Poodles and poppycock, opined the wet nurse as she stepped onto the coals, dark rivulets of warm milk staining her blouse. Her feet blistered and swelled, swelled and blistered. Tell me something nice, she whispered, to no one. Write it in flames and swallow it whole. And the owls moaned and the turtle doves screeched and the tide sucked the life out of it all and then spit it back up onto the beach.
***
Take my vulva, she offered shyly. Paint it grey and buy it some boots to protect it when things get slushy. Put it in a black frame behind glass and hang it on your wall with the others. Slap it when it gets out of line. (It gets out of line sometimes.) I'll be back for it in the morning.
***
Hey fucker, croaked the raven. I was only messing around. Get up off of the goddamn floor.
***
She looped the telephone cord like a Chinese finger trap around her index finger, receiver wedged between her right shoulder and ear, and wondered what to say. Do I dare? she wondered, like J. Alfred. Do I dare? She removed her finger from the trap and placed the receiver gently into its cradle. Tell me something nice, she whispered to the dust motes dancing in the sun.
***
It is important to be wary, she thought wearily. Keep that KEEP OUT sign up, bullet-riddled and rusty. It'll hold for a while yet. Sure, if they really want to, they can just step around that post, step over that chain, walk forward into the black. They won't, though. Probably. Keep a loaded shotgun in your brain just in case. And don't say a goddamn word.
Nov 12, 2013
Oct 30, 2013
The Apartment
There is something strange about (wrong with) this apartment.
When I stand directly in front of the main door (escape route), I can look down the narrow (claustrophobic) hall into the bathroom at the far end. I can see the tub (closed shower curtain), the rounded front of the toilet seat. There is no window (escape route) in the bathroom. I have to pee.
I walk slowly (fearfully) down the hall, aware of the pressure on my bladder (the weight of six feet of dirt on a closed coffin). On my left, a door opens onto a bedroom. There are too many beds (an impossible number of beds) inside this room. Who lives here? (Do I live here?) This room is safe. I can feel it.
A throbbing in the air as I proceed (am drawn) to the end of the hall. On my left, another door opens onto another bedroom. This room is empty (no it isn't). I need something from this room (I don't want to go into this room). I'll pee first, and then I'll get the thing that I need and leave (what is it that I need?).
The light switch in the bathroom does not work. I leave the door open. Red light from the second bedroom filters (pulses) in. I do not look in the mirror (look). I do not look behind the closed shower curtain (look). I push my pants down and pee, pushing the urine out of my body as fast as I can, wipe, flush.
The red light throbs (calls) and I enter the room. I look around to find that thing that I need (what do I NEED?) but the room is empty (no it isn't) and my pulse (the pulse in the room) quickens and suddenly there is something in front of me (there is something EVERYWHERE) and I (try to) scream and I (try to) run and I make it out into the hall and there is the doorway (escape route) at the (impossibly) far end of the hall and I somehow reach the door and something is behind me and I fumble with the lock and I am going to die (yes) if I can't unlatch this chain and the chain falls free (no it doesn't) and I twist the doorknob and yank the door open (the door remains closed) and I run out into the hall and past the elevator (there is no elevator) and slam the door to the stairwell open (there is no stairwell) and I fly down the stairs two and three at a time (there are no stairs) until I reach the main floor and I escape (no you don't) into the black, black night.
When I stand directly in front of the main door (escape route), I can look down the narrow (claustrophobic) hall into the bathroom at the far end. I can see the tub (closed shower curtain), the rounded front of the toilet seat. There is no window (escape route) in the bathroom. I have to pee.
I walk slowly (fearfully) down the hall, aware of the pressure on my bladder (the weight of six feet of dirt on a closed coffin). On my left, a door opens onto a bedroom. There are too many beds (an impossible number of beds) inside this room. Who lives here? (Do I live here?) This room is safe. I can feel it.
A throbbing in the air as I proceed (am drawn) to the end of the hall. On my left, another door opens onto another bedroom. This room is empty (no it isn't). I need something from this room (I don't want to go into this room). I'll pee first, and then I'll get the thing that I need and leave (what is it that I need?).
The light switch in the bathroom does not work. I leave the door open. Red light from the second bedroom filters (pulses) in. I do not look in the mirror (look). I do not look behind the closed shower curtain (look). I push my pants down and pee, pushing the urine out of my body as fast as I can, wipe, flush.
The red light throbs (calls) and I enter the room. I look around to find that thing that I need (what do I NEED?) but the room is empty (no it isn't) and my pulse (the pulse in the room) quickens and suddenly there is something in front of me (there is something EVERYWHERE) and I (try to) scream and I (try to) run and I make it out into the hall and there is the doorway (escape route) at the (impossibly) far end of the hall and I somehow reach the door and something is behind me and I fumble with the lock and I am going to die (yes) if I can't unlatch this chain and the chain falls free (no it doesn't) and I twist the doorknob and yank the door open (the door remains closed) and I run out into the hall and past the elevator (there is no elevator) and slam the door to the stairwell open (there is no stairwell) and I fly down the stairs two and three at a time (there are no stairs) until I reach the main floor and I escape (no you don't) into the black, black night.
Oct 23, 2013
Jelly shoes
Jelly shoes and neon bracelets,
boys with brown hair and Dukes of Hazzard t-shirts,
tiny paper bags of penny candy,
cold stone steps,
black and white horror movies playing on a VCR in a dimly-lit basement rec room,
hide-and-go-seek at dusk,
milk money,
monkey bars,
cassette tapes,
and looking down into your backyard from the tree in mine.
boys with brown hair and Dukes of Hazzard t-shirts,
tiny paper bags of penny candy,
cold stone steps,
black and white horror movies playing on a VCR in a dimly-lit basement rec room,
hide-and-go-seek at dusk,
milk money,
monkey bars,
cassette tapes,
and looking down into your backyard from the tree in mine.
Sep 29, 2013
Life is Weird
Life is weird.
One day you're a kid and you think grownups know everything and you ask them questions so that you can try to understand the world and your place in it and they tell you things and you believe them.
And then the next day you're a teenager and you don't really ask them questions anymore because you've realized that your parents can't help you with your trigonometry homework, so maybe they don't know everything after all.
And then the day after that you're almost
finished university and you're (calmly) freaking out (you're a Libra, after
all) because you have no idea what you're supposed to do with your life, so you
get a couple of part-time jobs, and it takes you a couple more days or years to
realize that you definitely do not want to spend the rest of your life taking
orders from people who just blindly follow their own orders without asking
questions and who punish you when you do ask questions.
So you start helping kids and teenagers
when they have questions about things (grammar and boys and parental pressure and,
more often than you'd think, about how they feel like no one can really answer
the questions that are the most important to them, like how they don't know
what to do with the rest of their lives and how they feel like they don’t fit
in) and you answer as honestly as you can and you always admit when you don't
know the answer to something because part of being a grownup is realizing that
grownups are just kids with a few more years under their belts and that they
are just fumbling through their lives wondering what the hell happened and how
did I get here.
And then the next day you are 40 years old
and you know now that you were wrong when you were a kid and you thought that
grownups and old people were in some fundamental way different from you.
Because now you are grownups and old
people, but you are also the kid and the teenager, and you always will be all
of those parts and isn’t it amazing and scary and wild.
And you realize that one day you won’t be
anything at all, or maybe you’ll still be something but it definitely won’t be this something, this
kid/teenager/grownup/old person in this body with its scars and its questions.
So you take a moment to appreciate all the moments
that have brought you to this point in time and space, and you think of all the
people and places and experiences that have helped you understand the world and
your place in it. And you are grateful, even though turning 40 fucking sucks.
Sep 26, 2013
9 things that I have promised myself will no longer annoy me
I haven't written a list in a while, mostly because the internet is so goddamn full of lists that lists are now one of the things on this list, but here is a list of 9 things that I have promised myself will no longer annoy me, because I'm getting older, man, and I've seen the faces of old people who let stuff annoy them and I'm already predisposed to some pretty serious jowl action and why not do what little I can to preserve that little upturn at the outer corners of my lips, am I right, friends? Of course I am. I'm always right, or at least I am in my own head, and that is ultimately the only place that matters. Okay, lengthy introduction over, and congratulations if you've made it this far. I know that your internet time is valuable; there are two-and-a-half-minute (the average length of time anyone will spend on an internet video according to very scientific research based on my own predilections) videos to watch and lists to read. Here goes:
1. Lists. (But only internet lists. Personal to-do lists are still in Holly-fashion. Sometimes it's the only way that I get anything done because I'm too busy reading internet lists. Plus, the joy I experience when I stroke an item off is unparalleled. Nothing is parallel to it. Not a double rainbow, not an orgasm, not a great night of drinking and dancing. Nothing.)
2. Your shitty grammar. Fuck it. Do what you want. I always know what you mean anyway. Mostly. (But not mine. I will still edit everything I type and be mortified if an apostrophe should go awry.)
3. Lack of original creative content on the internet. (As an aside, I think it's mostly the internet that bugs me.) While I would prefer to see everyone on the cyber-planet coming up with unique ways of expressing themselves, I get that it's hard to do. Sometimes someone else just writes/paints/photographs/sings your thoughts and feelings better than you can yourself. It's cool when you find those things. I've just never really been fond of collages, personally.
4. Telephone solicitations. You're just doing your job, and everyone's gotta make a buck somehow. Oh, who am I kidding? These will still annoy the shit out of me and I'll still hang up on you when you try to continue the conversation after I've told you I'm not interested even though I know you'll probably get in trouble with your assistant manager for not keeping me on the phone long enough.
5. I seem to have lost the point. I'll try to get back on track. Think positively, Holly! These trivial things will no longer have the power to annoy you. Think of them all! Ignore them all!
6. You know what's tough? I am sitting here racking my brain and I can't come up with one more thing that currently annoys me. The backwards toilet paper roll? It's not really that big a deal, even if I can only manage to get one square at a time. The spiders trying to get in? They'll always annoy me. I've come to terms with my fear. University kids wearing stupid outfits? You should have seen some of the outfits I wore to school in my younger years. I wore a Navajo-print jacket over a black catsuit. The jacket had orange in it. And green. And yellow. I also wore a long pink silk blazer over the same catsuit. The catsuit had a turtleneck. Who am I to throw stones at your Juicy ass and your Uggs?
7. Now that I think about it, those Charmin bear commercials will probably always annoy me. And any Geico commercial that doesn't involve the gecko.
8. This list is a complete failure. I tried, man. I really did.
9. For old time's sake, my feet are cold. And you know what? Strangely, it's not annoying at all.
1. Lists. (But only internet lists. Personal to-do lists are still in Holly-fashion. Sometimes it's the only way that I get anything done because I'm too busy reading internet lists. Plus, the joy I experience when I stroke an item off is unparalleled. Nothing is parallel to it. Not a double rainbow, not an orgasm, not a great night of drinking and dancing. Nothing.)
2. Your shitty grammar. Fuck it. Do what you want. I always know what you mean anyway. Mostly. (But not mine. I will still edit everything I type and be mortified if an apostrophe should go awry.)
3. Lack of original creative content on the internet. (As an aside, I think it's mostly the internet that bugs me.) While I would prefer to see everyone on the cyber-planet coming up with unique ways of expressing themselves, I get that it's hard to do. Sometimes someone else just writes/paints/photographs/sings your thoughts and feelings better than you can yourself. It's cool when you find those things. I've just never really been fond of collages, personally.
4. Telephone solicitations. You're just doing your job, and everyone's gotta make a buck somehow. Oh, who am I kidding? These will still annoy the shit out of me and I'll still hang up on you when you try to continue the conversation after I've told you I'm not interested even though I know you'll probably get in trouble with your assistant manager for not keeping me on the phone long enough.
5. I seem to have lost the point. I'll try to get back on track. Think positively, Holly! These trivial things will no longer have the power to annoy you. Think of them all! Ignore them all!
6. You know what's tough? I am sitting here racking my brain and I can't come up with one more thing that currently annoys me. The backwards toilet paper roll? It's not really that big a deal, even if I can only manage to get one square at a time. The spiders trying to get in? They'll always annoy me. I've come to terms with my fear. University kids wearing stupid outfits? You should have seen some of the outfits I wore to school in my younger years. I wore a Navajo-print jacket over a black catsuit. The jacket had orange in it. And green. And yellow. I also wore a long pink silk blazer over the same catsuit. The catsuit had a turtleneck. Who am I to throw stones at your Juicy ass and your Uggs?
7. Now that I think about it, those Charmin bear commercials will probably always annoy me. And any Geico commercial that doesn't involve the gecko.
8. This list is a complete failure. I tried, man. I really did.
9. For old time's sake, my feet are cold. And you know what? Strangely, it's not annoying at all.
Jun 21, 2013
What it feels like for [this] girl.
Being a girl is hard. I often find it difficult to navigate these menstrual blood-y waters. So I turn to words, because words help me figure things out...
I believe in equality. I don't think boys should hold doors open for girls, unless maybe the girl is carrying a bunch of groceries or something (but I would also expect a girl to hold the door open for a guy if he was carrying a bunch of groceries or something). I don't think men need to pay on a date, or know how to change the oil in a car, or master the art of barbecue.
In my household, I am the person who usually takes out the garbage, I open my own lids (most of the time), and I make sure the bills get paid in a timely fashion. I also do most of the cooking and cleaning, but that is because I have the time to do it. My dude doesn't do the laundry because he doesn't know the difference between jeans and delicates. And why would he? He doesn't wear lingerie or spandex workout clothes. (That I am aware of.) I haven't bothered learning to start the lawnmower (although I am certain I could if the situation arose), because I honestly don't care how long the grass grows. All this is my convoluted way of saying that in my relationship, we work it out so that we share household responsibilities with little regard for traditional gender roles. We are equal partners. Okay, so that's that.
(As an aside, I am currently listening to Britney Spears singing about how she is a slave for you. Oh the irony.)
I'm not a big fan of labels, as a rule. I don't brand myself a feminist (I don't brand myself anything at all), although I believe in the power and strength of women. I also believe in the power and strength of men. I believe it is our duty to each other to work together to create an environment of compassion and acceptance. I also think it is our duty to each other to work together to create a world that is fun and safe and free.
So how do I reconcile this ideal of equality with my sexuality? (Because sexuality, not gender, is where the greatest differences between us arise. I think gender androgyny would rid the world of many of its evils. We can't go around turning everyone into hermaphrodites, so widespread sexual androgyny probably won't happen anytime soon.) How do we, as a society, reconcile our existence as sentient, thoughtful, rational beings with our basest, most primitive instincts?
I think it comes down to this: I want you to want to fuck me.
I don't want you to actually fuck me. I want you to want to fuck me. If I'm walking by on the street and you whistle, that animal part of me is glad that you want to fuck me. If I'm standing at the bar and you tell me I have a nice rack, I will thank you and be glad that you want to fuck me. (But if you try to buy me a drink, I will politely decline.) I won't feel threatened unless you do something to make me feel unsafe, like touch me or order me to suck your cock or pull out a knife.
It's nice to know people think we are fuckable. It's also nice to know people think we are intelligent, funny, compassionate, and kind, but we can't know that about strangers just by looking at them. (And often when we get to know someone on a less superficial level, we might find that that instinctual desire to fuck has dissipated. Sexy goes deeper than skin.) I know it is politically incorrect to say, but we are objects, insofar as we are out there in the world, perceivable by other people's five senses. It is ridiculous to try not to be an object. Yes, we have brains and feelings, but we are also here, physically, in this world.
I believe in not being afraid. I don't think men are inherently violent beings who want to rape everything they see. This is not, of course, to say that there are not violent men in the world. Sadly, I know people whose lives have been irreparably damaged by sexual assault. Sometimes life is a huge drag. We hurt each other, for a myriad of reasons: to gain power and control, because we are weak, ignorant, unloved, alone, afraid.
So to combat the fear in the world, the insecurity and ignorance that so often lead to acts of violence, I think we should always tell people, even strangers, if we appreciate something in them. We might find a facebook observation witty and amusing, enjoy the song that person wrote and sang, be moved by their art, laugh at their jokes, find them physically attractive, want to fuck them. As human beings, we are intellectual, emotional, and physical. Try as we might, we can't separate these parts of ourselves. They work in tandem anyway.
So it's after 3:30 in the morning and I haven't really figured it out, but I'm going to sign off for now and possibly revisit this later.
Be kind to each other, and riot on.
I believe in equality. I don't think boys should hold doors open for girls, unless maybe the girl is carrying a bunch of groceries or something (but I would also expect a girl to hold the door open for a guy if he was carrying a bunch of groceries or something). I don't think men need to pay on a date, or know how to change the oil in a car, or master the art of barbecue.
In my household, I am the person who usually takes out the garbage, I open my own lids (most of the time), and I make sure the bills get paid in a timely fashion. I also do most of the cooking and cleaning, but that is because I have the time to do it. My dude doesn't do the laundry because he doesn't know the difference between jeans and delicates. And why would he? He doesn't wear lingerie or spandex workout clothes. (That I am aware of.) I haven't bothered learning to start the lawnmower (although I am certain I could if the situation arose), because I honestly don't care how long the grass grows. All this is my convoluted way of saying that in my relationship, we work it out so that we share household responsibilities with little regard for traditional gender roles. We are equal partners. Okay, so that's that.
(As an aside, I am currently listening to Britney Spears singing about how she is a slave for you. Oh the irony.)
I'm not a big fan of labels, as a rule. I don't brand myself a feminist (I don't brand myself anything at all), although I believe in the power and strength of women. I also believe in the power and strength of men. I believe it is our duty to each other to work together to create an environment of compassion and acceptance. I also think it is our duty to each other to work together to create a world that is fun and safe and free.
So how do I reconcile this ideal of equality with my sexuality? (Because sexuality, not gender, is where the greatest differences between us arise. I think gender androgyny would rid the world of many of its evils. We can't go around turning everyone into hermaphrodites, so widespread sexual androgyny probably won't happen anytime soon.) How do we, as a society, reconcile our existence as sentient, thoughtful, rational beings with our basest, most primitive instincts?
I think it comes down to this: I want you to want to fuck me.
I don't want you to actually fuck me. I want you to want to fuck me. If I'm walking by on the street and you whistle, that animal part of me is glad that you want to fuck me. If I'm standing at the bar and you tell me I have a nice rack, I will thank you and be glad that you want to fuck me. (But if you try to buy me a drink, I will politely decline.) I won't feel threatened unless you do something to make me feel unsafe, like touch me or order me to suck your cock or pull out a knife.
It's nice to know people think we are fuckable. It's also nice to know people think we are intelligent, funny, compassionate, and kind, but we can't know that about strangers just by looking at them. (And often when we get to know someone on a less superficial level, we might find that that instinctual desire to fuck has dissipated. Sexy goes deeper than skin.) I know it is politically incorrect to say, but we are objects, insofar as we are out there in the world, perceivable by other people's five senses. It is ridiculous to try not to be an object. Yes, we have brains and feelings, but we are also here, physically, in this world.
I believe in not being afraid. I don't think men are inherently violent beings who want to rape everything they see. This is not, of course, to say that there are not violent men in the world. Sadly, I know people whose lives have been irreparably damaged by sexual assault. Sometimes life is a huge drag. We hurt each other, for a myriad of reasons: to gain power and control, because we are weak, ignorant, unloved, alone, afraid.
So to combat the fear in the world, the insecurity and ignorance that so often lead to acts of violence, I think we should always tell people, even strangers, if we appreciate something in them. We might find a facebook observation witty and amusing, enjoy the song that person wrote and sang, be moved by their art, laugh at their jokes, find them physically attractive, want to fuck them. As human beings, we are intellectual, emotional, and physical. Try as we might, we can't separate these parts of ourselves. They work in tandem anyway.
So it's after 3:30 in the morning and I haven't really figured it out, but I'm going to sign off for now and possibly revisit this later.
Be kind to each other, and riot on.
May 12, 2013
We are all weirdos.
Post-coitally this evening I was asked why I thought novels like The Catcher in the Rye and The Great Gatsby continue to enthrall readers. I think about books a lot, about why I read, why I value language and written expression so highly, and I have thought about this question. It is after 3 a.m. (isn't it always, when I find myself here?) and I am still thinking about this question.
I think that all great works of literature endure because they are about the human struggle to make connections (with ourselves, with each other, with the world) while understanding that we are all fundamentally alone. It's why The Old Man and the Sea is so haunting, why The Road, for all its bleakness, ends with a sliver of hope, why Holden's quest to find out what happens to the ducks is so critical, why Gatsby's impossible dream continues to attract us.
There is glory in human struggle. It is, ultimately, all we have. John the Savage flogged himself because he knew it. Guy Montag smuggled books into his vents instead of burning them up because he knew it. The Old Man fought the sea because he knew it. And Nick Carraway recognized the significance of the green light at the end of Daisy's dock because he knew it.
And if these novels continue to find themselves on high school curricula, it is because adolescence is that time when we become aware of the disconnect and, subsequently, the struggle to make those connections with fellow human beings. We are all weirdos.
I am often moved by these moments of connection in my life. The oddest, most trivial-seeming things bring me to tears. Most recently, I was sitting around a table outside of Dairy Queen with a Skor Blizzard and some friends and it was a gorgeous sunny day in spring and our feet swung lazily beneath too-tall benches and there we all were, eating ice cream together in the sun like children, and my eyes welled up behind my sunglasses.
Another moment occured in Costa Rica, the Arenal volcano rising behind us as we paddled in the bath-warm water of a hot spring, drinking daiquiris and laughing together as the sun set on a warm night in a strange country.
There are more of these moments, of course, a lifetime's worth, but it is late and I am tired and I just wanted to let you know that the struggle is what makes us lovely, even when it hurts. And that everyone feels alone and lost sometimes and that that is okay because we ARE alone and lost (ah well), but we are also part of something, a human interconnectedness, that makes those moments, however trivial-seeming, what life is all about (riot on).
I think that all great works of literature endure because they are about the human struggle to make connections (with ourselves, with each other, with the world) while understanding that we are all fundamentally alone. It's why The Old Man and the Sea is so haunting, why The Road, for all its bleakness, ends with a sliver of hope, why Holden's quest to find out what happens to the ducks is so critical, why Gatsby's impossible dream continues to attract us.
There is glory in human struggle. It is, ultimately, all we have. John the Savage flogged himself because he knew it. Guy Montag smuggled books into his vents instead of burning them up because he knew it. The Old Man fought the sea because he knew it. And Nick Carraway recognized the significance of the green light at the end of Daisy's dock because he knew it.
And if these novels continue to find themselves on high school curricula, it is because adolescence is that time when we become aware of the disconnect and, subsequently, the struggle to make those connections with fellow human beings. We are all weirdos.
I am often moved by these moments of connection in my life. The oddest, most trivial-seeming things bring me to tears. Most recently, I was sitting around a table outside of Dairy Queen with a Skor Blizzard and some friends and it was a gorgeous sunny day in spring and our feet swung lazily beneath too-tall benches and there we all were, eating ice cream together in the sun like children, and my eyes welled up behind my sunglasses.
Another moment occured in Costa Rica, the Arenal volcano rising behind us as we paddled in the bath-warm water of a hot spring, drinking daiquiris and laughing together as the sun set on a warm night in a strange country.
There are more of these moments, of course, a lifetime's worth, but it is late and I am tired and I just wanted to let you know that the struggle is what makes us lovely, even when it hurts. And that everyone feels alone and lost sometimes and that that is okay because we ARE alone and lost (ah well), but we are also part of something, a human interconnectedness, that makes those moments, however trivial-seeming, what life is all about (riot on).
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