If you'd like to help promote TJP, please download and print the below file. Cut out the signs, fringe the bottoms, then post them anywhere women gather!
~Admin.Jane
FLDS Leader's Conviction Overturned: Warren Jeffs
Sad Greetings to the Ladies Jane!
If you haven't yet heard, the Utah Supreme Court overturned the conviction of FLDS leader Warren Jeffs because the "jurors in the case were given improper legal instructions . . . before reaching their 2007 verdict that Jeffs contributed to the 2001 sexual assault of teenage victim Elissa Wall, then 14, by directing her to marry an adult cousin." *Generally, the reason for the overturn:
The Utah Supreme Court found Judge Shumate incorrectly advised jurors they could find Jeffs guilty as an accomplice to rape based on the notion that his authority and marriage ceremony led to the sexual assault, regardless of whether that was his intent. *
Specifically, the reason for the overturn:
the instruction erroneously interprets the statute’s use of the term “actor,” as used in Utah Code sections 76-5-406(10) and (11), to refer to the defendant, Jeffs, rather than to Steed. Those sections provide that the intercourse will be deemed to be nonconsensual if “the victim is younger than 18 years of age and at the time of the offense the actor . . . occupied a position of special trust in relation to the victim,” or if “the victim is 14 years of age or older, but younger than 18 years of age, and the actor is more than three years older than the victim and entices or coerces the victim to submit or participate . . . .” * (page 9)
So, a man can lead and brainwash an entire 10,000+ religious community to believe that forced polygamist marriage and forced sex between children and adults is required by God, preside over such marriages, and then have his conviction for the forced "consummation" of same overturned because he didn't physically perform the rapes with his own penis?
As the community's religious leader and brainwasher, he doesn't qualify as the person "[of] special trust" or "[who] coerces the victim to submit"?
We have one sick legal system, we do.
~Riot.Jane
Cave
I came from the womb.
I was attached by chord to her
Later I found pen and paper, thoughts and spirit within
Is it all for a quest back to her, my mother within?
Can I defeat any foe the world has deemed
Is a threat to me, the paternal it seems…
Maternal body and Paternal body
From these I spawned?
Am I Maternal body, a historical discourse
in an ongoing battle
with Paternal Law- the semiotic as well?
Not needed, was a linkage between womb and me to create my art.
Babies are a creation of actions between two people, sometimes fueled by real thought.
Babies and art, art and babies
Who cares if they have rabies.
Yes, rabies, a disease.
A disease between maternal and paternal and what each means…
I heard a professor once say,
the limits of my language are the limits of my world…
So enough with this debate, get out of my way…
If sex has spawned the meaning of structure and desire,
I take my leave and walk
with Rilke and Shakespeare
as Orpheus guides us like Virgil,
back to Prometheus and his warm fire.
~Olga Cisneros
I was attached by chord to her
Later I found pen and paper, thoughts and spirit within
Is it all for a quest back to her, my mother within?
Can I defeat any foe the world has deemed
Is a threat to me, the paternal it seems…
Maternal body and Paternal body
From these I spawned?
Am I Maternal body, a historical discourse
in an ongoing battle
with Paternal Law- the semiotic as well?
Not needed, was a linkage between womb and me to create my art.
Babies are a creation of actions between two people, sometimes fueled by real thought.
Babies and art, art and babies
Who cares if they have rabies.
Yes, rabies, a disease.
A disease between maternal and paternal and what each means…
I heard a professor once say,
the limits of my language are the limits of my world…
So enough with this debate, get out of my way…
If sex has spawned the meaning of structure and desire,
I take my leave and walk
with Rilke and Shakespeare
as Orpheus guides us like Virgil,
back to Prometheus and his warm fire.
~Olga Cisneros
TJP Reboot - Update
As you may have noticed, we've re-designed TJP! We're still working out the kinks, so if links are broken or widgets aren't working, bear with us as we hammer out the problems.
The biggest pain right now is that the left navbar is intermittently static (i.e. the links don't work), and we're troubleshooting why. If you have any ideas on that or if you notice anything else, let us know via the webform on the left navbar or at jane[.]doe[.]admin[@]gmail.com.
All links on the left navbar do work from the homepage, though, so pls use that as your workaround for now.
Thanks for working with us during the upgrade!
~Admin.Jane
The biggest pain right now is that the left navbar is intermittently static (i.e. the links don't work), and we're troubleshooting why. If you have any ideas on that or if you notice anything else, let us know via the webform on the left navbar or at jane[.]doe[.]admin[@]gmail.com.
All links on the left navbar do work from the homepage, though, so pls use that as your workaround for now.
Thanks for working with us during the upgrade!
~Admin.Jane
You Need to Behave!
Greetings to the Ladies Jane!I am currently reading Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel, and the below passage stopped me cold:
All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know you’re a depressed maniac on the first date, don’t just be yourself, don’t show your feelings. And the truth is, this is probably good advice, men probably don’t like overbearing, hotheaded women who give blow jobs on the first date. In all likelihood the only man who will ever like me just as I am will probably need to believe I’m somebody else at first. I probably do need to learn to behave. But I don’t like it.
Good Lord! Either this woman was a fly on the wall during the entirety of my 20s, or I actually have something in common with a writer this hot!
All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know you’re a depressed maniac on the first date, don’t just be yourself, don’t show your feelings. And the truth is, this is probably good advice, men probably don’t like overbearing, hotheaded women who give blow jobs on the first date. In all likelihood the only man who will ever like me just as I am will probably need to believe I’m somebody else at first. I probably do need to learn to behave. But I don’t like it.
Good Lord! Either this woman was a fly on the wall during the entirety of my 20s, or I actually have something in common with a writer this hot!
Who knew?
~Riot.Jane
We're Back! -- TJP Reboot
Warmest greetings to you, the Ladies Jane!
Personal crises and health issues have kept the partner admins away -- Putting out fires, trying to survive, and generally tending our lives is all in a day's work for a Jane!
A spousal employment change, the birth of a child, a cross-country residential move, frequest (but necessary) road trips, plenty of overtime at work, extended-family drama, and other assorted items have conspired to distract us from our love, The Jane Project.
Those of you who have kept us on your RSS feed (bless you!) have already seen today's posts. We hope you enjoy them.
One admin will do the best she can until the other comes back online. Until then, please remember that this blog is all about all of us, so please contribute and please spread the word!
~Admin.Jane
Personal crises and health issues have kept the partner admins away -- Putting out fires, trying to survive, and generally tending our lives is all in a day's work for a Jane!
A spousal employment change, the birth of a child, a cross-country residential move, frequest (but necessary) road trips, plenty of overtime at work, extended-family drama, and other assorted items have conspired to distract us from our love, The Jane Project.
Those of you who have kept us on your RSS feed (bless you!) have already seen today's posts. We hope you enjoy them.
One admin will do the best she can until the other comes back online. Until then, please remember that this blog is all about all of us, so please contribute and please spread the word!
~Admin.Jane
Portrait of an Anxiety Attack
Personal emergency today, friends. Dropped my bank account down to almost nothing. Freaking the fuck out over it, I am.
Waaaay too much money has left my possession today. $1600 for this . . . almost $6000 balance on a credit card . . . I ain't broke yet, but I'm panicking. Welling from deep within my soul . . . The panic threatens to wash me away.
I can't catch my breath, for I am bordering on hyperventilation. My pulse is fast and weak. I am as fidgety as a Ritalin-withdrawn 8-year-old boy. I have an overwhelming sense that I should be ducking and looking over my left shoulder. I'm maintaining a low-grade sweat. My neck and shoulders are locked. I hear my own blood pressure in my ears, a tsunami of sound. I sense a large shadow approaching. I am running my hands through my hair spasmodically, alternating between grabbing and tugging handfuls trying to bring my mind back home and all but gouging my scalp with my fingernails because I've lost most tactile sensation. I am nervous, angsty, afraid. I want to arm myself. I want to back into a corner so that nothing can get me from behind, so that I can stop spinning around, flailing my arms, trying to locate the the invisible threat that I can sense is damn near upon me.
Something wicked this way comes.
THIS is what happens when I am poor. THIS is what happens when I know that I have no resources. THIS is what happens when I know good and well that I am not able take care of myself.
Not only had I thought I'd outgrown this, it's never come on this severely this quickly. This is anxiety in its purest, most cleanly distilled, most primeveal form. This is panic barely held in check by sheer force of will.
This is the lion at the mouth of the cave.
This is the howling winter wind drowning the cries of the starving child.
This is the Inquisitor's knock at my chamber door.
~Riot.Jane
Waaaay too much money has left my possession today. $1600 for this . . . almost $6000 balance on a credit card . . . I ain't broke yet, but I'm panicking. Welling from deep within my soul . . . The panic threatens to wash me away.
I can't catch my breath, for I am bordering on hyperventilation. My pulse is fast and weak. I am as fidgety as a Ritalin-withdrawn 8-year-old boy. I have an overwhelming sense that I should be ducking and looking over my left shoulder. I'm maintaining a low-grade sweat. My neck and shoulders are locked. I hear my own blood pressure in my ears, a tsunami of sound. I sense a large shadow approaching. I am running my hands through my hair spasmodically, alternating between grabbing and tugging handfuls trying to bring my mind back home and all but gouging my scalp with my fingernails because I've lost most tactile sensation. I am nervous, angsty, afraid. I want to arm myself. I want to back into a corner so that nothing can get me from behind, so that I can stop spinning around, flailing my arms, trying to locate the the invisible threat that I can sense is damn near upon me.
Something wicked this way comes.
THIS is what happens when I am poor. THIS is what happens when I know that I have no resources. THIS is what happens when I know good and well that I am not able take care of myself.
Not only had I thought I'd outgrown this, it's never come on this severely this quickly. This is anxiety in its purest, most cleanly distilled, most primeveal form. This is panic barely held in check by sheer force of will.
This is the lion at the mouth of the cave.
This is the howling winter wind drowning the cries of the starving child.
This is the Inquisitor's knock at my chamber door.
~Riot.Jane
Sex vs. Gender
Family is where I stem.
Mommy was exchanged-
a mother with babies is more important than her name.
Mommy plus daddy, then came brother and others, is that what family is?
I am one of their cultural artifacts, through time I pass through ideas
Of boy vs. girl
And
Girl vs. boy…
Like a game of pong or air hockey I jockey
Myself into position…
Sex…
Top!
Bottom!
Am I still woman?
Woman vs. man
And Man vs. woman.
Which is more appropriate?
If Gary loves Harry and Sue loves June?
How is that taboo!?
Have things come too far too soon?
Time and evolution, genes are key…
Does that a gender make, one for society to take
for granted it’s what I see in the world around me.
Different people, different views,
STOP!
It is not all about me, everyone must see it is about us as we, a Union of you and I
Man vs. woman
Woman vs. man
Is that gender or sex I spy?
Mommy was exchanged-
a mother with babies is more important than her name.
Mommy plus daddy, then came brother and others, is that what family is?
I am one of their cultural artifacts, through time I pass through ideas
Of boy vs. girl
And
Girl vs. boy…
Like a game of pong or air hockey I jockey
Myself into position…
Sex…
Top!
Bottom!
Am I still woman?
Woman vs. man
And Man vs. woman.
Which is more appropriate?
If Gary loves Harry and Sue loves June?
How is that taboo!?
Have things come too far too soon?
Time and evolution, genes are key…
Does that a gender make, one for society to take
for granted it’s what I see in the world around me.
Different people, different views,
STOP!
It is not all about me, everyone must see it is about us as we, a Union of you and I
Man vs. woman
Woman vs. man
Is that gender or sex I spy?
Jaycee Dugard >shudder< Horror Film?
I was horrified to discover that a low-rent actor/writer/editor/producer by the name of Shane Ryan is planning to make a film about the capture and imprisonment of Jaycee Dugard.
That's right, Ladies, the wonder-boy of such low-class cinematography as:
That's right, Ladies, the wonder-boy of such low-class cinematography as:
- Sex Kids Party (a/k/a The More, the Better)
- Amateur Porn Star Killer 1, 2, & 3
- Big Boobs, Blonde Babes, Bad Blood
- So, We Killed Our Parents
-and- - Caged Lesbos A-Go-Go
Is hoping to release Abducted Girl: An American Sex Slave through Alter Ego Films, in Spring 2010, according to Sacramento television station CBS13. Even though Ryan's above-noted movies have been described by viewers as:
- "[W]hat a homemade snuff film might look like with a bit of what the director thinks is artistic" [1]
- "[B]ad blood feature that is sheer in-your-face violence with a comedic ingredient inserted for your perverse viewing" [2]
- "The girl is supposed to be 13 years old, who (in their right mind) would find the gratuitous kidnapping, rape and eventual beating of a 13 year old girl entertaining?" [3]
He's "trying to figure out a way to do that so it's not exploitative," he told a reporter from CBS13 in a telephone interview. He also told the reporter, "We want to capture how sad this story is, but also how interesting."
On the film's website, Ryan writes that "this film is not about Jaycee Dugard," that it was in pre-production prior to authorities rescuing Dugard, and he continues with "Instead of doing a movie about human trafficking they instead decided [because of the Dugard case] to focus on just one victim and her captor and explore the idea of what it would be like for an 11 year old to be kidnapped and live in captivity for the next 18 years." He clearly states, "This is a fictitious film we were planning on making with a few friends in hope to make an interesting story," and he also says that this is nothing but the media "cashing in on another Jaycee story."
So, to recap, According to Ryan:
- This film is not about Dugard (even if a pre-production movie was re-drafted as the direct result of Dugard's recovery)
- Alter Ego Films is not a porn company (regardless of what they create and sell)
-and- - The "reporters" are the Dugard exploiters, not his film (while he's gabbing about the film's lack of exploitativeness with the CBS13 reporter and thereby co-opting as much publicity as possible).
If the reporters are the vultures, I hereby call you out for catching a ride on the vulture's wing simply to save the time and effort of walking over to feast on the carcass yourself.
I have to say that I agree with the Dugard family's spokesperson Nancy Seltzer's statement that this project is "breathtakingly unkind."[4]
You, Sir, are a Very.Bad.Man.
~Riot.Jane
The Winds of Change Blow
Greetings to the Ladies Jane --
After an extended absence, rejoining you is a pleasure!
I'm a steadfast Third Wave feminist. I've spent my entire life proving to the world (and myself) that I am the equal of any man in anything that I choose to do. Beginning with schoolyard fisticuffs, I fell in love with high school Junior ROTC, refused to marry young, established a career in a (predominately male) technical field, and have vociferously insisted to anyone listening (and those not) that women have value that has nothing to do with creating new life
Adamantly, ferociously, with the crystal clarity that only true passion brings, I have practiced what I've preached. I refuse to cry outside of my own apartment. When I'm frightened, I snarl. When I'm weak, I attack. When I'm paralyzed, I bark orders at others. When I feel stupid, I boast. Full of bravado and vinegar, I dare anyone, everyone, to call my bluff. Intelligent women older than me have told me, "I'm so jealous! You're your own person: You never gave yourself away."
While battling a sleeping disorder that eradicates many useful hours, I've lived my life with what time I have as my own. My responsibilities are with my friends and parents, not with the husband or child/ren that my culture (and well-meaning individuals) say that I am missing.
The only time one of my girlfriends and I are ever catty is when we praise Glory for the fact that we are childless. We revel in the fact that we still have the luxuries of self-absorbtion and non-bowel-movement conversation. We are snotty towards and gossip about parent who don't control their children and parents who have nothing to talk about besides Johnny's ear infection or Janie's latest goo-goo-ga-ga babbling.
We know your little precious is the most amazingly wonderful thing in the multiverse to you, we do, I promise! Really, that's probably the way it should be, but please, dear God, would you just shut up about it?!
"That is just not going to be us, we actually have something to do with our lives," we snark, as if childrearing is relegated to those without the capacity to do anything else. I always felt a bit guilty for snarking about women whose choices have been different than mine, but not enough to actually stop the snarking. I'm positive that there's a portion of the human animal's social need that yearns for validation so much that even self-provided validation will suffice.
I've been proud to use the courtesy title of "Miss," although at the age of 38 people occasionally double-take when I do. My boss says I look 30. I refuse to change my name if I ever *do* marry. I'm not against the idea of marriage per se', but I am still not sure (while having discussed it with my boyfriend) that I am or ever will be ready for such a thing. I'm a fiercly independent, oddly particular, strongly-willed, and reliable overachieving only child who is used to having things her own way.
Let's say that the arts of negotiation and domestic order are not among my stronger points. :-)
I've been an apartment dweller my entire adult life, and I've found myself daydreaming for the last year or so of a permanent home, of putting down roots, of neighborhood block parties in the kind of place where Girl Scouts ring the doorbell to sell their boxes of yummy goodness every year. I've been daydreaming of older neighborhoods, with narrow driveways and old-growth trees, neighborhoods that have 50 years of architectural styles represented in the little houses lining the streets while the larger city sprawled around, creating little enclaves with their own little newletters and residents who know the family name of the house two blocks over who just bought that sweet new Mazda RX8 . . .
This picture never includes a husband or child/ren. I see the garden, I see the porch swing (and the kitty dozing in it), I see the cute white trim around the round accent-lighting windows, I see the kitchen with it's glorious chrome-trimmed appliances, and I see the window-box with custom cushions, begging me to wile away the sunny afternoon with my Kindle . . .
But I never see the other pieces of the house, of that life, and I've assumed that's because I'm not yet ready to see them. I'm not ready to get married, I'm not ready to be a parent, so those pieces are not yet visible to me.
As a result, I've been thinking that I've just been wanting to put down roots, that I'm finally looking for an adult level of security, stability, and serenity. That my kitty and my project house are what I'm yearning for, what I need. I'd come to the conclusion that this was just a larger, albeit more gentle, form of the insistent nesting urge I experience every time that I have PMS.
I realized just last night that I've been wrong. All at once, a thought leapt up from my subconscious brain and burst into my conscious mind with the stopping power of a close thunderclap:
I want a baby.
What the hell happened to me? Who am I to become?
~Riot.Jane
After an extended absence, rejoining you is a pleasure!
I'm a steadfast Third Wave feminist. I've spent my entire life proving to the world (and myself) that I am the equal of any man in anything that I choose to do. Beginning with schoolyard fisticuffs, I fell in love with high school Junior ROTC, refused to marry young, established a career in a (predominately male) technical field, and have vociferously insisted to anyone listening (and those not) that women have value that has nothing to do with creating new life
Adamantly, ferociously, with the crystal clarity that only true passion brings, I have practiced what I've preached. I refuse to cry outside of my own apartment. When I'm frightened, I snarl. When I'm weak, I attack. When I'm paralyzed, I bark orders at others. When I feel stupid, I boast. Full of bravado and vinegar, I dare anyone, everyone, to call my bluff. Intelligent women older than me have told me, "I'm so jealous! You're your own person: You never gave yourself away."
While battling a sleeping disorder that eradicates many useful hours, I've lived my life with what time I have as my own. My responsibilities are with my friends and parents, not with the husband or child/ren that my culture (and well-meaning individuals) say that I am missing.
The only time one of my girlfriends and I are ever catty is when we praise Glory for the fact that we are childless. We revel in the fact that we still have the luxuries of self-absorbtion and non-bowel-movement conversation. We are snotty towards and gossip about parent who don't control their children and parents who have nothing to talk about besides Johnny's ear infection or Janie's latest goo-goo-ga-ga babbling.
We know your little precious is the most amazingly wonderful thing in the multiverse to you, we do, I promise! Really, that's probably the way it should be, but please, dear God, would you just shut up about it?!
"That is just not going to be us, we actually have something to do with our lives," we snark, as if childrearing is relegated to those without the capacity to do anything else. I always felt a bit guilty for snarking about women whose choices have been different than mine, but not enough to actually stop the snarking. I'm positive that there's a portion of the human animal's social need that yearns for validation so much that even self-provided validation will suffice.
I've been proud to use the courtesy title of "Miss," although at the age of 38 people occasionally double-take when I do. My boss says I look 30. I refuse to change my name if I ever *do* marry. I'm not against the idea of marriage per se', but I am still not sure (while having discussed it with my boyfriend) that I am or ever will be ready for such a thing. I'm a fiercly independent, oddly particular, strongly-willed, and reliable overachieving only child who is used to having things her own way.
Let's say that the arts of negotiation and domestic order are not among my stronger points. :-)
I've been an apartment dweller my entire adult life, and I've found myself daydreaming for the last year or so of a permanent home, of putting down roots, of neighborhood block parties in the kind of place where Girl Scouts ring the doorbell to sell their boxes of yummy goodness every year. I've been daydreaming of older neighborhoods, with narrow driveways and old-growth trees, neighborhoods that have 50 years of architectural styles represented in the little houses lining the streets while the larger city sprawled around, creating little enclaves with their own little newletters and residents who know the family name of the house two blocks over who just bought that sweet new Mazda RX8 . . .
This picture never includes a husband or child/ren. I see the garden, I see the porch swing (and the kitty dozing in it), I see the cute white trim around the round accent-lighting windows, I see the kitchen with it's glorious chrome-trimmed appliances, and I see the window-box with custom cushions, begging me to wile away the sunny afternoon with my Kindle . . .
But I never see the other pieces of the house, of that life, and I've assumed that's because I'm not yet ready to see them. I'm not ready to get married, I'm not ready to be a parent, so those pieces are not yet visible to me.
As a result, I've been thinking that I've just been wanting to put down roots, that I'm finally looking for an adult level of security, stability, and serenity. That my kitty and my project house are what I'm yearning for, what I need. I'd come to the conclusion that this was just a larger, albeit more gentle, form of the insistent nesting urge I experience every time that I have PMS.
I realized just last night that I've been wrong. All at once, a thought leapt up from my subconscious brain and burst into my conscious mind with the stopping power of a close thunderclap:
I want a baby.
What the hell happened to me? Who am I to become?
~Riot.Jane
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