own academic analysis, "The Empire Strikes Back: A Posttranssexual Manifesto" http://www.actlab.utexas.edu/~sandy/empire-strikes-back, giving voice to transsexuals in what is now known as Transgender Theory.

Goat Song

Seated in a high tower and guarded by beasts,
bewitched and exiled, ²⁰

Were two glittering, loud-talking fairies, ¹⁹

Each in his prison thinking of the key. ²³

What was it like to be a man, condemned to men? ¹⁸

Shall I, wasting in despair die because a woman’s fair? ³⁵

It is the business of goats to climb. ⁸

Can’t change that. ²⁸

What belated queer obsession ³⁶

Can break away from its passionate but fatal embrace? ²⁹

A bee thumps heavily, insistently, against a windowpane. ¹⁵

I want a doomed love. ¹⁶

Why did he leave? ²⁴

Sappho threw herself into the Aegean after being spurned by a lover. ³⁴

I am a eunuch, but for the Kingdom of God’s sake. ³⁷

Look the unseen bade him, ¹

Fate goes ever as fate must. ³

A powerful but capricious dragon, ²⁷

Blind, throbbing between two lives, ²¹

Swooping, swerving, flinging, ⁴

In and out, round and round. ⁴

Did she not wish everybody merely to be themselves? ¹²

She can’t help it. You can’t help it. And there you are. ¹⁷

There is no crime. ¹⁰

Who’s the lucky person that hears the angels whisper? ²

It’s not easy to kill a mountain goat. ⁹

* * *

Quarter Centro

12 December 2006

1. (Mrs. Dalloway p25)

2. (The New Life p95)

3. (Beowulf p 14)

4. (Mrs. Dalloway p69)

8. (Grendel p139)

9. (Grendel p140)

10. (Mrs. Dalloway p24)

12. (Mrs, Dalloway p126)

15. (The Hours p45)

16. (The Hours p135)

17. (Another Country p51)

18. (Another Country p385)

19. (Another Country p 263)

20. (Another Country p173)

21. (The Waste Land, line 218)

23. (The Waste Land, lines 413-414)

24. (Sir John Paper p113)

27. (Sir John Paper p115)

28. (Sir John Paper p115)

29. (Sir John Paper p116)

33. (Reader’s Block p30)

34. (Reader’s Block p35)

35. (Reader’s Block p64)

36. (Reader’s Block p70)

37. (Reader’s Block p75)

The Smallest Sprout

Mortality eyes me like a ravished vulture. Circling round and round slowly, swooping down, closer and closer. It stares, unblinking, with an evil eye. Watching. Waiting. It’s patient. Very patient. It wants me. It will have me. But first I must be wounded, weak, and without the strength to fight back. Then he’ll grab me, sink his lecherous claws into my flesh, and tear the stringy meat from my bones with his powerful beak. He’ll hallow out my heart, eat it alive while it still pumps and splatters. He’ll consume my most dear, my most cherished. Ultimately, I am helpless.

I try to concentrate; to return to my work; I try to move on with my life, moment by moment. It’s tedious. Cold. Dark. Heavy. Outside and inside. I swallow and choke. I try to hold down the thick, lumpy, impending grief that wells up inside me. I try to be strong for Sidney’s sake. We lay down together in the grass, under the shadow of a palm. The warm air embraces us. Birds are singing. The sun is shining. “I lean and loafe at my ease… observing a spear of summer grass.” For a second my heart rebounds. But then doom wrenches me down again. A cool wind blows. A shadow passes over us. Goosebumps.

“Nevermore,” cries the vulture. “Nevermore.” I cling. Desperate. Helpless. Hopeless. Blurry. I push through the next moment. Go on. Force myself. My eyes are heavy. Sounds are droning, senseless. But I hear the prophet whisper, “…The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.”

We rest. We wait. We listen. We wait. We smell the grass. We wait. My arm is around him. I hold him tightly against my chest. There is no space between us. None. Our hearts beat softly. Together. One. A gentle breeze rustles the palm overhead; and the grass waves; so many uttering tongues. I can hear everyone and then no one. Sidney groans deeply. He grieves—for me—for my heart. The vulture descends. I’m brave. Blurry. I look into his milky brown eyes. Stroke him softly. Whisper into his ear, “You’re beautiful.” He fades away. Black spots turn to grey.