I can't remember now if it was before or after the end of high school. Juliette and I went to the swimming hole at the end of my street with two friends. At first I just sat on the edge of the chalk shelf and let my feet dangle in the water, while the others went straight in. The water was always chilly there, and the trees and the hillside never let any sunlight down to warm us. The other boy—also named Mike—started talking about shrinkage. He was one of those rare few back then, back before "geek chic" was a thing, who could enthusiastically love obscure movies and made his own stop-motion videos and always had a pop culture reference at his lips, and yet he was still cool, authentically cool. Much cooler than I was.

"Shrinkage factor 15!" he exclaimed.

"You have a scale?" I asked. "Like, a measurement? What does 15 mean?"

"Dude, I just made it up right now because it was funny."

"Oh." Right. Duh.

Juliette's friend, a girl who lived around the corner from me, glided through the water scooping up clumps of algae in her hands and flicking it at us playfully. "Gross!" one of us shouted.

"It's just pond yuck," she said matter-of-factly. "It's fun to squish it."

I don't remember when I actually got in, but at some point I must have decided that hanging off to the side looked worse than taking my shirt off in front of two beautiful girls and a guy from the swim team. I imagine that other kids were just as insecure back then as I was, but I didn't know it then. Though, I guess they didn't know it about me, either.

Cold water, shrinkage, pond yuck, insecurity. That's what I remember. It was thirteen years before I came back to the swimming hole, but by then the river had moved and the rock was naked under the sky. Somewhere else along the river, kids are still flirting and playing and feeling weird, but not right there anymore.

(In case it's not clear from the title, I'm going to talk about pornography and sex work in this post. As such, it may not be appropriate for all readers or all reading environments.)

Recently, a friend of mine from high school posted a link to his Facebook feed to an essay from a Duke University freshman talking about her experience as a pornographic actress, and the negative reaction she received when her classmates found out about it. I bring this up because in the piece, the woman defends her sex work on feminist grounds, and this touches on some issues I've been struggling with for the past few years.

Now, before I say anything else, I just want to make it clear that it is not my intention here to say that women should or shouldn't do porn, that porn should or shouldn't exist, or, in general, that my thoughts on the matter ought to be important to anyone but myself. I recognize that while being a man does not disqualify me from holding opinions about feminist issues, it is not my place to say what feminism ought to mean to a woman—nor to anyone else, for that matter. All I'm trying to do here is ask some questions, to try to help me identify my own biases and figure out my own beliefs.

In the course of her article, the Duke student in question expressed a number of opinions, but the passage that has stuck in my mind is this one:

One of the facts Internet commenters have gotten very wrong is accusing me of participating in "rape fantasy porn." This is a horrifying accusation, but I absolutely understand where people are coming from. The site in question that I shot for is a rough sex website. That is how I perceived it at the time. I was not coerced or harmed in any way during the filming of the scene. Everything I did was consensual. I also stand by and defend the right of adult performers to engage in rough sex porn.

Everyone has their kinks and we should not shame anyone for enjoying something that is perfectly legal and consensual for all parties involved.

Again, just to be clear, it's not my intention to criticize this woman for either her sex work or the thoughts she expressed in her writing. This passage just happens to highlight a particular dichotomy within feminist thinking that I've been trying to reconcile, and that is basically the dichotomy between radical feminism and sex-positive feminism and how the two camps view pornography—and, by extension, many other aspects of female sexuality and the female image.

Broadly speaking—and this is likely broad to the point of inutility—radical feminism tends to see pornography as exploitative and oppressive to women, whereas sex-positive feminism tends to see it as potentially empowering, and to see attempts to stigmatize or criminalize pornography and sex work as being oppressive to women. The problem for me in trying to reconcile these two schools of thought is that both offer convincing arguments. Radical feminists argue that by explicitly depicting women as sex objects, pornography and sex work marginalize women, and reinforce and encourage patriarchal attitudes. Sex-positive feminists argue that stigmatizing pornography and sex work reinforces Victorian double-standards about female vs. male sexuality, and that women should be allowed to make their own choices about their sexuality and careers. And both of those arguments make sense to me.

It seems to me that ultimately the difference between the two camps boils down to the degree to which a person ought to be responsible for how his or her actions are perceived by other people.

In passage I quoted above, the woman talks about "rough sex porn." For those of you who are unclear what that might mean, "rough sex" pornography typically depicts sex between a physically aggressive man and a passive or submissive woman. The world of pornography is wide and varied, so there are, of course, plenty of other configurations, but by and large, this is what we're talking about. It's distinct from "rape fantasy porn" in that it's usually clear that the acts depicted are mutually consensual—though in some cases it's more vague—but nevertheless the woman takes a lot of what might otherwise be called abuse: she might be slapped, choked, gagged, spit on, physically restrained, or verbally abused, among other things. Little to no attention is paid to the woman's sexual satisfaction; she is typically only there to be used by the man for his own satisfaction.

Now, whether or not it is degrading for a woman to want to be spit on or choked during sex is not something I feel comfortable passing judgment on. It's not the sort of thing that I would want to participate in, but all I can really say is that it's none of my business what two consenting adults do in private. And insofar as the actors in a porn film are consenting adults, I agree that they should be able to choose to engage in those activities.

Where it becomes problematic for me is that pornography is not merely an act between the people being filmed, but also a product that will be used by other people, and one that depicts human sexuality and relationships in a particular way. Regardless of what the real relationship between the actors may be, there is a power dynamic being portrayed in the film, and that is going to be seen and understood by the viewers. Verbal abuse, physical violence, and spitting are actions that exist in the context of our society at large. They have existing connotations. All of those things have happened to me in my life (in a non-sexual context) and they were all manifestations of prejudice and exercises of power. I'm not saying that it is impossible for these actions to have other meanings for some people, but I think that it's naive to think that they will not be interpreted as degrading and abusive to most viewers, or, indeed, that a desire to degrade and abuse women is not the primary attraction to this type of pornography. (I have no data to support this assertion, and I recognize that I may simply be projecting my own biases, but I don't believe that's the case.) From the perspective of radical feminism, this type of pornography is bad because it encourages men to objectify and abuse women. In fact, its very existence may work to normalize that behavior—in essence saying, "See? You're not weird for wanting this."

But from the perspective of sex-positive feminism, the radical feminist argument is essentially victim-blaming. It is not a woman's responsibility to act in such a way that men will treat her (and other women) as a person, it is a man's responsibility to treat a woman like a person no matter how she looks, dresses, or expresses her sexuality. By putting that burden on the sex worker, all that's really being accomplished is taking more freedom away from women.

As far as I can tell, neither side is wrong. It is a man's responsibility to treat women like people, no matter what. But from a practical standpoint, that kind of porn does encourage anti-woman behavior.

Further complicating things is the fact that in the passage above, the woman draws a distinction between "rough sex porn," which is legal and consensual, and "rape fantasy porn," which is horrifying. But if we are truly to claim that pornography shouldn't be blamed for the attitudes of the men who watch it, and that everyone has their kinks, then why shouldn't "rape fantasies" be OK? Conversely, if we are to say that it is bad to fantasize about raping a woman, then why should it be acceptable to fantasize about slapping a woman and spitting on her?

It's difficult for me to separate my own biases—and, admittedly, my own squeamishness about the alt sex scene—from legitimate concerns about the objectification of women. I am deeply uncomfortable with pornography in general, and particularly with porn that depicts this sort of treatment, but I also can't deny that the sex-positive argument has some legitimate points, which leaves me with an unreconcilable feeling of ambivalence.

As I said, I'm here to have my assumptions challenged and my biases exposed, so if you find a flaw in my reasoning, please leave a comment and let me know. I can't promise that I will come away agreeing with you completely, but I will do my very best to keep an open mind and weigh your argument without prejudgment.

In case you were wondering about what motivated this latest layout change, it was about equal parts boredom and a desire to look more like a "real" photographer.

It's been interesting looking back at the various incarnations of this site over the years. It's been a lot of different things at different times as my interests and goals have changed. It's been a link dump, a community site, a collaborative writing system, an RPG tools repository, and a more standard blog. I don't know what it will be five years from now, or even two, but I'm looking forward to finding out.

I don't know if I ever feel more Japanese—and simultaneously less Japanese—than I do when I'm at my grandmother's house. More because almost everything I learned about being Japanese I learned from her, in her house. Less because it reminds me how little of my heritage I have in my own daily life.

I took this picture when we were visiting her for Christmas Eve. She didn't have this picture on her wall when I was a kid; I don't remember exactly when she got it. When we were young, my brother and cousins and I would take over her bedroom TV for our video game systems—at first an Atari, then a Nintendo, and so on—and the four of us would hole up in there until just before dinner while the adults did adult things out in the living room. Sometimes we'd watch movies: I remember once my dad's younger cousin came in while we were watching a VHS copy of The Neverending Story, only staying for the opening credits because he liked the song.

It seems smaller now, that room, and a lot quieter. But it makes me glad that my kids have gotten to see it and make some of their own memories there.

I drove up the windy road to the top of the hill, my headlights not going far in the twists and turns. When I arrived and got out of my car the sky was just beginning to brighten with false dawn. My breath steamed in the cold air and I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep my fingers warm. I stood there for over an hour as the sun rose.

I knew I'd been at that spot some time before—long before—but I couldn't remember when. It's an odd thing to look out at a place and have it feel familiar and strange at the same time. Maybe it was the perspective—we always lived in the canyons, and the valley looks different from the heights.

I looked out at the little crossroads and the track winding off into the distance, and I wondered where it went. This place, it's in me in a way that nowhere else ever has been. When I was a child I knew a lot of the secret spots that only children do, but even still there are things I don't know about it. If I had stayed, how many more would I know? But then, I stopped exploring before I left. With a job and a family and not much time, would I have even thought to look?

In about seven hours—at the time I'm writing this—I will have been with Juliette for half of my life. When we started dating, I was seventeen, a senior in high school. Now I'm thirty-four, and we have a mortgage, a dog, two kids, and a third on the way. She has seen every step of my adult life, and then some—and I hers. Seventeen years ago, we couldn't have known what we were getting into, where we'd be a whole lifetime hence, and now here we are, and what a life it is. I'm thankful every day to have gotten to share my life with her, and to get to keep on doing so.

Before I lived with you I never made the bed.

I never really cared how the bed looked, whether I was in it or not, and in any case I didn't see the point in spending the time straightening up a bed I was just going to mess up again half a day hence, and which no one who didn't live with me would be seeing.

Honestly, I still don't really see the point.

But you like the bed to be made, and so I do. Every day.

It's not my favorite part of my day, and it's not the worst. I don't take any joy or pride in the work or the result. It still doesn't matter to me. But it's because it doesn't matter to me that I do it, because it's something I do only for you, only because you like it. It's something I can do, a small thing, to make you happy and let you know that you are loved.

If there's one thing I do like about making the bed, it's getting to see the evidence that you were beside me in the night. When you're not here, I wake up in the morning to find your side unmussed, unrumpled, un-slept in—of course. It makes the job easier, but it makes me sad.

Tomorrow when I get up, you'll most likely be gone already, taking Jason to school or running an errand. When I strip the comforter, I'll look and see the morning light caressing the wrinkled topsheet, and I'll think of us together. And then I'll run my hands across the fabric, smoothing it out, fluffing and stacking the pillows, pulling the blanket straight. Because that's the way you like it, and because I love you.

In 2013 I read the most books of any year since I started keeping a reading log (39); I saw about the same number of movies as I have every year since Jason was born (8); and I wrote fewer reviews than I have in this history of this blog (2). By now, I'm past pretending that there will ever be a regular review column here anymore, but I nevertheless find it somewhat comforting to take time now and then to reflect on the stories and pop culture I've taken in. Thus, here are a few impressions of the previously unreviewed movies and books from 2013:

Books:

The Engineer Trilogy, by K. J. Parker: A number of people whose opinions I respect spoke highly of K. J. Parker's work in general, and of this series in particular, so I was excited to finally check it out. But although I do agree that Parker's writing was excellent, I nevertheless found this story quite unenjoyable. As I put it to a friend when I was midway through the second book, "If I am not interested in any of the characters, why should I care about anything they do? If I don't care about any of the characters or anything they do, what is left to care about in a narrative story?"

Abbaddon's Gate, by James S. A. Corey: I have really enjoyed seeing how this series has progressed from its pre-publication roots to this latest installment, and I'm really looking forward to the next one. In terms of balancing entertainment and literary value, this was probably the best thing I read all year.

The Wheel of Time series, by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson: I started reading this series in middle school, and gave up on it in college, at which point it was still only about two-thirds finished. Coming back to it as an adult was interesting—on the one hand revisiting the places and characters I had loved as a kid was very nostalgic, even comforting. On the other hand, the poor writing was much harder to look past. Still, it was nice to finally get some closure on it.

The Gentleman Bastards series, by Scott Lynch: I don't think I would ever have thought to put a series of caper stories into a high fantasy setting, but the results were highly entertaining. I'm very much looking forward to where this series goes next.

Steelheart, by Brandon Sanderson: Sanderson has been kind of hit-or-miss for me, but I think that the fact that this story is explicitly for a YA audience makes it work a lot better for me than some of his previous work.

The Lord of the Rings, by J. R. R. Tolkien: I used to go back and re-read this along with The Hobbit every year, so this was probably the tenth or so time I've read it. It's been quite a while since the last time—almost a decade—but it remains one of my favorites.

The Dresden Files, books 7-14, by Jim Butcher: I read these eight books in two weeks, and the only reason I stopped there is because the next one hasn't been released yet. Loads of fun.

Blood of Tyrants, by Naomi Novik: I'm not sure that Novik's worldbuilding has been very consistent across this entire series, but nonetheless her stories are pretty entertaining. I'm in for the long haul on this series.

Movies:

Quartet: This was a small and, as far as I know, fairly unknown movie, but for all that I think it was probably my favorite of the year. A really lovely story about aging and music.

Admission: Going into this one, I expected it to be boring, predictable, and mostly unfunny with a sprinkling of excruciating awkwardness. And although that turned out to be more or less correct, getting to have dinner and a movie with Juliette is always nice.

Star Trek Into Darkness: After this one ended Juliette asked me if I liked it, and my response to her was that it wasn't really a Star Trek movie but, all the same, I still enjoyed the heck out of it. I'm not sure it will hold up to repeat viewings, but the writers knew just how to hit me, a lifelong fan, where I live.

Monsters University: I ended up liking this one much more than I thought I would. I still don't know that it was really necessary—few sequels and even fewer prequels are—but it had its moments, for sure.

Planes: It's funny how a completely mediocre and forgettable movie can be made so much better by seeing it with your five-year-old son.

12 Years a Slave: This movie was brilliantly acted, beautifully filmed, and near perfectly executed. It is an important film, one that has been and will continue to be rightly showered with awards. I think I may be a better person for having seen it. And I never, ever want to see it again.

Anchorman 2: There was simply no way that this movie could ever have the impact or quotability of the original, but despite the fact that it recycled a bit too much from the first one, I still laughed my ass off quite a few times.

As the old saying goes: "Let sleeping dogs be the subject of your photographs." No, wait, that doesn't sound quite right.

Is it getting to be too much, this whole dark photo thing I seem to be doing? You'd tell me if it were, wouldn't you?