I hate being alone. I remember a time when that was my biggest fear, when I had nightmares about standing in a concrete courtyard watching a crumpled napkin toss end over end, an urban tumbleweed. I wouldn't even scream, because I knew, with all the logic of dreaming, there was no one around to hear me, not even if I screamed with all the volume of dragon lungs.
I would wake to the stumbling panic of my pulse.
I don't fear being alone so much now - at least, not in the same way. I lay awake in my bed feeling the crack and pull of my joints, the way a recently dislocated finger burns, and my shoulders ache ominously. It is a loud and dark way to be alone, aware of every way in which my body is falling apart. My body has become a courtyard, my pain a series of crumpled napkins.
I do not scream now, either. My pulse may stutter and stumble into the storm winds of eternity - I will not wake up from reality.
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label non-fiction. Show all posts
6/14/14
1/21/14
Sick Person
I feel like all I can see when I look at myself now is a sick person. I can see the possibilities for what else I might be, for what else I am, but most of those are things that may be beyond my actual capabilities. When you get down to it, I am mangled.
I am a dancer who cannot dance, a writer who cannot hold a pencil, a student who cannot attend classes. I am an extrovert who cannot leave the house, and a reader who does not have the presence of mind to untangle a plot. I am damaged goods.
I am a burden on my family, the back hole in my parents' pockets. I am a bright spot of possibility and potential that society invested in only for my stock to crash. I am wasted.
I tell myself that no good character is without a weakness, and that the only reason the world can survive my awesomeness is because I am handicapped in this way. What terrible things I would accomplish if I were healthy!
Everything I do is less already, because what more could it have been instead?
I am good with masks. I can play the part of the healthy person for hours at a time!
It is a facade. It is a sand castle.
The illusion dissipates. The walls crumble.
I make plans for the future that I cannot count on coming to pass.
Sometimes, I look in the mirror, and all I see is a sick person, staring back at me. Her eyes are shot through with blood, her cheeks are puffy, complexion dotted with thick, red, flaking skin, with bruises under her eyes like she got punched in the face. Her lips are chapped, the roots of her dyed hair are showing, and no one that young should have lines cut so deep in her face. No one so young should bear such obvious evidence of hardship.
Pain is a formidable sculptor.
I want more than anything to look at that sick person with a smile, but I say, "I hate you" several times a day. I thought I was talking to my body at first, but now I'm no longer sure.
How can I love that which is destroying me?
And that's what it feels like.
IT FEELS LIKE I AM BEING DESTROYED.
It is not artful. It is not beautiful. It is not a romantic story, something for healthy people to read and coo over, sigh and interpret as me being "remade." It is not creation out of chaos, a phoenix rising from its own ashes, oceans receding to reveal land. No. I am not raw iron, and my illness is not a crucible.
I am a star - a beautiful, young star with an atmosphere and a surface that might have supported life one day - being drawn into a black hole, painfully aware of the inevitability of being stripped down and consumed.
Now - tell me that I am being short-sighted. Tell me that I am being pessimistic. Tell me that I am a brilliant girl who can do anything she wants. Tell me that other people have it worse. Tell me that I should be grateful.
Tell me about this one person you heard about - same problem (ish) as me - who did such and such great thing in spite of their malady. Tell me about a future where they've figured out a cure. Tell me about how I've given up without a fight, and how darkness always comes before the dawn, and how I'm such a strong person, things will get better, you swear.
Tell me all the ways I'm wrong to feel and think that I am just a sick person.
You aren't telling me anything I haven't screamed at myself in the mirror.
I am a dancer who cannot dance, a writer who cannot hold a pencil, a student who cannot attend classes. I am an extrovert who cannot leave the house, and a reader who does not have the presence of mind to untangle a plot. I am damaged goods.
I am a burden on my family, the back hole in my parents' pockets. I am a bright spot of possibility and potential that society invested in only for my stock to crash. I am wasted.
I tell myself that no good character is without a weakness, and that the only reason the world can survive my awesomeness is because I am handicapped in this way. What terrible things I would accomplish if I were healthy!
Everything I do is less already, because what more could it have been instead?
I am good with masks. I can play the part of the healthy person for hours at a time!
It is a facade. It is a sand castle.
The illusion dissipates. The walls crumble.
I make plans for the future that I cannot count on coming to pass.
Sometimes, I look in the mirror, and all I see is a sick person, staring back at me. Her eyes are shot through with blood, her cheeks are puffy, complexion dotted with thick, red, flaking skin, with bruises under her eyes like she got punched in the face. Her lips are chapped, the roots of her dyed hair are showing, and no one that young should have lines cut so deep in her face. No one so young should bear such obvious evidence of hardship.
Pain is a formidable sculptor.
I want more than anything to look at that sick person with a smile, but I say, "I hate you" several times a day. I thought I was talking to my body at first, but now I'm no longer sure.
How can I love that which is destroying me?
And that's what it feels like.
IT FEELS LIKE I AM BEING DESTROYED.
It is not artful. It is not beautiful. It is not a romantic story, something for healthy people to read and coo over, sigh and interpret as me being "remade." It is not creation out of chaos, a phoenix rising from its own ashes, oceans receding to reveal land. No. I am not raw iron, and my illness is not a crucible.
I am a star - a beautiful, young star with an atmosphere and a surface that might have supported life one day - being drawn into a black hole, painfully aware of the inevitability of being stripped down and consumed.
Now - tell me that I am being short-sighted. Tell me that I am being pessimistic. Tell me that I am a brilliant girl who can do anything she wants. Tell me that other people have it worse. Tell me that I should be grateful.
Tell me about this one person you heard about - same problem (ish) as me - who did such and such great thing in spite of their malady. Tell me about a future where they've figured out a cure. Tell me about how I've given up without a fight, and how darkness always comes before the dawn, and how I'm such a strong person, things will get better, you swear.
Tell me all the ways I'm wrong to feel and think that I am just a sick person.
You aren't telling me anything I haven't screamed at myself in the mirror.
12/10/13
Meg
When I was growing up, out of all the Disney princesses, I wanted to be Meg.
Meg was strong, Meg was sassy - Meg didn't need a hero. She played them like bongos, making her own tune out of their libidos. She had long red hair and she didn't hesitate to stare Hades in the face when he was flaming mad or blow out the lantern on Pegasus' head.
To me, at five years old, searching desperately for someone to look up to, Meg was the kindergarten equivalent of a BAMF.
"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."
And then I grew up.
I watched movie after movie where the girl just wanted to get the guy - or her interchangeable happily-ever-after. I read books where women were treated like male prizes, or cogs in their plans, or worse - the sex joke for the audience's comic relief - or interchangeable titillation.
And that was when the women were there at all.
But that's movies, you can say. But that's books, you can say. But that's comics, video games, television, blah, blah, bliddy, blah.
That's real life.
I grew up, and I heard my friends say, "You can't get fat, else boys won't like you." I heard my friends say, "I think it's a compliment when boys fight over me." I heard my friends say, "Everything's going to change now that I'm dating So-and-So." I heard my friends say, "He broke up with me - my life is over."
And the boys - the men - y'all think this is silly. That's just women. This is the natural order, the status quo.
You've heard enough feminist rants to know better.
So you write a female character - you don't want her to be like those other women. She cannot be silly. She cannot chase a guy for her happily-ever-after. She's got to be woman PLUS.
Give her some strength. Give her some sass. This woman doesn't need a hero - she can be her own. How? Well, she's got long red hair, and a voice that stinks of sex - she can play men like bongos and stare down her villains even when they're flaming mad.
That makes her a role model.... right?
Meg sold her soul for a guy who screwed her over. Meg's new employer used her, made her a cog in the machinery of his master plan. Meg could play men's libidos like bongos - if the bongos were sentient, and sometimes wouldn't take no for an answer. Meg ultimately sacrificed her life for the immortality of a man. And when he brought her back, it was not about her. It was about the strength of his heart, and not about the strong, sassy woman on his arm.
Hercules got immortality for being willing to sacrifice his life for Meg's. What did Meg get when she died for him?
Is she remembered in the stars?
When I was growing up, I wanted to be Meg.
And then I grew up. I realized that the last thing I ever want to be is Meg - just another misconception of what a woman can be.
Fuck heroes. Fuck being the sex joke, and the titillation. Fuck being a prize, or a cog of mindless machinery. Fuck selling my soul for someone else - self-sacrifice is not a wondrous virtue. Fuck being someone else's damsel in distress.
I want my own goddamned story, and the ending of it sure as hell isn't some guy. There is no need to play men like bongos when you're willing to take a sword and run them through.
Instead, there is a woman. She's strong and sassy, sure. She may or may not be attractive. Sometimes she gets in trouble, and frequently she gets herself out. This does not diminish the times when she must ask for help. She's got her own machinations to put in play, and sometimes she manipulates men using their dicks like joysticks. But other times, she treats them like just one more monster standing in her way that must be slain. She puts herself first, because how can she help others, if she cannot help herself? She may or may not have romantic entanglements, and those entanglements may or may not last.Those people have their own stories - they will not hijack hers. This woman does not care what others may or may not think about her. It doesn't matter if she's fat, or if boys are silly enough to fight over her, because she doesn't want such immature douchebags anyways. She does not expect her life to change depending on the person she dates, because it doesn't affect much more than whom she goes home with at the end of the day.
But no matter what else, at the end of my story, there's just me. The stars hold my image and immortalize my adventures.
And, really, there is no such woman as the one to which Meg is meant to be the antithesis. There's no such woman as Meg, either. We are told again and again and again that both these characters exist. We are told that they are a reflection of who women are and of who women are meant to be. We are told lies about our reality, and we do our best to reshape it in the image of those falsehoods.
I grew up. I do not want to be Meg.
I want to be myself.
Meg was strong, Meg was sassy - Meg didn't need a hero. She played them like bongos, making her own tune out of their libidos. She had long red hair and she didn't hesitate to stare Hades in the face when he was flaming mad or blow out the lantern on Pegasus' head.
To me, at five years old, searching desperately for someone to look up to, Meg was the kindergarten equivalent of a BAMF.
"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."
And then I grew up.
I watched movie after movie where the girl just wanted to get the guy - or her interchangeable happily-ever-after. I read books where women were treated like male prizes, or cogs in their plans, or worse - the sex joke for the audience's comic relief - or interchangeable titillation.
And that was when the women were there at all.
But that's movies, you can say. But that's books, you can say. But that's comics, video games, television, blah, blah, bliddy, blah.
That's real life.
I grew up, and I heard my friends say, "You can't get fat, else boys won't like you." I heard my friends say, "I think it's a compliment when boys fight over me." I heard my friends say, "Everything's going to change now that I'm dating So-and-So." I heard my friends say, "He broke up with me - my life is over."
And the boys - the men - y'all think this is silly. That's just women. This is the natural order, the status quo.
You've heard enough feminist rants to know better.
So you write a female character - you don't want her to be like those other women. She cannot be silly. She cannot chase a guy for her happily-ever-after. She's got to be woman PLUS.
Give her some strength. Give her some sass. This woman doesn't need a hero - she can be her own. How? Well, she's got long red hair, and a voice that stinks of sex - she can play men like bongos and stare down her villains even when they're flaming mad.
That makes her a role model.... right?
Meg sold her soul for a guy who screwed her over. Meg's new employer used her, made her a cog in the machinery of his master plan. Meg could play men's libidos like bongos - if the bongos were sentient, and sometimes wouldn't take no for an answer. Meg ultimately sacrificed her life for the immortality of a man. And when he brought her back, it was not about her. It was about the strength of his heart, and not about the strong, sassy woman on his arm.
Hercules got immortality for being willing to sacrifice his life for Meg's. What did Meg get when she died for him?
Is she remembered in the stars?
When I was growing up, I wanted to be Meg.
And then I grew up. I realized that the last thing I ever want to be is Meg - just another misconception of what a woman can be.
Fuck heroes. Fuck being the sex joke, and the titillation. Fuck being a prize, or a cog of mindless machinery. Fuck selling my soul for someone else - self-sacrifice is not a wondrous virtue. Fuck being someone else's damsel in distress.
I want my own goddamned story, and the ending of it sure as hell isn't some guy. There is no need to play men like bongos when you're willing to take a sword and run them through.
Instead, there is a woman. She's strong and sassy, sure. She may or may not be attractive. Sometimes she gets in trouble, and frequently she gets herself out. This does not diminish the times when she must ask for help. She's got her own machinations to put in play, and sometimes she manipulates men using their dicks like joysticks. But other times, she treats them like just one more monster standing in her way that must be slain. She puts herself first, because how can she help others, if she cannot help herself? She may or may not have romantic entanglements, and those entanglements may or may not last.Those people have their own stories - they will not hijack hers. This woman does not care what others may or may not think about her. It doesn't matter if she's fat, or if boys are silly enough to fight over her, because she doesn't want such immature douchebags anyways. She does not expect her life to change depending on the person she dates, because it doesn't affect much more than whom she goes home with at the end of the day.
But no matter what else, at the end of my story, there's just me. The stars hold my image and immortalize my adventures.
And, really, there is no such woman as the one to which Meg is meant to be the antithesis. There's no such woman as Meg, either. We are told again and again and again that both these characters exist. We are told that they are a reflection of who women are and of who women are meant to be. We are told lies about our reality, and we do our best to reshape it in the image of those falsehoods.
I grew up. I do not want to be Meg.
I want to be myself.
5/13/13
Air and Anchors
I wish you were here. I miss you like a postponed inhalation. I need your warmth here beside me, reassuring me, telling me my fears are invalid, that I am not simply second best, my friend's runner up. I am in her shadow in many ways - I need my relationship with you to not be one of them.
I am terrified, like a child chained below water, fighting an anchor to have my next breath be air. I know that, in some way, you will always love her. She shaped you, like a stake guides the growth of a tree. But that part of you is now formed - it is no longer necessary for the stake to be there. You must let her go.
I'm not sure I can stay if you insist on keeping yourself tethered to her.
I don't know why you're not here tonight. Last night, you nuzzled close to me at the dinner table, ignoring our friends, and sighed about how much you missed me, that it had been too long. I exchanged a sardonic glance with her across the table. We could both read the body language of everyone around us, and could see your friend's defiance - "I slept with her, so what?" - and your guilty jealousy.
I want to believe that you missed me. I know it's more likely that you wanted to miss me, wanted to deny that you really missed her - even though you've spent the last nine months claiming to be in love with me. I hope hope hope that you really did miss me.
"I want to see you tomorrow," you said. "I don't care if it's not until late," you said. "Even if it's just for a few minutes," you said.
But now that she is gone, you are elsewhere.
If my prose hammers at your chest like a series of dangerous accusations, striking far too close to the truth for your comfort, I am not sure I am sorry.
When you and your friends parted ways from us last night, she and I made new friends to spend the evening with. I complained to them of how stifled I felt with you, bitter that I felt so consumed by you when you seemed to be feeding yourself to this expired, now out-of-circulation idea of my friend, your old flame.
I said semi-awful things aloud, but privately called to mind every reason I fell in love with you.
Your sweetness.
Your delight in puns, and the way you always call me "goofy" when I share one.
Your vaguely super-villainous laugh, the one you emit when something funny slowly soaks into your mind, gaining humor as it goes.
Your steady, calm tolerance when I'm going over the edge, losing my temper over small fish in small ponds.
Your eager willingness to discuss the brokenness of society's arbitrary sexual mores, and the way your eyebrows crunch toward your nose when you point out that same arbitrary brokenness in yourself.
Your desire to desire to have adventures, even as you sit on your couch to play the same old video games, and fall comfortably into worn routines.
I wonder if I will ever really be able to appreciate these things again. Because, my love, I need to talk to you, to ask you about my friend, your old flame. I need to see you, to have you bring it up, address it, say a eulogy for the situation and for your love for her. Then I will be able to smile, forgive you for leaving me uneasy, and continue on with you, indulging my love. The anchor will fall away from my ankle, and I will gulp in air with the appreciation of a girl who had almost accepted that she was going to drown.
But if you wait for me to bring it up, and then lie about your feelings, I will know. I will know that you did not miss me. I will know that, for you, I am second best, my friend's runner up. I will know that your stupid, impotent jealousy over her is more important to you than the past nine months, when you claimed to be in love with me. Worst of all, I will know that those semi-awful things I said to our new friends were true, and I will be forced to break my own heart as I break it off with you.
I am terrified, like a child chained below water, fighting an anchor to have my next breath be air. I know that, in some way, you will always love her. She shaped you, like a stake guides the growth of a tree. But that part of you is now formed - it is no longer necessary for the stake to be there. You must let her go.
I'm not sure I can stay if you insist on keeping yourself tethered to her.
I don't know why you're not here tonight. Last night, you nuzzled close to me at the dinner table, ignoring our friends, and sighed about how much you missed me, that it had been too long. I exchanged a sardonic glance with her across the table. We could both read the body language of everyone around us, and could see your friend's defiance - "I slept with her, so what?" - and your guilty jealousy.
I want to believe that you missed me. I know it's more likely that you wanted to miss me, wanted to deny that you really missed her - even though you've spent the last nine months claiming to be in love with me. I hope hope hope that you really did miss me.
"I want to see you tomorrow," you said. "I don't care if it's not until late," you said. "Even if it's just for a few minutes," you said.
But now that she is gone, you are elsewhere.
If my prose hammers at your chest like a series of dangerous accusations, striking far too close to the truth for your comfort, I am not sure I am sorry.
When you and your friends parted ways from us last night, she and I made new friends to spend the evening with. I complained to them of how stifled I felt with you, bitter that I felt so consumed by you when you seemed to be feeding yourself to this expired, now out-of-circulation idea of my friend, your old flame.
I said semi-awful things aloud, but privately called to mind every reason I fell in love with you.
Your sweetness.
Your delight in puns, and the way you always call me "goofy" when I share one.
Your vaguely super-villainous laugh, the one you emit when something funny slowly soaks into your mind, gaining humor as it goes.
Your steady, calm tolerance when I'm going over the edge, losing my temper over small fish in small ponds.
Your eager willingness to discuss the brokenness of society's arbitrary sexual mores, and the way your eyebrows crunch toward your nose when you point out that same arbitrary brokenness in yourself.
Your desire to desire to have adventures, even as you sit on your couch to play the same old video games, and fall comfortably into worn routines.
I wonder if I will ever really be able to appreciate these things again. Because, my love, I need to talk to you, to ask you about my friend, your old flame. I need to see you, to have you bring it up, address it, say a eulogy for the situation and for your love for her. Then I will be able to smile, forgive you for leaving me uneasy, and continue on with you, indulging my love. The anchor will fall away from my ankle, and I will gulp in air with the appreciation of a girl who had almost accepted that she was going to drown.
But if you wait for me to bring it up, and then lie about your feelings, I will know. I will know that you did not miss me. I will know that, for you, I am second best, my friend's runner up. I will know that your stupid, impotent jealousy over her is more important to you than the past nine months, when you claimed to be in love with me. Worst of all, I will know that those semi-awful things I said to our new friends were true, and I will be forced to break my own heart as I break it off with you.
7/13/12
The Culture of Rape
There was a moment - a solid, shining, crystalline moment - when I could have delivered him a square kick in the balls. Everything was moving so quickly - it's really all just a blur - but that moment was slow and painfully logical. I remember being on the floor, him bent over me, hands on my wrists above my head, and I remember looking straight at his groin, wide open and exposed, and my foot just a few inches away, a clear shot. I remember understanding that he did not understand what he was in the process of doing, and that he was ignorant, a boy more than a man, and that I cared about him and did not want to hurt him, even as I could feel pain blossoming in my wrist beneath his fingers. Most of all, I remember that I could have knocked him back, sent him stumbling, articulated to him an even clearer message about my stance on his current activities - and in that solid, shining, crystalline moment, I decided not to.
I don't remember how it all started. I don't remember why he finally ended up stopping. I don't remember how I got back to my car. I don't remember how I got home. But I remember that moment, because at that point, someone could have told me that it was my fault, even more than it already seemed to be, and I might have actually believed that person for a minute or two.
I remember lying naked in bed, being awoken by a man looming over me, and feeling groggy and fuzzy as he nuzzled my neck. "Just go with it," he whispered. I remember I was tired, and I'd slept with him earlier, and I thought it would somehow be unfair if I said "no," at that point, that it would somehow be unreasonable to deny him. I remember that I did not want to send mixed signals, because that would be cruel, evil, bitchy, the worst of the worst.
I know I apologize when I don't want to go all the way, am quick to take the blame for getting a guy "all riled up," and then not being willing to release the energy with him. It is as though, just by being there, and being even partially agreeable, I have consented that anything that happens is somehow my fault, and that stopping the interaction at any point beyond that is somehow taboo. To kiss too deeply has become a promise, a contract that I will be made to feel that I have breached.
I remember that moment, and I tell men I get involved with that if I feel threatened, that if they are not listening, I will fight back. I tell them that I will not pull my punches, telling myself as much as I am telling them, thinking that since I provided a disclaimer, that since I warned them, that I will not hesitate when the time comes, that I will not feel guilty for defending myself. I warn them that no means no, and I quietly rage that I feel it is necessary to give them such a basic language lesson.
I feel the need to escape when men are too persistent in getting close to me on the dance floor. When they wrap their arms around me, and bump and grind against me, making me glad that I am wearing tights underneath my skirt, I have to resist the urge to violently throw myself from their hold, dashing myself against the freedom the music offers. Instead, I artfully twirl away, breath still hung up against the pulse jackrabbiting in my throat, and I prepare to slip out of the club if the same man corners me again. And I berate myself for my fear, because that's just how men dance at clubs - most don't know any other way. But their ignorance is dangerous - if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
I tried to explain it to him, but to this day he does not understand. He refuses. He likes to think that he's grown from the experience, that because I left him and refused to see him or talk to him again, he's become a better person. But he cannot see it. He cannot comprehend why I was upset that night, why it seems that I cannot forgive him. He still thinks that I am holding a "pointless grudge" because he "accidentally sprained" my wrist. No does not mean no to him, is not simple, was invalid because I had just kissed him. No did not mean no to him because I was sending mixed signals, because I had that solid, shining, crystalline moment where I could have kicked him but didn't want to hurt him and so let the moment pass.
Never mind that I was squirming and screaming and doing whatever else I could to get away from him. Never mind that I was crying, that I don't remember how I managed to get home, only that my hands were trembling and every bump jostled my wrist and sent fresh pains down my arm. Never mind that there was so much that reminded me of him for weeks, that I just couldn't stand, see, do. Never mind that I was skittish around males for a good year following that night, couldn't let them touch my wrist, panicked if they kissed me too deeply. Never mind that I am still afraid, still having to deal with the aftermath, still feeling that it is somehow my fault, even though it's not. Never mind that he has permanently altered the way I relate to men, that he has done his best to transform me into a victim.
I am angry that I am afraid. I am pissed that I am apologetic. I am enraged that I feel obligated. I am furious that I feel even the tiniest shred of guilt for something that was never my fault, no matter what stupid things I did or didn't do leading up to it, because I shouldn't have had to go through that - he shouldn't have put me through that!
But this is our culture. We make villains out of victims and victims out of villains. We turn kisses into contracts, and condemn mixed signals as malicious. We encourage ignorance and take silence for consent. And worst of all, we normalize terrifying behavior, teach no other ways, so that if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
I don't remember how it all started. I don't remember why he finally ended up stopping. I don't remember how I got back to my car. I don't remember how I got home. But I remember that moment, because at that point, someone could have told me that it was my fault, even more than it already seemed to be, and I might have actually believed that person for a minute or two.
I remember lying naked in bed, being awoken by a man looming over me, and feeling groggy and fuzzy as he nuzzled my neck. "Just go with it," he whispered. I remember I was tired, and I'd slept with him earlier, and I thought it would somehow be unfair if I said "no," at that point, that it would somehow be unreasonable to deny him. I remember that I did not want to send mixed signals, because that would be cruel, evil, bitchy, the worst of the worst.
I know I apologize when I don't want to go all the way, am quick to take the blame for getting a guy "all riled up," and then not being willing to release the energy with him. It is as though, just by being there, and being even partially agreeable, I have consented that anything that happens is somehow my fault, and that stopping the interaction at any point beyond that is somehow taboo. To kiss too deeply has become a promise, a contract that I will be made to feel that I have breached.
I remember that moment, and I tell men I get involved with that if I feel threatened, that if they are not listening, I will fight back. I tell them that I will not pull my punches, telling myself as much as I am telling them, thinking that since I provided a disclaimer, that since I warned them, that I will not hesitate when the time comes, that I will not feel guilty for defending myself. I warn them that no means no, and I quietly rage that I feel it is necessary to give them such a basic language lesson.
I feel the need to escape when men are too persistent in getting close to me on the dance floor. When they wrap their arms around me, and bump and grind against me, making me glad that I am wearing tights underneath my skirt, I have to resist the urge to violently throw myself from their hold, dashing myself against the freedom the music offers. Instead, I artfully twirl away, breath still hung up against the pulse jackrabbiting in my throat, and I prepare to slip out of the club if the same man corners me again. And I berate myself for my fear, because that's just how men dance at clubs - most don't know any other way. But their ignorance is dangerous - if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
I tried to explain it to him, but to this day he does not understand. He refuses. He likes to think that he's grown from the experience, that because I left him and refused to see him or talk to him again, he's become a better person. But he cannot see it. He cannot comprehend why I was upset that night, why it seems that I cannot forgive him. He still thinks that I am holding a "pointless grudge" because he "accidentally sprained" my wrist. No does not mean no to him, is not simple, was invalid because I had just kissed him. No did not mean no to him because I was sending mixed signals, because I had that solid, shining, crystalline moment where I could have kicked him but didn't want to hurt him and so let the moment pass.
Never mind that I was squirming and screaming and doing whatever else I could to get away from him. Never mind that I was crying, that I don't remember how I managed to get home, only that my hands were trembling and every bump jostled my wrist and sent fresh pains down my arm. Never mind that there was so much that reminded me of him for weeks, that I just couldn't stand, see, do. Never mind that I was skittish around males for a good year following that night, couldn't let them touch my wrist, panicked if they kissed me too deeply. Never mind that I am still afraid, still having to deal with the aftermath, still feeling that it is somehow my fault, even though it's not. Never mind that he has permanently altered the way I relate to men, that he has done his best to transform me into a victim.
I am angry that I am afraid. I am pissed that I am apologetic. I am enraged that I feel obligated. I am furious that I feel even the tiniest shred of guilt for something that was never my fault, no matter what stupid things I did or didn't do leading up to it, because I shouldn't have had to go through that - he shouldn't have put me through that!
But this is our culture. We make villains out of victims and victims out of villains. We turn kisses into contracts, and condemn mixed signals as malicious. We encourage ignorance and take silence for consent. And worst of all, we normalize terrifying behavior, teach no other ways, so that if we were in a bed, they'd never think of it as rape.
7/4/12
Mourning
I'm finally alone here. The air conditioning hums in a monotone manner that invokes silence. I only know it's on because I can feel the cool air brushing across the side of my calf and tickling the back of my thigh, just above the crook of my knee. I feel it, a cold caress that reminds me of all the warmth I'm lacking.
Right now, it feels like everyone wants something from me - no one's affection is unconditional. Most want simple things, like sex, but a few want something more, something violent, something terrifying that I'm fairly certain that I am not willing to give, no matter the circumstances. But I'm finally alone here, away from their demands, reasonable and unreasonable alike, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm any better off.
I'm mourning, I suppose.
I remember waking up at two-thirty in the morning and wondering why everyone was so angry, because it was so loud and hot and burningly uncomfortable. Why couldn't everyone just be quiet? Maybe I fell asleep, but it seemed only a few minutes later that I wanted from beneath his arm draped over me, oppressive and asking far too much. I sought asylum in her cool, rich green, but even that did not quite match. I wandered off to explore. The boy on the couch was purple, simultaneously cool and hot, but he belonged to her. The man in the guest room was teal, soothing in ways that the others were not, but ultimately closed off. I did not think to question my discoveries until morning, until everyone wanted something again and I had to face it.
A few days later, a man handed me a tumbled hunk of carnelian, plucked from the sand, and smiled, knowing that it was mine. It felt warm and alive in my hand, familiar in a way that seemed utterly alien beneath his expectant gaze. What was mine - my expression, my words, my freedom, my magick - was suddenly being demanded from me - a wild tigress now expected to perform in a circus act. I am untrained, untamed, and I have no desire to jump through flaming hoops. But what else can you do when you find yourself caged?
The air conditioning has shut off. It's a little warmer now, but still chilly. My bare legs are icy to the touch. My phone buzzes against the bedspread, violating my solitude. I'm not really alone here, after all, and I realize that I don't want to deal with other people's demands. Everyone wants something, sees me as an opportunity, a resource rather than a person. No one wants to stop and recognize that I just can't be the endless well of understanding and affection right now, much less of power, too.
I am mourning.
I need to go underground.
Right now, it feels like everyone wants something from me - no one's affection is unconditional. Most want simple things, like sex, but a few want something more, something violent, something terrifying that I'm fairly certain that I am not willing to give, no matter the circumstances. But I'm finally alone here, away from their demands, reasonable and unreasonable alike, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm any better off.
I'm mourning, I suppose.
I remember waking up at two-thirty in the morning and wondering why everyone was so angry, because it was so loud and hot and burningly uncomfortable. Why couldn't everyone just be quiet? Maybe I fell asleep, but it seemed only a few minutes later that I wanted from beneath his arm draped over me, oppressive and asking far too much. I sought asylum in her cool, rich green, but even that did not quite match. I wandered off to explore. The boy on the couch was purple, simultaneously cool and hot, but he belonged to her. The man in the guest room was teal, soothing in ways that the others were not, but ultimately closed off. I did not think to question my discoveries until morning, until everyone wanted something again and I had to face it.
A few days later, a man handed me a tumbled hunk of carnelian, plucked from the sand, and smiled, knowing that it was mine. It felt warm and alive in my hand, familiar in a way that seemed utterly alien beneath his expectant gaze. What was mine - my expression, my words, my freedom, my magick - was suddenly being demanded from me - a wild tigress now expected to perform in a circus act. I am untrained, untamed, and I have no desire to jump through flaming hoops. But what else can you do when you find yourself caged?
The air conditioning has shut off. It's a little warmer now, but still chilly. My bare legs are icy to the touch. My phone buzzes against the bedspread, violating my solitude. I'm not really alone here, after all, and I realize that I don't want to deal with other people's demands. Everyone wants something, sees me as an opportunity, a resource rather than a person. No one wants to stop and recognize that I just can't be the endless well of understanding and affection right now, much less of power, too.
I am mourning.
I need to go underground.
6/30/12
Poetry... HERE
I am going to start posting some of my more recent poetry here. None of the old stuff - just stuff I'm working on now or have written in the past year.
There are several reasons for this change in content policy: 1) AllPoetry, the site I've been using to host my poetry, has changed its posting policy in a way that is not conducive to how I wish to use the website. 2) Most of what I've been writing lately is poetry. 3) I've decided it doesn't really make any sense to make you go visit extra pages to see my poetry.
So, voila. Poems. There's going to be a whole glut of them posted after this point.
Enjoy. :)
There are several reasons for this change in content policy: 1) AllPoetry, the site I've been using to host my poetry, has changed its posting policy in a way that is not conducive to how I wish to use the website. 2) Most of what I've been writing lately is poetry. 3) I've decided it doesn't really make any sense to make you go visit extra pages to see my poetry.
So, voila. Poems. There's going to be a whole glut of them posted after this point.
Enjoy. :)
3/27/12
Letter to Self
SD-
You're being ridiculous and melodramatic. Stop it.
Your life does not always run as smoothly as you'd like. You cannot always have it all.
Quit bitching and making more problems than actually exist.
You love him. It's scary, I know. This is what? The longest you've been in a relationship since you dated your best friend? It's been a long time since you've met anyone so amazing, and for someone who's used to moving on, that's hard.
But guess what, doll?
It's not falling apart this time.
It still thrills you just to get a text from him. It's still as though you never want evenings with him to end. It still makes you smile to think of him. It's still the case that he's the first person you want to talk to about all your big ideas. It's still him you want.
So, hush. This is not a problem. Focus your energy elsewhere.
Say, don't you have a research paper to write? Or a poem to compose? Or line-edits to do? Or a test to study for? Or groceries you have to buy? Or a resume to revise? Or a gym to go to? Or cookies to bake? Or dishes to wash?
Yeah, I think I've made my point.
- SD
You're being ridiculous and melodramatic. Stop it.
Your life does not always run as smoothly as you'd like. You cannot always have it all.
Quit bitching and making more problems than actually exist.
You love him. It's scary, I know. This is what? The longest you've been in a relationship since you dated your best friend? It's been a long time since you've met anyone so amazing, and for someone who's used to moving on, that's hard.
But guess what, doll?
It's not falling apart this time.
It still thrills you just to get a text from him. It's still as though you never want evenings with him to end. It still makes you smile to think of him. It's still the case that he's the first person you want to talk to about all your big ideas. It's still him you want.
So, hush. This is not a problem. Focus your energy elsewhere.
Say, don't you have a research paper to write? Or a poem to compose? Or line-edits to do? Or a test to study for? Or groceries you have to buy? Or a resume to revise? Or a gym to go to? Or cookies to bake? Or dishes to wash?
Yeah, I think I've made my point.
- SD
3/26/12
Spare Minute or Sixty
Don't you sometimes wonder why we're doing all this?
We're both going through life like the other's a bonus, something to be squeezed in when we have a spare minute or sixty, something to be enjoyed and then forgotten about as we move on to more serious, more important affairs. And we pretend, because we've got that spare minute or sixty for each other, that this whole 'us' bit is a Priority.
But can you even imagine a future with me, five years down the line? I'll be in grad school, and you'll be who knows where, embroiled in research or in an underground bunker wearing your flat face as you consider a panel of gauges. And we're supposed to do what? Be married at that point? Have had a quiet church wedding that'll satisfy your parents but that I won't have believed a whit in? Go to church every Sunday, so I can think about the implications of Facebook for adolescent sexuality as I desperately try to ignore the sermon? Go home in the afternoons to our little apartment, where you'll immediately start on dinner and I'll retreat to my desk and ignore everything but schoolwork, including you and your food? Go to bed at night, where you'll briefly cuddle with me, and then wake up at 3:07 in the morning, wishing like a six year old about to blow out his birthday candles that you were sleeping alone?
We don't even have to go that far. How's this summer going to play out, do you think? At the very least, you're going to be two hours away, probably more. You'll text me every once in a while, tell me about some minor aspect of your day, and you won't call more than twice the entire summer. Mostly, I'll text you, silly sweet stuff like "I'm thinking of you," and when you don't answer, I'll eventually give up, and we'll go days without exchanging so much as an emoticon. And the entire time, I'll be here, meeting people and flirting the way I always flirt, but you'll seem farther and farther away, until I can't even remember the way that you smell, much less the mingled taste of scotch and dark chocolate as we kiss. I'll compare every single last male to you and find that they come up short, and I'll still wonder why all I'm doing is flirting, because I won't really have you, except as a single line on Facebook regarding my relationship status.
But in the meantime, in that spare minute or sixty, we wrap our arms around each other, taste the salt on the other's neck, and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist, and it is fabulous. I remember that night on the roof when we were dancing with the lightning, off a few miles, flashing all around us, and you leaned down and kissed me and I went up on relevée to meet you and closed my eyes - the entire world disappeared, and it was just you and me. It was just us. It was just your lips on mine. It was just my arms pressing into the fleece of your jacket. It was just the warmth of your hand on the back of my neck. It was just us. And then I opened my eyes and we broke the kiss and we both panted hard as we fought to catch our breath and leash it, and it was physically painful to look around and see that the clouds had moved in and there was an entire other world outside of us, and we had to go back to it. Immediately.
After every spare minute or sixty we manage for each other, we go our separate ways. You go back to your desk, to your computer, adding just a few more shades of depth to the purple beneath your eyes, and I go back to my empty bed, where I toss and turn and try to imagine that you're holding me so I can fall asleep, but since I can't quite picture it, I never really get there.
Maybe I'm ungrateful, or maybe I'm naive, or maybe I don't really have a heart - just an overactive imagination to make up for the lack. But I can't help but sometimes wonder why we're doing all this - is this what love's really like?
We're both going through life like the other's a bonus, something to be squeezed in when we have a spare minute or sixty, something to be enjoyed and then forgotten about as we move on to more serious, more important affairs. And we pretend, because we've got that spare minute or sixty for each other, that this whole 'us' bit is a Priority.
But can you even imagine a future with me, five years down the line? I'll be in grad school, and you'll be who knows where, embroiled in research or in an underground bunker wearing your flat face as you consider a panel of gauges. And we're supposed to do what? Be married at that point? Have had a quiet church wedding that'll satisfy your parents but that I won't have believed a whit in? Go to church every Sunday, so I can think about the implications of Facebook for adolescent sexuality as I desperately try to ignore the sermon? Go home in the afternoons to our little apartment, where you'll immediately start on dinner and I'll retreat to my desk and ignore everything but schoolwork, including you and your food? Go to bed at night, where you'll briefly cuddle with me, and then wake up at 3:07 in the morning, wishing like a six year old about to blow out his birthday candles that you were sleeping alone?
We don't even have to go that far. How's this summer going to play out, do you think? At the very least, you're going to be two hours away, probably more. You'll text me every once in a while, tell me about some minor aspect of your day, and you won't call more than twice the entire summer. Mostly, I'll text you, silly sweet stuff like "I'm thinking of you," and when you don't answer, I'll eventually give up, and we'll go days without exchanging so much as an emoticon. And the entire time, I'll be here, meeting people and flirting the way I always flirt, but you'll seem farther and farther away, until I can't even remember the way that you smell, much less the mingled taste of scotch and dark chocolate as we kiss. I'll compare every single last male to you and find that they come up short, and I'll still wonder why all I'm doing is flirting, because I won't really have you, except as a single line on Facebook regarding my relationship status.
But in the meantime, in that spare minute or sixty, we wrap our arms around each other, taste the salt on the other's neck, and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist, and it is fabulous. I remember that night on the roof when we were dancing with the lightning, off a few miles, flashing all around us, and you leaned down and kissed me and I went up on relevée to meet you and closed my eyes - the entire world disappeared, and it was just you and me. It was just us. It was just your lips on mine. It was just my arms pressing into the fleece of your jacket. It was just the warmth of your hand on the back of my neck. It was just us. And then I opened my eyes and we broke the kiss and we both panted hard as we fought to catch our breath and leash it, and it was physically painful to look around and see that the clouds had moved in and there was an entire other world outside of us, and we had to go back to it. Immediately.
After every spare minute or sixty we manage for each other, we go our separate ways. You go back to your desk, to your computer, adding just a few more shades of depth to the purple beneath your eyes, and I go back to my empty bed, where I toss and turn and try to imagine that you're holding me so I can fall asleep, but since I can't quite picture it, I never really get there.
Maybe I'm ungrateful, or maybe I'm naive, or maybe I don't really have a heart - just an overactive imagination to make up for the lack. But I can't help but sometimes wonder why we're doing all this - is this what love's really like?
1/30/12
Back Up on Blog Auditions
For those of you who have sent me blog auditions in the past three weeks, I'd like to apologize for the lack of response. I've been seriously busy lately. I suppose 21+ credit hours can do that to a person.
Anyhoo, you have not been forgotten, you are not being ignored, and I am (slowly but definitely) getting to critiquing blog auditions, giving every audition the time and attention to detail that it is due.
Some notes to remember, however:
* Please, please use proper spelling and capitalization as much as possible, at least to the point where if you break any rules, it's obviously very intentional.
* The pieces for blog auditions should be complete, not excerpts of larger works. When judging blog auditions, I need to know that you have a certain attention to structure and can tie stories or vignettes into a whole. It does me no good to see that you can start a piece.
* For maximum impact, if one of your pieces is an expository work (ie, primarily telling the reader something), make the other piece a narrative work (ie, primarily showing the reader something). While submitting two expository works will not necessarily knock you out of the running, it does make it a tad more difficult for me to judge whether or not your style is compatible with this blog. When uncertain, I am far more likely to say no than I am to say yes.
* Please remember to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, beneath your moniker. This serves two purposes: it tells me you can follow directions and let's me keep a running list of those who have auditioned. If you fail to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, no matter how redundant it may seem to you to do so, then your audition will be discarded without any further ado. I've already had to do this for several auditions. If you think your auditions may have been one of these, please rectify the issue and send it again.
All this information will be updated on the "Want to Write With Me?" page in short order, and you can look to see your critiques back in the next couple weeks.
Anyhoo, you have not been forgotten, you are not being ignored, and I am (slowly but definitely) getting to critiquing blog auditions, giving every audition the time and attention to detail that it is due.
Some notes to remember, however:
* Please, please use proper spelling and capitalization as much as possible, at least to the point where if you break any rules, it's obviously very intentional.
* The pieces for blog auditions should be complete, not excerpts of larger works. When judging blog auditions, I need to know that you have a certain attention to structure and can tie stories or vignettes into a whole. It does me no good to see that you can start a piece.
* For maximum impact, if one of your pieces is an expository work (ie, primarily telling the reader something), make the other piece a narrative work (ie, primarily showing the reader something). While submitting two expository works will not necessarily knock you out of the running, it does make it a tad more difficult for me to judge whether or not your style is compatible with this blog. When uncertain, I am far more likely to say no than I am to say yes.
* Please remember to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, beneath your moniker. This serves two purposes: it tells me you can follow directions and let's me keep a running list of those who have auditioned. If you fail to include an email address at the bottom of your blog audition, no matter how redundant it may seem to you to do so, then your audition will be discarded without any further ado. I've already had to do this for several auditions. If you think your auditions may have been one of these, please rectify the issue and send it again.
All this information will be updated on the "Want to Write With Me?" page in short order, and you can look to see your critiques back in the next couple weeks.
1/11/12
Throwing the Canon Overboard
I am not a literature person.
Theoretically, I should be. I love books, I love to read, I love to write, and I love to appreciate good writing. But damn, I'm an English major, if that tells you anything.
But I just don't enjoy literature.
One of my professors loves to emphasize the pleasure of the literary canon. He describes the thrill of reading a story with the knowledge that thousands, tens of thousands of others have read it before you, the low hum of satisfaction in finding meaning in it, a meaning fractionally shared with that multiplicity of other people.
I've never felt that with the literary canon myself.
I pick up a book from the literary canon and I get through it, annoyed all the way, and wanting to brutally murder the narrator with a tea kettle by the end. For what I can gather, the main feature of canonical literature is a whiny-ass main character. Hamlet, Winston, Bernard, Frankenstein, Heathcliff.... Allow me to use my mastery of the English language to paraphrase these characters: "Bitch bitch bitch."
I'll grant that I enjoyed A Clockwork Orange and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and while I can't say I took pleasure in A Confederacy of Dunces, I did appreciate the masterful use of satire and footnotes (I really loved the wonderful break from Ignatius that the footnotes offered). And after spending a month researching paganism in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, I finally developed a sort of begrudging respect for the work.
But, on the whole, I don't really enjoy those texts that are typically defined as literature.
Listening to my professor describe the buzz one derives from literature, I realize that I have felt it before - while watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And again, while streaming Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. And yet again, when I was tearing through the series Firefly, and later the film Serenity. I've felt it while watching Amélie for the six-billionth time, and when I was first introduced to Dr. Who, and How I Met Your Mother. I experienced it when I first discovered Anne McCaffrey's sci-fi/fantasy vision of Pern way back in elementary school, and when I took the time to peruse my first Draco/Hermione fanfic. The thrill of reading raced through my system when my best friend loaned me a few short novels by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, and again when I plucked Kim Harrison's Dead Witch Walking off a bookstore shelf. I spent hours poring over Christopher Moore's re-interpretation of King Lear, although I believe the power of the play to be greatly lost with Fool's very altered ending. Sarah Dessen's Just Listen continues to fascinate me, six years after I first laid hands on it.
Make no mistake. I've felt the "inherent pleasure" of literature. I've found the critical processes of English to be deeply beneficial, even natural, to me - when applying those methods to just about anything other than the standard canon. Literary criticism and analysis focused on Buffy are the main component of my "for fun" reading (I can't decide if Rhonda Wilcox or Joss Whedon is my biggest hero), and I frequently find myself drafting a mini-analysis for just about any text that crosses my interest. I love being an English major.
But I am not a literature person.
Well, not unless you'll let me throw the canon overboard.
Theoretically, I should be. I love books, I love to read, I love to write, and I love to appreciate good writing. But damn, I'm an English major, if that tells you anything.
But I just don't enjoy literature.
One of my professors loves to emphasize the pleasure of the literary canon. He describes the thrill of reading a story with the knowledge that thousands, tens of thousands of others have read it before you, the low hum of satisfaction in finding meaning in it, a meaning fractionally shared with that multiplicity of other people.
I've never felt that with the literary canon myself.
I pick up a book from the literary canon and I get through it, annoyed all the way, and wanting to brutally murder the narrator with a tea kettle by the end. For what I can gather, the main feature of canonical literature is a whiny-ass main character. Hamlet, Winston, Bernard, Frankenstein, Heathcliff.... Allow me to use my mastery of the English language to paraphrase these characters: "Bitch bitch bitch."
I'll grant that I enjoyed A Clockwork Orange and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and while I can't say I took pleasure in A Confederacy of Dunces, I did appreciate the masterful use of satire and footnotes (I really loved the wonderful break from Ignatius that the footnotes offered). And after spending a month researching paganism in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, I finally developed a sort of begrudging respect for the work.
But, on the whole, I don't really enjoy those texts that are typically defined as literature.
Listening to my professor describe the buzz one derives from literature, I realize that I have felt it before - while watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And again, while streaming Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. And yet again, when I was tearing through the series Firefly, and later the film Serenity. I've felt it while watching Amélie for the six-billionth time, and when I was first introduced to Dr. Who, and How I Met Your Mother. I experienced it when I first discovered Anne McCaffrey's sci-fi/fantasy vision of Pern way back in elementary school, and when I took the time to peruse my first Draco/Hermione fanfic. The thrill of reading raced through my system when my best friend loaned me a few short novels by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, and again when I plucked Kim Harrison's Dead Witch Walking off a bookstore shelf. I spent hours poring over Christopher Moore's re-interpretation of King Lear, although I believe the power of the play to be greatly lost with Fool's very altered ending. Sarah Dessen's Just Listen continues to fascinate me, six years after I first laid hands on it.
Make no mistake. I've felt the "inherent pleasure" of literature. I've found the critical processes of English to be deeply beneficial, even natural, to me - when applying those methods to just about anything other than the standard canon. Literary criticism and analysis focused on Buffy are the main component of my "for fun" reading (I can't decide if Rhonda Wilcox or Joss Whedon is my biggest hero), and I frequently find myself drafting a mini-analysis for just about any text that crosses my interest. I love being an English major.
But I am not a literature person.
Well, not unless you'll let me throw the canon overboard.
12/25/11
Sad News, Folks
Hate to break it to y'all, but here's a bit of not-so-great to break up what's hopefully a wonderful holiday season:
As of now, there will be no new writer on Southern Ineloquence.
As much as I wanted to mix it up with someone fresh and interesting, I didn't get any applications that were anything close to what I was looking for.
Yep, I know - the disappointment is nearly crushing.
But before you let the elephant that's come to perch on your chest crush all the air out of your lungs (not to mention break your ribs, yeesh), here's some good news to restore your holiday cheer:
Because I have yet to receive an application with the potential to set off your warm fuzzies, I'm extending the deadline indefinitely.
That's right. If you think you've got the stuff, send it in. I'll be waiting, and so will all the other readers. Come be a part of something you really enjoy.
As of now, there will be no new writer on Southern Ineloquence.
As much as I wanted to mix it up with someone fresh and interesting, I didn't get any applications that were anything close to what I was looking for.
Yep, I know - the disappointment is nearly crushing.
But before you let the elephant that's come to perch on your chest crush all the air out of your lungs (not to mention break your ribs, yeesh), here's some good news to restore your holiday cheer:
Because I have yet to receive an application with the potential to set off your warm fuzzies, I'm extending the deadline indefinitely.
That's right. If you think you've got the stuff, send it in. I'll be waiting, and so will all the other readers. Come be a part of something you really enjoy.
12/21/11
A Memory
I walk down the street with my head held high, gliding in high heels and perfect make up. I wear a serene half-smile on my face, making little nods and curtsies to passerby I may or may not know. A young man leaning against a wall cracks a joke in my direction, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette.
"Where you goin' lookin' so pretty, girl?"
I turn and walk backwards for a moment, laughing as I reply, arms stretched wide in an invitation to the world: "Why, anywhere and everywhere I can go, good sir!"
He grins back at me and nods. "You alright, girl, you alright."
I continue along my way, feeling expansive and connected to everyone I pass, touching lives with my high-heeled glide and half-smile.
But I am fundamentally, painfully, alone.
It is not, I think, that I do not play well with others. To the contrary, my boss when I worked at a small short-order restaurant praised me for my ability to train new employees and my coworkers often commented to each other about how much "the customers love her!"
Rather, I believe this isolation to be a result of the transience of the connections I forge. While I may exchange jovial snark with the young man smoking at the edge of the sidewalk, I will never get his phone number. I will not see him again.
I do not dig into the abundance of small ways I influence others. I do not try to pull them into the broader scope of my life. I continue down the sidewalk, sassy, sweet, and solitary.
In many ways, I am little more than a bright, shiny, memory.
"Where you goin' lookin' so pretty, girl?"
I turn and walk backwards for a moment, laughing as I reply, arms stretched wide in an invitation to the world: "Why, anywhere and everywhere I can go, good sir!"
He grins back at me and nods. "You alright, girl, you alright."
I continue along my way, feeling expansive and connected to everyone I pass, touching lives with my high-heeled glide and half-smile.
But I am fundamentally, painfully, alone.
It is not, I think, that I do not play well with others. To the contrary, my boss when I worked at a small short-order restaurant praised me for my ability to train new employees and my coworkers often commented to each other about how much "the customers love her!"
Rather, I believe this isolation to be a result of the transience of the connections I forge. While I may exchange jovial snark with the young man smoking at the edge of the sidewalk, I will never get his phone number. I will not see him again.
I do not dig into the abundance of small ways I influence others. I do not try to pull them into the broader scope of my life. I continue down the sidewalk, sassy, sweet, and solitary.
In many ways, I am little more than a bright, shiny, memory.
12/12/11
Change for the Better
I paint my face in the colors of pretend, claiming this isn't the beginning; this is the end. I am unfortunate enough to make that reality, because we manifest what we believe.
I gave myself almost completely only once - just once, and that was because I knew I had to leave. Truth is, I'm scared that I'll be alone always, and when I walk in the streets, all the passers-by will see. So I paint on the mask and I keep a safe distance, so I won't lose control and be devastated when no one shows up for tea.
The irony is that I want to reach out and dance with the people, laugh with them and be glad we're alive. The only thing stopping me is really quite silly; I want me to stop sabotaging me. I want to scrape all the paint off and close the distance, forget my control and my fears. I'll be alone always if I can't learn to let the beginning begin and the end be elsewhere entirely.
So, help me wash my face with the waters of reality, give myself completely, stride through the streets, forget about distance, and not care who shows up for tea. I want to reach out and dance with you, laugh with you and be glad we're alive. I want you to be different from all the others before - I want to change for the better for you.
I gave myself almost completely only once - just once, and that was because I knew I had to leave. Truth is, I'm scared that I'll be alone always, and when I walk in the streets, all the passers-by will see. So I paint on the mask and I keep a safe distance, so I won't lose control and be devastated when no one shows up for tea.
The irony is that I want to reach out and dance with the people, laugh with them and be glad we're alive. The only thing stopping me is really quite silly; I want me to stop sabotaging me. I want to scrape all the paint off and close the distance, forget my control and my fears. I'll be alone always if I can't learn to let the beginning begin and the end be elsewhere entirely.
So, help me wash my face with the waters of reality, give myself completely, stride through the streets, forget about distance, and not care who shows up for tea. I want to reach out and dance with you, laugh with you and be glad we're alive. I want you to be different from all the others before - I want to change for the better for you.
11/12/11
In the World of SD....
Good news! Steward House finally saw fit to post the contest winnings for September, and "Reparamus" was the winning (only) piece. I am proud of it, although I am utterly ambivalent about the review it received.
Furthermore, Keayva Mitchell continues to astound me (and Steward House) with her literary prowess. That girl's voice is one of the most entertaining I've had the pleasure of reading lately, and considering how much I read (incorrigible book slut, that's me), that's not a compliment to discount. Check out her latest winnings (yes, plural) here. Warning: Keayva is not for those who don't care to think. Then again, I'm not for people who don't care to think either, so I suppose you're in the right place.
Ordinary news! Due to the fact that my body is disintegrating around my mind, I am having difficulty keeping my creative juices flowing as they have been this past year. I simply do not have enough mind to spare to deal with school, dance, blog posts, poetry, Pluck the Petals From a Daisy, and the Never Ending Migraine (like the Never Ending Story, but less entertaining). Therefore, I will be directing any creativity toward my beloved Carnelia Bellis. That is not to say that I will not be posting at all; I will simply not be posting frequently. However, Carnelia Bellis sends her greetings from my flashdrive, and hopes to be greeting you from bookstore shelves within the next three years. Wish her luck.
However, I am looking to expand this blog. I want you (my adored readers) to have something new, different, and entertaining to read. In short, I am looking for another writer to post here. If you write, and think that your prose pieces are any combination of witty, philosophical, beautiful, clever, lyrical, sassy, sardonic, and entertaining, and if you are willing to post here for (limited) recognition, my (oven-fresh cookie caliber) gratitude, my (relatively meaningless) endorsement of your work, and your own satisfaction, here's what you need to do:
As I receive applications, I will respond to them with an "I might be interested and here's why; let's talk about the possibilities" or an "I'm not interested and here's why; thank you so much for applying." At a minimum, you will get some detailed feedback on your work and some love for being a writer.
I will stop accepting applications on Dec. 20, 2011. I will announce the new writer (or writers, who knows?) on Dec. 25, 2011, and Southern Ineloquence will ring in 2012 with a new addition.
Oh, and you need not be southern to apply. ;)
I look forward to hearing from y'all.
Furthermore, Keayva Mitchell continues to astound me (and Steward House) with her literary prowess. That girl's voice is one of the most entertaining I've had the pleasure of reading lately, and considering how much I read (incorrigible book slut, that's me), that's not a compliment to discount. Check out her latest winnings (yes, plural) here. Warning: Keayva is not for those who don't care to think. Then again, I'm not for people who don't care to think either, so I suppose you're in the right place.
Ordinary news! Due to the fact that my body is disintegrating around my mind, I am having difficulty keeping my creative juices flowing as they have been this past year. I simply do not have enough mind to spare to deal with school, dance, blog posts, poetry, Pluck the Petals From a Daisy, and the Never Ending Migraine (like the Never Ending Story, but less entertaining). Therefore, I will be directing any creativity toward my beloved Carnelia Bellis. That is not to say that I will not be posting at all; I will simply not be posting frequently. However, Carnelia Bellis sends her greetings from my flashdrive, and hopes to be greeting you from bookstore shelves within the next three years. Wish her luck.
However, I am looking to expand this blog. I want you (my adored readers) to have something new, different, and entertaining to read. In short, I am looking for another writer to post here. If you write, and think that your prose pieces are any combination of witty, philosophical, beautiful, clever, lyrical, sassy, sardonic, and entertaining, and if you are willing to post here for (limited) recognition, my (oven-fresh cookie caliber) gratitude, my (relatively meaningless) endorsement of your work, and your own satisfaction, here's what you need to do:
- Choose a poetic vignette, a philosophical rambling, a brief essay, or a review of a literary work.
- Choose a short story.
- Choose a clever moniker (eg, Southern Darling) that you would want to post under.
As I receive applications, I will respond to them with an "I might be interested and here's why; let's talk about the possibilities" or an "I'm not interested and here's why; thank you so much for applying." At a minimum, you will get some detailed feedback on your work and some love for being a writer.
I will stop accepting applications on Dec. 20, 2011. I will announce the new writer (or writers, who knows?) on Dec. 25, 2011, and Southern Ineloquence will ring in 2012 with a new addition.
Oh, and you need not be southern to apply. ;)
I look forward to hearing from y'all.
10/6/11
Snow Patrol, You, and I
I could be happy, and you wouldn't know. It's crazy to think, but it's still so. You were never mine, so I had to go. And now that I'm happy, you'll never know.
Let's drift in silence: I've cut the line. I miss you, but that's just fine. I know for certain that I read the signs. It's for the best; you were never mine.
Life goes on and it gets so crazy. I intentionally make memories of you hazy. The future without you will be amazing. I'm better without you - breathtakingly extraordinary.
I am happy, I want you to know. In a way, yes, I'm thumbing my nose. As time has gone on, the petals fell off our rose. But I am happy, and now you know.
Let's drift in silence: I've cut the line. I miss you, but that's just fine. I know for certain that I read the signs. It's for the best; you were never mine.
Life goes on and it gets so crazy. I intentionally make memories of you hazy. The future without you will be amazing. I'm better without you - breathtakingly extraordinary.
I am happy, I want you to know. In a way, yes, I'm thumbing my nose. As time has gone on, the petals fell off our rose. But I am happy, and now you know.
10/1/11
The Joke
The joke, ultimately, is on you.
The music pulses through my body, and I know that with every spark of the strobe light that someone sees me. I am beautiful and dangerous, a series of orange sparkles draped in red silk and black lace.
As I stride deeper into the club, I move as much in time with my sensuality as with the bass-line.
Oh, the joke's on you, alright.
I barely have time to set my purse on a table before a hand is extended in front of my face, the palm up in an offering.
I do not so much as glance at the man's face before settling my hand in his, accepting his silent proposition to dance. It does not matter whom he is.
The beat belongs to a meringue, and I quickly lose myself in the motion of hips, knees, chest, feet. In the custom of club dancers who have nothing in common beyond location and tempo, my partner and I dance neck to neck, nearly joined together at the hips, but facing opposite directions in a bid to avoid intimacy. Never mind that we move together, breathe together, blend together - the first dance is not meant for intensity.
The crowd ebbs and flows around me, tides to the moon of the music's pulse. With the intricacy of currents, people move in and out of each other, momentarily dominating through the force of flashy tricks or through sheer personality. The strobe lights provide temporary spotlights for all, showing off the skill and sass of those on the dance floor. I glory in the mass of living, in the anonymity and in the sparkling, evanescent fame.
I am dancing with a man without a name and only the shadow of a face, buoyed by the beat and by the dance, and the joke is on you.
The meringue is almost over when I catch sight of him. What alerts me to his presence is a motion, like so many others in the crowd - a simple adaptation of a salsa 360 to the meringue beat. It's strong, short, and sparkly, sending his partner whirling into earthbound flight.
What holds my attention is his attitude. Tonight, I am a bundle of orange sparkles swathed with the sensuality of red silk and the danger of black lace. Tonight, he is a solid streak of blue emanating yellow light. We are both burning hot, near to igniting.
His eyes meet mine in a pulse of strobe light. Heat flares across the floor, a promise. The next measure turns us away from each other, but I know that I am marked.
We will dance together tonight, with all the intricacy, intimacy, and intensity that this first dance is denied. We will burst into flame in an ocean of anonymous dark.
The joke is cruel, and it is on you.
I smile grimly to myself, feeling the implied points to my teeth as the song fades into another and I disengage my inconsequential partner, moving with all the sexual power of my personality across the room. I glitter darkly as this new man presses a kiss to the back of my hand.
"A pleasure," he says, pulling me into closed position so that he can pour his voice into my ear.
My face is next to his, and I do not turn away, letting eye-contact burn between us, striking sparks into the darkened club.
"Enchantée," I purr back.
After that, there was no need to say more, the crackle of flames consuming the scene.
(The joke, you see, is on you.)
The music pulses through my body, and I know that with every spark of the strobe light that someone sees me. I am beautiful and dangerous, a series of orange sparkles draped in red silk and black lace.
As I stride deeper into the club, I move as much in time with my sensuality as with the bass-line.
Oh, the joke's on you, alright.
I barely have time to set my purse on a table before a hand is extended in front of my face, the palm up in an offering.
I do not so much as glance at the man's face before settling my hand in his, accepting his silent proposition to dance. It does not matter whom he is.
The beat belongs to a meringue, and I quickly lose myself in the motion of hips, knees, chest, feet. In the custom of club dancers who have nothing in common beyond location and tempo, my partner and I dance neck to neck, nearly joined together at the hips, but facing opposite directions in a bid to avoid intimacy. Never mind that we move together, breathe together, blend together - the first dance is not meant for intensity.
The crowd ebbs and flows around me, tides to the moon of the music's pulse. With the intricacy of currents, people move in and out of each other, momentarily dominating through the force of flashy tricks or through sheer personality. The strobe lights provide temporary spotlights for all, showing off the skill and sass of those on the dance floor. I glory in the mass of living, in the anonymity and in the sparkling, evanescent fame.
I am dancing with a man without a name and only the shadow of a face, buoyed by the beat and by the dance, and the joke is on you.
The meringue is almost over when I catch sight of him. What alerts me to his presence is a motion, like so many others in the crowd - a simple adaptation of a salsa 360 to the meringue beat. It's strong, short, and sparkly, sending his partner whirling into earthbound flight.
What holds my attention is his attitude. Tonight, I am a bundle of orange sparkles swathed with the sensuality of red silk and the danger of black lace. Tonight, he is a solid streak of blue emanating yellow light. We are both burning hot, near to igniting.
His eyes meet mine in a pulse of strobe light. Heat flares across the floor, a promise. The next measure turns us away from each other, but I know that I am marked.
We will dance together tonight, with all the intricacy, intimacy, and intensity that this first dance is denied. We will burst into flame in an ocean of anonymous dark.
The joke is cruel, and it is on you.
I smile grimly to myself, feeling the implied points to my teeth as the song fades into another and I disengage my inconsequential partner, moving with all the sexual power of my personality across the room. I glitter darkly as this new man presses a kiss to the back of my hand.
"A pleasure," he says, pulling me into closed position so that he can pour his voice into my ear.
My face is next to his, and I do not turn away, letting eye-contact burn between us, striking sparks into the darkened club.
"Enchantée," I purr back.
After that, there was no need to say more, the crackle of flames consuming the scene.
(The joke, you see, is on you.)
9/28/11
Drives
My drive to write is far stronger than my subject matter. Irony is not a great device for recounting days filled with nothing. The practice of making the ordinary seem interesting is an art form I practice only sporadically.
What do you say when it all seems the same?
I cut myself emotionally every time I look back, undermining my drive to move on. I have to accept that the past will not change, and the present will only ever offer up possibilities that I make for myself. So, new rule: no more looking back. I am tired of bleeding.
It's not all the same, however much it may sometimes seem like it. We talk of circles as though they're inescapable (and maybe that's true), but it doesn't mean we can't introduce something new. The ordinary is as interesting as I decide it should be, and infinity fills my days. (The greatest irony of all is that nothing and everything are the same.)
No more looking back. My drive to write and my drive to move on prove that I am strong.
What do you say when it all seems the same?
I cut myself emotionally every time I look back, undermining my drive to move on. I have to accept that the past will not change, and the present will only ever offer up possibilities that I make for myself. So, new rule: no more looking back. I am tired of bleeding.
It's not all the same, however much it may sometimes seem like it. We talk of circles as though they're inescapable (and maybe that's true), but it doesn't mean we can't introduce something new. The ordinary is as interesting as I decide it should be, and infinity fills my days. (The greatest irony of all is that nothing and everything are the same.)
No more looking back. My drive to write and my drive to move on prove that I am strong.
9/22/11
"Progress"
Caution is the catchphrase, but that does not mean that there should be no progress. I want things to move forward, albeit with all eyes open. I like to have things happen. I find it exciting. Movement is growth, what life is all about.
I guess what I really want is a romance. Nothing I've done before - this flirtation should be fresh.
Am I really the sort of girl who plays with hearts for her entertainment? Evidently so.
It's not fair to play with his heart, then. I have no wish to break either of us, or anyone else. And that's what it would come to - a whole bunch of drama.
It's interesting to note that one of my reasons for writing this is to feel as though something's happening. This is to create the illusion of progress.
Getting anywhere?
I guess what I really want is a romance. Nothing I've done before - this flirtation should be fresh.
Am I really the sort of girl who plays with hearts for her entertainment? Evidently so.
It's not fair to play with his heart, then. I have no wish to break either of us, or anyone else. And that's what it would come to - a whole bunch of drama.
It's interesting to note that one of my reasons for writing this is to feel as though something's happening. This is to create the illusion of progress.
Getting anywhere?
9/19/11
The Lines
I have long been cognizant of the fact that I will never be her, no matter how some may compare us. I do not compete with her - I refuse. What is hers is hers and what is mine is mine.
We do not cross those lines.
She will never be me. Please be cognizant of where we've drawn the lines, and leave what is hers as hers.
If something is to be mine, then you had better make damn sure that it was only ever mine.
We do not cross those lines.
She will never be me. Please be cognizant of where we've drawn the lines, and leave what is hers as hers.
If something is to be mine, then you had better make damn sure that it was only ever mine.
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