bruises & pirouettes

white on white

 
 

on the go go go

things i am thankful for:

1. rim roman

2. my boys

3. coming home from a 6 day vegas trip to this

4. my job

5. my friends

6. my family

feels like i've been on the go go go for what seems like months - what happened to my summer? between my job (which had me outta town for over a week each month) and goin on a 8 day seacruise for my 30th to 3 courses of antibiotics and steroids back to back to back for a chronic sinus infection - i have had barely anytime for me to be me.  which lead my restless mind to a dream the other night, of family and friends & the huge overwhelming perspective that no matter how busy i get i MUST hold my loved ones as tightly as i can during the bleak and the chill winds. 

*

that day, i saw myself in the mirrored walls of the elevator. i smooth my hair, drag and twist my bangs behind my ear. i touch my face, i touch my eyes to see if they are behaving, if they are being, if they are having, or misbehaving, miss being had.  the words conflate and dizzy me, smack of the errors of my life i misbe. i mishave.

my brain feels crammed and gassy. you live, i read once, you live if you dance to the voice that ails you.

*

in my little white home i am in a slump. i look around. all these possessions, all these things, are little fangs, death markers, my home one compact little memorial park. remember when they used to be called cemeteries, now even gravestones are called family monuments, like these things, monuments to me. i stare at the silver faucets, my dresses, my shoes, my new sheets, my books, my outsized spice rack - thyme leaves, time leaves - and wonder how they got here, how i have arrived at this point of clutter.  these things, things, things, my mind is shouting and i hurl pictures, clothes, earrings, wine glasses, into the kitchen trash and, gripped immediately by a zinging, many-knuckled panic, pick them out again, hurry, hurry, one by one, wipe them off, put them back away, behind their doors, in their drawers, sit with my cat, wish i had tv, breathe, breathe.
 
 

i want to be your balloon.

i love the way that things fit together.  for instance, when you one day finally notice the subtle curve of a friends back, when you’ve looked at that same back, day in day out.  then you spot the beauty in your cats back, a horses back, a complete strangers back. .  or when you have a broken leg, you notice so many other people with broken legs, when a week before you could have sworn you'd never seen someone with a broken leg before. i've never broken my leg, but you know what i mean.  i like to see patterns in the world - it's a common human trait, trying to exert control over your surroundings.  according to this article, it's ridiculous - we're drowning in a chaos sea and nothing means anything at all. meaning and pattern are all in our minds.

but that's quite enough for me - what else do we live for? lately, i've been seeing patterns in neon lights and in balloons.  the best thing about neon and balloons is it's not just about them.  they create an atmosphere.  neon and balloons make people feel happier, which is why you see them at funfairs and in casinos.  

i see them out at night, on my screen, in beautiful shots, floating in the air, on signs, in magazines, in kids hands.  am i plugged into the zeitgeist?  have i been walking with my hands in my pockets & eyes half open? it's entirely possible, in fact, i know it's true. 

*

what is feminism? we could go with the dictionary.com definition of "1.Belief in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes." and "2. The movement organized around this belief." That one's pretty good. though i might need specifics. it doesn't mention how long my leg hair needs to be. (i'm thinking fresh stubble isn't nearly long enough.)

there's the infamous Pat Robertson definition of "a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians." hmm. that's no good. i don't feel the least bit homosexual.

even once you get your definition nailed down, you’ve got your radical feminism, your liberal feminism, your Marxist feminism, your postfeminism, et cetera ad infinitum. so what is feminism?

there are those who will tell you what “real” feminism is. i am not one of them. because quite frankly, your feelings on pornography or prostitution or toiletry rituals or juno have precisely dickall to do with it. of course, most of us likely have strong opinions on them and myriad other things, but that’s not the point. the point is, if you believe that men and women are equals, and practice what you preach, then that’s “real” feminism, just as much as anything any Women’s Studies professor could teach you.

however. there is a breed of anti-feminism that is just as damaging (and probably moreso) than anything any nutjob preacher or woman-hating frat boy could do. this is because it is insidious. you’re not sure what you’re seeing until it’s too late, and by then you are so disillusioned you aren’t sure what to believe anymore. it’s what happens when you’re waiting for the enemy to strike, and the attack comes from your own side.

i’m talking about fake feminism. fauxminism, if you will. there is misogyny in our ranks, and i don’t like it.

you’ve probably even encountered it yourself. these are the women who would tote their feminism around with them like an adorable little accessory. look! i spell women with a “y” and call it “herstory” instead of “history”! i fuck everyone in sight! aren’t I so liberated, just like carrie bradshaw? i call my vagina “cunt”! god, aren’t I risqué? feminism is the new black, you know! grrls kick ass!

and while there’s nothing wrong with these things in and of themselves, when they come from women who would turn their backs on you and your experiences just because you aren’t a Women’s Studies major, aren’t pretty, are in a committed relationship, aren’t what fits into the box of “feminist”, refuse to be told what to think, then pardonnez-fucking-moi for getting a little bit irked. lingo does not a feminist make. if i tell you that you have a subdural hematoma and that we have to relieve the pressure on the corpus callosum, i’m not a goddamn neurosurgeon. the problem is when women get so caught up in the minutiae of what feminism is supposed to be that they forget the basic foundation of equality and respect. all the varnish in the world won’t cover up rotten wood.

feminism is, for me, really about respect of choice and circumstances. it’s not an exclusive club. it doesn’t matter if you’re passing the bar or working the pole. it doesn’t matter if you’re straight, gay, bi, or anything in between. it doesn’t matter if you’re single or married or divorced, with no kids or twenty. it doesn’t matter if you worship God, Allah, Stephen Colbert, or no one. it doesn’t matter if you’re in the cradle or one foot in the grave. hell, it doesn’t even matter if you’re male or female. though it’s been said many times, many ways, there is no set criteria, except for one very important thing: you believe that men and women are equal, and you act accordingly.

so even though i won’t tell you what real feminism is, i will tell you what real hypocrisy is. it is when a woman preaches to high heaven about sisterhood, and then ignores you when you’re talking about your experiences. it is when a woman talks all about women’s choices and then says, with disdain, “what do you mean, you’re keeping the baby?” it is when a woman goes on about how strong women are and then reduces them to a hole between their legs. it is when a woman champions free speech and then tells anyone who disagrees with them to keep their voice down. it is when a woman makes a movement started by women, for themselves and their mothers and daughters and those who had yet to be born all about them.

so i haven’t answered the original question. what is feminism? this is because i can’t answer it. but what is feminism for me?

how about “it means that i believe what i believe without labels, and i won’t stand for oppression of someone just because they don’t agree with me, and that i respect men and other women as equals but call bullshit when i see it, and i will remain true to myself if it kills me”?

*

i have a hard time believing that any one person has more power over another person. yes maybe some people have a higher status, be it financial or social, but what i mean to say is, i don't think that makes another person "better."

i don't think anyone else has more answers than anyone else. the answers are there, you can work hard to look for them for yourself, or you can go to a trained person and get them quicker. that doesn't mean they will always be right.

i will always believe in therapy and a sixth sense, but i don't believe someone else knows what’s right for me. if i really search, and i really listen to what's going on with me, i will always know the right answer.

my friends aren't there to tell me what to do. they are there to listen to me come to my own conclusions on my own, even if it takes me a while to get there. they’ve never once told me to do or not do anything. i do not trust them more than i trust my own guts.

no one knows my future. thank God for that. what fun would life be if it were already sorted out? the universe is huge and complex and mysterious and there are things that exist for real, like grey matter and black holes and stars that are really planets and planets that are really stars. because of that, i'm willing to believe that magical, supernatural, psychic things are possible.

what i also believe is that they aren't as extraordinary as we think. everyday magical mysterious supernatural things happen, we just take them for granted as being average.

like flowers that we seep in hot water to make our colds go away, or the sun that makes trees grow for longer than we will ever be alive. and that thing augusten burroughs says at the end of Dry: the real miracle is this glass of water sitting here. the real miracle is the fact that is doesn't just up and float away.

i know a lot of people grasp and grab and pull at something big, but i will truly always think this: you don't have to try so hard. you just have to open your fucking eyes.

no one knows you better than you, and if they tell you they do and you believe them, you're playing yourself. 

but you know, that's okay too.

sunlight through blinds stripes you like zebras. think, "don't go yet," as he glides out of the bedroom before sunrise and you lie there on your back cooling, naked between the sheets and smelling of red oniony sweat. watch him as he pulls on his pants, buttons his shirt, his socks, ties his shoes. reach out and hold his elbow as he leans over and kisses you, telling you get more sleep, have a good day. turn on your side, cover your ear with the pillow so you don't have to hear the door close. you hear it thud nonetheless, the jangle of keys and snap of the bolt lock, the footsteps quiet, then facing the elevator, the street, then nothing, all his sounds blending with the city. his face passing namelessly uptown in a car, the whole building shuddering at the windows as a truck roars by.

it's been a month?! i'm lazy... .

i’ve been mulling a lot of things over. about death, and what it means to be an adult, and what it means to be boring, and whether those two things are the same, and at what point does avoiding either of those things become tiresome in other people. regarding: cleaning up after oneself, volume of partying versus volume of work done, etc. 

did i miss the train to the grown-up boat? probably just running late. . as usual.

ddiy

note to self: don't to it yrself. i just broke and tried to fix my roomies computer. this spells disaster.. .