Baby Boomers Reach the End of Their To-Do List

5-7 minutes

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Life, if you’re lucky, is divided into thirds, my father used to say: youth, middle age and “You look good.” The dawn of that third stage is glinting right at me.
It isn’t simply that at this point more life is behind me — behind any middle-aged person — than lies ahead. Middle-aged? Who am I kidding? Who do you know who’s 144?
It’s not just about aging. By the time you’ve worked long enough, hard enough, real life begins to reveal itself as something other than effort, other than accomplishment. Real life wishes to be left to its own purposeless devices.
This isn’t sloth. It isn’t even exhaustion. It’s a late-arriving awareness of consciousness existing for its own sake.

The to-do list that runs most lives through middle age turns out, in this latter stage of existence, to have only one task: to waste life in order to find it. Who said that? Or something like that. Jesus? Buddha? Bob Dylan? Somebody who knew what’s what.
Mine was the first year of the notorious American baby boom, 1946. The year three of our recent presidents were born: Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Donald Trump. “You’re a boomer!” we were always told, as if we were named for the bomb, that midcentury annihilator.
We got all the good stuff.
The postwar hope and determination of our Depression-era parents was piled upon us, the fossil fuel of earlier generations we burned up without a care. We had a preposterously long sense of our own youthfulness.
But now the boomers are approaching the other side. Not death necessarily (though the time has begun when no one will say we were cut down too early). We’re reaching the other side of striving.
“You should try meditating or maybe yoga — yoga’s good,” someone said when I mentioned my fevered to-do lists, the sometimes alarming blood pressure readings, the dark-night-of-the-soul insomnia.

But meditating is just another thing. Yoga? Another task, another item for the to-do list.
This battle between striving and serenity may be distinctly American. The struggle between toil and the dream of ease is an American birthright, the way a Frenchman expects to have decent wine at a reasonable price, and the whole month of August on vacation.
Maybe it goes all the way back to the Declaration of Independence, our founding document. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. How proud I’ve always been, through the years of protesting, the radical this and progressive that of my 1960s generation, to think of those words.
That unlikely word — happiness — made me proud to be an American, not just for my own sake, but that everyone was enjoined to find a personal project of delight. Of course happiness is an illusion. Still, I’ll pledge allegiance to it.
But happiness is the only word in the Declaration of Independence triad that doesn’t stand alone. Happiness is not, like life and liberty, a given. Happiness in the American credo is a job. It must be pursued. It may not be clear what happiness is, but you better get hold of it. Your fault, sucker, if you can’t somehow nab it for yourself.
The essential American word isn’t happiness. It’s pursuit.
This is where the struggle is engaged, happiness as a national enterprise. Its pursuit is the loneliness coiled within the heart of the American dream.
Even a postmodern to-do list is not the answer. Go ahead — meditate, do yoga, eat probiotic foods, all that.
But how about just giving up? What about wasting time? Giving up or perhaps giving over. To what? Perhaps what an earlier age called “the life of the mind,” the phrase that describes the sovereign self at ease, at home in the world. This isn’t the mind of rational thought, but the lost music of wondering, the sheer value of looking out the window, letting the world float along. It’s nothing, really, this wasted time, which is how it becomes, paradoxically, charged with “everything,” liberated into the blessed loss of ambition.

Other cultures labor, but what other nation implores each citizen to tackle happiness as a solo endeavor, a crazy paradox of a hunt for something that cannot, after all, be earned but can only be bestowed from the mysterious recesses of life? Give it up. Waste the day.
That’s what that great American lounger Whitman did. “I loaf and invite my soul,” he wrote. “I lean and loaf at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.” In this way he came to his great conception of national citizenship for Americans, “the dear love of comrades.” His loafing led to solidarity.
It’s no coincidence that our most American poet handed out this contrary notion — to loaf — amid what he called our “democratic vistas.” There’s not much said about American vistas these days. Instead, there are plans to militarize a wall on our southern border.
Loafing is not a prudent business plan, not even a life plan, not a recognizably American project. But it begins to look a little like happiness, the kind that claims you, unbidden. Stay put and let the world show up? Or get out there and be a flâneur? Which is it? Well, it’s both.
Maybe this is what my father’s third stage of life is about — wondering, rather than pursuing. You look good — meaning, hey, you’re still alive, you’re still here, and for once you don’t really need to have a to-do list.

Parerile copiilor despre mame

Raspunsuri date de copii din clasa a doua la urmatoarele intrebari:     De ce a facut-o Dumnezeu pe mama ta? 1). Ea e singura care stie unde e banda de lipit. 2). Mai mult ca sa curete casa. 3). Sa ne ajute pe noi cind ne nastem. Cum le-a facut Dumnezeu pe mame?   1). El a folosit pamant, cum ne-a facut si pe noi. 2). Magie, plus putere suprema, si a amestecat mult. 3). Dumnezeu le-a facut la fel ca pe mine si pe tine .... Numai ca a folosit piese mai mari.!!!... Din ce ingrediente au fost facute mamele?   1). Dumnezeu a facut mame din nori si par de inger si cele mai frumoase lucruri din lume si o masura de severitate. 2). Ele trebuie sa aiba oase de om. Dupa aia s-a folosit foarte multa ata, ma gandesc. De ce Dumnezeu nu te-a dat pe tine altei mame?   1). Pentru ca noi sintem neamuri.. 2). Dumnezeu a stiut ca ea ma iubeste mai mult decat mamele altor oameni. Ce fel de fetita a fost mama ta?   1). Mama mea a fost totdeauna mama mea si nimic altceva. 2). Nu stiu, ca nu am fost pe vremea aia, dar cred ca a fost mare sefa. 3). Altii imi spun ca ea era buna ....candva ! Ce a trebuit sa stie mama ta despre tatal tau inainte ca sa se casatoreasca cu el?   1).. Numele lui de familie. 2). Ea a trebuit sa stie trecutul lui. Daca a fost un escroc? Daca se imbata cu bere? 3). Daca face cel putin $800 pe an, daca el a spus ''nu'' la droguri si ''da'' la treburile casei? De ce mama ta s-a casatorit cu tatal tau?   1). Tatal meu face cele mai bune macaroane din lume. Si mama mea mananca mult. 2). Ea a devenit foarte batrana si nu mai putea sa faca nimic fara el. 3). Bunica mea mi-a spus ca mama mea nu a avut sapca gandirii pe cap cand s-a maritat cu tata! Cine-i boss la voi in casa?   1). Mama mea nu vrea sa fie boasa, dar e nevoita sa fie pentru ca tatal meu e pampalau. 2). Mama e ! Poti sa-ti dai seama dupa cum face inspectia camerei mele. Ea vede orice sub pat. 3). Eu cred ca mama e,  pentru ca are mai multe de facut decat tatal meu. Care-i diferenta dintre mama si tata?   1). Mama lucreaza si la serviciu si acasa, iar tata  numai la serviciu. 2). Mama stie cum sa vorbeasca cu profesorii fara ca sa-i sperie. 3). Tatii sint inalti si puternici, dar mama are o forta reala, pentru ca numai pe ea o intrebi cand vrei sa petreci o noapte acasa la prieteni... 4). Mama are magie, ea te face sa te simti bine fara doctor. Ce face mama ta in timpul liber?   1). Mamele nu au timp liber !!! 2). O auzi  zicand ca plateste facturi toata ziua. Ce ar trebui sa schimbe mama ta, ca sa fie perfecta? 1). In interior ea e deja perfecta. Pe dinafara cred ca ar trebui o operatie de frumusete. 2). Dieta.   Daca ai putea schimba ceva la mama ta, ce ai face?   1). Ea ma obliga tot timpul sa imi tin camera curata. As sterge asta din ea! 2). As face-o mai desteapta! Atunci ea ar recunoaste ca sora mea e cea care a facut prostii, si nu eu. 3) Doresc ca ea sa scape de ochii invizibili de la spatele capului. Cand te opresti din a zambi, trimite altor mame, bunici sau matusi….. sau oricui are de-a face cu copiii, sau are nevoie de un zambet.

"Cea mai bună iubire e iubirea moderată"

Despre modurile de iubire parentală, cu Mircea Miclea

10-13 minutes

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• Mircea Miclea este fondatorul școlii cognitive în psihologia românească, orientare cu mare prevalență în străinătate. Este fost ministru al Educației. A avut o ascensiune profesională rapidă după intrarea sa în anul 1990 la Catedra de Psihologie a Universității Babeș-Bolyai din Cluj-Napoca. Astfel, în numai 5 ani de zile a ajuns cel mai tânăr șef de catedră din universitate (șeful Catedrei de psihologie). La vârsta de numai 33 ani, în anul 1996, el a obținut gradul științific de profesor universitar, titular la disciplinele „Psihologie cognitivă” și „Modificări cognitiv-comportamentale”. Este președintele Asociației Române de Științe Cognitive (din 1996); fondatorul revistei „Creier, Cogniție, Comportament”; vicepreședinte UNESCO pentru educația și managementul academic (din 2001). De asemenea, este membru și al altor asociații profesionale academice, cum ar fi: Asociația Americană de Psihologie (1995), Societatea Europeană de Psihologie Cognitivă (1996), Societatea Psihonomică Americană (1996), Consiliul Internațional al Psihologilor (1997); și vicepreședinte al Asociației Psihologice Române (2002). Este autorul mai multor cărți incluse în programa obligatorie pentru examene. Psihologie cognitivă (Ed. Cluj-Napoca, 1994; reeditat la Ed. Polirom, Iași, 2000); Stres și apărare psihică (Ed. Presa Universitară Clujană, 1997); Development and cognition (PUC, Cluj Napoca, 2001) – în colaborare cu O. Benga; Evaluarea academică (Ed. ASCR, Cluj Napoca, 2002) – în colaborare cu D. Opre; Modele neurocognitive (Ed. ASCR, 2003) – în colaborare cu P. Curseu. S-a căsătorit cu o colegă, Ștefania, psiholog la Clinica de Diabet și Boli de Nutriție din Cluj-Napoca și au împreună doi copii, pe Mihai și pe Mara.

Domnule profesor, astăzi auzim tot mai des despre dragostea necondiţionată, care ar fi mai bună decât dragostea condiționată. Părinții nu mai știu ce să înțeleagă din aceste noi conceptualizări ale iubirii și întâmpină probleme în procesul de educație, ajungând la reale frustrări. Cum trebuie să ne iubim copiii, condiționat sau necondiționat?
Datele de cercetare arată că cea mai bună relaţie dintre un părinte şi un copil este o dragoste de intensitate moderată, nu necondiţionată sau condiţionată, ci moderată, pentru că, având o dragoste moderată faţă de propriul tău copil, poţi, deşi îi asiguri siguranţa şi ataşamentul securizant, să îl expui la riscuri în acelaşi timp. Expunerea graduală la riscuri este necesară pentru dezvoltarea mai accelerată a copilului, de aceea literatura de specialitate pledează către o dragoste moderată, nu pentru una necondiţionată.
Ce urmăresc cei care au promovat această distincţie nefundamentată, în piaţă?
Câteodată la noi, se fumează chiştoace din ţigări pe care alţii le-au aruncat deja. Adică, această atitudine despre care facem vorbire acum, legată de această dragostea necondiţionată a fost prezentă în ţări din occident de mai multă vreme. Acum vreo câţiva ani s-a făcut o analiză de către un specialist britanic apropos de efectele unei astfel de atitudini, iar concluzia lui a fost următoarea: avem copiii cu o încredere nemărginită în ei înşişi, dar cu performanţe foarte scăzute. Această atitudine de a iubi pe cineva necondiţionat, de a-i da numai întăriri fără să-i dai din când în când penalizări, de a condiţiona atitudinea lui din când în când şi de a pondera intensitatea ei în funcţie de ceea ce face copilul ei poate să îi asigure o zonă de confort şi poate să-i dezvolte încrederea în sine, dar încrederea în sine. Încrederea în sine fără competenţe este o formă fără fond. De aceea acel specialist pleda pentru a înceta această atitudine, se referea în primul rând la sistemul de educaţie britanic, arătând că, în clasamente internaţionale, în ciuda investiţiilor pe care le-au făcut ei în educaţie şi în ciuda acestei atitudini care deja, spunea el, ţine din anii 70, practic nu a apărut o valoare adăugată substanţial în educaţie, dimpotrivă, copii cu o stimă de sine foarte ridicată, dar cu performanţe foarte reduse. Nu cred că ne dorim lucrul acesta nici ca ţară, nici ca părinţi. Cred că ne dorim, în primul rând să avem copii cu performanţe ridicate şi cu încredere în ei înşişi. Încrederea prea mare în tine însuţi (overconfidence) poate să fie la fel de detrimentală ca şi încrederea redusă în tine însuţi. O supraîncredre în tine poate duce la erori majore şi de decizie şi de comportament.
Tradiţionaliştii preferă promovarea pietăţii filiale, în timp ce e tot mai la modă a considera respectul față de părinte un handicap. E bine să-i învățăm pe copii ce este respectul?
 Cred că există un principiu fundamental de care trebuie să ţină seama părinţii atunci când îşi educă copiii, şi anume, să se gândească la capătul de drum: ce fel de adulţi vor să facă din copiii lor. Dacă vor să facă din copiii lor un copil adaptat la lume adulţilor, atunci, e simplu, se uită la această lume a adulţilor şi de acolo pot să derive care sunt regulile pe care trebuie să le respecte în educaţia copiilor. De exemplu: în lumea adulţilor există multe reguli, asta înseamnă că dacă eşti angajat oriunde, ai o anumită ţinută, target-uri pe care trebuie să le faci, anumite reguli pe care trebuie să le respecţi în interior, un anumit program de muncă. Reguli. Asta înseamnă că, dacă vrei să ai un copil adaptat la această lume trebuie să-l înveţi reguli. Dacă nu-l înveţi reguli, de dragul de a-l iubi necondiţionat, îl dezavantajezi când el va deveni adult.
Al doilea principiu, existent în lumea adulţilor este legat de obiective: clare. Toate recompensele sociale (banii, prestigiul social, respectul pe care îl ai din partea colegilor de muncă sau a societăţii se leagă de rezultatele pe care tu eşti capabil să le obţii, indiferent de muncă. Dacă eşti zugrav, trebuie să obţii rezultate în zugrăvit, dacă eşti profesor – în a fi profesor, dacă eşti medic – în a fi medic. Deci, trebuie să obţii rezultate!
Așadar, ce trebuie să-l înveţi pe copilul tău? Să obţină rezultate, nu numai să aibă stări! Această ideologie, o numesc ideologie pentru că nu are nici un fundament ştiinţific această atitudine de dragoste necondiţionată – este o ideologie! – o ideologie care cultivă exagerat de mult ideea unor stări, trebuie să le dăm copiilor stări, să se simtă ei bine, să aibă tot felul de stări plăcute, să nu cumva să se simtă neplăcut. Eu atrag atenţia foarte clar: la nivelul vieţii de adult oamenii trebuie să producă rezultate. Când îţi educi copilul trebuie să-l înveţi să aibă rezultate, nu numai să aibă stări! Aşa cum te porţi tu cu el, se va dezvolta el. Dacă tu pui mereu accentul pe stări, să se simtă bine, să se simtă bine, să se simtă bine şi el va pune mereu accent pe stări să se simtă bine, să se simtă bine, şi nu să obţină rezultate! Asta îl va dezavantaja din punct de vedere social, când va fi adult.
Iată două reguli clare! Trebuie să îi educăm pe copiii noştri astfel încât să fie nişte adulţi adaptaţi. Ne uităm la lumea adulţilor şi vedem că există reguli, prin urmare trebuie să îi învăţăm reguli. Ne uităm în lumea adulţilor şi vedem că prestigiul şi respectul pe care îl obţii se datorează rezultatelor pe care le obţii, prin urmare îi învăţăm pe copiii noştri să obţină rezultate. E simplu, trebuie ţinut cont de aceste lucruri elementare şi nu de ideologii care urmăresc să vândă.
Aceeaşi ideologie educaţională a dragostei bune şi rele vorbeşte şi despre învăţarea condiţionată, negativă şi a celei necondiţionate, dezirabile. Aţi observat această tendinţă în educaţie?
Da, nu există fundament ştiinţific pentru astfel de atitudini, este o ideologie. Să ne uităm, din nou la ce se întâmplă în viaţa de adult, deoarece, copiii trebuie pregătiţi pentru viaţa care îi aşteaptă, de adult. În această viaţă de adult există câteodată recompensă, primeşti un premiu pentru ceea ce ai făcut, o vorbă bună, o laudă, primeşti atenţie. Alteori, pentru ceea ce ai făcut ţi se răspunde cu indiferenţă, alteori pentru ceea ce ai făcut ţi se răspunde cu o penalizare; uneori recompensa şi penalizarea sunt amânate, nu sunt imediate. Prin urmare, trebuie să ne obişnuim copiii exact cu aceleaşi lucruri, că uneori pentru ceea ce fac ei uneori primesc recompense, că unele recompense sunt imediate, altele sunt amânate, pentru care nu trebuie să se supere pentru că asta e viaţa de adult. Noi trebuie să îi antrenăm pentru o astfel de viaţă, că uneori primesc penalizări, alteori recompense, câteodată primesc indiferenţă, adică nici recompensă nici penalizare pentru ceea ce fac. Dacă nu ţinem cont de aceste caracteristici ale lumii care îi aşteaptă, îi dezavantajăm, creem nişte copii care vor fi dezavantajaţi în viaţa de adult.
Dacă tu în mod cronic, pe parcursul dezvoltării tale ca copil, pentru un comportament mic primeşti o recompensă mare şi imediată, repetarea acestui patern te face ca atunci când eşti adult să aştepţi de la societate, de la angajatorul tău, pentru un efort mic să obţii un salariu sau o recompensă mare şi dacă e posibil, imediată. Această atitudine te dezavanatajează complet pe piaţa forţei de muncă, în competiţia cu altcineva care se mulţumeşte să primească o recompensă mai mică sau amânată, nu imediată şi care între timp lucrează, munceşte. Trebuie să ţinem cont de gramatica vieţii de adult, pentru că, în această lume de adult va opera copilul pe care acum îl creştem.
Pentru că tot este 8 martie şi vorbim de dragoste aş vrea să ne spuneţi care e rolul mamei în cultivarea dragostei.
Dragostea este învăţată de copil în primul rând non-verbal, de la mama pe care o are. Relaţia de ataşament şi modul în care se va ataşa ulterior când devine adult îşi are baza în relaţia de ataşament pe care o are el când e mic. Mamele sunt esenţiale pentru dezvoltarea structurilor de ataşament pentru copiii lor, nu numai când sunt copii ci şi când devin adulţi, cum anume se vor relaţiona ei cu alţi adulţi când vor fi la vârsta de adult. Mama trebuie să acorde atenţie şi afectivitate moderată. În felul acesta îl face pe de o parte să aibă o relaţie de ataşament, dar şi să devină autonomi. Avem nevoie de oameni care să devină autonomi, care să fie capabili să trăiască pe propriile lor picioare, care se dezvoltă printr-o astfel de iubire de intensitate moderată.
Mulţumim foarte mult pentru timpul pe care l-aţi împărtăşit cu noi aici, de care se vor bucura cu folos, de mâine toţi prietenii Antiparenting.
Dr. Ana-Nicoleta Grigore

Love Letters

Nadja Spiegelman

13-16 minutes

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James Joyce and Nora Barnacle

On Nassau Street in Dublin, on June 10, 1904, twenty-two-year-old James Joyce saw (as clearly as he could see, since he was not wearing his glasses, and his vision was poor) the twenty-year-old Nora Barnacle, then a young chambermaid, sauntering by.  Nora would later tell the story of their first meeting often, though she often told it differently. Sometimes she said Joyce wore a sailor’s cap, and other times she said he wore a big white sombrero and a long overcoat that hung down to his feet.  Joyce proposed a date, and Barnacle agreed, but though Joyce went to the appointed place at the appointed time, she never showed. He wrote to her, “I may be blind. I looked for a long time at a head of reddish-brown hair and decided it was not yours. I went home quite dejected. I would like to make an appointment but it might not suit you. I hope you will be kind enough to make one with me—if you have not forgotten me!” A few days later, on what was likely June 16, 1904—the date on which Joyce would later set Ulysses—they had their first proper date, though it was far from proper. Joyce took Barnacle east, past the docks and the harbor, to the deserted area of Dublin known as Ringswald. There, to Joyce’s surprise and gratitude, Barnacle slipped her hand down his trousers and “made me a man.” By October, the couple had eloped to Zurich. Although the couple did not officially marry until 1931, their unconventional relationship was passionate till the end. The letters below were written when Joyce returned to Dublin alone for the first time, in 1909, in an attempt to get Dubliners published. They are delightfully, shockingly dirty. Read in full, they are also quite charming. In the absent spaces, we can hear Nora’s enthusiastic, just-as-naughty replies, and the longing of a man who wants nothing more than to be home. This correspondence was first published in 1975 in the Selected Letters of James Joyce, now out of print. These letters, or excerpts of them, have been floating around the Internet for some time now, but they merit multiple joyous re-readings. Happy birthday, James Joyce. May we all find a soul mate whose farts we would know anywhere.

 

 

3 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My darling little convent-girl,

There is some star too near the earth for I am still in a fever-fit of animal desire. Today I stopped short often in the street with an exclamation whenever I thought of the letters I wrote you last night and the night before. They must read awful in the cold light of day. Perhaps their coarseness has disgusted you. I know you are a much finer nature than your extraordinary lover and though it was you yourself, you hot little girl, who first wrote to me saying that you were longing to be fucked by me yet I suppose the wild filth and obscenity of my reply went beyond all bounds of modesty. When I got your express letter this morning and saw how careful you are of your worthless Jim I felt ashamed of what I had written. Yet now, night, secret sinful night, has come down again on the world and I am alone again writing to you and your letter is again folded before me on the table. Do not ask me to go to bed, dear. Let me write to you, dear. 

As you know, dearest, I never use obscene phrases in speaking. You have never heard me, have you, utter an unfit word before others. When men tell in my presence here filthy or lecherous stories I hardly smile. Yet you seem to turn me into a beast. It was you yourself, you naughty shameless girl who first led the way. It was not I who first touched you long ago down at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down inside my trousers and pulled my shirt softly aside and touched my prick with your long tickling fingers, and gradually took it all, fat and stiff as it was, into your hand and frigged me slowly until I came off through your fingers, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes. It was your lips too which first uttered an obscene word. I remember well that night in bed in Pola. Tired of lying under a man one night you tore off your chemise violently and began to ride me up and down. Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you for I remember that you bent down to my face and murmured tenderly ‘Fuck up, love! fuck up, love!’

Nora dear, I am dying all day to ask you one or two questions. Let me, dear, for I have told you everything I ever did and so I can ask you in turn. I wonder will you answer them. When that person whose heart I long to stop with the click of a revolver put his hand or hands under your skirts did he only tickle you outside or did he put his finger or fingers up into you? If he did, did they go far enough to touch that little cock at the end of your cunt? Did he touch you behind? Was he a long time tickling you and did you come? Did he ask you to touch him and did you do so? If you did not touch him did he come against you and did you feel it?

Another question, Nora. I know that I was the first man that blocked you but did any man ever frig you? Did that boy you were fond of ever do it? Tell me now, Nora, truth for truth, honesty for honesty. When you were with him in the dark at night did your fingers never, never unbutton his trousers and slip inside like mice? Did you ever frig him, dear, tell me truly or anyone else? Did you never never, never feel a man’s or a boy’s prick in your fingers until you unbuttoned me? If you are not offended do not be afraid to tell me the truth. Darling, darling, tonight I have such a wild lust for your body that if you were here beside me and even if you told me with your own lips that half the red-headed louts of Galway had had a fuck at you before me I would still rush at you with desire.

God Almighty, what kind of language is this I am writing to my proud blue-eyed queen! Will she refuse to answer my coarse insulting questions? I know I am risking a good deal in writing this way, but if she loves me really she will feel that I am mad with lust and that I must be told all.

Sweetheart, answer me. Even if I learn that you too have sinned perhaps it would bind me closer to you. In any case I love you. I have written and said things to you that my pride would never again allow me to say to any woman.

My darling Nora, I am panting with eagerness to get your replies to these filthy letters of mine. I write to you openly because I feel now that I can keep my word with you.

Don’t be angry, dear, dear, Nora, my little wild-flower of the hedges. I love your body, long for it, dream of it.

Speak to me, dear lips that I have kissed in tears. If this filth I have written insults you bring me to my senses again with the lash as you have done before. God help me!

I love you, Nora, and it seems that this too is part of my love. Forgive me! forgive me!

JIM

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8 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My sweet little whorish Nora,

I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over me with a whore’s glow in your slumbrous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometime too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your hot drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.

JIM

*

 

 

 

16 December 1909: 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My sweet darling girl,

At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don’t fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling, as I am so soft and small now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back and pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half slipping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me if you can squatting in the closet, with your clothes up, grunting like a young sow doing her dung, and a big fat dirty snaking thing coming slowly out of your backside. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand into his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.

Basta! Basta per Dio!

I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!

We are not open yet. I send you some posters. We hope to open on the 20th or 21st. Count 14 days from that and 3 1/2 days for the voyage and I am in Trieste.

Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit the kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una bona mangiata, un caffe nero, un Brasil, il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Norella, Noruccia ecc ecc…

Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on, fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!

A hundred thousand kisses, darling!

JIM

 

 

 

These letters were originally published in the Selected Letters of James Joyce, now out of print. More can be found on Adoxoblog.

STATINS

Georgia Ede MD

 Northampton MA January 6, 2018

Unfortunately, all statin drugs cross the blood-brain barrier and interfere with cholesterol synthesis in the brain. This is NOT good.

Although the brain represents only 2% of total body weight, it contains 20% of the body's cholesterol. And because cholesterol cannot cross from the bloodstream into the brain, the brain manufactures all of its own cholesterol on site. Synapses are lined by cholesterol-rich membranes responsible for passing neurotransmitters back and forth. Myelin, the white matter that insulates brain circuits, is made from tightly-wound membranes containing 75% of the brain's cholesterol. Cholesterol also helps guide developing nerve endings to their destinations on "lipid rafts". If the brain is too low in cholesterol, its membranes, synapses, myelin and lipid rafts can't form or function properly, bringing all brain activity—including mood regulation, learning, and memory— to a screeching halt. 

All statin drug package inserts include a warning about cognitive side effects. If you value your mental health, it is important to weigh the (questionable) benefits of taking these drugs, which interfere with the body's natural pathways, against the risks to your brain health. Those pathways are there for a reason. Always better to address cholesterol problems through diet and lifestyle changes than with drugs if you can. 

There's more information here: https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/diagnosis-diet/201709/low-brain-cholesterol-separating-fact-fiction

Michael Singer

 San Jose, California January 9, 2018

I am 74 and was advised to start taking statins. I did not and here is why.

First off, all my blood counts were within limits, I am not overweight, I do not smoke, I exercise regularly, etc.

I am a retired engineer. I had to take a lot of math. I looked at the formulas that are used to determine whether a person should take statins. The math in me said to test the formula. Find it's limits.

All of the formulas used seem to be bogus. If you put in all good data and drop the cholesterol to the lowest amount the formula will accept, it still says you need to take a statin. It seems that the formula is age based. Nothing else matters. 

Try it with your own data and see. The formulas are all online. Try putting in a cholesterol of 0. It will then tell you the lowest number it will take. Use the lowest number and see. Do it over and over but just keep increasing your age. You will need statins no matter what your cholesterol level is.

LaBamba

 NYC January 5, 2018

Statins block the re-uptake of cholesterol in the colon back into the blood stream. Which lowers total blood cholesterol. So does soluble fibre like Oatmeal and psyllium. Why suffer the side effects of statin drugs when you can enjoy a steaming hot bowl of oatmeal with fruit and yogurt every morning? This is well known and studied. Denis Burkett, MD, studied this in Africa fifty years ago attempting to discover why the Bantu and other groups rarely suffered heart disease. Answer: high fibre diet and soluble fibre especially.

dan s

 blacksburg va January 6, 2018

Statins are a $30 billion/year scam. They are dangerous and ineffective. 

Drug companies faked the data on statins, to make them appear safer and more effective than they really are. The truth is that they cause diabetes, neurological damage, muscle damage and other adverse effects. 

Risk of cardio disease is easily and safety reduced through diet and nutrient supplementation (vitamin D, K2, magnesium, vit C, vit E, CoQ10 etc).

david x

 new haven ct January 7, 2018

At age 69, I was training to return to the Himalayas to trek, as I had the year before. Seven months later, I couldn't walk around the block. My neuromuscular specialist expressed it well: "In those genetically predisposed, statins can trigger diseases they wouldn't have gotten for 30 years." 

I asked my statin- prescribing cardiologist if I wasn't actually at low risk with HDL of 88 and triglycerides of 67. I asked if there was a DNA test to predict problems. He said the science wasn't there yet. Wrong: I had the test 8 months later. The cardiologist's practice received over $200k from Merck and Pfizer, top statin makers.

Is it coincidence that "Dr. Paul Ridker, a self-described 'statin advocate'" received $194,000 in drug company money from 2013-2015 (and how much more since then?)? Dollars for Docs is where to look.
The majority of the ACC/AHA panel on statins in 2013 had financial ties to the pharmaceutical industry. Read Overdo$sed America to see how profoundly Big Pharma money has distorted our healthcare system.

Regarding adverse effects, so glibly dismissed in this article, in the US doctors aren't required or paid to report them...and they don't. No one knows, therefore, that more serious side effects are "very rare". BMJ published an article documenting much more common and severe side effects: Dr Collins, sponsored by Pfizer, demanded the article be removed. 

See StatinVictims.com, or Stopped Our Statins to see the suffering.

SMC

 West Tisbury MA January 5, 2018

The NYT had an article about a French study of Statins. The fed a large amount of Statins to mice but only for two weeks. When they dissected them every muscle in their bodies was deteriorating. And what is the most important muscle? The heart!!

Statins work by reducing the amount of cholesterol created by the liver. Statins also stop your body from making other things it needs, such as Co-Enzyme Q10 which muscles need. At the very least if you take Statins , take CQ-10 or ubiquinol.
And be pro-active and study what they give you.
Doctors, God bless them, follow a standard protocol for millions of people, not necessarily what works for you as an individual.
And get your Lp (a) checked. { pronounced Lipidprotein small a}

Mel Farrell

 NY January 8, 2018

Some of us are fortunate to have GP's who can be said to be friends, and only prescribe basic necessary medication, and only when warranted.

My doctor is one of these decent human beings, and while money is one reason he works in the profession, the overarching reason is his love of his profession and desire to do good.

Sounds unbelievable, right ?? But it's true.

I've learned much from him about healthcare in these United States, especially insofar as Big Pharma is concerned, and believe me when I say Big Pharma with the aid of the FDA brings to market medications which are somewhat beneficial, but after medium to long term use, become deadly.

When I was told my cholesterol was too high, my doctor and I discussed changing my diet and exercise as the solution. When I suggested a statin he explained what the dangers were and needless to say, I heard him.

Now, some years later, my annual checkups show my cardiovascular system to be equal to that of a healthy 30 year old; not bad for a 68 year old male.

A word to the wise; eat healthy, exercise, don't smoke anything, limit alcohol intake, and get at least 6 to 8 hours sleep every night.

And by the way, it's never too late to start. Begin a program while gradually weaning off whatever statin you are on.

Oh, and please, please remember, that Big Pharma exists to make money, not make you healthy, no lucre in that, is there ??

nobrien1

 manlius, NY January 6, 2018

Since a 2009 UCLA study [http://newsroom.ucla.edu/releases/majority-of-hospitalized-heart-75668] found that 75% of people admitted for heart attacks had normal cholesterol, I question if statins are needed at all. The 'knee-jerk' response of statin advocates might be that the LDL threshold for use of statins should be lowered. If your only tool is a hammer, then everything looks like a nail. The original studies identifying cholesterol as the heart health issue were flawed by use of relative percentages in results, cherry-picking of data, poor study design, etc., etc.

dan s

 blacksburg va January 6, 2018

The American Heart Association receives millions every year from the pharmaceutical industry. The AHA is not independent. The AHA helps the pharma industry sell their dangerous and ineffective statin drugs. 

http://www.heart.org/idc/groups/heart-public/@wcm/@fin/documents/downloadable/ucm_483997.pdf

http://www.heart.org/idc/groups/heart-public/@wcm/@fin/documents/downloadable/ucm_483997.pdf

Prudence

 Wisconsin January 9, 2018

I find this an incredibly superficial look at statins. Two older adults in my life experienced short term memory issues as soon as they were put on statins. In the case of my mother-in-law, I noticed the problem and did a net search on the drugs and its side effects. This was perhaps 10 years ago and very little came up except a) people were going on record with short term memory issues and b) the medical profession pooh-poohed it, one report dismissing the issue with "some FEMALE patients have reported problems" (my caps). Fast forward another five years and my then 85 year old father suddenly had a statin added to his bevy of prescriptions. Up to then, he had every one of his marbles. Suddenly, he couldn't track in conversations, which set up very impatient interchanges between him and my brother, who was his caregiver. Although not especially robust, he also visibly lost muscle. By this time, there were more reports and concern to be found on the Internet and the specific statin he was prescribed (I forget its name, but it began with "I") was noted as notorious for crossing the blood-brain barrier. I related my concerns to my brother and suggested the next time Pop saw his internist that the statins perhaps should be dropped. They were. His memory improved, but I think the muscle loss did not and ultimately contributed to his eventual fall that cracked a hip and started down that sad road to his death. I'm not going to touch them!

Source:  https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/health/statin-over-75.html

H.W. Is My Monster Too

Salma Hayek

17-21 minutes

---

Harvey Weinstein was a passionate cinephile, a risk taker, a patron of talent in film, a loving father and a monster.

For years, he was my monster.

This fall, I was approached by reporters, through different sources, including my dear friend Ashley Judd, to speak about an episode in my life that, although painful, I thought I had made peace with.

I had brainwashed myself into thinking that it was over and that I had survived; I hid from the responsibility to speak out with the excuse that enough people were already involved in shining a light on my monster. I didn’t consider my voice important, nor did I think it would make a difference.

In reality, I was trying to save myself the challenge of explaining several things to my loved ones: Why, when I had casually mentioned that I had been bullied like many others by Harvey, I had excluded a couple of details. And why, for so many years, we have been cordial to a man who hurt me so deeply. I had been proud of my capacity for forgiveness, but the mere fact that I was ashamed to describe the details of what I had forgiven made me wonder if that chapter of my life had really been resolved.

When so many women came forward to describe what Harvey had done to them, I had to confront my cowardice and humbly accept that my story, as important as it was to me, was nothing but a drop in an ocean of sorrow and confusion. I felt that by now nobody would care about my pain — maybe this was an effect of the many times I was told, especially by Harvey, that I was nobody.

We are finally becoming conscious of a vice that has been socially accepted and has insulted and humiliated millions of girls like me, for in every woman there is a girl. I am inspired by those who had the courage to speak out, especially in a society that elected a president who has been accused of sexual harassment and assault by more than a dozen women and whom we have all heard make a statement about how a man in power can do anything he wants to women.

Well, not anymore.

In the 14 years that I stumbled from schoolgirl to Mexican soap star to an extra in a few American films to catching a couple of lucky breaks in “Desperado” and “Fools Rush In,” Harvey Weinstein had become the wizard of a new wave of cinema that took original content into the mainstream. At the same time, it was unimaginable for a Mexican actress to aspire to a place in Hollywood. And even though I had proven them wrong, I was still a nobody.

One of the forces that gave me the determination to pursue my career was the story of Frida Kahlo, who in the golden age of the Mexican muralists would do small intimate paintings that everybody looked down on. She had the courage to express herself while disregarding skepticism. My greatest ambition was to tell her story. It became my mission to portray the life of this extraordinary artist and to show my native Mexico in a way that combated stereotypes.

The Weinstein empire, which was then Miramax, had become synonymous with quality, sophistication and risk taking — a haven for artists who were complex and defiant. It was everything that Frida was to me and everything I aspired to be.

I had started a journey to produce the film with a different company, but I fought to get it back to take it to Harvey.

I knew him a little bit through my relationship with the director Robert Rodriguez and the producer Elizabeth Avellan, who was then his wife, with whom I had done several films and who had taken me under their wing. All I knew of Harvey at the time was that he had a remarkable intellect, he was a loyal friend and a family man.

Knowing what I know now, I wonder if it wasn’t my friendship with them — and Quentin Tarantino and George Clooney — that saved me from being raped.

The deal we made initially was that Harvey would pay for the rights of work I had already developed. As an actress, I would be paid the minimum Screen Actors Guild scale plus 10 percent. As a producer, I would receive a credit that would not yet be defined, but no payment, which was not that rare for a female producer in the ’90s. He also demanded a signed deal for me to do several other films with Miramax, which I thought would cement my status as a leading lady.

I did not care about the money; I was so excited to work with him and that company. In my naïveté, I thought my dream had come true. He had validated the last 14 years of my life. He had taken a chance on me — a nobody. He had said yes.

Little did I know it would become my turn to say no.

No to opening the door to him at all hours of the night, hotel after hotel, location after location, where he would show up unexpectedly, including one location where I was doing a movie he wasn’t even involved with.

No to me taking a shower with him.

No to letting him watch me take a shower.

No to letting him give me a massage.

No to letting a naked friend of his give me a massage.

No to letting him give me oral sex.

No to my getting naked with another woman.

No, no, no, no, no …

And with every refusal came Harvey’s Machiavellian rage.

I don’t think he hated anything more than the word “no.” The absurdity of his demands went from getting a furious call in the middle of the night asking me to fire my agent for a fight he was having with him about a different movie with a different client to physically dragging me out of the opening gala of the Venice Film Festival, which was in honor of “Frida,” so I could hang out at his private party with him and some women I thought were models but I was told later were high-priced prostitutes.

The range of his persuasion tactics went from sweet-talking me to that one time when, in an attack of fury, he said the terrifying words, “I will kill you, don’t think I can’t.”

When he was finally convinced that I was not going to earn the movie the way he had expected, he told me he had offered my role and my script with my years of research to another actress.

In his eyes, I was not an artist. I wasn’t even a person. I was a thing: not a nobody, but a body.

At that point, I had to resort to using lawyers, not by pursuing a sexual harassment case, but by claiming “bad faith,” as I had worked so hard on a movie that he was not intending to make or sell back to me. I tried to get it out of his company.

He claimed that my name as an actress was not big enough and that I was incompetent as a producer, but to clear himself legally, as I understood it, he gave me a list of impossible tasks with a tight deadline:

1. Get a rewrite of the script, with no additional payment.

2. Raise $10 million to finance the film.

3. Attach an A-list director.

4. Cast four of the smaller roles with prominent actors.

Much to everyone’s amazement, not least my own, I delivered, thanks to a phalanx of angels who came to my rescue, including Edward Norton, who beautifully rewrote the script several times and appallingly never got credit, and my friend Margaret Perenchio, a first-time producer, who put up the money. The brilliant Julie Taymor agreed to direct, and from then on she became my rock. For the other roles, I recruited my friends Antonio Banderas, Edward Norton and my dear Ashley Judd. To this day, I don’t know how I convinced Geoffrey Rush, whom I barely knew at the time.

Now Harvey Weinstein was not only rejected but also about to do a movie he did not want to do.

Ironically, once we started filming, the sexual harassment stopped but the rage escalated. We paid the price for standing up to him nearly every day of shooting. Once, in an interview he said Julie and I were the biggest ball busters he had ever encountered, which we took as a compliment.

Halfway through shooting, Harvey turned up on set and complained about Frida’s “unibrow.” He insisted that I eliminate the limp and berated my performance. Then he asked everyone in the room to step out except for me. He told me that the only thing I had going for me was my sex appeal and that there was none of that in this movie. So he told me he was going to shut down the film because no one would want to see me in that role.

It was soul crushing because, I confess, lost in the fog of a sort of Stockholm syndrome, I wanted him to see me as an artist: not only as a capable actress but also as somebody who could identify a compelling story and had the vision to tell it in an original way.

I was hoping he would acknowledge me as a producer, who on top of delivering his list of demands shepherded the script and obtained the permits to use the paintings. I had negotiated with the Mexican government, and with whomever I had to, to get locations that had never been given to anyone in the past — including Frida Kahlo’s houses and the murals of Kahlo’s husband, Diego Rivera, among others.

But all of this seemed to have no value. The only thing he noticed was that I was not sexy in the movie. He made me doubt if I was any good as an actress, but he never succeeded in making me think that the film was not worth making.

He offered me one option to continue. He would let me finish the film if I agreed to do a sex scene with another woman. And he demanded full-frontal nudity.

He had been constantly asking for more skin, for more sex. Once before, Julie Taymor got him to settle for a tango ending in a kiss instead of the lovemaking scene he wanted us to shoot between the character Tina Modotti, played by Ashley Judd, and Frida.

But this time, it was clear to me he would never let me finish this movie without him having his fantasy one way or another. There was no room for negotiation.

I had to say yes. By now so many years of my life had gone into this film. We were about five weeks into shooting, and I had convinced so many talented people to participate. How could I let their magnificent work go to waste?

I had asked for so many favors, I felt an immense pressure to deliver and a deep sense of gratitude for all those who did believe in me and followed me into this madness. So I agreed to do the senseless scene.

I arrived on the set the day we were to shoot the scene that I believed would save the movie. And for the first and last time in my career, I had a nervous breakdown: My body began to shake uncontrollably, my breath was short and I began to cry and cry, unable to stop, as if I were throwing up tears.

Since those around me had no knowledge of my history of Harvey, they were very surprised by my struggle that morning. It was not because I would be naked with another woman. It was because I would be naked with her for Harvey Weinstein. But I could not tell them then.

My mind understood that I had to do it, but my body wouldn’t stop crying and convulsing. At that point, I started throwing up while a set frozen still waited to shoot. I had to take a tranquilizer, which eventually stopped the crying but made the vomiting worse. As you can imagine, this was not sexy, but it was the only way I could get through the scene.

By the time the filming of the movie was over, I was so emotionally distraught that I had to distance myself during the postproduction.

When Harvey saw the cut film, he said it was not good enough for a theatrical release and that he would send it straight to video.

This time Julie had to fight him without me and got him to agree to release the film in one movie theater in New York if we tested it to an audience and we scored at least an 80.

Less than 10 percent of films achieve that score on a first screening.

I didn’t go to the test. I anxiously awaited to receive the news. The film scored 85.

And again, I heard Harvey raged. In the lobby of a theater after the screening, he screamed at Julie. He balled up one of the scorecards and threw it at her. It bounced off her nose. Her partner, the film’s composer Elliot Goldenthal, stepped in, and Harvey physically threatened him.

Once he calmed down, I found the strength to call Harvey to ask him also to open the movie in a theater in Los Angeles, which made a total of two theaters. And without much ado, he gave me that. I have to say sometimes he was kind, fun and witty — and that was part of the problem: You just never knew which Harvey you were going to get.

Months later, in October 2002, this film, about my hero and inspiration — this Mexican artist who never truly got acknowledged in her time with her limp and her unibrow, this film that Harvey never wanted to do, gave him a box office success that no one could have predicted, and despite his lack of support, added six Academy Award nominations to his collection, including best actress.

Even though “Frida” eventually won him two Oscars, I still didn’t see any joy. He never offered me a starring role in a movie again. The films that I was obliged to do under my original deal with Miramax were all minor supporting roles.

Years later, when I ran into him at an event, he pulled me aside and told me he had stopped smoking and he had had a heart attack. He said he’d fallen in love and married Georgina Chapman, and that he was a changed man. Finally, he said to me: “You did well with ‘Frida’; we did a beautiful movie.”

I believed him. Harvey would never know how much those words meant to me. He also would never know how much he hurt me. I never showed Harvey how terrified I was of him. When I saw him socially, I’d smile and try to remember the good things about him, telling myself that I went to war and I won.

But why do so many of us, as female artists, have to go to war to tell our stories when we have so much to offer? Why do we have to fight tooth and nail to maintain our dignity?

I think it is because we, as women, have been devalued artistically to an indecent state, to the point where the film industry stopped making an effort to find out what female audiences wanted to see and what stories we wanted to tell.

According to a recent study, between 2007 and 2016, only 4 percent of directors were female and 80 percent of those got the chance to make only one film. In 2016, another study found, only 27 percent of words spoken in the biggest movies were spoken by women. And people wonder why you didn’t hear our voices sooner. I think the statistics are self-explanatory — our voices are not welcome.

Until there is equality in our industry, with men and women having the same value in every aspect of it, our community will continue to be a fertile ground for predators.

I am grateful for everyone who is listening to our experiences. I hope that adding my voice to the chorus of those who are finally speaking out will shed light on why it is so difficult, and why so many of us have waited so long. Men sexually harassed because they could. Women are talking today because, in this new era, we finally can.

_______________________

 

Egglantine New York, NY

This is one of the best pieces I've read on this subject, for all the obvious reasons, especially its connection to inequality in the workplace. Sexual harassment is not about sex. It's about the abuse of power. More frightening to me is not that a sexual predator is capable of such acts, but that the system allows them to get away with it. I think if more men understood this, they would realize this isn't just a problem for women or a problem that women have to solve. They are complicit and have the ability to make changes too.

Also, the line about in every woman there is a girl brought tears to my eyes.


Laura Manes Toronto

Salma, as a young Latina growing up in the 90s, you were an inspiration to me from your very first film--Fools Rush In was required viewing for all my well-intentioned but somewhat clueless American boyfriends. Through the years, I have watched you move gracefully from romcom actress, to producer, to artist, with your own voice and point of view on the world.

To this day, you have never let me down. You challenge the stereotypes by being a strong, smart, funny, cheeky and talented role model... and yes, beautiful, but that is just icing on the cake.

I am heartbroken to hear that this is how your masterpiece was made, and the parallels between your fraught relationship with Harvey Weinstein and Frida's own challenges living in the shadow of Diego Rivera are not lost on me.

Many people wrongly assume that life must be easy for the 'beautiful people.' They fail to realize that sometimes being valued only for your appearance is a challenge that needs to be overcome in the path to being valued as a whole human with so much more to offer. Thank you for offering this very personal and painful story with us; your courage helps make the world better for young women everywhere.


Talbot is a trusted commenter New York

I have always thought Salma Hayek was both beautiful and talented.

But this piece is extraordinary. Nothing I've read about Weinstein, Hollywood's despicable treatment of women, etc, has moved me as much.Or made me as angry.

How many woman have had their projects taken from them, or had to meet extraordinary demands, or had their successes ignored?

How many full-frontal scenes were shot as part of some coerced deal?

Thank you Ms Hayak, for this important piece.


Teka Hudson Valley

I've always thought Ms Hayek seemed unusually strong and intelligent. This story shows the truth of that. The writing is excellent; the story is shocking. It's amazing how many, many times she categorically said no to Weinstein yet he kept coming back. It's amazing that as an little-known actress she was able to meet his prohibitive demands for rewrites, financing, and costars. What's most surprising, frankly, is that she never gave up on making this film. How many people, male or female, would have been able to do most, let alone all, of that?

She only gave in on the added scene because by that point so many other people were invested in the movie and had helped her that she could not let them down. That scene struck me as curious when I saw it; while not implausible, it seemed tacked on from some other movie; it just didn't seem to fit with the rest if the film.

This story is Exhibit A of how even the strongest, most capable womens' careers can be -- and surely have often been -- diminished if not extinguished by sexism. Think how many talented women must have given up in the face of its irrational hate and humiliation. Think of how much greater Ms Hayek's career would likely have been if she had only had to face the level and type of challenges men in Hollywood face.

The unfairness of it is staggering. The loss to the world is literally unimaginable. What might have been...


Jamakaya Milwaukee

This story was heartbreaking to read. It made me flash back to a taunt that was often thrown at feminists back in the 1970s: "Where is your Shakespeare?" as if women simply did not have the level of talent that men possess. The real question is "How many potential Shakespeares have been suppressed due to entrenched misogyny?"
Thank you, Salma Hayek for illuminating the mechanics of oppression, and thank you for your beautiful memorial to Frida Kahlo.


Amit Mukherjee Singapore

Ms. Hayek,
A few months back, I heard you on NPR. You spoke about how hard it was to make Frida when the only parts available to women of Mexican origin were of maids (though you did not tell this horrific tale then). At one point, you said something that caused me to pull up my car on the side of the highway so I could write it down. Your words: "I'd rather have a hard road into excellence than an easy road to mediocrity." No human's -- let alone woman's -- road should be hard be sexual harassment or abuse of any sort ever, and I'm sorry for your pain. I do want you to know that your words were inspiring. Thank you for not letting the hard (horrific) road deter you.

​ Poze fantastice și unice

       

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