an aside

I would have been a goth if I hadn't moved to Georgia in '97. I was primed -- all the music, and to some degree the art and fashion side of the scene. Even after I had the kid, I had punked-out black and orange hair (a move I did NOT make while living in GA), had garnered several tattoos, and had largely the same set of musical tastes. But at some point -- somewhere between giving birth and going to work for the church -- I thought it was time to "grow up." And I've been a fairly successful grownup. I have most of the trappings including marriage for 16 years and holding the same job for 8 years now; have made some of the mistakes. I take Zoloft, and have successfully reached 45 years of age, or "mid-life."

Which is probably why I've started dreaming I'm Lisbeth Salander in the Swedish film version of  GWtDT.

Noomi Rapace, whose character seems more mature and self-reliant than the anemic, childlike Rooney Mara's. 

Something about hearkening back to the almost-goth self is very comforting. I suppose I'm unsatisfied with the woman I've grown into. I've made a sincere effort to show the world a lot of love, but I'm feeling fairly drained now. Not super-cynical, but pissed off about the world and a bunch of the nonsense I've experienced lately. Weary of putting everyone first, and constantly being told I'm not doing enough for someone. While there's no excuse to go back on being a parent, and I can ungrudgingly do my best in that department, I do feel like letting a bunch of other things slide. That won't last, I suppose. But maybe there's a middle ground -- between the 25 year old Goth I wasn't, and the somewhat-too-martyr-like female I've become. This of course draws a bunch of positional conclusions about being goth that are I'm sure very personality-dependent, as everything must be. Tough and independent -- some people would already call me that. Some most assuredly would not. 

Self-expression. That's a question. And why it doesn't seem out of place to talk about this on what is ostensibly an "art blog."

Of course the fictional Lisbeth Salander wouldn't have been caught dead spilling her guts in public. But then I wasn't sexually abused as a child, and can be heartily grateful, since I know so very many women and men who were.   

It's just a point. It's a t-shirt: "Fuck you fucking fuckers," that Lisbeth wears in one of the American movies. 

It's the women my age and older who I know, who are mouthy, independent and controversial. It's the stereotypes about looks and dress and age. It's the musical preferences of the men I know, whose masculine frowns I take too much to heart. It's my desire to be liked by everyone. 

This isn't an anti-male rant, by the way. I like men just fine. But it has become apparent that I really CAN'T please everyone. Or sometimes, anyone. Except myself.