The Belters

There are some artists, usually female and robust, that I buy exclusively so that I can sing along to their music while driving in my car.

The attraction is not that I particularly care for their lyrics. And the attraction is not that I like their sound. Usually, I find the subject matter insipid and the instrumental backing to be washed out and uninspired. (Oh no! He broke my heart and I had to leave him to the sound of righteous piano and gentle guitars! And if he ever comes near me again, we might have to get some bass in this piece!)

 No, the attraction is that I am quite jealous of these singers' vocal abilities and wish to improve my own by seeing if I can hit the same notes and sustain them for the same unholy number of beats and make it sound somewhat passable.

Of course, it probably sounds more like I'm repeatedly stabbing a cat with a sharpened shard of bone than like I'm the next Sara Bareilles, but back off. I have the right to sound awful while driving in my car, regardless of whoever else is with me!

Over the past years, I have accumulated quite a few musical selections by these "Belters." My iPod, in addition to my beloved Anberlin and Fall Out Boy, now contains albums by divas whose main selling points are their high notes, such as Kelly Clarkson, Adele, Colbie Caillat, and Brandi Carlile. Indeed, my  library is inundated with throaty voices and subjects I just don't care about.

But that's okay. It's not like I'm actually repeatedly shanking a helpless kitten. It's only my passengers' ears.

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:

1.  Choose a poetic vignette, a philosophical rambling, a brief essay, or a review of a literary work.
2.  Choose a short story. 
3.  Choose a clever moniker (eg, Southern Darling) that you would want to post under.

 Email your selections to ineloquent.southern.darling@gmail.com.  The subject line should read Blog Audition.  Paste both pieces into the body of the email, preceding each piece with its Title (eg, "Reparamus") and its Genre (eg, Poetic Vignette, or Book Review).  Please send no more than two pieces. Sign the email with your clever moniker and an email at which I can reach you.


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.

Interlude

I hope you can feel how much I want you right now.

Yes, you're far away, probably distracted, more concerned with thoughts of your studies than with thoughts of me.

All the same, I hope you can feel the dangerous tilt to my head, the slight arch to my back, and the lazy, predatory caress of my gaze through the miles that separate us. I am deadly and vulnerable and you - beautiful and strong as you are -

You are mine.

So put down your pencil. Turn away from your desk. Sit back in your chair.

Bury your hands in my hair as I wrap one hand around the back of your neck and pull you into an entangling, branding, devouring, beseeching, exposing kiss.

Realize that I am not really there, although I still want you, still think of you, still miss you.

Turn back to your desk.

Carry on.

Quantification

How does one quantify the human spirit?

I assure you that our lack of success cannot be contributed, as many other things can be, to a lack of effort. We've number-crunched through months of dark, fluorescent nights and a good few sunny afternoons, and we've yet to come up with a defined number.

Hell, not so much as the mythical 42. We'd settle for that silliness at this point, so long as we arrived at that conclusion through legal mathematical means.

But, worry not, fellow Rationalists! We will not cease until we've figured it out, eradicated the mysteries of life and humanity, and put a number on that which has no relation to numerals.

The Powers That Be

Our machinations make us deities - or at least are designed with that purpose in mind. We research, we notate, we synthesize, and, ultimately, we create.

But once it's all there, a plan on paper, we realize, once again, that while the creation is indubitably magnificent (or maybe just a piece of crap that we're slightly embarrassed of), we, the creators, are only human. The day has been long, and we are tired and spent.

We abandon our creation, our plan, our machination, leaving the paper fluttering against the grainy faux-wood of the table, and throw ourselves, exhausted, into bed. We are not omniscient, for all we know, as our heads sink into the pillow, is that a moment (of some variety) has passed.

Our eyes flutter closed, eyelashes resting, like the pull-tabs of blinds, against the sills of our cheeks. From there, we sleep.

Fake It for the Crickets

I can't guarantee that I'll go anywhere, but I can guarantee that I look the part. My clothes scream style, my shoes whisper sex, and my make up exudes sparkle. I'm a star, baby!

(The label on my silver lipstick says so.)

Oh, yes - I can fake it endlessly, idling along until I make it. (I'm sure that'll be some day soon.)

So what, I'm sitting in a corner, in the dark, all alone, scribbling instead of socializing? I look amazing, so I'm sure the situation will rectify itself. (I do self-delusion almost as well as I do sarcasm.)

I'm not going anywhere beyond this bench. Not tonight. Damn straight, I look about six times sexier than your average club bunny, but that does me no good in this silent, secluded park.

(Whoops, I forgot about the crickets.)

A Tribute to Irony

Irony is cruel, but she's all I've got, not least because she's jealous. She's the voice narrating life in the back of my head, insisting upon pointing out the flaws in anything that's said. ("If P then Q, but isn't it funny how it applies to you?") Everything runs in loops and she likes to trace them on my skin - even if I could forgive, she makes it impossible to forget.

She's pain and pleasure all at once, and she likes few facts better. Duality is her best friend; Contradiction is just her mother.

Irony is cruel, and I'm repeating myself, but she's as amusing as any I know. I might very well cry when she cracks a joke, but I'll wind up laughing after. Irony's the voice in the back of my head, mingling pain and pleasure.

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.

The Woman in Red

You were beautiful - every feature that of the femme fatale. Magickal green eyes peered beyond sooty lashes, and lips gleamed in the strobe lights, parting to show teeth that could no doubt bite - draw scarlet and sensuality simultaneously.

You were erotic - so certain of your power. You swayed slowly past in candy-red heels, absolutely unshakable. You smiled at me and other strangers with a lazy aplomb that acknowledged that everyone wanted to know you - biblically, or just your name to whisper, prayer-like, into a bundle of red silk and black lace.

More than anything else, you were strong.

On any other woman, the red would be too much, drowning her in sex and rendering her blushing, scarlet and scared. But lust cannot own you as it would own any other woman. You stand too tall and leash it too firmly to your purposes - you make lust a dealer in human flesh that simperingly offers you willing slaves wherever you go. You let others be weak, and wear your red like a hawk wears her feathers.

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.)