I was 21 years old when I had my son. His father and I were utterly unprepared, not nearly mature enough to have a baby together, and ultimately not a good match. Within 6 months of our son’s birth, we had split.
Read MoreWitchy Gifts for Everyone in Your Coven
Your guide to shopping for the entire coven.
Read MoreWhy Do We Hardly Talk About Breaking Up with a Platonic Female Friend?
I have always been struck by the scarcity of material that circulate on the topic of female relationships. I say this in the context of today's bottomless internet stock of think pieces, articles, listicles and advice columns: What proportion of them revolve around the theme of romantic heartbreak, and how many focus on another kind of break up, that of a friendship, that might involve fewer tears and less longing--but just as much, if not more, cutting pain?
Read More5 Ways to Make Mercury Retrograde Beneficial, Not Destructive
If you know anything about mercury retrograde, you know that it brings changes & all sorts of delays to your personal, professional, & creative life. Most people hate mercury retrograde simply because everything seems to go wrong. If you make major purchases, there may be manufacturing problems or delays with shipment; expect miscommunications to arise between friends & family; do you seem to notice that people or concerns from your past are resurfacing? If so, you are correct in your observations.
Read MoreJames Deen & The Crisis of Media-Appointed Feminist Heroes
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
When James Deen was accused of raping or sexually assaulting several women—including his ex-girlfriend, the performer Stoya, the internet exploded. Some people wondered if porn actors could actually be raped (of COURSE they can; and never read the comments), while some people wondered how they could have ever supported him. Reading through the "we were wrong" headlines, it's clear that the masses are wondering: How could it be that someone who was public and likeable! and funny! and into consent was allegedly raping his co-workers and other women?
When Deen started becoming porn-famous around 2012, women - some of them devout "deenagers"—thought of him as a feminist icon. Jezebel said he was "dreamy," painting him as the guy next door who wants to hold your hand and watch Clueless. The media at large took Deen off of the faraway internet sex pedestal and put him into our lives as a hybrid entertainer-cum-women loving dude friend. His own social media engagement helped hone that image as well, even when he made ignorant rape jokes. The Frisky even hired him to write an advice column (they've since stopped publishing him).
When someone is given the feminist seal of approval by the media, it can burrow itself into the psyche of readers and fans. It's hard not to be excited about someone who doesn't appear to denigrate women; we naturally want to celebrate them and make a public case in the hopes that it will influence others. However, it creates this idea that James Deen is a disappointment because he was deemed such a cool guy, not solely because he possibly committed a series of serious ethical crimes against women and humanity.
When the porn actress Stoya tweeted that Deen had held her down and ignored her safe word, other women came forward and alleged that Deen had assaulted them as well, leading Deen to take part in an email interview with The Daily Beast, saying he was "honestly shocked" by the allegations and that “I have never claimed to be a 'feminist' or 'the boy next door.'"
This is a guy who previously told Elle, "I wouldn't consider myself a feminist….At the end of the day I want everyone to have the respect that they deserve and to respect people's civil liberties and rights. I don't know, maybe I am a fucking feminist!"
Simply, as figures in the media and consumers / retweeters of media, need to rethink the way we categorize public figures. We bestow upon celebrities our seal of approval and then we taketh away, but the reality is we need to look at lots of variables to know if a person is a) a good human being, b) a feminist and c) not a criminal.
It seems like all men need to do is throw a bone towards women and they're suddenly in the clear. Bloggers need to know this isn't enough. Not online and not in real life.
The Internet is the quickest to vilify. If an actor (who happens to be a woman) says she’s not a feminist, we write dozens of responses, critiquing their ignorance or kicking them out of the Feminist Club that we’d put them in ourselves. Sometimes we call them feminist heroes because of something they said and sometimes we just decide they're the It Feminist and good for clicks. Just as wearing sneakers on the red carpet doesn’t guarantee you’re in feminist club, being a porn star who says he respects women doesn’t make you feminist. Being feminist just isn't enough anymore.
Whether or not these allegations around Deen are true—and we’re standing with the women who say they were victims to what sounds like Deen’s sexual entitlement or dangerous blending of real world vs. porn world—we know that we need to treat this like a criminal case and not like an, "Turns out he's NOT so feminist anymore, you guys" headline.
Interacting with feminism online should be done in an ideological way, not in a way that works for page views. When we pump content onto the Internet, even us feminist journalists and bloggers, we need to be ethical and responsible enough to say, “Do I actually know 10 reasons X is a feminist?" We should always be thinking about what we’re saying, why we’re saying it and what affect it has on society. Deen could possibly be very guilty; don't let all the headlines make you question the victims.
Stop Saying "I Have A Boyfriend"
BY ALECIA LYNN EBERHARDT
I enjoy “going out.” I like dancing, I like music, I like drinking, I like spending time with friends. And I like meeting new people, chatting with them, making friends. I also understand that many people (men and women) go to bars and clubs in hopes of meeting a romantic/sexual partner, and of course, there is nothing wrong with this, in theory.
That’s why, if someone attempts conversation with me, I try not to immediately write them off as a “creep.” I welcome conversation and believe that the more people in my life with whom I can converse, the better off I’ll be. However (as most women know) there sometimes comes a point in a conversation with a man where it becomes necessary to draw the line and indicate that you are in no way, by any means, at all interested in pursuing anything further. There are also times when it is clear that friendly conversation is not in the cards (i.e., those men who substitute grabbing your hips and attempting to “dance” with you for a polite introduction). This is about those times.
If you do a Google search for “how to avoid being hit on at a bar,” you’ll get several articles with “helpful” tips on skirting conversation with men you are not interested in. The majority of these list pretending to have (or actually having) a boyfriend/fiance/husband as the number one method for avoiding creeps (second to “pretending to be a lesbian” or “pretending to be crazy,” a la Jenna Marbles). In response to my complaints about men creeping on me at dance clubs in college, an ex-boyfriend of mine used to get cranky that I refused to whip out this cure-all excuse (one of many reasons he is an ex).
Yes, this may be the easiest and quickest way to get someone to leave you alone, but the problems associated with using this excuse far outweigh the benefits. There is a quotation that I’ve seen floating around Tumblr recently (reblogged by many of my amazing feminist Tumblr-friends) that goes as follows:
Male privilege is “I have a boyfriend” being the only thing that can actually stop someone from hitting on you because they respect another male-bodied person more than they respect your rejection/lack of interest.
This amazingly puts into one sentence what I have been attempting to explain to ex-boyfriends and friends (male and female) for years, mostly unsuccessfully. The idea that a woman should only be left alone if she is “taken” or “spoken for” (terms that make my brain twitch) completely removes the level of respect that should be expected toward that woman. It completely removes the agency of the woman, her ability to speak for herself and make her own decisions regarding when and where the conversation begins or ends. It is basically a real-life example of feminist theory at work--women (along with women’s choices, desires, etc.) being considered supplemental to or secondary to men, be it the man with whom she is interacting or the man to whom she “belongs” (see the theory of Simone de Beauvoir, the story of Adam and Eve, etc.). And the worst part of the whole situation is that we’re doing this to ourselves.
This tactic also brings up the question of the alternative. If the woman in question was boyfriend-free, would she automatically be swooning in the arms of the creep harassing her? Unlikely. So why do we keep using these excuses? We’re not teaching men anything about the consequences of their behavior (i.e. polite, real conversation warrants a response while unwanted come-ons do not). We’re merely taking the easy exit, and, simultaneously, indicating to men that we agree, single girls are “fair game” for harassment.
So what can we do? I think the solution is simple--we simply stop using excuses. If a man is coming on to you (and you are not interested--if you are, go for it, girl!), respond with something like this: “I’m not interested.” Don’t apologize and don’t excuse yourself. If they question your response (which is likely), persist--”No, I said I’m not interested.”
“Oh, so you have a boyfriend?”
“I said, I’m not interested.”
“So you’re a lesbian, then?”
“Actually, I’m not interested.”
“You seem crazy.”
“Nope, just not interested.”
Et cetera. You could even, if you were feeling particularly outspoken, engage in a bit of debate with the man in question. “Why is it that you think that just because I’m not interested, there must be an excuse? Why is it not an option that I’m simply not looking for a sexual encounter and/or something about the way that you approached me indicated to me that you have very little respect for women and therefore I would never be interested in having a sexual encounter with you regardless of my sexuality or relationship status?” (Or, ya know, switch it up as you see fit.) Questioning them back (if you have the energy) puts you back on an even playing field. I’m not saying this is easy. I’ve gotten into my fair share of arguments with men during what were supposed to be fun nights out with friends over whether or not I have the “right” to tell them to buzz off, boyfriend notwithstanding. However, there are a few reasons I continue:
1. So that maybe, possibly, the man I’m speaking to, or other men observing the encounter, may learn something about the agency of women,
2. So that maybe, possibly I might be inspiring other women observing to do the same so that one day, we can be a huge kickass collective of ladies standing up for our right to go crazy on the dance floor without being hassled, and
3. So that I can go home that night, sweaty and tired and happy, and know that I gave myself all the respect that I deserve.
Editor's Note: This is republished from our old site, lunalunamag.com
Alecia is a logophile and a library bandit wanted in several states. In addition to feminist rants, she also writes essays, short stories, bad poetry, recipes and very detailed to-do lists. She currently resides in a little blue cabin in Woodstock with one fiance, one Dachshund and one pleasantly plump cat. Find her tweeting @alecialynn.
Advice: My Love Has Left Me, What Do I Do?
Today is the day that our very own advice columnist, Word Witch Rebecca Cook, offers up advice for your lovely little heart. This is our first installment. If you need advice, you can email her (lunawordwitch @ gmail.com)
Dear Word Witch,
My love has left me. What must I do?
Please help,
Lonesome
Dear Lonesome,
You must buy many lime-green and purple umbrellas and go out into the rain. And walk. And slap through puddles. You must wear shiny red rubbery slick boots and you must listen to whichever wind calls to you. You must stand facing to the east in the evening and the west in the morning and you must cry out for your lover. But you must whisper. And you must wear white gloves with tiny buttons all the way to your elbows. And nothing but lemon water must pass your lips for forty days. And you must lie down and press your mouth against the throat of the sky and kiss her, kiss her, and your love will return to you.
Poems by Jessica Reidy
the moon is dripping
fat like candlestick wax on the countryside below
This Is Your Hands Around Your Thigh
This is the girl who won’t eat a doughnut who won’t eat a hamburger bun. This is the little girl who doesn’t gain weight for two years I’m worried about you her mother says. This is the girl skinning the cat on the old clothesline the rusted cross poles. This means that her body is light is fit is tight an unthought-of thing it moves and prances it loves to be tickled. It lifts itself up into trees. It runs across the pasture its mother washes it and bathes it and lays out its clothes. It argues with Angela on the playground who is the fattest I am I am fatter than you it bunches up its thigh and shouts no, no, I am fatter than you.
Read MoreDear Poet Who Never Wrote Me Back
BY JENNY MACBAIN-STEPHENS
There were so many times when I read your poems and the images on the page were little bombs going off in my head. I thought, little dark waste-land misgivings can be the subjects of poems? These jewels of weirdness that I totally recognize? Yes. I couldn’t get enough of your surreal mistakes.
So, I sent you an e-mail, gave you a tasteful compliment and asked about the availability of one of your chapbooks. My e-mail was a fist bump. Days went by. Weeks. Who the fuck doesn’t bump back? I went through excuses on why you didn’t write back. Why I didn’t receive a simple, “thanks for the kind words.” That would have sufficed. I told myself, he’s traveling, he deleted the message by accident, he forgot. But I had to come to terms with the blow-off.
It took me a little time to pick up one of your books again, but I did. I tried to lose myself in the text but it was a little harder this time. It was harder to get lost in your woods, your ponds, your opera singers, your lumberjacks, and the still pieces of furniture that displaced themselves with other pieces of furniture. Six months later, when I read that you were touring select cities in America, and if people wanted you to come to their city, to E-MAIL you with a reading venue suggestion I swallowed my pride and sent a damn e-mail with a reading venue suggestion. No return message.
When I read this line****, I thought, “So am I.” We are of mental kin. The speaker does not need to exist in the universe as we know it. This idea thrilled me and I wrote a poem in the middle of the night that was accepted quickly—the poem as drunk off fiery inspiration as I was. Your work existed on a different plane. However, I still couldn’t help but think that we existed on the same plane—the earth—a seasoned writer and a novice writer, and still no contact.
I know from reading an interview that you appreciated your mentors and even name them in dedications, revealing that you understand how important encouragement is to a new poet. To capture my emotional core I will use your words from “What I Did With The Rock.” What have I done?
I mentioned this lack of correspondence to my therapist. (Yes, I have a fucking therapist.) Your lack of response made me question me. In my mind I had become the woman with gigantic tree-trunk legs (who makes an appearance in your third book,) who strangles you with her thighs until you suffer convulsions and are hospitalized. Was I being a stalker? No. Had I “stalked” before? No. Had I obsessive thoughts? Yes. But doesn’t every writer? Why would someone display their g-mail address in a twenty point font size on their web page if they didn’t want any discourse? Is that just for editors to solicit work?
I am not trying to fuck you. I am married. I have children. I have self-worth. At this point, I didn’t want to say screw off—I still want to review your catalog (several chaps and now four, five? full collections to date,) and draw inspiration from them—but I have to say, as much as I try to not let it affect me, as much as I try to “forget,” you blowing me off—your work is burning less bright in my heart. Again, I will use your words to capture how I felt/feel: (From your poem “The Woman Who Falls From the Sky”).
You have inspired me with your words, and maybe you will continue to do just that. I look back at how it all began. I came across your first book at the Mission Creek festival and it was a wondrous surprise. Your editor was there, and out of all the books on the table, he picked up yours, and said, “Start with this.” I was intoxicated. But then I was rejected by you. We, writers, who have to face rejection from our e-mail in-boxes every day, this one stank like rotten milk. Go on with your life, your readings, your tours, your creative poem-ic films. I wasn’t even a blip on your radar.
Now I’ve become this person writing about you in an online lit mag. I know one day we will meet. I’ll have a couple of books under my belt—or just one. But I will be reading somewhere. You will come up to me, afterwards—a glass of wine in hand, say you like my work, and then I will have a choice to make. Do I bring up how you were a dick who never wrote me back? Will I take that out of my back pocket like a smelly sardine and lay it on your silver platter? Or will I rise above, clink my glass to yours, and just know- know that I will always have this over you.
Sincerely,
J.M.
Jennifer is a writer who currently works at a scientific journal. She just moved to Virginia with her family. She grew up in Michigan and went to New York University where she studied three subjects: Drama, English, and Journalism. She has also lived in California, London, New York, and Iowa City for various periods. There are lots of hills and green foliage here in VA. All of the roads look the same to her. If you see her in the wrong lane somewhere, don’t bother honking, she already knows she is in the wrong lane. The only thing keeping Jennifer going at the moment is writing about herself in the third person, making collages, and writing poetry.
This Week's Reading List: Lynch, Life Advice, Tarot & Hillary Clinton
There's so much out there to read, we know. So we rounded up a few of the best things we've read, just for you. And, like us, they're all weird or neurotic or dark. Happy Monday, darling.
Ask Polly: Am I Too Smart for My Own Good? - The Cut, New York Magazine
"You are not a crazy genius or an irredeemable asshole or a misfit who's damned for all time. You are just a person."
David Lynch's Elusive Language - The New Yorker
“No matter how weird something is, no matter how strange the world is that you’re making a film about, it’s got to be a certain way. Once you see how that is, it can’t be another way or it’s not that place anymore. It breaks the mood or the feeling.”
Guillermo del Toro’s Guide to Gothic Romance - Rookie
"Guillermo has curated a syllabus of the Gothic and Gothic romance novels, short stories, and engravings that influenced the making of the film [Crimson Peak]."
Not Looking To Predict “Outcomes” In Tarot? Try These Ideas Instead - Autostraddle
"So what do you do if you’re a non-predictive kinda tarot reader? How do you reconcile your feelings that tarot can’t foretell future events with the fact that the very last card in your reading is purporting to do exactly that?"
Deadly Maidens - Death & The Maiden
"This experimental short really opened up my ideas towards imagery and
nonlinear narratives. A mirror faced, hooded Grim Reaper-like figure haunts the waking dreams of a young woman."
We Were (Sobbing? No, Not Yet): On Jennifer L. Knox’s Days of Shame & Failure - Weird Sister
"While many of Knox’s speakers are misfits of some sort, Knox herself has appeared more and more in poems, an autobiographical impulse that is not so much confessional as it is a means to ground us amongst the more absurd situations Knox’s speakers get into, such as the corporate lawyer in “Between Menus” who talks to bees or the old volunteer clown who sodomizes a Siberian tiger in “I Cast the Shadow of a Sword over Sky & Sea.”
The Black Girl Dangerous Podcast 10.15.15: Why We Don’t Trust Hillary - Black Girl Dangerous
"She will sort of start off like she’s talking to Black people but then it will just veer right off. You know like, we’ve left her mind and she’s talking to white people and it’s just the weirdest thing. I mean, not weird, because white, whites. But it’s still fascinating to watch."
Amazing Feminist Zine Roundup
BY ELIZABETH KING
Summer is here, and for many of us that means one very important thing: THE BEACH. The beach is where we relax, rollick, get sun-burnt, and enjoy light reads. I’ve perused my fair share of tabloids over past summer months, but these days, I have a new quick-read obsession: zines. All the zines! Well, all the girl power zines. The zine world is still alive and very well, even though it’s been a couple decades (we’re getting so old…) since the Riot Grrrl movement blew the lid off of the DIY feminist art movement.
Over the last several months, I have scoured the internet (and by internet I mean Etsy) for the best in what’s new with feminist zines, and I am happy to be able to report back some killer recommendations. Instead of reaching for Us Weekly or god forbid Cosmo for our summer reading, we can support feminist artists and writers while simultaneously being entertained and even learning a thing or two.
So, for your feminist reading pleasure, I present to you my top five zine recommendations of the moment:
Interactive Intro To Self-Care
This is perhaps my all-time favorite zine. Brought to us by the wonderful Janelle Silver, this adorable little creation is packed full of amazing ideas, activities, recipes, and other goodies all centered on ways to love yourself. What could be better? The uplifting and super-cute illustrations accompany serious insights about why it’s important to care for ourselves. I have never seen such a fun and honest way to approach self-care. The best parts: stickers you can color yourself and tea recipes for different moods. Check out this and other works from Janelle at www.janelle-silver.com, because you are worth it!
Empower Yoself Before You Wreck Yoself: Native American Feminist Musings
I love this zine because it exclusively discusses the experience of young Navajo women. The Native perspective is rarely heard in mainstream feminist discourse, and this zine is a great way for all of us to educate ourselves about this particularly margianalized intersection. Co-writers Melanie Fey and Amber McCrarty created this zine in order to make a space for Navajo women to contribute to the feminist dialogue and feel at home in various counter-cultures. Based on the awesome content of their zine, I would definitely say they are succeeding. In particular you will want to check out the letter that Melanie wrote to her Governor about the use of Native mascots in public schools. If you are a Native woman who wants to contribute to this zine, you can get in touch with the creators at NAfeministmusings@gmail.com.
OMG Lesbians!
This is a great comic for when you want to crack up while also giving a little side-eye to stereotypes about lesbians. OMG Lesbians! is Greek artist Smar’s exploration of the ridiculous ogling and leering that lesbians are frequently subjected to when they express any affection in public (the comic includes a lot of honking and whistling). She also humorously confronts some stereotypes that come from within the lesbian community, as well as the nutty myths that persist about gay women. My favorite quip is from a page about lesbian myths. Myth: lesbianism is contagious. Lesbian’s response: Sadly, no… You can see more from Smar at SmarMakesComics.tumblr.com. You won’t regret it.
Black Women Matter
The importance of this zine can’t be understated. Created by the artist and writer’s collective Underground Sketchbook, Black Women Matter uses portraits, quotes and thoughtful biographies to honor and remember Black women who have been killed by law enforcement. The zine is heartbreaking in that it details tragedies many of us have never heard of before, but it is also very empowering to take the opportunity to commemorate these women. This zine is critical reading for anyone involved with, interested in, or following the Black Lives Matter Movement. I would encourage everyone to explore more of the social justice-based art created by Underground Sketchbook at undergroundsketchbook.tumblr.com.
Anxiety Comics
As someone who struggles with anxiety, this comic really resonated with me. Artist Stacey Bru portrays her anxiety in a way that so many of us experience it: as an annoying little creature that incessantly nags us with insecurity, self-doubt, and angst. Stacey also shows readers that it’s possible to deal with anxiety in healthy ways (see: Intro to Self-Care!) so that it does not control our lives. This is a really cathartic zine to read if you experience anxiety, and a great learning opportunity if you have any sort of relationship with an anxious person. You can see what else Stacey is up to on Twitter at @staceybru.
So there it is! I am always fiending for more zines, so if you have a cool idea for a comic, informational series, or DIY art book, go ahead and make one! Chances are I will end up being one of your customers.
Beauty & Acceptance Through The Eyes of Children
Last week, I was babysitting this group of 7 year olds. This is entirely ridiculous since I usually dislike children and they usually despise me. Anyway, there were three little girls and one boy. We were sitting on the hardwood floor of their house, having a mini discussion about the super exciting life of a seven year old. Somehow we got onto the topic of beauty, which is apparently dangerous territory around a bunch of seven year olds.
Read MoreDigital Death: On Essena O'Neill And Life As A Lie
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
It's so easy to turn to social media for validation. We've learned to measure our life in likes and follows, hoping to fill the black hole caused by, ironically, choosing to digitally project rather than connect with actual, real-life human beings. I know I do, sometimes. And it makes me feel cheap. I go to bed numb, wondering why I even posted that, and if the shamers are somehow right, if the #selfie is actually the mark of Satan, and if I've given in, like a weakling, absorbing the millisecond of approval gained from bored click-click-clickers who don't know a thing about me.
The Internet is a scary place.
An Instagram star can quit social media (and getting paid $2000 to post a picture of a dress) and then cry into a video about how she's found the light - only to be told she's fucking histrionic and doing it for attention.
Regardless, seeing this Insta-star-turned crusader-for-truth is important.
What we see: two glasses of red wine on a table, maybe there's a little white votive there. And you read: dinner with friends xo (glass emoji).
What you don't hear is that the two of you sat trying to figure out why your libido is basically gone, why your grief is taking too fucking long already, how you're struggling to pay your health insurance, how you don't know if you're living in the right city or if you're just crazy, ungrateful or spoiled.
The fact is that sometimes social media can help us understand each other, connect, inspire each other and to dialogue - shout, reverberate and demand - about the injustice and wounds of this world.
But the #SwipeGeneration is both the root and the cause of its own sadness. It's not naive to say we've learned how to amplify our own dissociation and discontent. Life is hard, thought, right? It was hard before iPhones and emojis and trending discussions. It was probably harder. But right now, for anyone with a smart phone, life consists of something deeper than ennui, disappointment and disillusionment. That something, undefinable.
But the quiet pain gets worse, because the broadcast of falseness and glamour is constant; it's the friend by your side, constantly by your side, looking gorgeous and perfect and skinny and smart and on vacation and with other friends who are probably prettier and richer and more interesting than little old you. And they went to Ibiza. And they wear things by designers you've never heard of.
You, who are trying to just make it through a day at work, through 3 hour commutes, through the phone call with your sick mother. You, who posts a selfie at the end of it all in your new green glittering dress because for a moment you feel really alive, and what the hell, you look good, and sometimes it's all just for a memory - a moment, and not a lie.
But no one knows the difference.
And when we are caught in the web of sparkly stories, we start to wonder if life itself in an illusion, thus causing that sadness to fester not only because we don't have Instagram-worthy lives or bodies, but because - what the fuck? - we can't even determine if we're in a real world anymore. We might even know it's not the truth, but isn't that worse? It's like saying, "hello robot!" to your neighbor, and then stepping back to think for second: "wait, where is your flesh?" It never dawned on you. It never meant much. But you miss it. The fragrance of livelihood.
In photos - that girl, and that guy, and that family - where are your cracks? Are you sad about your cracks? Why don't you show them? Are you ok?
I don't have an answer. But this conversation is necessary and, likely, the first of many for the next few years.
Because since the advent of digital community, we're only now slipping into the post-novelty era, when we look down at the blood on our hands and think, "it was fun while it lasted, but what or who did I kill?"
Hair Jewelry, Post Mortem Photographs and iPhones - A Lineage Of Haunting & Desire
BY LIZ VON KLEMPERER
To love someone is to want to give them your body. To love someone is to want to be given their body.
No one illustrates this point more grotesquely and tenderly than The Victorians, who bundled the hair of their lovers and wove it into jewelry. Men, for example, often braided their lovers’ hair to secure watches to their wrists. Women adorned themselves with coiled wisps in glass lockets. These would be worn on low hanging chains, allowing them to rest right over the heart. Hair jewelry, as it is commonly called, was a display of affection and devotion to both living and deceased lovers. Mourners incorporated these strands of the dead into black material such as jet, or more inexpensively, vulcanite (a hardened rubber) and bog oak.
This practice offers a variant spin on our current conception of the phrase “to have” someone. The Victorians claimed ownership over the bodies of their beloveds by transforming them into ornament. Not only was this ownership asserted very visually and concretely to others, it also symbolized a triumph over the inevitable: estrangement, death. Everyone knows that hair is dead from the moment it becomes visible on the scalp, but even so, The Victorians so delicately curated these lustrous and dead clumps to symbolize vivacity, sexuality, and the eternal.
Soon after the invention of the daguerreotype in 1839, however, hair jewelry became less trendy. People could now carry flattened, shrunken images of their loved ones. By the mid 1840’s, the middle of The Victorian era, the daguerreotype was made relatively accessible and affordable to the public.
The slow shudder speed, however, forced subjects to sit still for uncomfortably long periods of time. Thus, the daguerreotype was initially used to memorialize the dead, who had no qualms sitting without blinking for over a minute. Photographers concocted methods of propping up corpses or shrouding them in blankets to make it appear that they were leaning on a sofa or merely resting. Mothers could carry the black and white image of their deceased children with healthy rouge superimposed on their cheeks. In this way we got closer to our ultimate desire to possess the people we love, to own them in a constant, albeit fabricated, state, to lessen the sting of death and departure. Desire shape-shifted into a new era.
A century goes by. Our preoccupations morph but never evolve. Tonight, I fall asleep cradling my phone, which contains thousands of images of my former lovers. Now they are ghosts, swirling under a blackened glass frame. Sometimes the ghosts talk to me. Not to me, exactly, but at me. Your ex lover is 5 miles away from you now, my machine chirps. There she is now, for 6 seconds only, an apparition, a puff of smoke. Tonight, I am fed this video: she is smiling garishly against the flash before tilting her device upwards to capture the sea of revelers behind her. The scene ends abruptly as someone utters her name, and I am in the dark again. I know that my machine gains nutrients from the outlet it is plugged into, and that comforts me.
We’ve worked for centuries to keep the dead alive, and now they are, almost. The frame updates. Mechanisms work silently inside, allowing us to see those who have departed us laugh, drink, and stare with an agonizing adoration at a face that is not our own.
In the continuing lineage of desire, we have become the designers and facilitators of our own haunting. And everyone knows the secret to a good haunting is to make the mind play tricks on itself. Now instead of the illusion of eternal life, we have fabricated the illusion of eternal closeness. Death is not solely the passing of the body but also a severance of ties. We are haunted by the living dead, by the people who have vanished from our daily lives but not from our consciousness. In my desire to possess my beloved, I know where she drank coffee this morning. I have read the article she skimmed on her lunch break.
I try to put away this vehicle of my own haunting. I try not to carry it to bed. Still, it feels as though I am relishing the image of a corpse as I go to refresh my newsfeed on some park bench during my lunch break. It is noon, and I am drowsy, hungry, and seeking the comfort of a screen that contains all my bright and illuminated dead behind it.
Liz Von Klemperer is the author of the unpublished novel "Human Eclipse." She also writes for Art Report, and has work forthcoming in Autostraddle. When she's not writing or tweeting at @lvonklemp, she coordinates events at The Powerhouse Arena in Dumbo, Brooklyn.