New stuff:
Scarlet's Ebb and Flow, or Why I write so much about periods
Smear and loathing: fear of flooding is no big deal. Don't let the corporates tell us otherwise
Oldies but goodies:
Hello,
Welcome to the new website. There are some new pieces and one or two of the old features will be coming back, although most of the old stuff has been dropped. The journal remains as it's something I always enjoyed and I'll be adding more new stuff as I go along. If anyone wants to comment or ask me anything, you can email me at the old address here. Everything can be accessed from the menu to the left.
Thanks for visiting.
Prose Extracts
Smear and loathing: fear of flooding is no big deal. Don't let the corporates tell us otherwise
Apart from a chocolate cake oozing and glistening with gooey sauce - a positively uterine signifier infinitely preferable to inoffensive blue dye - it made the other adverts look Shakespearean in their sophistication. It was almost as bad as that advert for a heartburn remedy where little firemen squirt white liquid down the woman's throat. You didn't have to be an old perv' to figure out what was going on there.
Period Piece: Radical Menstruation
It’s a well-known fact that plants love blood, but unless you happen to be a vampire, cannibal or a serial killer, or are into self-harm, it’s usually quite hard to get hold of any. Luckily, we women have a free monthly supply of the stuff in bucket-loads (literally...)
I first read Jane Eyre at twelve, and re-read it and wrote about it prolifically while at university (and yes, I fell for Gilbert and Gubar's Madwoman in the Attic book big time). It struck me as passionate and revolutionary, as it did most people, and I knew Mr Rochester was a horny Byronic bastard, the stuff of masturbatory fantasy, but the sado-masochism passed me by, really, until only very recently...
The wailing at the end of Wuthering Heights was of a much more erotic, orgasmic nature,
writhing, weaving, twisting itself up into a hysterical frenzy, and brought the song to a new adult, x-rated level. It was as if she had undertaken classical voice training and was singing from somewhere deeper inside her stomach, or just from somewhere deeper inside.
Maybe it was because she’d got older, or maybe she’d kept her voice bottled up in a cellar
for years, like a vintage wine. Whatever she’d done, she could now sing the theme
tune to Neighbours and make you want to cry.
“Slag pit, stag shit, honey bring it close to my lips, yes” she sings (the sound of a bull
baying in the background). What? I mean, I’m all for fortifying the immune system
but this is ridiculous. This, followed by repeated utterances of the F word,
culminating with “Give me hope, peace, love and a hard cock” screamed really loudly
at the end (incidentally, how many of us have recurring dreams about standing on a
desk in a public library and shouting “Give me hope, peace, love and a hard cock” at the
top of our voices? Or is that just me?..)
All prose © Agnetha 2002 - 2008 unless otherwise stated
