I'm feeling like Walt Whitman

I contain multitudes. And a plethora of contradictions. To wit:

• I'm feeling really RIOTGRRRL! ARGGH! lately. Currently wearing loads of buttons ("KILL YOUR TELEVISION", which is easy to do when you don't have one), black and neon-pink striped shirt, black skirt. Very punk. Mostly this is a result of reading Inga Muscio's Cunt, which I've dubbed "cheerleader feminism". It doesn't say anything new to anyone who's taken a women's studies course, but I don't think that's the point. The point is to light a fire under your ass. Give me a C! Ra ra ra!
• In Cunt I read about the rape and murder of Mia Zapata, lead singer of The Gits back in the early 90s; then the Gits kept popping up on my Pandora radio station, and then their album "Frenching the Bully" practically fell at my feet when I was at the used bookstore the other day. Synchronicity can be blunt like a sledgehammer sometimes. So I've been driving around with Mia Zapata the last few days.
• At the same time I'm feeling very...cerebral. I'm trying not to withdraw too much, but I all I want to do is disconnect from the world a while. Ideally I want to sit in a cafe and read Colette and listen to Jane Birkin sing in French and her daughter Charlotte Gainsbourg sing in English. I want to drink black tea and read A.S. Byatt and study the Dutch Masters. I want to steep myself in Theodora Goss's mordant prose and listen to Vaughn Williams on the record player. The last thing I want are people to deal with in any way, shape or form.
• I'm sure the fact that the Bridget mandala fell over onto a lit candle, which burnt a hole into it, means something, but you know what, I don't really care at the moment. When your little bathroom shrine nearly self-immolates, it's probably significant, but I can't be bothered to figure it out. This will inevitably lead to a cosmic two-by-four to the head sometime in the near future.
• Neil Gaiman is a genius. That is all.