PICS
A woman came to Ali, 'My baby has crawled out
on the roof near the water drain, where I cannot go.
He won't listen to me. I talk to him,
but he doesn't understand language.
I make gestures. I show him my breast,
but he turns away. What can I do?'
'Take another baby his age
up to the roof.'
The woman did so, and her child saw his friend
and crawled away from the edge.
The prophets are human for this reason,
that we may see them and delight
in the friendly presence
and crawl away from the downspout.
~Rumi "Why the Prophets Are Human"
on the roof near the water drain, where I cannot go.
He won't listen to me. I talk to him,
but he doesn't understand language.
I make gestures. I show him my breast,
but he turns away. What can I do?'
'Take another baby his age
up to the roof.'
The woman did so, and her child saw his friend
and crawled away from the edge.
The prophets are human for this reason,
that we may see them and delight
in the friendly presence
and crawl away from the downspout.
~Rumi "Why the Prophets Are Human"
In case you wanted to know:
1. I have an impossible and intense crush on Holden Caulfield.
2. The O.C. has made me cry. 4 times.
3. When I go into the bathroom, I avoid looking in the mirror for fear of a vengeful ghost, as this is always where they appear in movies.
4. One of the hardest parts of quitting smoking was not having anything to do with my hands to look busy.
5. I am hopeless at chess, and often wonder if this means I am stupid.
6. If I sort of like a song, and then my boyfriend hears it and despises it for reasons relating to ovaries, I immediately like it 10 times more.
7. I wish everyone else was shorter than me and thus wear heels often.
8. I feel uncomfortable in skirts and/or dresses and wear jeans nearly every day.
9. Lately, I feel like I am no longer young, and this freaks me out.
10. My favorite movie is Love Actually.
1. I have an impossible and intense crush on Holden Caulfield.
2. The O.C. has made me cry. 4 times.
3. When I go into the bathroom, I avoid looking in the mirror for fear of a vengeful ghost, as this is always where they appear in movies.
4. One of the hardest parts of quitting smoking was not having anything to do with my hands to look busy.
5. I am hopeless at chess, and often wonder if this means I am stupid.
6. If I sort of like a song, and then my boyfriend hears it and despises it for reasons relating to ovaries, I immediately like it 10 times more.
7. I wish everyone else was shorter than me and thus wear heels often.
8. I feel uncomfortable in skirts and/or dresses and wear jeans nearly every day.
9. Lately, I feel like I am no longer young, and this freaks me out.
10. My favorite movie is Love Actually.
Huh?
I really don't get the point of lingerie...
I have a few items in my closet, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with them. I just thought that it was a prerequisite to being a real woman to own lingerie.
At what point are you supposed to wear this shit? As far as I can tell, there's clothes, and then there's naked. When are you supposed to transition from clothes to lingerie, then presumably to naked? I don't understand how this can happen without some really awkward in-between point.
Maybe someone else can explain it to me, but until then, I will just assume it's a movie thing, and not real life.
Piercings?
So I am a huge pussy when it comes to pain. HUGE. I teared up when I got my nose pierced, my tattoo over my shoulder-blade made me cringe. I need to know for real: is an industrial piercing all that horrible? I was thinking of getting my upper ear pierced, and a (very drunk) friend told me that getting an industrial was "like almost the same." Is she completely full of shit as I suspect? I really like those, but when I say I am a huge pussy...believe it.
So I am a huge pussy when it comes to pain. HUGE. I teared up when I got my nose pierced, my tattoo over my shoulder-blade made me cringe. I need to know for real: is an industrial piercing all that horrible? I was thinking of getting my upper ear pierced, and a (very drunk) friend told me that getting an industrial was "like almost the same." Is she completely full of shit as I suspect? I really like those, but when I say I am a huge pussy...believe it.
The only website (so far) to choose to publish me:
www.stevemcqueenshead.com
Yes, Steve McQueen.
If you submit something and they publish it, they'll send you a t-shirt with...you guessed it, Steve McQueen's head on it.
Check it.
www.stevemcqueenshead.com
Yes, Steve McQueen.
If you submit something and they publish it, they'll send you a t-shirt with...you guessed it, Steve McQueen's head on it.
Check it.
Freedom
Her life began the day she saw her first suicide.
Renata studied the man in front of her, more fascinated than horrified. He looked normal, except for the belt around his neck, she thought. And the drool and swollen face. Calmly, she reached out to undo the buckle on the belt. Nice belt. Expensive. You can't be cheap with the instrument of your own death, she supposed. It took some wriggling to get the belt undone, the buckle had sunken into the man's jowls deeper than she had thought. As he fell with a resounding thump to the closet floor, she dabbed her hands with an antibacterial wipe.
As she hung up the phone, Renata was proud of herself for remaining so calm. Not that it had been hard, she really didn't feel anything. No sympathy, no grief. Her mouth was parched. She poured herself a glass of orange juice in the kitchen and sat down at the table to wait. She looked around the well-appointed kitchen and noticed that Frank had left the milk out earlier that evening. Irritated, she got up and replaced the milk in the stainless steel refrigerator, then returned to her post at the table and continued her wait.
When she heard the distant wail of sirens, Renata dashed into the bathroom and rubbed a dab of liquid soap in each eye, welcoming the burn. She peered in the mirror through the blurriness and was pleased. The tears now streaming down her face looked convincing enough. She sniffed, for practice. It would do. The front door slammed open just as she managed a frown. Right now, all she wanted to do was laugh.
She led the paramedics down the hall to the bedroom, sneaking a smile with her back to them, then quickly rearranging her face to look shocked and grief-stricken.
"H-he's right in here," she warbled. "I was asleep and I I woke up to use the bathroom and he was " she let out a wail. The medic placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, ma'am. Why don't you just wait in the other room?" He gave her a gentle half-smile that said, 'I know what you're going through.' She almost laughed then, but managed to croak instead, and she buried her face in her hands just in time.
Renata jiggled her leg nervously as she waited. What is taking so damn long, she wondered. He's fucking dead; just get his bloated body out of my fucking house. For a fleeting moment, she stared at her lap and wondered if she was a horrible person. The thought brought a crooked smile to her lovely face.
"Excuse me."
Renata's head snapped up.
"Sorry ma'am," the cop mumbled apologetically. "I just need to get some information from you." How old was he? Twenty-five? Not thirty yet, anyway. She stared at his arms in the short-sleeved uniform as she gestured to the chair across from her. "Have a seat, please." He lowered himself into the chair uncomfortably. Was this his first suicide, too?
"I won't keep you long, ma'am. I just need some basic information."
"Really, I understand. Ask whatever you need." She paused. "I just I just want to get this over with. I'll help however I can." It was about time she helped someone. She certainly hadn't helped Frank when she heard him choking in the damn closet. Had he know she was awake? It really didn't matter now, did id? Renata leaned forward, her robe parting slightly to reveal a hint of cleavage. Oops. She placed a manicured hand on his knee. "I just want you to know, I appreciate your kindness." She looked down, beginning to enjoy this game. "This is just such a shock, you know?" She looked up at him through the fringe of her lashes. Flirting could be a great way to alleviate ennui. Again, he shifted uncomfortably.
The young cop took out his leather-covered notebook, clearing his throat nervously. "What is was your husband's full legal name?"
"Frances Lloyd Abbot."
"What was his date of birth?" The hand holding the pen shook.
"Four-three-forty-two." She sniffed prettily.
Renata washed her face and dabbed on her Oil of Olay. They were all gone, and the best part was, they had taken Frank with them. She peered at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Not bad, she thought. Her eyes were a little red from the soap, but that was just as well. A woman was expected to cry after her husband hung himself. They hadn't married him. She was sure anyone who had had to live with Frank, much less submit to his increasingly disturbing demands in the bedroom, would have understood why she smiled now, satisfied with the image in the mirror. Being a widow suited her just fine.
Her life began the day she saw her first suicide.
Renata studied the man in front of her, more fascinated than horrified. He looked normal, except for the belt around his neck, she thought. And the drool and swollen face. Calmly, she reached out to undo the buckle on the belt. Nice belt. Expensive. You can't be cheap with the instrument of your own death, she supposed. It took some wriggling to get the belt undone, the buckle had sunken into the man's jowls deeper than she had thought. As he fell with a resounding thump to the closet floor, she dabbed her hands with an antibacterial wipe.
As she hung up the phone, Renata was proud of herself for remaining so calm. Not that it had been hard, she really didn't feel anything. No sympathy, no grief. Her mouth was parched. She poured herself a glass of orange juice in the kitchen and sat down at the table to wait. She looked around the well-appointed kitchen and noticed that Frank had left the milk out earlier that evening. Irritated, she got up and replaced the milk in the stainless steel refrigerator, then returned to her post at the table and continued her wait.
When she heard the distant wail of sirens, Renata dashed into the bathroom and rubbed a dab of liquid soap in each eye, welcoming the burn. She peered in the mirror through the blurriness and was pleased. The tears now streaming down her face looked convincing enough. She sniffed, for practice. It would do. The front door slammed open just as she managed a frown. Right now, all she wanted to do was laugh.
She led the paramedics down the hall to the bedroom, sneaking a smile with her back to them, then quickly rearranging her face to look shocked and grief-stricken.
"H-he's right in here," she warbled. "I was asleep and I I woke up to use the bathroom and he was " she let out a wail. The medic placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, ma'am. Why don't you just wait in the other room?" He gave her a gentle half-smile that said, 'I know what you're going through.' She almost laughed then, but managed to croak instead, and she buried her face in her hands just in time.
Renata jiggled her leg nervously as she waited. What is taking so damn long, she wondered. He's fucking dead; just get his bloated body out of my fucking house. For a fleeting moment, she stared at her lap and wondered if she was a horrible person. The thought brought a crooked smile to her lovely face.
"Excuse me."
Renata's head snapped up.
"Sorry ma'am," the cop mumbled apologetically. "I just need to get some information from you." How old was he? Twenty-five? Not thirty yet, anyway. She stared at his arms in the short-sleeved uniform as she gestured to the chair across from her. "Have a seat, please." He lowered himself into the chair uncomfortably. Was this his first suicide, too?
"I won't keep you long, ma'am. I just need some basic information."
"Really, I understand. Ask whatever you need." She paused. "I just I just want to get this over with. I'll help however I can." It was about time she helped someone. She certainly hadn't helped Frank when she heard him choking in the damn closet. Had he know she was awake? It really didn't matter now, did id? Renata leaned forward, her robe parting slightly to reveal a hint of cleavage. Oops. She placed a manicured hand on his knee. "I just want you to know, I appreciate your kindness." She looked down, beginning to enjoy this game. "This is just such a shock, you know?" She looked up at him through the fringe of her lashes. Flirting could be a great way to alleviate ennui. Again, he shifted uncomfortably.
The young cop took out his leather-covered notebook, clearing his throat nervously. "What is was your husband's full legal name?"
"Frances Lloyd Abbot."
"What was his date of birth?" The hand holding the pen shook.
"Four-three-forty-two." She sniffed prettily.
Renata washed her face and dabbed on her Oil of Olay. They were all gone, and the best part was, they had taken Frank with them. She peered at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Not bad, she thought. Her eyes were a little red from the soap, but that was just as well. A woman was expected to cry after her husband hung himself. They hadn't married him. She was sure anyone who had had to live with Frank, much less submit to his increasingly disturbing demands in the bedroom, would have understood why she smiled now, satisfied with the image in the mirror. Being a widow suited her just fine.
The Hopeless: On Working at the Detox
When I worked with these people, I was not afraid of them. I sat in my seat of limited power and controlled their hydration, meting out lukewarm water in little paper cups. I told them to shut the fuck up. I judged and felt secure, the keys to their freedom jangling against my hip, the panic button affixed to my belt. A small comfort, looking back. I realize now that had I needed to press that button, response time would have been too slow to stop them from carving me ear to ear. They would have gotten there in time for clean up, not salvation.
I wrote thesis papers on economics, ethics and American history, my concentration broken frequently by men with pickled livers yelling for me like children, some asking for soup like beggars, others expressing their desire to fuck me. I turned up my music and finished my homework, refusing them an ear. I met the woman whose three children had died, a woman with no hope who was so much stronger than me. I would have put a gun in my mouth. She asked me if she could have a cigarette. And I used my key and let her join me outside, pulling noxious smoke into out lungs together, her pain permeating my space and making me fidget.
I learned to be assertive on the surface, pretending that my heart didn't race when a man with prison tattoos told me he would kill my entire family, including the dog that he imagined i had.
Now, as I walk through their terf, no panic button on my belt, no reassuring jangle of keys to remind me that I was in charge, without even a coat, they terrify me. The desperation and despair that has brought them here has broken them, but my compassion is overruled by fear. I shouldn't be here. I don't belong here, surrounded by people who have lost either the will or the way to take care of themselves.
I'd rather be at the desk, watching them come in and out, knowing that I am nothing like them, even though I am. Knowing that I am better than them, even if it's only better luck that makes me an outsider in their world and them in mine.
"There is a passion in me that doesn't long for anything from another human being."
I'll start at the beginning, if I can find it. There is no true befinnning, and I warn you, there is nothing profound about my trip from self-hatred to enlightenment. I cannot even promise that I completed the journey, for the mystics will caution it is a quest with no end. But I've begun, anyway. I've come farther than I thought my attention span would carry me.
Adolescence found me casting aside sound judgement to live for the high. That false buzz of a bumbling teenage boy sucking the tender patch of skin behind my ear. Hmm...it sort of felt good, even knowing that there would be ugly purple marks left behind long after I'd forgotten his name and he'd lost my phone number.
Lust is the gateway drug.
To justify my experimental approach to life, numbness was the key. High as a kite, it's difficult to over-analyze anything.
Funny how my tendency to overthink is both my radar for stupid decisions and my obstacle to spiritual awakening.
Fifteen-year-old girls should never roll that crisp one dollar bill that way. They are the only ones who cannot see the heartbreaking beauty of their naivete and purity, burned off like fog while powder burns the back of their throat.
Insincere laughter should always be feared.
That same girl, thinking of nothing but all of those reasons to hate herself in this moment, the same quirks she will see as strengths when she grows up. Those little flaws that separate her from the perfection she longs for will become the unique traits that define her for the rest of her life.
Try tell that to a coked out teenager. She won't believe you. She'll giggle in that practiced way that makes her appear pleasantly vapid and think that you just don't understand.
I did. I wasn't perfect. That was the only thing that stood out in my mind.
To say that superficiality ends at adulthood would be a lie. I just didn't understand that someday, the piercing beauty of my sharply green eyes would help me overcome the disappointment of other characteristics.
Don't get me wrong, I still care. My Wonderbra collection has not diminished with age. But I no longer hate myself for my shortcomings.
Enough cocaine will cause any sixteen-year-old to shelve her passion for literature to pursue a new lifestyle.
What is it about that age that makes us think the future is a myth, that causes us to see everything important as obstacles in our path to a good time?
Fuck, what is it about that age that made me think that being the girl who could drink the most tequila was a greater accomplishment than being the girl who could write beautiful prose?
The lost years of development in that skill have handicapped my talent forever.
I did not know how important those missed opportunities would be, that I would wake up one morning with relief that I had been able to avoid the kitchen knives by exhausting myself into sleep will millions of bitter tears of helpless surrender.
That morning, I woke up. Out of sleep, but also out of my haze of self-pity.
You hate yourself long enough, your friends will start to agree with you.
But that's not a bad thing.
You want to change your life.
Make a list: change oil, check.
Buy milk.
Check.
Become who you thought you would before you destroyed yourself.
Fuck.
The problem is, it's not possible. So I gave up. For a while.
You can't ever get there.
But that's not the point.
If it were attainable, you would come to a point where your work is finished.
Trust me, you never want to get to that point.
I don't know if I believe in God. I don't know if I want to believe in God.
To believe, you have to also come to the miserable realization that if God exists, He's the one responsible for you and all of your potential for pain.
That papercut? Fucking God. That chest-crushing first heartbreak? He did that to you.
Welcome to spiritual roadblock.
I'll start at the beginning, if I can find it. There is no true befinnning, and I warn you, there is nothing profound about my trip from self-hatred to enlightenment. I cannot even promise that I completed the journey, for the mystics will caution it is a quest with no end. But I've begun, anyway. I've come farther than I thought my attention span would carry me.
Adolescence found me casting aside sound judgement to live for the high. That false buzz of a bumbling teenage boy sucking the tender patch of skin behind my ear. Hmm...it sort of felt good, even knowing that there would be ugly purple marks left behind long after I'd forgotten his name and he'd lost my phone number.
Lust is the gateway drug.
To justify my experimental approach to life, numbness was the key. High as a kite, it's difficult to over-analyze anything.
Funny how my tendency to overthink is both my radar for stupid decisions and my obstacle to spiritual awakening.
Fifteen-year-old girls should never roll that crisp one dollar bill that way. They are the only ones who cannot see the heartbreaking beauty of their naivete and purity, burned off like fog while powder burns the back of their throat.
Insincere laughter should always be feared.
That same girl, thinking of nothing but all of those reasons to hate herself in this moment, the same quirks she will see as strengths when she grows up. Those little flaws that separate her from the perfection she longs for will become the unique traits that define her for the rest of her life.
Try tell that to a coked out teenager. She won't believe you. She'll giggle in that practiced way that makes her appear pleasantly vapid and think that you just don't understand.
I did. I wasn't perfect. That was the only thing that stood out in my mind.
To say that superficiality ends at adulthood would be a lie. I just didn't understand that someday, the piercing beauty of my sharply green eyes would help me overcome the disappointment of other characteristics.
Don't get me wrong, I still care. My Wonderbra collection has not diminished with age. But I no longer hate myself for my shortcomings.
Enough cocaine will cause any sixteen-year-old to shelve her passion for literature to pursue a new lifestyle.
What is it about that age that makes us think the future is a myth, that causes us to see everything important as obstacles in our path to a good time?
Fuck, what is it about that age that made me think that being the girl who could drink the most tequila was a greater accomplishment than being the girl who could write beautiful prose?
The lost years of development in that skill have handicapped my talent forever.
I did not know how important those missed opportunities would be, that I would wake up one morning with relief that I had been able to avoid the kitchen knives by exhausting myself into sleep will millions of bitter tears of helpless surrender.
That morning, I woke up. Out of sleep, but also out of my haze of self-pity.
You hate yourself long enough, your friends will start to agree with you.
But that's not a bad thing.
You want to change your life.
Make a list: change oil, check.
Buy milk.
Check.
Become who you thought you would before you destroyed yourself.
Fuck.
The problem is, it's not possible. So I gave up. For a while.
You can't ever get there.
But that's not the point.
If it were attainable, you would come to a point where your work is finished.
Trust me, you never want to get to that point.
I don't know if I believe in God. I don't know if I want to believe in God.
To believe, you have to also come to the miserable realization that if God exists, He's the one responsible for you and all of your potential for pain.
That papercut? Fucking God. That chest-crushing first heartbreak? He did that to you.
Welcome to spiritual roadblock.
