The Figure of Woman: HOW NOW?

The same questions are following me around. Just finished an extensive analysis of the female nude in art. In South Asian lit, I'm learning about Hijras and the third sex. A whole paper on the femme fatale. Back at home, I'm reading up on Tiresias: hey pal, no one ever made duality look so sex-y. And then there's the fact that I'm dating a girl without even knowing if I'm straight or not.

I'm feeling especially ambiguous lately. The questions are piling up in the backroom of things-I'm-avoiding-coming-to-terms-with. Lately, my head's populated with women: distinctions like devoted mother/devouring mother; an estranged best friend in Chicago for whom I feel real heartbreak; this mean girl that Stephen may or may not be seeing; this girl whose bed I keep waking up in without any of my confusion answered.

Staring at department store mannequins and seeing classical nudes.
Staring at piles of bones in anthropological digs and wondering what's a mother.
Staring at one girl's naked body and noting the dissimilarities to my own.
Staring at Serra Paylin clad only in the American flag.
How now how now how now?

Simone de Beavoir: Do women exist as a natural kind? Is it desirable that they should exist?

Last night, I went to my seven-year-old cousin's birthday party. Some kid's mother froze when I walked in. She just stared at me with big, wary eyes. I know whose child you are, she muttered. You are your mother's clone. I couldn't help but be disdainful. I practically spat my reply ("Not. Quite.") and left the room. Nothing gets me so angry as being compared to her--even though this woman only meant for a superficial comparison. Even though my mother's beautiful. In my dreams, I disfigure the parts of me that look like her. I think it was also the way this stranger worded it: "I know whose child you are." No. She does not know whose child I am. That's the problem. No one does.

As for the Body of Woman, I'm cutting away my origins. I'm stripping the fount. I lay my head on S's breast the same way I used to lay my head against my mother's chest as a small child. But that's all done with.

So what with studies of transgressive sexuality, ongoing practice in bicuriosity, and more than a few instances of hot-and-cold rage---it would appear that ambiguity's my thing.