soapbox – Ivy

On the topic of sharing:

I go back and forth on whether or not to get too personal on this tumblr. Sometimes, I do. I share silly things I’ve experienced with friends, sexual forays I’ve taken part in, and even sometimes when something is bothering me. Sometimes, I share stuff without being too overt about the fact that it pertains to me. Others, I just put it all out on the table.

It’s weird for me to sit and try to pinpoint why I started this tumblr or what I even use it for. I could get into the deeper discussion on why people even write in the first place, but frankly I don’t want to bore any of you with this already boring post by getting into the even duller and more repetitive, circular discussion of why we read/write.

Rather, what I’m trying to get at here is I’m not totally sure what a) you all are really expecting and b) I’m supposed to set as a boundary for sharing. To tackle the latter first, there’s definitely a degree of privacy I’d like to uphold. But part of me likes the ability to be cathartic here.

Which brings me to the second point. I don’t want anyone to feel like I put too much here. My posts that are just pervy prose about the pictures get as much positivity as my personal ones as my ones that are just excerpts from books and songs. So, maybe I’ve struck the right balance. I don’t know.

In the earlier days of having this tumblr, I shared a lot more stuff than I do now. This is partially because I was, while abroad and while at home for the tiny sliver left of my summer, not getting any. And, also, I just get concerned I’ll be recognized or I’ll upset someone by sharing stuff about them.

So, not totally sure what this post was about. But, yes, I get torn about sharing sometimes. And it’s hard for me to say well, okay, this blog is for me. Because there’s a possibility I could be found. And that would be just plain awkward.

Dearest Tumblr,

(Please feel free to skip. This is a rant and a little too TMI)

I am not a doctor. I don’t really know much medically. But let me tell you a little something about a drug called Chloroquine.

It’s used to prevent malaria. I took my first Chloroquine yesterday with my lunch, as instructed. My stomach hurt a bit, but I was told this would happen. I proceed with my day normally and was fine. Then, at three in the morning, I woke up and got sick. I never, ever do that. Really.

I got incredibly cold. I was trembling harder than I have ever before. I literally could barely walk and I managed to go to sleep. I wake up a few hours later and cannot even bring myself to leave bed. I have to force crackers down to keep from getting sick again. I chug a gatorade (yuck) and my friends take me to a diner where I manage to get some eggs down.

I send an email to the woman who prescribed it to me with a ton of enthusiasm. I google the drug and speak to montecervesa, who is seriously a wealth of knowledge and was a huge help/provided a ton of support. Google and The Count agree, Chloroquine is a horrifically bad drug. People would rather get malaria than take these pills. I had a huge list of pills I could’ve possibly taken and this woman gives me what appears to be the worst.

She responds to my email really blandly and says she’s going to prescribe me more pills. I google this brand. It looks just as bad. I send back something that may have been a little bitchy, but I’m tired and I have to work 9 hours and gosh darn it.

Thanks for listening.

<3, Ivy

Secretary is, was, and will always be one of my favorite movies. I remember first hearing Whoopi Goldberg talking about it when she hosted the Academy Awards the year it was released. She discussed the outrage that many felt when seeing a film about a woman being forced to carry manilla folders between her teeth while crawling around on the floor like a dog.

Then, I was this ear-reddening, tingle-inspiring feeling that my eleven or twelve year old self couldn’t properly interpret as aroused and intrigued.

Now, I’m outraged. Because this is not what the movie is about. That’s like saying Citizen Kane is about a sled or Reservoir Dogs is about a cop getting his ear cut off. These are incidental things that happen in relation to what the film is really about.

Secretary is not a movie about a woman who willingly carries manilla folders between her teeth (the gal wasn’t forced) or crawls around on her knees. Secretary is a movie with these things. What Secretary is about is trust, love, self-discovery and suffering. It tackles the fragile balance of these concepts vis-a-vis a sadomasochistic relationship.

I can understand why, to people not open to this sort of lifestyle, Secretary can be an incredibly disturbing movie. At first glance, it appears to be anti-feminist in the way that Lee depends so whole-heartedly on Mr. Grey, even to the point of starving herself to prove her devotion. Surely no self-respecting modern woman would do something like that. Right?

Wrong. What people tend to ignore is that Lee did not do these things because Mr. Grey forced her. She acted out of her own volition. She behaved in a way that satisfied her. She put herself on the line in such a way because it met a need that panged around inside her, a need to serve. We even see her backing out of other, similar situations because she did not enjoy the sort of behavior that was being asked of her. She was in control of when she surrendered her control, making her powerful.

She realized the depth of her trust for Mr. Grey and knew the fruit that came of giving it over. She understood the human quality of suffering and knew that to suffer for someone, with someone, who was suffering, too, was better than to “suffer” alone. This degree of trust and suffering brought her happiness. It was what she wanted. She had the power to quit her job. She had the power to stop the other situations. She had the power to end a relationship that wasn’t serving her. And she had the power, in her final test, to stand up, leave the office, change out of her wedding dress, take a long shower, and move on with life. And by the same token, she had the power to endure what she was given.

And in the end, there was love. There was tenderness. And it’s just really screaming in the photo. It’s not all about suffering. It’s about care. It’s about security. It’s about seeing what putting your trust in someone else can do.

So, I’d say there’s really nothing degrading or disgusting about the film. In fact, it’s almost empowering. It certainly empowered me to stop being so ashamed about certain desires and to pursue what made me happy.

I’ll get off my soapbox now. Thanks for listening.