talking about sex

Do you talk about sex with your family? With your friends? With your colleagues?

If you look at my sidebar, you will see I read blogs that occasionally talk about sex, and not in an abstract way, in a this-was-last-night way. I don't read them because of the content, per se, I read them because of the voice of the person writing. Because they are not judging me. Or themselves. Or anyone. Just enjoying their life.

I don't think sex is a very intimate subject to write about. It can be, of course. Any topic, skillfully explored, can lead to honest, revealing words. But the topic itself doesn't strike me as more intimate than talking about work problems, or how your children are coping with changing schools, or how much you hate your cousin.

I wonder why, then, is sex considered so taboo, so "dangerous" to write about on a public or anonymous platform. Why people will judge others according to their tastes. Food writers complain that when they criticize some species of asparagus they get endless hate mail, so the Internet is probably full of insane, angry people, regardless of the topic.

But then I don't consider sex "naughty". Or "nice". Or "vanilla". Or "non-vanilla". I don't even understand such distinctions, and why people enjoy the labelling Maybe they like to be thought liberated and edgy. I would go with Oscar Wilde here, who so aptly said that "There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all."
I think the same of sex.

I don't like talking about sex with people because of the labelling. Because sometimes people who tell me about their sexual practices expect me to react in some way: shocked maybe, because I am very conventional outwardly, or perhaps jealous.

I'm sure there is a better way of talking about it.

Special Snowflake

(The sign said originally "Road works closed to the public"-Chantier interdit au public- but some nihilist soul transformed it into "Happiness and opportunities denied to the public"-Chance interdite au public)


It's snowing here in Paris! It hasn't happened in years. In France we react to snow in a way that amuses my now American sister: "What, a couple of inches and you can't deal?"
No, we can't. As soon as the smallest flake arrives, salt trucks arrive. Accidents multiply. People complain. (Well, even more than usual). I'm sitting in the library, looking at the snow from the window. I love watching it. I remember when someone first told me that each snowflake is different. I didn't believe them. I went to look it up and then I tried to examine flakes under my father's big lense, but they always melted too fast.

In America, I learned the expression "Special Snowflake". At first I thought it was redundant, since every snowflake is special, then I realized it was an insult. I think it's a very poetic insult.

And the worse of it is I do think everyone is a Special Snowflake. I don't mean that anyone deserves special treatment, but that we are all different. We may behave in predictable patterns, but then so does snow. And to me snowflakes are so poignant in their sad descent, their perfection beyond my grasp or my lense. I know that many wonderful people cross my path too briefly for me to know just how special they are, and all the alternative lives I could live are as short-lived as a handful of snow.

So I'm reclaiming the expression. It sounds like an endearment to me.

"Come here, my Special Snowflake!"