5/30/11

Paganism as an Alternative to Victorian-ism in Tess of the D'Urbervilles

The Victorian period is generally invoked as an era of strict morals, exaggerated class distinctions, and sexual repression - overall, an epoch of artificiality and appearances. Thomas Hardy, among other authors and artists of the time, objected to the censorship that these strict sensibilities imposed. In his Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Hardy uses elements of paganism as a direct contrast to the unnaturalness of the Victorian rules, values, and morals that are featured in the novel. Throughout the course of the narration, this is obvious in Tess's sexuality and spirituality and in how others perceive her.

Hardy opens the novel by showing the village "club walking," a sort of Christianized version of the pagan holiday Beltane, traditionally a celebration of fertility: "In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand and in her left a bunch of white flowers" (8). The white dress symbolizes Tess's innocence, while the flowers and the wand respectively represent the pagan Goddess and God. The ceremony indicates the persistence of the older, more natural religion, and thus sexuality, within and despite the staid confines of Victorian Christianity. However, Tess is unaware of the origins of the festival, much as she is unaware of her own sensuality. When Alec bedecks her with strawberries and flowers (much like a High Priestess would be dressed in elaborate nature costumes for a ceremony), she becomes "aware of the spectacle she presented to their surprised vision" upon returning to the public eye (39). Pamela Jekel writes that Tess's acceptance of Alec's costuming is "the clearest note of Tess's [sexual] ambiguity... obviously a symbol of nature forced before its natural ripening..." (169). The implication is that Tess is not just pagan, but symbolic of nature in and of itself. And what, in an age that valued industrialization and urbanization, was more outside conventions than nature? Even her later rape-seduction at Alec's hands seems to imply the same sort of relationship between she and Alec as the earth and industrialized society- as much as Tess and the earth give, Alec and mankind persist in taking. However, one cannot say that Alec's attraction to Tess is unrequited; Hardy makes numerous references to how flattered Tess is by his attentions and to how captivated she is by his looks. He seems to imply "that the physical attraction that Tess feels toward Alec is natural," urging "exclusion from the sphere of moral judgement. In a less artificial world Tess might have regarded her relationship with Alec as a freely available option" (Ingham 146). This "less artifical world" could be something like the earlier world, when paganism was predominant, or our modern world, where paganism and the sensuality traditionally associated with it are re-emerging.

When Tess returns to Marlott, Hardy emphasizes that she is the one who has been wronged rather than the one in the wrong by exploring her spiritual life. To escape the condemnation of her mother and other neighbors, Tess begins to spend time outside, communing with nature much as a practicing pagan would, where
                   she looked upon herself as a figure of Guilt intruding 
                   into the haunts of Innocence. But all the while, she was 
                   making a distinction where there was no difference. 
                   Feeling herself in antagonism, she was quite in accord. 
                   She had been made to break an accepted social law, 
                   but no law known to the environment in which she 
                   fancied herself such an anomaly. (85)
This clearly expresses that in natural, or pagan, circumstances Tess has committed no crime. Hardy is saying that it is only society, specifically Victorian society, that thinks of sex as wrong or immoral. When her un-baptized son, the aptly named Sorrow, falls ill slightly later in the narrative, Hardy has Tess baptize him herself, a scene which in its spontaneity bears remarkable similarity to a spell a modern-day pagan might perform. "Tess stood erect with the infant on her arm beside the basin... and thus the girl set about baptizing her child... The children gazed up at her with... reverence... She did not look like Sissy to them now, but as a being large, towering and awful - a divine personage..." (94-95). In bypassing the structure of the Church, Tess employs the pagan principle of communing directly with the divine and, in doing so, becomes divine herself. Patricia Ingham makes the additional note that the midnight baptism is not only a reflection on the over-involvement of the clergy of the Anglican Church in personal spiritual matters, but an indictment of the stigma that Victorian morality insisted on attaching to children born out of wedlock. "Hardy is moving towards beliefs subversive of the whole of established society as constructed by the State, the Church, and other institutions" (Ingham 146-147). Before moving on to the next phase of Tess's life, Hardy makes the final commentary, "She became... a woman whom the turbulent experiences of the last year... had quite failed to demoralize. But for the world's opinion those experiences would have been simply a liberal education" (99). In other words, what Tess has done and been through should be viewed far from being as scandalous as Victorian sensibilities would have us consider them; they should be regarded as necessary and beneficial to her development as a human being.

It is important to note how Tess's unflagging positive attitude, especially where Victorian society would have her downtrodden or ashamed, affects the way she is perceived. It is this attitude, this fortitude and persistence of character, which allows the reader to sympathize with Tess rather than detest her. It is not long after her infant's death that Tess, in response to her family's financial needs, departs Marlott to go work at Talbothay's dairy. it is at Talbothay's that Tess meets Angel Clare, a parson's son, who, though a well-read and philosophical man, has chosen to go into agriculture rather than religion. He notes "what a fresh and virginal daughter of nature [Tess] is" (121). In Victorian terms, this is merely ironic, but when regarded through the perspective of paganism, it is one of the most apt statements made about Tess in the course of the novel. She is a virgin in the same way Nature is virginal - her virginity is self-renewing. Although she has been seduced, she is still an innocent, mostly thanks to her positive attitude. Later, when exploring their mutual attraction, Angel perceives her in an even more pagan sense - as a goddess. "She was... a whole sex condensed into one typical form. He called her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names..." (131). The two marry before Tess divulges her previous involvement with Alec. When she comes out with it, Angel, despite his attempts at freethinking and an affair of his own, is disgusted with her. Hardy reveals here one of the double-standards of Victorian society, typified by a divorce law which allowed a man to "divorce his wife for even a single act of adultery; [whereas] a wife needed to prove not only adultery by her husband but also some aggravating factor such as incest, bigamy, sodomy, bestiality, or extreme cruelty" (Ingham 57). He abandons Tess, becoming "the slave to custom and conventionality..." (267). But this only reveals yet another of Tess's pagan qualities: despite Angel's abandonment, her family's financial straits, and her own needs and hardships, she remains loyal to him and continues to work for his betterment, just as nature remains faithful to and continues to work for man. "The essence of goodness that such a devotion implies" serves to reprimand both Angel and the society that approves his actions (Jekel 160). However, Tess is human; faced with her family's homelessness and finally despairing of Angel's return, she allows the still persistent Alec to support her and whisk her off to the city.

Angel eventually rethinks and casts off the fetters of Victorian-ism in favor of more natural pagan standards, much as Hardy would have his readers do. "The old appraisements of morality... wanted readjusting... The beauty or ugliness of a character lay... not among things done, but among things willed" (348). Making Tess, a woman who never set out to offend anyone, above reproach: it is only the unnatural societal standards she is held to that paint her as a villain. Angel returns for her, and the two proceed to spend several days on the run, until Tess is arrested at Stonehenge for Alec's murder, and is summarily hanged. This can be interpreted as poetic justice since she gets what Victorian sensibilities would see as her just desserts - she, a pagan, is 'sacrificed' on a pagan altar - but it also serves as an indictment of a society that, with its unnatural expectations, drives an innocent woman to her death. Yes, Tess is a sacrifice - but it is Victorian sensibilities doing the sacrificing.




Works Cited

  • Casey, Ellen Miller. "'Other People's Prudery': Mary Elizabeth Braddon." Literature Resource Center. Vol. 111. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. web. 7 April 2010.
  • Cohen, William A. "Sex, Scandal, and the Novel." The Victorian Web. Duke University, 1996. Web. 7 April 2010.
  • Hardy, Thomas. Tess of the D'Urbervilles. New York City, New York: Signet Classic, 1999. Print.
  • Ingham, Patricia. Thomas Hardy. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003. Print.
  • Jekel, Pamela L. "Tess Durbeyfield." Thomas Hardy's Heroines: A Chorus of Priorities. United States: Pamela Jekel, 1986. 156-177. Print.

Personblem

It's just past two am, and you've been gone for an hour.

All I want is to curl up next to you and forget about the rest of the world, because I know you and I actually could.

I'd say it's indescribably scary, but I suspect you know exactly the feeling I refer to. (More sensation than words, tears cascading down a smile.)

I can't quite sleep for thinking of you. I imagine talking with you as much as being held by you, which is a totally new experience for me. Your mind (located in your skull) is a total turn-on. (Though perhaps turn-on is not quite the word, as it goes far deeper than the merely sexual.)

There's a point to this little ramble, I'm (almost) certain.

Love?

Oh, dear Goddess, I typed the word. There's no taking it back now, so I'm going to proceed to qualify the ever-loving (damnit!) stuffing out of it.

I don't believe in love at first sight. I don't even believe in love at first fuck. Love is a process, not a step: one does not fall in love; one flies into it. It has taken no effort, therefore it cannot be love.

Oh, by all the mistakes I've ever made, I have a problem.

Holy Spirit, do I have a problem.

Heroism in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

Despite only totaling 45 minutes in length, Joss Whedon's Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog is an exceedingly rich film. One of the many themes explored in the musical is the question of what makes a hero. Three paradigms of heroism are presented in the persons of the "worst villain ever," Dr. Horrible, "Justice's other name," Captain Hammer, and their mutual love interest, Penny.

Although the titular character, Dr. Horrible, is consistently referred to as a villain, his motivations and methods make him less a model of an evil genius than of a revolutionary. The mad scientist figure only wants to "change the world" - and get the cute girl from the laundromat (Penny) to notice him. Unable to overcome his awkwardness to either work within the political system to improve the world he despairs of ("Any dolt with half a brain can see that human kind has gone insane") or to speak to the girl he desperately longs to have a "real, audible connection" with, he turns instead to the building of a trans-matter ray to steal gold bars out of a bank vault and a freeze ray to stop time so he can "find the time to find the words" to talk to Penny. Dr. Horrible represents the extreme but good-intentioned hero, overlooked but powerful in his own right.

In contrast, his nemesis, "Captain Hammer - Captain Hammer, corporate tool," represents the celebrity hero, lauded by the system and motivated less by the opportunity to improve the world than by the fame and women that come attached. In his memorable introductory scene, Captain Hammer foils Dr. Horrible's van heist, announcing "Captain Hammer's here, hair blowing in the breeze - the day needs my saving expertise." This expertise calls for the hero to punch and destroy the device Dr. Horrible is using to control the van, before abandoning the careening vehicle in order to flirt with a cute female bystander, proudly informing her that, "the only doom that's looming is you loving me to death." The viewer's opinion of Captain Hammer and what the city perceives as his heroics only diminishes as he is shown wiping off his hand after being greeted by a homeless man, cruelly mocking Dr. Horrible with his relationship with Penny, and beating up an unarmed Dr. Horrible (pausing so a tourist can get a picture), culminating in his horrifyingly satirical number, "Everyone's a Hero." Set at the dedication of a homeless shelter, the song, sung in lieu of a speech, informs enraptured citizens in the audience that they're all heroes in their own ways as they've "all got villains they must face," and if those villains are not as cool as his then "it's fine to know your place" before assuring them that if they're "not a frigging 'tard" they "will prevail."

The third paradigm of heroism is shown in the the "quiet, nerdy" Penny. Called neither a hero nor a villain, Penny is the Every Man character, dressed in colorful clothes where Dr. Horrible and Captain Hammer wear either black or white. But while the two men spend the duration of the musical squabbling over her, Penny is dedicatedly working with the homeless, making a small but tangible difference in the world when she successfully campaigns to get the city to donate a condemned building as a new homeless shelter. However, Dr. Horrible dismisses her efforts as "treating a symptom while the disease rages on" and Captain Hammer engages in her cause only because he "might just sleep with the same girl twice." Penny represents the sincere, everyday hero, unacknowledged as she works within the political system to improve society, aspiring not to rule the world ala Dr. Horrible or garner fame ala Captain Hammer, but to be "hope." Indeed, the crowning tragedy of the film is that Penny is killed in the midst of Captain Hammer and Dr. Horrible's power struggle, and is summarily ignored by the press as "Whats-Her-Name" and "Heroes Girlfriend, (sic)" representing the ways in which our society overlooks similar heroic figures.

Whereas Dr. Horrible embodies an extreme hero working outside the system and Captain Hammer personifies a hero so integrated into the system he has ceased to be effective, only Penny's brand of heroism, using the system to further her ends, seems to get results, thus answering the question of what makes a hero.

5/27/11

Gifts

You burn into me and you change me, leave me wanting and desperate, yet all the more complete for my lack. You push me and you pull me into being better, terrifying me that I'll backslide and become worse. I smile and cry simultaneously, shocked by the beauty of the precipice. (Danger has its own appeal.)

I'm not sure if silence is the eye of the storm or an indication that there is no storm at all. I fill the emptiness with the sounds of forever, only to discover that there's a fair bit of the minor keys in them. Flight is often mistaken for falling and falling identified as taking flight, to the point that I'm not sure anyone knows which is which, or even if there's any difference.

I used to make a point of distinguishing possibilities from promises, of saying that a kiss was just a kiss. I'm no longer sure such distinctions are fair. We have to have indications of where we stand, and words have proven more subject to change than sand. So possibilities are not promises, but they could be. (That's why we call them "possible.")

If you're always leaning back and never leaning forward, eventually the other person will fall out of their seat. From there, they usually walk away. It's all very well to see what you're getting before you give any back, but people stop giving if they're getting nothing for their pains. Make it a process, not a step. (It's rather mercenary, but there you go.)

I'm standing at the edge of the precipice with you burned into me, leaning forward as you lean back. It's a possibility that I might promise you flight, even as silence heralds a storm. I'm wanting something I may never receive, and half of me is okay with that. You've already given me something, already changed me - a kiss has never meant so much.

5/26/11

What Forever Could Mean

Time seemed not to pass, caught up in sunshine and nature sounds. Silence was only time to think, and conversation fuel for the fire.

When the clock reminded us that we had places to be, we sighed, and shifted reluctantly. At that moment, forever seemed like it would be easy to achieve.

But we yielded to the clock, as we knew we must, swimming ashore into time's grip, passing indoors to society. The lights became fluorescent, and the fire guttered out, the silence as oppressive as a shroud.

Should we glance out the window, however, we would see the edge of what forever could mean.

Non-Negotiables

  • Honest/Hard-working
  • Open-minded/Adventurous
  • Sociable
  • Artistic/Passionate
  • Witty
  • Confident
  • Articulate
  • Curious/Scholarly

Love is just a word until someone gives it meaning, and this is just a checklist that may never mean anything.

5/24/11

Pheonix

It's not always easy to recognize that you are wrong, especially when you've been deceiving yourself all along.

("You confuse the crap out of yourself," he observed.)

But I was wrong, and the realization (late though it is) is a relief. Everything is simplified when one knows what one believes.

("What was I thinking?" I demanded.

"I don't know!" he replied. "You tell me.")

Skip three months ahead, as my best friend laughs. Everything's falling into place. It's simple and scary and it keeps me up at night, smiling into my pillow. (Possibilities are almost as enchanting as promises.)

("You do?!" he exclaimed when I confessed it all. "YES! Gigantic red stamp of approval.")

I've been broken; I've been repaired. I've been angry; I've been hurt. I've been stupid; I've been naive. I've been cynical; I've been charmed. And yes: I've been wrong.

Things end, but I won't regret them: every mistake is merely a lesson.

I Do Love to Win Things....

On May 6, 2011, "Loves Her...," the opening excerpt from Pluck the Petals from a Daisy won second place in Steward House's weekly contest. However, once more, I feel as though the review completely misses my point. The piece is not about "relentless pursuit," but about desire and inaction. Of course, if you read my recent post about the novel the piece is excerpted from, then you have a fair bit more insight into it than did the editors at Steward House. Nevertheless, a placement is a placement.

By the by, while you're there, you should definitely read Keayva Mitchell's "The Remedy," the first place that week. The poem is absolutely amazing.

5/23/11

Chances & Odds

Can I take a chance on you?

I'm slow to decide, but I won't stop once I've made up my mind.

I think you're probably worth the time, and even mistakes will be a worthy investment.

So, before I gamble, will you tell me the odds?

What are the chances that "happily-some-time-after" is in the cards?

5/22/11

Phase Two

I would rather regret the things I have done than the things I haven't. ("What if"s have proven far too pesky for my palate.)

And thus shall I proceed.

Phase Two:

Implement.

5/17/11

Pluck the Petals from a Daisy

I decided on a title for Carnelia's story: Pluck the Petals from a Daisy. This functions on several levels.

First off, Bellis, Carnelia's last name, is the latin name for a daisy. To pluck the petals off a daisy is to pull Carnelia's life away from her - the extent to be assessed by the reader.

Daisies are also associated with innocence, particularly in Victorian flower language. (I'm a huge sucker for the Victorians' everyday use of floral symbolism.) The loss of petals is suggestive of Carnelia's loss of innocence, and, with the association with her name, of her identity.

You are likely familiar with the practice of pulling petals off daisies, saying "(S)he loves me, (s)he loves me not," alternating with each petal. A large portion of the novel concerns Carnelia and Elec guessing at whether or not the other loves them or is capable of love at all. More importantly, it's about Carnelia's uncertainty about whether or not her succubus status means that she has lost the love of the society she was raised in - and of the Christian God that dominates it.

Of course, plucking the petals off a daisy is a very passive way of living one's life, and central to the novel is the necessity of living actively. Does Carnelia take charge of her life? I'll have to finish writing it before you can find out.

~*~

You've probably noticed that in addition to chapter drafts, I've been posting what I've called here "Elec's Excerpts." I felt like the story needed some additional perspective to balance out Carnelia's very opinionated narrative. Although it may be obvious to experienced readers the ways in which Carnelia's story-telling is biased, I want it to be equally obvious to less perceptive readers that they're not getting the whole tale in the chapters. Hence, I've decided to insert excerpts from Elec's notebooks between chapters, although the author will not be named to the readers until far into the story.

The novel's design currently looks something like this:

1. "Loves Her...," presenting the primary themes and some of the title implications.

2. Chapter One, introducing Carnelia and showing the reader how she interacts with her friends.

3. "Identification," suggesting that Carnelia's place in the world is more flexible than Carnelia would like to think.

4. Chapter Two, introducing Elec and giving the reader an idea of their dynamic.

5. "The Post-Modern Narrative," tipping readers off that Carnelia is not the Fountain of Truth, and calling attention to the frequency of Carnelia's insistence that she dislikes Elec.

6. Chapter Three, showing how Carnelia and Elec interact with acquaintances.

7. "A Challenge," revealing how Elec views his relationship with Carnelia. This will most likely be turned into verse.

8. Chapter Four (which will not be up for a long while, although it has been drafted), demonstrating how Carnelia interacts with strangers and broaching her sexuality directly for the first time. 



Stay tuned. ;)

A Heart Worth Breaking (draft 4)

"You're one of those people who could get your heart broken and never even notice."

She cringed inwardly, feeling tears gather in her lashes, but her face remained impassive.

"You're a cold, hard bitch, and immoral to boot," he continued, not angry, but as calm as fact. "I don't understand the appeal, personally, but there are plenty of poor saps who fall all over themselves for you."

Her lips twitched violently to one side. But she quickly replaced the facade.

"And you just don't care," he marveled, shaking his head at her. "You go on with your life, collecting hearts, breaking them, then tossing them over your shoulder. And you dance and smile all the while."

His face turned ugly, the plastic smile broken by a sneer.

Anger boiled up to just below her throat, tasting of copper. What did he know?

He leaned over her, and she could smell the acid scent of accusation in his sweat.

"You're the worst kind of girl," he spat.

She sat silent, tears and anger meeting in her vocal chords, muting her as they struggled with each other for control.

There was only so much a girl without a heart worth breaking could do.

She kicked him in the shin, forcing him back. The resulting epithets were ignored; they were nothing new.

With a furious calm, she stood.

"A minor point of correction," she said, her tone mild. "I'm one of those people who could never get my heart broken because I only ever notice."

Failed Connection

If I were to call you, would you answer?

Or would you look at your phone like the caller ID was making a mistake, and click my call over to voicemail?

I suspect the latter.

I suppose I care, otherwise I'd not be writing about it at all.

I don't think I'll call you, though. You might answer, and we'd connect (I'm not sure how I'd feel about that). Or you may ignore the call, leaving me even more pissed off than I was before.

There are few things more frustrating than a failed connection.

Night Ride

It's not smart to be awake like this, far into the night with school on the horizon with the sun. But even as the music tugs at my tear ducts like threads of blue lightning, something is bothering me.

It's unusual for my male friends to chime in on my love life, but I feel like I've just heard a glockenspiel symphony. And all in harmony, a major key.

I'm considering (agreeing with) their opinion, even as a part of me knocks on my internal camera lens.

"Hold up," she says, one eyebrow raised, "you don't have enough information."

Which cues a flashback to Tamora, leaning against her desk, laughing.

"If I have enough information, you have enough information."

Right. That settles (nothing) that, then.

The internal me rocks back on her heels and examines her nails, like she's already won out against the glockenspiels, even though her victory is far from assured.

"I don't need victory, witch," she informs me coolly, not glancing up. "I only need to get you to ride your own broomstick."

Her eyes pierce me through the camera, cold and dry, brighter than the dawn.

"Especially through the lightning storm."

5/15/11

A Miracle

'Kay, so I like you.

A lot more than I usually like people whom I haven't known for years. (Usually, I kind of passively like people until that point, almost by default.) And you definitely have not been hanging around that long.

But, for some reason, I actively like you.

It's verra, verra strange, and I'm kind of marveling at it.

To clarify, we're not talking about attraction. That's common, and usually does not take likability into account. Attraction is easy. Likability takes effort.

So, what is it about you? Why do you get to skip the line into my "like" zone? Got any theories?

Can it be so simple and narcissistic as you reminding me of myself? You are a writer, a musician, and interested in various esoterica, outgoing with a thin shell of introversion.

Maybe. But there are other people who answer to your description, and they're still caught in line, being liked by default.

Could it be that you remind me of multiple other people whom I like? You do call to mind several examples, invoking many levels of trust and humor and positive residual vibrations.

Then again, does it really matter why I like you? Mayhap you're just special.

So, congrats, doll. You get to be a miracle.

Prize Fight

I'm confused and I don't like it.

I prefer things to be clear-cut and subject to logic, which pretty much leaves me at a complete disadvantage in the romance arena. (As it has been pointed out to me many times, romance is not rational.)

So, now I undertake the funfortunate task of attempting to beat my heart into submitting to reason, or alternately, choking my brain into submitting to romance. Whichever happens to win out.

Now would be the time to place your bets. (If you're astute, you already know which is the underdog.)

5/13/11

Breaking a Facade

You're not what you say you are.

That's excusable; few people are consistent with their claims.

It bugs the crap out of me, though.

You're a great guy and you don't need to try to convince people that you're awesome. You already are.

You are clearly passionate. You have a rational mindset but are a romantic at heart: you dream about finding that mythical connection. You're considerate, once you forget about what other people might be thinking about you. (You should forget about that far more often.) You view life as an adventure.

There's more that I can't see, that I know is there, that I'm curious about.

Because you are afraid, that connection that you so desperately want is difficult to forge.

You are afraid that you aren't good enough. You are afraid that you aren't bad ass enough. You are afraid that you're not charming enough. You are afraid that you're not interesting enough. You are afraid of failure and rejection and success.

But you are good enough. Being bad ass is over-rated, and charm comes in multiple flavors. You're one of the most interesting people I know. And failure and rejection and success? All just symptoms of living: nothing personal.

So, no, you're not what you say you are.

You're better than that.

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter Three, Draft 9

Ms. Ferrous talked right up to the bell, leaving us poor students to scramble to get our things in order if we wanted to take advantage of the valuable social time between classes.

I scooped my notebook up as I stood, slinging my messenger bag onto my chair, and calmly squeezed the binder between two others. I left my pen behind my ear. I didn't have that far to go.

"Hey, Carnelia."

I glanced up to see none other than Zachary Hicks standing across the aisle from my desk, thumb hooked beneath one strap of his book-bag.

Hm. Imagine that.

I pulled my bag across my body and straightened.

"How fare thee, Zachary," I said as I began to make my way toward the door. "Were you amputated over the summer?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice coming from just behind my right shoulder.

I sighed and paused as I cleared the classroom door, waiting for him to catch up. I may as well get it over with.

I'd expected him to take far longer than this to approach me: a week, at least.

It took him all of six seconds to draw even with me.

Zachary Hicks stood slightly taller than I did in modest heels, putting him at about 5'10". He kept his brown hair cropped close to his scalp, and was only nominally clean-shaven. He suffered the predominately male affliction of CFTLF (Clothes Far Too Large for the Frame syndrome), making him look smaller than he physically was.

"Your other body," I clarified, gesturing to his hip. "Are you experiencing phantom limb syndrome?"

"Uh...."

I rolled my eyes. Must I say everything?

"Rena. Do you mean to tell me you weren't actually physically attached to her?"

He blushed, shifting from foot to foot. He knocked into a passing sophomore, who gave him a reproachful look as she continued on her way.

He got over both quickly.

"Nah," he drawled, assuming an odd smirk-grimace that I suppose was meant to be a confident smile. "I was never that in to her. She just couldn't keep her hands off of me."

Said the guy who'd all but begged Rena Dalton to go out with him at the end of freshman year and hadn't been seen without her since that minute. It had been scandalous to suggest they actually slept in separate beds, even separate houses.

He read my disbelief in the arch of my left eyebrow.

Well, possibly in the accompanying laughter as well.

He sagged.

"Okay, yeah. We broke up back in June," was the concession. "But," came the recovery, "I'm totally over her now, and I want to take out the most beautiful girl in the school."

I looked left. I looked right.

The halls were almost empty.

Well, there went that hope.

"Awww.... Flattery will get you everywhere you don't want to go," I purred, sweet as poisoned Swedish Fish. "Try a girl who doesn't know all the sordid details of your... performance."

Poor Zachary went pale.

I turned and started down the hall to Ms. Cane's classroom.

"I'll tell Rena you said 'hi,'" I called back. "I'm sure she'll laugh herself silly."

~*~

Ms. Cane's classroom was unchanged from the previous year. There was the same fluorescent lighting smothered into dimness by the dragon posters that papered the walls, the same area rug reading "Here There Be Dragons" at the center of the room that one should never step on under any circumstances, and the same angular horseshoe of desks surrounding it. Say what you will about Ms. Cane, but you could count on her classroom to be consistent.

Matthew had saved me the seat at the corner of the bottom of the horseshoe, as far away from the Cane's desk as possible while maintaining a view of the board. I deposited my bag and slid into the chair just as the late bell rang.

Matthew pulled off his glasses to polish them and shot me a disapproving look.

Dead-pan, I leaned in conspiratorially.

"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a fuddy duddy?'" I intoned.

My friend paused, but I saw the smile, quickly concealed, begin to grow on his lips.

"'Nobody ever seems to tell me anything else,'" he replied, slipping his glasses back into place.

"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a sexy fuddy duddy?'" I continued.

He couldn't help himself. His smile burst free across his face, making his burnished skin assume a friendly glow.

"'That part usually gets left out,'" he finished the lines from "The Dark Age." "'I can't imagine why.'"

I grinned back at him, and reached out to hug him before he could remember that he didn't approve of smiling, fun, or humanity in a school environment.

"Y'all are so cute," Rena Dalton's sweet Southern voice drawled, causing me to jerk and poor Matthew to sputter when I accidentally choked him. "I'll never understand why y'all don't date."

I settled back into my chair, realizing that, in my haste, I'd overlooked the ash-blonde in the desk kitty-corner to mine.

"Rena," I chided lightly, "for shame. Now you've embarrassed Matthew. He'll never forgive you."

"Doesn't take much to make that one blush," someone muttered darkly.

My eyes darted to Elec in the seat behind Rena.

Great. Stuck near him for another class. Time to ignore him. I didn't hear him; I didn't see him. Right.

"Sorry, Matthew," Rena was saying. Matthew nodded, eyes pretending to be magnets attracted to the North Pole of his desk. "I really just don't understand it, though. Y'all even like the same sort of things." She brushed one silky tendril back behind her ear as she rested her forearms on her desk. "I don't understand half the things y'all say."

Elec leaned forward so the heat of his breath would hit the shell of her ear as he stage-whispered honey to her.

"That's because you're far too genuine to want to spend hours exploring obscure sub-cultures. You're more concerned with understanding regular people."

He kept his position and made eye contact with her when she rotated to look at him, giggling and blushing. I nearly gagged as he held her gaze and smiled slowly, turning Rena's cheeks a deeper shade of pink.

He was so transparent.

Although admittedly good at reading people.

"'Nelia and I aren't suited," Matthew said calmly, opening his notebook as though most of that entire interchange had not taken place. "She would chew me up and spit me out faster than a cannibal would spinach."

Rena's attention snapped back to us, her nose wrinkling.

"Ewww! Thanks so much for that image!" She shuddered.

"SNACKRIFICES!"

The class jumped as one, refocusing on the seemingly innocuous older woman standing, hands folded, in front of the whiteboard.

She smiled ever-so-sweetly once she was sure she had us.

"I hope that none of you have virgin minds or that's what you'll be," she continued at a normal volume. "To get through this course intact, you're going to have to be an enthusiastic and expert learner. Enthusiasm will not make up for a lack of expertise, nor will expertise compensate for a dearth of enthusiasm."

Her smile became sinister.

"I'm Ms. Cane," she turned to the board, her disguise of Sweet Old Lady, so glaringly incongruous with her personality, back in place. "Let's get started."

I grinned as I pulled out my binder.

There was a reason the Cane was my favorite teacher.

I couldn't help but notice that Elec was grinning, too.

A Thread of Blue Lightning

A thread of blue lightning pulls us into the sky, with all the cheerfully ironic parallels between free-fall and flight. The latter is delightful and the former a scare, but both taste like clouds and freedom. There is a very thin thread to differentiate pain from pleasure.

I could fly into you, but instead find that I fall, and it's difficult to find the joy in that, especially when I don't want to see it. (Blue lightning is not a choice.)

Wednesday precedes Thursday, but it's always Woden who gets that last laugh in. (He plays with poetry and Thor just likes brute force.) Lightning is far more dangerous than thunder, but free-fall and flight are much the same. Thus do the two gods balance out.

A thread of blue lightning, and we shall both free-fall and fly.

5/9/11

Contest Winnings

On April 22, my poem, "The (Elusive) Answer to Lonely" won first place in the Steward House Weekly Contest. Normally, I am quite happy with the reviews Steward House provides, but in this case I believe that they have merely summarized my poem and, in the process, done it an injustice.

If you would like to read more of my poetry, it can be found at my All Poetry page.

Radio Silence

Does it bother you when I don't text or call?

I'm proud not to have contacted you, even though there's so much I want to say. I tell myself you wouldn't hear it, anyway. I want to say that I'm sorry that I noticed too late, that I really want to see you, that I want you to stay away, that the memory of your smile hits me beneath the ribs at random points throughout my day.

But I don't text you; I don't call. My pride isn't worth it, especially when you've nothing to say at all.

5/5/11

On Deck

You're just a siren and I'm just a fool, lashed to my mast by reason alone. Your counter-culture song tempts me to jump - but those are rocks beneath the water, not your arms.

Luck is a construction, built of choice and expectations. You think it a current, something to pull ships along, but the perspective's a bit different from on deck. (Reason's the only thing keeping me from the water.)

Yeah, I want to swim with you, lose myself to the current and to you, but fools are notorious for wanting what's worst for them. (Rocks, I remind myself, not arms.)

But sing on, siren: it's beautiful to hear. And half the joy in sailing past is the fear that the rope (oh, strong reason) will break.

The Downside

The downside to writing is that it forces you to think. And it's not like you can choose not to write - who you are becomes bound up in pen and ink.

So you're stuck. Words whirl through you, plucking knowledge from the air and waving it in front of your face, even though you were trying-to-ignore-that-particular-factoid-thank-you-ever-so-much. The words give form to every truth you didn't want to admit.

"Here are the roots of things," writing points out, brandishing a word in the direction of the ground. "They're ugly and tangled up in each other, inextricably connected to each other and to you. And the farther down you dig, the more of them you'll find."

I should be awestruck, grateful. Writing is showing me something incredible, the universal bones that most people never see. But I am only frustrated, agitated. The ability is an obligation.

Because the first layer of roots does not belong to the wider world - it belongs to you.

The downside of writing is that it forces you to know things. And it's not like you can choose what you know - who you are is the first lesson you have to learn before you can even begin to grow.

For a Moment

I slammed to a stop with a delighted smile, the hard plastic barrier digging into my hip, turning me to see him sliding smoothly to a standstill, at ease on the ice.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his lips slightly upturned with humor and concern.

"Yeah!" I exclaimed. "That was fun!"

"Do you know what else is fun?" he asked, eyeing me speculatively.

"No," I laughed, still grinning and breathless. "What?"

He pulled off his beanie, leaving it crumpled on the wall, and extended his hands to me, smile still there, but banished to the bare corners of his lips.

My stomach simultaneously sank and jumped.

"You're kidding me."

But I put my hands in his.

"Trust me."

He began to skate, blades flashing into the ice, glinting and glimmering like glitter in a heartbeat, pulling me forward with him.

For a moment, it felt strange, as though I had to rely on him, on his beauty and strength, as though I could do no more than match my skates to his and follow.

For a moment.

The peculiar chill of flight emanated up from the ice and my lips parted as my gaze locked with his.

Everything changed.

The pressure shifted off our hands as I propelled myself forward, crossing one skate over the other as we passed from straight-away to straight-away.

His eyes widened, sparking purple as a red strobe light pulsed over them.

We moved.

We wove in and out of each other, connected and trusting the other not to pull us down or hold us back, but completely separate, not needing the other for the flash of our skates to break us from gravity.

Around and around, faster, pushing each other farther and farther away from the earth.

Finally, the frozen air yielded no more oxygen and we glided to a halt, silent but smiling.

We stayed with our hands locked together for a moment, weight back in our palms, exchanging glances. His eyes were so blue and my pulse was so fast -

We dropped hands.

"You're right," I panted. "That was fun."

The Queen of Mixed Signals

She's the Queen of Mixed Signals, snapping up hearts and dropping them over her shoulder. She doesn't technically break hearts; she just dents them.

She's elegant and eloquent, plays with swords while she dances with fire, fearing only the cool rush of water. (Persuasion, passion, and practicality leave little room for emotion to flow.) Her game is her own, and as much as she assumes everyone else knows the rules, she's making it up as she goes.

So don't be fooled by the Queen of Mixed Signals; it's hard to win with her. And as much as she'll smile and coo at first, it doesn't take long for her to leave a man in the lurch.

Early Yet

He writes the way I do, aware of all the ironies and conflicts present in every sentiment, questioning and mocking himself by turns. Everything means something more than itself, a concept both comforting and maddening.

He writes beautifully, and I'm not saying that merely because he was writing about me. I can pretend it's about some other girl, and find the imagery, the lyricism, just as pleasing.

That said, I find it odd that it is not he who is stuck in my head. Logic would indicate that I should be fascinated with the dancer, the musician, the writer, the gentleman; that I should daydream about his strong will and his intelligence, and the slow burn in my stomach as he whirled me tightly into him on the dance floor, lips and breath tangling for a kiss that we teasingly denied ourselves. Logic would have me fall for him, and justifies that I have not by noting that it's early yet.

That other frustrates me and makes me wary. He is not yet grown, with a youth's thirst for violent glory and a boy's misunderstanding of women. He is scarcely to be found, and when he is around, about all I can do is melt sleepily into his embrace. He's rude, stuffed full of bluster and bullshit.

And which one haven't I stopped writing about since we first met? (Yeah, that would be the one that I currently don't like so much.)

I have to go with logic on this one. It's early yet.

A Word of Explanation

You say that I must really miss you, and I know that you don't understand. I want to see you, and hate that I haven't had a chance to, am frustrated by the combination of your continued inaccessibility and my continued fascination with you. I don't miss you.

Girls like me don't miss; we move on.

5/3/11

Mangled Ampersands

I live in a world that I'm not sure you know, cold but pretty - painted in shades of rainbow. There's something to warmth, but it's all far away - somewhere past the horizon, humming through another day.

You and I, we mean more than we seem, all awkward legs and tangled hands (mangled ampersands). There's more to us than we like to think, implications frozen cold, shifting away from us as wind shifts sand.

I think your world to be hotter than most, a steaming turmoil of grays and reds. You toss about, and are confused, pretending to be strong, like snakes and storms, but are only thus: lost and scared. I'd rather like to show you color, so long as you show me heat.

But wind and time are ruthless architects, and sand does not hold long. Ampersands are only abbreviations, and days fade away over the horizon, taking rainbows and storms for songs.

5/1/11

Days of the Week Underwear

I am your Friday underpants. Though sometimes you forget to change and I get carried through to Saturday.

The lapse is rather rare.

Mostly, I only ever get to touch you when c'est vendredi.

Do you have any idea how pissed I am to be a pair of underpants to you? (Pun incidental, but apt.)

I wonder what lucky girl is Thursday? Does she know she lives in your dresser drawer the other six days of the week?

It's funny - I'm still not sure whether you have testicles or ping-pong balls between your legs. You'd think that your boxers would know that kind of thing.

At least pick me up off the bathroom floor when you're done with me. It's frustrating to lay there, crumpled and bruised, all through Sunday. If I weren't just stitches and cotton, I'd call it abuse. Keep it up, and you'll be out one less pair. Actually, that's the case anyways - I am not your Friday underwear!