Friday, June 12, 2009

Thou Shalt Not Suck My Blood, Impart Rash or Lay their Eggs on my Scalp

It’s barely the second week of a Tennessee June.
In the ninety degree humidity,
I’m swearing it off already.
Mosquito bites, scabbed and rescabbed,
turn my olive-colored, deet-slathered skin into
an ill-humored, greasy, polka-dotted print
of marks, left by little, greedy mouths.
Ticks, that teeth-first took the plunge to suck,
unnoticed, on the blood of my thigh,
till I yanked them, pinched their
pulsing heads between my fingernails,
staining my fingertips with blood
they robbed my body of,
without asking first.

I am not a happy camper.
In fact, I’m not camping at all.
And how could I have waited till now to mention
the poison ivy that has brought my left eye
to a swollen and crusty puss of an image.
Excuse me for hiding from the camera,
beneath layers of cortisone and menthol toothpaste.
And NO, dear gas- station-lady, my dead beat boyfriend
did not show me a thing or two.
Been there, done that already,
but thank you.
And besides, I don’t do the boy thing anymore.

And I’ve tried all the creams, the creative concoctions
that promise soothing relief-
Cool hummus slathers, fresh aloe, and calamine,
of whose bottle instructions ALL read:
Not for use in or around the eye.
Fuck them-
What do they know of this itching,
of my own body’s quest for relief?

I squint and twist my face into aweful
facial acrobatics,
road-kill contortions,
do anything but
scratch that horrible
menace of an itch.
Did I mention I sleep with cortisone beneath my pillow?
Mention that I roll my eyeball in circles,
like Halloween googly eyes,
bloodshot, to scratch the poison?
If it would not blind me and
result in ultimate conviction to an insane asylum,
I swear I’d stick needles into the ball,
voodoo-doll style them straight into
the socket,
nail down the source,
put it FINALLY to rest.
Instead I squirm like pinned down prey,
flustered beneath the droning sounds
of annoying little bug wings that haunt me
and grow in number.
Yes, the clich├ęd image of ants in my pants
is utterly perfect.-
That’s me, walking down the street like
I’m feening for crack,
twitching for no obvious reason,
twitching for the occasion of this body,
dare I say- MY body
that I would pay money
to abort out of.
It has been taken over.
Excuse ME for residing here.
I’ll just pack my bags and go now.

Infested, rashed, scab-mapped
prison of a body.
I swat, I swear, I sit on my hands,
And NO citronella candle
can help me now.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

My Word Collage

This website is great. You can create a picture of what your words LOOK like. Here's the one I just did by typing in my stream of consciousness.

Wordle: stream of consciousness

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Don't ask me. Ask the eightball.

“Reply Hazy. Try again.” That’s what my ninety-nine cent, thrift store find of an eight ball said to me this morning, firesided, as I gave it a searching shake. It’s funny because the question I asked was a bit “hazy” too.- In fact, I didn’t really ask a question, just wondered what the eight ball might have to say. Something about this interaction between an eight ball and myself reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend yesterday. The parts of the conversation I’ll share deal with the joys of being a twenty-something year old. –(This is sarcasm’s cue, in case you missed it).

This friend and I, in a round about way, were talking about identity, about not having a nano-sense of “who we are,” and what we want, where we’re going or how. My twenties, as I grow nearer and nearer to 30- which I imagine is like reaching the tip-top of a roller-coaster hill, looking out before dropping, have been quite bizarre.( And still are, by the way, for three more years). For the most part, being in your twenties has been a no-place place, a sort of mindless, confused wandering where you know you’re supposed to go somewhere but you just can’t remember where.- I picture a helium balloon that is a day or so old, inching in the air, lowly along the ground, its string dangling the floor. Every now and then it catches a little current and tentatively bops right or left, moving, but not travelling far. This, to me, is the essence of one’s twenties. -A really bizarre place where you just don’t have much of a clue about yourself at all, though you try to. So you aimlessly wander a little, here and there, but to no avail do you arrive anywhere. And at a certain point in one’s twenties you stop trying to figure out much of anything at all, because in your experience, such thinking produces very little but frustration.

So a little angry was I when I was watching Oprah a few weeks ago and I happened to catch a clip of the show in which the glories of post menopausal life were being discussed. There I was, munching my Orville Rettenbacher, kettle-korn popcorn, when I heard a panel of celebrities now in their fifties and sixties discuss the difficulty of the twenties, and how none of them really had a clue “who they were.” Oprah agreed and they all nodded in this “common knowledge,” quiet knowing, sort of way. Need I say, that when I heard this, I was not only relieved (that my sense of self, or lack there of was validated and not singular to me), but I was also pissed! Pissed because no one had ever told me that what I have been experiencing for some time now is a “life stage,” is common knowledge, is even “normal!” –This common knowledge of the world at large seems to be known by everyone EXCEPT for those in their twenties (at least prior to the Oprah airing). I think, 'If I had only known this a long time ago, a lot of confusion and the mistaken perception that I am the only one who doesn’t have a clue about where she’s going, (despite my ever cool sunglasses) could have been spared.' I have resolved that whenever appropriate, I will pass this information along, especially to those it pertains to.

It was yesterday that I did just that, and I ask the old question, ‘What good is information and knowledge if it is not shared with the world?’ As for when my thirties do arrive, I think I’ll research them a little bit first. -I do know one thing: a woman’s thirties are supposed to be her sexual peak. (Maybe that was the roller coaster image coming to mind?). Other than that, I can not say my knowledge of the thirties is very extensive. But rest assured world, if there isn’t an apocalypse of 2012, then I will most definitely be learning about them in time for their arrival. This time around, I’ll be prepared. In the meantime, this not knowing who you are thing really sucks. So take that eight ball and shake it!

Monday, January 19, 2009

Setting the Scene

What is the purpose, the form, the theme of this blog? I ask myself. I'm not sure. -I could it break down Doogie Howser style, offering my thoughts, insights and reactions to the world at large (and assume you find it worth your time to read). I could use this blog as a means to academically examine the world, which is in every possible way, a text that can be interpreted to reveal the world in which I live. I could blog as an act of feminism, a reclamation of power through which morseled fractions of my life as a female- as the "other" are revealed to the degree that I am willing to share them. I could use this as a forum to collage the images, random thoughts and realizations of a woman in her twenties that may very well be of little use to everyone but myself.
Needless to say, the possibilities of this blog's content and form are all risky. Risky because sharing myself with you, the wide world's web in 2009, is an unsafe thing to do, regardless of the time period. But for reasons, formats and themes that may evolve in time and reveal themselves to not only myself, but to my audience,(if I have one), I'm thinking that I'll do it anyway.
Adrienne Rich said it best.-"I am an instrument in the shape of a woman, trying to translate pulsations into images for the relief of the body and the reconstruction of the mind," Planetarium. And as the title of this blog refers to Adrienne Rich's poem, "Diving into the Wreck," I continue to step down the ladder, suited in the wet suit, the awkward flippers, the tight mask. I have my knife; it's blade is mirror polished and surgeon sharp. I have my camera; its lense, my eyes, are polished open. And lastly, I've read the book, the book of myths. In fact, I've read the whole series.
With "no one to tell me where the ocean begins," I decide I'll dive into what is blue and liquid because it seems like the best place to start. Did I mention that I never did learn how to dive? Thank Goddess for metaphor.